#long shot

Your cheek rests on the pillow you are hugging, staring blankly at the television, sitting on the far side of the couch, while your roommate selfishly sprawls his legs out across the cushions – though careful not to touch you with his cold toes. One arm is behind his head with the other thrown over his stomach as his hooded gaze is looking off near the same direction as the TV, but he isn’t really watching it either. He sighs heavily, lulling his head to stare up at the ceiling instead, trying to decide if he wants to head off to bed or stay awake with you. You tried telling him you’d be alright, you were used to watching stuff alone if he wanted to head to bed, but he just wordlessly placed himself down on the other side and made himself comfortable.

Living with a boy is… different. At least, considering he isn’t your boyfriend or anything like that. You two get along; he minds his business for the most part; chores are split accordingly; and the only verbal rule in place is that you have to warn the other if you’re bringing home a friend, no matter if they’re platonic, romantic, or a one nighter. For you, this is a fairly effortless rule to abide by, considering you rarely have anyone come over to your shared place: you have three friends total – including your roommate – that you prefer leaving the apartment to go hang out with, and you’re tragically single. Not by choice either. You’ve tried, obviously, but it’s hard out there between dating apps, blind dates, and realizing hookup culture is rampaging the relationship pool, sullying the meaning and making it even more difficult to try looking for “other fish in the sea”. You want a boyfriend, badly, but it unfortunately seems that isn’t in the cards for you. Plus, it’s a little embarrassing being a virgin “at your big age”, as one of your friends joked; your other friend, bless her to the high heavens, reassured it was totally fine and it’ll happen when you decide to let it happen.

That wouldn’t feel nearly as patronizing if your roommate weren’t bringing girls over constantly.

Dazai doesn’t have any issues with finding people to hang out with, his friend group much larger than you expected, and he has zero problems finding someone to bring home either as a girlfriend-of-the-month or some random, drunken hookup. “Drunken” might be a little too rude, but you’ve noticed most times when they’re one night stands, he’s usually been to the bar. He goes often with his buddies, every Thursday through Sunday, and you usually receive a warning text message that he won't be returning home alone. That’s when you have to run to your bedroom as soon as possible, close the door, and shove your headphones in with the highest volume as you read, play video games, or just have the TV on to drown out the sounds.

You have accidentally gone out a couple times before, bravely, to the kitchen for a snack or drink – naively believing they were done – and overheard some of the things he’s saying to whoever is in there with him. You look at him differently for a few days, eyeing him up and down, skeptical he is capable of being like that, before deciding to move on, ignoring it, and definitely not wishing someone spoke to you that way.

He teases you sometimes, thinking you’re not really into intimacy, sex, or relationships in general. You told him it was incredibly ironic in the least funny way possible that he, Dazai, of all people was making fun of you for not being in a relationship or partaking in “intimacy” – you ended up turning it around and making fun of him for calling it that. He’s a total loser at heart, and you simply cannot fathom that he is drowning in options every weekend while you are exiled to utter solitude. The guy you’ve known for years that drones on and on about Pokémon cards, the video games, and the show with all its accompanying movies; Dungeon & Dragons, which he made you sit in on a few sessions with him and his buddies, and it was killing you not to make fun of them; his deep interesting in literature and poetry; and, for the love of everything good and holy, he still laughs at sixty-nine! This absolute loser is the one messing with you for “not wanting” a relationship or to sleep with people.

Oh, how wrong he is, though, since it is what you want more than anything at this point in your young life. Both of your friends have partners, making it easy for them to repeatedly tell you “you’ll find someone someday”, or flat out make fun of you for still being single and a virgin. Your roommate is getting laid at minimum four days a week, making it easy for him to also dog pile on you. And you’re sitting there, alone, hugging the nearest thing you can find just so something touches your skin: pillows and stuffed animals were your immediate choice, but sometimes you’d sneak one of Dazai’s hoodies to hug in bed, something that didn’t belong to you, something simple that you knew he wouldn’t miss for a while. Pretending it’s someone else laying with you, burying your face in the material, and – on rare nights when the loneliness overwhelms you to a point of breaking – let it soak up your tears until you pass out. It was one of the small perks of living with a boy, at least, that there were plenty of hoodies to take if you didn’t want one of your own. He also never minds sharing with you, never minds when he sees you shuffling around with it draping over your body, and never minds that it’s covered in tear stains when it’s finally returned.

With all his teasing, Dazai has taken clear notice recently you have been running off with more of his clothes, not daring to say a word, but he watches as you rummage around in the freshly washed basket of both your guys’ things after he brings it in from the complex’s laundry room – your back to him – and sees you pull out one of his t-shirts before scurrying off to your room, shutting the door, and he stares with immense curiosity at that surface, seeing the light underneath illuminated, making it evident when you walk around in there doing whatever it is you do alone. He’s thought a handful of times about just barging in, letting his nosy side get the better of him, take a peek, but he holds off, hand twitching on the doorframe as he stands there, silently wondering if you ever are wanting some company.

There is an unspoken rule you two have that both of you hadn’t realized you were following: neither of you step into the other’s bedroom. Dazai doesn’t even know how you decorated it, and you don’t know that he isn’t nearly as messy as he’s led you to believe. The idea you have of his sanctuary is littered with trash, dirty clothes, and empty beer bottles – simply because that’s how he treats other rooms of the apartment. The idea he has of your enclosure is glittery pink and bows and smelling like cotton candy – despite knowing you don’t exactly like pink. And you aren’t allowed to paint the walls anything other than Landlord White. A distant memory from your bedroom when you were a kid infiltrating his mind, since it was the only room he ever got to know that you existed in.

You two have known each other for a long time, literally inseparable when you were kids since you were neighbors, and not many other children lived nearby, kind of giving you two no choice but to be best friends. Dazai had gone through some weird phase when he was a teenager, acting like he didn’t want anything to do with you, or anyone else for that matter, and only talking to you when he seemed to be at his lowest with nowhere else to go. While it hurt to watch him push you away, you never did the same, keeping your window open for him whenever he needed you.

He had been classified as a runaway at some point though, around the time he would have been eighteen, the thought tearing you to pieces and none of your calls or texts were getting through to him. You didn’t assume the worst, blindly going through that year or so just hoping he was okay, grasping at any minor passing comment that someone happened to see a guy matching his description wandering around alleyways and lingering near shitty hotels. Using that as a solace he was alive and well, and he’d return home when he was ready.

It was just before you were heading off to college that he appeared randomly out of thin air at your window, wearing a hoodie with your university’s mascot on it, asking if they do co-ed dorms. You were stunned into silence, bag half-packed, staring at him as he leaned on the windowpane, a strange sadness in his eyes that were hidden behind his glasses you hadn’t seen him wear before, and you merely sighed. You had to admit to him you were living in an off-campus house with a couple of other girls, and you weren’t too sure they’d be fine with a boy looming around.

“I can sleep in your room on the floor,” he shrugged, a joke, but his tone made it come off as serious. He had run off without saying anything to anyone, worrying everyone sick – including yourself, and he was standing at your window suddenly, asking if he can sleep on the floor of whatever room you get shoved in for college.

“Dazai, I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor like a dog,” you whispered, not sure if he wanted anyone else to know he had turned up.

“Fine, foot of your bed, I’m not picky,” he shrugs, hands gripping the ledge. You took in a breath, lips parted as you were getting ready to speak, and paused when the twinkle of hope in his honeyed irises caught you off guard. Your fingers flinched forward, an instinct from childhood to grab his hand, but you had to hold back. It was then you realized you hadn’t felt the touch of another person in quite some time, outside of family, and you weren’t sure if you would ever get the opportunity again if you didn’t take that one.

And you didn’t.

“‘Zai, I don’t think I can bring you to the house,” you breathed out, lightly shaking your head. His mood immediately deflated. “I want to, trust me.” You rushed to correct, but he did resemble a wounded puppy getting kicked repeatedly. “I don’t think the other girls will be okay with it.”

“Just say you hate me,” he whispered, but he wore a smile, one he had practiced so no one would know how he actually felt underneath.

“You know I hate lying,” you responded without thinking, and he took that as an invitation to climb into your room to help you pack.

You lived at the “Haute House”, something your new friend and then roommate thought would be funny to call your group’s campus house, for the first two years before Dazai pestered you to no end about getting an apartment together. It took convincing, him absolutely relentless, before you broke down and agreed to live with him. The resistance primarily came from a worry in the back of your mind that he would vanish again without a trace, leaving you behind again to pay full rent for somewhere you couldn’t afford, and worried to death if he’d be safe.

Now, you spend your evenings after work sitting on the couch as far away from him as possible. Once upon a lifetime ago, the two of you would hold hands, hug, cuddle, share beds and sleeping bags and futons together, huddle under blankets wrapped around each other for naps, and cozied up into one another inside a blanket fort. You didn’t think the last time you and him were curled up together under the blanket of your childhood bedroom, him insisting that you take a nap with him after school, would have been the last time you two ever willingly touched each other like that. The most you two do to each other is if you need to garner the other’s attention, you lightly poke or nudge another’s arms.

All this time of longing for someone else’s touch has resulted in you finding solace in inanimate objects to cuddle with instead, whether by searching for it in the moment, or waking up to your arms clasped tightly around something with your face buried in it. Relationships weren’t something you got around to caring about until you were older, but now it seems it’s too late, trying to keep the bitterness and jealousy pushed deep down from it seemingly being effortless for everyone else while you struggle. You’ve kept your hands to yourself for years, never being the one to extend even a finger out first, just to shiver at the slightest brush on your shoulder from anyone that wasn’t related to you and smelled of expensive cologne.

Dazai sighs, heavily, exhausted, lashes fluttering shut, and his chest slowly rises and falls as his breathing evens out, causing your head to turn in his direction. You watch him silently, knowing he had a long day, him mumbling about some intense stuff going on at work, and he barely made it through dinner without falling over. However, you said you wanted to watch a movie, and he wanted to join you. It’s been playing for roughly twenty minutes, and he’s already conked out. His glasses are abandoned elsewhere, and you can’t help the thought of how sweet he looks when his mouth is closed. You carefully get to your feet, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch to drape it over his body, oh so careful not to touch him, before turning off the television and hiding away in your bedroom with one of his t-shirts yanked over your pillow that’s awaiting you in bed.

𐔌 ꒱

Dazai has been paying an awful lot of attention to you lately, not that you particularly noticed, and in his observations of you, he has stopped making fun of you for not having a boyfriend or “sleeping around”. He watches you in silence sometimes, from across his spot on the couch, you an ocean away on your side with your arms tethered around throw pillows or stuffed animals you dragged out from your bedroom, his shirt or hoodie on you, and a distant look in your eye. He watches you wander aimlessly through the apartment, clear you’re in search of something, but he’s concluded even you aren’t aware of what it is. Your fingers drift and linger on different objects: the handle of the fridge, microwave, or mug; countertops, walls, or chair backings; doorknobs, doorknobs, doorknobs. His eyes train on wherever they find safety, playing back all the times when you were younger how they used to intertwine with his, and wondering why that ever stopped.

When you two go out together, he watches as your hands fondle and swipe through objects, but you’re careful not to touch people. If you bump into someone, he’ll catch your hand coming up to wherever they hit you, and it stays there for a moment before you come to your senses and apologize – pointless since the stranger had already disappeared. You don’t stand close to him, enough space for another to occupy, and if you go to a movie theater together, your hands are trapped tightly between your thighs, elbows in, and enthralled with what’s on the screen. He remembered there was once a time you would use him as a shield for horror movies, hiding behind his shoulder and holding onto his arm. Now, your hands fly to your face as your own protection.

Visiting your family is even stranger. He’s still welcomed to dinners when you decide to go see them, and your acceptance of their affection is natural, but it’s written all over your face it isn’t what you want. Almost against your will. If it’s an overnight stay, he is laying in a futon on the floor while you fill your old bed, sound asleep with your arms holding a pillow or withering stuffed animal, and he has to fight with himself from crawling up to cuddle you, huddled under covers together, like he used to. Old habits may die hard, but they still die all the same, it seems. He’s found, since being the first to distance himself from you way back when he decided he was a “rebellious” teenager who thought he knew everything, that he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. The last time he recalls a full, uninterrupted, deep REM sleep was the last time you took a nap with him after school when you were twelve. His brows will scrunch down when he stares at your back, body slowly rising and falling with your eased breathing, and his fingers flinch toward you. An instinct trying to revive itself, one he has to bury again, just as you did.

Dazai has been staying up late, sitting in his room by himself, playing video games, listening to music while he reads, or messing around on his phone, thoughts drifting to your actions, how you hold yourself – literally and metaphorically, and starts coming up with all these ideas on how to cure your supposed ailment he believes you to be afflicted with. He hasn’t quite figured out what it is, but he is determined regardless to get to the bottom of it. Even if the first step is to scoot his body closer to yours on the couch, sitting on the cushion next to you, arms sprawled out on the back, avoiding touching you. His presence and the shift of his body is heavy, hairs on the back of your neck sticking up whenever he’s near, but you never acknowledge it. It’s his couch, too. He can sit wherever he’d like.

He noticed you’ve been wearing his clothes more, stuff he could have sworn to have just washed disappearing until you come walking out of your room wearing the shirt he was planning to wear for a night out or the hoodie that magically reappeared on the couch he had just found to wash once more.

“Wanna keep it?” He asked you one evening, eyeing you in his hoodie that you had ran off with a few weeks prior that he momentarily believed to be missing from another girl that he brought over. He had practically kissed it goodbye, relieved to see it was merely you who had stolen it. He was in the kitchen, microwaving leftovers, arms across his chest as he leaned against the counter, and you stared at him with wide eyes.

“What?” Was all you could say, dumbly, looking at him with clear confusion.

“My jacket. You wanna just keep it?” He repeated, nodding toward you before pushing his glasses up. Your hand absentmindedly came up to clutch at it, tugging it some to peer down at, then raising your gaze to meet his. He was just staring at you, nothing evident in his features, and you cleared your throat as you began taking it off.

“No, sorry. I meant to give it back the other day,” your arm extended out, offering it to him, and his brow raised. He hesitated a beat, hand coming out toward the bundled fabric, then paused.

“It’s fine, you can keep it if you like it so much,” he insisted – no, tested.

“Nah, take it,” you practically shoved it into his hand then took off to your room once more, hiding away from embarrassment that he noticed you were still hanging onto it for so long. He blinked down at it before his head slowly turned in your door’s direction, noticing your hand didn’t even so much as graze his, shielded by his hoodie. That night sparked an idea, a bit of a risky one, but he needed to confirm if his suspicions were correct.

Articles of his clothing started randomly turning up near you, hoodies and t-shirts haphazardly tossed on the floor at your room’s threshold, in your spot on the couch, on the kitchen table, and sometimes dangling from the TV – blocking your view of the screen. You thought it odd, him being so careless and rude to leave behind his clothes in the most random of places; the thought dissipates when your hand connects to lift it, the material warm, freshly worn, and the waft of men’s cologne intrudes on your senses. You can’t help it, unable to stop yourself when it lifts to your nose to inhale, lashes fluttering shut as the comforting scent you are vaguely aware of being him wraps you completely.

He’ll watch from afar, peeking around his bedroom door, or from his spot in the kitchen, or looming around the hallway that leads to the living room, as your face buries itself in the soft t-shirt, then you turn heel back to your room to shove it on your favorite pillow or stuffed animal, cuddling it close. He hasn’t deduced anything from this, yet, but he has more information than before – she likes my cologne.

The trail of Dazai’s clothes continued, you not saying a word, hiding away with whatever you found that day, and him not saying a word when you do. You’ll wear them, coming out with his oversized shirt falling off your shoulder, bringing the collar up in as subtle of a way possible to catch more whiffs of the cologne he doused it in, and plop down on your spot with him right beside you.

The next trial would be even riskier, something he probably should test while you are both in the confines of your apartment, but it wouldn’t make sense to him to do it there. It only works in the outside world, just a mere bit of… microdosing, if you will.

One day, while you two were out and about, neither of you having anything better to do, you both had decided to go to a festival running in town. It was crowded, Dazai reminding you to stay close to him, another test at how you handle such large groups of people, but you griped that you weren’t a baby and could hold yourself fine at a festival. However, you listened enough to not to leave his sight, but you guys somehow never brushed or bumped into each other. While standing in line for some street food, you were close enough that if truly needed, you could grab him in an emergency. It was something you always kept in the back of your mind as is when running around with him – safety purposes trump the comfort of your friend.

Something shocked you, jumping out of your skin, and gearing up to jerk your hand away, whipping your head down to see his pinky linked with yours. You blinked a few times, confused, the feeling foreign but familiar all at once, knuckles grazing as he situated himself a bit more to hold tighter, and an incredibly weird feeling ripped its way up your chest, and your heart pounded along with the beat of the music blaring from the speakers. Your eyes trailed up to the side of his face, stoic as per his usual, and he wasn’t acknowledging you. As if this was something you two did often – maybe when you were children, but not in the long span since you have reunited.

You didn’t bring it up, nor did you pull away, him following suit with ignoring it, but he didn’t let go either. The two of you linked the rest of the evening, never to address it once you got home, and it took you far too long to realize, when you were turning around to shut your bedroom door, that you two were still holding pinkies, and he was standing at the threshold. He stared down at you, other hand in his pocket, and your cheeks flared up in an instant after it settled you had dragged him with you.

“I don’t mind,” was all he said when your lips parted, knowing you too well that an apology was prepared. His eyes flickered to your room, taking in the lack of glitter he was expecting, and he noticed his hoodie tugged over your pillow amongst the mess that was your bed.

“Night,” you said after swallowing, taking everything in you to release him, and clutched the doorknob.

“Night,” he nodded, the door slowly closing on his face, and he was honestly more confused than before.

Dazai continued, during outings with just the two of you, doing small things here and there to touch you. Intertwining your pinkies was the easiest, the least recognizable. His fingers will brush on your forearm, lightweight to him, heavily noticeable for you. Goosebumps will swarm, hair sticking straight up, and you chalked it up to the air conditioning of the store. When you two are surrounded by friends, his touches are more or less friendly by tapping the back of your hand or gently grabbing your elbow. Every touch, graze, slip of his finger, hold of your pinky, sends your body into a strange fight or flight, firmly planting your feet where you are, eyes glued to his hand on you, and the world is silent for a bit. A few seconds at most, but it’s quiet all the same.

He has now ventured to be bolder when you two are alone at home, an evening of hushed whispers amongst the TV, his body beside yours, arm behind your head, his shirt laying against your skin, and the pillow clutched tight to your chest. He’ll keep his eyes ahead, but his thumb will ever so slightly run up and down the nape of your neck – the first time startled you, thinking it was a bug, and he laughed at you for overreacting. Then went back to doing it, like nothing happened, and it was… nice. Your shoulders weren’t as stiff, the hold on the pillow wasn’t nearly as harsh, and you felt as if your mind wasn’t as clogged as it had been. He side-glanced in your direction, seeing in real time your content melting into your bones, and he knew then he just had to keep doing it.

The microdosing of human touch seemed to be working, not only for you, but for Dazai too. It dawned on him one evening, after being led to your room by accident again, holding fast to your pinky, then being shooed away to his own room, that he missed touching you. He laid there on his uncomfortable mattress, arms over his stomach, eyes trained on the sky contained behind the glass of his window, thinking about how reminiscent it was for him to have you closer. He scolded and blamed himself, knowing fully well it was his fault in the first place you two had grown distant, worlds apart, unable to see the other over the horizon. However, now with his fingers relearning the map of your skin, tracing the veins that bloom from your wrist, outlining your knuckles, and counting every goosebump that arises on your shoulder, your figure is visible as a shadow in the blazing sun on the other side of the same planet. Maybe we can be close again.

You couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation, not entirely sure how to take it. However, you welcomed it. You hadn’t realized how lonely you were in your own home, living with your best friend, the distance self-manufactured, and you didn’t really know why you did that to him. It’s Dazai, you’ve known him so long, you could hop in his lap, and he wouldn’t care. Probably keep you there. Not exactly like you would do that, but, you know, hypotheticals.

A thought occurred to you recently, unsure if you should bring it up, but Dazai hasn’t been bringing people home for quite a few weeks. Maybe even longer. He hasn’t been running off to the bar with his friends, leaving you behind with a cheery ‘don’t wait up’, and he hasn’t been warning you to hide because someone agreed to come back with him. He’s been abruptly spending more time with you outside of evenings in the living room, sitting on the couch with a dumb show on or a movie you’ve seen a hundred times. You want to be confused, but it’s difficult to be when it seems like things are going back to a way you didn’t know you missed.

Heat radiated off his body, sides meshed after he decided to invade your space, distracting you with his gentle stroking, thumb following the line of your shoulder, and your teeth chattered from anxious nerves. The recognizable cologne that clung to the random clothes he kept tossing around the apartment was stuck to his body, violating your nose, and your nails dug into the pillow you held far too tight. He sat there with you, mind elsewhere, fingers suddenly intertwining their way into your hair, playing with strands and pieces, fingertips skating into your scalp periodically, and your lashes fluttered at the feeling, fighting the relaxation. A soft sound came from him, almost a chuckle, not needing to look at you to know you’re ready to pass out.

“You look tired,” he mentioned, eyes nowhere on you, voice groggy himself. You simply hummed, lids drooping as if he casted a magic spell with those words, his nails carefully scratching at your head, it becoming easier to guide on his own. Without thinking, full trust in his movements, you allowed his hand to help rest your temple to his shoulder, and his cheek pressed to the crown. “Long day?” He continued, pretending nothing was happening, and you shifted to be more comfortable.

“Work sucked, yeah,” you murmured, body moving without your brain, curling up, dropping the pillow, and draping an arm over his torso. Your eyelids were heavy, mind foggy, and you could barely feel his arm coming down to wrap around you. He’s warm.

“Go to sleep, then,” he gently encouraged. “I’ll tell you how it ends.” You both have seen that movie more than either of you could count. You made a small sound of agreement, letting your eyes close fully, and his weren’t too far behind you, a strange and unknown calm enveloping his weary mind and aching bones.

The following morning from that experiment, Dazai was still passed out, laying on his back with his arms wrapped securely around your body while you were splayed out on top of him, cheek pressed on his sternum. Your eyes cracked open, taking in the few sun rays from the slits you could hardly see from, and it took you a long minute to comprehend you never left the living room. Your pillow seemed to be breathing underneath you, and that was new. You tried moving, to push yourself up, but you were trapped, the embrace tightening, and your eyes snapped open wider. Your gaze slowly snuck up to see his sleepy impression, hair messy behind his head, and he looked so peaceful. Fingers twitched around on his shoulder, so close to his face, and you so desperately wanted to trace along his cheek while he was unaware.

I gotta get outta here.

The fight or flight returned, heart pounding, pulse resounding, and your line of sight fixated on the TV screen, seeing the DVD’s home page repeatedly playing the movie’s menu. The sound was soft, unintelligible, and your fingers messed with the sleep shirt he wore instead, the material as comforting as all the rest you’ve been snatching for yourself.

You laid there, waiting, not knowing the time, watching the sun rise more and spilled its light into the living room, listening to his mellow heartbeat and even breathing. He didn’t dare move, his subconscious somehow aware you were there with him, not wanting to scare you off. You thought this was the longest he’s ever slept since living together. Usually you’d hear him rustling around in the middle of the night if you were still awake, venturing to the living room or kitchen, rifling through the fridge or turning on the television, sometimes the front door would open and close, then open and close again an hour or so later. Rarely did he stay in his room all night, even if he had guests.

“Mornin’,” his voice was deep, filled with remnants of sleep, eyes still closed, and his thumb traced your arm.

“Morning,” you whispered, immediately scrambling to get off of him and racing to your room the second his arms released you. He laid there, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips when he heard the door slam and breathed out a slight chuckle.

“Awh, didn’t even get to ask her how she slept,” he sighed to himself, tossing his arm over his eyes, fighting to ignore the heat creeping up his own neck, making way for his cheeks, and couldn't believe he slept all the way through the night like that. You on top of him, wearing his t-shirt and sleep shorts that might be one size too small for you, holding you close… I gotta get outta here. He rushed to his feet and hurried to his own room, slamming the door behind him and wasting no time to get in the bathroom for a painstakingly cold shower.

𐔌 ꒱

So, which one of you is going to come to the realization first? How I see it, you’re both standing in the middle of the desert with hands ready to quickdraw, but neither of you are taking the shot. It’s getting a little hot out here waiting on who’s going to make the first move.

… Maybe that’s why they call it a slow burn.

On one hand, Dazai has been making multiple moves, but he’s kind of dumb and doesn’t understand why and what kind of moves he’s making. His arm finds its way around your shoulders and waist while you two are out; pinky holding has turned into full blown hand-holding; he is the one practically in your lap during evenings on the couch, fingers lacing in your hair or thumb outlining your neck; and he has been whining about wanting to sleep better at night, so he thinks you need to start sharing your bed.

On the other hand, you’re so overwhelmed with all of the touching that you don’t know what to do with yourself. His hands are on you like he once did before, though they’re much larger than you remembered, and the moment they’re gone, you – albeit internally – whine at the loss of his touch.

Many efforts made on his part have finally seemed to pay off while watching a tragic romance he wanted to see, and your fingers stopped holding back, reviving the urge you thought had died so long ago. They inched their way out, brushing the back of his hand that rested on his stomach, and he thought all those butterflies swarming around in there were going to throw themselves up. Your fingertips traced his knuckle, along the barely protruding vein down to his wrist before gently gliding back up, resting there, all with your eyes on the screen. His brain broke, body frozen, and he stared ahead at nothing, not wanting to frighten you away. His other hand’s fingers trailed their way up the back of your neck, as they have been doing for quite some time now since his initial experimentations, and it was so pleasant. There was no other way to describe it, the quiet hush of the night, the movie’s volume low, the two of you sitting beside one another, and you reached out to him first.

“How do you feel?” He asked, afraid speaking will ruin everything.

“I dunno,” you hummed, leaning a bit to rest your head on his shoulder. “Happy, I think.” His cheek pressed on the top again, arm dropping down to wrap around your shoulders, subconsciously pulling you closer. Your fingers started playing with his other hand again.

“Yeah, me too.”

The two of you are in denial so badly, not even your respective friends can pull you out of the river you chained yourselves down to.

“Babe…” Your more blunt friend spoke slowly, eyeing you up and down. “You and Dazai have been dating for, like, months now.” You blinked, staring at her, then glanced at your sweeter friend, who had her lips sucked in with mildly widened eyes, lightly shaking her head.

“Dazai and I aren’t dating though…” Your voice trailed off, gaze going back to her, and her eyes rolled. She straightened her posture, beginning to count on her fingers as she rattled off evidence to her point.

“You wear his clothes,” she stopped long enough to gesture to your shirt, one of his, that you tied to look less baggy. “You two have been going out on dates. You have been skipping out on hanging with us to go spend time with him, even if it’s just at home. I saw you two cuddled up at the movie theater literally the other day. And, not to mention, that damn man whore hasn’t slept with a single other girl in, like, a millennium!”

“He has been avoiding other women as of late, I have to admit,” your other friend nodded along, adding in a point of her own, despite making it clear that she wanted no part of this conversation.

“I… hadn’t noticed,” your voice fell off, a lie, and your hand was clasped between your friend’s, who peered over the bundle at you with irritated but loving eyes. She batted her lashes, and you blinked once.

“Girl, that’s your boyfriend,” she stated flatly before dropping your hand and going back to her phone, taking a long sip of the iced coffee she previously abandoned. You peeked at your other friend again for help, but she sighed inwardly.

“At least he treats you well,” she offered, sounding almost like a question, before she quickly went back to her phone and drink as well, leaving you to stare between them while your fingers absentmindedly messed with his shirt.

You took their words with a grain of salt, but the thought was in the back of your mind. You weren’t paying much attention to all the things she accused you of doing with Dazai, thinking you were just hanging out with your closest and best friend like old times. However, she had a point that you two have been doing everything she’s observed.

His touches never stopped, making you more aware of his presence, a brush here on your hip, a careful grasp on your wrist there, a press of his side into yours, and fingers in your hair at the end of the day. The other night, there was a moment where something clicked in your brain while his malfunctioned completely. You were trying to get comfortable, looking for something that may have fallen, him helping you, when you both looked up at the same time – classic. Your noses nudged together, close, and you stared unblinking at the other with his eyes wide behind his lenses, and your body froze.

You pulled away first, face hot, and he didn’t speak for the rest of the evening. Just helped guide you to place your head on his shoulder like every night before, and you both fell asleep on the couch again.

Things weren’t really going anywhere, so you’ve deduced your friends were straight buggin’.

However, Dazai might have finally gathered enough evidence to come up with a sort of conclusion to these experiments he was implementing. He did have one more thing he wanted to try, but there would be two outcomes from it, and he was really hoping it would be the good reaction, or things would get extremely weird.

You have a test you want to run on your own, the echo of your friend’s voice repeating in your mind: he’s your boyfriend. If that’s truly the case, then you can wear whatever… right?

Dazai mentioned the night before he was going to be away, but you didn’t catch what he would be doing, preoccupied with your reeling thoughts, and you chew on your lip as you do a once over in the mirror. Typically, you don’t bother wearing “cute” pajamas around the apartment, mostly because you didn’t think you are comfortable enough to do so around him, and he’d have guests over so often it’s easier to continue wearing street ware until they all go home. Alas, you did spend money on them, wasting away as they rot in your drawer – it is hot outside, even with the AC running. You huff, fingers picking at the bottom of your shorts, eyeing the top that exposed nothing but also a lot all at once, before rolling your eyes at yourself for being so critical. He’s gone! I’ll just run in here to change when I hear the door start opening.

You venture out to the living room, then to the kitchen, trying to get used to your never worn pjs, and pull the refrigerator door open to meander in, not really hungry, but not really wanting to sit down. With no luck and a light sigh, you close the door back and saunter slowly to the cabinet, lips pursed and tapping your finger on your thigh, eyes trying to take in everything there is, then realizing neither of you have made it to the grocery store yet, so all the good snacks are absent. You reach in anyway, pushing a half-bottle of syrup to the side, sorting through soup cans, examining instant ramen packs, and other odds and ends of cans that you don’t have the energy to make for yourself. You remember the possibility of ice cream in the freezer, a comment made in passing recently that there should be some, but you can’t trust enough it will actually be there since Dazai eats whatever his eyes land on if it’s sat too long and doesn’t have a note with your name on it.

The frigid air hits you in the face first, making your nose scrunch, scouring past the ice cube tray, bags of premade food, and microwaveable pancakes, but no ice cream. Bummer. You close the freezer then open the fridge one more time, as if something new magically popped in while you were journeying around the kitchen, but nothing’s changed since the couple of glass beer bottles, the milk, the juice, half a carton of eggs, and produce deteriorating in the crispers. Your expression twists in disgust at the thought of emptying it out, closing the door once more and muttering: “I’ll make Dazai do it.”

“Make me do what?” You jump and yelp, hand clamping over your mouth from embarrassment and fear the neighbors will complain about you, and your heart pounds. Your frantic eyes land on Dazai standing there by the entrance, wearing his street clothes, and he’s just kind of… staring. His lips part, eyeing you up and down, but nothing comes out. You falter a bit, glancing down at your attire, and realize he’s here, looking at you, in your fancy pjs that he was never meant to see. “Didn’t… Didn't m-mean to scare…” He fumbles over his words, not able to finish his sentence, and he silently notes how he likes seeing you in green.

You pause for half a beat before tearing off toward your bedroom, a startled deer needing to hide away amongst the trees to be left unbothered, but he’s not having any more of you running in the opposite direction. “Wait!” He hurries after you, matching your speed, snatching you up in his arms in what can only be described as a bear hug – but it feels a bit closer to a trap. You don’t necessarily struggle against him, eyes big, a shaking breath sneaking out, and you can feel his breath hitting your bare shoulder. His grip loosens, drawing back, but your hand quickly reaches up to grasp at his arm.

“Don’t,” you almost beg, guiding him this time to hold you again, avoiding looking back at him due to how flustered and bashful you are. His eyebrows come together briefly, but obliges to resume hugging you close, and his heart palpitates against your shoulder blade. “Please don’t let go.” You muster in a small whisper, your hands coming up to lightly claw at his skin, wanting to turn this around into trapping him instead.

He stands there, obeying your request, the hug tightening, forcing a strained huff of air out past your lips, but you wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything else. Not right now, not when his skin is warm, inviting and comforting, his heart erratic like yours, and you’re being hugged by someone that isn’t related to you. You’re being hugged by Dazai. You’re being hugged. “I got you.” He whispers near your ear, you nodding in response, squeezing your eyes shut, not wanting to open them in case this is all a distant dream. Wave after wave of old feelings that you ignored, swept away, and pretended weren’t real hit you all at once, your body growing smaller until you’re twelve again, in your childhood bedroom, hugging a much smaller Dazai for what would end up being the last time. Until now. He’s just so warm.

His eyes are trained on the floor, pieces of you in his peripheral as his arms hold you as tight as he can without crushing your body, and everything falls into place. Everything he had been compiling for months, working tirelessly to figure out, deducing down to obvious conjecture that he could never bring to your attention without the possibility of ruining it all. It’s all boiled down to such simplicity: you’ve been neglected. The thing you wanted most was to be touched, not by friends or family, but someone else. He blinks rapidly, hands catching the way you tremble under him, and guilt washes over him. You’re this way because of him. He took away the thing you needed most and wouldn’t dare seek out from anyone else. He left you hanging in the worst way possible, and he believes he is the only one to fix it.

The temporary girlfriends and the one-nighters, the blind dates and the hookups, the making out in trashy bar bathrooms or hitting on someone at the store, none of it didn’t seem to fulfill his previously perceived insatiable hunger. No matter how many hands were on his arms, his back, his torso, in his hair, no matter how many kisses he received or how many compliments would be tossed in his direction, none of it felt quite like this does. Holding your hand, putting his arm around your shoulder to keep you close in crowds, cuddling on the couch, falling asleep together in the living room with bodies tangled, his fingers hidden in your hair.

Ah, fuck.

Dammit.

“When was the last time someone touched you?” He couldn’t stop the question escaping out of his curious mouth, mind immediately screaming at him for going off without it.

“What do you mean?” You can barely think, it dawning on you that he has been hovering over you in the most protective position he has ever placed you in.

“When was the last time someone touched you?” He repeats, his cologne mixing with your lotion, infiltrating his senses violently, and he does love how intoxicating of a combination it can be.

“You know I’ve never been with anyone, Osamu,” he shudders after a slight pause, hiding his face in your neck, and a small smile makes way on his lips.

“Haven’t heard you call me that in a while.”

“Your name?”

“First name, yeah,” his words vibrate into your skin, and you don’t really remember either the last time you addressed him with his first name; it had only ever been “Dazai” or sometimes even “‘Zai”. You swallow, reluctantly breaking from his embrace, still gripping his wrist, and you begin walking into your room.

“Twelve, I guess,” you answer his question, not looking back at him, just hoping he knows to cross that threshold on his own. “Maybe younger.” His feet follow, no hesitation, closing the door by himself, and watching the back of your head. Fingers twitch forward, listening intently to you.

“Can I keep touching you?” He abruptly asks, but the hint is already there with him in your enclosure, your hand clasped around his wrist, unrelenting, and her pjs are really fucking cute.

“Man, don’t make me beg,” you kind of joke, finally peeking at him over your shoulder, and he’s blushing. The sight makes you stall, slowly turning to face him fully, and his fingertips gently ghost along different parts of your body: your hands, forearms, up to your shoulders then down around the curve of your chest, landing on your hips with his thumbs caressing the subtly exposed skin under your shirt. You shake in place, holding eye contact with him, and you don’t know what to do.

“Relax,” he whispers, watching your shoulders visibly shudder, and steps closer to you. “It’s just me.”

“I know,” you, hesitantly, raise your hands up to place your fingers on his wrists, but your eyes drop down to look at them instead of his suddenly all too alluring gaze. “I-I don’t really… know what I should do.” You confess. They don’t exactly teach you how to initiate anything, or what first steps to take, comments of “it all comes naturally” being the only explanation you got. Porn isn’t the best teacher unless you dig down deep for oddly specific tutorials; movies are only slightly better because they’re written by real people that experienced those situations; and forget about books, literally written to fulfill fantasies that probably have never happened. You’re closed off in your bedroom with possibly the most experienced person you could encounter, and it’s a bit embarrassing.

“It’s alright,” his fingers come up to rest under your chin, tilting it back so he can see your reaction, the uncertainty in your eyes. He thinks to himself, glancing around the space, knowing for your comfort it’d be best to stay in a spot you recognize, and his line of sight lands on your unmade bed with his hoodie thrown across your pillow and stuffed animals. He withdraws his hands then messes with his jeans, carefully pulling them off and stepping out of them, just to reveal his boxers are the joke pair you bought him for Christmas. Your brow arches high, lips parting, and judgement clouds your mind to distract you. “What?” He looks down at them, tugging the material, showing off all of the little hearts littered against the white background.

“N-Nothing,” you quickly shake your head, hugging yourself. “Uhm, why are you undressing?”

“I don’t like lying in bed with jeans,” he climbs onto your mattress, hands making a pile with the fluffy mounds, before sitting down and pressing his back to it. His legs are spread, and he waves you to join him. “C’mere. Sit between my legs.”

“Do… I need to take anything off, too?” Your words come out slow, feet firmly on the carpet, eyeing him making himself comfortable on your bed.

“No, no, it’s alright, just c’mere,” his hand is extended out toward you, fingers outstretched, waiting, his brown eyes you used to never pay much attention to now gazing at you with the sunshine spilling in across his face, and the color seems to glow. Maybe I can understand why it was so easy for girls to fall for him. Your own hand carefully sits in his awaiting palm, letting him pull you closer, your knee on the edge, before his arm wraps around you completely and sets you between his thighs. Both snake around your front, another embrace, and brings your back flush to his chest, and you two sit there in silence like that, palms flat to your stomach, snuck under your shirt, the warmth floating on your skin. “How’s this?” He murmurs in your ear, voice steady, but his racing heart is hitting your back repeatedly.

You just nod, quick, mouth dry as you sit there with him in his underwear and the pjs you forgot you put on. He sighs, quiet, the thought entering his mind and leaving his mouth just as quickly: “I like you.” You smile slightly, confused, and your feet shift.

“Yeah? I would hope you like me. We live together.”

“No, dummy,” he sounds serious, his arms tightening again, and his chin is resting on your shoulder. “I like-like you.” You let that settle, the dust clearing, and off in the horizon, you can see in the setting sun of the desert duel that his gun is out, aimed at you, and the bullet grazed your cheek. Leaving you there startled and maybe bashful. He was always one to speak his mind when he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Just laying that out in the open?” You tease, but his palms can feel your body tensing under them. The anxious anticipation and butterflies have returned deep in the pit of your stomach, and you’re just glad you didn’t have to be the one to say it first.

“Got tired of ignoring it,” he shrugs, his legs now closing in on you, and his nose lightly nudges under your ear, causing your lashes to flutter at the adorable contact. “That was pretty brave of me to admit to you. Think I deserve a reward or something?” His voice has an audible mischievousness laced in the words, recognizable, something he used to use on you when he wanted your snacks that you were unwilling to share without coercion.

“Depends on what you want,” you follow along, head turning enough to see the side of his face. He’s deep in thought, clinging to you, pieces of his shaggy hair dropping down over his eyes.

“A kiss,” he suddenly pouts. You stare at him, cocking your head.

“Osamu, I’ve never kissed anyone.”

“Then I definitely should have one!” He side-eyes you, bottom lip poking out, and you huff.

“You’re gonna be weird about it!” You whine, lightly kicking your heels into the bedding.

“I’m gonna steal it one way or another, might as well let me now,” he argues, shifting around and readjusting his grip, fastened you down so you can’t wiggle around anymore. You think, briefly, before rolling your eyes.

“This isn’t going to help the boyfriend allegations,” you grumble, craning your neck to look at him fully with a pout on your lips now. He stops for a beat, blinking once, not having the slightest idea of what you’re referring to, but he isn’t going to let any of this slip by him like he did before. His features soften, fingertips gently pressing into your side, and nudges his nose against your jaw.

“Then lemme just kiss my girlfriend,” he murmurs, gazing down at you with such an intense longing, it makes you melt, forgetting you’ve known him for your entire life and had no clue he could be like this. Wait, girlfriend?! Before you can agree, or push him away, or scramble out of his hold to disappear in a different room of the apartment entirely, he’s cradling the side of your face and has his surprisingly soft lips on yours. Your body is stock-still, tense, eyes wide open, and nails lightly digging into his arm from the contact. Your cheeks are heating up as your throat closes on itself, and that stupid thing in your chest won’t slow down. When he pulls away, to give you breathing room, your lips chase after him, and that just strokes his own ego with a loving smirk forming on his mouth.

“You’re gonna be weird about this,” you whisper, hands shaking from anticipation and wanting and yearning and pent-up loneliness.

“I won’t, sweetheart,” he promises, tucking loose strands behind your ear, and his lashes are beautifully long. “Might gloat, though.” He winks, thumb following the outline of your jaw, and your breath stutters.

“Fine, just… please kiss me some more,” you grant him all the permission he needs, ducking down to let your mouths mesh, sharing passing breaths and short sighs, his fingers lacing back in your hair where they belong while you cling to his shirt, dying for him to be impossibly closer. He feels dizzy, his body moving on its own, muscle memory, teeth careful in biting and tugging on your bottom lip, fueled by the small sounds you make, the squirming in his lap, and the obvious way you don’t know what to do with yourself. Your body is screaming to know what his skin feels like against it, wanting to tug at his shirt to take it off, but he stops you, holding your wrists firmly at either side of you, and pulls away again as he pants. You whine, getting all this attention just for him to take it away from you.

“Hey,” Dazai soothes, his mouth wandering behind your ear to place delicate kisses down to the side of your neck, reaching your shoulder, lips getting wetter from the desperation to feel your skin on them. “Tell me what you want me to do. Where do you want me to touch you?” He asks, breath fanning your shoulder, and his eyes are trained on your pjs.

“Anywhere,” you barely get out, watching the side of his face as you wriggle around. “Everywhere.” He listens to you, the soft whining and whimpering, the handful of ‘pretty please’s falling out of your begging mouth, and he nods once before leaning back on the pillows, taking you with him.

“Relax for me, I’ll take care of you,” he instructs, slowly releasing your wrists to then languidly trail his large palms down your thighs, stopping just above your knees to bring them back up under your shorts to where they connect with your pelvis, fingertips tracing the outline, reveling in your body heat and hearing you struggle to breathe. He hums, low, revealing his hands once more as they make way for the waistband. “These are so cute on you, by the way. Where have you been hiding them?” His lips are resting on the conch of your ear now, darkened gaze watching you closely, and you swallow at his feather-light touch.

“Didn’t think… didn’t know if I should wear them,” you admit, but now you’re kind of wishing you had if it meant all of this.

“Do you have more?” He asks, as if you can even bother thinking straight enough to have a normal conversation at this very moment. His pointer slips underneath it, roaming, until his brows furrow. “Pretty girl, are you not wearing underwear?” Your teeth sink down into your lip before you hesitantly shake your head, and then he groans.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, reluctantly removing his hand until they both find the hem of your shirt, carefully rolling up to rest on your chest, exposing your tits that rise and fall with your labored breathing. Your thighs rub together by accident, on instinct, and maybe from shame as you’re just letting him ogle your bare chest right now. His eyes flicker to watch as they move, the satin-like material shining under the natural light, before raking back up to your already hardened nipples. His middle finger slips to your parted lips, letting the cool, manufactured air whip over your semi-naked body. “Get it wet for me?” He asks you, so sweetly, and you dart your eyes toward him before taking it in your mouth, rolling your tongue around the digit, making sure to get spit everywhere. “Good, now this one.” His voice is tight, and you can feel something poking into your lower back as you lay there, pressed against him, spitline breaking as he pulls one middle finger away to slide the other in.

As you work to coat his skin in spit, the other starts tracing around your nipple, the slick saliva making it easy for him to move at his leisure, before the pad applies pressure on the bud. Your pulse flutters in your neck, mouth falling open to release his finger, just so he can repeat it on the other, neglected nipple. “How’s this?” His voice barely keeps you anchored on this plain, hardly nodding, a small moan your verbal response as his fingers fondle and gently pinch at them. “Pretty.” He compliments as he watches you, continuing his slow, circular motions on your nipples and the skin around them, ensuring to take turns on which area to massage with adoring attention.

“That feels… feels s-so good,” you breathe, your hands gliding up to rest on the back of his, relaxed, feeling the muscles of his fingers move underneath yours, and your thighs rub together more as you start to ache.

“Poor thing,” he coos, taunting, watching your attempts at creating your own friction. “Is it true what they say?” He doesn’t ask anything further, hands gingerly cupping your tits, gently squeezing, and a puff of air makes its way out of your tightened throat.

“What…?” Your mind is elsewhere, toes curling, clamping your thighs tight. Eyes spin behind your eyelids, overwhelmed and overstimulated already, helping him fondle and massage your breasts, hearing him chuckle.

“Virgins are more sensitive,” he answers his own question, your lids cracking enough at that, and rolling your eyes at that comment.

“You’re such–” Another moan cuts you off as his palms caress your nipples as they squeeze again. “Such a loser. Makin’ this… w-weird.” He laughs at that, placing a sweet kiss on your cheek, before beginning to lower his hands down your stomach, and you whine. Loud in protest.

“Oh, I’m a loser, but you’re sitting here throwing a tantrum because I stopped touching you?” He teases, allowing you the sensation of his fingertips back to messing with your shorts, snapping the band repeatedly into your tummy, and your face is scorching as your hips buck down from each impact.

“You’re mean,” you pout, fisting the sheets, getting poked again in response as his erection jumps against your back. “I don’t see how girls like you so much.”

“I can keep showing you,” he doesn’t miss a beat, helping slide your shorts down, then lifting your legs up to spread out wide and dangle over his thighs. Fingers fly up to tangle into his hair, something to hold onto, the other gripping one of the pillows under your bodies. “Don’t worry, I got you.” He traces circles on your pelvis, earning your pants and shaking legs, fingertips drawing nearer to your pulsing clit, lips covered in a sheen of evident arousal, and it hurts with how badly you want to be touched by someone that isn’t you.

“‘Samu, please don’t tease me, please,” you beg, head dramatically falling back as your eyes squeeze shut. “It’s… It’s not fair, it’s not nice. Please, I want you!” You’re a bumbling idiot, saying all these things to him, catching him off guard since he wasn’t trying to tease you – more so getting your cunt acclimated to being touched there by someone else.

“I won’t be cruel, baby, it’s okay,” he soothes, one palm pressing down on your abdomen, silently telling you to ‘stay still’, the other reaching down, middle and ring fingers finding your puffy lips, and beginning a slow rhythm of petting. Your hips jolt forward at the contact, tears lining in your lashes, and you have to bite down on your back teeth to prevent more useless begging. His fingers are a combination of smooth and calloused, the perfect texture to apply gentle pressure on the outside of your pussy, moving easily with how wet you’ve gotten already. “All of this is for me?” He remarks with a flip to his tone, a breathy laugh following as his dick strains in his boxers from your ass squirming around on it. Nodding, your grip tightens in his hair, his slow drag starting at the bottom then making it on either side of your clit – you’re trying to maintain your cool, but this feels better than anything you’ve done to yourself.

He coaxes you once more to relax, spreading his own legs out to keep yours apart, and finally his fingers dip down to trace along the folds, a shuddered whimper squeaking out as your forehead presses to his temple. His other arm is holding you down in place by your torso, knowing he’s tormenting you without meaning to, trying his best to maintain his cool while you’re writhing and letting out such adorable sounds when he’s hardly done anything to you. He spreads your cunt open, the sound obscene, and he has to bite his tongue, reminding himself this situation is much different than what he’s used to, and he doesn’t think teasing you to tears is the best course of action. At least… not today.

The pad of his middle finger lazily draws itself up from just above your entrance right to your clit, applying gentle pressure, and you gasp, hitching in your throat, right into his ear, and it sends a strike of lightning down his spine. “Right here?” He whispers, ignoring how hard he is, mind getting fuzzy, and begins narrow circles on your clit, your body going limp in his hold.

“Yeah,” you breathe, inhaling deep, brows twitching, mouth fallen open, and hanging onto Dazai for dear life. “Yeah, l-like thaht.” Your hips involuntarily buck, his pattern not halting, applying the perfect amount of pressure, circling your clit, then sliding the pad over it, pushing the hood back and forth, and you shiver. “S-So good.” You tell him without thinking, your free hand absentmindedly grasping and massaging your tit, the warmth of his palm now over yours, following your movements, squeezing when you do.

“I know, sweetheart,” he croons, lips finding your shoulder again to pepper wet kisses along, finger moving on its own in the continued, mind-numbing pattern of encircling your swelling clit then caressing it back and forth, listening to your quiet, pitched sighs and sweet moans. Kisses create a path up the side of your neck, making way for your ear that he playfully nips at before blowing a small string of air into it. Your eyes roll back, lashes fluttering, and one leg twitches when his middle finger applies the slightest amount of pressure again. “You gonna come for me already?” His voice lilts right into your ear canal, and the pit ignites in your stomach.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes!” You murmur, nodding fervently, panting again from the burn of waiting for your orgasm to hit you. “Yes, gonna come for you, ‘Samu!” You whine, needy, hips squirming and raising, him no longer wanting to pin you down.

“Gimme another kiss right now,” he demands, hand reaching up to grab your jaw to hold firmly, guiding you to his greedy mouth, finger picking up pace on your clit, rubbing it back and forth, catching the spot near it that is setting your skin aflame, white-hot, moans and whimpers from you getting swallowed by him, lips moving feverishly against another, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth to fondle and wrap around yours. You can’t breathe, his body heat radiating around yours, his caressing delicious, him manhandling you – you can’t take it. You cry out, muffled by a groan of his own, you coming from his simple touch taking an edge off he didn’t know he had. Your legs shake, thighs clasping around his hand, just to be ripped apart by his legs and hands, spreading you open again and your head drops back, aftershocks rippling through your body as you sit in his hold. Your hand goes limp, slipping down from his hair to the side and dangles, and he watches you with such amusement.

“Need further convincing?” The question is rhetorical, his fingers already tracing your messy cunt, taking turns repeatedly petting at your neglected hole, earning a tired ‘uh, uh, uh’ with each stroke. He can’t help laughing at you, arrogant and ego inflated, happy he is the one doing all of this to you right now, his middle finger back to encircling your clit then tracing down to circle your hole. You lay there wordless, a fog invading your brain, lids hooded as you stare at the wall behind your bed, letting him touch you however he sees fit. “Sweet little virgin, so sensitive just from me jerking her off.” He purrs, tormenting you, his long fingers spreading your pussy open again, turning his head to plant kiss after kiss after kiss on your bright-red face.

“Please,” you mumble, twitching again when he has two fingers now tracing up and down between your lips, running along the folds, teasing your hole, cunt clenching around nothing, so badly wanting – needing – something inside you. Anything.

“Please what? Use your words for me,” his broad shoulder moves underneath you, flexing and relaxing while he reaches down to caress your inner thigh, and everything about him, someone you didn’t pay mind to in the matter of looks, is suddenly so hot. His voice, his fingers, his face – even the boxers he’s wearing aren’t a joke anymore, they’re attractive and almost purposeful for the circumstance. Oh god, I think Dazai’s hot. He won’t let you live that down if you say it to his face.

“Please… Put… Put something in-inside me,” the shame of having to beg both exhilarates you and makes you want to die. “Pretty please.” You add for good measure, not caring if this is all going to his head. He’s already got you literally wrapped around his finger just from using it, might as well get what you can from him while you’re both clouded in years of romantic and sexual tension snapping like an old rubber band that can’t hold out any longer.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, voice low again, and his fingers barely slide in, curling up repeatedly to give you a small bit of sensation, and your brain is broken. His? His body resituates itself, doing the same to yours, and his arm draws back for a moment, bringing his fingers to his mouth, popping them in and moaning at the taste of you dropping on his tongue. He takes his time, a filthy look in his dark, clouding eyes as he holds your gaze, and you flicker between his stare and his fingers in his mouth. He lets them go, covered in his spit, and drops them back between your legs. “Have you had anything in you before?” He wonders, a silly question he can’t stop himself from asking.

“I’m a virgin, not an innocent saint,” you grumble, sucking in a breath as his fingers tap the spot just above your hole.

“Just a question, sweetheart,” he laughs lightly, hugging you closer and nuzzling his nose with yours.

“You’re being weird again,” you mutter, resting a hand on his chest. He tilts his head, massaging that spot now while he admires you, the way you fight to keep your eyes open, cheeks flushed, and swollen, kiss-bitten lips pouting at his torturous neglect.

“Forgive me, I like knowing I’m the only one who will ever do this to you,” the confession rolls off his tongue, coated in remnants of you in the aftertaste of decadent reverie, and he doesn’t really give you much time to let that all settle before his fingers are knuckle-deep, the intrusion catching you by surprise, and, yeah, he wasn’t asking to be a weirdo. You fist his shirt, taking in a deep breath, hips shifting a bit, and he’s kind enough to allow time to adjust. Amber eyes watch closely, fingers stilled, and he steals a small kiss, lips lingering, eyes half-closed, watching. His mouth moves away, pressing to your forehead instead, fingertips already finding your G-stop to massage, thumb on your clit, and you shiver.

“Fuck, that’s amazing,” you slide your hand up the side of his neck, never wanting to leave his body ever again, wishing this doesn’t end. His forehead presses to yours, his fingers pumping in and out, curling with each thrust, brushing that spot with each plunge, trying to ignore how your cunt feels tightening around them so he can keep his focus. “You’re so good… so-so good at this.” You give in, letting him know you’re unraveling, begging for more of his touch, needing him to keep going, or you might simply die. The corner of his mouth tugs up at that, deep sanguine flush scattering from one cheek to the other, rampaging the tips of his ears, and his fingers urge themselves deeper, the digits already long, they don’t have much elsewhere to go.

“I want you to come again,” he admits, twisting them around inside you, your soaked cunt letting him know you’re already nearing your second orgasm. You nod, holding onto him again, drifting off into your own world, trying to take him with you as his elegant and slender fingers continue their ministrations, massaging every inch of your pussy, bullying that spot over and over, and his thumb decides to move. The circular motions return around your clit, your eyes rolling back into your head, hips rocking along with his thrusts, and his free hand is back to pinning you down against his body from how quickly you’re chasing that high. “That’s it, just relax and enjoy it.” He instructs, gritting his teeth some when you tug on the hairs on his nape, fighting his eyes from rolling back with yours from the pleasure skyrocketing through his entire body. Focus, idiot. His cock twitches again, your hips rolling around to make his fingertips feel every bit of you grinding against it, and if you keep it up, he might come with you.

“O-Osa–!” You lament, his thumb losing control of itself, swiping over and over at your swelling clit, fingers pressing harshly on your G-spot, deep and caressing it like his life depends on it, his own head falling back as your ass continues rubbing up on his leaking cock, and he pants as his mind swirls in and out of this reality.

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah! Yes!” Dazai moans along with you, his balls tightening, abdomen clenching, and your cunt trapping his fingers in place. “Gonna come w-with you, pre-pretty girl!” His teeth bite onto your shoulder, to conceal his whining, and attempts thrusting his fingers in and out of you again, but it’s difficult from his lack of concentration and your pulsing walls not wanting to let him go. You offer assistance by trying to literally ride his fingers, calling out his name, yanking his hair, and silently beg for mercy as his thumb finds the new spot to light your limbs on fire, your orgasm right there, and you’re utterly killing the poor boy with all this moving around. He groans, loud but muffled, his cock shooting out in his boxers, spurts and strings of his load sticking the material to his shaft and thighs, the warmth hitting your lower back.

Your jaw drops, a soundless cry when his fingertips curl and uncurl on your worn-out spot, clit aching from the overstimulation, and your legs tremble over his while your hips raise from your orgasm making stars burst in your eyes, clouding your vision, white at the edges, and he hasn’t stopped. His fingers assault you with vicious determination, canines trying to puncture your skin, and your cunt flutters again and again as you come, it dripping down his knuckles and the back of his hand, his palm, and onto the bed sheets.

You squeak, fingers unfurling from his messy strands, skating to his cheek, and relief washes over you when his teeth release you, and his hand comes to a standstill. You both lay there, you on top of him, panting, catching your breaths, sitting in each other’s afterglow. Slowly, carefully, he pulls them out, resting his hand on your stomach, and neither of you say anything. He swallows, coming down from… all of that, and realized his plan escalated far more than he intended. He was just going to try kissing you. He didn’t expect any of this. Not that I’m necessarily complaining.

“I’m tired,” you mumble, lids drooping, and he immediately snaps back to attention. Legs and hands work together to get yours down, swiftly grabbing your shorts to help slide back on you, before guiding you to lay down on your mattress. However, when he moves to get up, to change out of his own mess, you rolled over to bury your face in his chest; the cologne he conditioned you to love and seek out is surrounding you, wafting off his shirt, and you look so peaceful cuddled up next to me like this.

Dazai’s features soften at this, slipping down into the mattress with you, bringing the covers up to your shoulders, and traces the stars he found in your eyes along your cheek.

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Rising to the rank of capo in Passione was no small feat, but you had done so in just a handful of years. Your home life had been one of dissonance and so it wasn’t any wonder that you had gone the unfortunate way of many of your peers, scrounging for survival in the streets.   Starving and alone, you were entirely out of options that night several years ago when a plucky little boy around your age had found you, sick and shivering in a filthy, damp alleyway.  

Delirious from fever, you were met with the impression that an angel had fallen to earth and rescued you from ruin, but reality had not been quite as kind.  The boy offered you solace in the dusky hotel where he resided and saw to it that you were fed and taken care of.  In the morning, with your lucidity having returned to you, it was quite apparent that the boy who had come to your rescue was a member of Passione and the very thought left you reproachful of even his most genuine assistance.  

The extent of the power Passione had over Italy could not be overestimated. You knew that the shadow of that treacherous organization extended far beyond the edges of the little city you called home. You had known better than to involve yourself with something so unsavory; however hard up you were, you were not going to trade your life away just to end up the beast of burden to a faceless, unknowable entity who viewed you more as a number than a human. 

The boy who had acted as your savior approached you with a stoic expression that made him appear far wiser than his meager years would’ve suggested but you only glared back at him with contempt burning in your eyes. You knew a debt to Passione was not one you could easily be free of, so before you even properly met the boy, you loathed him with all the fire in your soul.  He tentatively handed you a glass of water which you accepted, only to promptly splash in his face. “Puttana, what did you do that for?” 

“I know what you are,” you spat, rage bubbling in your chest until you reached your fatal boiling point, “goddamn mafioso, the world would be a better place without the likes of you in it.  Whatever you brought me here for, I won’t do it!”

“You would be dead in the gutter if I hadn’t helped you stronza!”

“Bruno…” a deep, almost metallic-sounding voice bellowed, reverberating off the walls of the hotel room, “what did I tell you about bringing another ruffian into my home?” 

“Polpo, sir, I—”

“Oh, a girl, Bruno, you dog you.” 

“It’s not like that!” The boy shouted in vehement protest before shrinking back in fear of impending punishment for having spoken out of turn, “and besides, she was just leaving.” 

You nodded silently to affirm his claim and made a quick, darting movement to escape. Polpo’s reputation preceded him; he was a cruel and cold capo who seized what he wanted through whatever means necessary and wherever he went, he was undoubtedly treated like a king but in practice, he was more akin to a tyrant.  In the far recesses of your heart, you felt a pang of guilt for the boy; a mafioso he may be, but he had still come to your rescue without the hope of selfish gain. You bowed humbly to show your gratitude for the sanctuary you had been provided the night before, hoping the gesture would be enough to placate some of the man’s ire towards his subordinate, then you made another hasty attempt to make your exit, but your arm was caught in the capo’s massive, swollen hand.  “And where is it that you are so eager to run off to, it’s clear that such a sickly thing has no home waiting for her, why not join me?  It’s a generous offer, you would have food, shelter, and above all else, my protection, all I ask is that you pass one simple test.” 

His booming voice struck something deeply within you, as though he had tapped into the very wiring of your brain and pulled something loose. Before him, you felt entirely powerless and it required all of your strength just to remain on your feet as he forced you to look into the black depths of his soulless eyes.  “A-and if I were to refuse?” You stuttered, unable to hide the irresolution that quaked your entire frame. 

“Hmm?  Well, in that case, I suppose you would be of no use to me,” he said, forcing aloofness as he glanced over his fingernails.  “Quite a shame too, I can’t say things tend to bode well for those who cross me.”

Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach as he uttered such a thinly veiled threat, you were foolish to even tenuously believe that he would let you walk free without the demand of some kind of restitution, in the face of him, you were left utterly bereft of words, so shaken that you couldn’t see beyond the immediate terror that drowned out any of your better senses.

“Think it over, someone like you could be quite an asset to this organization.” 

“S-someone like me?” You asked and a dim hope arose that he might look favorably upon you and that you might find your freedom yet.

“Yes, someone that no one would ever come looking for, someone with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Someone expendable.”

There it was, your worst fears laid out before you as if by the wave of a hand, you had been stripped of all your resolve, forced to relinquish the last vestiges of personhood you had clung to so fiercely. “What do I have to do?”

A wicked sneer crawled across the corpulent man’s face and though you could not see what happened next, the ominous aura caused every inch of your skin to prickle with goosebumps and the acute sensation that followed was enough to make your body go limp. After that, the next thing you were able to recall was waking up in a warm bed feeling rather worse for wear, but the pin on your bedside table let you know that your initiation into Passione had been a success.  

And so swore fealty to Passione, from then on your future was set in stone, you would not know any other life that wasn’t one of carnage and bloodshed. After a while, it became normal, more than that, you began to revel in it. What had once been stomach-churning acts of violence soon left you aglow with pride, you ruthlessly pursued anything you wanted, no sacrifice was too great, “all for the good of the organization,” you said as you rose effortlessly through the ranks, paying little heed to those you had stepped on to reach for higher and heights. Was it any wonder that you’d become a capo in only a few short years?  Certainly not, and you were as respected by your subordinates as you were feared and in truth, any of you considered even your darkest of deeds to be worth the price now that you lived a life of luxury.

As the years passed, any thoughts of the boy that had come to your rescue had receded to only a dim recollection your mind could only laboriously conjure up, though your connection to him was not one you could so easily forget and every time you heard his name in passing, you were catapulted back in time, struck by a vision of tan skin, dark hair, and deep blue sunken eyes that looked upon you with violent contempt.   

Bruno Bucciarati; you had not seen him in years and perhaps that was for the best, he had not been shy about his acrimonious feelings towards you and even though there was a part of you, deep in the reservoir of your cold, cold heart that still looked favorably upon him, you did not think the possibility of amends would be worth the risk of altercation.

But then, on a perfectly common day at the end of March, came the instructions for your latest assignment, direct from the hands of Percilo himself. You had been requested to undertake a special mission with the newly appointed capo with one clear goal in mind: eliminate the leader of the hitman team, Risotto Nero. So you were left with no other choice but to follow the orders that had been handed down to you, you could never violate a direct order from the Boss and live to tell about it. Armed with the knowledge that Bruno would be less than enthused by your presence, you arranged your travel plans and made a reservation under a false name at that little restaurant Bruno was so terribly fond of and planned to enter unannounced before he had a chance to deny you entry.

Seated at one of the quaint tables, you observed as a group of well-dressed civilians was led to their reserved table nearby which provided you with the perfect opportunity to ask the maitre-d’ if he could send for Bucciarati.  While he complied graciously and assured you that he was in, instead of Bucciarati, a trio of vibrantly dressed, obstreperous youths emerged from the back of the restaurant and crowded your table. 

“Are you the one who’s been asking for—” the blond dressed in a green suit asked before being interrupted by one of his friends.

“Who are you and why do you want to see Bucciarati?” 

“Narancia, cool it, that’s not the way you talk to a guest.  You gotta ask nicely and if they don’t comply, then, well, we have other means.” The third man said as he glanced at the purple handle of a pistol that stuck out of his waistband. 

“Are you threatening me?” You asked, feigning an affectation of coyness as you looked up innocently from your menu. 

“A threat?  No, no, I like to think of this as more of a suggestion if anything.” 

“And if I choose not to take your suggestion?” 

“Well, you don’t have to, but I can’t say I’d be so eager to throw my life away,” he said with a shrug, letting his fingers over just over the handle, baiting you to continue your defiance. 

“Aw, you think you could kill me? That’s adorable. Where did Bruno pick you up?” You simpered, folding your hands together in an offhand gesture to emphasize the meaninglessness of his threats.

“Listen, lady, just tell us what you want with Bucciarati, we’re not gonna fight you if we don’t have to,” he said at last, planting his hands firmly on the table, having given up any pretense towards a gunfight in the middle of the restaurant. 

“I will only talk to Bruno, not whatever help he’s pulled together.”

“And what makes you think we’ll let you?”

“Oh, you will,” you said, standing up with a crazed look in your eye, ready to fight if necessary, but you reined in your temper just enough to keep the upper hand, “after all, he and I are old friends.”

“Doubt it,” the blond cut in, matching his tone to yours, “Bucciarati told us about the kinds of friends he had before and none of them are welcome here.” 

“Well, that’s quite a shame then, because—” you began, but were cut off by a familiar voice slicing through the ensuing quarrel.

“What is going on out here? Mista, Narancia, Fugo, when I sent you to see who was asking for me, I explicitly told you to do so without disturbing the other guests!” Bucciarati shouted, a pair of other men flanking him as they entered the scene, the man to his left had silver hair and wore a long, dark coat, and to his right was a young blond with his hair tied back into a braid, dressed in a lurid pink suit.

“My, my, Bruno Bucciarati, as I live and breathe,” you said, a sly, coquettish titter to your voice as you collected yourself, he was certainly just as handsome as you remembered him, “can’t say I thought I’d ever see the day where they’d let you make capo, the Boss must really be desperate after what happened to ole Polpo.”

“You… I thought you knew better than to ever show your face around me again,” he sneered, several vulgar interjections from his colorful subordinates followed his declaration.  

“Now, now, is that any way to treat a lady?” You asked, abandoning the table entirely and sauntering over to where he stood with the letter in hand.  “And besides, I’m here because of my orders alone and these have been handed down from the top, if you care to have a look.”

He snatched the paper from your hand and read it over carefully. It was legit. Only a select few had ever been chosen directly by the Boss himself, but all were rewarded handsomely in both monetary compensation and under the banner of greater trust. As much Bruno did not want to tangle himself with any of the unsavory business you often dealt with, that added trust alone could prove essential to the long-term goals he and his newfound friend were aiming towards, “one last mission and then we go back to being strangers. I mean it, I don’t ever want to hear from you again, are we clear?”

“Crystal.” 

The details were dealt with accordingly and you returned to your hotel to bide your time until your departure the following day. Meanwhile, Bucciarati discussed the matter in depth with his team, though all the while, a flurry of unwelcome emotions stewed relentlessly through his mind, as vivid and intolerable as the last time he laid eyes on you.

“Bucciarati, I think you should seriously reconsider accepting this mission, something about it seems strange,” Giorno said as he looked over the fragment of the letter you left in their care.

“You can’t be serious, stronzo! Bucciarati can’t just ignore a direct order from the Boss!” Abbacchio exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table with such ferocity it caused the dishes to rattle in their places. 

“Listen, Giorno, I know you’re new here, but the Boss doesn’t hand out missions like this to just anyone,” Fugo said, more calmly than his cohort, but still in vehement opposition to anything that may create conflict between them and the Boss. And rightfully so, it would be a foolish endeavor to even think one stood a chance against such a fearsome adversary.  

“Yes, they’re right Giorno, disagreeable as they are, orders are orders and I am determined to see this through.” 

Giorno sighed and mulled over the arrangement before drawing his own conclusion and covertly hiding something in Bucciarati’s pocket. “Giorno, what is—”

“Take it for luck. It’s… insurance.” Bucciarati did not need to ask questions to understand where Giorno’s intentions lay, but he could not afford to disclose any further information and jeopardize the safety of his team.

“Come Bucciarati, the instructions say to meet at Napoli Centrale, I’ll drive you.” 

“That won’t be necessary Fugo, I promised my old friend that I would meet her at her hotel.” 

“Is it wise to disobey orders like that?” 

“Perhaps not wise, but I doubt any harm will come of it. The Boss must be well aware of our history or else he would not have specifically paired us to work together.” 

“Well, alright, you would know best, just promise that you’ll be safe… for all of us, we need you as our leader.”

“Thank you, Fugo, I will make it back from this, you have my word,” Bruno declared, his resolve was evident in the deep tone of his voice. One more mission, that’s all it would be. He would earn the Boss’s trust and then you would be out of his life for good.

It was early the next morning when there came three rapid knocks on the door of your hotel room and with all the swiftness of a cat, you glided to the door and pulled the chain through the lock so that you could open the door just enough to make sure your visitor had been invited.  “So you came after all, Bruno, but really, how could you stay away?” You purred as you undid the chain and bade him inside with far greater amiability than he was likely to offer you. 

“You know very well that I had no choice in the matter,” he spat, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with you… those damn eyes of yours, like sparkling jewels, they always hypnotized him. 

“Come now Bruno, that hurts my feelings, and after all the things we’ve been through together, it’s quite a shame, I remember when you used to be so terribly fond of me.” You purred, dragging your index finger tediously down his exposed chest. 

With an abruptness that startled you out of your cavalier disposition, he harshly gripped your wrist to stop the salacious pursuit of your hand. “You know very well that any fondness I once had for you died a long time ago.” 

“Are you quite certain about that? I saw the way you were looking at me at the restaurant, I think there’s a part of you that still wants me like you did all those years ago.” 

His brows furrowed together and, with the same suddenness with which he had grabbed your wrist, he pushed it away and took several steps away from you. 

“Aw, Bruno, haven’t you realized that you shouldn't show your hand so early?” You snickered, drifting slowly over to him, your hips swaying with each purposeful step.

“Well, it’s not as though you ever made it a challenge.”  He snapped, unamused by your performance.

“If that’s the case, then how come you were never able to seal the deal? We both know how desperately you wanted to.” 

“It is very like you to think more highly of yourself than you deserve, but you must be misremembering.” 

“Oh, am I misremembering the compromising position that Polpo caught us in that Easter?”

“That was before Milan.” 

“Don’t tell me you aren’t even the least bit curious about what would have happened if Polpo hadn’t come back early,” you said, pressing your chin to his shoulder and whispering softly into his ear.

“Hmm,” he mused carefully, drawing back from you and finally securing a seat in one of the finely quilted chairs, “even back then you tasted like a liar.”  If looks could kill, you would have been dead, face down on the floor after the way he looked at you, full of hate, ire, and a deep desire for vengeance.  And yet even for all the malice in his stare, it tickled you to know you still affected him so strongly.  Had he truly cut you from his life with the same knife you had used to stab him in the back, he would not have been driven to such brutish, adolescent insults.  

You smoothed out the skirt of your dress and sat in the chair opposite from him, quickly, but not without a degree of ceremony, you unfolded the remaining pages of the letter and spread them out in order upon the coffee table, “I suppose we should get down to business then, shall we?”

He made no reply but began to sift through the separate papers to familiarize himself with the administered task.  A look of confusion sprung across his face when he reached the final sheet, “this can’t be all you were given.”

“For now, yeah, the rest of the mission will be waiting in an envelope behind The Birth of Venus then we just go from there.” 

“You act like it’s that simple, thousands of people go to the Uffizi Gallery every single day!”

“And we will be among them, just leave everything up to me, I have a plan.” 

“I will certainly not trust you with my life, not after last time, you will tell me exactly what you have devised and then we can decide what the best course of action is as a team.” 

“A team? Well, in that case, perhaps I can accept those conditions.” You simpered, crossing one leg over the other, knowing full well it offered him a titillating view of your upper thigh.  “Truth be told, Risotto and I were once… friends. I have some apprehensions about targeting him and his team, especially after what happened to Sorbetto and Gelato.” 

“This is precisely why they tell you not to mix business with pleasure, though I was certain you’d learned that lesson a long time ago.” 

“Hm, I don’t recall you being the jealous type, Bruno, perhaps you have changed.” 

“And unfortunately for us both, it appears that you have not.”

That cut a bit deeper than his previous affronts and you felt a bit of your playfulness recede, “I’m merely saying that while Risotto was an irrevocable fool for believing he stood a chance against the Boss, I think his motives are understandable, after what happened to Sorbetto and Gelato, but they should have known better than to go poking around into the Boss’s identity.”

Bruno sat pensively as he considered the circumstances, “far be it from me to question the Boss’s absolute authority, but isn’t it a bit odd that he sent us to do a hitman’s job, that really isn’t either of our specialties.”

“Well, La Squadra was in charge of assassinations, I’m not sure he could get any one of them to defect from their leader. I suppose he trusts us more at any rate.” 

“I’m sure he has plenty of other skilled assassins that would be better suited for the job than us if this job is really so important.”

“Well, you can consider it your initiation.  Prove your loyalty now that you’re a capo.”

“Then why you?”

“Because of my relationship to Risotto of course.  Listen, I know you aren’t fond of me, at least not anymore, but you know there isn’t a better person you could have been paired with for this mission.  I know Risotto like the back of my hand, I’m wise to his tricks, I know how he thinks, and I’ve seen his Stand. I know all of his strengths and weaknesses, like it or not, you need me for this.”

“Fine then, but my previous request still stands, once this is over, you and I are strangers once again.” 

“I agreed before, didn’t I?” You asked, resting your head on your folded hand to eye his movements more keenly.  The stern, unwavering look on his face remained, as such you were forced to resort to far more efficacious means to restore the upper hand you so desired.  

Without a word, you moved across the room with the same rhythmic sway of your hips that always seemed to catch Bruno’s eye and situated yourself before the only mirror your hotel room offered. 

“What on earth are you doing?” He asked, aghast as he watched your dress flutter to the ground and pool around your feet.

“Don’t act as though it’s something you haven’t seen before,” you groaned, rummaging through the mess of your suitcase for the necessary garment until, at last,  you found what you needed, an expensive sundress covered in a vibrant pattern of flowers and citrus fruits. 

“And your previous attire was unsuitable?” He asked, that unflappable aplomb had been utterly laid to waste once he got a glimpse of your body.

“Naturally, we will be going to Florence, what better way to blend in than as tourists? Every member of La Squadra is a thoroughly trained assassin, this way we can hide amongst the throngs of couples on holiday and they will be none the wiser,” you explained as you stepped into the dress. “Now then, zip me up?” 

“I never imagined you’d be capable of appearing so docile,” he mused, tugging the zipper up the length of your spine to where the hem of your dress sat between your shoulder blades. 

“Don’t look so smug, I brought something for you to wear as well,” you said and handed him a tidy garment bag.

“You can’t expect me to wear this…” he said, recoiling as he unzipped the bag and caught sight of its sickeningly pastel colored contents.

“I do indeed, and as sexy as that suit is on you, we are aiming to be as inconspicuous as possible, so get changed, I promise you’ll look just as dashing in this little costume I’ve picked for you. Now hop to it.” 

With disguises set and travel plans arranged, you boarded the train for Florence. The journey was long, several hours at least, but the journey across the Italian landscape was beautiful. Perhaps, had it not been for your addled mind, you would have been able to enjoy it more. Instead, you leaned your head against the window in your private car and watched as Bruno slept in the seat beside you. The tan suit and pale blue shirt suited him perfectly, in fact to any unknowing passerby, the two of you could have easily been mistaken for a young couple on a scenic ride through the countryside. 

Baring that thought in mind, you felt nothing but contempt for the dismal shell of a life you had been living. Briefly, you wondered what might have been if young Bruno had been your savior all those years ago, but you couldn’t see past the immediate severity of what you had been rescued from. Even so, you never wanted this, but for all your dangerous desires, all the money and power you had amassed in so young a life, you knew that you could never be anything else but what you had already become. You were a murderer and no matter how you tried to couch it in the insistence of necessity, that it was a matter of your life or theirs, that they were no better than you, but no matter how you dressed it up, a murderer you would always be. Even if by some stroke of luck you managed to escape the grasp of Passione, you could never escape all you had done. Years of miserable deeds and back alley deals; it would all have to be paid for in time.

You gazed upon Bruno’s gentle face, his soft features and the glow of his tan skin always seemed somehow angelic especially in the warm light of the late morning sun, even when you had been young you’d always been struck by his appearance, he was beautiful and even beyond on that, you found him admirable, he was loyal and disciplined and merciful, all of the things you were not and it drew you to him like a moth to a flame. You wondered if he ever felt the same, dissatisfied, downcast, and disillusioned. You could recall all the nights you’d spent looking into his eyes as though you’d been twins, cut from the same cloth and doomed to the same forsaken end, but now you were not so sure. In spite of your unfathomable success, Bruno had eclipsed you somewhere in the years between. He had built a life for himself, one surrounded by friends who truly cared for him, seeing that ragtag group he’d assembled at his restaurant, you knew that he had found something that you had never been able to and you were then rendered certain that you could never again be equals. It was an appalling realization to face while stuck within the cramped walls of a train car when all you could do was stew in your dismay. Whatever you were to become, you could never be all that you wanted.  

Florence, known as the birthplace of the Renaissance, has been home to many notable figures including authors Niccolo Machiavelli and Dante Alighieri as well as Renaissance masters such as Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and Sandro Botticelli. In part due to the extensive commissions made by the eminent Medici family, it has been a thriving centre for history, art, and culture ever since.  Many of the world’s seminal works of Italian art remain today in the many museums and chapels that line the streets, but none more recognizable than the great duomo of Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, which prominently holds its place in the skyline, ever looming over the city like the crown marking a bygone dynasty. 

And still, the city teems with life, attracting tourists from all walks of life, and that is precisely how you found yourself when the train rolled into the station on that bright afternoon. 

Staying at one of the many charming little hotels, you unpacked your things and set up a makeshift base of operations where Bruno made you tediously go over the plans you had set ad nauseam; he wanted to hear every detail laid out for him in the exact order you intended for the umpteenth time, “again,” he said, the velvety timbre of his voice that you normally would have found dangerously alluring only grated on your nerves. 

“We are going to the Uffizi Gallery as tourists, we will arrive just after one, when it should be the most crowded that way we can blend in seamlessly, then we will nonchalantly peruse the museum for several minutes so we don’t raise suspicion, finally, on my mark, you are going to position yourself at The Birth of Venus while I go across the hall and trip the security system, once the guards have rushed over to me, you grab the envelope and use your stand to make a swift exit.  We reconvene here to figure out what needs to be done next, got it?” 

“I am still finding it rather difficult to believe that you would willingly put yourself in the position to get caught, that is not how I remember you operating,” he said, though his words had been unabashedly smug, his tone was thoughtful as if he were sincerely trying to piece together the path your life had taken since you parted ways.

“Well, I just know that you are far better suited to retrieve the envelope than I am, plus, as pretty as you are, I’m sure I can do a better job of seducing the guards if need be.” 

“And if the guard is a woman?” 

“Ha! You act as though that would make a difference.” 

“Your modesty has been dearly missed,” he said, rolling his eyes, though there was playfulness in his chides that had not been there the afternoon before.

“You know as well as anyone that my claims are not without merit.”

He let out a discontented sigh before he could manage a response, certainly, there was an inkling of truth, but did you always have to tout your wiles so audaciously? “ I was young and dumb then, I would not fall for your same tricks again.” 

“Who said my tricks are the same? I have refined my craft since last we met, you could be falling for me as we speak, you might not even know it.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” He muttered before rising to his feet and tossing the sheets of paper containing your instructions onto the fire, “there, now that that’s done, we had better be off.” 

So you walked, arm I’m arm through the piazza and made your way up the steps of the gallery where you seamlessly wove into the colorful menagerie of attendees that dispersed through the halls. Falling into an old routine, you walked up to a painting across the room and looked up at it with a thoughtful expression, “The Annunciation by Leonardo da Vinci,” you said, leaning closer to trace the intricate details of the diaphanous veil with you eyes, “imagine being so skilled that you can paint something sheer and gauzy like that.” 

Bruno gave a little nod and followed the line of your gaze, “hm, I’ve never had the opportunity to see this one in person, quite impressive, far different from The Last Supper.”

“Now that’s one I’ve never seen in person.”

“That’s because you absconded Milan before we had the chance,” he said with that same grave intonation that he always summoned when he made reference to your duplicity. 

“Not here,” you whispered tersely, giving his upper arm an emphatic squeeze, “here we are civilians and it’s imperative that we remain so. Now, let’s go.” 

You left brusquely and escaped around the corner, forcing him to quicken his pace to follow after you.  You continued through the bustling halls of the museum in silence, a jarring difference from the myriad of conversations from the other patrons that echoed liltingly through your ears as you wandered into each of the different rooms, passing the target of your mission several times and taking careful stock of the artwork that lined the accompanying walls. 

“Don’t you think you’re taking your role as a tourist a bit too seriously?” He asked before glancing inconspicuously around the room.

“Hey, I paid for these tickets, I’m going to get my money’s worth and see the art!  Won’t you indulge me a little bit, it’s not often I get to do things like this.”

“Well—”

“And think of it this way, if we do a sweep of the entire place, we can be sure no one from La Squadra is lying in wait for us.” 

“Well, in that case, I suppose we can waste a few more minutes. Come along now,” he said, there was something suave about his voice as his strong hand found the small of your back as he effortlessly jockeyed you through the crowd. You felt your mind relinquish long-held apprehensions under the gentle force of his palm. So easy it was to let him take control, to let him handle you as though you were his own. Contentedly you accepted this subtle comfort as you soaked in the remaining minutes of quiet bliss.

“Hm, you know, I always preferred Primavera to The Birth of Venus.” You mused, staring up at the painting, your eyes flitted between the various allegorical figures 

“Oh, is that so?”

“Definitely, the colors, the dresses, the setting, there’s something very idyllic about it; pleasant and  dreamy, something that makes me feel like there’s still beauty in the world,” you quickly ceased your wistful longings, realizing you had spoken far too honestly than the moment called for, you quickly tried to divert the conversation elsewhere, “did you know the orange grove was meant to symbolize the Medici family?”

“That’s very interesting, I had no idea you were so well-versed in art.”

“Well, maybe you don’t know as much about me as you’d like to think you do.”

“Maybe so,” he murmured, twining his fingers with yours leading you to the stairs. 

And so you meandered through the various rooms, hand in hadn’t while you prattled on about art and for one brief moment, you felt as though your life was normal, you felt, through all the depths of your desperation, that maybe, if your mission went well, that you could take whatever funds you acquired and run as far away from Italy as you were able, start over and never look back. Build the life you wanted from the rubble yours had crumbled into.

“You know, sometimes I feel like that,” Bruno said as you both looked at Caravaggio’s The Sacrifice of Isaac.

“Abraham or Isaac?” 

The question went unanswered and you both stood in silence, staring at the scene brought to life by dramatically staged lighting that was so characteristic of Caravaggio’s works, feeling the moments tick away like grains of sand in an hourglass. “Now then, I believe it’s time for us to take our positions.” Bruno declared before taking his leave of you.  It was a curious feeling, the way that his hand slipped from yours, the way the touch of his fingers lingered in the moments after as you walked in the opposite direction, ultimately landing yourself face to face with another recognizable painting.  Judith Slaying Holofernes.  Gentileschi’s gruesome and dynamic depiction left you to ponder how deep your resolution ran. If it came to it, could you ever posit yourself as Judith? It concerned you even further to realize that you did not know if you could.

Without any other time to think, you made your way across the room where The Birth of Venus housed and with Bruno already in place, you positioned yourself far enough away from him so that when the alarms went off, he could secure the envelope unnoticed.  It was a simple task, some may say foolproof, all you had to do was reach across the threshold of the protective railing… all the world around you appeared to move in slow motion, all except for your racing heart, hammering hard against the walls of your chest.  It was such an easy task, you had done far worse and yet, you hesitated. Quaking in your resolve, you made a move to look back at Bruno but before you could turn your head, someone knocked into you and sent you careening past the protective bar. 

All at once, the alarm sounded, piercing the reticence of the serene gallery and then every guard in the vicinity was upon you.  A swarm of quick steps and terse exchanges could be heard throughout the whole room as civilians began to gather around you to catch a glimpse of the commotion. Out of the corner of your eye, as you were assisted to your feet and escorted away via museum security, you were certain you saw Bruno quickly disappearing beyond the farthest wall, from there, you were able to breathe easy. 

Bruno had made it back to the hotel with ease, your little spectacle had proved more than sufficient for him to make off with the next set of instructions unnoticed. So by the time you were released by security and made the journey back to the hotel, Bruno had already thoroughly read through the instructions and drawn several conclusions of his own.  As you sheepishly slinked through the door, you found him seated in one of the comfortable chairs with his elbows resting lackadaisically against his knees. 

“So it seems they let you go free without much trouble,” he drawled, straightening his posture and crossing one leg over the other. 

“I told you that I can be very persuasive, did I not?” You said, muster greater confidence than you actually felt. He looked back at you without speaking, as if he were trying to reduce the veracity of your claims hidden in your shaky inflection. “So… what’s the next step, I assume you’ve read it without me.” 

“I have and… here, see for yourself,” he shoved the folded sheets in your direction and watched keenly as you read through them.

“The duomo, huh?  Can’t say I expected the likes of Risotto to be holed up in an ancient Cathedral, but I guess I can give him points for style,” you said, trying to disregard any apprehensions with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders. 

“That is precisely what I thought… a very peculiar location for a safe house.”

“Regardless, I suppose we should devise a plan, it’ll be dark soon.”

“Listen to me, you said yourself that Risotto is a skilled assassin, why would he choose to hide himself in the most recognizable building in the entire city?”

“As you said, he’s incredibly skilled, he doesn’t need to be discreet.”

“That sounds ridiculous, even by your standards!”

“Everything else worked out, didn’t it?  You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“I will not blindly trust you, I’m telling you that there is something wrong with this entire mission.”

“That isn’t for us to decide, we shut up and we do our jobs, that’s all!”

“No, you aren’t understanding, don’t you think it’s a little odd that we spent the entire afternoon in public and not a single member of La Squadra came after us?”

“Yes, but—”

“You feel it too, I know you do.  Just think for a moment, you have always been shrewd, you know that something here isn’t right!” He shouted, his hands grabbed harshly to your shoulders, holding you in place, so close to him that you could feel the heat radiating off of his impassioned frame. 

“No!  No, I won’t even consider it.  We have to do this, this is what we do, this is what we signed up for when we became mafiosi. We have to see the mission through, we don’t have a choice!” You screamed, violently breaking yourself free of his restraint.

“You’re wrong, we always have a choice, we can walk away from this.”

“You’re far too naive, Bruno, you can’t possibly believe that, if we don’t go through with this, the full wrath of Passione will be after us, we wouldn’t even make it out of Italy before they had us killed or worse...” 

“Why must you always be so damn stubborn?”

“Why must you always act like you know better than I do?”

“Because I do,” he said, a coolness to his voice that left you both standing frozen in place as if noncommittal in the face of what you both knew would follow.

Propelled by some invisible force far beyond the realm of your control, your lips crashed against each other, gnashing brutally in a battle for dominance that neither of you would concede so readily. 

With ease not suggested by his lithe figure, he lifted you off the ground and pinned you securely against the nearest wall with such force that it caused the decorative print to rattle against the plaster. As if on command, your legs wrapped around his slender waist to draw him closer. With sufficient stability acquired, his hands were able to roam up your thighs, enough to hike your dress up past your hips. Your skin prickled with goosebumps under the urgency of his touches and a breathy whine caught in your throat and came out as a feeble squeak which in turn, only heightened his desire and the thin lace of your panties did not help matters either, “look at you…” he murmured, his cool façade hardly concealed the ardor that had stirred his disposition. Pulling your panties to the side, his fingers were able to explore between your folds, “you’re so wet,” 

“What’re you gonna do about it?” You purred, back arching against the wall when you felt his fingers slipping into you. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” he said, pupils blown wide as saucers as he glared at you with a menacing, hungry look. Your plush walls clenched around his fingers, fuck, the way he looked at you, like he hated you, like he needed you, as if you were the only person in the world that could quell the raging fire within him— it was as though several years of unmet desires had unfolded right in front of you. 

Not a sound of protest was made towards his brazen declaration and it took no more than an instant for him to throw you onto the tiny hotel bed.  Before he could climb on top of you, you managed to shimmy out of your dress and toss the garishly colored fabric to the floor so that you were left in nothing but your lingerie as you lay back on the velvety comforter and watched as Bruno quickly undressed at the foot of the bed. Each discarded layer revealed more of his brilliant, tan skin, ever so lightly flushed from the ardent rush of your previous actions

Once his shirt had been cast away your eyes were able to trace the intricate line work of his tattoo down his chest to where it culminated in the outline of a heart just above his navel. The precarious position urged your eyes to wander lower as his hands moved pants to undo the button of his pants. The newfound freedom offered you an excellent view of his cock, which stood erect, firmly pressed to his abdomen. You sat up on your knees with hands folded between your legs and mouth slightly agape as you tried your best to comprehend the perfection that stood before you, there was something elegantly baroque in the man that stood before you, like a mixture of gold and marble, his statuesque frame, his svelte waist, the tantalizing taper of his long, curved cock.  You traced the fine slope until you reached the pinnacle of his flared, swollen head which eagerly dripped glossy pearls of precum as he held firmly to the base of his shaft. 

“On your back,” he commanded, then, before you even had a chance to comply, he climbed over you and pinned you flush against the mattress. You let out a shrill gasp of surprise when you felt his hard length rubbing against your aching sex, the thin, damp fabric of your panties was the only impedance between your two bodies. 

Harsh and indelicate, he lifted your back to unclasp your bra, without much care or effort the scanty garment was tossed away and Bruno seized the opportunity to quickly explore the newly exposed skin.  His teeth rasped against the swell of your breasts, leaving behind a pattern of oblong crimson marks. “Bruno,” you moaned, craning your neck back before hurriedly biting your lip to stop the indecent squeals as his lips close around your nipple, god, he hadn’t even fucked you yet, how could he have managed to unravel you so fast? 

Without warning, the sensation stopped and you were left panting nearly delirious from even such paltry stimulation. Through your heavy-lidded gaze, you watched as Bruno repositioned himself at the foot of the bed, from where you lay, you could easily guess his next play and that assurance was enough to restore a bit of your confidence, “How long have you been dreaming about this moment?” You taunted, doing your best to maintain a semblance of control as he fluidly pulled you to the edge of the bed by your ankle. 

“Were you not just moaning my name a minute ago?” He scolded, roughly pulling your legs apart and immediately hooking a finger under the lace band of your panties and rolling the sullied fabric down your legs. You gave a soft, approving mewl at the feeling of his warm breath against your cunt. In spite of your lewd appearance, there was something undeniably pretty about having you there in the position he had so many times imagined you in.

“Just fucking do it already!” You growled, teeth clenched to maintain an illusion of aplomb, but the frenzied look in your eyes betrayed you egregiously. 

“Typical. Something doesn’t go your way so you behave like a brat, is that how you expect to be rewarded?” He teased, his mouth hovering millimeters above your throbbing pussy, so tantalizingly close, but never close enough to give in to the pleasure you wanted. 

“For fuck’s sake, will you stop talking?”

“So demanding,” he purred, licking one long, arduous stripe along the entire length of your sex.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the meager sensation was enough to send a chill down your spine and leave you all but begging for more. He had intended to carry on teasing you for far longer, but the moment your honeyed taste filled his mouth, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to deny himself any longer. 

He abandoned the façade of bravado in one heedless action and began frantically lashing his tongue over your cunt, drinking in the heavenly juices that poured for you all too freely with each of his reckless ministrations. The wet sounds that emanated from you were nothing short of vulgar as his skilled tongue easily parted your folds and dipped into your dripping cunt just enough to make you squirm in place, but her certainly wasn’t done with you. Once he had thoroughly enjoyed your taste, he quickly turned all of his attention to your neglected clit. The sensitive bud was hot and tender with need and even a perfunctory flick of his tongue is enough to send a jolt of electricity surging through you that only intensified when he began fervently lapping at your clit, drawing hasty, swirling patterns that made your head spin and your vision bleary. Shit, you should not have been as sensitive as you were, not that soon, but if he continued like that, you knew that you wouldn’t be able to last much longer. 

“Tell me Bruno, do I still taste like a liar?” You asked through a slew of uninhibited groans that certainly made the question feel less mordant than you had intended it to be.

“A horrid, filthy, little liar,” he sneered, his lips forming the words against your needy cunt, even for all the malice he spoke, it only served to arouse your further, causing your hips to roll listlessly into his face, “an awful little liar.” 

“Bruno… fuck!” You moaned, knitting your fingers into his silky black hair and tugging with such vehemence that you dislodged one of his hair clips.

He let out an inadvertent groan, either brought on by your taste alone or the strength of your grip on his hair, but that too only further drove you towards your inevitable peak.  His tongue continued its relentless pursuit, maintaining the same diligent rhythm that had already rendered you delirious and you were no longer able to stifle any of the sultry moans that spilled from you, “Bruno, I’m— fuck, so close!” 

Your hips sputter out, indecorously writhing to a hectic rhythm that made it difficult for him to maintain the consistent pace he had devised, but the sweet sounds of your pleasure were more than enough reinforcement for him to forge ahead. One hand spread across your pelvis in an attempt to quell your incessant thrashing.  The restraint only caused the pressure to build until it became unsustainable, heat rushed to your core and the sensation you’d only tenuously been staving off snapped within you, leaving you awash with the brilliant glow of orgasm. 

Satisfaction dripped off Bruno’s face as he cleaned your excess arousal off his lips, leering up at you, content to take in the vision of your panting form, only brought to such an agreeable state through his efforts. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so submissive,” he said as he pulled himself on top of you, the swollen top of his cock prodding shallowly into your entrance. 

“Sh-shut up,” you whimpered, damn near docile as he sunk into you.  Given how amply prepared you were, it only took one effortless glide for him to be fully buried within you. You let out a shaky whine against his neck when he bottomed out, a response he couldn’t help but feel was incongruously cute compared to your typically ruthless demeanor. 

It was not long before he had established a steady rhythm. He had not allowed you any time to recover from your previous release and the sensation of him savagely fucking you quickly thrust you into overstimulation. In such a state, all you could do was scream out his name between an array of curses, all of which only urged him to continue more brutally, the strength of his grip was nearly bruising as he held your hips in place to keep you from wildly bucking beneath him. He pounded into you with such ferocity that it caused the headboard to clatter against the plaster wall. Your back arched, meeting him mid-thrust to pull him back down, your tight walls sucking him in so luxuriously that he could help but let out a choky moan into the crook of your neck. Fucking you, claiming you, ruining you, reality had eclipsed anything he had ever imagined when he would violently fuck his hand to the thought of you. The silky mewls and shrill screams you made each time he drove into you rendered him certain that your neighbors and very likely every patron on the entire floor knew how much you were enjoying his cock. 

Overstimulated to the point of babbling, each thrust added a new sensation you were certain you could not handle. Lost in a haze of bliss, the line between pleasure and pain had blurred beyond comprehension and you were not sure if you couldn’t cum anymore or if you simply hadn’t stopped cumming. 

Your nails scratched viciously into his back, leaving behind jagged claw marks that would last more than just the evening and serve as a reminder of the amorous affair. Bruno let out a hiss and dug his teeth into the supple skin of your shoulder. 

In a quick, ungainly action, he pulled out of you, the sudden emptiness caused you to let out a dejected whine for want of further stimulation, but he only knelt above you, frantically stroking the tip of his cock until he’d decorated your abdomen with sticky ribbons of cum then collapsed on the bed beside you, both more fucked out than either of you could remember. 

The afterglow hung heavy in the air, lingering silently between you as reality flowed back in along with the unsettling feeling of irresolution. After you’d cleaned up the mess that had been left, You returned to the bed and covered your body with the blanket to placate the meekness that left you dithering over what needed to be said. From the window, you could see the outline of the great duomo, only faintly illuminated against the darkened sky, its imposing shadow loomed ominously over the streets, as though it were itself some great beast that would swallow you up if you dared tread further. 

But before you could voice any apprehension, Bruno had left the bed and begun dressing, “well then, shouldn’t you be getting ready?” Something in the way he spoke seemed to banish all doubt from your mind, or at least enough to restore your confidence. 

“Oh, I thought you were determined to abandon the mission?”

“I have my concerns, but you were right, we need to see this through to the end, whatever that may be.”

“Well, it’s nice to see you’ve finally admitted who’s really in charge here.” You simpered, padding over to him with a characteristically feline strut.

Bruno caught you mid-step and drew your body firmly against his chest so that he was able to whisper directly into your ear, “oh cara mia, we both know it certainly wasn’t you,” he said, drawing out his words far more seductively than you could handle at present and punctuating the sentiment by nipping along your earlobe, “now, don’t dawdle, we have business to attend to.”

It had been far easier to access the duomo than you would have thought, even so late into the night you would have imagined a perpetual presence of security to make sure ne’er do wells, such as yourselves, did not get up to any chicanery on the premises, but that was not the case. It merely required the picking of a cheap lock on one if the auxiliary entrances and you were in. 

The air hung every in the dark halls, but even so, there was something reverent about the hallowed halls of the imposing structure. A feeling of peril caused your stomach to churn violently, it wasn’t merely the sanctity of the space that filled you with an acute sense of danger, but the sudden realization that you were not alone in the darkened chamber.  You made a quick motion to turn and alert Bruno, but before you could make a sound, a large hand was clamped over your mouth and you felt your strength give out under whatever force had apprehended you 

When next you awoke, you found yourself in a windowless room, tied with your back to Bruno in metal chairs that had been affixed to the ground with heavy bolts to ensure no means of escape.  “Bruno…” you whispered meekly, hardly able to muster the resolve to speak in such a dismal position, “Bruno, are you alright?” 

“I believe so… but I’m afraid that… from the start… this whole mission was a setup.” 

“I know, I— fuck, I should’ve listened, I just didn’t want to believe that…”

“Oh, isn’t that precious, our little saboteurs are awake,” an unfamiliar voice broke through the emptiness of the room and an odd-looking man dressed in a long white coat with emerald green hair that appeared almost harlequin alongside his makeup emerged from the darkness, flanked by his even stranger looking companion who walked threateningly on all fours. 

“So, I take it the Boss sent you to get rid of us,” Bruno said, managing a far more assertive tone than you would have been able to muster.

“You could say that… you see, Passione is like a living organism, all the parts must function together to keep it alive, and much like our bodies have an immune system as a failsafe to fight off any unwanted pathogens, so must our little organization. You may consider me as such.” The green-haired man mused, partly to you, partly to his associate who looked upon him with awe as he spoke, as though his words contained some kind of sacred divination. “That’s why I’ve brought you here, to test a little invention of mine… you know, when here in Florence, I can’t help but recall Leonardo, he was more than just an artist, like me, he also dabbled in many inventions himself. I was always struck by his proclivity towards water, the water wheel, hydraulics… perhaps he would find some of my research… fascinating,” he gave another wicked grin, eyes dancing with delight at the thought of his malevolent intentions.

“What are you getting at?” Bruno demanded, breaking the man free from his wistful daydreams. 

“All in due time,” he said, never wavering from that malicious grin that made your heart go cold with fear.

“You know, they say drowning is one of the most painful ways to die, I must say, I’m very excited to see for myself,” he declared boldly and burst into an uncontrollable fit of cackles and anticipatory groans, “Secco! Is the camera set up yet?”

The man sat up on his hind legs and gave a series of garbled hoops and excited cries as he thrashed to and fro in wild, ungainly gestures.

“Good boy, Secco, good boy! Now how about a treat?” He groped for something in his pocket as his strange companion eagerly lashed his long, serpentine tongue around his mouth, then darted with expert precision after what had been tossed his way.  So nimble, he almost defied gravity as he snatched the sugar cubes out of the air and began to gnaw on them like a rabid animal. 

“You’re sick,” you spat, brows furrowed with disgust and indignation.

A dreadful, malignant smirk settled across the green-haired man’s face as he knelt down to your level.  A skilled hand dragged across your cheek, unexpectedly tender as he caressed your smooth skin, “is that what you think?” He asked, baring his teeth as he roughly grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him, “on the contrary, dear girl, I am free. The same cannot be said for a weak little traitor such as yourself.”

You clamped your eyes shut, frantically shaking your head to dislodge his grip but to no avail, all of your efforts only earned you a forceful slap across your face that caused your cheek to burn, swollen and red from his violence. “You know, It’s useless to struggle, but then again, it’s so deliciously fun to watch you try!”

“Why not just use your Stand to kill us?”

“Oh you pretty little thing, that’s the best part! I don’t have to.” 

You swallowed thickly, unable to summon any kind of response, before a man as cruel and sadistic as he, you were utterly helpless. 

“And Bucciarati, I can see the gears turning in that head if yours, ‘once they leave, I’ll use my Stand to get us out of this,’ and while I admit that your Stand in particular is a bit of a nuisance, I would strongly advise against taking such a measure, you see, even with whatever evasive maneuvers you may attempt, we have ways assuring you do not get far.” 

The quadrupedal man let out a series of gleeful howls as if to affirm his companion’s threats. 

“Now, what will happen?  Hmm, decisions, decisions. Will you lie down and die like the good dogs you are? Ah, or maybe perhaps you will pull one another down like crabs in a bucket.  Or maybe one of the lovers will make a desperate attempt to save the other.  Hmm… which will it be? I can’t endeavor to say.”

“Have you been watching us…?” 

“Oh, my dear girl, our eyes haven’t left you since you departed from Napoli, any secrets you might’ve thought you had… well, rest assured that I have them very well kept,” he said, falling into a menacing laugh as he patted the handheld camera. 

“Fucking sicko,” you snapped, indignantly writhing in your bindings in a futile attempt to free yourself. 

“Aw, poor little puppy, all bark and no bite,” Cioccolata sneered, eyes darting for you over to Bruno, “She’s in love with you, you know?”

Violently, you bit your lip, how could you even begin to formulate a response? “Oh, by the looks of it I guess you didn’t know, well, it’s no matter.” He said, crossing the room and pulling a heavy lever. The loud, mechanical noise of machinery engaging could be heard through the ancient stone, “I look forward to the show, please do remember to smile for the camera.”

With that, both he and his companion took their leave through the only exit, a heavily barred metal door that you knew you wouldn’t have a chance of breaking through. And then you heard it, faint at first, but the distinct sound of running water caught your attention, open pipes on either side of the room flowed freely, splashing violently against the floor, faster and faster with each second that passed and only then did you fully understand the meaning of your captor’s threats. There were no exits, no windows, no vents, nothing to let the water out, you were trapped and the flow of the water only seemed to quicken as the flood reached your feet.

“Is this really how it all ends?” You asked, a vehement lamentation to no one in particular as you struggled restlessly in your bindings. 

“It should be a few hours before it’s over our heads, maybe we can think of something in that time.” 

“No, don’t you see that it’s hopeless, they must’ve had this planned for weeks, the only way out is through that door and they’re on the other side.  They’re going to kill us one way or another… we lost.” You sank into silence and let the sound of the water drown out your other senses. It was sick indeed to force you to sit and contemplate your death for hours before it arrived, even sicker to derive some twisted satisfaction from it all. You were bested and there was nothing for you to do but wait for death to come and hope for your sake that it would come swiftly. 

“He called you a traitor… what did you do?” Bruno asked, breaking the silence as the water crept up past your knees. 

“How should I know, he’s obviously fucking crazy, he called you one too and I know for a fact that Bruno Bucciarati, Polpo’s finest little soldier, would never betray the big bad Boss.”

Bruno sat silent for a long time, he hadn’t planned on telling you the extent of his perfidy, but if you both were going to die anyway, it would be almost an act of confession. “He wasn’t lying…”

“Bruno… you didn’t…”

“Not me, Giorno.”

“ That little blond with the baby face? No, I can’t believe that.”

“I don’t know how he did it, but he did.  He went to see Polpo in prison and the next I heard, the man was dead.  I believe he intended to use my newfound privileges as capo to help me unmask the Boss, I guess it is all for nought now.” 

“Why Bruno, you knew that would be a death sentence… why?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of seeing people… of seeing kids end up on the street, addicted to drugs… the same goddamn drugs the Boss sells, the same goddamn drugs my father was killed for and for what? Money, power? As if the Boss doesn’t already have more than enough of either.  Those are people, good people, my people and they’re suffering and they’re dying and it’s my fault because I answer to the same power that signs their death warrants. I have to do something, I have to make things better, it’s my responsibility.”

“Bruno, you know that’s a damn pipe dream, you know you can’t take on the Boss!”

“I knew the risk when I took it, but I believe in Giorno, if there’s anyone out there that can usurp the Boss, it’s Giorno Giovanna!”

“How can you have such faith in someone you just met?” 

“Because I have seen what he’s capable of, I’ve witnessed his brilliant determination, I believe that he will accomplish all he sets out to do, with or without me.”

You pondered his words carefully, had the sentiment not been so foolish, it would have been touching, but regardless, you felt it was too late for secrets as you felt the water rise past your abdomen. 

“I’m the one who told Sorbetto and Gelato where they could find information about the Boss’s identity, I’m the reason they were killed.”

“That’s rich after all waxing on about the folly it would be to take him on. Tell me, how did you even come by such privileged information?”

“Last summer, I met a man on the French Riviera who told me that he knew the Boss’s identity, somehow he fought him and survived and… he wanted me to help him take out the Boss, I turned him down, told him no one could withstand the full force of Passione’s wrath. I guess I was right.”

“But you had no problem selling that information to Sorbetto and Gelato,” he said callously, adding insult to injury.

“Listen, what they do is their business, not mine, I have to look out for myself above anyone else.”

“Just as you always have,” he spat, vitriol spilling off his tongue with each pointed word, like a poisoned dagger to the heart.

“I… I didn’t want it to end like this… I thought… I thought if there was anyone who stood a chance against Diavolo, it would have been La Squadra. I only told them how they could get in contact with my informant, that was all.  I thought they’d concoct a better plan, I thought maybe Risotto…”

“Diavolo… so that’s his name, huh? I guess it doesn’t matter now, poetic really, that I finally learn his identity, but I’m going to die before it can be of any use.” 

Conversation ceased as you both fell silent, the soft hiss of the water filling the room was the only sound that could be heard, endlessly jeering at your helplessness.  You glanced around the room in the hope that you could locate some weak point that could serve as an exit, but your search proved fruitless, and with the water already up to your chest, there seemed no other possibility than to accept your dismal defeat, certain that from wherever he watched, your captor took sadistic satisfaction in your inevitable surrender. 

“Bruno…” you said, at last breaking the silence, though your voice was stifled and words had been muddled by your tears, “Bruno, it was my fault… in Milan, it was all my fault.  It was a stupid risk to take and I almost got us both killed and then… and then I left you with the mess.  I— Bruno, I’m so sorry, it was such a selfish thing to do, do you think you could ever forgive me?” 

“If we make it out of here alive, you may consider yourself forgiven.” 

You mustered a feeble sound of thanks through your sobs but any intelligent words had been long abandoned. 

The water had risen to your neck, it would not take much longer for you to be swallowed up, perhaps Bruno could last a few extra minutes but what did it matter in the end?  Your thoughts grew fuzzy from the great strain it was to keep your head above water. It wouldn’t be long, only a minute more and your head would be underwater.

It was then, at the moment when you were sure all hope had been dashed, when you had resigned yourself to the inevitability of your death, that a muffled clamor rose beyond the thick stone walls of your would-be tomb. 

“How’s it going Narancia, we have to find Bucciarati and fast!”

“W-what’s going on?” You mumbled, struggling to make sense of the noises in your listless state.

“Got it! There should be two people in the next room!” 

“Giorno! He must’ve been tracking us this whole time.” The thought had not occurred to Bucciarati until just then, but he had wisely held onto Giorno’s parting gift throughout the entire mission.  It seemed like it had brought good luck after all. 

“Stand aside, leave the rest to me,” the sound of crumbling masonry echoed loud across the receding water and the light that filtered in when the wall had been breached seemed almost blinding to your eyes.  There, standing framed in a golden mandorla of new dawn light, was Giorno Giovanna, regal and determined as the dust settled around him, “Bucciarati, are you alright?”

What happened next was a blur, but someone pulled you from the water as Giorno gave Bruno a complete rundown of the situation, how Giorno had been able to track your location with the ladybug his Stand had imbued with life, how they had managed to kill the two men that held you captive, and their tentative plan to proceed now that they had fully defied the Boss.  Of course, Bruno was all too eager to inform Giorno of all you had told him, the Boss’s identity, your secret informant, the inevitable defection of La Squadra. With everything looked at together, it was as though each piece of the puzzle had fallen perfectly into place and Giorno rejoiced in the miracle of timing. 

It did not take long for a plan to be devised and with the added strength of La Squadra and the help of one eager Frenchman, it was only a matter of time before Diavolo was defeated and Giorno assumed his rightful position as the head of Passione. 

“Tell me,” he said one average day only a few months after all had been said and done, “what is it that you truly want?”

“I want out of this life for good,” you answered readily, it was the truth after all.

“Is that all?” He asked, the drawl of his voice as sweet and commanding as it always was. 

“Well, I suppose… I’d like to go to Milan,” you said, a curious diffidence had arisen in your voice as you stated your request.

“Then so it shall be,” he said with the gentlest of smiles that made him appear more like an angel than any man you’d ever seen before. 

And as he ordained it, so it was. 

“Well, is it everything you thought it would be?” Bruno asked, his hand in yours as you stood before The Last Supper.

“No— I mean yes… it’s marvelous, it’s incomprehensible… thank you for taking me.” 

He gave a salacious purr as he kissed the back of your hand, “I couldn’t think of anyone better to accompany me.” 

“It’s a little nostalgic being back here, don’t you think?”