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zukkook · 3 days

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ᡣ𐭩 FIRST LIGHT

FEATURING: beast dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai severely overestimated his self-control. it takes approximately six days and thirteen hours for him to break, seeking you out again. when he does, he knows that nothing will ever be the same. {wordcount: 14.5k; fem!reader; romance & tragedy}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART TWOOOOOOO, we have one of my fav parallels in this one, i know you guys will catch it immediately but u still must tell me when you do. also, there's another hint about badlands!reader & dazai's relationship in this chapter that happened after the events of the last installment so u must let me know if you catch that too. reblogs are always appreciated! thank you guys & i hope you guys love this as much as i enjoyed writing it

GENERAL WARNINGS: again, i'll just leave this warning on every chapter - dazai struggles a lot with disassociation/derealization & losing himself in the pages of the book. + we have a bit more of unhinged thought processes on dazai's end. as always please let me know if i forgot any warnings!

SEE: UNREAL UNEARTH SERIES MASTERLIST READ: BADLANDS SIDE A

He understands now the temptation that Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden with the forbidden fruit dangling right in front of her face. Traditional interpretation of the Bible places the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden on day six of creation; Dazai’s restraint has thus far rivaled that of the two Biblical figures. He’s on day six now, in fact; it’s been exactly six days, twelve hours and forty six minutes since he met you in the hallway of the club and each passing second has been more agonizing than the last.

He isn’t sure how much longer he’s going to last.

His office is dark and suffocating, the atmosphere so cold and unwelcoming that it has him craving the return to your warm and homely apartment so intensely that he thinks it might be making him sick. He turned off the light earlier when he felt a migraine coming on, hoping that the darkness would let his eyes and mind rest enough to catch it before it fully came on, but he’s realized that it probably wasn’t the light causing his headache, rather it was you.

He sighs as he tilts his head back, willing the migraine to go away even though he knows it's to no avail. But he can’t even rest his eyes in peace, because every time they slide shut, the image of you burns the inside of his eyelids—your soft gaze and bright smile, the way you held your hand out to take his and the way your lashes fluttered as you leaned into his touch.

Six days, twelve hours and forty seven minutes.

He thinks he would prefer the nightmares of his other lives to this. At least with those, they fuel his drive to press forward with his master plan, the reminder of your fates in the other worlds would scorch away any desire to seek you out in fear of bringing it upon you again in this one.

Now, every night for the past six days he’s been plagued with dreams of you—pleasant dreams. Dreams that when he wakes from them, he finds his cheeks wet and his chest heavy with such an intense longing for you that it makes him physically ill. He dreams of having you in his arms, kissing the top of your head as you do your best to study even with him making every effort to distract you. He dreams of watching sunrises with you, seeing the way the early morning colors wash over your face, your skin glowing and eyes glittering in such a vivid way that Dazai swears he can even picture it now. He dreams of a ring, and he dreams of his palms sweating as he walks with you down to the beach you met on to watch another sunrise, and he dreams of getting down on one knee in front of you just as the sun breaks over the horizon. He never dreams of a wedding, so Dazai theorizes that you never made it long enough for one to take place.

And the realization of that alone should be enough to make the yearning for you evaporate but it’s not, because dangerous thoughts have been circulating through his head since the night he left you. Thoughts of how maybe this could be different. Dazai is the boss of the Port Mafia in this life, he has enough resources to protect you—more money than god and enough armed forces behind him to rival the nation’s government. He has the power to keep you safe in this life, more than he ever had in any other.

If there was any life that he could be with you and ensure your safety, it’s this one.

Six days, twelve hours and forty nine minutes.

Does he really want to give this up?

Dazai rests his arms on his desk, lowering his head down, eyes sliding shut again. He can see you again, the image of you from last week, laughing wildly at something he’d said—he can’t even remember what it was, he was so nervous that he can’t even recall half of the night, but he doesn’t really care at all what he said anyway, too enraptured by the way you react to it.

He wonders if you’re there now. At the bar. Because what he does remember, of course, is your teasing grin as you tell him that of course, you’re scheming out a second meeting between the two of you because naturally you’ve decided that you already like him. And he remembers the hope thinly veiled behind your eyes, as you look over him, knowing that if the two of you are to meet again, it would be reliant on whether or not he decides to come back to the club, because you’ve already made your intentions clear.

Six days, twelve hours and fifty minutes.

Dazai’s throat feels swollen, his nails dig into his palms. He imagines you waiting there, he imagines the disappointment on your face as you slowly realize he’s not going to show up. And you’re so damn beautiful, radiant even beneath the shitty lighting of the club—he’s sure you saved a seat at the bar for him, and you’ve probably had dozens of interested men who’ve offered to buy you drinks, asking if you’d come to the club alone. And you’ll probably turn them down at first, telling them that you’re waiting on someone, but he wonders how long it’ll take for you to finally take one of them up on their offer after you’ve realized that Dazai isn’t going to show. He wonders if you’ll follow them out to the dance floor, he wonders if you’ll give them the same teasing smile you gave him. He can picture slim fingers caressing your hips, pulling you closer. He can picture your lashes fluttering as they lean their head down to ghost their lips against your neck, swaying to the music. He doesn’t want to picture anything else, but his mind, as always, betrays him.

He wonders if you’ll take them back to your apartment—would you get right into it or would you sit and talk with them for a while? His head spins as his thoughts take an increasingly more dangerous spiral. It’s a bitter cold night out, maybe you’ll take the opportunity to make them the hot chocolate you’ve made him hundreds of times, thousands of times before—no, he corrects as the lines start to blur in a treacherous way, you’ve never made it for him in this life. Maybe it’s so cold out that you’d forgo small talk altogether, instead seeking out the warmth of someone else’s body—you’d take them by the hand, lead them into your bedroom and lay them back on your bed.

Would you be gentle with them? Like you were with him? No, he reminds himself again, you’ve never been with him like that, not in this life. The pages of the Book pile around him, memories flooding him with an intensity that he’s never experienced before; he can hardly even remember what his reality is, all of the others blending and shifting together in his mind, making it impossible to decipher the lines between them.

You’re dragging him to the beach to watch your first sunrise with him and you’re telling him that you want to see as many as possible with him—he wants to tell you that he thinks he might love you but he doesn’t know how to say it You’re laying him back against a bed, asking him if he trusts you—of course, he does, how is that even a question? You’re leaning your head against his arm, standing before a familiar grave and accepting him for all that he is even after he strips bare down to all of the worst parts of himself for you—you shouldn’t, he wants to say desperately, but instead he’s telling you that he loves you, even though he knows it might kill you. And then-

And then he’s ripped violently from his fall into the pages of the Book as his phone vibrates and it’s not him anymore, it’s someone else, someone unworthy and undeserving, a stranger that you’d turned to because Dazai wasn’t there.

Dazai nearly heaves. He never should have indulged in you that night. He should have known he was never going to go back to normal after it. The difference between the memories and actually having seen you and heard you and touched you and smelt you was so much more severe than he ever could have expected. Now, the memories aren’t enough; he wants a life with you, he wants it to be his reality. He thinks that it’s not fair that he’s the only one who can’t be with you. He wants to make new memories with you so he no longer has to struggle with the blurred lines, so he doesn’t have to yearn for a life that he’ll never be able to experience, having to watch every single other Dazai get to have what he can’t.

Six days, twelve hours and fifty eight minutes.

He can do it, his thoughts are a bit manic as he tries to ground himself after the spiral. He has the knowledge. He has the power. He has the resources. If there’s any life that he’s able to be with you and keep you safe, it’s this one. He doesn’t have to hide from you, he doesn’t have to deny himself of you to protect you—he has the knowledge, he has the power, he has the resources. He can keep you safe. Instead of being the only Dazai who never gets to be with you, he’ll be the only Dazai who can actually spend his life with you—a long one, a happy one. He’ll have what none of them did. He can do it.

Before he can stop himself, he speaks.

“Gin-chan,” Dazai calls softly, knowing that he doesn’t have to speak any louder for the girl to hear him. As soon as he hears the door to the backroom open, he continues with, “Have Albatross be ready downstairs with one of the cars.”

“Of course. Where to, sir?”

To Gin’s credit, she doesn’t sound at all caught off guard by Dazai’s sudden request, as if it’s normal for Dazai to randomly decide to leave the Port Mafia base even though he can count on one hand the number of times he’s left the base since he ascended to the position of boss four years earlier.

“... The club we own in Naka,” Dazai says after a few moments, fingers thrumming against the mahogany of his desk for a moment before he adds, “... Don’t tell Chuuya.”

“... Yes, sir. I’ll have Albatross get everything ready immediately.”

At exactly six days and thirteen hours, Dazai’s self-control shatters.

You sigh.

The seat next to you remains damningly empty despite the many attempts of handsome strangers trying to join you at the bar. You’re sure you must’ve turned down half a dozen by now in hopes that the stranger from last Friday will end up showing up but those hopes are very quickly disappearing. You want to convince yourself that maybe you’ve just missed him—it’s a rather large club, after all—but it’s not half as packed as it was last week; you think that if he were here, you would’ve spotted him by now. Or he would have spotted you.

Dazai Osamu, you remember his name, eyes sliding shut briefly as you take a sip of your water, wondering if you should just switch to alcohol and drink your sorrows away, seek out one of the men who’d approached you already so you don’t end up spending the night alone. The thought leaves you unsatisfied, a pout rising to your lips around the rim of your glass as you finish off yet another glass of water.

You swear that you’re not usually this pathetic—especially not over a man—but there’s just something about this Dazai Osamu that has you acting up. Like honestly, who even are you? Going to the club alone on a Friday night with nothing but some faint hopes that the man you’d met here last week would show up too? It’s so embarrassing, you think you might die—but somehow you’re not embarrassed enough to leave because you’re still hoping that he shows up.

God, you think again, who are you anymore? You barely even know this man. You know his name and you know he’s handsome. And that’s just about it, but here you are, sitting bummed at a club because he isn’t showing even though he has absolutely no reason to.

The bartender raises his eyebrows with a small smile and you pass the glass over to him, letting him refill it. He’s the same one from last week and he recognized you as soon as you took a seat at the bar, making sure to get you what you need and keep you company whenever there’s a lull in patrons flagging him down. It’s a stark contrast from the treatment that you got early in the night last week, where it had taken you twenty minutes to get a single drink and even then you could barely hold his attention long enough to tell him what you wanted. You can’t help but notice that he seems hyperaware of the open seat next to you.

As the bartender passes you another glass of water, you flash him a wavering smile, unconsciously sparing another awkward glance to the empty seat next to you. While the club isn’t quite as packed as it was last week, it’s not exactly empty and you’re starting to feel bad hoarding the seat when plenty of others probably want to sit down too.

“I’m sure he’ll show,” the bartender tells you before he’s waved down by another patron. You wonder if he’s guessed who you’re waiting for or if it’s just meant to be some general comfort. “Probably just running late, he’s a busy man.”

Oh, you think, eyes widening, but before you can question him as to what he means, he’s rushing to go refill the drink of a blonde man on the opposite end of the bar.

A busy man.

Who are you, Dazai Osamu?

Even in your drunken state, you knew from the moment you met him that there was something off about him. The way he held himself, the way he looked at you, the way people treated him—it all screamed danger. Once you’d sobered up, you remembered all of the things you didn’t notice while you’d been intoxicated. You remembered the way people would rush to get out of his way or show him complete deference, eyes a bit wide and faces a bit pale. You remembered the way Takeda looked sick and scared when Dazai told him to go, and Takeda is usually a bull-headed and fearless man, it takes a lot to make him back down. You remembered his driver—he had a driver!—and how when he stepped out of the car to open the door for the two of you, you swore you caught a glint of gunmetal holstered at his waist before Dazai gave him a cold look and he quickly covered it up.

And you’re not usually a girl who seeks danger out, for as much as you went on your spiel about living life on the edge the last time you spoke to him, you’re usually a pretty careful person. If you were smart, you would have woken up the next morning and pretended that you were too drunk to remember the night before, forget all about Dazai Osamu and his dangerous smile and intense gaze.

But you aren’t smart, evidently, because instead of forgetting about him, you spent half of the next day mourning because he didn’t even leave you his number and the other half of it scheming out the best way of running into him again.

You sigh, resting your cheek on your hand as you prop your elbow up on the bartop, idly tracing the rim of your glass.

What is it about you, Dazai?

One meeting and you’re captivated. He must be some kind of witch, or siren, there’s no other explanation for how you’re so utterly enchanted by him. He spoke your name with the familiarity of a lover, watching you with gentle eyes even though they become cold and empty whenever they avert to someone other than you. And you—you felt as if you’ve known him your entire life. You’ve never had such an instant connection with someone like that before, you’re convinced that it’s fate at work, even if he’s adamant against the thought.

You want to see him again. You wonder if it was maybe just your drunken brain misconstruing things, although somehow you doubt it. You need to talk to him again to know if the connection is real, and if it’s real-

“Is this seat taken?”

At first, the voice doesn’t register as familiar, so you let out a soft puff of air, trying to figure out if you should deny another person. But as you turn to face the newcomer, your eyes widen a bit as you catch sight of the long, burgundy scarf hanging in your peripheral, stark against a long, sleek black suit jacket.

Your lips part in shock, head snapping to the side so you can fully look at the person to your left. Dazai Osamu stands there, hands resting comfortably in the pockets of his jacket, head tilted to the side, a small smile curving at his lips and a soft look in his eye as he looks down at you, comforting and warm compared to the cold emptiness you vaguely noticed from him at certain points last night.

You try to say no, it’s not taken, but no words leave your lips, so instead, you shake your head, eyes following Dazai as he takes a seat next to you at the bar. The bartender rushes over, all but abandoning the couple he’d been helping on the opposite side of the bar, pouring Dazai an expensive glass of whiskey and giving him a nod before going back to who he’d been helping before. Your eyes follow the man curiously before you turn your gaze back to Dazai, not speaking for a moment as you observe the way he stares down at the glass of whiskey for a second, the warmth in his eye slowly dissipating.

You don’t like it, and not because it makes you uncomfortable or anything, but rather because you just don’t like how alone he seems. So, you lean forward, smiling, and say, “Fancy seeing you here.”

Dazai turns his gaze back to you and the warmth returns, pools of honey rather than the endless void. You melt beneath it.

“I vaguely remember a beautiful woman mentioning scheming out a second meeting,” Dazai drawls, dark eye lidded as he looks down at you, a half-smile decorating his face. “It would be quite remiss of me to be the cause of her failure.”

Your cheeks feel a bit a hot as you grin down at your drink. “While we’re on the topic of things I may or may not have said last week, I have to be honest with you. I totally lied about something,” you say with a laugh, leaning on the bar. He raises his eyebrow curiously. You give him a sheepish smile as you continue with, “I have absolutely no idea how to charm someone, drunk or sober, I was entirely speaking out of my ass, so keep your expectations low.”

The smile that curls to the corner of his lips is soft enough to make your heart skip a beat. “I think you just being yourself is plenty charming,” he murmurs.

You let out a noise caught between a groan and a whimper, face going hot. “Oh my god, you’re the charmer,” you accuse loudly, burying your face in your arms. “I’ll never survive. Handsome and charming, a deadly combination.”

As you peer your eyes open to look at him, you can’t help but notice the way his smile briefly falters at your words. You promptly decide to change the subject with: “Thank you for making sure I got home safely last week.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” he says, one pale, lithe finger tracing along the rim of his glass. Your eyes linger for a moment on the digit, mind wandering, before you force your gaze up; you can see the bandages peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his dark coat as your eyes drag his arm back to his face. There’s a knowing expression on his face, the smile on his lips a bit more sensual. Your breath catches as you avert your gaze, feeling quite like you’ve just been caught doing something bad.

“Sure I do,” you try to make the words sound casual and easy but despite your most sincere attempts, your voice is strained. “Not many people would go out of their way like that for someone they just met.”

Something akin to amusement flashes through his eye. You’re not sure what he finds amusing, but you decide you don’t care because you very much prefer it to the distant look that had been painted in them before.

“An unfortunate world we live in, then,” he says softly, but there’s a lilt to his tone that makes you feel like he knows something that you don’t. He doesn’t give you much time to dwell on it though as he asks, “Are you going to have anything to drink?”

You startle slightly at the question, glancing down at the glass of water you’re drinking before you tell him with a laugh, “I don’t know if I want to force you to deal with me drunk twice. Didn’t I promise I’d stay sober this time?”

“If I remember correctly, you only said ‘not quite as drunk,’” he says, lips tilting up a bit and god, the way he’s looking at you has you flustered, gaze lidded and intense, as if you’re the only one in the room and not in a club with hundreds of other people. “Let me order you something, I think you’ll like it.”

“Oh, that’s bold,” you warn, tossing him a teasing smile. “I'm very particular about my drinks, I’ll have you know. I’m almost curious what you have in mind that makes you so confident.”

“I have a good feeling about it,” Dazai says, tilting his head to the side as he waits for your decision.

You give a heavy sigh, pretending like it’s a difficult decision even though you know it’s not. “Fine, but only if you promise to cut me off after two. Whenever I hit three, I hit the floor.”

You extend your pinky toward him, waiting for him to take it, and when he does, you swear a jolt of electricity shoots up your arm. As he wraps his finger around yours, your heart skips a beat, your eyes meet his and you think you might get lost in the dark pools, you don’t think you would mind if you do and that scares you. You’ve never had someone make your heart flutter and mind haze like this, especially not so quickly.

“Promise,” he breathes out, barely audible above the thundering music and crowds.

You dip your head down to press your lips against your thumb to seal the deal, and you think you fall even more when you don’t have to tell him to do the same, following your lead and kissing his own thumb to seal it. And you briefly wonder if this man might be your soulmate because he didn’t give you a single odd look and didn't hesitate for a second whereas when you’ve made pinky promises with some of your other friends and past partners, their expression always twists a bit in confusion or oddity at the second part.

Rather than letting go of your hand, he swaps to his other hand, intertwining his fingers with yours and resting it on your lap before he flags the bartender down—quite easily, might you add—and leans over the bartop to say something quietly to him. The man nods and rushes off, and you give Dazai a scandalized look as he turns his attention back to you, hyper aware of the warmth of his fingers against yours.

“You won’t even tell me what it is?” you gasp in mock offense.

Dazai rests his other elbow on the bar top, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you through his lashes. You couldn’t drag your gaze away if you wanted to, tunneled onto him.

“It’s a surprise,” he says with a smile. “You’ll like it, trust me.”

“Quite confident for someone that hardly knows me, aren’t you, Dazai?” you giggle, raising your hand to cover your lips, and god, he looks so amused again, and so handsome. You might die. “That’ll be for me to judge.”

“Very confident,” he agrees, and you think he winks but you can’t tell because one of his eyes is covered by bandages.

“So,” you begin, waiting for the drink. “You’re from around here then?”

You hope he is, at least, because you’d like to keep seeing him. Something about him is just so intoxicating, like a drug you just can’t get enough of. You think he must be, from the way he seems so familiar with the bartender and other patrons, but you could always be wrong.

You hope you’re not wrong.

“Mhm,” Dazai agrees, humming around the rim of his glass as he takes another sip. You hope the excitement you feel doesn’t flash across your face. “Yokohama born and raised… you?”

Distantly, a part of you feels like the question is just an afterthought, as though he already knows the answer and you wonder if you’re that obvious, but you pay no mind to that, instead nodding. “Same,” you say, and then, “... I wonder if we have crossed paths before then. You’re so familiar, I can’t imagine that we’ve never met before… Maybe uni? Did you happen to go to UTokyo? I graduated there last year.”

Dazai seems to hesitate at the question, as if considering his answer. You wonder why, but he leaves you little time to figure it out because he finally replies, “No… I was in Tokyo for business for a while a couple years ago though.”

Your eyes light up. “Really?” you ask, leaning forward as you speak. “Where did you work? I know the area pretty well.”

He hesitates again, this time more blatantly, and you can see the confliction that briefly flashes across his face. How curious.

“It wasn’t a particular storefront, or anything, just my line of work had me in the area for a while.”

You’re about to press into what his line of work is, desperate to know more about the man sitting in front of you, but you’re interrupted by the bartender returning with a martini so stunning that if it tastes half as good as it looks, you might fall in love.

But you’re not going to make it that easy.

“Go on,” Dazai says, leaning a bit back in his seat as he watches. He looks at you as if he already knows that you’re going to like it and you’re adamant on destroying his assumptions, you will hate this drink if it’s the last thing you do. “Tell me what you think.”

You lift the martini glass up to your lips carefully, the dark liquid so close to the brim that you’re nervous it will spill over the sides. He watches you expectantly, you pointedly hold his gaze as you take a sip of the drink and-

“Oh my god.”

Dazai looks utterly vindicated, raising his chin as you take a sip of the drink and stare at it in shock. It’s so… tasty. It’s creamy, and sweet, and you can hardly taste the alcohol but you can feel the tingle on your tongue and the light burn in your throat. All thoughts of the conversation you were having before the drink showed up disappear, and you’re focused solely on the glass in your hands and the man before you.

“So?” God, he’s evil. He almost purrs the word, as if he knows exactly what your response is going to be. He leans forward a bit, looking down at you through his lashes. “Give me the verdict, Your Honor.”

“It’s good,” you say, raising your chin in spite, hoping that your expression doesn’t betray but from the way his lips spread into a wider smile, you fear that you completely failed.

“Just good?” Dazai croons.

You pause for a second, debating on lying and telling him yes, just good, but the words you intend on speaking do not leave your lips. Rather, you say, “Okay. It may or may not be one of the best drinks I’ve had in a while. You have to tell me what it is so I know what to ask for.”

“Hmm.” Dazai lifts a finger to his chin, as if considering your words. “I don’t think I will.”

“What!”

His smile becomes a bit softer, his expression more teasing. “I think I’ll hold that information hostage, so you have to come out with me again if you want to drink it.”

A jittery feeling spreads through your chest, heart fluttering, cheeks hot. “Oh? Look who’s scheming out our third meeting already,” you taunt lightly. “How the tables turn.”

“Of course, I’m scheming out our third meeting, maybe our fourth and fifth too,” he mimics your words from last week shamelessly. “I’ve decided I already like you, bella.”

The pet name rolls off his tongue easily, as if it’s second nature to him, and your face is on fire but Dazai looks like he’s shocked even at himself. You fumble with your words for just a second, it takes you a moment too long to recover but you think that Dazai doesn’t even notice in his stunned state.

You decide to return fire.

“I hope all of our dates aren’t just going to be at clubs,” you tell him with a smile that edges on flirtatious, cocking your head to the left.

Your words hardly register until you notice that his cheeks have become bright and rosy, hand instinctively coming up to hide his face. He looks entirely like he’s at a loss for words, lips parting and closing several times. It’s so endearing that you think you might really die now, but then the gravity of your words hit you like a train.

Oh god. A date? A date?? This is only the second time you’ve met, that was way too soon. You-

“I’ll make sure the next place we meet is somewhere special,” he finally says, voice smooth and gaze gentle and-

And just like that, you’re a goner.

You’re not sure how long you sit there talking to him. Hours, probably. It feels like no time at all and forever all at once. You lose yourself in his gaze, and his smile, and you think the whole world could be burning around the two of you and you’d have no idea just because you’re so tunnel visioned on him. The music drowns out, and all you can hear is his voice. The people around you blur out of focus, and all you can see is him.

It’s insane, you think. You’ve never felt like this with anyone before. You’ve had so many flings and so many boyfriends over the years, but the way your stomach twists and turns and the way your head feels fuzzy with Dazai is so incomparable to how you felt with anyone else.

You feel like you’ve known him forever.

You feel like you’ve only just met him.

How is it possible to feel like you know someone you’ve only just met so intimately? When you know you don’t actually know much about him personally but it still feels like you can read into the depths of his soul?

God, you don’t know, but you do know one thing, and it’s that you never want to lose this feeling.

And that’s how it began.

Every Friday for weeks, you find yourself at the club, sipping cheap martinis at the bar until a certain handsome man in a dark suit decides to finally grace you with his presence. Sometimes, the two of you would just sit at the club’s bar until the sun threatens to rise, when you finally go your separate ways and you make your way back to your apartment, falling asleep with a smile on your face and waking up with a giddy feeling still sparkling in your chest. Other times, he only comes by the club to pick you up, fulfilling his promise of making sure to take you somewhere nice when you find yourself fine dining at the fanciest rooftop restaurants in the city.

He never stays over your place, even when he does drop you off. Sometimes he’ll hang around for an hour (you made him your favorite hot chocolate, he liked it so much that he nearly cried although he vehemently denied that was the reason why his eye got all misty), but he always leaves. You try not to let it bum you out, convincing yourself that it’s just because he doesn’t want to keep his driver waiting (albatross, you remember his name, he’s funny. you like him), but sometimes you can’t help the heavy feeling set over you when he makes his abrupt leave, wishing for just a bit more. He hasn’t even kissed you yet, for god’s sake.

You also distantly note that you don’t really know much about him, even after all of these weeks his personal life remains a mystery to you. The closest you were able to get to prying anything out of him was when he showed up so late that you were on the verge of leaving because you doubted he would even show, he apologized and said a work meeting ran late. You asked him what about and he hesitated, as if he was about to say it, but then gave you some vague response and steered the conversation to something less personal.

That’s what’s happened every time you try to learn a bit more about him. You don’t really notice it in the moment because he’s smooth and charming about it, but he always manages to turn the conversation to you or some other general topic. You want to respect that he doesn’t want to talk about his personal life because maybe he’s coming to you to have some sort of escape from it, but you also want to know him beyond just the flirting over drinks and the slim things you can gleam from his reactions, words hidden between the lines of what he actually says.

Your friends think you’re crazy. They think he’s bad news. They’ve come with you to the club a few times to wait with you until he shows up and every time they see him you can see the weary looks that they shoot at one another. You don’t care what they think—or well, that’s a lie, you do care what they think, you’re just too enamored with Dazai for their words to have any weight. Which probably should be concerning, but that’s something for you to think about another day.

Because now, you’re focused on him again. He’s been talking more tonight than he usually does—most nights, he’ll spend the majority of the time just listening to you, a soft smile on his face and a captivated look in his eye, but tonight, he’s been rather vocal, people watching with you and making sly advances that you think is just plain cruel considering he hasn’t even kissed you yet.

But tonight, you’ve decided, will be the night.

You’ve been trying to figure out how to go about it, if you should just invite him back to your apartment—something you’ve done before, so there shouldn’t be any nerves but you still find yourself wavering because you don’t know how you’re going to proceed once you get to your apartment. You are not a seducer. You have no experience in seducing. In fact, you are usually the one being seduced. So every time your lips part to ask if he wants to leave the club, you find yourself withering and faltering, waiting for a ‘better’ chance as if one will magically arise.

It does.

It’s when a fight breaks out on the dancefloor a bit too close to where you’re sitting, certainly the result of some sleazy man trying to put his hands on a woman who already has a date, when you finally force yourself to stop pussying out. You let out a shriek as you stumble forward off your barstool when one of the men careens a bit too closely to you, and it’s only by Dazai’s swift reaction, arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you to him and steadies you, that you don’t go toppling onto the floor.

Your eyes widen as you watch the fight escalate, a bit entertained now that you’re safe in his arms from becoming collateral damage, but Dazai looks distinctly unimpressed by the scene taking place a few feet away, lips twisted into a deep frown. You watch as he shoots a sharp look to one of the bouncers lingering by the door, and you note how the man immediately moves forward to break up the fight. Interesting. You’ve noticed that the people at the work tend to be respectful to him, but that’s the first time you’ve seen them seemingly take a silent order from him.

You steel your nerves and you decide to try your hand.

“Would you… maybe want to get out of here?”

You look nervous, Dazai watches you carefully as he leads you across the club to the exits, so he figures that there’s something else going on in your head right now. You’ve been quiet most of the night, he realizes, and he wonders if something is wrong. If something happened. His mind immediately catapults to the worst case scenario: that someone found out about the two of you, despite how careful he’s been in making sure that the places he’s brought you to were locked down by the Port Mafia before you arrived with him, and you’re being threatened.

His thoughts race. Albatross should still be waiting where Dazai left him, so if something goes wrong, he’ll be ready. Dazai glances at you again, and he slowly realizes that you don’t seem nervous because you’re fearful of something, and his anxieties slowly are edged away.

But that only gives rise to new anxieties because then what’s making you so nervous then? What did you mean by get out of here? Do you want to go somewhere else? (but where, the longer he’s out in the open, the more of a risk there will be without him taking precautions beforehand like he usually does) Do you want to be dropped off back at your apartment? (that’s what he initially assumed, but he doesn’t want the night to end yet) Do you want to invite him to your apartment? (it wouldn’t be the first time, but it doesn’t leave him any less nervous. he’s terrified of making the wrong move) Do you want him to invite you to his apartment? (god, he hopes not)

The last option cannot happen. You’re already suspicious from the way the bartender and the other club patrons have been treating him the past few weeks, and now you’re doubly suspicious, Dazai can tell from the way your eyes squint as the bouncers at the entrance of the club nod their heads to him. If he brings you back to his place, the tallest of the five towers making up the Port Mafia base, there’s no way you won’t put together that something’s up with him and the last thing he wants is to scare you away. Even if you don’t know what the buildings are exactly, you’ll definitely question him about his occupation, go back to the dangerous line of questioning you’ve been treading on lately, and when he can’t give you a straight answer, it’ll become all the more apparent that it’s something shady and if you’re smart, you’ll make an excuse to leave and then never seek him out again.

Realistically, he probably won’t be able to hide this from you for long, but it just has to be long enough for him to woo you so the news isn’t so jarring that it makes you cut off all contact with him. Although, Dazai isn’t sure if any amount of time will make the knowledge that he’s a mafia boss not jarring enough to flee. His heart feels a bit heavy, wondering if this is all a mistake because how the hell is he supposed to just accept it when you inevitably decide to leave? And isn’t that what he should want, anyway? He wants you to keep yourself safe, no matter what the cost, and if you’re the one to cut him off, then he won’t be tempted to come looking for you again. He can protect you from the distance as he initially planned with the memory of the nights he’s spent with you pushing him forward. So maybe this is for the best.

You accepted all of the other Dazais, the traitorous part of his mind tried to convince himself that isn’t a hopeless cause, even though he knows that there’s a stark difference between who he is in this lifetime, the face of Japan’s underworld, drenched in blood and rotting from the inside out, and who he was in all of the other lifetimes, desperately trying to make himself a better man so that Odasaku would be proud of him.

Maybe you’ll understand, he thinks weakly as the two of you leave the club. It’s drizzling now, and his eyes cut across the parking lot looking for Albatross, but his thoughts are lost—you understanding would mean he would have to tell you everything. He can’t do that. Not just because you would probably think he’s delusional, or psychotic, but because it would put the very fabric of this reality at risk. He can’t tell more people than necessary and stage five…

His plan.

Dazai’s gaze shifts back over to you, the sudden remembrance of what he’s been planning since he came in contact with the Book so many years ago spreading like ice through him. He should take you by the hand and lead you to the car, the rain is going to start coming down harder any second now, but Dazai is frozen because in his manic state, when he’d decided he can protect you in this life, be with you in this life, he hadn’t even given any thought to what would become of his plan, and he’s been so consumed by thoughts of you the past few weeks that it’s hardly crossed his mind.

He has to force himself to move forward, ignoring the way his mind is reeling—if he decides to live, what does that mean for Odasaku? For Atsushi and Akutagawa and Chuuya? For the world? Would he be condemning everything he’s worked to protect? He still thinks he can do it—protect you, that is—but would it be at the cost of everything else? He feels sick, trying to figure out if he’s going to have to plot out a whole new plan, as if this one hadn’t taken him years to come up with and implement.

But you don’t move to follow him to the car where Albatross is waiting when he steps forward. Instead, you tilt your head up to the sky, lashes fluttering as rain begins to drizzle down from the dark sky.

And Dazai’s spiraling thoughts halt.

He thinks you look beautiful—you’re always beautiful, but he thinks there’s something magical about the picture of the small smile on your lips as rain drops slide across the smooth skin of your face. He tries to force himself to look away so he doesn’t seem creepy staring at you, but he can’t bring himself to.

You don’t seem to mind though, because you turn your attention to him, eyes lit up in a way that makes his heart race. “Dance with me,” you say suddenly, holding a hand out to him, the soft smile on your face is a bit mischievous now.

Dazai looks down at you, raising his eyebrows. “Here?” he asks, voice tainted with a hint of incredulity. “Now?”

“Mhm,” you say, unperturbed, holding your hand out more insistently.

Dazai thinks he isn’t capable of denying you much of anything, but he can’t help but hesitate. Not because he doesn’t want to dance with you—he would sell what’s left of his wretched soul for just a single dance with you—but because the longer he’s out in the open, the more of a chance there might be an assassination attempt on him. Every time he goes out, he’s gambling his life. It would put you in danger, and it’s not like he brought Chuuya along for if something goes wrong. Albatross is capable enough, but his ability is not combat centric.

Being seen with you in general could put you in danger, doubts begin to sprinkle through his head again, his heart lodged in his throat as remembers that Fyodor Dostoevsky and Agatha Christie aren’t the only threats to your life. He’s been as careful as he could be but even with all of the precautions in the world, there are still risks. He’s made new enemies in this lifetime, hundreds of them over the years, and if any one of them caught wind of you and his apparent attraction to you…

“If you wanted to dance, shouldn’t we have done that inside?” Dazai drawls instead, trying to play it off. Inside, where it’s significantly safer. Inside, where Dazai knows that there’s less of a chance of unsavory eyes falling upon the two of you because the club is owned by the Port Mafia and everyone let in is screened. Inside, where Dazai can still convince himself that he has the power to keep you safe. You’re entirely unbothered by his question, so he continues before you can shoot him down, “Where it’s not raining, and where there’s actually music.”

“Haven’t you seen all of the romance movies?” you complain, smile widening. “Dancing in the rain is romantic, Dazai. Who needs music anyway? C’mon, dance with me.”

And how is Dazai supposed to say no to you when you look at him like that? Eyes wide and imploring, smile gentle—you look at him in a way that Dazai’s only dreamed of, and he knows that he’s a goner. Well, he’s known since he first met you, but it’s being made abundantly more clear right now with the way his heart, which he usually has such keen control over, beats rapidly in his chest. His lips part because he still wants to try to deny you—for your sake, not his—but no words leave them.

You don’t wait for his response anyway, hand darting out to catch his so you can drag him out into the parking lot. His eyes widen, stumbling forward and trying to catch his balance—you only laugh, intertwining your fingers with his while your other hand finds his waist, spinning the two of you in a reckless circle.

“Keep up!” you tell him with a smile that causes his breath to catch.

Dazai thinks he might die. His head feels fuzzy as you lead him in a wide ballroom dance, sweeping across the vacant parking lot with ease. He thinks he must look like a fool being dragged along in your dance like a puppet, hardly able to keep himself from tripping over his own feet.

He’s not sure how you’re able to keep yourself so graceful, heels splashing in puddles as you lead him through spins and turns and pivots, but Dazai thinks you’re beautiful. Again. Extraordinarily so, even. Rain is pouring down over the two of you, the drizzle quickly becoming torrential, and your hair is wet and matted to your face, mascara a bit smeared underneath your eyes, but you’re laughing, and Dazai thinks you’re divine. Heavenly. Too ethereal to be tainted by the likes of him and yet here he is, the putrid skin of his fingers intertwined with your untarnished ones. You raise your arm and his, beckoning for him to twirl beneath it.

He does, and it’s awkward and clumsy because he’s too tall to comfortably perform the move, but you giggle loudly so it makes up for the embarrassment. And for a moment, Dazai can almost convince himself that this isn’t a life where he’s been forced to let the dark consume him for the betterment of the world; rather, it’s a world where he’s gone unsullied by the dark, his blood still runs red and you’re beautiful and you’re alive, and he’s just a boy who’s fallen so terribly in love with a girl so far out of his league that he thinks he might be dreaming when you return his interest. As he spins, he notices that his cheeks feel a bit strained and sore, and he realizes that there’s a smile on his face that matches your own, the muscles of his cheeks and jaw unused to stretching in such a manner and he hopes, anxiously, that it doesn’t look quite as unbearable as it feels.

If it does look unnatural, you don’t seem to mind. The rain blurs his vision and he’s forced to blink away the raindrops that keep falling into his eye, and for a split second, you’re standing before him in a pretty red dress on a sidewalk, and he’s the one leading you in the theatrical dance, dipping you down as lightning webs across the sky above the two of you, and he’s about to beg you for a kiss, he knows it but then-

He’s drawn out of his thoughts when you pull your hand back from his, but you don’t give him time to mourn the loss of your touch because then you’re slipping your arms around his neck, loose and casual. You’re pressed up close to him, chest brushing his and head tilted back so you can look up at him—a slower dance, swaying to the music of the wind and rain—and Dazai can hardly breathe. You’re so close. So close that he could kiss you if he wanted to. God, he wants to. He’s wanted to for weeks but every time he tries to gather the nerve to do it, he backs out.

“Where’d you go?” you ask softly, and he can barely hear you as thunder rumbles in the distance, brows furrowed in confusion, unsure of what you mean. You tap his temple twice gently, “Left me for a second there.”

Oh, his throat feels a bit dry, realizing that you must’ve noticed when he started to slip back into the pages of the Book. Terrifying. Beautiful and terrifying, that’s what you are, if you can read him that well after meeting him once a week for a few weeks, he dreads to know how well you’d be able to read him once you start spending more and more time with him. But would it be so bad? To have someone that knows him so profoundly? He’s so alone all the damn time in this world, and you’re giving him a taste of a life where maybe he wouldn’t have to be. It’s terrifying. Tempting. He forces another smile onto his lips, and this time your eyes narrow, as if you know this one isn’t as genuine as the last.

“How rude of me,” he murmurs, lifting his hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He’s so close, he realizes again, hyper aware of the way his lips are almost brushing yours. He could kiss you if he wanted, he repeats, and he wants so badly but he doesn’t want to scare you away. “To leave behind such fine company.”

You don’t look content with his apparent attempt at avoiding the subject, and Dazai’s throat feels tight because it’s not really a conversation to have with you here. Now. Ever, really.

For once, mother nature appears to be on his side, because before you can press on the subject, lightning strikes dangerously close to where the two of you are standing, making you jump, eyes wide. He takes the opportunity to wrap an arm around your waist, guiding you over to where he left Albatross earlier in the night.

The car is already running, Albatross is leaning back in the seat scrolling on the phone and Dazai nearly commits an atrocity when he sees that the man has his gun laying haphazardly on the dashboard. As if Albatross can feel Dazai’s murderous intent, he looks up from his phone and his eyes shoot open when he sees you with Dazai and he scrambles to holster his gun back at his waist.

Luckily, you don’t notice. Or maybe unluckily, because your attention is still fixated on him and Dazai is not ready to have that discussion with you because how the hell is he supposed to say “Sorry! Lost in some worlds that don’t exist, and just so you know, we almost got married in some of them! And just so you know, I got you killed in all of them!”

Yeah. That would go over well.

Instead, he opens the door to the car for you, letting you hop in the backseat. He follows after. Albatross slides his glasses to the bridge of his nose, an unscrupulous smile on his face that instantly has Dazai suspicious. He hopes the man knows that no friendship with Chuuya will save him if he decides to purposely embarrass Dazai in front of you.

“You’re back!” You recognize Albatross immediately, a smile spreading across your face at the sight of him. Dazai is almost jealous until he remembers that you’re still holding his hand. “You weren’t driving last time.”

Right. Because of the raid on one of the Scarlet Gang’s warehouses in Tokyo. A mission that Dazai definitely should have been more available for on the off chance that something went wrong, but he was far too busy indulging in you. In his defense, he had no doubts that the mission would go according to plan—the Scarlet Gang is dangerous, yes, and Kawabata is a force to be reckoned with, but he’s simply not Dazai.

“D’aw, didn’t think you’d recognize me, doll,” Albatross grins, tossing you a wink. “Good to see you again too. You’re significantly more sober tonight, aren’t you?”

Dazai’s eyes narrow a bit at the pet name, but he’s more focused on the way you throw your face into your hands with a groan, reminded of just how drunk you’d been the last time Albatross was playing chauffeur. You’re a messy drunk, he remembers fondly, he doesn’t remember ever seeing you drink in any of his other lives with you, and he feels a bit giddy at the thought that he gets to experience a side of you that the others never did. Even if he was spending half of the night holding your hair back while you threw your guts up, spluttering apologies through sobs and heaves. He would do it again. Without even the slightest hesitation, he would do it again.

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” you ask, peeking one eye between your fingers to look at Dazai for confirmation.

Dazai doesn’t even have the chance to assure you that no, you weren’t that bad, because Albatross is speaking again. Of course.

“You were pretty damn bad, doll,” he grins, and you groan even louder, leaning your body over to rest your head on Dazai’s bicep. Dazai’s heart nearly leaps out of his throat. “S’alright though, boss took care of you.”

“Did he?” you ask with a teasing smile, eyes glittering as you look up at Dazai, who suddenly feels a bit embarrassed, but Albatross rescues him.

Maybe he does deserve the vacation he’s been bitching about wanting.

“Where to?” Albatross asks, putting the car in gear, gaze flickering between you and Dazai briefly.

Dazai is about to tell him your apartment when he catches the sudden apprehension on your face. He hesitates and waits for you to say whatever you want to say, but you don’t, instead you let out a puff of air and let your eyes slide shut.

“Where do you want to go?” Dazai asks you.

You still look uncertain, but then you finally say, “I was meaning to stop and get some groceries at the convenience store on the way home. There’s one a few blocks away from my apartment. I can just walk over there if you drop me off at my place though, it’s fine.”

As if. The idea of you walking anywhere so late at night makes his skin crawl, especially considering there’s been a rise of violent crimes in the city that the Mafia has yet to get a handle on. He needs to push for that to be taken care of if he has to worry about you leaving your apartment to wander around so late. He makes a note to himself to bring it up to Chuuya later.

“We can stop there on the way there. It’s no trouble.”

Albatross gives him a look, as if he’s asking if the boss of the Port Mafia is really about to go grocery shopping with a civilian in the middle of the night, forcing the Mafia’s best getaway driver to be their chauffeur. Dazai only gives him a cold, sharp look in return—if you need groceries, then they’ll stop for groceries. Simple as that. In a life where Dazai thought he’d never even be able to look at you, the chance of doing mundane chores like grocery shopping with you is not something he’ll just pass by.

He can pretend to be normal. If only for a little longer.

Until he has to go back to the base, and his lungs are clogged with corrupted air, being slowly suffocated by his surroundings.

Until you figure out who he is, and he’s alone again, being consumed by the void in his chest once more.

He hardly considers the fact that he’s going somewhere with you where his subordinates haven’t made extensive efforts to ensure that no one suspicious is around to see the two of you.

“Alrighty,” Albatross agrees, backing down as soon as he sees the expression on Dazai’s face. “To the convenience store.”

Your eyes brighten, a smile lights up your face. “Thanks,” you say relieved, and Dazai wants to say that you don’t ever have to thank him for everything and that he’d give you the entire world if given the chance, but he thinks that might be a bit weird so instead he settles on just giving you a small smile. “I’ll make you the best hot chocolate of your life when we get to my apartment. Just wait.”

Dazai’s chest feels warm. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Wait here,” you tell both Dazai and Albatross as Albatross pulls into the parking lot of your apartment complex and stops the car outside of your building. Dazai, who’d been about to follow you, pauses from where he’s ducking beneath the doorframe to step out of the car, looking at you and waiting for an explanation. “... My apartment is a mess… I, um, wasn’t expecting company. Let me just… tidy up before you come in. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Dazai’s visible eye crinkles up in amusement as he sits back down in the backseat of the car and you immediately take off up toward the steps leading up to the second floor of your apartment, giddy and excited, grocery bag swinging and bumping against your hip as you make your way quickly up the steps. You don’t know what’s gotten into you. You feel like a schoolgirl dealing with her first real crush, flustered and giggly, hardly able to hold a conversation without stuttering over your words.

He’s just so… you don’t know how to describe it. Intense. But intense isn’t even the right word, because he’s not so intense that it makes you uncomfortable or overwhelmed, and that’s usually what you think of when someone is intense. Or maybe overwhelmed is a bit fitting, because you swear every time he sets his soft gaze down on you, your heart might leap out of your chest. Intense. Familiar, you don’t know how it’s possible to feel like you’ve known someone you’ve only met a few times your entire life.

Your fingers fumble as you try to unlock your door. One, two, three, it takes three attempts for you to finally slide the key into the lock, pushing open your door and stepping inside, free from the torrential rain and wild wind outside.

You sigh and rest your back against the door as you shut it behind you, eyes sliding shut.

Who are you, Dazai Osamu?

Someone important.

Of course, you noticed how he was treated by the workers of the club—the bartender, the bouncers, even just the regular patrons. The restaurants he’s brought you to the past few weeks, they all treated him the same way. There were plenty of men there that were dressed in expensive clothes and held themselves highly, but none were treated the same way Dazai was.

Someone dangerous.

You’d also caught a glimpse of the gun on the dash of Albatross’s car. (His driver, another point to note because who has a driver except very important people) Only three types of people have guns in Japan—military, police, and criminals, and you’re pretty sure he’s not part of the military or police force…

Someone you probably shouldn’t be so drawn to.

That should be enough to make you run. It really should be. You have no explanation or excuse for why you’re not besides the fact that you might not be as smart as you herald yourself to be. You shouldn’t feel giddy when he smiles softly at you, you should be nervous. You shouldn’t be longing for his touch, you should be avoiding it. Instead, you’re leaning against your door, smiling like an idiot after making him wait for you to clean up your apartment so you don’t embarrass yourself.

Oh, you’re such a fool. But how could you not be with how he treats you? Tucking hair behind your ear, setting a gaze so soft on you that you think it might make your heart stop, dancing with you in the rain clumsily with rosy cheeks and wide eyes. How is it possible for you to reconcile the way the man acts with you to the way others treat him? Or maybe that’s just delusion speaking. It could be, honestly. You think if your brother was living with you, he’d be horrified, might lock you away for the rest of your life; you think your friends already want to put you in a psych ward and they’d only become all the more insistent if they knew half of the things you’ve noticed.

But your brother left you and your friends don’t know, so nothing is stopping you from making what might be a terrible decision.

You let out a breath as you push yourself off the door, placing down your grocery bags on the table by your door so you can scramble to pick up all of the stray clothes you’d tossed around your apartment as you frantically tried to find an outfit earlier in the night. You reach over to turn on your light, flicking the switch once, then twice, and then three times.

No way.

You sigh deeply, head falling back against the wood door of your apartment, knocking the back of your head against it twice in frustration. Letting out a irate puff of air, you push yourself off of the door and force yourself to get to work. It’s not the end of the world, hopefully it'll come back soon, the providers are usually quick with getting the outages fixed, even in your shitty area.

You force yourself to move forward, frowning deeply as you scoop up all of the paperwork spread out on your coffee table, making sure to keep it all in order as you move them over to the desk you have by your window seat. You drop the pile down and cast your gaze out to all of the clothes strewn haphazardly around your apartment, cursing yourself for having been so messy earlier when you were trying on just about every outfit you own and then flinging them around frustrated when you decided they weren’t good enough.

You scowl as you bend down to pick them all up, deciding you’ll just stuff them messily in your closet and fold them later when you don’t have company. As you zoom around trying to snag all of the dresses and different pairs of bras and underwear scattered about, your mind races. Your stove should still work because your landlord refuses to install any modern appliances into your apartment, for better or for worse, so you have an old model that shouldn’t be affected by the outage. But you think it’ll be awkward sitting in the dark, you think you have a few candles stored away in your room—you’ll have to find them and set them up.

Candlelit evening, how romantic! you think to yourself, a bit dreamily. You wonder if Albatross will be coming up to join the two of you in your apartment, you’d offered to make him a drink too but you figure it’ll be Dazai’s decision if he’ll be waiting outside or…

Or maybe, he’ll send him home.

You get giddy at the thought—candlelights, slightly tipsy after a night out, you take a peek under your dress to try to figure out which underwear you’d decided on earlier and if you should change into a different pair but are delighted when you realize that you’d gone with your pretty red ones.

You think he’ll like them.

Hopefully.

You like them, they’re your favorites.

Oh, you have to clean your bedroom too, you think to yourself in partial agony because you don’t know how the hell you’re going to clean up everything in there without making Dazai wait out there for an hour. You get anxious at the thought, worrying that if you take too long, he might leave, so you pick up the pace. You snatch the last stray bra hanging on the arm of your couch before taking off into your bedroom.

You hardly get a step into the room before you’re freezing in your tracks.

No way.

You stare at your bed, arms falling loose to your side, lips parted in shock. The clothes you’d cleaned up all drop aimlessly to the floor around you. Your bed is drenched with water—your sheets soaked, your mattress soaked, the ceiling heavy with rainwater from a leak you didn’t know you had.

“Oh my god,” you breathe out to yourself, unsure of what exactly you should do, never having had a problem like this before.

You think this is what you get, seeking out the cheapest possible apartment complex to stay in because you’re trying to save all of the money you have for school. Now, your mattress is ruined, your ceiling looks like it’s on the verge of collapse and oh my god, you left your laptop on your bed.

A noise caught between a whimper and cry of frustration leaves your lips as you dive forward, fishing your laptop out of the massive pool of water flooding your bed. You hold it in front of your face between two fingers, watching as water drips from it down to the ground.

There goes your laptop too.

You think you might be sick.

Now, you have to deal with a landlord who is decidedly not helpful when it comes to issues in the complex and you have nowhere to sleep. Maybe you can call one of your friends to stay at their place, but it’s already the middle of the night and you know two of them have their own entrance exams tomorrow for the programs that they’re applying to.

Unless…

Your gaze shifts to the window in your room, looking between the blinds to see Dazai and Albatross still waiting outside in their car.

Okay. Most urgent problem temporarily fixed. Maybe.

Dazai has a place. He has to. He’s clearly rich. It’s probably a much nicer place than yours too. You can go there, at least for the night. He wouldn’t just leave you with nowhere to go… right? No, of course he wouldn’t. You need to pack then, instead of cleaning.

Okay, this is fine.

It’s fine.

It takes you about five minutes to grab a few spare pairs of clothes into the duffle bag laying at your bedroom door, occasionally tossing dirty looks at the leak ruining your bed. When you finish throwing your clothes in the duffle—unfolded and hastily, of course, they’ll be terribly wrinkled—you rise to your feet and swing the bag over your shoulder, making your way back to your door and grabbing your groceries.

You don’t know what to say to him when you get back to the car. You’re probably being a bit presumptuous. Okay, a lot presumptuous—Dazai has never invited you back to his place, you’ve invited him to yours—but you don’t really have another choice.

You exhale as you step back into the rain, locking your apartment and making your way back down the steps to the complex’s parking lot. You don’t let yourself hesitate as you dart across the parking lot toward the car, fearing that if you take a second to actually think about what you’re doing—inviting yourself into someone else’s home!—you’ll probably back out.

You open the car door. You slide back inside, taking a seat behind the passenger seat. You drop your duffle bag on the floor between your feet and place your groceries back down between you and Dazai. You can feel both Dazai and Albatross staring at you. You stare ahead.

“... My apartment is flooded,” you finally say after a few moments.

Dazai doesn’t say anything, brows furrowing as he watches you. You can hardly bring yourself to look at him, trying to peek at him from the corner of your eye as best as you can without being too obvious about it. He’s not responding. Albatross isn’t moving the car. You’re getting the urge to bolt, to run upstairs and drown yourself in the puddle of water on your bed.

Finally, Albatross clears his throat. “Boss?”

Dazai still doesn’t respond. You think you might be doubly sick now, and embarrassed. An awful combination, really. You know that he knows what you came back here hoping for, and you realize that he might just send you back to your flooded apartment instead because he obviously did not sign up for taking in some random girl that he’s met a few Fridays for the night because she has nowhere else to go.

You finally turn your face to look at Dazai head on and you can feel that your eyes are glassy, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You don’t know how pathetic you must look for Dazai’s expression to shift the way it does, his conflicted expression crumbling as he turns away from you. You don’t want to know how pathetic you must look, you’d only feel even more humiliated.

After what feels like an eternity, Dazai finally says: “Drive.”

Albatross’s eyes shoot open, he physically turns to look at Dazai, “But-”

You don’t catch the look that Dazai gives Albatross, too busy basking in the relief of having somewhere to stay for the night, but whatever it is, it makes Albatross turn back to face the wheel without another word, turning the car back on and shifting it into gear before pulling out of the parking lot.

As soon as you’re on the move, you turn your attention back down to your phone, trying to figure out if you should message your landlord now or in the morning, dreading the inevitable argument you’re going to have with him. You fiddle with the device, occasionally sparing looks at Dazai, but the man is lost in thought next to you, visible eye distant and conflicted.

You can’t bring yourself to say anything so the whole drive to Dazai’s apartment is long and quiet. Even Albatross, who’s had no difficult sparking conversation the whole drive to your place, stays silent.

You’re bummed, all of the excitement you felt about bringing Dazai back to your place is long gone, feeling the stress of having to replace everything that’s been ruined by the leak and the anxiety of dealing with your landlord; all you want to do is sleep and die. Okay. That’s dramatic. But you’re exhausted and you really do want to sleep. Maybe not die, but definitely sleep.

You lay your head against the window, eyes starting to droop shut, and you can feel Dazai glancing at you now but you can’t even bring yourself to look over at him. Instead, you keep your eyes trained outside the window, only perking up when Albatross finally starts slowing to a stop.

And then, you’re suddenly not tired at all. Your eyes widen as he pulls to the front of the tallest of the five black buildings that tower over the Naka ward, lips parting as you crane your head to look up out the window and then look pointedly back at Dazai, stunned.

Dazai refuses to meet your gaze, staring ahead.

… You think that your instincts about this man must be spot on.

Too bad you’re not listening to them.

“You’ve gone crazy.”

Dazai’s gaze draws up from the paperwork he’s definitely not doing, far too preoccupied with thoughts of you; it’s cold and cutting as it lands on Chuuya. His executive enters the room without any type of announcement, his voice just as cold as Dazai’s expression—he supposes it’s testimony to how angry he is, because Chuuya is only frigid in his anger when he’s really been pushed to the brink.

Naturally, Dazai only smiles, a slow and taunting one that he knows presses all of Chuuya’s buttons from the way the man’s bicolored eyes flash with fury. Chuuya storms over to Dazai’s desk, making his way until he’s standing right in front of him.

“How so?” Dazai drawls, folding his hands over his lap as he leans back in his chair, tilting his head to the side questioningly.

“How so?” Chuuya spits out, slamming his hands down on Dazai’s desk. Dazai raises his eyebrows and then lifts his chin, looking pointedly down to where Chuuya’s hands are splayed against his desk. Chuuya doesn’t flinch—of course he doesn’t, he’s Chuuya—but he does pull his hands back to himself, albeit snarling as he does it. “The hell are you bringing some random woman back to our base? Back to your room? Going out alone the past few weeks when you know you’ve got a bounty on your head higher than most world leaders? I was letting it slide but this is too far, why the hell is she here? You’ve gone crazy, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Careful, Chuuya,” Dazai warns, voice quiet, expression growing a bit flinty when he brings you up. Dazai doesn’t care if Chuuya wants to rail on him for being reckless, but he’s not allowed to drag you into it. He decides to not acknowledge the comment about you, focusing on the end of his tirade, “I was with one of the Flags, I wasn’t alone.”

“Albatross isn’t cut out for that type of combat and you know it,” Chuuya snaps, glaring at Dazai. “If one of those bounty hunters came after you, you both would’ve been killed. What’s gotten into you? Never took you for the type to be this reckless. You get a taste of a woman’s c-”

“I said careful, Chuuya. Know your place,” Dazai repeats, voice icy. The warning is gone, only a threat remains—Chuuya doesn’t need to finish his sentence for Dazai to know where he was going with it, the way the man’s eyes darted over to Dazai’s bedroom was more than enough to confirm it.

“Is this a goddamn joke to you?” Chuuya asks, keeping his voice low, his lips flat and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t get it. You’ve always been so careful, more than anyone else. What the hell does one random woman have that’s making you risk all of this?”

“I’m not risking anything,” Dazai tells him coolly, “and she’s not just some random woman.”

Chuuya’s expression shifts, brows furrowing deeper; Dazai can see the tiny cogs working behind his eyes as he thinks. He wonders if Chuuya has been drinking tonight, catching the pink hue to his cheeks and the hazy look coating his eyes.

No wonder he’s so angry then, Dazai muses, he must have been out with Kouyou when he got word that Dazai left the base again without any protection detail and then brought someone up to his room who in Chuuya’s mind, could be an assassin for all he knows.

Suddenly, the confusion clears and something closer to realization sweeps across Chuuya’s face. His gaze turns back pointedly in the direction of Dazai’s bedroom.

“That’s her,” Chuuya says, disbelief dripping from his tone. “The girl you’ve had Kouyou looking over for years. What the fuck, Dazai? I thought the whole point of having Kouyou look after her was so that you kept away from her.”

Dazai stares at Chuuya, only for a moment, because then his gaze drifts back to the door leading into his bedroom, mind drifting. He supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised that Kouyou told Chuuya about it—Dazai wasn’t explicit enough with his orders, only telling Kouyou to ensure that Dazai himself never knew anything about her. Of course, the woman would bring it up to Chuuya, probably hoping Chuuya had some insight into why Dazai is so insistent on your protection.

Chuuya didn’t, of course, but he guesses that only made the topic of you and Dazai’s apparent random attachment to you even more of an interesting topic for their wine sessions. Honestly, he’s surprised that Chuuya didn’t realize earlier that the girl he’s been seeing is the one he’s had Kouyou assigned to. Kouyou surely should have known by now.

You’re fast asleep by now. He got lucky because of how exhausted you were over the stress of the whole situation: he didn’t have to deal with the questions that he was certain would arise as soon as you caught sight of the Port Mafia base. You were all but falling asleep on your feet as the two of you stood in the glass elevator leading up to Dazai’s apartment, the penthouse in the centermost of the five buildings consisting of the Port Mafia base. Dazai thought he was about to have a heart attack when you swayed on your feet and ended up resting your head on his bicep, eyes drooping shut. You only managed a few sleepy protests as he led you to his bedroom, asking where he was going to sleep if you take his room (the fact that you worry about him when you’re even on the brink of falling asleep on your feet made his fingers tingle), but you gave in quickly at his insistence.

He should feel some sort of pity, or sympathy, because he could see the weariness in your eyes and the fatigue plaguing your body. Dazai might not be capable of feeling pity or sympathy for most people, but if he could feel it for anyone, it would be you. But he does not, and it’s for a selfish reason, of course: your misfortune led to you turning to him for help, and the thought of that alone makes his chest feel light and giddy.

Yes, he’s going to have to figure out some sort of excuse tomorrow for when you wake up and inevitably have questions—he is not ready for you to know about his position in the Port Mafia—but right now you’re sleeping in his bed and you’re relying on him for help. His fingers thrum against his desk, jittery with excitement, he almost forgets Chuuya is there until he hears the man let out a sharp noise of disgust at Dazai's apparent exhilaration.

Distantly, very distantly, he knows this is bad. You’ve been smart and observant in every universe, you’re going to put together that something is seriously wrong—you were not supposed to come back to his place, but how was he supposed to say no to you when you were looking at him with teary eyes and nowhere else to go? The thought itself feels like sacrilege.

“You know what we are and what we do,” Chuuya says, voice calmer now as he shakes his head and fishes a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with his free hand before he turns to leave. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but you’re putting this girl in danger after the lengths you went to keep her safe. I don’t get it.”

He squints a bit as Chuuya’s words ring through his head. That’s what he had thought too, but he’s the last person to admit to Chuuya that he might be right. A cold feeling starts to set over him, spreading through his chest like ice. If he’s going to think about this realistically, you’re probably already in danger just from being around him. The likelihood of someone catching sight of the two of you the past few weeks is higher than he’s comfortable with, even with the precautions that he’s taken, especially with tonight outside the club and at the convenience store. The thought is terrifying, enough to immediately kill off the jittery excitement that had been running through his body.

Dazai’s index finger traces the outline of his lips, his mind races. What does he do? If you’re in danger, he can’t just let you go back to your apartment and leave you undefended in a sketchier part of the city. His enemies will jump on it. They’ll target you. But he can’t just keep you here. It’ll be too risky, you’ll figure out who he is and what he does, and that’s not even considering the fact that maybe you won’t even want to stay. You might wake up in the morning and head to someone else’s place—you’d made a vague comment about not wanting to intrude and going to a friend’s house tomorrow but the thought makes his stomach twist a bit.

God, he’s so conflicted.

But the first thing to handle is making sure that you don’t go back to your apartment alone. The rest he can figure out later on—he has to decide if he’d rather try to keep you around the base and risk you figuring out what he does (god, he wants to keep you around) or if he should just send you off to a “friend’s” (he still stands by the fact that your ‘friends’ are shitty because what sort of friends leave their drunk friend alone at a bar with a stranger—even if he knows that he’d rather let the world burn than see harm come upon you, they don’t know that) with an extra protection detail. One that you wouldn’t know is there, naturally.

But how does he make sure you don’t go back to your apartment after the leak is fixed?

He thinks to himself, an idea coming to him swiftly. It’s a bit dark, yes, and he’s sure that if you knew, you’d run for the hills but… to keep you safe, he would do whatever it takes. Even if you’d hate him for it if you knew.

But what you don’t know won’t hurt you.

“Chuuya,” Dazai says before the man can leave his apartment. Chuuya stops dead in his tracks, not turning to look at Dazai, but waiting for whatever he has to say. “I’m going to text you the number of her landlord… make sure he doesn’t get her apartment fixed any time soon. And let Gin-chan know I might have a guest for the next few days so she’s not caught off guard tomorrow.”

Chuuya scoffs. “You’re a freak, Dazai.”

Dazai only smiles idly to himself, eyes sliding shut as he leans back in the chair at his desk, Chuuya leaves without another word, Dazai loses himself in thoughts of you.

A freak? Yeah, maybe. In love? Definitely.

Should he convince you to stay with him? The thought bounces around his head frantically. He doesn’t know the answer. The more careful part of him screams no, tells him that it’s too dangerous to keep you around. It’s dangerous for you, because the longer you’re around here, the more at risk you’ll be of getting hurt. It’s dangerous for him, because the longer you��re around here, the more at risk he’ll be of getting exposed,

But the less logical part of him, the one that’s consumed by the idea of you, and the chance he has of being with you, is much louder.

You came to him, he reminds himself. You found him. He tried to be good. He did everything he could to stay away from you, but you still found him. And you chose to seek him out again. You chose to. It’s easier to blame it on you, convince himself that you brought this upon yourself, as if you had any idea what sort of sick and fucked up person Dazai really is, as if you have any idea what’s happened to you in every other universe because of him.

He can never go back to how he was living before meeting you; he can’t.

You came to him.

Why should he have to let you go now?

With that thought in mind, Dazai thinks the answer to his question is made abundantly clear.

#WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE DIED????#that should be my sign to stop reading cause I JUST KNOWWEE THIS IS GOING TO BREAK MY HEART #but it’s so good i can’t stop 😩#BUT WHY DID SHE HAVE TO DIE THO #I WAS SCREECHING IN MY ROOM WHEN I READ THAT WTF

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zukkook · 3 days

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ᡣ𐭩 ALL THINGS END

FEATURING: beast dazai osamu

SUMMARY: all of dazai's carefully calculated plans come to an abrupt halt when you run into him at a club. he thinks fate is a funny thing, that despite all of his desperate attempts to stay away from you, it still leads you right to him. one night, he decides, is all he'll allow. one night of indulgence, and then things will go back to how they were. that's how it has to be to keep you safe. {wordcount: 11.8k; fem!reader; romance & tragedy}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: wow we're starting side b—side b can be read separately from side a but you’ll get some neat references if you read both (｡♡ ‿ ♡｡). i'm so nervous actually HAHAH i put my heart and soul into side b and trying to characterize beast!dazai properly. it was really hard because the majority of the fic is from his pov and getting into his mind is a lotttt harder than canonzai imo. anyway, reblogs are always appreciated! thank you guys & i hope you guys love this as much as i enjoyed writing it

GENERAL WARNINGS: dazai struggles a lot with disassociation/derealization & losing himself in the pages of the book, it's going to be a common theme throughout the series so i'll leave the heads up now. + as always please let me know if i forgot any warnings!

SEE: UNREAL UNEARTH SERIES MASTERLIST READ: BADLANDS SIDE A

Dazai Osamu thinks that his touch might be noxious, indiscriminately rotting all he comes in contact with until only putrid remains are left of what had once been lively souls. His gaze drags across his fingers from where they’re splayed on top of the table, absently tapping out a familiar name over and over again, the only thing grounding him to the meeting taking place around him in one of the second-floor VIP rooms of the Port Mafia’s most elite nightclub. If he looks hard enough, he swears he can see that the tips of his fingers are blackened, ready to lay the curse of decay upon the next person he brushes them against.

He can feel eyes on him—the impatient glares from the foreign emissaries and the tense stares of his executives, as they wait for him to respond to the offer, laid out to him by the top brass of the Russian kingpin called Nabokov, an old ally of the Port Mafia courtesy of the previous boss. Dazai was already annoyed coming into this meeting, thinking that the Russians were presumptuous for assuming that the Port Mafia should come to their defense in the three-way territorial war going on in their motherland, but the fact that Nabokov couldn’t even bother to come speak to him himself after Dazai’s executives insisted that he be the one to personally handle this only made him even more bitter and irate. He hates having to leave the headquarters.

He takes a long drag from the cigarette hanging between his lips, lifting his free hand to pull the end from his mouth before putting it out on the table in front of him. The buzz of the nicotine isn’t enough to keep him present anymore. He keeps tapping, steady and controlled, the same bunch of letters again and again—everything around himself feels hazy and blurry. The only thing clear that he can focus on is the uniform drumming of his fingers, his voice doesn’t even sound like his own as he speaks:

“Why should I even entertain your offer when Nabokov couldn’t bring it to me himself?”

The first words that he speaks during the entire meeting are cold and harsh, as they should be in response to the disrespect shown by the Pale Flame, but Dazai just wants to be done with this and return to the base before anything can go wrong. His executives are vaguely pleased by his words, evidently taking more offense to Nabokov’s failure to show than Dazai himself does, and the three emissaries of the Pale Flame bristle, sharing looks as they try to figure out what to say in response to Dazai’s remark. Dazai doesn’t even care to hear what they have to say, lost in his thoughts as he glances up at the ceiling.

He thinks that if his touch isn’t entirely noxious, as there have been a few people who haven’t faced ruin after being exposed to it, then his presence makes up for it in its draining effect. The black hole in his chest is just as indiscriminate as the corroding touch of his fingers, emptying people of hope and exhausting them of energy. A part of Dazai mourns over the fact that those who can survive his touch are drained by the void—(chuuya. atsushi. their names weigh heavy on him, knowing that he’s dragged them so far down with him in this life)—while those who can withstand the void are inevitably killed because of their proximity to him—(you, odasaku, your names ring through his head, cruel and taunting. he pushes away the longing that rips at his chest, as he always does.)

His fate is to be alone, a cruel design drawn out by whatever sadistic gods reign above.

In every universe, it’s proven to be true. Even in this one, he can’t spare people from the effects of his existence. Atsushi, Kyouka, Chuuya—as years have passed their eyes have become dull and their souls have become as black as the blood that he forcibly injected into their veins. He considers whether or not he might just be better off dead, that way he can give those who have been the most affected by him, in this life and all of the others, a much-needed reprieve from him. But he can’t, not when he’s unsure over whether or not those who’ve been condemned by his touch will actually survive if it means he’s gone.

“... okov sends all of his reg…”

The tapping becomes a bit harsher, faster. If he was writing out the name rather than tapping it, the script would be jagged and unclear. His surroundings start to fade out again, Nabokov’s executives are speaking but the words are going in one ear, out the other. His head feels fuzzy and his free hand is starting to go numb.

Odasaku. You. He’s sure that there are plenty of others, but you two are the only ones that matter to him. He doesn’t know if killing himself would mean that the two of you could live out your lives to the fullest. You could both die anyway, for all he knows, and then he would’ve died for nothing and he can’t risk that, not when this is the only universe where he’s aware of the fate that you and Odasaku face in every other world.

He can work to protect the two of you in this world; he’ll do what must be done from the shadows to ensure that you and Odasaku can finally fulfill your dreams. A life without you, and a life without Odasaku, is a small price to pay if it means that you two can actually live out your lives. You’ve granted him enough good memories from every single other universe that the least you guys deserve is one without his presence bringing you ruin.

“... the previous b…”

Sometimes, he longs so badly for a life with the two of you that it makes him sick. A world in which Odasaku lives and Dazai can be with you, a world where he’s untouched by the shadows and the tarry substance corrupting his blood. He thinks that Odasaku would adore you if he’d ever been given the chance to meet you—you both have a similar dry humor and an intrinsic desire to help people, even those who decidedly don’t deserve it. On nights that are a bit too dark and a bit too heavy, Dazai imagines dragging you to Odasaku’s place so he can introduce you to him and he imagines how his face would flame up in embarrassment when Odasaku tells you all of the humiliating stories of Dazai’s youth that he knows the man has stocked up.

Moments like this, when everything feels a bit too far away and his mind can’t connect to the present, lost in the pages of all of the other worlds he’d seen, he swears that he can feel the ghost of your touch running across his skin as you trace patterns along his arms and brush kisses against his jaw. He thinks it’s cruel that his mind tortures him with the unattainable; taunts him with the knowledge that the only person he’s ever entirely given himself to, and was accepted by, is out there waiting for him, but the moment Dazai gives in to the aching in his chest, it’ll be ripped away from him again.

“… disorder in the motherl…”

He can’t feel his left arm, and that awful numbness is starting to spread across his chest to his right arm; with nothing left to consume, the black hole in his chest is devouring him again. Now is not the time, not when his executives are around, and especially not when outsiders are around. He taps more intensely—your name, over and over and over again, the only thing that can ever pull him out of these states. It’s the reminder that you’re out there, alive, and that even if it’s not in this world, you love him in every single other one, no matter how absurd the idea is.

“... will not be contained to…”

He needs to focus. He knows what the Pale Flame emissaries are saying even if Dazai can’t actually hear and process the full conversation—whatever is happening in Russia will spread, and it will spread to Japan, certainly, if Dostoevsky comes out on top. This conflict never occurred in the other universes and Dazai doesn’t know what exactly he did in this one that caused this change. Figuring it out and adapting needs to be his first priority because Dostoevsky’s arrival in Yokohama will put everything he’s built at risk.

It will put you at risk.

How many times have you died at his hand? Too many. Too many for him to risk this.

He was able to handle Odasaku’s fate years ago when he got ahold of that painting and convinced him to join the Armed Detective Agency. Odasaku’s fate was easy in comparison to yours, that painting and the Port Mafia have been the cause of his death, removing them from the equation will be enough to keep him safe until Dazai follows through with the final phase of his plan.

Your fate is always more arbitrary—Fyodor Dostoevsky will be the first trial he has to overcome to ensure your survival and then depending on how things play out after that, Agatha Christie will be the second trial. They’re the two leading causes of your death besides Dazai himself. Once the two of them have been taken care of, Dazai can move on to Phase Three, the beginning of the end.

The darker part of him, the one that has festered and corrupted and spread to every inch of his soul without the light you and Odasaku had brought to him in all of his other lives, wonders if he should have you kidnapped and tucked away until he can make sure that Dostoevsky is six-feet-under and unable to disrupt the world he’s built for you and Odasaku. Unlike Osasaku, you have no ability to protect yourself with if everything starts falling apart. You’ll be the most vulnerable, the most at risk.

But he knows he can’t for the same reason that he knows he’ll never be able to approach you in the same way he did Odasaku so many years before: Dazai has never had any sort of self-control when it comes to you and he doubts it’ll be any different in this universe. Even when he knows you’re better off, even when he knows that each second he spends in your life is slowly destroying you, he can never bring himself to part from you. He fears that even the slightest look of you will condemn him and all of the work he’s done, that even just the knowledge of where you are will tempt him into wandering the area in hopes of running into you.

He’s done everything he can to ensure that he never has any contact with you or any information about your life. He assigned Kouyou to look over you, being the best suited for such types of missions. She’s spent years making sure that you’re safe and nothing from the underground disturbs your studies or everyday life. The woman was naturally curious about the request, even more so when Dazai instructed her to never give him any updates on you unless it was a life-or-death situation, but she knew better than to question him.

At this point, only the hand of god and sheer chance could lead him to you, which is why he’s particularly against meetings like these where he’s forced to leave the shadows of his towers and dally into the public. Dazai doesn’t beg, and he certainly doesn’t pray, but whenever he has to leave the Port Mafia base for extended periods, he gets damn close to it because each moment in the light risks everything.

“... oevsky and Tolstoy…”

The ice spreads to the wrist of his right arm and just as Dazai thinks he’s about to be fully swallowed by the void, his gaze drifts to the window looking down on the main floor of the club and he catches sight of a figure leaning on the bar, and it’s ludicrous, really, because how does his gaze tunnel on one person in the sea of hundreds before him. But his mouth goes dry and his body stills as recognition floods through him, replacing the numbness so quickly that his body is almost palpitating in the sudden shock of it. Flames burn through his veins and the fingers that had been steadily tapping out your name jerk so abruptly that Chuuya, Kouyou, and Gin are all casting him hesitant looks.

He rises to his feet suddenly, ignoring the fact that all eyes are on him and that he’s completely disregarded whatever the Pale Flame emissaries had been explaining. He waves Gin off as the girl instinctively moves to follow him, the room is spinning and closing in on him so swiftly that he doesn’t even think he’ll be able to make it out of the room before his mind and body collapse in on themselves.

If there is a god, Dazai realizes, then he’s abandoned Dazai since the moment he was born, because standing there with glittering eyes and a smile so painstakingly familiar and foreign at the same time is you.

There’s a hazy smile on your face as you stumble out of the main room of the club, and down a side hall toward where you’re pretty sure the restrooms should be. You lean against the wall as you try to regain your bearings, inhaling the air greedily—you hadn’t realized how deprived of it you’d been in the stuffy club, where there were more bodies than pockets of air, and even those were smogged with thick, floral perfume and sweat.

You think you’re having a good night—for the most part, at least. You and your coworkers have been at the club for an hour already celebrating your acceptance into Waseda’s prestigious graduate program. You’d been pressured into inviting one of your more unsavory coworkers, having been told you would seem rude and ill-mannered if you invited everyone else except him. You think now that it really shouldn’t have mattered to you, you’re leaving the office soon to prepare for school anyway, but you suppose you’re easily peer pressured. Sometimes.

But you’re free now, momentarily, at least. One of your friends had distracted Takeda so could sneak off to the restroom to freshen up. God knows he probably would’ve tried to follow you there if he didn’t.

You push yourself off the wall with a sigh, wishing that you’d tied your hair back before coming to the club because you can feel it sticking to the back of your neck. Maybe you’ll run into a girl in the bathroom who has a spare tie for you, but you frown as you look around, noticing that the hallway is a bit too empty for it to lead to one of the club’s restrooms.

You pout when you realize that you must’ve gone down one of the halls leading to the VIP suites on the second level, but as you turn to make your way back into the main area of the club, your eyes catch a figure leaning against the wall dressed in a long black coat and sleek dark suit that probably costs more than your life savings.

He’s tall, you note absently, drawn to the man a bit more than you probably should be for no good reason, handsome, too. He hasn’t noticed you standing there, so you just observe for a moment—he has dark hair and smooth, pale skin, partially covered beneath bandages. He’s struggling to light a cigarette, frustration twisting his face; his lighter won’t light no matter how many times he tries, and you think it’s a bit funny that for all of the expensive clothes he wears, his lighter won’t work.

Finally, you take a few steps forward, moving closer to him and fishing into your purse for your own lighter before you hold it up and ask, “Need a light?”

The man freezes, gaze cutting toward you—his eye is so dark and so empty that it almost chills you, an endless abyss that threatens to consume you. You swear the black is so intense that it seems to be swallowing the dim lighting of the hallway, and you watch as something akin to recognition flashes deep within it. He hardly reacts to your presence otherwise, only his gaze shifts as it roves over you, vaguely reminiscent of a parched man in the desert setting eyes on a distant oasis, unsure if it’s just a figment of his imagination. You raise your eyebrows, feeling a bit exposed underneath his stare, and wave your lighter pointedly.

He doesn’t make a move to reach for your lighter as you hold it out to him. You can’t tell what the expression on his face is as he watches you, it’s entirely indecipherable, his lips are pulled flat but his eye is swimming with emotions that you just can’t quite place. Just as you’re about to take it as rejection and put your lighter back in your purse, he suddenly closes the distance between the two of you, leaning his head down, cigarette dangling between his lips and gaze trained on you, expectant.

Oh, you think to yourself a bit breathlessly, throat spasming as you falter under his gaze. He looks amused, watching you carefully, and you can’t help but notice that the dark pit of his eye starts to lighten as he watches you get flustered. When you struggle to light it the first time, you want to blame it on the martinis you’ve been drinking with your friends, but you know from the way your cheeks feel extra hot and your fingers shake that it’s definitely because of the man standing in front of you.

The scent of his cologne floods your senses, you can almost taste the old whiskey on his warm breath, which you can feel fanning lightly across your fingers, making goosebumps rise to your arms—you pray he doesn’t notice, but from the way his eye flickers up a bit to your arm and the corner of his lip quirks up, you think he probably does.

You thank every god that might be listening when your lighter finally lights, catching the end of his cigarette. Your breath catches as he makes eye contact with you and you think you might be able to get lost in his gaze if you’re not careful; your lips part a bit as if to say something to occupy the silence but no words leave them.

After what feels like eternity, he finally stands straight and you can breathe again, watching as he leans back against the wall next to you, head falling to the side a bit as he takes a long drag of his cigarette.

His gaze doesn’t leave you once.

“You smoke?” He finally speaks, and his voice is low, raspy, and hoarse as if he doesn’t use it much. There’s a lilt to his tone, something caught between subtle criticism and surprise, reminiscent of a disapproving old friend who’s taken aback that you’ve picked up such a bad habit.

“Sometimes, why?” you answer, a bit defensively when you catch the edge to his tone.

You don’t smoke—you carry around your brother’s old lighter as a memento, safekeeping for if he ever decides to come back to you, you’re honestly surprised the thing still works as well as it does—but you feel like you have to prove a point now because he sounds a bit judgmental about it.

He only shrugs lazily. “Don’t look like the type.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Is there ‘a type?’” you ask sarcastically.

He pointedly looks over you, gaze raking up and down your body once in a slow, borderline sensual way. You can feel your cheeks heating up again, you curse your body violently for betraying you.

“Yeah,” he drawls after a few moments. “Not you.”

You scoff loudly, looking away, and you blame the alcohol when you find yourself admitting, “… I don’t smoke.”

The man smiles thinly at the three words, a triumphant spark shooting through the brown of his eye and an expression on his face that tells you he somehow knew it without you having to say it out loud but appreciated the confirmation.

“Told you,” he says. “Don’t look the type.”

“Hmph,” is all you respond with, flipping your lighter shut and slipping it back into your purse.

You don’t leave right away; you don’t think you could even if you wanted to, you feel like a deer caught in headlights beneath his gaze, feet glued to the ground. But the problem lies in the fact that you don’t want to leave, there’s something about him that has you drawn in like a moth to flame and you don’t even know why because you don’t even know his name yet. And you probably shouldn’t be, you’ve always had a keen sense of self-preservation and there’s a dangerous edge to this man that should concern you—you can see it in the way he looks at you, the way he dresses, and the way he holds himself.

Dangerous, you think to yourself, but you’re charmed by it—you know you should probably get back to the bar where your friends are, but your feet don’t budge. He’s watching you curiously, not making any move to say anything, just observing you and you feel like you might crumble beneath his gaze. You can’t tell if he’s searching for something or if he’s just looking at you to look at you; the air between the two of you is tense but not in an awkward way. But you decide to break the silence with: “What’s your name?”

He hesitates, gaze narrowing just a bit as if he’s considering whether or not he should tell you, and you feel a bit embarrassed, tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth as you anxiously wait for his response.

“Dazai,” he finally says, and you can’t help but notice he sounds a bit breathless. “Dazai Osamu.”

The name feels so achingly familiar that it almost makes you question whether or not you’ve ever met this man before even though you’re sure that you would remember if you did. You give him your name in return and watch as his lips curve upward slightly as he repeats it out loud, making your chest feel warm and your mind a bit foggy. He says your name as if he’s spoken it dozens of times before, the intimacy of it nearly has you reeling.

It has you reeling so badly that you speak without thinking, longing to drag the conversation out.

“Would you… maybe want to have a drink with me?” The words spill from your lips before you can stop them and instantly, you want to swallow your own tongue, shifting a bit nervously on your feet. Usually, when you drink you’re more outgoing, but with this man, you feel like a teen girl fumbling over words with her school crush.

His lips part to respond but no words leave them, conflict swims in his gaze so flagrantly that it makes you a bit embarrassed, realizing he’s probably trying to figure out the best way to reject you. You notice, distantly, that some other foreign emotion flashes on his face and it’s so brief that you almost miss it, but you swear that it’s something akin to a reality slap from the way his eye widens and lips part a bit.

Heat rises to your cheeks as you wait for the inevitable rejection, he casts a look backward, in the direction of the steps that lead to the second floor’s high-end VIP rooms that only the most elite of Yokohama can afford and you realize that this man is probably a bit more important than you thought if that’s where he came from, throat a bit dry.

You start to try to make up some excuse and rush back to your coworkers with your tail between your legs but then he finally says:

“We can get a drink.”

Your eyes widen a bit, a smile splits across your face. You catch a sour look crossing his face as soon as the words escape him as if he regrets them right as they’re spoken. For a second, it’s almost as if he’s fighting an internal battle, and you wonder if he’s trying to figure out if he should take back his words. You hardly think anything of it in your tipsy state, too excited to even fully register it all.

“Yeah?” you ask so eagerly that you want to rip your own tongue out because the last thing you want is to seem desperate.

But clearly, he loses the battle, because his dark eye only softens a bit at your enthusiasm. The corner of his lip curls upward and you swear you see something else in his expression—something caught between grief and longing that makes your throat swell even with the alcohol clouding your mind.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

You hold your hand out to him; you’re not really sure why and you think you might’ve just embarrassed yourself again when his gaze cuts down to it intensely. You withdraw your hand with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” you say quietly. “Got ahead of myself, I guess.”

Dazai doesn’t respond for an agonizing amount of time and when you’re about to head back to the main part of the club and hope he follows you, he decides to hold his hand out to you.

“No need to apologize,” he tells you, voice a bit more hoarse now.

You reach out to take his hand, fingers brushing his bandaged wrist, where his suit jacket is riding up his arm just a bit. His pulse is erratic and rapid beneath your touch, a complete 180 from the calm, aloof expression on his face. His fingers intertwine with yours as you lead him back into the club—his grip is a bit too tight, but you don’t mind. For some reason, it feels a bit comforting.

You and Dazai make your way back down the hall in the direction of the main room of the club. As soon as he pushes open the door, he pulls his hand from yours but before you can even process the action enough to pout at the loss of contact, he’s slipping his arm around your waist to tuck you into his side to not lose you in the crowds of drunken clubgoers and you think you might feel a bit faint at the way his fingers press into your lower hip through the thin cloth of your dress.

You can’t help but notice the way people seem to part for the two of you, even with the majority of them drunk out of their minds, it’s like they catch one glance of Dazai and move out of his way. It seems instinctual, almost, as if he’s exuding an aura that no one can bring themselves to come near.

You peer up at him curiously, watching his eyelashes flutter as he looks down at you as if he can feel you looking at him. Your face is hot when he catches you looking at him so you immediately avert your gaze; you can feel him let out a puff of amusement, but he doesn’t say anything as the two of you finally reach the bar.

“A gentleman,” you tease when he pulls out the stool for you to sit. He waves the bartender down and you watch, a bit surprised, when the man instantly makes his way over to you, gaze flickering to Dazai.

It had taken you twenty minutes to wave the man down earlier to get your drink.

You also can’t help but notice that he doesn’t even ask Dazai what drink he wants, pouring him whiskey on the rocks, a luxury brand that probably costs more than your monthly rent.

You feel a bit embarrassed ordering your cheap martini after, distracting him with idle conversation.

“Do you come here a lot or something?” you ask him curiously, lifting your drink to your lips to take a sip of your drink once the bartender passes it over—it tastes better than it did before. Smoother.

“Or something,” Dazai agrees cryptically, the corners of his lips tilting upward as he looks over you. “Why?”

“So mysterious,” you say playfully, before shrugging. “I’m just curious, he seemed to know you… maybe I’m also trying to figure out if I’d be able to run into you again here.”

You watch him hesitantly, wondering if it was a bit weird to add that, cursing your lips once again for moving before your brain can process. But Dazai doesn’t look weirded out by your comment—he looks a bit surprised, yes, but in a pleased way rather than a disturbed way.

“Already trying to plot out meeting me again?” he drawls, watching you from the corner of his eye with an indecipherable look that doesn’t match the curl of his lips. “What if you decide you don’t like me? If I end up being dangerous?”

“Oh, you’re definitely dangerous, Dazai Osamu,” you say firmly with a laugh, eyes glimmering. “I could tell that from the moment I saw you. I’m not that drunk.”

His eyebrow raises a bit as he tilts his head to the side. “And yet you invited me for a drink anyway,” he notes, his index finger on his free hand thrumming steadily on the bartop.

“Maybe I like danger,” you say, leaning in a bit closer just to test the waters.

Dazai doesn’t pull away, your heart races in your chest as his gaze traces your face, so close that you can feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your lips. You think you might’ve been wrong before when you compared the color of his eye to an abyss—now, beneath the lighting of the club, you think they’re far more reminiscent of a starry night, just as endless as the abyss, but not quite as dark and hopeless with the celestial bodies glittering within them.

“Maybe you should be more careful,” he murmurs, and there’s an odd shift in his voice—a warning, as if he knows something that you don’t.

“Maybe,” you agree idly, “or maybe I enjoy living life on the edge. It’s short enough as it is, isn’t it? I’d prefer to live it to the fullest than die having barely lived at all.”

“Living life to the fullest involves inviting shady men to drink with you and scheming out a second meeting without even having decided if you like them?” Dazai questions, voice low and amused.

“Shady?” you grin. “Well, I guess you said it, not me. Anyway, I’ve decided that I already like you, Dazai Osamu, so, of course, I’m going to scheme out a second meeting—hopefully, one where I’m not quite as drunk so I can actually charm you, I’m very charming when I’m sober, I’ve been told. I don’t fumble over my words quite as much, or lighters, for that matter.”

You’ve literally never been told once in your life that you’re charming when you’re sober, so you don’t know where that came from, but you decide to roll with it and hope for the best.

“I’ll have you know that I’m quite charmed already,” Dazai says, lips tilting up into a smile that seems a bit more genuine, reflecting in the way his eye curves up too. “If you get any more charming, I might just be in danger.”

“Well, do you like danger then?” you ask, resting your elbow on the bar so you can prop your chin on your hand, looking up at Dazai through your lashes. “We’ve already established that I enjoy it, are you going to join me on the edge, Dazai?”

For some reason, for a split second, it seems as if you’ve asked Dazai the most difficult question in the world—the space between his brows creases and the easy smile on his lips flattens, the starry sky painted in his eye dulls back into the terrible abyss. Your lips part to say something, because even with the fuzziness of your drink clouding your head, you know you made a mistake somewhere.

“I usually stay far from the edge,” he admits quietly, “... too much at risk for that.”

“... Usually?” you press, latching onto the word quickly as you toss him another teasing smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Am I enough to tempt you closer to it, then?”

“You have no idea,” he breathes out so quietly that you think you’re not meant to overhear it. As if he realizes he might’ve said it a bit too loud, he tilts his head to the side and gives you half of a smile as he asks, “What makes you so sure you like me already, anyway?”

You match his smile, making a show of humming, dramatically thinking long and hard about it. Then you shrug, smile widening, “Don’t know. Maybe I just decided. Or maybe, I’d like to think it’s fate.”

Andddd you’ve made a mistake again. You falter when you see how his expression closes off instantly and you wish you could bite your own tongue off because, of course, it’s just your luck to have misspoken twice in a span of two minutes. This is why you don’t socialize with people.

“I don’t believe in fate,” he finally says, voice a bit tighter than it was before.

“Why?” you ask curiously, brows furrowing a bit.

He hesitates, gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turns his gaze away, lifting it to the ceiling instead. All he says is: “I don’t like the idea of my life being predestined by some higher power—if there’s a fate, then I’ll exhaust everything I have trying to defy it.”

“Okay,” you agree, still not entirely understanding why he’s so against the idea of fate—you think it’s rather romantic but to each their own. Either way, you raise your glass to him, waiting for him to click his against yours. “To defying fate then.”

His throat bobs as he swallows at your words, an odd look in his eye as he repeats quietly, “To defying fate.”

Dazai is in trouble.

He thought he could indulge himself just for one night. If it’s his fate to meet you, then let it happen only once so he can be done with it—one night, and then everything will return to how it should be. He’ll fall back into the shadows and you’ll live your life in the light, a long and fulfilling life where he isn’t putting you in danger just by being around you. But he’s realizing, very quickly, that he severely overestimated his self-control, which is a feat in itself, really, because Dazai knew that his self-control would be abysmal when it comes to you but he still somehow managed to critically misjudge just how abysmal it would be.

He thinks he probably looks like a fool—you’re rambling about your work and the graduate school program you’d just been accepted into, you’re switching between topics so quickly that Dazai can hardly keep up, but he doesn’t care, he’s content just hearing your voice, slurred and excitable as it may be.

It’s different hearing it in person than it is in all of the vague memories of the other worlds—you’re different. You’re brighter. More alive. A shining star in a sea of midnight. The warmth of the sun giving life to a rotting corpse. For the first time in twenty-two years, Dazai Osamu feels like he’s finally breathing. The misty memories didn’t do you justice in any regard, and he’s not sure how he’s supposed to return to the shadows alone after having felt the brief glow of your light, warm and comforting against his skin, because Dazai already can’t seem to get enough of it. He thinks you must be like a drug or something because there’s no other explanation for the way he’s so utterly entranced by the sight and sound of you.

A part of him wonders if all of the other Dazais have met this same fate at your hands: bewitched and spellbound, unable to draw their eyes away from you, hardly even able to remember to breathe in your presence. He thinks that they must have—he can see flashes of their lives and feel echoes of their emotions, and it’s always most intense whenever it involves you.

It’s a struggle just to remind himself to play the part of the ordinary man with you around so as to not scare you off, pretending he's like any other human being and not a monster wearing the skin of a man, like you haven’t been the object of his obsessions since the moment he came in contact with the Book. He tries to keep himself pliant and inviting with a loose posture and warm gaze, free of the intensity curdling through his body. He keeps his smile small and gentle, hiding the sharp and bloodied teeth decorating his mouth, and he keeps his touches brief, hardly ghosting your skin in fear that you’ll start rotting beneath it. He doesn’t know if he succeeds. He honestly doesn’t even know if you notice, you’re way more intoxicated than you originally made yourself out to be; he can tell from the way your ever-present smile is lopsided and the way your eyes are a bit glazed over, if it wasn’t abundantly apparent by the slur to your words.

“... and then, Hinata kept talking even though everyone else was… Dazai Osamu, are you even listening to me?”

He hums quietly as you abruptly turn your gaze back onto him and for a moment, Dazai is breathless—his name rolls off your tongue with the familiarity of a pair of lovers who’ve been together for years, and he swears that your eyes glitter beneath the lighting of the club as you look at him, and he doesn’t think anyone in his life has ever looked at him the way you do in this moment. Dazai Osamu has always been a name that no one would rather hear, attached to a man that no one would rather see. He’s not used to being talked to like this. He’s not used to being looked at like this.

He wants to be used to it.

He so, so desperately wants to be used to it.

You lean in when he doesn’t respond to you, a bit too close because he can smell the faded scent of your perfume and the gin on your tongue when he takes in a sharp breath to respond—it goes straight to Dazai’s head, his words dying before they can even formulate in his mouth. Everything feels fuzzy and light and Dazai thinks he might actually pass out. You’re such a far cry from the numb void that he’s used to, overwhelming his senses with the sight and touch and scent and sound of you, overwhelming his mind with emotions that he doesn’t know how to cope with and he just can’t get a handle on himself no matter how hard he tries. Every time he thinks he does, you throw another curveball at him like leaning in so close that Dazai swears if you were any closer, his lips would be brushing yours.

He’s never yearned like this before, not when he found himself in Odasaku’s house years ago as he tried to get ahold of that wretched painting and not during the long, dark nights when he found himself gasping awake, torn from dreams of lives he’ll never experience, the ghost of your lips still smiling against his skin. He can feel it deep in his chest, clogging his lungs and throat. He feels like he’s fighting the strings of a marionette as his fingers twitch at his side, begging him to reach out and feel the skin of your cheek beneath the palm of his hand, cup the side of your face just to see if you’d lean into his touch, craving it the same way he craves yours.

He yearns and Dazai Osamu doesn’t know if he has the strength to deny himself of you now that he’s finally gotten a taste of what he could have. He tries to remind himself of what’s at stake, he tries to conjure the images that have plagued his nightmares so many times before—the sight of you crumpled in his arms, cold and still, and the sound of your cries for help, jarring and agonizing to his ears. But all he can muster is the sight of the wide and genuine smile that only you have ever directed toward him in all of his other lives and the sound of your bright laughter ringing in his ears, two things that he’s been deprived of entirely in this life until now.

“... if the phone call is that important, you can take it, y’know? You don’t have to sit here pretending to listen to me when you’re focused on that.”

Dazai is hardly able to drag himself back to the conversation at hand, your words processing slowly, as if his thoughts are being dragged through thick tar, but he forces himself to focus because even in your drunken state you sound a bit irritated.

He glances down at the bartop, where he had placed his phone down after taking a seat next to you, watching as it vibrates against the hardwood and as Chuuya’s name flashes across the screen. A few seconds pass, and his phone goes still and the missed call notification pops up on his screen—evidently along with nine others.

Dazai winces. He wishes the phone call had been what was distracting him—unfortunately, it’s impossible to tell you that he’s spiraling because of you without sounding psychotic.

As soon as the call ends, his phone is buzzing again, Chuuya's name flashing across the screen once more, persistent as ever. Dazai’s gaze cuts backward to where the two of you had come from, up to the windows on the second floor that look down on the main floor, and then he glances back down at his phone.

“I’ll only be a moment,” Dazai tells you quietly, reaching for his phone.

You toss him an easy smile that nearly has him faltering, whatever irritation you may have felt is gone in an instant.

“I’ll be waiting,” you tease, and Dazai’s heart is in his throat as he hesitates for just a second too long, as familiar words echo through his head, memories that aren’t his own from a life that he’d never be able to experience.

“I’ll wait for you.”

He lingers too long evidently because you shoo him away, spinning on the bar stool to face the bartender as you try to flag him down for another drink that you probably should not be having, seeing how you’re swaying a bit on the stool. Dazai only shakes his head as he makes his way away from the bar closer to the edges of the club, where it’s a bit quieter, if only marginally.

As soon as he leaves your presence, the familiar cold numbness returns, spreading like ice through his chest and he’s desperate to be back in your vicinity already, missing the warmth. Oh, this is trouble, he laments to himself, trying to push away the longing feeling spreading through him and instead turns his attention to purposely waiting until the last ring to answer Chuuya’s call, if only to be a bit spiteful because the other man’s persistence is the reason he had to leave you.

Lifting his phone to his ear, he asks coolly, “Do you need something, Chuuya?”

“Where the hell did you go?” Chuuya immediately hisses back, fury dripping from his words. He’s speaking quietly and Dazai can’t hear any conversation in the background, so he can only assume that Chuuya had stepped out of the room where the rest of the Port Mafia and Pale Flame executives were having their meeting. “You’ve been gone for forty minutes, Kouyou and I have been handling the meeting. Do you even have anyone with you right now? Hirotsu? Tachihara? Atsushi?”

“I’m sure you and Ane-san have been conducting the meeting perfectly fine without me,” Dazai says dismissively, leaning against the wall as his gaze cuts through the crowds to the bar he’d left you at but he can’t catch sight of you through the masses of people. He frowns, pacing a bit down the room to try to get a better angle.

“Bastard,” Chuuya spits out with a venomous type of disrespect that he only attacks Dazai with when he’s exceptionally frustrated. “Answer my question. Where the hell are you? Do you have a protection detail on you? What are you doing?”

“I’m in the club still,” Dazai says distantly, and he’s sure Chuuya can tell that he’s barely paying attention to the conversation because the man lets out a noise caught between a snarl and a growl, much like the dog he is. “I’ll be fine, we have men stationed all over—you’re always so uptight, Chuuya, you should pull out the stick every once in a while.”

“You-” Chuuya says loudly and sharply, cutting himself off abruptly, evidently having realized he’s let himself get too loud. Dazai is hardly listening at this point, getting increasingly more agitated as the masses of crowds block his line of sight to where you should be sitting. “I’m coming down there.”

That catches Dazai’s attention.

“Do not.” The two words leave his lips, a command so cold and cutting that he can practically hear Chuuya jolt in surprise at the sudden shift from the absent tone he’d been speaking with before. He forces his voice to take upon a more teasing lilt as he says, “I met a girl, Chuuya. If you come down here, your ugly mug will scare her right off.”

“What?” Chuuya sounds so baffled it’s almost comical. Dazai might’ve found amusement in it were he not so irritated with his current predicament. “I-you-what?”

“You sound so shocked, Chuuya. Some of us talk to more women than just Ane-san and Gin-chan, you know?” Dazai drawls, noticing that there’s a gap in the crowds up ahead that should give him a direct view toward the bar, beelining toward it immediately.

“Shut up,” Chuuya seethes. “Who the hell would even give you the time of day? And since when do you seek out women? You’ve never shown any interest before.”

“Are you jealous?” Dazai croons. “It’s an ugly look on you, Chuuya.”

Chuuya splutters. “The fuck is wrong with you tonight?” he demands. “You’ve been acting like a damn freak ever since we left the base. Mood swings left and right.”

“You know I don’t like…” Dazai trails off as he finally gets a direct view of the bar, dark eye focusing in on where you seem to be arguing with an unfamiliar man. The smile that had been curling to the corners of his lips falls flat and his gaze goes cold—ice spreads through his chest again but this time it isn’t a result of the numbness, rather it’s a much more dangerous emotion that threatens to erupt. “I have to go.”

“Bastard, if you hang up on me-”

Dazai doesn’t wait for him to finish the sentence, hanging up the call and slipping his phone into his pocket, ignoring it when it immediately starts buzzing again. He doesn’t waste a second before he makes his way back across the club to the bar.

If people had avoided him before, it was nothing compared to now, watching them scramble out of his way even in their drugged-up and intoxicated states. He doubts that most of them even know the significance of who he is, they can just feel the cold fury rolling off of him in waves. It’s a bit impressive, honestly, how quickly he’s able to get back to you, and his hand darts out quickly, fingers wrapping tightly around the wrist of the man who was grabbing your forearm, if his grip was any tighter, the man’s bones would be cracking beneath his touch.

The reaction is instantaneous. Your gaze draws up to him, relief flooding your eyes at the sight of him—distantly, Dazai notes that he thinks that this might be the first time in his life anyone has ever been relieved to see him, but he’s more preoccupied with the man who was bothering you, who’s now turning toward him with an irritated expression.

“Look, man.” Dazai’s hidden eye twitches at the casual address, but he makes sure that the annoyance doesn’t show on his face. “Just trying to get her home, the rest of our coworkers left already.”

Dazai’s vice-like grip doesn’t budge, but his mind races. This is his out. If he lets you go home with your coworker, then he can go back up to the meeting taking place on the second floor and he can try to scorch his mind of the yearning that’s been plaguing him so intensely. Things can go back to normal—his one night of indulgence over, no matter how agonizing the thought of that is. He can return to the Port Mafia base, back in the shadows, and he can use the memory of this night with you to fuel his dedication to his grand plan of protecting this world. It’s a perfect setup, honestly, if he disregards two critical issues: 1) he’s probably incapable of scorching his mind of the yearning you’ve brought on and 2) more importantly, you’re staring at him with an expression nothing short of pleading, seemingly begging him not to leave.

The words escape his lips before he can think to stop them: “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take her home.”

The faux-concern that the man had been directing toward you disappears as soon as Dazai speaks, shifting into an expression that probably would have been concerning to anyone who wasn’t a literal mafioso, and Dazai is not just a mafioso, he is their boss and he has dealt with people who were objectively much more powerful and concerning than a regular civilian who thinks he’s tougher than he is. So Dazai only tilts his head to the side a bit, the corner of his lip curves up in amusement as he pointedly looks over the man once. The cool metal of the gun hidden in his jacket weighs heavily as a reminder that it’s there and ready for him to use; his fingers twitch toward it, but instead, he pockets his hands, deciding against it, if only because he thinks pulling out a gun might scare you away. He doesn’t want that.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asks furiously—Dazai wonders, a bit absently, if this is that Takeda fellow you were complaining about earlier, he certainly fits the picture with the beady eyes and weaselly face.

“An old friend,” Dazai drawls—not entirely a lie, just in a different life, and definitely more than friends, but he doesn’t need to know that. “We’ve been catching up. You can go.”

It’s not a request, and evidently, the man isn’t stupid enough to keep pressing Dazai because his confidence falters as he takes a step back, letting go of your arm. Or more probably, he caught a glimpse of the glint of metal hidden by his coat when Dazai shifted to look at you. Either way, Dazai doesn’t care because the man stutters out a few words and a ‘see you Monday’ to you before turning tail and leaving.

Dazai doesn’t bother correcting him—he definitely will not be seeing you on Monday. He ensures that through the silent order in the sharp look, he gives Tachihara Michizo, who’s been lingering on the outskirts of the club for five minutes now, no doubt trying to keep an eye on him under Chuuya’s command. Tachihara doesn’t hesitate as he nods his head, gaze following the retreating figure of the man before he slinks right after him.

He thinks you have bad friends. Coworkers. Whatever. All of them leaving you drunk and alone with someone who’s a stranger in their eyes. Yes, he scared the only one that tried away, but if it was Dazai in his position, not even god himself would be able to scare him away from making sure you get home safely.

They don’t deserve you, he decides firmly, and those dark thoughts from earlier return, whispering that he should just take you for himself, tuck you away in the tallest towers of the Port Mafia base. He’d keep you safe. He’d make you happy. You’d never have to want for anything ever again, he’d give you the entire world if you so pleased. He shuts off the train of thought before it can become any more tempting, knowing that his thread of self-control concerning you is waning at best.

Dazai promptly turns his attention back to you and all of the irritation that he might’ve been feeling about your coworkers and that man washes away when he catches the dazzled look on your face as you look up at him, elbow propped on the bartop and chin resting in your hand.

“Thanks,” you say so softly that Dazai barely hears you over the thundering music and clamoring people around the two of you. “That was Takeda… I don’t know, maybe he didn’t mean any harm but… I just don’t want him to know where I live, I guess.”

You look sleepy now, eyes a bit heavy and shoulders slumped; the alcohol must’ve worked its way through you already. Dazai also can’t help but notice that the front of your dress is drenched with what looks like the rest of your drink; it must have spilled in the brief struggle between you and your coworker.

“You’d rather a stranger know, then?” Dazai can’t help but ask, making sure to keep his voice teasing, watching you carefully for a response.

He’s curious to know if you feel even half as drawn to him as he is to you, to know if this really is a mutual bond that transcends worlds or if it’s a sick obsession on his part triggered by the revelations of the Book. Or it could be both. It’s probably both. Dazai is pretty sure what he feels for you isn’t normal or healthy, and he’s not sure if it’s any healthier in any of the other universes or if every other Dazai is just as twisted when it comes to love as he is.

“You don’t feel like a stranger,” you admit quietly, looking up at him through your lashes and Dazai’s heart leaps into his throat, clogging his airways and threatening to suffocate him. “Is that weird?”

“No,” Dazai breathes out instantly, the confirmation that your words give him lights a dangerous fire in his chest, one that he needs to put out but can’t bring himself to. “I feel the same.”

Your expression softens, eyes tracing his face, and Dazai thinks he would set the entire world on fire just for you to look at him like that again. Then, he realizes, throat a bit tighter now, that the words are not quite the empty promise that they would be coming from anyone else’s lips—he might just be setting everything he’s built on fire just for you, and your warmth is not enough to push away the cold awareness that suddenly spreads through his body, putting out all of the fires that his time with you has set within him.

He reaches out, knuckles grazing your cheek. Your lashes flutter as you lean into his touch and instantly, he’s set aflame again, it’s raging through his chest and melting the ice and Dazai thinks he doesn’t care if this is a bond that transcends worlds or a sick obsession. He thinks it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he needs you so desperately that it might kill him if he doesn’t have you.

It might kill you if he does have you.

Fire and ice wage a brutal war within him, a futile battle because no matter how much the ice tries to spread, the flames melt it away, and he realizes that he can’t be around you when the war is inevitably won because he’ll never be able to drag himself away from you.

One night, he reminds himself, sharp and scolding, one night of indulgence. That’s all.

“Come on,” Dazai murmurs. “Let’s get you home.”

Dazai wonders how a place he’s never been to can feel so much like home.

Or, well, he assumes this is what a home would feel like, it’s not like he’s ever actually had one to compare to. The penthouse suite of the Port Mafia base is closer to a prison than something he can consider a home. He doesn’t remember enough of his childhood to know if he lived somewhere back then that he considered a home. The shipping container he lived in during his teenage years is probably the closest thing he has to compare to and even then, he never felt safe or warm or comforted there, he just had the distant reassurance that no one would ever bother him while he was there and that was more than he had anywhere else.

And this is…

He doesn’t really know how to describe it, the words just won’t come to him—a rare occurrence, considering Dazai’s always been known to have a tongue of the purest silver, acquiring the most lucrative deals for the Port Mafia despite egregious odds and hostile parties solely because he’s learned to read and charm people to the best of his ability. His brain and his tongue have been the driving force behind the Mafia’s rapid and exponential expansion across Japan and into the mainland, yet both fail him now.

Courtesy of you and your influence, naturally.

The curve to his lips is fond as he trails his fingers across the back of the couch in your living room. It’s all so achingly familiar, as if he’s been here a thousand times before—if he lets his eye flutter shut, he can almost picture you cross-legged on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate tucked neatly between your hands, dozing off as he regales you with nonsensical stories.

Everything is just how he remembers it from the vague memories. Your desk is set up near the window on the far side of your room, next to the bench where he would sit and watch you while you study, pouting until you finally decided to give him attention. Papers are strewn all across your coffee table; he flips through them idly, realizing that they’re all study materials for the entrance exam to the graduate school you’d just been accepted into—he makes sure to leave them in the same order that you’d left them in, recalling how often you’d end up yelling at him for messing up your piles. A picture hangs on your wall near the door of you and your brother—familiar, why is he so familiar? His gaze lingers for a moment, brows furrowing before he shakes his head, putting the thought in the back of his head as he wonders if he ended up passing in this universe too.

He wanders over to the kitchen and his eyes narrow just a smidge, noticing that there are two dirty mugs in your sink, the ones you’d always use to make those fancy hot chocolates of yours. He hums to himself softly as he traces his finger along the rim of one, recognizing the same shade of lipstick you wore tonight staining the brim. The other mug has no such stain. His throat tightens a bit, gaze flickering up to the cabinet he recalls you usually putting your ingredients and when he opens the cabinet, he thinks he might feel a bit sick, seeing them all up on a shelf too high for you to reach on your own—you always put them on the lower shelves.

His jaw tightens as he pointedly puts them all back down on the lower shelf before shutting the cabinet, a bit more tense now than he was a few moments before. His gaze cuts across your apartment, searching for any sign of who you might’ve been having over—someone important enough for you to make your favorite hot chocolate for—but he finds none until his eyes land on a jacket crumpled in the corner of the room that’s definitely not yours, hidden halfway beneath one of the pillows on his window bench. He has to remind himself that it’s not his and he’s never been here before now so he has no claim over anything.

He makes his way over to it, yanking it out and lifting it to his nose. It doesn’t smell like you, it’s an unfamiliar woody scent that makes his stomach churn for more than one reason—the most primary one being that he doesn’t know whose it is and why they’re leaving clothes at your apartment. It’s a man’s, certainly, he can tell that much from the scent and the size and Dazai thinks he might feel a bit light-headed at the idea of you having other men over your apartment. His only solace comes in the fact that there doesn’t appear to be any other signs of his presence, but it’s a small solace at best.

He has to leave. The longer he lingers in your apartment, the more he’s struggling to decipher the already blurred line between the lives he remembers and his unfortunate reality.

One night of indulgence, he reminds himself for the nth time because the night is over. You’d passed out long before even arriving at your apartment, after you gave the address luckily because for better or for worse, that had been one of the few things Dazai hadn’t retained from the vague memories he has of the other universes.

He trails back over to the door that leads to your bedroom, a heavy feeling settling over his chest as he leans against the frame. His gaze draws to where you’re fast asleep beneath the covers, still dressed in the outfit you’d worn to the club because although all of the other Dazais would have changed you into something more comfortable when you’re too drunk to do it yourself, he does not retain that privilege in this world. The last thing he wants is for you to think he’s some perverted creep.

Dazai sighs, eyes sliding shut as he lets himself bask in the moment for just a little longer, dreading having to return to the harsh reality of a life without you, fated to be alone until he’s sure that he’s secured the safety of this world when he can take the final step in guaranteeing that you and Odasaku will be able to live out your lives peacefully. Without him.

He wants to touch you one last time, brush his fingers against your cheek, enjoy the way your warmth spreads through him, but he thinks he’s tested his self-control too much for one day. He fears that if he pushes it anymore, he’ll never be able to go back to how it was, so it’s with a heart that pleads for him to reconsider and a body that resists his every move that he turns away from your bedroom, making his way over to your kitchen counter to grab the key that he fished out of your purse.

It takes all of his restraint to not look back, jaw clenched so tight that he thinks his teeth might grind down to dust. He steps outside and the fresh air feels like poison to his lungs, he wants to step back inside, drown himself in the familiar scent of you, the familiar scent of the only home he’s ever known in any lifetime, the one he has to deny himself of for the sake of preserving this world, for the sake of saving Odasaku and saving you.

His fingers tremble a bit as he slides the key into the lock and turns it, checking twice to make sure it locks properly so no one can sneak in while you’re sleeping, before kneeling down to slide the key beneath the crack of the door back into your apartment.

As soon as the key is out of his reach, Dazai feels cold and empty; the black hole within him expands now that he’s vulnerable again without your presence fighting it off, and the force of it is ten times as lethal now that he’s experienced what life might be without it constantly consuming him. He stares at your door for a second after rising to his feet, his mind and heart and body all at war with each other. The parts of him that haven’t festered and withered over the years beg him to just go back to you, tell you everything, and crumble in your arms and pray that you don’t think he’s delusional and call the police on him; the parts of him that have been corrupted by the time he’s spent in the darkest parts of the world whisper more dangerous words, telling him to go back in and take you back with him, it doesn’t matter what you want if it means he can keep you safe, and he knows that one day you’ll understand why he did it, you’ll even be happy because you’re meant to be happy with him, no matter how it comes about.

And he thinks he’s a fool because the only fortunate thing about his circumstances had been that no matter how vividly he remembered you and your apartment, the Book had not passed on the knowledge of its location, so he’d never been tempted to “accidentally” seek you out by wandering in locations that you frequent because he had no idea where you were. Yokohama isn’t a small city and he was never going to cross the line of purposely seeking you out through the use of Port Mafia resources because that meant he was purposely putting you in danger.

But now, he’ll have the knowledge of your location dangling in front of his face for the rest of his life, however long it may be. Every day will be a struggle to resist the urge to seek you out, as if everything isn’t hard enough for him already.

Frustration builds in his chest as he makes his way down to the parking lot of the apartment complex. Realistically, Dazai had plenty of options that would have objectively been better than this. He could have sent you with his driver alone, but the thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Albatross, the Flags remain among the most loyal members of the Port Mafia, but Dazai doesn’t think anyone is worthy enough to lay their hands on you. He thinks that if Albatross had reported back to him that he had to carry you into your apartment and put you in your bed, he might’ve put a bullet through his skull and then he’d have to deal with mutiny and he can’t afford a mutiny when things are already so tenuous, stability in the Port Mafia has to be paramount until he can get through all five phases of his plan.

But even if he didn’t send you with Albatross, he could have had Kouyou handle this. Kouyou already knows of you, she’s the one that he assigned to make sure you’re never threatened by Yokohama’s underground, and she knew where your apartment was already. It still leaves a sour taste in his mouth but not as strong as the thought of sending you with Albatross. He could’ve had Kouyou take care of this and he could’ve been free of the temptation already looming over him but-

But Dazai is selfish. Dazai is selfish and reckless when it comes to you; even when he knows what’s at stake, even when he knows the destruction that he brings. Fate, the word rings through his head, mocking him. Fate, fate, fate. It’s his fate to always be drawn to you, like a bee to honey and a moth to flame, irresistible and inexorable. He can’t avoid it and he can’t control himself no matter how hard he tries. You’re tied together by threads that the gods shorten with every passing second and they laugh down at him as they watch him trying to resist it.

It’s his fate to be drawn to you.

It’s his fate to be your destruction.

Dazai slips back into the backseat of Albatross’s sleek black car, shutting the door just a bit too harshly, gaze immediately drifting back toward the apartment complex, up to the closed door on the second level where he’d left you. He waits for the car to pull away, but it doesn’t. Irritated, he turns his gaze to the rearview mirror in the front of the car, catching Albatross staring at him curiously, dark glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose.

“What?” Dazai asks, voice low and icy.

Albatross is unperturbed—of all of the members of the Port Mafia, only he and Chuuya never flinch at his unapproachability. “Ya gotta girl now, boss?” he asks curiously, tilting his head to the side as he waits for Dazai’s response.

“No.”

“Hm.” Albatross only hums as if he’s disappointed by the answer. “You seemed happier, s’all. Never seen you like that before. Was nice.”

Dazai’s jaw tightens again at the man’s words, biting words threatening to escape his lips but he swallows them. Instead, he becomes acutely aware of the jacket that he’s still holding in his left hand. His expression twists and then he tosses it into the front seat at Albatross, who blinks and catches it, looking down confused.

“Whadya want me to do with this?” he asks, baffled.

“Burn it.” Is all Dazai responds with. “Take me back to the base.”

“... You got it, boss,” Albatross murmurs, and he still sounds disappointed, but an order is an order so he doesn’t hesitate as he starts the car back up and pulls out of the complex’s parking lot.

Dazai’s gaze doesn’t leave your apartment door once until Albatross finally turns down a street out of sight of the building.

One night of indulgence, he reminds himself for the last time. One night of indulgence and then he’ll never encounter you again. For better or for worse, that’s how it has to be.

#all the references to badlands BROKE ME #I WAS TEARING UP EVERY FIVE WORDS

500 notes · View notes

zukkook · 3 days

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FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: the chronicles of a chance meeting between a suffering mafia boss and a vivacious (almost) grad student. {fem!reader, beast au compliant, romance & tragedy, wc: ??? (currently 70k with 1 chapter left to finish)}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: and so begins side b. this one will not be as light as badlands HAHA but i still had a lot of fun writing it. it was tough, this is primarily in dazai's pov to reflect how badlands was primarily reader's, but i think it came out well. shout out to éliane for helping me with the banner when i was weeping because i had no good ideas as to how to relate it to the unreal unearth album </3 so she went out of her way to add the lil daisies and mimic the handwriting on the font </3 she is truly an angel.

GENERAL WARNINGS: beast au compliant, dazai is a lot more unhinged here - more possessive and deranged thoughts than badlands!dazai, sometimes they come very abruptly so can a bit jarring (PERSONALLY i think they're tame, but we all have our own judgments on that so i figure i'll just be generous with warnings to be safe). also the flags live because i say so.

SEE: WATERLOO SERIES MASTERLIST READ: BADLANDS SIDE A

INSTALLMENT ONE: ALL THINGS END

INSTALLMENT TWO: FIRST LIGHT

INSTALLMENT THREE: TO SOMEONE FROM A WARM CLIMATE

SUMMARY: you're with him. you're actually with him. everything all of the other dazais have got to experience, he now can too. in his exhilaration, he almost forgets about the threats lurking on the horizon. until you slap him in the face with it, that is.

INSTALLMENT FOUR: I, CARRION (coming: april 26th!)

SUMMARY: the day of the event has arrived and dazai is second guessing everything, but it's too late for him to back out now.

INSTALLMENT FIVE: ICARIAN (coming: may 3rd!)

SUMMARY: dazai had known he was flying too close to the sun, he should have stopped himself while he still had the chance.

INSTALLMENT SIX: FRANCESCA (coming: may 10th!)

SUMMARY: ???

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zukkook · 4 days

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ᡣ𐭩 EAT IT 'TIL YOUR TEETH ROT!

FEATURING: dazai osamu, fyodor dostoevsky, nikolai gogol, suehiro tecchou & jouno saigiku, nakahara chuuya

SUMMARY: oral with the bsd boys! (wordcount: 4k; ņsfw; fem!reader; lowercase intentional/notes app smut ahaha; more warnings at the start of each section!)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: plsss someone help me with this divider issue i beg, why can't i use dividers on my fics (っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ i got carried away on chuuya's <.<

DAZAI OSAMU

fem!receiving, edging (650 wc)

your breath is shaky, eyes sliding shut as your thighs tremble, keeping them spread apart. one buck of your hips, your thighs clamping down around his head, even letting a moan spill from your lips, and you would lose.

dazai is having the time of his life. you can feel the way his lips curl up into a wide smile against your cunt, the tip of his tongue tracing circles between your folds. you long to bury your hand in his dark curls and force him down between your thighs, burying his face between your folds, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of winning again.

your breath catches as he flicks his tongue over your clit, lips parting in a silent moan. but instead of keeping the pressure on, dazai pulls back, brown eyes peering up at you through his lashes, deceptively innocent.

“did you say something?” he asks, leaning his cheek against your inner thigh as he watches you.

“osamu,” you warn, but your tone was far less threatening than you intend for it to be considering you’re breathless and it’s tinged with an embarrassing amount of neediness.

“bella,” he coos, “you’re making this so difficult for us both. just agree, and we’ll both get to feel good, yeah?”

difficult for us both, you want to scoff at his words. you can see the sick enjoyment thinly veiled beneath the faux-sympathy—he’s enjoying this, watching you squirm as he edges you over and over again, and that pisses you off even more.

but there isn’t much more of this you can take. your head feels hazy and your vision is blurry—if you look to the clock sitting on his desk, you know it would say it’s nearly seven o’clock, the sun setting long ago. the two of you have been at an impasse for nearly an hour now and-

“fine!” you spit out as dazai’s warm breath ghosts over your cunt again. “fine, i’ll do your goddamn paperwork, you lazy piece of-“

dazai doesn’t even hesitate, pressing his open mouth back against your cunt and sliding his tongue between your folds. this time, you let your thighs clamp down around his head and your hand fly down to grip his dark locks, pressing his face down impossibly closer against you as your back arches up off his desk.

dazai moans shamelessly against you, hands coming up to hold your thighs as he buries his face into your cunt, fucking his tongue deep into you once before sliding up to focus on your clit.

dazai is exceptionally good at using his tongue—usually, he uses it for nefarious means, like talking circles around kunikda until the man gets frustrated enough to storm off or antagonizing chuuya to the point of the port mafia executive erupting, but every once in a while, he puts it to good use.

like now.

you think it should be humiliating how quickly your hips are stuttering against his face, how you’re so quickly breathing out his name, how your mind becomes muddled and empty of anything but the feeling of his hands and his tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“osamu,” you gasp. “osamu, i’m close, i’m-“

dazai sucks gently at your clit, teeth grazing the sensitive bud, and you’re gone. your jaw falls slack and your stomach tightens, hips jerking up and thighs tightening, as you come undone on his tongue.

he lets you ride out the waves of your high, tongue lazily sliding beneath your folds as he laps up all of your cum, careful not to let a single drop go to waste.

as soon as you‘ve mostly settled down, heart still racing and ears still ringing, he leans back.

his eyes are lidded and his cheeks are flushed pink, lips swollen and wet—utterly debauched as he stared up at you.

“one day, you’ll let me die between these thighs, bella.”

•••

FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

male!receiving (850 wc)

you smile softly as you press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock, relishing in the way it instinctively jumps at your touch, reacting in a way that the cool and collected man above you certainly will not.

fyodor’s long, thin fingers toy with your hair as you nuzzle your nose into his thigh. he’s more focused on the computer screens in front of him that gives him a bird’s eye view of the events happening yokohama, but every once in a while you can feel the way his fingers pause in their ministrations, proving that you have a bit more of his attention than he’d care to admit.

“fedya,” you murmur, glancing up at him from where you’re kneeling but he barely spares you a glance, frowning at something on the screen.

you sigh dramatically, turning your attention back to where you had managed to free his cock from its confines. you never thought you’d describe a cock as pretty before you saw his for the first time, but it is. it stands tall and pale with a pretty, leaky pink tip that you can never stop yourself from poking at with your tongue, a vein on its underside that you can never stop yourself from tracing.

you hum softly as you lean in again to do just that, letting the tip of your tongue trace up the underside of his cock along the vein before letting your lips close gently around the tip of his cock, flattening your tongue against the beading precum.

fyodor’s thighs tense beneath your hands. your eyes gleam, peeking up to see him glancing down at you, an unreadable look in his purple eyes.

he doesn’t tell you to stop. so you don’t.

reverting your attention back to the job at hand, you let your eyes flutter shut as you take fyodor deeper into your mouth, lips sliding down his cock. your eyes water a bit as your throat adjusts to the stretch—taking fyodor all the way down your throat is always a struggle—but you hear the quiet noise that slips from his lips and immediately, you’re blessed with a newfound willpower because fyodor dostoevsky’s moans might be the prettiest sound in the whole world, and the rarest, but you are determined to hear them tonight.

“temptress,” you hear him sigh. “i indulge in you far too much.”

your hands slide against his thighs as you shift on your knees to get a better angle, and you feel his fingers slide against your hair, caressing you in a way that makes you want to melt into him.

you force your eyes back open as you lift your head up, watching as he tilts his head back, lips parted in a silent moan. you kiss up his length messily, and you think that you could spend an eternity on your knees in front of him worshipping his cock if it meant you’d be blessed with the symphony of his soft, breathy moans and gasps.

sinking your mouth back down around him, your tongue teases his slit before swirling around his length. you feel his cock twitch in your mouth, hips bucking slightly—and you know he’s close. you take him all the way down your throat, only sheer willpower stopping you from gagging around his length, but your efforts prove worthwhile when you hear a choked, obscene moan escape fyodor’s lips at the sudden feeling of your tight throat spasming around him.

his thighs tense again, fingers pressing just a bit more firmly against the back of your head as he spills his cum down your throat with no warning. you hum around him, swallowing every drop before pulling off of his cock with a pop, tongue darting out to lick your lips as you look up at him.

his expression is fond, if not a little flushed as he holds his hand out to you, beckoning you to join him on his chair.

you take his hand, letting him help you up from the floor and into his lap, and you shudder when you feel his cock slide against your panties as you settle against his chest, still half hard. you move to try to subtly grind your hips but his hands snap to your waist firmly, keeping you still.

he clicks his tongue in a chiding manner. “insatiable,” he murmurs, cool lips grazing your neck as he leans down to brush them against your skin. “but you have to wait this time, things are finally getting… interesting.”

you turn your head to the side to look over your shoulder at him, noticing that he’s watching one of the upper screens with rapt fascination. following his gaze, you see a timer counting down from two minutes, and his finger hovering over a button that you know will override the cancellation command should it be hit.

you lay your head down against his shoulder and mourn, because you think this is going to be the longest two minutes of your life.

•••

NIKOLAI GOGOL

fem!receiving, a bit of blood play and pain play, nikolai is so debauched & i love it (850 wc)

nikolai buries his face between your thighs like a man whose been starved for weeks. he’s sloppy, rough, ravenous. he bites your inner thighs so hard that you bleed, and then he licks it up, face smeared with a depraved mixture of spit, cum and blood.

your breath is shaky as he looks up at you with eyes that are so wide and adoring that it almost looks unfitting on such a crude scene. you reach down, fingers grazing his cheek, and he leans into your touch so instinctually that it makes you want to pull him up and devour him yourself—but instead, you press two fingers to his lower lip and watch as he takes them into his mouth, making a show of lewdly sucking them, eyes fluttering shut and tongue swirling around the digits. you press down hard on his tongue and he moans, high-pitch and whiny, hips instinctively jerking to grind against the bed.

pulling your fingers back from his lips, nikolai doesn’t hesitate as he drops his head back down between your thighs. you let out a breathy sigh as he licks back along the bite on your thigh, lapping up the blood that had spilled while he was sucking your fingers.

your head falls back against your pillow as nikolai drags open mouthed kisses up your thigh to your cunt, eyelids heavy and lips parting. you gasp, feeling nikolai’s tongue sweep between your folds.

the grip he has on your thighs borders on painful, and you know you’ll have marks in the shape of his fingerprints decorating them in the morning, but it feels good—the bruising grip, the stinging wound on your inner thigh, the feeling of his tongue circling your clit and his lips sliding against your cunt. he’s so messy, so eager, that you can barely think straight.

your fingers twist the sheets beneath you, back arching up off the bed as your hips jerk when nikolai sucks your clit—always playing the dangerous game with his teeth as he lets them graze the sensitive bud, just enough to let a shock run through your body.

he moans against you, loud and obscene as one of your hands fly from the bed to his hair while the other swings to cover your mouth, muffling the noise that nearly slipped through your lips.

a mistake, of course, because nikolai’s instantly reaching up to grab your wrist, pinning it down to the bed next to you. he doesn’t look up at you, too focused on fucking his tongue deep inside of you, nose nudging your clit. your thighs instinctively tighten around his head and you glance down when you hear him let out another muffled groan, this one even more whiny than the last, taking on a lilt that it only takes when he’s close to release, you can tell even with his face buried in your cunt.

“oh, fuck,” you breathe out, eyes widening when you see nikolai grinding his hips against the bed, desperate and erratic, trying to get himself off in time with you.

the sight of it sends a shock through your body, a gasp escaping your lips as you press the back of your head into the pillow, lashes fluttering and thighs trembling on either side of his head. you can feel heat spread through you like a wildfire, your hips instinctively jerking up to grind hard against his face. your wrist strains against his ironclad grip, squirming as his tongue drags in and out of your cunt over and over again.

he pants against you, wanton and shameless, hips snapping against the bed faster, each thrust timed perfectly with his tongue plunging in and out of you. your vision feels blurry and your thigh muscles burn as he tongue fucks you closer and closer to release.

you try to tell him that you’re close, head falling to the side and saliva pooling at the corner of your lips—your head feels foggy and your body feels hit. the lewd sound of his moans and the creaking of the bed and the sloppy, wet sound of his tongue driving in and out of you, swiping up between your folds, flicking over your clit, it’s all too much for you. you can’t keep up. you’re pretty sure the warning comes out as a garbled slur of incomprehensible words.

your entire body seizes when you cum, thrashing in his hold, your free hand flying up to grab the pillow behind your head as you cry out his name. distantly, you realize that he must have cum too, you can feel the way his hips still against the bed after one last frantic thrust, you can hear the pornographic moans muffled against your cunt—god, he’s shameless, you think again as you lay limp against the bed, reeling from your intense orgasm.

in your half-dazed state, you feel nikolai rest his cheek you thigh and say: “quiz time!” and you swear you might just suffocate him down there next time.

•••

JOUNO SAIGIKU & SUEHIRO TECCHOU

male!receiving, face fucking, jouno's a bit mean & guides you through it, 'princess' pet name (600 wc)

“that as deep as you can go?”

jouno has the nerve to sound disappointed as you struggle to take tecchou’s cock down your throat. you want to glare at him, or spit out a vile string of words that would put his mouth to shame, but you can barely even breathe with your lips and throat being stretched like this.

your nails are biting into tecchou’s tense thighs as you try to keep yourself steady, and you can hear the man breathing heavy above you, his own fingers digging into the edge of the bed he’s sitting on as if he’s afraid to touch you.

you can’t even bring yourself to look up at him, focused on trying to take tecchou deeper because the last thing you want is to give jouno something else to lord over your head.

“c’mon, princess.” the sweet pet name sounds so degrading and insulting the way jouno says it. you hear his heels clicking against the floor as he makes his way over to the two of you, dread builds in the pit of your stomach as you feel his familiar, thin fingers entangle in your hair, pressing gently against the back of your head. “i taught you better than this.”

“jouno-“ tecchou tries to say. you hardly have a chance to relish in how utterly broken the strongest hunting dog sounds above you, voice breathy and cracking over your boyfriend’s name, because in an instant, jouno’s fingertips are digging into the back of your scalp as he pushes your head down hard, forcing your nose to tecchou’s pelvis.

your throat spasms at the sudden intrusion, choking and gagging, trying to pull off but jouno’s far too strong for that to be successful. tears spill over your cheeks and your body trembles as you try to adjust but you can’t because tecchou let’s out a strangled gasp as his hips jerk up instinctually, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat hard.

you can’t breathe, you realize, panicked as black dots swarm your vision. you try to reach back and slap off jouno’s arm but that only spurs him on more. he pulls your head back, making you think he’s going to give you a bit of relief, only to push it back down instantly. cruel. he’s always so cruel.

your nails drag against tecchou’s thighs, leaving deep red lines in their wake as you struggle to remain conscious. you feel pricks and pins all over your body, your head feels fuzzy.

distantly, you can hear tecchou’s obscene moans and garbled words and you wish you have more awareness because you want to be able to remember this. it’s not everyday you have the meteor slasher crumbling beneath your touch and god knows when, or if, jouno will let this happen again.

it feels like it’s been an eternity and a second all at once when tecchou’s hips finally stutter and still against your mouth, spilling his cum deep down your throat. you barely even hear his choked warning before the warm, thick liquid is coating the inside of your throat.

you struggle to swallow, and you think you must look disgusting as jouno finally lets you lift your head from tecchou’s cock and you crumple against his leg, clutching at the red material of his pants to try and hold yourself up—but tecchou looks at you with such a devoted expression that it makes you hot and flustered, and jouno’s fingers are carding gently through your hair as if to make up for the roughness.

“lay down.” you hear him say to tecchou, voice sharp and commanding. “now it’s her turn.”

•••

NAKAHARA CHUUYA

male & fem!receiving (69), face fucking, 'doll' and 'baby' pet name (1.1k wc)

you aren’t sure how chuuya managed to convince you to do this.

your thighs tremble on either side of his head, straining to not drop all of your weight on his face as you lean forward over his lithe body, lips hovering above his cock. you feel him pinch your outer thigh hard and you yelp, body jerking instinctively.

“c’mon, doll,” chuuya coos, trying to coax you into lowering your hips so that you’re sitting on his face, rubbing your thighs soothingly. “you know i can handle it. relax.”

his tone is soft, but you can hear the edge to it, almost as if he sounds insulted over the fact that you don’t trust in his capabilities and you would roll your eyes if you weren’t so nervous.

“i don’t want to suffocate you,” you snap at him, thigh muscles already burning painfully.

“don’t piss me off.” chuuya’s temper finally starts to waver after five minutes of trying to make you relax. his words are biting, as if your fears are utterly ludicrous. “stop holding yourself up or i’ll make you stop.”

“chuuya,” you complain, a bit more pathetically this time.

chuuya doesn’t even deign you with a response this time. you gasp when you feel his arms hook around your thighs, toned biceps tensing as he physically forces you down on his face. your eyes shoot open, lips parting in a silent moan when he immediately buries his face into your cunt, tongue licking a blazing stripe between your folds.

“chuuya,” you cry when you feel his lips close around your clit, rolling the sensitive bud between his teeth gently.

chuuya hums around you, the vibrations making your abdomen coil and your hips unconsciously grind down against his face. he jerks his hips up, as if he’s impatient, and you vaguely remember what you’re supposed to be doing, laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against his length.

you can hardly think straight as chuuya’s tongue swirls around your clit, heat spreading through your body rapidly. it takes three attempts, but you’re finally able to wrap your lips around the tip of chuuya’s cock, the familiar taste of his precum overwhelming your senses.

you try to focus on sliding your lips down his length—a difficult endeavor considering chuuya is evidently doing his best to make it impossible for you with how he plunges his tongue into your hole, one hand sliding up your thigh so he can press his thumb against your clit.

your head feels light and airy, and with a bit of diluted horror, you realize you might be close to cumming already—with the taste of chuuya on your tongue, the sound of him groaning against you, the feel of his tongue and fingers working deftly to bring you closer to release, it’s almost too much for your body to handle.

you don’t even realize that you’re barely sucking him off until chuuya gets impatient, this time snapping his hips up so abruptly that he drives his cock halfway down your throat. your eyes shoot open, a muffled moan spilling from your lips at the unexpected action, because chuuya is hardly ever forceful when you give him head, always letting you take the lead.

“fuck,” chuuya breathes out, gasping as he kisses your thigh, panting for air before he dives right back in. “you liked that, didn’t you? want me to fuck your face, baby? felt you tighten ‘round my tongue.”

you don’t respond—can’t really. chuuya’s hips snap up again, forcing his cock deeper down your throat, your lips flush to his pelvis, his tip shoved down the back of your throat. you gag around him, tears spilling over your cheeks as your nails dig into his thighs, trying to adjust to his length stretching you.

“so fucked out already that you can’t even do one job,” he sighs softly, lifting his head to ghost his lips back against your clit, your entire body shivers as you let out a muffle sob around his cock. “s’okay, doll, i’ll do all the work.”

he hardly gives you a second to process his words, not that you’d be able to even if he did give you the time. you’re choking over him as he thrusts his hips up again, fingers digging into your ass cheeks as he drags you back down so he can smother himself in your cunt.

your head feels foggy—you’re not sure if it’s from lack of air and the feeling his cock bullying your throat and his hips rutting against your face, or if it’s from the way chuuya’s tongue is drawing circles around your clit so quickly that you can barely keep up, dragging between your folds to fuck deep inside of you before repeating the process over and over and over again.

you’re so gone. you’re so gone, you can’t think straight, your body feels like its on fire, thighs straining around his head, chuuya is moaning against you, thrusts erratic and frenzied as he chases his release. you’re still sputtering around him, your face must be a mess of drool and cum, and you think you might be cumming already, you can’t tell, you’re trying to focus on getting him off but he wasn’t lying when he said he’d do all of the work, you can scarcely even flatten your tongue along the vein that runs on the underside of his cock.

you don’t need to though, because the moment chuuya feels you moaning his name around his cock with your cum staining the lower half of his face, his hips stutter and still against your face, cumming so deep down your throat that you genuinely think you might drown in it.

you should pull off of him, you’re struggling to breathe through your nose, your vision is spotty, but your limbs won’t cooperate with you, laying limp on—you wonder if you’re about to pass out.

luckily, chuuya still seems to have enough sense for the both of you.

he reaches down, hands wrapping around your waist so he can twist you around so that you’re laying comfortably on his chest. still desperately trying to recover from your orgasm, you settle against him, listening to the steady thrum of his heart as you try to ground yourself.

“see, baby.” his chest rumbles gently as he speaks lowly, a comforting familiarity, you’re still so out of it that you find yourself starting to dose off. you can hear the soft smile on his face as he tilts his head down to ghost his lips against your hair. “not so bad, was it? don’t be so nervous next time.”

2K notes · View notes

zukkook · 7 days

Text

ateez as royals who fall for you (hyung line)

read maknae line here

genre: royalty!ateez x fem!reader, fluff, angst, smut, crack, a brainrot and smutfest of royal tropes

length: 12.8k

c/w: very nsfw scenes - mdni, explicit language (dirty talk, swearing, insults), death, violence, blood & injuries, weapons, heavy & mature themes (sex work, murder, assassination, execution, mentions of misogyny)

a/n: this has simultaneously been the pride and joy of my life and the bane of my entire existence for the last 2.5 months 🥴 and tumblr is an inept incapable CLOWN who cannot handle the full 24k worth of bullet points so here is the hyung line first - maknae line coming soon (yumi @sorryimananti-romantic can vouch for my unsuccessful 3-hour attempt at formatting them into a single post)

hongjoong

pov: you're the king's royal courtesan

“fuck,” hongjoong lets out a deep growl from within his chest as his head dips down to rest against the crook of your neck. “you’re just as tight as last time”

when your hips involuntarily buck from the pleasure, he nudges your thighs further apart and keeps your wrists pinned above your head

he can’t help but let out another groan when he feels your walls clench around his cock as you adjust to his thickness

“i thought- god,” a moan escapes you after he thrusts his hips against you, “thought you never fucked the same woman twice”

“i don’t,” he simply says

and it’s true

hongjoong is one of the youngest princes to have ruled during the kim dynasty, having risen to power after the previous king succumbed early to an unknown illness

he has the choice and selection of all the courtesans available within the palace and outside its walls

hongjoong also has a reputation of being highly sought after by everybody, not just amongst courtesans

it’s not only because he is devilishly handsome, knows how to properly fuck somebody dumb, and is the literal king

the main thing that makes him so desirable and unreachable?

he never sees the same courtesan more than once

“yet here you are,” you hook your legs around hongjoong’s waist to gain leverage and meet his thrusts with your own hips, “between my legs for the second time”

you smirk when he curses and throws his head back

his grip on your wrists tightens and his voice drops dangerously low

“the first time doesn’t count because i was meant to see lady chae. so really, this is the first time i’m requesting for your services”

he silences you from retorting by pressing a bruising kiss against you, lips messily attaching to yours before trailing down the sharp angle of your jaw to bite your neck

you are a courtesan for people of nobility and royal status

part of the ‘house of flowers’ and commonly referred to as ‘flower courtesans’, you and the other women are highly-sought after for the companionship you offer

you are well protected by the house of flowers though - the services of companionship that you provide is requested by your client, but is ultimately accepted or rejected by you

lady chae, another of the flower courtesans and one of your closest friends, is requested by the king for her services

it is quite clear what it is going to entail and you both spend several of the following nights giggling and whispering scandalously to one another

whether the rumours about his stamina will be true

whether lady chae will be the first to break his one-fuck rule

except when the day of the meeting comes around, she spikes a sudden fever

lady shin, the head of the house of flowers, takes all but one look at her before ordering her to bed rest despite both of your attempts to, albeit unconvincingly, persuade lady shin that chae’s fever would only serve to help make the king’s dick warmer

lady shin is not amused to say the least

with the last minute hitch, the king agrees for you to be sent out to him as a replacement instead

and you end up being the flower courtesan who he breaks his reputed rule for

(lady chae is initially jealous, understandably)

(but very quickly, she appears to be even more excited than you are as she combs through your undergarments for the “sluttiest set” that she can find)

your attention is brought back as hongjoong flicks his tongue over your hardened nipples, continuing to drag his length in and out of you while your back arches off the bed

you tease in between short breaths, “are you really bringing up another woman’s name while you have your cock inside me?”

“you brought it up first,” he reminds you, accentuating his answer with timed thrusts

you grind your hips against his, chasing more friction against your clit as you feel your high approaching

“why?” he snakes one of his hands down between your connected torsos to rub messy circles against your clit, smirking as he asks, “are you getting jealous already?”

for that, you clench down hard on his cock, immediately feeling the way it throbs inside of you as you bring him closer to his orgasm too

“as if. fuck off”

your words are hardly audible from the whines that are leaving your mouth due to the added pressure of another finger against your clit from your retaliation

“i’m close,” hongjoong releases his grip on your wrists so that he can straighten his body, anchoring his hand on your hip instead so that he can fuck you and rub your clit with his other hand with renewed vigour

when you hear him groan, “cum for me,” the string snaps and your whole body quivers in his hold as your orgasm washes over you

hongjoong’s hips gradually stutter to a pause, an occasional thrust inside your clenching pussy as he milks out the rest of his cum inside of you

he finally eases himself out of you and hums in satisfaction as he watches his cum slowly leak out of you

hongjoong drops down beside you, toned chest covered in a sheen layer of sweat as it rises up and down with his pants

when your fuzzy mind has cleared a little from the blissful haze of your orgasm, he strokes his fingertips along the side of your thigh, along the curve of your ass, and over the dip of your waist just under your breasts as he says, “you better not be jealous. first one to get jealous loses”

“if anyone’s going to get jealous first, it’s you,” you scoff back

he raises an eyebrow

oh yeah?

he shoves his leaking cum back inside of you and fingers you to another orgasm

now that shuts you up

for a man who barks, he sure has no bite, because you find yourself being notified by lady shin several days later of yet another request for your services under the king’s name

and another request turns into another

and every single time, hongjoong makes sure that the only word leaving your lips for those many hours is his moaned name

but at the same time, the more you and hongjoong meet, the more he just savours in your simple companionship

he asks you to teach him how to embroider because you’ve mentioned before it’s how you like to spend your free evenings

he rifles through your bag of materials that you bring

you smack his hand away at the carelessness with which he’s upturning everything

“what’s this?” he holds up a large, wooden hoop before trying to fit it through his head, “a necklace?”

“i wonder if people know they appointed an idiot to be king,” you say as you gently unscrew the hoops and demonstrate how to align a piece of fabric between the rings

he watches with interest as you screw the outer hoop tighter until the fabric is nice and taut and then repeat the process so you both have one to work with

you have to help hongjoong thread his needle too, because apparently the king’s fingers are only good for scissoring you open

you weave your own needle through the fabric at a slow pace whilst telling him the different names and uses of the stitches you’re showing him

except, when you look up to see if he’s following?

his own hoop has been abandoned to one side and he’s leaning against his hand as he gazes cheekily at you

“were you even paying attention?”

he sounds a little too confident when he answers not at all

in return, hongjoong shows you how to write hanja the next time you meet

he positions himself behind you with his hand over yours as he guides you through different characters stroke by stroke

he claims that there are specific ways of applying pressure to the brush so he has to be holding your hand at all times

you most definitely roll your eyes several times but you indulge him anyway

there are a lot of giggles and teasing pushes when you accidentally dip the end of your sleeve into the ink and you try to spread it onto his robes too

(the calligraphy may or may not become forgotten when hongjoong pins you down to stop your cheeky behaviour, because things naturally escalate whenever he has you under him)

you two do eventually manage to finish one decent-looking scroll of characters which he ends up gifting you so that you ‘don’t forget’ about him when you’re not with him

when you walk back into the house of flowers, the hanging scroll perks lady shin’s interest as you walk past

“hongjoong taught me how to write my name today”

lady shin waggles her eyebrows at you suggestively because of how casually you refer to the king, for which you nudge her with a shoulder

she laughs then asks to have a look

you unravel the paper to show her but then she makes a funny noise

“that’s not your name? these are the characters for- oh,” she cackles scandalously to herself, as if she has made a secret discovery

“what does it mean?” you hurry to clarify

you wouldn’t put it past him to have taught you a crude phrase instead, like ‘best tits’ or ‘biggest ass’

lady shin lets out an amused exhale, handing the scroll back to you

“it says, my flower”

you’re looking at those exact characters from where you lay on your bed when a knock sounds on your door several days later

lady shin steps into your room with a warm smile as you greet her

“you have an appointment with lord min tomorrow, but the king has just inquired about your service availability for tomorrow,” she informs you. “would you like me to give him the usual answer?”

this isn’t the first time a clash has occurred, particularly with the increasing frequency with which hongjoong requests to see you

you have always told lady shin to ask for hongjoong’s pardon and to offer him an alternative time or day, because in the end, you still need to maintain a professional and admirable reputation as a flower courtesan

and as you open your mouth to tell her ‘yes’, your eye catches the scroll hanging on your wall

my flower

you hesitate

“actually,” you look away from the hanja, “i’ll see hongjoong.”

lady shin gives you a motherly smile as she nods in understanding and closes the door behind her

the next day you see him, he excitedly points out the large tambour frame in his room that he bought just a few days prior, claiming you two can work on a big embroidery patch together now

you give him one look then demote him back to the small embroidery hoop because he still hasn’t learnt his basic stitches yet

(that’ll teach him to not pay attention when you’re demonstrating, ha)

you relent and end up going through the different stitches with him again anyway

and you find that he’s actually not that bad with embroidery once he’s actually focused on the task at hand

it’s nice, basking in each other's presence while he threads his little square of fabric and you work with the large frame you have now essentially claimed as yours

not that hongjoong minds; he did buy it solely to make you happy

and then you offhandedly mention that someone had gifted you a handkerchief with your initials embroidered on one of the corners the other day

“i actually have it on me, in fact,” and you take it out from where it’s tucked into your waist so that you can show him

he juts out his chin as he peers down at the delicate letters, huffing, “it’s pretty, i guess”

then as an afterthought he tacks on, “bet i could do a better job”

“are you jealous right now, kim hongjoong?”

said man is hellbent on avoiding your eyes as he picks up his needle and thread again

“no i’m not!”

“whatever you say,” you smirk

after that day though, you don’t receive another request from hongjoong to meet until two weeks later

which, in the grand scheme of things, really isn’t much

but in comparison to the frequency at which you are used to seeing him, the frequency at which your body is used to having him, it is much too long

you are almost beginning to wonder whether you shouldn’t have brought up the handkerchief gift

yet, he greets you with his usual teasing squeeze of your waist, dangerously close to your ass

you make a move to follow him through the doors to his chambers but he turns around to produce a silk cloth

he starts to blindfold you, whispering sultrily, “i have a surprise for you”

you feel the hairs on the back of your neck raise at his tone

guiding you inside, hongjoong gently pushes you down so that you sink into the plush duvet of his bed

“do you trust me?” he whispers

trying not to dwell on the urge to lick your dry lips, you answer, “of course”

you feel him tugging slowly on the string that holds the front of your corset together, loosening your dress with tenderness like you are a fragile gift

you shiver when your shoulders are suddenly exposed to the cold air

and then the sensation is followed by the warmth of hongjoong’s soft exhales along the expanse of your collarbones as he leans closer to fully disrobe your shoulders

you have to remind yourself to keep breathing

“you can look now,” he tells you

you remove the silk cloth from around your eyes, unsure of what to expect

it takes a few blinks to readjust your vision to the room around you but then your eyes finally focus

and you gasp

there, hung on the wall with its striking viridian green, shimmering threads and intricate swirls on glorious display, is quite possibly the most stunning dress you have ever laid eyes upon

“try it on,” he encourages

but as you step closer, you realise the lacing across the front of the corset and running down the sleeves of the top dress is in fact, not lacing

it’s patchy

it’s uneven

it has empty areas

but it is no doubt embroidery

“did you…did you make this?” you reach out a hand to lightly caress one of the embroidered flowers, not quite daring to believe that hongjoong would go to these lengths for you

“of course,” he wraps his arms around you from behind and presses a light kiss against your temple, “i’m not losing to a lousy handkerchief”

“is that why you disappeared for two weeks?”

you let out a laugh, sinking into his embrace, because the image of the great king holed up in his chambers for days on end, hunched over your dress with a needle, thread and frown on his face is just too endearing

he lets out a warning huff as he turns you around in his embrace to face him

upturning his hands, he shows you the tips of his fingers and grumbles, “i poked myself so many times for you and you laugh at me?”

you bring his hands closer to your face, pressing light kisses to his fingertips as you smile, “thank you, joong. i love it so much, i really do”

he looks at you impossibly soft

under his tender gaze, something suddenly rushes to your very core

you hold one his hands steady in front of your lips then swirl your tongue out in an experimental lick over his fingers

it’s almost captivating how quickly his pupils dilate and zero in on your tongue

so you dare to bring his fingers into your mouth

you suck on them a little harder

a little deeper

and then you moan around his fingers, “i want you”

he lets out a groan himself, feeling the front of his breeches tighten as his cock twitches

“i- fuck, i didn’t give the dress to you in hopes that it would lead to this,” yet despite his words he is stepping you backwards so that he can pin you against the wall

“i know, but i want you,” you palm his growing bulge, your knees going weak at how hard he already is. “and i need you. now.”

he doesn’t need further encouragement

he shoves the remainder of your clothes aside before inserting his fingers roughly between your folds

it doesn’t take long for him to bring you to your first orgasm, curling his fingers relentlessly as you ride them

he spreads your cum over your pussy and you buck your hips with a whine when he circles over your clit briefly

then he’s turning you around and bending you over, one of your hands bracing against the wall, your other arm held behind your back by hongjoong’s firm grasp

“fuck, you’re so wet,” his whole body shivers with pleasure as his cock slips right into you

the obscene sounds of his hips slapping against your ass and your slick being pushed back into your hole over and over again fill the room

and to the clenching of your pussy from another orgasm, hongjoong also cums into you with a guttural groan of your name

he gently carries you to his bed and lays you on top of the covers

he leaves your side for a moment and you listen to him rummage through something while you try to regain control of your quaking legs

when he comes back, you feel him gently spreading your legs and then the ticklish sensation of a soft cloth along your inner thighs

a whine escapes your lips when he rubs over your sensitive clit and hongjoong grips your thigh a little tighter

“be careful what pretty sounds you’re making if you can’t handle another round”

it isn’t until he finishes cleaning you up and lies down next to you to start wiping himself down that you look over and realise what it is that he’s been using this whole time

your mouth drops in disbelief

when hongjoong notices your expression, he smirks, “the man who gave you this has no idea his handkerchief is being used to clean my cum off your thighs”

“hongjoong!” you flush with a laugh. “you are definitely jealous, aren’t you?”

“yes, i’m fucking jealous,” he growls, “you’re the only one i want. you’re the only woman i’ve been requesting for since i’ve seen you. and i want to be the only one who gets to have you, too”

you confess, “well, you can have all of me. because i’ve started refusing other people just for you”

he looks at you for another moment before he’s suddenly straddling your hips

“change of plans,” he says breathily, “i need you again”

“very good plan,” you grind up against him

and then you pause, mirth starting to bubble in your throat, “one last thing though”

hongjoong looks down with amusement in his own eyes, wondering what could possibly be so funny

“that handkerchief?” you start, struggling not to laugh when his eyes immediately narrow, “i never said it was from a man. it was a gift from lady chae”

seonghwa

pov: you're his royal guard

as soon as you notice the movement out of the corner of your eye, your body reacts straight away

you murmur seonghwa’s name with a tight voice and move to position yourself in front of him, unwilling to risk the prince’s safety

one of your hands grasps the hilt of your sword, ready to unsheathe it at the first sign of danger, as your calculative gaze darts between the two young men stumbling closer on the dirt path and the line of forest trees from which they appear

they are wearing simple tunics and breeches with their colour faded and seams loosening from wear

from what you can discern, they are simply commoners, but that does not rule out the possibility that they are bandits

seonghwa seems to think otherwise, though

unsurprising but still grating

the prince places his hand on your shoulder gently in a silent reassurance and request for you to step aside

albeit reluctantly, you force yourself to move to his left

it becomes clear to you as the two figures stop just shy of a few feet away that the term ‘men’ was pushing it - their faces are young and they appear to be no older than seventeen or eighteen

the young strangers dip their head in greeting, one of them apologising as well as he pulls out a tattered map that he extends out for you two to see

“my companion and i are traveling to the village norshaw but seem to have lost our way. would you be able to point us in the right direction?” the one with the map asks

“of course,” seonghwa offers with a kind smile

you watch as the three of them step closer together to look more closely at the map

on high alert, and just as you are predicting, you see the companion shuffle closer to seonghwa, hand inching towards the leather pouch that hangs from the prince’s belt

you catch the subtle motion of seonghwa’s eyes flickering down just an inch

because of how well you understand his body language, you know that it means he has already noticed the thieving intention

but because of how well you understand seonghwa, you know that he isn’t going to do anything about it either

so you strike in his stead

your hand darts out to snatch the thieve’s wrist, twisting his forearm upwards so that he is forced to lean awkwardly towards one side to prevent his elbow from snapping

his partner drops the map, letting out a string of curses and hesitating for all but three seconds before he turns around to flee

scoffing, you threaten the one who is still in your hold, who then bolts with his tail between his legs after you release him

"did you really need to scare them off like that? it's not like i had any money in the pouch anyway," seonghwa chastises with a chuckle

"yes," you deadpan. "i did not spend the last two hours of our trip pausing every fifty meters to wait for you to pick up a rock because you thought it looked pretty, only for them to be stolen by a pair of petty thieves"

"it would have been funny to imagine their faces after realising what they stole," seonghwa grins

“mhm,” you hum, “and the next thing you know, you’ll wake up to your palace ransacked, because word in town is that you can steal from the prince and get away with it”

he levels you with a boyish scowl, “you’re so dramatic. what are you, my mother?”

“no, but i am your royal bodyguard”

“exactly. you are my bodyguard, not my brainguard. if i am to be swindled of my pretty rocks, then so be it”

you roll your eyes out of exasperation, but everything is swiftly forgotten minutes later when you point out a heart-shaped rock and seonghwa rushes over to pick it up

it has been like this ever since the incident occurred - him, the sunshine; you, the sunshine protector

it has been almost four years since it happened

somebody had attempted arsenic poisoning of not only seonghwa, but also those working under him

you had noticed strange discolouring of the silverware in the kitchen and on the table serving his dinner, which prompted an investigation and subsequent discovery of the perpetrator

an act of betrayal and treachery by one of his closest relatives - his very own uncle

seonghwa was - still is - too merciful and tender-hearted to punish his uncle, even if the severity of his uncle’s crimes warranted execution

to have his trust broken so shatteringly hurt seonghwa more than if he were to actually have been poisoned

you still remember like it was yesterday; the sight of the prince slumped against the wall, weighed down by chains of turmoil and despair as whispers fly through the palace of the weak-hearted prince who is unable to deliver fair judgement

it is the sight of the prince looking so small and lost that drives your feet forward to stand before him

as the soft draught coming through the windows tugs gently on your tresses and the flickers of candlelight illuminate the glint of steel in your hand, you make a decision

“i’ll be your sword,” you pledge

not just as his royal guard, but as his haven when he is forced to face corruption and wickedness

and when you see the way his shoulders immediately sag with relief at your declaration, the way he nods like a child who has been reassured that everything will be okay, you tell yourself that seonghwa will never have to dirty his hands as long as you are with him

you will be the dark to his light; the yin to his yang

quietly, you see to it that his uncle is executed for his crimes - your statement to the rest of the palace that prince seonghwa is not to be mocked

neither of you bring it up again, but seonghwa knows

he pulls you into a wholehearted hug, arms enveloping you securely as his chest shakes with shuddering breaths of thank you over and over again

you rub your hand up and down his sturdy back soothingly

it is an action that simultaneously reciprocates his embrace and his crossed line of professionalism

one that starts the shift in dynamic between you both, boundaries of sought comfort blurring with friendship and then something more

where seonghwa is too trusting and too soft-spoken, you become his skepticism and his voice

“you should be more wary of others,” you always remind him

“and you should be more trusty of others,” he’ll retort

yet, he will never make a decision that does not receive your input nor one that you do not agree with

where seonghwa is too gentle and too humble, you become his sword and his shield

you do not waver when you strike down foe, and friends turned foe alike

you speak up and establish firm boundaries when others take advantage of the respect he shows everybody regardless of their class or status

and yet, if you find yourself on the receiving end of someone’s condescension or discriminatory treatment, be it due to your rank as a guard or identity as a woman, seonghwa will be advancing forward to defend you before you can do so yourself

where seonghwa is too innocent and too bushy-tailed, you become his eyes and his caution

your morning walks together always last for longer than they are scheduled for

he stops to watch every butterfly and bumblebee that flutters along the flowery path, and he waits for caterpillars to crawl onto a leaf that he holds by the stem so that he can move the critters off the pathway

you love to watch him and his glittering eyes, his cheeks rosy from happiness and from the air still crisp with morning dew

but you also make sure to watch his surroundings with greater vigilance because the quiet peace that the freshly awoken sun brings simultaneously increases the likelihood of a targeted attack against him

as much as you rib him for being a marshmallow personified, however, and as much as he banters back that you are more than welcome to resign at any time, neither of you want it any other way

seonghwa carries out a lot of gestures that he justifies to himself as being eternally grateful for you and the things you do for him

he likes to gift you flowers he has plucked from his garden or the bushes he walks past that remind him of you

(“that’s actually just a very pretty-looking weed, but thank you, seonghwa,” you tell him on more than one occasion)

(it’s adorable, because the next time he finds a flower, he goes to the length of certifying that it is indeed a flower with the merchant who sells bouquets in the nearby town before presenting it to you, eyes gleaming with pride)

you stand still and let him tuck a flower behind your ear, sometimes braiding your hair gently so that he can weave and secure the stem into your hair, holding your breath as his features fill with the same enrapturement that he would admire a beautiful artwork with

after you voice this out one day, seonghwa supposes to himself that there is not much difference between an artwork and you

not that he’s attracted to you or anything - you just…have an objectively attractive face

yes.

especially when your usually-piercing expression is softened by fatigue, guard no longer up as you sleep slumped over a desk while accompanying him during his late night of studies

he does not realise his feet have moved until he is right beside your resting form, as if the soft exhales escaping from your slightly parted lips are a siren’s song

seonghwa tenderly brushes your stray locks away from your face and behind your neck

except he forgets to account for the fact that you are trained to sleep on the brink of consciousness

the squeal that leaves his mouth when your reflexes kick in and you almost slit his throat resounds at a frequency so high you almost believe it comes from your own mouth

you have a grand time watching his beet red face stutter out an excuse as to what exactly he was doing so close to you

needless to say, that is the last time seonghwa ever tries to do anything while you are sleeping

but as much as he bumbles around, he also reveals his perceptiveness when you least expect it

like now, as you accompany the prince to one of his meetings with numerous advisors and ministers

it is relatively dull and uneventful, mostly a cordial appearance to maintain amicable and loyal relationships with his subjects

conversation is limited to pleasantries and at one point, seonghwa even points out the calligraphy paintings hung at the back of the room

everyone nods with throaty laughs as if the paintings are indeed the most exquisite and tasteful artworks they have ever laid their eyes upon

when you and seonghwa arrive back at his chambers following the conclusion of the meeting, he walks over to his bed and shakes the sleeves of his robe over the expanse of his duvet

and out drops a neatly-wrapped sweet, followed by another, then another, until there are enough to amount to two handfuls

baffled, you look at seonghwa, because these are the very same treats that had been plated on the tables during the meeting

“you smuggled candy out of the room?” you try to keep the amusement out of your voice

he peers into his sleeves to ensure there are no more stragglers, before turning to face you as he waves his hands over the small collection of goods on his bed

as if they are-

“for you!” he exclaims almost proudly. “i saw you eyeing them during the meeting so i took some for you”

okay

most definitely proudly

you feel something tickling you from within, as if he has reached through your chest to directly caress your heart with a delicate finger

“when did you even…” your voice trails off when it comes out a little fonder than you are expecting it to

“remember the paintings i pointed out?” seonghwa giggles, and you think that the hand in your chest is now cradling your heart completely. “i swiped the sweets when everyone was looking back at them”

“thank you, hwa,” you settle on saying, because you do not trust yourself to say anything else

that is more than enough for him, though

which, of course it is - this is seonghwa, with his huge heart that fills easily with the smallest of things

he eagerly hands you one of the treats and you unwrap it to place into your mouth

you’ve had these before, but this one that he has specially grabbed for you tastes remarkably sweeter

you wonder if his lips will taste the same…

but then you accidentally bite your tongue, hard enough to draw blood, and you realise just how wrong you are for letting those fleeting thoughts into your mind

because while you navigate the world in thick droplets of red and sharp glints of silver, seonghwa sees the world in soft hues of pastel and gleaming rays of yellow

how could the two palettes ever blend together harmoniously?

so instead, you grant yourself one last moment of selfishness and pull him into a hug, a gesture that toes the already shaky borders of professionalism yet can still be excused under the guise of friendship

you realise that he has always meant much more to you, but that is what this will stay as - a mere realisation

seonghwa wraps his arms around your form as he relaxes into the way your bodies naturally meld together

it’s strange how easily you slot into his life, his thoughts, his heart

he wonders whether it’s possible for feelings of appreciation to run so deeply and potently within somebody, like a drug that he cannot get enough of

and when you take a step away from him, leaving his chest feeling physically and emotionally empty, he wonders if he is perhaps…

in love with you

following that incident, it is almost as if a switch flips - both of you take several steps away from the line that has been danced around

but neither of you notice the distance because you are both consumed by your own thoughts

until one of your usual morning walks around the castle walls of his palace

seonghwa is wondering whether the bushes you walk past remind you of the flowers he used to gift you and you are debating whether to reach out to brush a petal out of his half ponytail

then, like deja vu, your eyes flicker towards the burst of movement as a figure covered in black comes darting forwards with their blade raised intended for murder

you immediately start to unsheathe your sword, feet poised and prepared to defend-

until you are harshly tugged back and the prince steps in front of you to parry the strike that the assassin tries to land

it takes your lifetime of training and experience to snap back into focus and thrust your sword into the enemy’s exposed side

when you are sure he is dead, you whirl around to descend upon seonghwa with a voice trembling from both anger and relief

“what in the world were you thinking?” you yell

“i-”

taking a step forward, you toss your sword to one side, “no, actually. you weren’t thinking at all”

“i was afraid that you would get hurt!” he takes his own step closer

“that is my duty!” the volume of your voice raises even more. “i am willing to lay down my life to ensure your safety! i have been guarding you for years now and you have never acted this way. what has changed?”

for a moment, the only sound that punctuates the silence is your harsh breathing

seonghwa swallows

“my feelings…” he whispers, a stark contrast to the peak of emotions you have been riding. “my feelings for you have changed”

your throat tightens at his words

it is your turn to whisper, a noise of confusion leaving your lips

he takes another step closer, bringing himself to stand right in front of you as he looks down earnestly into your eyes

“i’d rather be the protector, and you be the protected”

“but…why?” your heart races with anticipation

“because i’m in love with you”

right at the invisible border that has been separating you two for as long as you have been his guard, seonghwa now stands, hands wringing together as he awaits a response

“then that makes the two of us,” you confess

you step forward to take your familiar spot on the other side of the line, except this time you do not stop

you stride over the boundary completely to stand by his side

raising yourself onto your tiptoes, you pull him down slightly by the front of his doublet so that you can press a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips

it stretches wider and curves upwards under the nurturing of your own smile

you can’t help but give him another kiss on the other side of his mouth to match the one you just gave him

“from now on,” seonghwa starts, “i’ll be your sword”

you wouldn’t really, and you will fight him to let you continue being his guard, but that doesn’t stop one last teasing question from escaping you

“does this mean i get to retire?”

yunho

pov: you're part of a rebel group

the crown prince is not in his fucking library

for the past three weeks, the crown prince has always been in the royal library at night

until today

under normal circumstances, his royal guards and staff would be alerted to ensure that the deviance in routine is a conscious decision and not an issue of the crown prince missing

except doing that would make your job significantly harder…

considering you have been ordered to assassinate him.

you’re part of the ‘red sun’, a revolutionary movement aiming to overthrow the current monarch

following the debilitating state of the king after falling ill and the subsequent coronation of queen jeong into power, she has since then established numerous royal decrees to keep everyone under her reign on a tight leash

a leash made of barbed wire

people are quick to become resentful and thirsty for an end to the dictatorship and bloodline

although he has made limited public appearances, the crown prince has also developed a reputation rivaling the queen’s

within the second year of the jeong dynasty, red sun has already amassed a multitude of supporters

the focus is currently on growing in numbers, preparing for an imminent revolution and picking off corrupt royals and noblists, be it through incrimination or assassination

dealing with those in positions of higher power is a task only completed by an elite selection of red sun rebels who have distinguished skills and traits that set them apart from peasants and commoners

and you are amongst the elite team

which is why you find yourself staking out on the tiled roof of the imperial palace, clothed in black with a mask and hooded cowl covering your face that blends you in with the darkness of night, on the orders of a higher-up to assassinate the crown prince

except the target is missing; the information you were given is wrong

which never happens

you can’t risk staying around for much longer, especially now that the crown prince has broken his routine

he could be anywhere and so could his royal guards

you shift your body to a crouch and place your hands on the cool tiles beneath you, ready to leave

only to spot a figure, crouched just like you are, on the opposite side of the roof

their face is a black hole of nothing within the shrouded confines of their hood, but you can feel their gaze piercing into you all the same

you run

you scramble to the edge of the roof and nimbly leap off the curved eaves to the neighbouring structure of the study room

when you glance backwards, you see the man - physique now obvious - is keeping up easily along the stepping stones of roofs

this game of cat and mouse isn’t going to work for long

if you don’t get caught by him first, you’re both going to get caught by the palace guards

so you make a split decision and alter your next trajectory lower

keeping your arms outstretched for the eaves, you grab on tightly when your fingers touch the edge of the roof and use your core to kick your legs up to stop your body from slamming into the wall from the momentum of your jump

you let go and drop to the ground like a feline, noiseless, and slink towards a line of trees

then you wait

he’s good, you note to yourself, when the only sound that alerts you to his presence is the quick scuffle of his feet as he softens his impact against the wall and the muted thud of his body landing on the ground

“state your purpose,” he demands, voice low yet firm

you ignore him to ask, “who are you?”

now up close, you can see that the man is wearing attire almost the same as you are, identity also hidden by the his bandana and hood-

wait

even the dark red stitching that subtly replaces the original seam on the right shoulder of his outer clothing is the same

the same as those on the elite team

“one of you,” he confirms your suspicions

except you don’t recognise his voice nor his build

being one of the earliest members of the rebel organisation, you are familiar with all the members who carry out missions like yours

he is not one of them; not one you can trust yet

when you don’t speak, he adds on, “we need to go. the safehouse might be in danger”

he refers to the two of you so easily, as if you and him are an unspoken team

you cannot trust this man until you know for sure he is part of red sun, so you ask him

“when is red most beautiful?”

it is a vague question with a fixed answer

one that reflects the heart of the revolutionary itself

during the sunrise of a new beginning

“during the sunrise of a new beginning,” the man says resolutely

the tension releases from your shoulders

“okay,” you opt to abandon your original mission. “let’s check on the safehouse”

the man offers you a hand to hike yourself up onto one of the outer walls of the palace before he jumps up himself with ease

you both flip over the top and land in unison

the moon illuminates the ground beneath your feet as you both sprint into the surrounding forest

the safehouse is really just a small hut situated far enough from the palace to stay inconspicuous, yet not close enough to the outer borders of the kingdom to risk discovery by the frequent border patrols

you both slow down as you approach the clearing, steadying your breaths and treading with cautious steps

and then you hear it

the shattering clang of a desperate parry

all it takes is a quick glance at the man by your side before your eyes harden with purpose and your steps are dashing in unison towards the hut

you’re both hit with the smell of a metallic tang in the air, and it’s not from your drawn swords

bursting through the door, you quickly take in the scene before you

several red sun members are scattered around the hut and slumped in varying degrees of injury

it’s easy to spot the intruder; they’re yanking their sword out of a body’s torso as they simultaneously turn to look at you

and it’s hard to miss the royal insignia of the jeong monarch on their chest plate

you have the element of surprise

but only for the next few seconds

you leap forward with the thud of footsteps of your partner following almost immediately, side-stepping once you close the distance to dodge a haphazard swing

there’s a brief break in defense when the enemy tries to aim for another strike that leaves the gap in the side of their armour exposed

you feel the slight resistance of your sword entering flesh as you thrust it forward into them

except when you try to tug it back out, a hand grasps your own and the hilt of your sword, stopping you from stepping away

the enemy has realised they are not going to make it out of this alive

but if they are to die, then they are going to take one last person with them

you.

you see glint of metal as they use their other hand to swing their sword down onto you, only for it to be deflected at the last second by another sword

the man you have met for barely an hour is now at your side with his towering protectiveness

in one smooth kick, his long leg sends the other careening into the wall of the hut with a mighty slam

you feel yourself jerking forward from the enemy’s grasp still on your hand

but the man next to you quickly tucks you into his side before you are also sent sprawling

“check on the others,” he briefly says, and then he is striding towards the fallen intruder

you only spare him another quick glance and then you rush to the nearest figure on the ground

you go around checking for pulses, and for those who are still breathing, the extent of their injuries

there are several casualties but nowhere near as many if you and the man had not come to check on the safehouse

which suddenly makes you pause in your tracks

how did he know about the attack in the first place?

you stretch your legs from their squatted position next to one of the red sun members and turn around to confront him

except…the man has disappeared

and so has the intruder’s body

days later, the question of whether you will chance upon the man again tonight flits through your mind when you find yourself perched in the very same spot on the tiled roof of the palace that gives you a clear view of the royal library

you have received another order to assassinate the crown prince as soon as you see the opportunity arise

this time, the note is accompanied by a cyanide capsule, a non-verbal message that this mission is to occur with your life on the line

you spot him

he’s preoccupied by the scroll in his hand as he makes his way through the shelves of parchments

you wait until he’s walked far enough into the library before you drop down from the roof, keeping your stance low to ensure you stay hidden as you silently move closer

you take out the jagged dagger from its sheath by your waist as you anticipate it will be too difficult to wield your long sword in the narrow aisles

and there the crown prince stands

he has his back to you, exposing him to your mercy

mercy that you have no intention of showing him

the cruel heir to the throne of an even crueler dictatorship deserves none

“it’s you again, isn’t it?”

you freeze

the crown prince still has not turned around to address you, but you can feel the dark gaze of his eyes on you as if he were looking at you

“you were here a few days ago”

fuck

how he knows you have no idea

what you do know though is that you have about two seconds to make a move before you lose this chance to assassinate him completely, and quite possibly, lose your life as well

the pill you have hidden in the breast of your tunic feels heavy

“you are part of red sun, are you not?”

this time the crown prince does turn around to face you, but it isn’t the nonchalance with which he reveals your identity that makes your head reel

it is the warmth and softness in his gaze and the hint of a smile on his face that does

what the actual fuck

you’re convinced that the crown prince is not only heinous, but also batshit crazy

“i am,” you spit out at him, “with orders to assassinate you, in fact”

his mouth thins into a tight line, “the orders you have received are false”

“sounds exactly like something a crown prince would say to avoid being assassinated,” you scoff

but then his next words change everything

“red is most beautiful during the sunrise of a new beginning”

before you have time to fathom the bomb that has just been dropped, your heads swivel simultaneously towards the entrance of the royal library when a voice calls out for the crown prince

“hide,” he hisses urgently

and then he’s stepping further away to conceal your presence as best as possible

you hear the shuffle of footsteps approaching before they stop, dangerously close to where you’re crouched behind a bookshelf

“apologies for interrupting your time, crown prince,” they say

from where you are you can see the crown prince’s expression clear as he lets out a small huff, “i have told you many times to just call me yunho”

“of course, crown prince yunho”

even though you can’t see the other person’s expression, you can hear the amusement in their voice

they continue, “i have the information you have requested for”

“thank you,” you see him - yunho - receive a small scroll. “the queen does not know?”

“no, i made sure to be as discreet as possible”

yunho thanks the other once again and your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets when he bows his head in appreciation as he dismisses them

is this the same crown prince as the rumours?

and what is he doing behind his mother’s back?

you don’t realise you’ve been staring dumbly at him until he’s back in front of you with amusement on his face

he stands tall and proud, robes accentuating his stature and nobility

“who exactly are you,” you dare to ask

your voice is small - you feel small, crouched at his feet like a stark physical representation of the power he holds over you

but then he takes yet another step closer and kneels down so that your eyes meet at the same level

“i am the leader of red sun. the creator of the whole revolution”

your ankles actually do give out at that and you have to seat yourself on the floor

because how is any of this possible?

you must have voiced your thoughts out loud, because before you know it, yunho is crossing his legs and making himself comfortable on the floor right in front of you

it makes you feel so strange

the crown prince’s willingness to make himself an equal before you - and even to his staff from earlier

yunho starts to explain

a change in monarch, particularly one of such dictatorship, requires massive momentum and synergy; something he cannot produce alone nor without the support of the people

thus, red sun came into existence for the exact same reason you and all the other supporters have joined

in hopes of a sunrise one day that marks a new beginning

a new leadership

except recently he has had growing suspicious of the presence of a traitor within the organisation, which were confirmed the night the safehouse was attacked

“that night…that man was you,” you realise, “and that’s how you know who i am”

he nods, “and that’s also how i know your orders are false.” yunho nudges you playfully with his knee, “pretty sure i never ordered for my own assassination”

yunho continues to explain that he had taken the intruder back for interrogation, but then you frown when he reveals the enemy had swallowed a suicide pill before any information could be gained

he has an inkling that someone in a high position of power is involved, since the pills are almost impossible to gain access to, but it cannot be ruled out as a coincidence

“hang on,” you pull down the top of your tunic in a hurry

yunho scrambles to cover his eyes and turns his head as he jokingly sputters out, “woah okay, this is moving a little fast don’t you think?”

you tug impatiently on the sleeve of his robe, telling him to look

yunho hesitates for another second before lowering his hands and realising you have-

“a suicide pill?”

you look at each other, because this can only mean one thing

the pills are not a coincidence; the enemy is much closer than yunho would like

you’re both unsure how much time there is until the traitor decides to order someone else to assassinate yunho, or worse, decides to finish the job off themselves

but from that very night of discovery, you and yunho work together incessantly against a ticking time bomb

it’s a delicate balance between finding as many leads as you can and spreading out your investigations to stay under the radar

yunho tries to look further into the cyanide pills while you try to uncover any information regarding the order you had been given

whoever is behind it all has kept their tracks hidden well

there isn’t much to report from either of your ends whenever you sneak into the palace to meet up with yunho

but he makes it very hard for you to feel discouraged when he makes your meetings seem like casual catch ups between - you dare say - friends

you have yet to catch him by surprise whenever you drop down from the roof in front of him in an attempt to scare him; he has an uncanny ability to sense your presence

except, you think you prefer being unsuccessful, because your indignant grumbles never fail to bring out his toothy grin and an excited body jiggle

other times he is the one trying to fluster you

“remember that time you literally tried undressing yourself in front of me-”

“i was taking the pill out to show you!”

you bring your thumb and index finger closer together in front of your face and squint at the gap

“i am this close to changing my mind and assassinating you after all”

he gets a kick out of it, pretending to beg for your mercy, “oh please spare me, your majesty”

other times, yunho teases you for always keeping your cowl and mask on

“bet it’s because you’re ugly or something,” he jokes

and you bite back that he had his face covered too when you both met, so you’re one to talk, ugly

“but since then i’ve always shown you my face as the crown prince. you can see me nice and clear,” he suddenly leans forward, so close you can see the dip of his cupid’s brow. “what do you think about me now?”

you swallow hard

you’re glad you have your mask on because you can feel your face rapidly heating up

“i think…” you gently cup his jaw, “you look better with your mask on,” as you nudge his face to the side

you cannot help but join in with your own chuckles at his laughter and boyish glee

and eventually, you two have a breakthrough

yunho manages to trace the cyanide back to a traveling merchant operating under the guise of selling rare herbs and medicine

in the transaction ledger, there is an unusually large purchase under the name of ‘lee minjun’

“i’m sure i’ve seen the name before somewhere, but i can’t remember where,” yunho huffs

you let out your own huff at his elbow that has very naturally taken a rest on your shoulder

pulling out a stack of paper, you spread it out onto the table before you two

they are past records of certain red sun missions that, upon looking back, seem suspicious

“i noticed a mark on a couple of them, a drawing or character perhaps? except none of them are fully intact. it’s almost like the paper was accidentally marked”

you point them out to yunho in hopes that he will have a better idea

he doesn’t - not at first

not until he chances upon two that vaguely align with each other to form a clearer image

“this-” yunho runs his hand through his hair, “this is butler lee’s stamp. my father’s butler.”

the king’s butler?

lee?

your eyes snap to yunho’s, just as his meet yours

“lee minjun”

you sink back in your seat

there’s now definite proof that the king’s butler is at the very least involved

the question of why and what for remains

in fact, you and yunho would not put it past the queen either to be involved too

there is a long moment of shared silence as you both mull over what this means for the future

yunho breaks the silence first

“after this all ends…do you want to work for me, officially?” he clears his throat, “will you stay by my side?”

after this all ends

you two must still uncover butler lee’s motives; likely part of a much grander scheme involving queen jeong too

you two must still bring down the whole monarch; with the support of red sun, yunho needs to sit on his rightful throne

the sun has yet to rise but you can see the faint hues of orange and twilight blue in the horizon

the new beginning is close

and at that, something in you relaxes

crumbles and disintegrates with utter relief

“it would be my honour to stay by your side forever, yunho”

and then you are removing your hood and mask, daring to breathe and feel alive and hopeful for once

ironically, yunho chokes on air

you glance at him to find that he is unable to meet your eyes

you think your eyes are deceiving you because-

the tips of his ears are a glowing red

you could definitely get used to seeing the usually calm and collected crown prince become a shy, blushing mess

the corner of your mouth rises with smugness, “like what you see?”

“you should really keep your hood and mask on,” he mumbles

“and why is that?” you humour him

he finally looks at you

and when he sees the shit-eating grin plastered across your face, his shoulders suddenly fill out again with confidence and cockiness to match yours

“because,” his voice deep and flirtatious, “with a pretty face like that, you’re going to distract me from my duties”

yeosang

pov: you're in an arranged marriage with him

ever since you could understand the words coming out of your parents’ mouths, you have known that you will be married to yeosang

it just made sense

for the respective princess and prince of two powerful kingdoms to join together, leading to increased power and stronger allies

it is tradition for the pair to meet their chosen spouse for the first time only when both parties have turned sixteen, and even then, subsequent meetings are rare until the time of the actual wedding

so you spend the first sixteen years of your life infatuated with the idea of your prince charming - of prince yeosang - wondering what he looks like, what his personality is like, and how you two will fall in love

and when you finally reach that long-awaited first meeting, prince charming is everything and more than what you have envisioned

if angels with broken wings were exiled to earth, they would look like yeosang

he is soft-spoken and slightly reserved, as any awkward teenager meeting their future spouse would be, but you don’t miss the way that his eyes overflow with adoration and his shoulders shake with exuberant giggles whenever his little sister, yeoreum, comes tottering into the room

he always bends down onto one knee to match her eye level, uncaring of the stains that mark his pants even as his mother narrows her eyes in disdain, and he listens with utmost sincerity when yeoreum tells him about the secret pink and glittery fairy she spotted in the courtyard

they remind you of the relationship you share with your own little brother, juwon, who is barely half your age and height, yet has you wrapped around his little finger

you lean down closer with a hum at the soft tug on your dress to hear your little brother whisper conspiratorially into your ear, “he looks stupid”

if looks could kill, yeosang would be dead right now

you stifle a laugh as you flick juwon’s chin affectionately at his sudden display of childish jealousy

if anything, you’re pretty sure you are the one who looks stupid

stupidly in love

because walking away from that first meeting with yeosang and his family, you know that you are absolutely smitten for the prince

unable to quell the restlessness of having to wait until the next unforeseeable meeting, you pick up a quill that very same day you return to your palace and start writing

it takes you all night, the gentle gleams and winks of the stars keeping you company until they rotate shifts with the songs of the waking world

but by the time you have crossed out and scrunched your way through rolls and rolls of parchment paper, you are satisfied with the letter you have written

the letter addressed to prince yeosang, which you task eunju, one of your maids, with passing it to the royal couriers for delivery to the kang palace

it is a simple letter, thanking him for the enjoyable day, yet it holds the deeper message that you are interested in him and would like to become better acquainted before your marriage

you wonder whether his cheeks will flush a pretty red as his butler hands him your letter

whether he will trace his fingers delicately over the curve of your words

whether he will bite back a smile as he pictures you saying the words to him

two weeks pass, and you approximate the letter to have just been delivered to his kingdom

and although you desperately wish for him to immediately sit down with a quill in hand to pen out his reply, you wait and give him a week before you eagerly start counting down the days until the arrival of his letter

your whole life you have been able to wait patiently

you wonder what has changed now that mere weeks feel like an eternity

the day yeosang’s letter is due to arrive, you are sporadic bursts of giggles, twirls and skips throughout the palace

even juwon is starting to become sick of getting swept up into a crushing hug to the cheery tune of i loveee youuuu every single time you pass him

nothing can bring you down from cloud nine

only…the letter never comes

not the day after, not the week after, not the month after

you’re disappointed, of course, but you busy yourself with reasons why yeosang has not replied, and you don’t give up

you send him another letter, and then another, and another

sometimes you just tell him about your day - what made you smile, what made you sad, something interesting you saw, something your little brother said

other times you tell him about yourself - your hobbies, likes and dislikes, aspirations, fears

and you also wonder about him

you ask what he likes, what he smiles at, what makes him sad, what his dreams are

with each letter that you hand over to eunju to be delivered, it becomes harder and harder to stay optimistic - not even the words of encouragement from your favourite maid lifts your spirits

you continue like this for over a year, still yet to receive a reply

until-

you do.

it feels like you are brought back to that very night of your first meeting, feeling so very alive as hope and excitement cascade into your body the moment eunju hands you a letter with a smile

with shaking hands, you fumble to unpeel the wax seal and free the envelope’s contents - a single piece of paper, neatly folded

your mind races with anticipated words and explanations

perhaps he had been too shy to reciprocate your letters earlier

or perhaps your letters had been lost in transit

you unfold the parchment as the hairs on your skin raise in anticipation, only to find it blank save for one scrawled sentence in the middle of the paper-

stop sending me letters.

and just like that, the clock strikes twelve

your carriage reverts into a pumpkin

and your carefully curated story of prince charming disintegrates into ashes

you don’t write to him again.

years later, the stacks of parchment scrolls on the wooden desk of the guest room you are currently residing in feel like a fresh slap in the face each time your eyes land on them

they are a stark reminder of your very own letters, the cold rejection you received, and the irony of the only letter you ever received again following his being one from the kang monarchs, announcing the proceeding of the royal wedding between you and their son

now, only a few days newly-wed to yeosang, the king and queen are gracious enough to let you sleep in one of the guest rooms temporarily, under your claims of adjusting to a life in a new kingdom and as a wife

really, you are trying to avoid yeosang for as long as you can

you spend your time instead getting to know his little sister better, which is why you find yourself sitting side by side with yeoreum, legs dangling off the edge of your bed

she eyes the vase of flowers on your bedside table curiously, “did you buy that?”

“no,” you reach out to touch the baby’s breath, “someone delivered it to my room”

you had offhandedly mentioned to some of your staff the other day that flowers would make your room look more homey, and you had woken up the morning after to find the beautiful vase teeming with flowers next to you

“why?” you ask yeoreum when she hums thoughtfully

“it looks just like the vase in my brother’s room, but he’s weird about it. yeo never lets anyone touch it, much less have it”

you blanch a little, “in that case i’ll give it back to him later then”

“you don’t like it? or…you don’t like my brother? my brother talks about you a lot, you know,” she reveals

caught off-guard by her perceptiveness, you reveal that you have been hurt before

you don’t specify by what exactly or who it is that you’re talking about, but she seems to understand regardless

later that night, sweet yeoreum barges into yeosang’s room and with as much feistiness as she can muster, she glares at her brother and interrogates, “what did you do to make her upset?”

before he can so much as blink, yeoreum concludes, “you boys are dumb. go talk to her and fix it or something,” and then walks out with a huff

there’s no one there to witness it, but yeosang nods anyway

heart feeling a little heavy after your conversation with yeoreum, you head towards the kitchen to seek solace in the sweet pastry you are usually served each morning

the first time you tasted the danish pastry, decorated with strawberries and cream cheese, was when you had traveled to yeosang’s palace at the age of sixteen for your first meeting

you remember the blissful expression that had bloomed across your face with your initial bite, and no dessert ever captivated your tastebuds quite the same way ever again

if there is one good thing out of this arranged marriage with yeosang, then it would be the reunion between yourself and the strawberry danish

“your highness,” the head chef bows, followed by the rest of the staff in the kitchen, “how may we help you?”

when you ask for one of the pastries, the head chef apologises that there are none

“but we can make you one now, if you do not mind waiting”

you tell him not to go to the trouble and ease his worries, “i just thought there may have been leftover pastries”

“we make only one fresh every morning, specifically for you,” the chef explains, and confusion must settle across your features because he adds on, “his highness has expressed that you may like them”

oh?

flustered, you can only muster a short response of, “i do, thank you,” before you smile once more and excuse yourself

because of all people to notice and remember such a small detail, and then to go out of their way to put in the request with the kitchen on the off chance that it was still true, it was yeosang?

first the vase, and now this

you feel something deeply buried inside of you start to stir but you rush to nip it in the bud

your head and your heart are beginning to wage war against each other and suddenly everything feels like it’s too much

when you reach your bedroom, you throw open the double doors to step out onto the balcony, welcoming the chilling breeze of the darkening sky

you’re tired of fearing rejection if you open up

you’re tired of questioning yeosang’s intentions

and on top of it all, you suddenly miss home and you miss your parents and you miss juwon and-

“are you okay?”

yeosang’s soft question startles you, having missed his knocking at your door

he walks closer to join you out on the balcony when he sees that the answer is obviously a no, and he prompts you again, “what’s wrong?”

thoughts of vases and strawberry pastries flit across your mind

you start with half truths

“just missing my little brother”

“you love him a lot, don’t you,” yeosang smiles sweetly, “i can see it in the way you take care of yeoreum”

you can’t help the heat that slowly creeps up the back of your neck and to your ears, because it implies that he’s noticed all the times you’ve showered his little sister with the same love you give to juwon

it implies he’s noticed you

“what’s your fondest memory of juwon?” he asks when you nod

something within you thaws slightly at the fact that yeosang remembers your little brother’s name

you step closer to the edge of the balcony so that you can overlook the garden outside your room a little clearer, resting your hand on the railing as yeosang waits patiently

“we used to have this game we played. we had a lot of gardenia flowers growing around our courtyard and juwon loved cutting some to make me a mini bouquet,” you pause to shake your head with a chuckle, “it drove our mother nuts”

“doesn’t sound like it stopped him from continuing though, did it?” yeosang questions with mirth

“no, it didn’t,” your heart aches with fondness. “he would use a certain number of gardenias and make me guess what phrase containing the same number of letters he had in mind”

it never failed to tug your mouth into a smile whenever juwon giggled at your attempts to guess the flower phrase, even when most times he would bound away whilst singing answers like y-o-u s-t-i-n-k or d-u-m-b d-u-m-b

yeosang supports himself on the railing with one hand as he nearly folds in on himself in laughter, and before you know it, you too are gasping for air and wiping away tears from your eyes

when you both calm down relatively enough, only intermittent chuckles leaving your lips, yeosang clears his throat and scratches his neck awkwardly

“i know it might not be much, but maybe we can go out into town tomorrow and it might take your mind off things? and we can bring yeoreum along if that makes you feel more comfortable, because you’ve probably spent more time alone with her than you have with me?”

you don’t admit it, but you’re already feeling a little better, so you decide to tease, “are you asking me out on a date right now, kang yeosang?”

“oh, well, we’d be doing things a little backwards since we’re already like, married…but, yes? maybe? is that okay?”

it’s yeosang’s turn to flush a deep red as his usually composed demeanor is reduced to stutters, but you don’t notice under the faint glow cast by the moon now reigning the sky

“yeah, that’s okay”

you and yeosang smile fondly as your little trio stroll through a nearby town the following morning, his younger sister skipping ahead to peer at the colourful trinkets being sold at the market stalls, and your own small squad of royal soldiers following behind at a respectful distance

it’s kind of endearing how yeosang points out item after item, asking whether you like it or whether you find it pretty, in a not-so-subtle attempt to learn about your preferences

you have to stop him from buying you something from every second stall you both pass, but you’re unable to convince him from purchasing a small wooden toy as a gift for juwon, insisting that you give it to your little brother the next time you see him

the more you actually interact and talk with yeosang, the harder you find it to associate him with the memory of the yeosang in your rejected letters

because the equation of the letters, the vase and the pastries just does not add up

as you two sit under the awning of a small shop, watching yeoreum play with the shopkeeper’s dog, you find yourself unable to hold back anymore

“why didn’t you reply to my letters?” you break the silence, trying to hide the hurt laced in your voice

yeosang looks at you with wide eyes as his mouth stutters open

and in the smallest voice you have ever heard him speak with, he says

“you wrote me letters?”

your eyebrows knit together as your eyes dart back and forth between his, searching for any hint of deception

“too many to count,” you confess, “until you sent a letter telling me to stop…”

“impossible. i never got your letters”

your head recoils back as you try to make sense of his words, “but-”

“wait,” he interrupts

yeosang reaches into his robes, pulling out a small, wooden block, extending it out closer to you as he asks, “do you recognise this?”

upon closer inspection, you realise it’s a square seal stamp

it has the character ‘姜’ carved into it and you’ve seen it enough times to know it represents the kang family name - but the inscription that stylises the border is unfamiliar

“not the seal, no”

he swallows apprehensively, “i stamp all my letters with this to certify authenticity”

you let his words sink in as they throw you into a sandstorm of bewilderment

“but then-”

but then who wrote the letter?

and where did all your letters go?

the only people who would have known about them would be the royal couriers and…eunju

a memory flashes through your mind - the moment she handed you a letter with a smile

no, not a smile, you realise

a smirk

you are simultaneously overwhelmed with betrayal, guilt and apologeticness

yeosang doesn’t push you for a response, and you come to recognise that you are also grateful

“i’m sorry for doubting you,” you tell him

it’s nowhere close to the amount of things you want to confess, but it is a start, one that yeosang picks up on and understands immediately

“no, i’m sorry you felt the need to doubt me,” he offers. “that i didn’t make you feel loved enough”

“but i did, actually. the vase and the pastries, then our conversation last night…and even today”

he blushes a deep red as you list the things off with your fingers

“you weren’t meant to find out about the first two,” yeosang admits as he ducks his head shyly

then he suddenly perks up with a sudden thought

he ruffles inside his satchel that had been abandoned to one side, mumbling, “my sister said i did something to upset you…so i um, got you these”

he turns around to reveal a bouquet of flowers, looking a little rough for wear after being hidden in his bag all morning, but his clumsy consideration only serves to makes your heart skip dangerously

“forgive me?” he asks cheekily, and you both giggle at the absurdity of his question because it should very well be the other way around

“if you insist,” you take the bouquet into your hands

and finally, you allow the chains around your heart to fall away, “i can’t say no to my husband, can i?”

yeosang lets out a little squeak as you look at the bouquet more clearly, counting the number of flowers

you turn to ask if he remembers the game you told him about, but the way yeosang suddenly finds the patch of dirt near his foot absolutely fascinating tells you everything that you need to know

eight flowers

eight letters

i l-o-v-e y-o-u

4K notes · View notes

zukkook · 10 days

Text

ateez as mafia members who fall for you

genre: mafia!ateez x gn!reader, fluff, angst, smut, crack, an absolute brainrot-fest of every mafia trope to exist

length: 14.7k

c/w: illegal acts (abduction, murder, physical/sexual abuse, trafficking, financial crimes, underage working, underground casinos/boxing rings), suggestive/nsfw scenes, explicit language (swearing, insults), death, violence, blood & injuries, weapons, smoking, drugs, alcohol, backgrounds of trauma (death of parents), pet names (kitten, babe, love, sweetheart)

a/n: scenarios involve lots of heavy and mature themes - please read through the tags carefully and mdni! if i disappear from tumblr after this, it’s probably safe to say that i got arrested for my search history. couldn’t have written this without @sorryimananti-romantic, so i guess i’ll be seeing you in jail soon yumi 😘🫶

hongjoong

pov: you're dating a mafia leader

dating a mafia boss has its perks, you suppose

for one, there’s the money

“you like that, kitten?” hongjoong asks when he notices your gaze flitter over the blue diamond pendant for a brief second longer than usual

“no, babe. just thought it might look pretty with those earrings you gave me the other day”

he steals a kiss from you before he hands his card over to seonghwa. “buy one in every design”

then there’s the power

you smile smugly as you feel hongjoong’s arm snake around your waist, hand bringing you a little closer into his side as if to gloat at the meeting that you are his and his only

you know better though. behind closed doors, he’s your trophy

and then there’s the love

“let me hear you, kitten. loud enough that everyone can hear you,” hongjoong pants against your neck

“guess you’re just not fucking me hard enough,” you tease

that night, he makes you orgasm eight times - once for every word in that sentence

but as with anything, dating a mafia boss also has its downsides

like the ignorant and simple-minded gangsters who catch a whiff of the ‘mob boss’ lover’ and immediately think that you are the weak link in the chain - that if you are in their hands, hongjoong will promptly come crawling

so really, it comes to no surprise when you wake up to a throbbing head, with your hands bound behind your back and feet tied to the legs of the chair you’re sitting on

you roll your shoulders back a little, stretching the ache in your neck

from the way your muscles tense and cramp, you must have been out for a couple hours by now

hm, shouldn’t be long now.

“looks like the bitch is awake”

ten.

your eyes lazily look over to your right, towards the source of the sound, raising an unimpressed eyebrow when you lock eyes with the leader of the bluebirds, kyungtae, surrounded by several of his men

the bluebirds are a small mafia gang who have tried several times to stir up trouble in the neighbouring territories

what gives them the confidence to provoke ateez this time, you’re not quite sure, but you know that they have just voluntarily placed their heads under the guillotine

giving kyungtae a once-over from where you’re seated, you spare him no further interest and look away, which does not stroke the man’s ego in the way that he is coveting you to

kyungtae stalks over to you, grabbing a fistful of your hair to force your head up

“look at me when i’m talking to you”

you grace him with no response, merely blinking once, twice

eight.

obviously having expected you to whimper and weep and beg for mercy, your passiveness to the situation, to his presence, to him, has kyungtae’s ears burning red

it doesn’t help when one of the men behind him, with a leg propped up onto the table nearby, lets out a poorly-disguised snicker

it’s quite pathetic, really, how you feel kyungtae’s grip in your hair immediately tighten in response to the sound, and you can’t quite help but let out a snicker of your own

kyungtae’s eyes widen with fury as he spits out curses in your face

five.

he releases his hold of your hair, only to roughly grasp the front of your shirt. “you little fucker, you’re lucky i haven’t killed you yet. just you wait until your little boyfriend arrives, and then i’ll put on a good show for him.”

kyungtae gives you a greasy look, running a finger along your jaw

“and maybe if you beg prettily enough, i’ll think about sparing your life and making you my whore”

three.

he laughs as he steps back, pleased with his threats, too caught up in his own fantasy to notice the quirk of your lip

walking back over to the table, he picks up a bottle of hennessy and takes a swig straight from the neck

two.

you watch with amused interest as one of his lackeys suddenly bursts through the doors of the warehouse, giving you a quick glance before hurrying over to kyungtae’s side and bringing a hand up to hide their whispered conversation

you catch the brief flash of shock across kyungtae’s face, before he’s attempting to school his face back into a neutral expression

one.

sinking back a little further in your chair, you run your tongue over your teeth as you cock your head and smirk at him, declaring your first words of the night-

“time’s up.”

and right on cue, a loud bang fires off, everyone flinching save for you

the underling who had delivered the news just seconds ago crumples to the floor, blood beginning to seep out from the clean hole that goes right through their forehead

another three shots ring out in rapid succession, bluebird members dropping to the ground one after the other like a sick, synchronised dance

the warehouse doors behind you and on the far right cave in on themselves as you hear the hoots and hollers of ateez making an entrance

you watch leisurely as your men easily pick off the bluebird members, who begin to litter the floor of the warehouse like dead flies

the bluebirds never stood a chance - not against your gang, and definitely not against hongjoong

speak of the devil

you sense him before you hear him, his strong, dark, yet comforting aura approaching you from behind as he brings his mouth down to nip at your ear lightly

“sorry i’m a little late, kitten”

you sink into the chaste kisses he presses against the nape of your neck and just between the junction of your ear and shoulder as he loosens the ropes around your hands

when hongjoong comes around to crouch in front of you, working to untie your feet as well, you run your fingers through his blonde mullet appreciatively

“i knew you’d come,” you hum nonchalantly

hongjoong removes the last of the ropes from around your legs, standing up to tower over you as he places a hand on the back of your chair and leans his face down closer to yours

“oh? cocky, are we?”

you smile coyly at him. “my boyfriend is a mafia boss, i think i’m allowed to be a little cocky”

hongjoong’s eyes darken with lust, and whilst his hands are gentle in capturing your jaw, his lips crashing against yours are anything but

the sound of a body being dragged across the ground has you sighing into the kiss, breaking it so that you can let hongjoong deal with the interruption

san releases his grip on the scruff of kyungtae’s shirt none too gently, dropping the man to the floor, before scoffing briefly at the sight of the man below him

out of the corner of your eye, you spot wooyoung and yeosang leaning casually against the wooden crates bordering the sides of the warehouse as they watch the moment unfold

you can hear the slow, arrogant footsteps of jongho and seonghwa as they come up to stand behind you and hongjoong, steadfast additions to the threatening ambience that is now thickening and settling around the warehouse

you can’t see him, but you know that yunho is also here, somewhere with a high vantage point, crosshairs of his sniper trained on kyungtae’s forehead, ready to end his life if need be

kyungtae scrambles to his knees in front of hongjoong, rubbing his open hands together as he looks up pathetically, then presses his face against the floor and grasps at hongjoong’s polished dress shoes, repeating the two motions like a bowing wind-up toy

“fuck, i’m sorry, i’m so, so sorry. please, have mercy on me. fuck, i’ll do anything. please don’t kill me,” kyungtae cries in desperation as he grovels

you look at your fingernails, noting how the polish is starting to chip away

you idly wonder what colour you want hongjoong to paint your nails this weekend

hongjoong snarls dangerously, “that’s not what you were saying when you called my kitten a whore.” and then he drops the bomb-

“i don’t know what made you think you were worthy to touch, much less even look at our boss.”

kyungtae’s eyes widen at that, flickering between you and hongjoong as he stutters, “w-what? but you- you’re…the boss is-”

you finally take pity on him, uncrossing your legs daintily only to inch forward in your seat and plant both feet down firmly, right on top of his hands

you run a hand through kyungtae’s hair with mock tenderness, giving him a saccharine smile. “i don’t think anyone has ever discovered how hongjoong and i met…i think it’s only fitting that you’re the first to find out, since, you know, you wanted to put on a good show for him”

and so you tell kyungtae.

you’re a famous grey hat - you infiltrate security systems regardless of permission and whether your methods violate the laws or not, and have earned yourself the nickname of ‘the greyhound’

in some instances, you offer to disclose the security vulnerability and its solutions for a…small price

in other instances, you use the breach to take down organisations, operation rings, and dark web websites that exploit others in ways that don’t sit right with you

and then there’s the instances where you hack for neither of those reasons - such as the one where you discover ateez

or more specifically - hongjoong

the mafia boss has an irritatingly handsome face, and you want to see what it would look like marred with anger

so you infiltrate ateez’s cyber system, just to show that you can, redirecting all of their security feed and replacing it with a live stream of your beloved pot plant

when hongjoong discovers that you are the infamous greyhound, and has quite literally messed with his gang’s cybersecurity just for the shits and giggles, he finds his interest piqued

you accept his proposal to take over ateez’s data, information and communication security - a role that puts you almost on par with hongjoong in terms of importance

and just a month later, he accepts your proposal to be your boyfriend - a decision that solidifies your presence at the top of the hierarchy in terms of authority

if hongjoong is the mob boss operating as the face of ateez, then you are the mob boss operating as the shadow of ateez

you finally rise.

standing up from your chair, you knock kyungtae over onto his back and place a foot on his chest

“so when you thought that i would be an easy target, that i could be used as bait, it was really me that you should have been scared of, all along.”

you slowly curl your fingers around the handle of the gun that hongjoong has held out for you, index finger finding its familiar position on the trigger

as you level the barrel of the gun with kyungtae’s head, his mouth opening and closing with words that don’t reach your ears, hongjoong pressing his face into your neck so that he can suckle blossoms onto your skin, you think to yourself that when it’s a mafia boss dating a mafia boss, there are no downsides

you pull the trigger

seonghwa

pov: you're discovered captive during one of his missions

ateez had recently been tipped off about a ledger, with countless records of illegal transactions that would be able to implicate several officials and ministers in high positions of tax fraud, embezzlement and in some cases, prostitution

which is why seonghwa is currently creeping through the house of minister seo - the alleged location of the ledger - wooyoung having disabled the house’s security system and created a commotion distracting enough for seonghwa and a few other members of ateez to comb through the rooms for the ledger

they make quick and efficient work, a feat considering wooyoung’s last words of advice were to ‘get the fuck in, get the fucking documents, then get the fuck out’

it has probably only been twenty minutes before seonghwa’s earpiece sputters to life with hongjoong’s voice alerting him that the others have found the ledger already

“have a quick scan for anything else that might be important, and then haul ass out of there. you guys don’t have much longer”

there doesn’t seem to be much apart from the usual things he would expect to find in a house, until a door strategically placed in the far corner of the room, partially tucked behind a shelf of abstract sculptures, catches his eye

there’s a thick slide lock that keeps it shut from the outside, and he grips his glock a little tighter as he treads closer

he can see the wear on the lock’s metal surface now that he’s right at the door, indicating that it must be opened and closed quite frequently

slowly easing the lock open, he swings the door open with his gun positioned in front of his body

for a brief moment he’s not sure what his eyes are seeing - the room is dim, illuminated only by a small window on the left wall and the light now coming from the open door

as his eyes adjust, trepidation turns to confusion as he spots a few stray items scattered on the ground of the small room. a tattered piece of cloth. a metal bowl. a rusted chain

there’s a musty smell that hints to seonghwa the room is not well-cared for, if at all

and that’s when he takes an involuntary breath

because at the end of the chain, connected to a ring screwed into the wall itself, is-

your eyes focus on the sight of an unfamiliar man

it’s hard to make out the details of his face, but you’ve seen your captor enough times to be able to tell him apart from his stature and build alone

you wonder if you’re being sold to this man, having been reminded repeatedly by minister seo that he can do as he wishes to you

approaching you with slow, deliberate movements, seonghwa can now see the grime across your face and clothes, the way your hair is matted together, the scarred redness of your ankle rubbed raw from the shackle around it

“i’m not going to hurt you. i’m just going to see if i can get this off you, okay?”

seeing as you don’t make a move or noise of protest, seonghwa crouches down in front of you, where you have drawn your legs towards your body, hugging them towards your chest

the chains could probably be broken off with the right tools - tools that were back at base and not on him right now

unless

“i can’t break the shackle right now, but i can shoot through the chain first so we can escape”

he sees you perk up almost immediately at his last word, and he thinks that if you were an animal, your tail would be wagging by now

almost as fast as it came over you, however, you deflate with a perplexed, “why are you helping me?”

he looks at you with kind eyes, eyes so round and large you think you can see the twinkle of galaxies within them

“if i am able to help, what further reason do i need?”

hongjoong’s voice suddenly interrupts, a little frantic

“change of plans, you guys need to get out now. they have reinforcement coming soon”

seonghwa addresses hongjoong, “two minutes. wait for me”

“park fucking seonghwa if you don’t get out of there right now-”

he tugs the earpiece out of his ear

hongjoong can shoot him later if he wants to, except he won’t because seonghwa is his right-hand man

looking at you again, voice significantly gentler, he tells you to cover your ears

even though you’re expecting it, you still flinch at the sound of the gun going off as the chain breaks into two

“you did well, love. now let’s go”

if the pet name doesn’t send your stomach into somersaults, the encouraging smile that he gives you afterwards certainly does

he makes his way back to their assigned meeting point, with you cradled protectively in his arms against his chest, after you both quickly discover that you walking out of there is not going to be a feasible option

wooyoung does a triple-take from the driver’s seat when he sees seonghwa appear, but there is no time for questions, his foot revving the engine as soon as seonghwa has carefully lowered you onto the backseat of the car

you shrink back a little in your seat and closer towards seonghwa, who has kept one of his arms around you, when you meet wooyoung’s eyes in the rearview mirror

“boss ain’t going to be happy”

which is the understatement of the century - hongjoong is furious

but he understands seonghwa, because should it have been him in the situation, the outcome would also have been the same

you stay in seonghwa’s apartment, and although he isn’t home a lot of the times, the times that he is makes up indefinitely for the times that he isn’t

you find yourself looking forward to when he comes home, sometimes falling asleep on the couch before you can wait it out, yet still smiling in the morning despite waking up to an empty apartment, because you find yourself in his bed, warmly tucked into a cocoon of blankets

seonghwa finds himself looking forward to going home. where his apartment before seemed cold and lonely, void of the laughter and warmth he feels around ateez, he is now becoming accustomed to hearing the light pitter patter of your socked feet against the ground as you run to shyly peer out at him from around the corner of his hallway, waiting to welcome him home

you find that cooking together becomes one of your favourite pastimes. you pelter him with questions, like what do you call this, hwa? and how do you use this, hwa? just because you enjoy spending time with him and listening to the deep timbre of his voice that sends pleasant shivers throughout your body

seonghwa finds himself cooking more. where he would usually order takeout or forego a meal altogether, he now tries new recipes with you just so he can see the innocence and curiosity your eyes hold as you sing out hwa? after hwa? after hwa?. he loves the way you fit against his chest as he holds your hands to show you how to slice vegetables, or to roll out a ball of dough, and he thinks that he wants this forever

there is a growing desire inside of him to keep the light in you burning alive, to teach you things that will only make you smile, and to keep you under his watchful protection

his feelings intensify in moments like these, when a nightmare has led you to slip out from under your blankets to crawl into the comforting solace of seonghwa’s sturdy arms

he gently nuzzles his nose against yours

“considering you spend more time in my bed than your own, maybe i should swap this one out for a bigger bed”

despite his words of defeat, his tone is endearing

you look up at him with doe eyes, lips slightly pouted in determination. “my favourite place would still be in your arms”

seonghwa can feel his resolve breaking down

that seems to be the effect you have had on him since the day he found you

breaking protocols, breaking habits, breaking walls

seonghwa does not fear many things, and yet, tonight he is scared that he will confess his innermost desire to call you his

“i’m a dangerous man, love,” he whispers

you place a hand softly on his cheek as you reply with a whisper of your own

“a man who claims he is dangerous, and yet has shown me more care, love and happiness than i have known my entire life”

his tongue darts out over his dry lips, and your eyes involuntarily flick down to catch the movement

it doesn’t go unnoticed, and seonghwa is leaning in closer, slow enough for you to lean back should you wish

“i want to continue showing you that for the rest of your life, if you’ll let me”

you close the gap between the two of you in the form of your answer, pressing your lips gently against his

he chases after your lips until the both of you are rosy-cheeked and breathless, pressing his forehead against yours as he runs his thumb over your cheekbone, thinking that there is nothing more perfect than this moment with you

and this time, he is not scared of the sweet confession that comes tumbling out of him

“if your favourite place is in my arms, then i think my favourite place is on your lips”

yunho

pov: you're his literal partner-in-crime

you and yunho have been mission partners since the moment you two met

ateez’s deadly duo

like peanut butter and jelly, macaroni and cheese, you and yunho are a combination that make more sense together than alone

it’s what leads to yunho affectionately calling you ‘J’, claiming you as the J to his PB

and if both of you know that there is more to that claim - that you’re his other half - than just a working relationship, neither of you bring it up, even if your interactions involve flirtatious comments and touches

the two of you are usually assigned the more covert missions, like assassination, as yunho is the gang’s best sniper, and you have an aptitude for luring the target into an ideal position

it’s your ‘natural charm’, as yunho likes to put it

working together, basically every mission is a guaranteed success

so despite you being the only one exposed out on the field, you trust yunho with your life, quite literally, to take out the targets in due time and to get you both back to base safely

hence it’s a completely new and utterly terrifying experience for you to find yourself held at gunpoint by the very same man you guys have been assigned to kill, the mission having taken a very wrong turn

an anomaly, but not uncommon, you, yunho and jongho had been briefed the week before of the mission that would take place tonight, a job that would require the three of you to work together

you were to find out whether the target, kwan, knew any information about the death of a mob boss in a bordering territory, suspicions raised after phone logs showed that kwan kept in frequent contact with the mobster, and jongho was there to help with the more physical aspect of persuasion. yunho, as usual, was to be stationed on the rooftop of a building nearby

and that was the plan that the three of you had been following, up until moments ago when you and jongho triggered a silent alarm, allowing kwan enough time to ambush you

jongho had been fast enough to land a punch, but wasn’t able to stop kwan from snaking his arm around your neck and bringing his other hand up to press a gun against your temple in one fluid motion

which is where you find yourself now

yunho is relaying the situation back to base, having started reporting into his earpiece the moment he spotted kwan - there was not enough time to adjust his sniper to take out the moving target, much less when no one had expected kwan to make the first move

“forget about the interrogation. yunho, can you get a clear shot now?”

“negative,” he replies

yunho bites back a curse of frustration, struggling to keep his cool. he has had years upon years of experience and training, and he knows that he needs to approach this situation calmly

but it is you down there right now who is in danger, and yunho has to fight all of his primal instincts not to run down there and rip you from kwan’s grasp

kwan has taken several steps back with you in his hold, his head now out of sight as it becomes covered by the scaffolding around the building

and no matter which angle yunho adjusts his scope from, the only face that he can clearly see is yours, pupils dilated with fear and skin flushing from the strain

he sees the way your hands are grasping at the muscular forearm slowly choking your neck, the way your shoulder is pushing back against kwan’s chest in an attempt to loosen his hold…

you hear yunho’s voice in your earpiece

“J, there might be a way to save you, but for that, i’ll have to hurt you,” yunho starts. “touch your forearm if you trust me”

you bring your right hand to your left forearm, leaving it there for a second before removing it

“what are you planning on doing?” hongjoong questions

yunho swallows, finding it hard to say his next sentence

“i’m going to shoot his heart through J’s shoulder”

you know that it’s a difficult and risky shot - several variables could turn this into a fatal shot not just for the man behind you, but you also - but if anyone could pull it off, it would be yunho

and if things were to go south, dying by the hands of the man you have loved for half your life doesn’t seem so bad either

yunho knows you can hear him clearly through your earpiece, having only just followed his request moments ago, and it is the fact that your frightened gaze is suddenly replaced by a hard determination and newfound hope at his words alone, so ready and easily entrusting your life in his hands, that hurts him the most

because the last thing he ever wants to do is to hurt you, because he loves you too much to cause you any pain, even if it is the only way to save you

at hongjoong’s confirmation of the go ahead, albeit voice strained, yunho lets out a long exhale before bringing his right eye to the scope of his sniper, shutting his left eye with a sense of finality

he reminds himself, like a mantra, that he only has one shot at this, when your tight voice filters into his ear

you struggle to take a breath as you pretend to speak to jongho, when really, your mind is only filled with yunho and your words are only for yunho and you pray to god that he knows

“if i don’t make it, just know that i love you”

yunho’s heart comes to a stuttering pause as tears start to well up in the corners of his eyes. he rapidly blinks them away to clear his vision, because if he wants to hear those sweet confessions from your lips, and return the same of his own, face to face, then he has to take down kwan now

adjusting the angle of his sniper so that the crosshairs have aligned with your right shoulder, he waits for the perfect window of opportunity-

“i love you too, J”

and then he pulls the trigger.

your shoulder bursts into a pain so blinding you wonder if it is really just one bullet that has gone through your body

it feels like you are simultaneously being burned and stabbed, over and over again, the sensation rapidly travelling across your chest and upper body as you start to collapse, the man behind you no longer holding you up as he instantly slumps to the ground dead

you faintly register the sight of jongho sprinting towards you, arms outstretched and mouth forming the first syllable of your real name, before you hit the ground and you black out from the second eruption of pain upon impact

yunho’s days blur together, a fever dream of red rivulets, echoing screams and phantom recoils

every time he closes his eyes, he sees that one moment replaying over and over again

like a taunting five-second film strip that has been repeatedly duped and taped together to replay an endless movie

he sees your body jerk grotesquely as the bullet - his bullet - rips through you. he sees your face twisting into searing, raw agony. he sees you fall heavily to the ground, just like kwan.

he sees you die, die, die

if only he had been the one on the field

if only he had been the one held at gunpoint

if only he had been able to shoot kwan a little faster

if only-

“...y-yun?”

the film stops.

you blearily blink as your eyes struggle to adjust to the lighting of the medical wing, voice dry and scratchy from disuse

suddenly there’s a hand caressing your cheek, a nest of brown curls, a choked sob, another hand brushing your hair, a whimper of your name, a pair of bloodshot eyes, and it’s all a bit too much all at once but it fills you with a sudden rush of air because it’s yunho, crowding your vision and personal space and heart and-

“you’re alive.” yunho can’t quite believe the words falling from his lips

“i’d hope so. unless you also somehow died and we’re in hell right now”

he lets out a shaky exhale at your joke

“fuck, J, i thought i was going to lose you forever”

you try to reach out for him in reassurance, until a sharp stab in your right shoulder reminds you of your injury and you cease your movements, squeezing your eyes and biting your bottom lip until the pain dulls to a tolerable throb

yunho’s hands hover over you frantically but he’s not quite sure where to place them or what to do or how to comfort you

“shit, does it hurt? yes, of course it hurts. fuck, how bad? really bad? do i need to get you painkillers? probably, yes, let me just, um, find them. shit, okay, don’t move, okay”

you don’t think you’ve ever heard such a colourful string of words leave his mouth before, nor have you ever seen him this flustered and uncertain and worried about you

“if this is how you treat me when i’m hurt, maybe i should get shot more often”

yunho freezes guiltily, then shoots you a scandalous look, before his face morphs into an expression more serious

“seeing you get shot was the worst moment of my life, especially when i was the one who hurt you. it felt like i was the one who was dying, and- and when i thought that i would never be able to tell you just how much i actually love you, i-”

“but you did tell me, and you saved me…just like you said you would. and i’m here now, to tell you that i love you, too, so so much…”

yunho slowly lifts up a corner of your blanket so that he can ease himself into bed next to you, propping himself up onto one elbow and angling himself towards you so that he can carefully place his other arm over your waist, like a sweet claim that you are alive and real and his now

you settle a little more comfortably into the broadness of his chest, before he asks, “can i see?”

you nod, then you’re shivering slightly from the stroke of cool air as yunho slowly lowers the top of the sheets to reveal your bandaged shoulder

you’re not wearing much underneath for ease of changing your dressing, yet you don’t feel shy under his gaze - in the silence of the small infirmary, where it is just you and yunho, a pair who makes more sense together than alone

he presses butterfly kisses just around your wound, fluttering over the gentle dip of your sternum and along your collarbone and down the smooth slope of your upper arm

“i heard voices, is J awake- woah, okay, nevermind!!”

just as quickly as wooyoung opens the door to the med wing, he slaps a hand over his eyes as he hollers and swivels on the ball of his foot to step back out and announce with a shout,

“PB&J are fucking in the ward, nobody disturb them!”

“no we’re n- oh my god, whatever, i’m not even going to try,” yunho slumps back against the bed in defeat from where he had jerked up the moment wooyoung interrupted

he looks at you - face flushed, lips curled into a bashful smile, one hand softly fisting the front of his shirt, and he thinks that you look so, so pretty

“well, since woo’s already guaranteed us some privacy, how about we take advantage of it, hm?”

you can literally see the moment your words bring the cogs in yunho’s brain to a screeching halt

and then all of a sudden, they come spluttering back to life

his eyes glint with mischief

a breathless “okay, yeah”

and then he’s pulling the sheets back completely

and he thinks to himself once again that oh, you really do look so, so pretty

yeosang

pov: you're friends and he's your bodyguard

for as long as you can remember, it has always been you and hongjoong

he tells you that your parents disappeared from the picture almost as soon as you were born - why, you never care to ask, as you have no memories of them anyway - so hongjoong is simultaneously a friend, a brother and a father to you

a few years later, your little pair suddenly doubles in number with the addition of yeosang and seonghwa - two boys who have fled from an abusive orphanage

the four of you form an unlikely group of ragtag misfits; children trying to exist in a world for adults

you learn the ways of survival through street smarts and petty crime

and you develop a soft spot for yeosang - with his big, round eyes - just like hongjoong does for seonghwa

your gang of found family continues to grow. systems, roles and hierarchy become implemented as you all dip your toes into increasingly dangerous and illegal activities, eventually becoming the mafia gang ‘ateez’ and hongjoong naturally taking on the leadership role

one thing that stays constant, no matter how old you are, is hongjoong’s protectiveness over you

and when you nearly get kidnapped one time on your way to the shops, hongjoong doesn’t let you out of his sight for three days straight, until you finally snap in frustration and threaten to shave his mullet off if he doesn’t stop breathing down your neck

eventually you two come to a compromise - more like hongjoong threatens you back, but he says otherwise - that you’ll have a bodyguard to keep you safe

and hongjoong thinks there is no better candidate than the very man he has known for over a decade, and is arguably one of the best fighters in ateez

“yeosang? i literally grew up wiping his nose for him as a kid, but okay”

so at first it’s a little funny, having your roles reverse - someone who you dote on, despite being similar ages, now doing the doting

but then it starts to become endearing, yeosang’s little antics and unwavering determination to be ‘the best bodyguard ever’ causing laughter to bubble from your lips whenever you two are together

like the way he steals takes your first bite of food, insisting he’s checking to make sure no one is attempting to poison you

or when he runs ahead to open the door for you, declaring that if there is someone behind it waiting with a gun, he’ll get shot for you

and when he naturally places himself between you and the road, claiming that his buff muscles with stop any swerving cars from hitting you

it’s the way that in whatever he does, he’s always looking out for you

but it’s really the less common moments, when his more guarded, brooding and protective side makes an appearance, yeosang immediately stepping forward to place his larger frame in front of yours whenever he perceives danger in a situation, one hand reaching behind him to carefully press you closer into his back, that makes your heart flutter and stomach flip uncontrollably

as you sit behind yeosang now, the familiar feeling of his steadfast back and your arms wrapped around his waist whilst he accelerates the motorbike, you wonder how it would feel to be pressed up against his chest instead, melting into the sturdy embrace of his arms as the steady beat of his heart sounds in your ear

you’re meeting an informant who has picked up on the tail of a child trafficking ring, running under the guise of an orphanage

they have been a reliable source for several years now and you trust them enough that most contact you have with them is done one on one

still, yeosang (and hongjoong) insists that he accompanies you, which is why you have to force yourself to focus back on the task at hand, not yeosang’s arms or chest, as his motorbike pulls into the abandoned junkyard

“uhh,” yeosang looks around as he helps you off the motorbike, “do your meeting spots usually entail an unlimited number of blind spots that can allow someone to attack you?”

the scattered cars around the junkyard form a labyrinth of, you do admit, potential danger

“just making sure you don’t become jobless”

“yeah but if your brother finds out, i’m going to become jobless and headless”

“you don’t tell, i don’t tell. deal?”

“okay, deal”

he’s about to link pinkies with you, a habit neither of you have outgrown, when a bullet shatters the window of the car to your right, passing straight between the two of you as it ricochets off a surface you never get to find out what

yeosang makes an immediate dive for you, knocking the breath out of you from the force with which he collides into you

he wraps his arms around you tightly, curling you into his chest as he presses you against the floor, shielding your body with his own

“fuck!” he growls, “it’s a trap”

and in any other situation, the huskiness of his harsh curse and the proximity of his muscles rippling around you would have you sweaty and weak in the knees

just not when you’re in a life or death situation

yeosang tugs a smoke grenade off his tactical belt, ripping the ring off with his teeth before sending it flying over the car you two are taking cover behind

as the smoke starts to cloud the vision of what yeosang hopes is only a handful of enemies, he leans down to look at you with burning intensity

“when i give you the signal, run to the bike and don’t look back. i’ll cover you”

you slip out a pistol from your own belt, “and i’ll cover you once i’m there”

yeosang nods grimly, straightening slightly to fire off several shots into the general direction of where gunfire is generating from

he ducks back down, only to grab a grenade this time

“go!”

you hear the sound of more bullets as you frantically sprint to the bike, swinging a leg over the body to seat yourself on top

“yeosang! covering you now!”

swiftly glancing at you to confirm your safety, yeosang pulls the pin and hurls the grenade as far as he can before turning and racing towards you

he nearly knocks you right off with his long leg in his haste to mount his motorbike, twisting the throttle to send dirt flying as the wheels jerk forward

as yeosang starts to pull you both away from the junkyard, you’re hit by a shock wave and burst of heat when the grenade detonates

the explosion seems to have taken out most of the attackers, if the dwindling of gunfire is any indication, but there are still a few, intermittent shots, likely from someone who has been staking out further away from the eruption

with the junkyard behind you erupting into flames and the adrenaline from your close shave with death coursing through your veins, you raise a middle finger into the air and holler, “you fuckers can’t aim for shit!”-

just as a bullet opens up a gash on the side of yeosang’s arm

to his credit, he barely flinches apart from the hiss that escapes his gritted teeth, but your heart still clenches and throbs at the sound

as the distance between the pair of you and the junkyard increases, a terrifying thought suddenly dawns on you

“do you think we can hide this from hongjoong?”

unfortunately, the answer is no.

the guilty look in your eyes is an immediate giveaway

hongjoong nearly faints as he pulls you into a crushing hug, pulling back for brief moments only to fret over you and make sure you’re unscathed

when you finally calm him down enough to assure him that no, joong, i’m not hurt, yeosang saved me and that said man is actually the one who is hurt, your brother finally seems to remember the presence of the other

yeosang laughs and shakes off hongjoong’s belated concern to get his wound attended to, claiming that it is just a scratch, even swinging his arm around for good measure

you frown, giving your brother one last, reassuring hug before you tug on yeosang’s hand with a quiet, “come with me,” before you head towards your room

you close the door and lead him by the hand to sit on the edge of your bed

now that you two are alone, yeosang suddenly juts his bottom lip out, declaring that his arm is actually in great pain and it’s going to fall off if you don’t do something about it soon

“fix my booboo for me” :(((

you chuckle as you lightly nudge him with your hip, pointing out how different he is whenever he’s with you, “all soft and caring and squishy”

“you still don’t get why, do you?” he looks up at you with fondness in his eyes from his seated position on your bed, eyes flickering back and forth between your own as if he is looking for something

your lips are slightly parted, breath hitching as you try to control the thumping of your heart that you are almost certain he can hear

finally breaking eye contact, yeosang shrugs off his red and black leather jacket, leaving him in a fitted, black tank top that accentuates the sculpted swell of his chest and reveals the toned muscles of his arms

you drag your eyes away from him before he can catch you staring, moving away to fill a bowl with water and wetting a towel

as you settle down next to him on the bed, gently wiping away the dried blood on his arm, guilt starts to seep into you

“i wish i was the one who got hurt…” you whisper

a warm, larger hand over the top of yours brings your gaze up to look at him

“i would rather die before letting you lose even so much as a hair on your head. your life is worth so much”

yeosang - a boy you grew up protecting from the monsters in the dark with a candle, now a man protecting you from the monsters of the world with his life

in that moment, you decide to take a leap of faith

“but what is my life worth, if it is not with you?”

and yeosang catches you

he cups your face with his hands to brush a sweet kiss against your forehead, pulling back to capture your blissful expression, before leaning back in to press his lips against your own

breathless from the kiss and from the swirl of emotions inside of you, you nuzzle your foreheads together as you let out a small giggle

"just wait until my brother finds out about this"

san

pov: you're part of a rival mafia gang

you used to work for an underground casino

considering the business itself was formed around illegal gambling, drug dealing and money laundering, they turned a blind eye to the fact that you were still underage at the time of your hire

you never really noticed a pattern in the repeated appearance of certain men until you were approached by one yourself, his teeth yellowed and stained from countless smokes, tip of a blackwork tattoo peeking out from under his collar and extending behind his ear, one hand adorned with an assortment of gold and silver that was probably worth more than your life

you had no family, no real plan, no real future, so when you were offered the prospect of a better life, with money and protection, you agreed to become an associate of the crescent clan

a stupid decision in hindsight, but one made out of desperation and vulnerability

just a few years shy of a decade later, you’ve risen up the ranks and now you serve directly under the capo of your territory

you usually accompany your capo to negotiations and deals that occur between different organisations, which are generally civil and fair to keep relations pleasant, even if just on a surface level

negotiations happen much smoother when both parties have familiar - and thus trusted - faces present

which is the exact reason why you’re present at most meetings your capo is involved in, and the reason why you become familiar with certain faces who, like you, help represent their own respective clan

you’re reminded of that fact as your eyes briefly flick up from the meeting in present time, a trade request for a shipment of weapons, only to find his dark eyes already trained on you

san of ateez.

crescent and ateez have made several negotiations over the years. the two groups are not exactly on the terms where they would be in the same room for a reason other than business. but they are not exactly on the terms to want the blood of the other spilled, either

when san realises you’ve returned his gaze, the right side of his mouth rises into a smirk that has you looking away with a subtle eye-roll

because that’s how it has always been between the two of you

smirks, amiable quips, sarcastic ‘sweetheart’s from his end

scoffs, humouring his antics, biteless ‘fuck off’s from your end

an acquaintanceship that is built upon nothing more than brief run-ins and business deals. if there is an underlying interest, or daresay, desire for the other, it is buried deep within the bottom of your hearts

and that is how you both go about - a duet of dances but never touching, a game of gazes but never lasting

until one day, everything you’ve ever known goes to shit

it’s a deal gone wrong. you are all already on high alert, this only being the second time negotiating with this particular organisation

there must be a rat or traitor in crescent, and you just happen to be the scapegoat, or there is a member who holds a personal vendetta against you

regardless, all it takes is an incriminating note and an altered photo for years of trust - or as close to trust as you can develop in the mafia world - to erupt into flames, and for the deal to fall through. whether or not there actually was a deal to be made, or whether it was all a set-up to begin with, you’re unsure

amidst the chaos of guns and knives from both sides, you incapacitate enough of your own to sprint away, but not without injuries of your own

carefully nursing your ribs as you ignore the sticky sensation of blood trailing down your forehead, you manage to stumble your way through the dark alleys

why your feet take you there you’re not sure

but you find yourself staring at the rusted peephole and spiderwebbed paint of san’s apartment door

he had slipped you a piece of paper with the messy scrawl of his address as a joke months ago, quote unquote if you ever wanted to have a good night

before you can reason with yourself to turn away, you rap your knuckles against the door

a few seconds of nothing but your quick, shallow breaths fill the hallway

until the door is ripped open and you’re met with san’s murderous gaze

and at first you think that he’s going to finish off what the dirty traitor first started - kill you right there and then at the threshold of his door for disturbing him at this ungodly hour - when his eyes flick over your forehead and back to your eyes so quickly you almost think you imagine it

"who hurt you"

if you aren’t so delirious from the pain starting to seep into your body now that the adrenaline is starting to wear off, you would notice the tremble in san’s voice as it drops an octave lower than usual

or the way his chin lowers slightly, eyes narrowing as the veins on his neck become more prominent

or the way his fingers whiten from his grip on the door handle

“san-” you breathe out

“who.”

you’re conscious of the possibility of the eyes and ears of anybody catching the both of you right now

because in the end, he’s part of ateez, and you’re part of crescent, even if your very own clan has painted a giant red target on your back now

and honestly, you just want to sit the fuck down

so you shove him aside as you force yourself in

or more like he lets you shove him aside. because he’s built like a brick wall and you, well, are not.

you hear a click from behind and you realise that perhaps, your interest in san is not buried as deeply as you believed it to be, when your first thought is that you’re now safe within his locked apartment, as opposed to whipping around out of gut instinct expecting to face the barrel of a gun

you let out an involuntary grunt of discomfort as you lower yourself onto his couch, and almost immediately san enters your field of vision again

kneeling in front of you, san’s eyes soften as he attempts to quell the flames inside of him so that he can focus on you in the present

“where are you hurt?”

he goes to grab his first aid kit after you begrudgingly answer

he squeezes an instant ice pack, holding it in his right hand as it starts to rapidly cool. with his other hand, san reaches towards your ribs where your own hand is still cradling your injury

“let me have a look”

he hovers his hand over yours whilst searching your eyes, waiting for confirmation that it’s okay

when you swallow and nod your head, he gently moves your hand aside and lifts up the bottom edge of your shirt to reveal a mottle of angry marks around your left ribcage, like a bucket of spilled paint splattered across a surface

san clenches and unclenches his jaw before letting out a long exhale, then places the ice pack gently over the area

you hold it in place as he rises to take a seat on the couch next to you, resting one of his knees on the couch too so that he can angle himself towards the gash on your forehead

you try to ignore the pressure of his knee against your thigh and the heat that radiates off it, because despite the numerous run-ins you’ve had with him, you two have never been this close within each other’s proximities before

he works in silence, wiping the crusted blood off your face and out of your hairline, pouring alcohol onto a cotton bud so that he can disinfect your wound

you feel the warmth of his exhales and the dancing of his deft fingers as he whispers soft apologies and ‘just a little longer’s whenever you wince

when he finally gets a good look at the cut extending from your hairline to the corner of your brow, narrowly sparing your eye, still a raw red around the area, his hands slow to a stop as if afraid to touch you any further

it’s your turn to murmur a reassurance, that “it’s not as bad as it looks, san”, turning your body towards him and ducking your head down to try and catch his gaze from under his fringe

“who hurt you, sweetheart?” he asks again

he meets your eyes with an intensity that almost has you pulling back, but instead it does the opposite - the gentle furrow of his brows knitting together, the concern laced in his deep voice so contrasting to the usual teasing lilt of his voice he uses with you, the faint sensation of his fingertips brushing against your cheek - all pulling you in like quicksand that you can’t escape from, except you wonder to yourself whether you even want to escape or whether it wouldn’t be so bad to let yourself become consumed and engulfed by this. by him.

as you explain how the betrayal of your own unfolded, how you fought for your life and managed to flee, how before you knew it you were at san's door, his gaze never wavers from yours

you've started to dissociate yourself from the events of the last two hours, but san's constant touches keep you grounded

a stroke of his thumb across your jawline, a caress of your temple as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a gentle squeeze of the nape of your neck

as your words come to a finish, your heart rate picks up at the silence that settles over san's apartment, a silence whose meaning you cannot decipher, clouding you with uncertainty

uncertainty of your future, now that you don't have the protection of your clan

and uncertainty regarding the man before you, now that you've bared yourself to him in one of your most vulnerable states, both physically and emotionally

then your heart comes to a stuttering pause at his response

“join me”

because despite you belonging to a different mafia, despite the teasing comments thrown at you, despite never having had the luxury to hold a conversation longer than five minutes with you, san's gaze has always been on you

"let me protect you, sweetheart"

and perhaps yours has always been on him too

so as you take a deep breath, you nod and let go, allowing yourself to be pulled in completely, with the comforting knowledge that san will be there to hold you from now on

mingi

pov: you're a citizen in the wrong place at the wrong time

you’re the owner of a small bar, the mist

it’s a modest little place, with a singular countertop spanning almost the full length of the bar from the entrance towards the back wall. there are a couple of low-backed stools along the counter, allowing customers to engage in idle conversation as they watch you make and serve up different drinks, and two smaller tables are placed in the far corners, should anyone desire a little more solitude

right across the street from yours, there’s a larger bar, the chilli peppers, that attracts most of the individuals seeking a little buzz for their body, a quick stringless night of passionate touches, or an opportunity to forget and drown out unwanted realities

the few who venture away, stumble across your bar by accident, or have grown a strange fondness strong enough to pull them back to the mist again, are enough to keep your business going

barely. but you haven’t had to close your bar yet so it’s something

plus, you were able to lease the little room right above it as well, and you can call it your home

so really, you don’t have anything to complain about

except maybe those nights when the air is tenser than usual

nights where the distant drumming of heavy bass and droning of conversation is disrupted by escalating voices, thrown fists, shattering glass, and on some rarer occasions, the resounding authority of a single gunshot

and it seems like tonight is one of those nights

mingi knows something is off the moment he steps through the saloon doors into the chilli peppers, the accelerating creaks of the panels swinging back and forth reflective of the way his heart rate starts to pick up

he keeps his gaze covered underneath the wide brim of his hat, noting the way the eyes of the men scattered around the bar are trained on him

and under usual circumstances, being surrounded by members of the xikers clan wouldn’t make the weight of the automatic rifle slung across his back seem heavier than usual, considering they all believed him to be one of their own - also a loyal associate, rather than the spy for ateez that he actually was

but as mingi’s eyes catch sight of his portrait roughly sketched onto a ‘wanted’ poster behind the bartender, he realises that they might not quite believe him anymore

the sudden hellfire of gunshots startles the glass cup out of your hand, sending it shattering across your tiled floor like an omen of what’s to come

frazzled and unnerved, the reasonable part of your brain telling you to flee upstairs to safety shuts down and you squat behind your countertop to, instead, clear up the mess of broken glass

it doesn’t dawn on you the fact that amongst the chaos of sound outside, one particular set of footsteps have halted for a split second in front of your door

a quick scan inside of what looks like a small bar appears to show no signs of people, and mingi doesn’t have time to second-guess his observation before he’s pushing the door open in an attempt to seek refuge from the few men who have managed to stumble their way out in pursuit of him

mingi spots a countertop running parallel to the wall, a place that can easily cover him from the vantage point outside

so he places a hand on the table, jumping up and shifting his weight onto his hand to bring his legs and body nimbly over to the other side of the countertop

only to very nearly land on a small mountain of glass pieces

and a person.

you.

for a few seconds, you and mingi just stare at each other from your crouched positions, shock reflected in the both of you but for completely different reasons

you, because who is this man how did he suddenly appear in front of you what is he doing here

and him, because-

“shit, i thought there was no one in here”

a small part of you that is still somehow functioning thinks that now is probably not the time to point out that, in fact, the lights of your bar were on so yes, of course there would be someone in here

but then he’s shuffling a little closer to you, the sound of glass crunching under his feet as he extends an arm to gently press the both of you flush against the drawers of the counter

you realise he’s trying to keep the both of you out of sight - from who exactly you’re not sure - when a harsh voice, startling close to the outside of your bar, shouts “find that fucker right now”

you think to yourself that this is it

this is how you’re going to die

all you can do is bite back the whimpers that are threatening to escape your mouth as you tremble

he takes a quick glance at you, noting the way you have hunched in on yourself in an attempt to appear smaller, eyes rounded with apprehension, fingernails digging into your own palms

the least he can do right now is offer you some semblance of comfort, even if he is the very reason you had been dragged into this mess in the first place

so he lowers his arm that has been stretched across your front, and places his hand over your smaller, shaking ones

he’s able to engulf both of your curled fists with just his one hand

he feels one of your hands slowly open, only to reach out and encase two of his fingers in a firm grasp, much like a child would their security blanket

you both stay like that until your muscles start to ache and the pounding of shoes against pavement have long gone, and when mingi is sure that the men won’t backtrack, he gently eases his hand out of your grasp, but only so that he can remove his long, leather jacket and place it on the ground for you to sit on without hurting yourself on the glass shards

he apologises, explaining that there was a bit of a ‘scuffle’ - you nearly snort at this - and he had to find a quick place to hide from the men

he really didn’t mean to involve you

somehow, during the conversation, his hand has made his way on top of yours again, your own fingers grasping a couple of his, just like earlier

you’re not sure who initiated it

but you do know that it feels comforting, safe, warm

feeling a burst of courage, you ask the question that’s burning at the forefront of your mind

“are you running away from bad guys? or are you the…”

the remainder of your question goes unfinished, but mingi understands nevertheless

working as a spy, he has been trying to uncover information about county lines - drug trafficking between areas by coercing vulnerable populations to do the dirty work - so that ateez can terminate the operation ring. and xikers has been suspected to be the key reason behind the recent disappearance of children and elderly

is what he is doing considered illegal? yes

but can you say that it is wrong? debatable

“what makes a person bad?” he asks

“i’m not sure…someone who does the wrong things, i guess?”

as soon as the words leave your mouth, you realise how sheltered and privileged you sound

mingi hums

“sometimes people have to do the wrong things to make things right”

a moment of silence. a peer of curiosity

“are you trying to make things right?”

an upturn of the corner of a mouth

“i’d like to think that i am. or trying to, at least”

it’s a strange feeling, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder as you make soft-spoken conversation with a man whose name you still don’t know, a man who is a blur of black and white, bad and good, dangerous and safe

when he sees you suppress your third yawn in the last five minutes, mingi realises he’s overstayed and he probably should have reported back to his boss, hongjoong, ages ago, and it was probably way past your shop’s closing time too

“i should go”

“oh, okay, um, yeah”

your face grows hot as you fumble over your words, suddenly wide awake

you’re curious about this handsome stranger, yearning to unravel the secrets that he is harbouring, to learn about the good bad things he is doing to make wrong things right

and then mingi is standing, and it hits you that you’re not quite ready for this night to end

mingi decides to leave his leather jacket behind, which you are still prettily perched on top of, and he’s just about to round the end of the countertop, when your shy, hesitant tug on the back of his waistcoat pauses him in his tracks

“...will i see you again?” you question softly

he knows. he knows that the answer should be no. that someone whose canvas as white as yours should not be mixing with someone like himself, who will only ever be able to work with dark colours

and yet, he finds himself saying

“yeah, i think you will.” he slowly removes your hand from his waistcoat, brushing his thumb softly over your knuckles as he nods towards the floor. “that leather coat is designer, so i’ll be back for it”

and if that coat was really just passed-on to him from someone else because it was simply a size too large, then that would just have to be another secret for you to discover in the future

wooyoung

pov: you're a worker at the store he frequents

over your three years of working the night shift at the convenience store, you can say that you’ve seen it all

from the piss-drunk people (pun intended) having pissing contests to see how far they can shoot their stream along the pavement

to the breakups in the frozen foods section because a couple can’t see eye to eye on their opinions regarding mint chocolate as a flavour

but as a bloodied and beat-up man comes quite literally crawling to the glass doors of your store front, halfway through your thursday shift, you’re not so sure anymore

a quick glance at the aisles confirms that there are currently no customers inside - not that there usually are at four am - so you round the register counter and walk to the doors with your eyes narrowed

you briefly eye the plastic umbrellas displayed near the entrance, wondering if you should grab one for self-defence, but eventually decide against it since the man outside already looks like roadkill without your additional contribution

the door chimes when you nudge it open, and you raise an eyebrow as you scan the man’s busted lip and swollen left eye, fresh bruises and cuts littering the rest of his face and knuckles

you had just mopped the white floor an hour ago, and quite frankly, you’re not interested in doing that again

wooyoung finally gathers enough strength to raise his head to look up at you, the doorbell alerting him of your presence, and between the lights of the store creating a backlight around your figure and a very likely case of concussion, he thinks that he’s being visited by an angel-

“if you can crawl yourself here, you can crawl yourself to the nearest hospital”

you squat down next to him, pulling your phone out of your back pocket with the full intention of bringing up google maps to start him off in the right direction

flustered, he tells you, “i can’t go to the hospital. it’ll only bring me more trouble”

“oh, yeah? and why exactly would you get into trouble”

“because i’m part of the mafia”

you have to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes

why does this guy think that exaggerating his story will make him sound more masculine?

chances are he picked a fight with the wrong guy, got his ass handed back to him, and doesn’t want to embarrass himself further by going to the hospital

pinching the bridge of your nose, you resign yourself to having to clean the floor again after this problem is taken care of

“if you don’t stop squirming i’ll give you a black eye to match your left one”

“but it huuuurts”

as you both sit in the back room - a ‘be back in 10 minutes’ sign stuck on the store’s front door - you’re discovering that this guy is not only a grand storyteller, but is also a vocal whiner

holding back the urge to use the gauze tape in your hands to seal his lips closed, you rip a strip off instead so that you can secure the dressing pad against his cheek

“so how did you get hurt, exactly?” you decide to ask him, in hopes that it will distract him from the pain and actually let you dress his wounds properly

he tells you that he manages several underground fight clubs, usually remotely through his own lackeys, but it occasionally requires him to make rounds in person to keep them smooth-running

except, tonight there had been a disagreement over the bidding wins at one particular venue

which, combined with the hyped atmosphere of the crowd, had quickly escalated into a full-blown brawl

and wooyoung discovers that he is apparently a crowd favourite when it comes to getting pummelled

again with the lies.

“yeah, and i belong to the royal family but look where we are now.” you give the bandaid you have just placed over a cut on his forearm a final pat. “there, you’re all patched up”

he utters a thanks as he helps you clear away the packages of gauze, bandages and bottle of saline you have taken from the small first aid section of your store

when you outstretch a hand towards him, your palm facing upwards, he looks at you almost bashfully

you can’t quite understand why…until he places his hand into yours

“ow!” he cradles his hand that you have just slapped away against his chest, infatuated expression quickly withering under the dirty glare you shoot at him

once it’s clear that he won’t try to hold your hand again, you extend your arm once more

“cough up.” you gesture at his face, “those things cost money”

he winces, “i uh…i don’t have any money on me right now…can’t you just be a good samaritan and help a poor guy out?”

“yeah well this good samaritan also happens to be poor, so, no.”

he has the audacity to look like a kicked puppy, which, no, absolutely does not weaken your resolve. at all.

with the promise of returning soon with the money he owed you, and the new, yet not necessarily unwelcome, name of wooyoung falling from your lips, he bids you farewell as the first streaks of dawn start to paint the night sky

and indeed, wooyoung comes back the following night to hand over some crumpled notes and loose change, face still looking a little worse for wear, but at least he is not crawling anymore

you think that that is the end of this acquaintance - a favour given, a debt paid off, a brief crossing of fates

but unbeknownst to you, an extension of the accepted promise includes wooyoung’s recurring presence in your store on random nights

at first, it is just once a fortnight that you will find wooyoung peeking in through the windows, eyes lighting up in recognition as he spots you at the register, before he is walking in through the doors

then, it becomes one to two times a week that wooyoung will already be waving at you from outside as he skips his way to the doors of the convenience store

soon, wooyoung is keeping you company almost every other shift that you work, having spent enough time watching you work that he could do your job for you

he’ll snack during your shifts (you find that he has an intense sweet tooth and can down three share packs of lollies in one hour alone)

or he’ll share his mafia stories (you let him keep this running theme going - perhaps he is part of a silly street gang, so you don’t bother to correct him)

or he’ll arrive a little roughed up (you patch him up and tell him that he must be a pretty crappy fighter if he gets hurt this much)

and during those moments, when you carefully dab at the grazes on his face, when you are close enough to feel the soft exhales coming from his slightly pursed lips, when you see all the little embellishments adorning his face such as the spot under his left eye or on his bottom lip, you come to realise that wooyoung is, in fact, actually quite good looking

an understatement, but you’re not about to confess that either

the clock has just ticked past midnight - wooyoung isn’t around and you are rearranging the packets of gum on display at your counter for the third time in a row to keep yourself busy and from admitting that, perhaps, you are waiting for him

your slight frown turns into carefully feigned nonchalance when you think you can see his familiar mop of two-toned hair appear from across the road, your heart involuntarily skipping a beat

except your face contorts back into an even deeper frown upon spotting the frenzied look in his eyes and his flailing limbs as he comes closer and closer, until he barrels right through the doors

he forgoes a greeting, instead whizzing past you like a mini tornado, beelining for the back room of the store as he yelps, “pretend i’m not in here!”

blinking back the dazed fog in your brain, you suppose he is being chased by another bunch of street hooligans and has decided to hide in your store during your shift

just excellent.

honestly, you should probably have a chat with wooyoung after all this and talk to him about his little gang antics because just what sort of people is he hanging out with and what kind of gang chases after other people like children and- oh.

this kind of gang.

it would have been quite funny, really, how they resemble a scene straight out of a mafia movie or drama - five big, burly men in dress shirts and slacks, chains and sunglasses adorning their chests, scars and tattoos littered across their skin, cigarettes and guns held casually in their hands - if it is not for the fact that you are currently the main character of this confrontation, and there is no script writer to ensure that you make it out of this scene alive

you gulp as your brain screams at you to act natural, so you say the first thing that comes to your mind-

“hey fellas, how can i help you this fine evening?”

if wooyoung brings this up with you days later, you deny it and say that he was hiding too far away to catch the conversation properly

“have you seen a guy, mid-twenties, come in here? hair’s half black, half white. pretty hard to miss”

“uhh, no. i haven’t had a customer come in for a while now”

you have to stuff your hands into your pockets to hide their shakiness when you spot a couple of the men start to stalk through the aisles

“i can, uhh, show you the surveillance footage if you guys want? it just might take a while to get the data from the cameras?” you pray to whatever gods are above that they don’t take on your offer

you physically clench to stop yourself from pissing your pants when one of the men try to open the door to the back room - wooyoung, thank fuck, has locked it

the man who you have been addressing appears to be the boss, as he lets out a grunt and signals to the others, “nothing here. let’s go”

with one last rattle of the doorknob, the men lumber their way back out

you stand there frozen, looking at the doors that have just swung closed in dumbfound silence

wooyoung slowly unlocks the back room, wringing his hands together as he steps out and approaches you

you turn to give him a blank stare

“that was the mafia”

“yes”

“you are part of the mafia”

“yes”

“you could’ve put me in danger”

at the rise in your pitch and volume, wooyoung winces with regret, because you sort of have a point - that could have gone down a lot worse than it did

but also he just really, really likes having you as a friend, and he also maybe really, really likes you as more than a friend, and whenever he’s in trouble, the first person to pop up in his head is just always you

plus

“i told you i was in the mafia…” his voice trails off as a lightbulb goes off, “...but you didn’t believe me,” he concludes.

“of course i didn’t believe you! who just casually admits that they’re part of an illegal crime organisation?” you throw your hands up in the air, “and what is someone from the mafia even doing here chatting? or eating snacks? in a convenience store?”

“well even the mafia need to get their snacks from somewhere,” he mumbles

you can see him chew the inside of his cheek as he apologises, before he meekly looks up and asks, “can i…still come by during your shifts?”

you huff, and wooyoung thinks that he has royally fucked up, that you’re going to ban him from the store and from ever seeing you again

but, like always, not dissimilar to the way a maths formula stays constant despite the question it is used to solve, wooyoung’s damned kicked-puppy look has your prickly defences crumbling

you don’t find it very hard to tell him that yes, he still can, because after all,

“where else would you get your snacks from, mafia boy?”

he shrugs, before breaking out into an impish grin. “good, because it just so happens that my favourite snack is only available at this store”

“yeah? and what is that?”

“you”

jongho

pov: you're his childhood sweetheart

hwang, your superintendent, motions silently for the two of you to move in, the coast seemingly clear

you nod as you step into the empty corridor, the gun in your hands trained vigilantly for any signs of danger

just days ago, your police unit had received an anonymous tip about a certain mafia group’s drug trade that would be taking place in an abandoned building

whether or not the information is reliable, you’re uncertain, but both hwang and yourself have been tracking them for years now, the two of you spurred on by the same reason, so you both bite

and as you approach the room at the end of the corridor, you vow to yourself that no matter what it takes, you’re going to bring ateez burning to the ground today

some people are lucky to grow up with a childhood friend, and some even luckier to have a childhood sweetheart

choi jongho is both of those to you

your early memories with him are filled with shared packets of gummy bears on the park swings, games of hide and seek at your dad’s police station, and hushed giggles under the covers during sleepovers

as you both grow older, your memories become ones of cheap diner burgers at your favourite date spot by the river, the smell of home when you’re engulfed in his hoodies, and stolen kisses behind locked bedroom doors

and life is perfect, until your luck runs out

it all comes crashing down the week you start college

your father is killed on the field, his superintendent - hwang seongmin - tells you that he was shot during a confrontation with a young, emerging gang

ateez

and as if that isn’t enough, the world takes away jongho from you too

he doesn’t give you a reason why, only presses fervoured kisses against the salty trails running down your cheeks as tears of his own fall, murmuring desperate promises of “i’ll come back to you. i’ll find you, i promise. but first you have to let me go”

and then he disappears without a trace

channelling your grief into anger, you drop out of college and join the police force, vowing to take down ateez with your bare hands

your thirst for vengeance spurs you to graduate at the top of your unit and rise rapidly through the ranks until you make it into the very same team your father used to serve

here, you are able to dig up old files on your father’s closed case, as well as information on ateez, who have evaded the police all these years

and all the while, you hold onto the hope that someday, jongho will return to mend the broken pieces of your heart back together, just as he had promised

"put your hands in the air where we can see them"

except it’s not hwang’s voice, nor your own, that is making the demand

teeth gritted together, you slowly raise your arms, dominant hand unfurling from your gun as best as you can without dropping it, hwang mirroring your actions to your side

the members of ateez, you realise, emerge from the shadows to slowly encircle you both

you’ve only ever seen photos of hongjoong and seonghwa, the two eldest who are rumoured to have been part of the original few who started ateez

and if you were paying more attention to the dire situation, you would realise that none of their guns are actually pointed at you

except your attention isn't on the guns at all, or the fact that the anonymous lead had been part of ateez’s plan to be discovered in the first place

because stepping forward, right into your line of vision, is jongho

you know that your face must be a sight to see, anger quenched in a millisecond as it turns into bewilderment instead, questions flooding through your mind

you know that he recognises you, and yet, he doesn’t seem surprised or even fazed to see you

before you’re given the chance to step forward and grab him by his collar, guns be damned, hongjoong is breaking the stillness of the room

he holds up a photo - it appears to be a screen capture from a grainy security feed of…a police station?

more specifically…hwang’s office?

as you squint to make sense of what you’re seeing, the leader addresses you both, “february the 3rd, 2018”

you can’t help the animalistic snarl that leaves your lips as you make a step towards him

how dare he rub it in your face. how dare he bring up the very day he murdered your father in cold blood

jongho calls out your name - acknowledging you for the first time - and he has the gall to look apologetic as he pleads softly, “just listen first. you deserve to hear this”

and if his words don’t give you whiplash, then the way his eyes suddenly become murderous as he turns to look at hwang certainly does

it’s jongho’s turn to step forward, taking the photo and shoving it right in hwang’s face

“i think you remember this night very clearly, hwang. seong. min.”

you don’t miss the way hwang’s eyes widen at his own name, confusion constricting your throat in a chokehold

“h-how do you know my name?”

“it would be hard to forget the name of the person who murdered my lover’s father.”

you feel like your head has been plunged underwater, struggling to breathe in the wave of information that has just crashed over you

hwang seems to connect the dots much faster - the wrong dots, but a conclusion nonetheless

“you fucking rat! you were working for them all along-” he screams and makes a lunge for you

jongho intercepts easily, stepping in front of you and pinning hwang to the ground

“i wouldn’t do that if i were you, unless you want to lose your hand,” jongho growls with controlled rage. “now are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?”

hwang stops struggling once he realises there is no way he can overpower jongho

“yeah, fine, it was me,” hwang spits out angrily, “i shot him dead by accident and it fucking ruined my life. we were trying to arrest you fuckers, and look what it cost me”

hongjoong squats down, using the tip of his gun to force hwang’s chin up. “instead of owning up to your wrongdoings, you framed us for murder and kept the man’s own child hidden in the dark all these years”

jongho stands to carefully gather your hands in his; hands that seem so unfamiliar yet are simultaneously all that you have ever known

voice filled with comfort that he wishes he could kiss into you, jongho murmurs, “it’s your decision now. we’ll do whatever you choose.”

you stand at a crossroad

they’ll either hand over all of the evidence and hwang will be convicted for his past actions

or they can take away what hwang stole from your father - a life for a life

it’s a feeling you’re all too familiar with.

the feeling of something dying inside of you.

you make your choice and then walk out of the room without looking back

not even as the sound of a gunshot resounds behind you.

it takes everything in you not to break down in the corridor, and you barely register jongho’s voice catching up to you as he desperately calls out your name

when he catches you by the wrist and whips you around to face him, all it takes is one look from him to tip you right over the edge, all the suppressed emotions from the last half an hour and past five years pouring out in primal wails and hyperventilating gasps

jongho brings you into him, one hand cradling your face into the nook of his neck, other arm wrapped tightly around your body like it’s your lifeline

he holds you through it all, even as your bodies sink to the ground; a parallel universe of that very night years ago when your fairytale ended

you let yourself sink into the feeling of jongho’s long fingers running through your hair in gentle caresses and his lips kissing away the last of your tears

sensing that you have calmed down, jongho tilts his head down to nudge your nose delicately, and you see your very own sorrow and pain reflected in his eyes

“long time no see,” he jokes softly, and as much as you want to be angry with him, your mouth curves into a small smile

of all the things that you want to say, of all the questions and confessions swirling inside of you, enough to fill a library’s worth of novels, all that escapes your lips in a whisper is, “why?”

jongho doesn’t really know where or how to begin, so he decides to tell the story from the day it all started

the day your father was killed

he explains that that very same night, he had gone to the police station after you had cried yourself to sleep, in a futile attempt to see if they had made any progress on your dad’s case

only to overhear hwang talking on the phone in feverish hushes that he had accidentally killed your father and was going to pin the blame on a fledgling gang

“and don’t say that i should’ve told you, because we both know you would have gone straight to hwang after finding out”

you close your mouth that you had started opening to protest, because jongho’s right

he always did know you better than you did so yourself

you very well would have gotten yourself killed in the crossfire trying to bring justice to your father’s death

he grows sombre, eyes dropping down to your intertwined hands in acknowledgement, “i know it was wrong to keep it from you, but i was so, so afraid of losing you. i didn’t have any other choice”

without the evidence, connections or power to do anything about it, jongho made the decision by himself to join the very gang that was being framed, until he did have the evidence, connections and power to do something about it

a selfish decision, but a decision made out of love

he hopes you forgive him as he looks at you with tears welling in his eyes, “i promised you, remember? that i would be back for you”

your own vision blurs as you hope your next words convey that you understand, “i never forgot. not for a single day. not for a single moment”

as you he captures your lips with his, desperate and yearning, you recall how five years ago your fairytale ended

it’s not perfect - it’s far from perfect - but tonight, your nightmare ends

and perhaps, it is the beginning of a new fairytale; one where you finally get a happily ever after with your childhood friend and sweetheart, choi jongho

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zukkook · 10 days

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boyfriend!ateez when you call them 'bro'

genre: ot8 x reader, fluff, crack, fake text reaction

c/w: nsfw (hongjoong's), swearing, explicit language, pet names

a/n: new smau? who is she ✌️😚 if you haven't noticed alr i am working on anything (read: everything) BUT the wips i have lined up for oct/nov :D

765 notes · View notes

zukkook · 10 days

Text

a jasmine bubble bath and a tail peeking out from silk pajamas - as the aftermath of your fateful meeting, you and chuuya try to make sense of his will to help you and find out whether you'll bite the hand that feeds.

word count. 3.4k

contents. puppy hybrid fem reader. mild mentions of past abuse/trauma and reader's life on the streets, swearing, brief mention of the flags, brief mention of an animal's death, non-erotic nudity, chuuya brushes reader's hair. minors & ageless blogs do not interact.

notes. i didn't rly plan on splitting part two into two seperate pieces but i also did not see myself going so into detail on their first night together:,) and yet i am weirdly satisfied with this! i wanted it to be soft and hopeful and i hope i did it justice. enjoy your read <3

୨ৎ part two of TO HAVE & TO HOLD series.

“Uh… make yourself at home,” Chuuya speaks, pressing a finger against one of the screens by the front door.

Ambient light switches on overhead, illuminating the sleek corridor opening into a spacious living area. To say you’re overwhelmed would be saying nothing: Chuuya’s apartment is so much more than you could’ve even imagined – all dark marbles, polished floors and zebrano woods, it’s an art-deco showcase of luxury. You stick out like a sore thumb, dripping wet and leaving muddy footprints as you follow the man inside the apartment cautiously.

It felt like an entire eternity had passed by the time Chuuya finally showed up at the wine bar to take you home. It’s what he insisted you call this from now on– unless you turn out to hate his guts, as he put it. Still, the way he said it didn’t leave that much room for a choice, perhaps having sensed that when given any, you’d end up running away immediately, not wanting to trouble him.

Chuuya’s exhausted – it’s clear as day, from the rasp of his voice to the languid blinking as he shows you around the spacious condo. You follow him from one room to another, tail falling between your legs in uncertainty. Barely a few hours ago you were still on the streets, soaked to the bone, your stomach empty for days. Now you stood in the middle of an apartment so luxurious and squeaky clean, you wanted the earth to swallow you whole, feeling like an additional burden on the kind man’s shoulders.

Frankly, you are still wary of Chuuya despite the kindness he’s showered you with so far. Kouyou-san was an elegant, polite woman, smiling at you every so often as she watched you gobble up the meal bought at Chuuya’s expense. You stay on high alert nonetheless. You’ve met all sorts of people throughout your life on the streets- some held an eerie ability to fool you, instincts included, into thinking they’re harmless.

You won’t risk it this time, having seen with your own eyes how everyone gathered at the bar straightened in their seats and gave polite bows to the woman upon you two entering.

You didn’t have it in you to ask who exactly are they, or about their field of work. You could only suppose it’s dirty business, going off the conversation the two held over the phone earlier. Leaving behind bodies, the expensive clothing both Chuuya and Kouyou-san wore… The vision forming inside your head is not a fun one, and leaves you fidgeting nervously from one foot to another, trailing behind like a beat-up dog. (Huh, I wonder why…)

Your guard swirls down the drain once Chuuya successfully ushers you into the shower.

How long has it been since you could indulge in the hot spray, trickling down your flesh, all different sorts of perfumed products pampering your bruised, rough skin? This feels nothing like the rushed showers you managed to sneak every so often at gas stations or local gyms, sometimes having to run out midway once the staff caught you breaking the no hybrids allowed rule. It’s not anything like the times you tried your best to wash yourself clean in the Tsurumi river, the water freezing and sometimes leaving your flesh as soiled as before your dip.

But this – this feels normal. Standing under the overhead spray, you feel like a regular girl your age, just washing away the day’s worries with a nighttime shower. Whether that is school work, relationship drama, or the burden of staying out on the streets for days on end – the water feels just as comforting. For a second, you’re just a girl. Simple, ordinary, and human.

When you reach for one of the bottles and have it slip between your fingers, falling on the shower tiles with a thud, you come back to your senses.

You huff, irritation and hopelessness biting at the back of your eyes. Your hands aren’t always as nimble and deft as an ordinary human’s. Especially after prolonged periods of time, out on the street like a stray dog in the wild, your nature pushes forward different ways for you to use them. You didn’t need your hands when you had no food to tear into, no pen to grip, no shampoo to massage into your scalp in a bath. No hand to hold in yours…

You scramble to pick up the fallen bottle, heart hammering when a pair of solid footsteps can be heard approaching the bathroom. You don’t want trouble. And so, when a knock resonates on the dark mahogany door, an apology is ready on your tongue – but Chuuya speaks up first.

“Oi, you alright?” He asks, voice muffled by the running water. He waits a second, “Do ya, uh… need any help?”

Your voice dies in your throat before the hurried apologies can slip out. Needless to say, you’re already embarrassed and puzzled enough as it is – you’ve weaned away from some human-like routines, much to your dismay. It’s always been a solid foundation of your sense of self, but life on the streets ruthlessly tore it away. It’s one thing to be endlessly thankful for a chance (even while staying cautious), and another to wish to stay independent, despite everything.

“Y-yes- I mean no, no I don’t need any help, Chuuya-san,” You say quickly, heat rising to your cheeks.

You curse under your breath, quickly fiddling with the cap of the shampoo bottle, only for your nail to painfully snap away at the attempt. You yowl, the bottle tumbling to the floor again as you cradle your hand to your chest, then suck away the blood quickly surfacing to the broken edge of your nail, long but brittle.

The man behind the door stays silent for a few more seconds, then sighs. Moisture beads up at the corners of your eyes. It has nothing to do with the shower spray.

“You sure about that?”

Needless to say, it is Chuuya that bathes you that night.

His hands feel warmer than anything else you’ve ever encountered. The initial hesitance you saw in his movements when he first stepped into the bathroom– might have something to do with facing an entirely bare, pretty woman, all soaked wet and at his mercy– disappears quickly by the time he helps you out of the shower and hands you a towel to cover yourself with for the time being.

You don’t have it in you to feel so sheepish anymore, despite the predicament being truly bizarre. You don’t have much choice but to hand all control over to the man, anyway, but perhaps it’s a good thing: you wouldn’t find it inside your heart, still proud despite everything, to ask for help when it comes to something so minor and simple as cleaning yourself. With a little push from your own clumsiness, you feel the invisible wall between you and Chuuya crumble down, slowly but surely.

You wait as Chuuya keeps his gaze anywhere but at your silhouette while drawing you a bath instead. He pours what seems like half the bottle of bubbles in the water, then offers you his hand, helping you inside the bath.

You dip your toes in first, then carefully step inside. You wince at the temperature and Chuuya’s quick to check it with his hand (it’s bare now, you notice, no leather gloves in sight) before switching the stream to a lower setting.

“There ya go,” He praises once you’ve lowered yourself all the way into the rose-tinted water, only your head, shoulders, and tips of your knees peeking out. “You’re doin’ well. ‘s alright now.”

You hang your head, now truly abashed. It’s tough to keep your tail from instinctively swishing around in the water in glee, but making a mess is the last thing you want right now, so somehow, you manage. Still, Chuuya’s treatment makes your heart run rampant. He’s gentle - unbearably so as he lathers a loofah with washing oil and begins to massage it into your flesh, lifting your arm by the hand, holding it so carefully you almost believe you’re made of porcelain. It’s unknown to you so far, regardless of which side you take into consideration; you can’t bring up the last time you’ve been taken care of like this by family or let alone a partner. It’s a blessing in disguise you haven’t experienced such treatment from someone that considered you more of a dog than a human girl, either.

It’s confusing and strange, entirely unfamiliar whichever way you put it. And so, you don’t squeak out a word, scared of what your perplexed state of mind comes up with.

The heightened sensitivity Chuuya noticed on you earlier makes sense as his eyes follow the patches of skin he washes. Littered with shallow cuts, healing scabs and bruises, and abrasions – he bites back a grunt at the sight. You’re helpless, aren’t you? He’s still unsure how to approach you, given the dualism of your nature, but seeing you so weakly and powerless makes the choice a little easier.

Come to think of it, he does remember taking care of a stray mutt back in the day, not long after joining the mafia. The pup lingered around the entrance of Old World, sometimes helping itself to some littered scraps of food on the other side of the street, but more often happily padding after whichever member of The Flags happened to be walking into the bar. For some reason, Pianoman was the one to catch its attention the most, which, along with its black and white coat, quickly led to the dog getting named after said almost-executive.

Chuuya did almost close to door on it once – perhaps it was the first time he’s fully grown aware of the dog’s presence, or an awakening of an unconscious will to make up for almost shutting the door on the poor thing.

It didn't matter. Whatever the reason, since that day Chuuya often found himself bringing the pup in the back, using the gentlest wash he found in his bathroom to clean the stray up. The rest of the group was just as enamored with the animal, but it was clear Chuuya felt some weird sort of responsibility over the pup. Chuuya never really had a pet, but the skinny, frail stray visiting him and his friends at the old billiard bar gave him an insight of what it meant to take care of a living being, dependent on him only. It lasted for a while, a time Chuuya remembered fondly despite never really admitting it to anyone. (Everyone he shared the memory with are dead now, anyway.)

It was abruptly cut short one traitorously sunny day. One morning, Chuuya found the poor pup by the curb, ran over and barely breathing.

White fur he so carefully washed clean off dirt numerous times, soaked with crimson– he hated the sight, and remembers it clear as day now, for some reason. Little whimpers and yelps of pain eventually drifted to silence as soon as the boy cradled the twisted, battered lump of limbs, as if the poor thing waited until the familiar, warm touch embraced it again before drifting off to sleep forever.

Chuuya’s unfit for an owner. The life he lives is not anything another living, feeling creature deserves to be wound up in. The pup didn’t have to be targeted to end up like it did – being a part of Chuuya’s life, more or less constant, was enough of a reason. And yet, despite everything, a few hours ago he got this naive feeling that perhaps this time it could be different.

And so, Chuuya handles you, the best way he knows how.

You watch the man and the furrow in his brows as he massages the foam into your ears, gently and carefully. The aura falling around Chuuya’s persona is so unfitting to how he treats you, sharp blue eyes attentive to any potential signs of discomfort, large hands delicate but thorough on your skin.

(Is this how dogs feel when groomed? Handled so carefully, soft hums of praise by your ear…)

He fills what looks like an expensive whisky glass with the bathwater and rinses the soapy suds out, then meticulously repeats the process with your tail, despite the heat rising to his cheeks when you have to switch positions and allow him better access. You feel like there’s truly no need for any further icebreakers after this.

A short while passes and finally, Chuuya helps you out of the water and wrap you up in the fluffiest towel you’ve ever seen. You silently watch as he cleans up the bath, then let him put you up on the countertop (not without yelping when the strange cherry glow first sparks on your skin, though – what even was that? and why is he chuckling under his breath at your surprised sputtering?).

You watch the repetitive action of cutting your nails, sharp but now clean, with utmost interest and surprise. It should feel different – like he’s ridding you of a way to defend yourself, but you simply can’t bring yourself to it when he’s doing it so carefully, face calm but focused.

He pulls one of the drawers open in search of something. It would be the time to dress you in something, but you’re not forward enough to even wish for it. Chuuya looks kind – he is, so far – but wouldn’t it be more logical to order you to stay bare for the night, provide him with something to look at? Perhaps show your gratitude for taking you in…

Chuuya eventually turns around to face you again, holding up a what seems to be a satin pajama set. His gaze flickers between the clothes and your towel-wrapped figure.

“Hope it fits,” Chuuya mumbles under his breath. You could only guess the garments were his. “I don’t really have anything else at hand, so that’ll have to do,”

Chuuya knew it would fit you without a problem. While drying you down earlier, he easily caught sight of your ribs sticking out, stomach hollowed in. He wonders if he could wrap his hands around your waist if he tried. Probably, yeah – the knowledge stings him, somewhere. What would’ve happened to you had he not stumbled upon you that night?

The silk is heaven against your skin and, unsurprisingly, fits loosely, allowing the warm bathroom air to cling whenever a patch of flesh peeks out from underneath. It’s a deep, gorgeous shade of maroon, and you can only imagine how well it compliments Chuuya’s sun kissed strands of hair when he wears it. You know he does — though obviously freshly cleaned and dried, it still carries a scent of his cologne and warm, coal-y notes.

“Thank you,” you mumble, moving to pull the waistband up but suddenly encountering an issue neither you nor Chuuya thought of beforehand.

Your tail sticks out from under the hem, water soaking the material where it meets the base. You clumsily fix it by pulling the pants lower until they fit more around the swell of your hips. With a sheepish glance, you meet Chuuya’s gaze. It’s neutral, but you can tell he’s putting effort not to show what he’s thinking. You know pity, though, caught on the receiving end too many times, and it looks like he’d finally realized what the deal with hybrids was.

Where there is humanity, there is your animal counterpart. One cannot exist wthout the other – your eyes can’t soften with disappointment without the flop of your ears; you cannot allow yourself to fully relax, always on high alert, surrounded with the city’s tiniest noises, so loud to your sensitive senses.

The world is unkind – to everyone, really. It’s dark and broody regardless of race or status– he’s seen it with his own eyes, after all, having climbed up the social ladder. But when it came to creatures like you, it was unfair starting from something so minor and fundamental as fucking clothes.

(Kind of a dark and serious realization to come to, all because of a pair of pajamas and a floppy tail, isn’t it?)

In the back of his mind, Chuuya’s already wondering whether he can find something tailor-made, or get it done by tomorrow night.

In the end, it proves to be nothing a little adjusting couldn’t fix. Yet, you find yourself feeling even smaller than you initially were upon first walking through the apartment door. Though you still weren’t aware of Chuuya’s true intentions, an ugly fright of him changing his mind bounces around your chest.

It’s an ugly, bitter feeling, choking you from the inside out and slipping between all the crevices of your ribs. To you, there is no possible upside of keeping someone like yourself - even more so doing such kind things for them. He could want to make you his wife, or a maid, slave, even – it wasn’t unheard of, the mistreatment and abuse other hybrid girls would face. Your people faced such actions since their early days on this earth and it was only fair it would happen to you, too, sooner or later.

But maybe you are naive, in a way dogs are, or too hopeful for your own good – because when you look up at Chuuya and meet his cerulean gaze, you truly cannot see an ill intention behind it.

“Why are you doing this?”

Chuuya should’ve known this would be the first thing to fall from your mouth since taking you home. He still snickers in his usual lax fashion, not stilling the movement of his hands whatsoever as he gently maneuvers you around and away from facing him.

“Don’t you have any better questions to be askin’ me?” He snickers, grabbing a hairbrush from its place on the counter next to you. “Fair enough. Bet you’re a little scared, aren’t ya,”

The joke’s lighthearted and you even smile a little, but the question still stands. Chuuya pauses and you don’t push. Though unable to see him, currently facing the now drained and cleaned bath you sat in barely minutes ago, you can tell there’s a thought process running through his head.

You allow it, stripped off any remaining impatience. As long as he gives you an honest answer and puts your mind to rest, you can wait.

(Is there anything else you have left?)

“You and I have something in common,”

Chuuya speaks eventually, separating the tangled strands of your hair before beginning to brush one out, starting from the ends. Your ears, up to that point stood in a neutral position, now perk up in interest. From his spot behind you, it’s the only reaction he’s able to see from you.

“I wasn’t supposed to be in that alley tonight, ya know? And I don’t really believe in fate or any of that shit– it’s fucking bullshit for all I know– but seeing you there…” He bites his tongue. A knot gives way from the bristles, and then another. Soon, Chuuya can brush your hair from root to ends, gliding smoothly. “I can help you. ‘nd I will. That’s all there is to it, pup.”

What you don’t know doesn’t hurt you. It doesn’t give you a sense of false hope, one he’s weirdly scared to let down. It can’t be multiplying questions and doubts inside his head, either– just as long as he doesn’t voice it and speak it into existence. The longing and the invisible, eerie pull that keeps his heart hammering ever since finding you earlier tonight. He’s got an idea or two on what it might be and it’s scaring him, to some extent.

Was he ever the one to back down, though?

The dawn has come, Yokohama slowly waking from its slumber. It’s too late to be doing this– thinking of things that might irreversibly change your lives forever. Chuuya leaves it out. Maybe once he finds out how to articulate the different things your wide eyes and thumping tail did to his heart, he’ll tell you. Right here and right now, stood behind your fragile frame, admitting this infatuation is far out of his reach.

But to you, that’s more than enough.

Silently, you curl your legs up to your chest, much like you did back in the alley, the position giving comfort in moments of overwhelm. Help, you think. This is much more than that – more than you could’ve dreamed of.

The idea of lying down on a couch tonight, dozing off to sleep without fear of being mauled or assaulted – how could you ask for anything more, so used to hurt, mistreatment, and shame for most of your life?

Chuuya doesn’t expect an answer, not when your shoulders curl in on yourself and jerk in a telltale motion. Watching as the dampened fur comes back to life, now fluffed up and feathery, he brings the hairbrush up to your tail and brushes all remaining knots and dirt out, inch by inch.

Holding back tears, you let him.

324 notes · View notes

zukkook · 11 days

Text

there's two things chuuya's always been a sucker for: cute pups and pretty women. one stormy night, he stumbles upon you... and has to face both at once.

word count. 3.9k

contents. puppy hybrid fem reader. mild mentions of past abuse/trauma, swearing, reader has ears & a tail, chuuya calls reader "mutt" once. minors & ageless blogs do not interact.

notes. yippieee part one is up! this one is pretty soft considering it only touches on the night you and chuuya first crossed paths <3 buckle in cause we're in for a ride with the next two installments hehe!

୨ৎ part one of TO HAVE & TO HOLD series.

Chuuya rarely finds himself at a loss for words, but right now, he can’t get anything out.

Azure eyes lock with a pair of wide, panicked orbs of bloodshot white and blown black pupils, tearful and so, so pitiful it makes him ache. He’s too empathetic, sometimes — funny considering his field of work. But that’s why he’s stuck in this beat-up alley, coat dripping with rain and mud starting to pool around his usually polished boots.

You shiver and curl in on yourself, a matted, chocolate-brown tail wrapping around your knees. Chuuya recognizes the look of fright and knows you’re trying to shield yourself, safe and sound and away from harm – from him. He’s noticed that you’re already soaked wet, barely wearing anything to provide a sliver of warmth, too, only solidifying his assumptions.

“Oi, mutt,” He mutters. It’s a bad choice of words, but he lacks anything else, and his voice comes out a bit too startled for his liking, anyway “What’re you doing here?”

You frown and cower away, ears laid and stuck to your head in a show of fear. Chuuya wonders if you can even speak or if it’s just the anxiety’s doing.

He’s not all that on board with hybrids – 'cause that’s what you are, right? – have only seen some on the occasion of the Port Mafia stealing a bunch of them away from a lowly organization, not sparing them more than a fleeting glance when making his way down one of their hideaways. (What the hell did Mori end up doing with all these… things, anyway? The thought makes his stomach churn as he quickly shakes the ill ideas away.)

He’s not an idiot, though, and easily realizes you’re scared to death, stiff and trembling against the brick wall.

You remind him more of a stray dog – dirty and wild-eyed – as he half-mindedly shrugs off his coat and crouches down to eye level with you. Only then does the close proximity allow him to take in the soft features of your face – long lashes fluttering, lips bitten raw and plump. Your hair, though unclean and soaked through with rain, sticks to your cheeks and falls to your exposed, prominent collarbones.

So, you’re a dog. But also a girl. A pretty one, at that—in fact, Chuuya has to clear his throat to keep up a blank façade.

Your expression doesn’t falter as you almost carefully glance toward the black leather garment in the stranger’s outstretched hand, one of your ears jerking in intrigue.

“Aren’t you cold?” Of course she is. Chuuya almost bites his tongue, but keeps his gaze on you, firm and unrelenting. “Here. C’mon, before ya get sick or whatever.”

He nudges the coat in your direction. Startled, you push into the wall behind you, but eventually reach out a shaking hand, snatching the clothing up and holding it close to your chest.

Second thoughts begin to overflow Chuuya’s mind, a headache fast approaching. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he glances at the ground, ignoring the quiet noise of you sniffing the coat. Just what on earth is he doing? Wasn’t he supposed to be patrolling around like usual, watching out for a good fight or someone suspicious?

He’s not cut out to be taking care of things, or people, at that. He’s not heartless, but it’s not the mafia’s job to be looking out for those in need.

The sound of gentle shuffling pulls the man out of his thoughts. Looking up from under his hat, Chuuya watches as you hesitantly and slowly pull the coat on, tightening it around your shivering, thin frame. He doesn’t even blink at the sight of the hem dipping into the dirty rainwater puddle that’s coming dangerously close, though it does make him want to wince.

“I’ll ask again,” He clears his throat, still crouched down in front of you. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a place to go, anything like that?”

From where you’re sitting, the alleyway barely lit up by a spare lamp post on the main street, the man in front of you looks almost menacing but equally breathtaking. He’s handsome, features sharp but bordering on androgynous. His eyes resemble a clear sky – but they’re so dull, for whatever reason. It makes uncertainty lick at the base of your spine.

You can scent blood on him.

He smells like a mix of warm coal, cedar wood, sea salt… and something sweet. You know it all too well, a sickly wet scent that makes you retch. You breathe to calm yourself down. A reassuring thought comes to the surface: if he wanted to hurt you, he already would.

“No,” you mutter under your breath. Your voice is hoarse and your throat scratches. How long has it been since you had anything to drink? “Not really,”

So you can speak. That’s progress. Chuuya hums to himself but he has no idea what to do next, despite looking deep in thought. His mind is racing miles per hour… and so is his heart, weirdly enough. Now that’s new. He’s always been a sucker for all kinds of pups – big or small, obedient or unruly, doesn’t matter. It never occurred to him that it translates to a weird sense of endearment with creatures like you, though.

Pretty-faced but rough on the edges, the fluff of your tail absentmindedly swiping up and down your leather-clad arm, you make Chuuya Nakahara’s heart skip a beat or two.

So, you have nowhere to go. He could’ve figured – why else would you be stuck there, soaking wet and waiting for God knows what to happen? Does he pick you up and take you home? Does he call a shelter– can they even take you in, anyway? Fuck.

He’s not cut out to be an owner – had it been any different, he would already be coming home to a playful Jack Russel Terrier, teaching him tricks and showing them off to the rest of the mafia… But his schedule is packed full, and he’s staying up late at the office far more often than he’d like to admit.

For the very same reasons, and then some more, he’s also not boyfriend material, either. It’s dangerous – living with him. Anything that comes close could end up catching a stray bullet. Or, what’s worse, could become the sole target.

Heat rises to Chuuya’s face and bites at the apples of his cheeks when he catches the thought. Where did he even get the idea of a relationship from? Chuuya doesn’t know his way around hybrids and frankly, it now hits him straight in the face. Never would he have thought he’d need that knowledge, but now the lack of thereof feels bitter.

He’s not a greedy man, he thinks, but choosing between taking care of you and… taking care of you, and your… other needs…

An opportunity has appeared and stretched its’ fingers towards him. Selfishly and subconsciously, Chuuya wishes to grab the entire arm instead, no matter how forward that is. He hasn’t even asked you yet, but he already knows.

One thing is certain, and he feels it down to his core: he cannot leave you out here. It’s a realization that strikes him fast and hard, electric like the lightning tearing through the night skies over Yokohama, followed by a roar of thunder.

Chuuya makes a decision. Something screams at him that this will change everything, but he does not relent.

The man in front of you looks up. You don’t notice how he swallows heavily and fiddles with his gloves, contemplating something unattainable for you yet, as you’re too busy trying to make out his true intentions. Is he going to hurt you? No, you’ve already figured that out. Is he going to… kick you out, force you to go somewhere else? If he’s with a gang, or, God forbid, the Port Mafia, and the area is under their wing…

You shudder, pulling the coat tighter around yourself, your toes curling.

Finally, he speaks. You watch the tips of his long, auburn hair grow damp where it reaches past the shadow of his hat. He faintly smells of freshly extinguished fire, his hair an equally bright, beautiful shade, and his voice sounds rough but, somehow, as warm as the flickering flames–

“Say, what’s your name?” Chuuya asks. This time, his tone is gentle, and so are his eyes as he searches for your gaze “I’m Chuuya. And, uh, if you let me… I can help you”

He trails off. There’s not much else he wishes to say, so he settles on watching your reaction instead. Your ears jerk and simultaneously, your eyes widen. There’s a flicker he knows all too well. It’s hopeful but unsure, goes hand in hand with how you reluctantly release his coat's bunched-up leather from your grip. If it wasn’t for the rumbling thunderstorm outside (and his hammering heartbeat) he could probably hear the cogs stirring in your head.

Your bottom lip trembles. For a second, Chuuya swears he’d just fucked up and you’re going to take off running, scared for your life, or break out in tears and sobs, wet yourself with fright at the wrong idea you’ve formed in your little puppy head. Truth be told, it’s the outcome he’s more familiar with, anyway. As the mafia’s executive, he usually wakes the uglier emotions in others – some get hit by cold sweat, some start glancing around, fear creeping up their back at the thought of being found by the criminal.

Chuuya’s head perks up at the sound of your quiet muttering. You say your name on one breath, a shaky one, at that, but it settles in his mind instantly: as if there was a blank space already waiting for the perfect puzzle piece to fit in its place.

Tucking your chin to your chest with a quiet sniffle, you blink once, gaze caught on the beat-up, tatty leather of your boots. You’re hesitant to look up at the stranger in front of you, but it’s mainly because you’re entirely not used to such treatment- careful and kind - and, well, especially not coming from such good-looking individuals, too.

“Thank you, sir,” you speak, voice leveled. Your heart thrums in your chest so hard, your ribcage starts feeling tight “I will be of use, I promise.”

The surge of unforeseen joy and hope is quickly stomped to the curb when silence fills the small distance between you and Chuuya. You find it in yourself to look up and your poor, unsettled heart plummets when the redhead frowns – almost scowls at you, as if in disgust, but mostly in shock. Oh, no-

“Huh? Become of– what the fuck does that even mean?” he speaks, sounding nearly annoyed, patience running thin. What’s worse, his head starts to overload with different scenarios you must’ve endured to even get such an idea.

As if sensing your discomfort, he sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his face in a show of exhaustion. This is definitely giving him a headache, no doubt about it “Whatever. I don’t wanna hear any more of that, anyway. I’m taking you in because I can’t let you stay here and starve to death, or worse.”

Your expression softens. You haven’t taken notice of how hard your fists have tightened until you relax and a sharp sting digs in your palm, crescent moons of bright red prickling on the skin. Oh. So–

“Listen, I don’t know how… any of that works. I’ll figure that out later. But I sure as hell ain’t leavin’ a pretty girl like yourself on the streets– are we clear?”

Chuuya ducks his head a little lower, staring straight into your eyes from under the rim of his hat. The chain attached twinkles under the dim lights seeping into the alleyway and so does the metal lighter he pulls out from his vest’s pocket, along with a cigarette case.

The emotions rising inside your chest are entirely unfamiliar. You’ve been through a lot – you’ve experienced family, love, heartbreak, abuse, utter loneliness. You know the taste of thirst and hunger far too well for someone your age. For months now you’ve been bouncing back and forth between flickering hope and relentless depression. What is it about this man—Chuuya, as you’ve learnt—that makes this time feel entirely different?

You watch, astounded, as he pulls a cigarette out of its casing and lights it up. You’re stuck in your spot as he takes a long drag, putting the items back in his pocket, then nodding his head towards you.

“My phone,” He murmurs, holding the cigarette between his teeth while his hands are busy. “In the right pocket. Need to make a call.”

You shake away your stupor and hurriedly reach into the said pocket, bony fingers wrapping around the device. Carefully, you hand it over to Chuuya and watch as he unlocks it, then after some tapping, lifts it to his ear.

Your gaze falls to your lap again, cheeks growing hot under his gaze. You’re uncertain about the plan he presented to you, yet you’re sure it was not a question, but a firm statement. He’s already made the choice for you, it seems. Even if that wasn’t the case, you’re not one to look a gifted horse in its mouth.

So, you stay silent.

You try your best not to wince when Chuuya exhales, the smoke far too sharp on your sensitive puppy nose. He seems bothered about something, deep in thought as he waits for the person on the other line to pick up—you don’t hold it against him when he does not even try to blow out the other way.

Eventually, the mysterious person picks up. The redhead sighs in relief, eyes a little unfocused as he watches you fiddle with your fingers and the hem of the coat, “Ah, onee-san,” He says, sucking in a sharp breath. “Are you busy?”

A woman’s voice comes from the speaker, muted by Chuuya’s cheek. You don’t mean to eavesdrop – in fact, no matter how hard you tried, you’d still hear it all, clear as day.

“Well hello, Chuuya. I didn’t expect you to call.” The woman replies, then gives a thoughtful hum. “I suppose not. No, not really. Why?” A pause. “Is there something I can do for you?��

You hear Chuuya’s heartrate pick up. You see him swallow before he breathes out a laugh, shaking his head, “Yeah… Yeah, actually. There’s… someone I need you to pick up from The Cellar.”

Silence. It rings between your ears and feeds the growing seed of fright that takes root in the pit of your stomach—the cellar? The woman’s response- or lack thereof, at first – makes your fingers twitch and eyes widen, struck by panic that slowly but surely begins to rise.

“Oh, Chuuya,” She sighs, almost defeated. “Just because I am indebted to you… I might. What is it about you leaving bodies behind lately?”

What the fuck? Your breath gets knocked away, dread blanketing you and weighing you down in place. For a second, you feel like all oxygen has been sucked away from the atmosphere. The harsh nicotine smell raises bile to your throat—or is it the mention of the bodies?

What the fuck, Chuuya thinks, panicked. His eyes hurriedly snap up to yours and he’s not at all surprised to see you staring back at him, wide-eyed and frozen in shock. Your pupils are so blown, your irises appear pitch black—and there’s a rivulet of sweat falling down your temple. He hushes you, shaking his head, shuffling closer to rest one of his hands on your bare knee in an attempt of comfort.

It’s scrubbed raw beneath his glove-clad palm. He feels it even through the thin leather – the thick, dried scabs and a fresh layer of raw meat from more recent injuries. You yelp, attempting to shuffle away, but there’s only so much you can move with the brick wall behind you.

“Kouyou-san,” Chuuya seethes between his teeth, quickly dropping the cigarette on the ground. It hisses upon coming in contact with the puddle of water, extinguished, “It’s not like that. I’ll tell you all about it later when I’m off, but—fuck, please? I need your help.”

You’re breathing quickly, curled up against the wall, praying to some higher entity to let you become one with the brick. He’s going to kill you. He’s going to take you somewhere—use you, like everyone else tried before—but someone’s going to be there. Waiting to help him take your lifeless body, drained of blood. You’re going to end up dea—

“Chuuya,” The woman – Kouyou, as he called her – interrupts before he gets his final word out. “It’s okay.” You watch Chuuya’s shoulders drop, a sign of relief. It’s nowhere near as comforting for you, though, so you continue to listen in “I’ll be there soon.”

“Thank you,” He says, clearing his throat. With the burden lifted off his back, he snaps out of it, and his hand previously resting on your bruised knee falls lower, gently touching your calf instead.

He sends you a look that’s hard to decipher in your frightened state. Your instinct tells you it’s almost begging, though “You can have a glass while you’re there.” A pause—“Fuck that. Make it a bottle. It’s on me.”

With an amused, yet gracious laugh, the woman bids Chuuya goodbye before ending the call. Chuuya slips his phone back into his pants pocket and puts all his attention on you again. The weight of his gaze feels astronomical, pinning you in place as you begin to spiral further. Down, and down, and down you go—your fingers jerk, an impulse to attack.

To bite back and fight, despite not knowing how and always failing—always destined to take flight instead.

Chuuya rests his other hand on your other leg. It’s an attempt to ground you, but it only makes your blood pressure spike higher. He hushes you again, stifling down his annoyance and desperation.

He says your name. Your tail grows stiff, gaze sharpening as you look at him, bewildered and so anxious, Chuuya feels your legs tremble under his touch.

“I am not going to hurt ya, I already told you,” He says, almost pleading with you. His hands feel gentle where they rest on your flesh, almost as if he’s fighting his impulse to hold you tighter and keep you in place. The realization settles in your bones and licks away the flames of fear, slowly but surely.

“I promise. I know it’s confusin’ as hell, but, please.”

Oh, for God’s sake—since when does he beg?

He inhales deeply, the chill, crisp air tingling as he watches your eyes flutter. Your leg straightens slightly, growing lax from suddenly letting go of all the tension. A ghost of a smile begins to involuntarily curl at Chuuya’s mouth, but it’s quickly dropped when his phone buzzes against his thigh.

Though put on silent, the rhythmical buzz is all too familiar. The Boss is calling. Chuuya wants the earth to swallow him whole and put him out of his misery and this weird and confusing predicament he’s tangled himself up in – this is the last fucking thing he needs. Although his plan was nowhere near perfect or at least sensible or well thought through, right now it appears to complicate itself all at the head mafioso’s doing.

He swears, hoping Mori doesn’t talk his ear off for not picking up. He’ll call back, as soon as he’s done.

“Do you know the area?”

Chuuya waits for your reluctant nod before continuing. As he does, his hands slide down to your ankles before eventually letting go of you altogether. It’s a confusing realization, but it hits you like a truck—your skin feels so much colder without his touch.

“Good. There’s a wine bar down the street— The Cellar. Two minutes away, tops. The owner’s a friend of mine. I want you to go there and tell him you’re with me and order yourself a meal and something to drink.”

You listen, startled. Your breath begins to slow down, but the whirlwind of emotions far too strong for your confused brain leaves your reactions delayed and languid. You’ve never been good with such detailed plans of action, anyway—never made for it in the first place.

When the thought finally settles, relief washes over you like the rainfall you’re both stuck in. (Now that you look at him so closely, you notice Chuuya’s shirt has soaked through entirely, and clings to his body.)

“My coworker—Kouyou-san—will be there to pick you up soon, and she’ll take you to my office, where you’ll wait for me to wrap up work.” Your eyes stay focused on his face as he speaks. Chuuya takes it as a sign of understanding, but he wants to make sure “Got it?”

Warmth begins to blossom inside your chest. Filling up the crevices between your ribs, it’s like a balm for your poor, tormented heart. For a fleeting second, you feel so, so guilty for ever doubting the man—if it weren’t for your chilled, stiff bones, you’d be throwing yourself at him already, an instinct you’re barely able to stifle down.

“Yes, sir,” Your voice breaks in the middle, high-pitched with excitement.

Chuuya could’ve laughed at the sound but instead, he lets out a deep breath and pats your head, right between your ears, now perked up and standing up in attention.

“It’s Chuuya,” He corrects, “Atta girl.” He says and you barely register the praise. When it settles, though, your eyes light up with an equivalent of the entire starry sky. Your tail thumps against the ground, but accidentally dips into the nearby puddle, sending the water splashing around the two of you.

Chuuya jerks away and you let out a startled sound, bashfully tucking your tail under your legs again. You flush, all the way up to the tip of your nose, and give the man an apologetic look.

You’ve already soiled his coat with all the dirt and rainwater and forced him to get soaked to the bone from the downpour, without anything to cover his clothing – the least you can do is not make it any worse, splattering muddy water on his work attire.

“Sorry,” you murmur under your breath, the tip of your tail shyly wrapping around one of your ankles as you struggle to keep your eyes on the man crouched down in front of you, sheepishly peering up at him from behind your knees.

Chuuya stares at you. All blood rushes down to his feet like iron wrapping around his ankles, deeming him unable to move. He huffs, breaking the eye contact despite his conscious yelling at him not to.

“S’alright,” he grumbles, cheeks feeling white hot and flushing bright pink. He prays you don’t see it in the poor light.

He can’t have you realizing how puppy eyes make him feel. Not yet, at least.

#SO SWEET OMG #THIS IS WAYYYY TOO GOOD #i am 100% invested already #making me feel butterflies in my tummy and everything

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