mercurialgrrrl

[mercurialgrrrl]

👁️👁️

laito soulmates angst????

~LUMEN~

[I. Monument]

In this life, he was Mount Rushmore—a monument in America: tall, snow-crowned, and slowly crumbling beneath the deluge of time.

She was a brown bear climbing his ancient steps, gathering moths from cracks in stone—merger sustenance where once there might have been honey. The food had grown scarcer each year.

Typical, she thought. His love breadcrumbed, a starvation meant to prove her devotion to him alone.

She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—look elsewhere. Where else would the rocks tear her paws just the same?

She did not survive that winter.

[II. Singularity]

In another life, after Earth was long devoured by the red giant Sun, he was a black hole spinning in one of too many galaxies—a vortex of all-consuming emotion, yet invisible to the naked eye.

She was unbridled light, constant in speed, unyielding in her course toward him. A wave, a particle—what she was mattered little. She was destined to be ruined by anti-matter: him.

She crossed his event horizon, the only force strong enough to tear her energy into shreds of nothing.

Does pain teach, or merely prove redundant? She did not know, even as she was pulled into his singularity—into the point of infinite density—until she transformed into something else entirely: warming radiation, drifting outward from the ruins.

[III. Reflection]

In another life, they met again. He, gazing down at her as Narcissus. She, the water that reflected him.

He smiled, admiring the outward beauty he saw—using her unbearable stillness as proof of the ugliness within.

No, she thought. You are more Icarus to me: a boy who flew too close to the sun, drawn to the light—a desperate hope for innocence once lost in childhood—only to fall into me, and drown.

Even now, all he could do was smile, tears hiding behind his teeth.

[IV. Page]

In this life, she was a witch—a pianist, a poet, destitute in her pursuit of passion: for the written word, for music, for emotion and devotion.

Her family had written her off. No man would marry a woman married to her craft.

And he—he was merely the pages she wrote on, when the mood suited her.

He was used to being used by humans—by women, by men. He had once been a tree, chopped down, stripped of bark, pressed flat and bound to hold their stories.

He bore her handwriting with quiet endurance. His rings, once proud with age, now hidden in the disguise of clean white margins, blotted by her black pen.

[IV. Pledge]

Now, in the present, he lays with his red head pressed to her barely-breathing chest—rigid, listening.

Even now, after everything, her heartbeat was the same. Still steady. Still stubborn. Still his mother’s.

Even after he’d torn open her throat with his fangs. Even after he’d tried to stop that rhythm—the rhythm that haunted him with its sameness.

Each kiss he stole from her lips, each desperate moan he coaxed from her throat—he kept hoping it would change. That her pain would sound different. That her cries would not echo the memory of her—that sultry, maternal monster who had once screamed with dispassionate pleasure, called it love, and used him as a stand-in for the man who never came home.

Sex, to him, had always meant being used.

So had death.

He tightened his grip on her waist. Her body barely flinched. Her eyes had gone distant—already slipping somewhere else, somewhere beyond him.

“…Ne, bitch-chan,” he whispered, voice too soft to match the blood between them. “You really are cruel.”

And still, he smiled—against all reason.

“You didn’t stop me.”

A pause. His voice cracked.

“I’ll fix it. I’ll make it better.”

“I love you,” he said—again. Again. Again. As if repeating it enough could change the shape of what it meant.

As if it had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

[mercurialgrrrl]

can we get an nsfw laito drabble/one shot where he teases a bride who has only had limited sexual experiences that were unenjoyable for her?

satisfaction

laito sakamaki x female reader

cw: blood, marking, obsessive behavior, hair pulling, oral sex (cunnilingus), dubious content

since you arrived at the sakamaki manor, laito had taken an almost obsessive interest in you and your innocence.

it had only been almost a month since you'd arrived at the sakamaki manor, and despite seemingly settling into your new life, you couldn't help but feel fearful of your fate. specifically, you've grown more wary of the fact that the youngest triple had suddenly attached to you like a magnet.

it was like this with every bride who was unfortunate to be sent to a house full of vampires, yet strangely enough, you truly piqued laito’s interest from the moment he laid his preying eyes on you. he knew he had to have you. he wanted you to be his. and so, he drank your blood the first night of your arrival. he relished in how your face twisted in pain, the deliciousness of your blood making him drunk, and he wondered as you lay hopeless in his arms, how far you've gone. you seemed so innocent, the small grab of your breasts making you squirm as he drank from you, your hips twitching with every movement of his crotch grinding against yours. laito could smell your arousal seeping from you that night.

he wanted to ruin you that very instant.

it took a lot of restraint to hold himself back. your eyes were rolling as you slipped into unconsciousness, panting, blood dribbling from your neck, and laito made sure not to waste a drop. he chuckled to himself, licking his lips clean, and he began to think about all the ways he could mess you up. his new toy. laito couldn't wait to have all types of fun with you.

after that night, you were always so timid around him. you always tried to avoid him, much to laito’s dismay. it was hard when you lived under the same roof and went to the same school, and he didn't care about barging into your room with no warning. the persistent blood sucking and hands roaming on your body were starting to become too much for you to handle, and his vulgar questions regarding your sexual background weren't helping. you never responded to any of them, not that you had an opportunity to. it was always distracting with laito’s fangs thrusting themselves deeper inside of you, making you spiral and completely incoherent. the newfound pleasure he's given you made you painfully confused. you didn't quite know how to feel about him.

you hated the way laito toyed with you. you loved the bliss he'd given you.

yet, here you were—shrinking away with every step he made towards you, flashing a sly smirk as he backed you up against the wall. laito’s fingers were cold, taking hold of your chin and tilting your head to face him.

those eyes, he thought, fearful yet glimmering with anticipation.

your heart pounded faster in his ears with every passing second, and you wanted to fade away when his hand claimed your waist, just like every time he began to make his move on you. his grip was firm, and he pressed his body into yours to hold you in place, your thighs shuddering when you felt his knee sneak in between your legs.

“say,” his voice sent a shiver down your spine, his lips brushing against your ear, “you've never answered me. have you ever done anything dirty before?”

the question made you flinch away, but laito was always faster, pinning you with his hips, his gaze warning.

“l-laito… we have school—“

“oh, don't try to run away. i can see it in your eyes that you've been wanting me. see? i can feel your body pulsating for me.”

laito’s hand shifted to your neck, veins pumping blood even faster now, and your body showed it, betraying you as it heated up under his sinful touch. the other lingered down to your thighs, and he could feel you tense up. your breath hitched, your hands gripping onto his uniform jacket's sleeves. you could feel your core clenching around nothing, aching. laito inhaled deeply against your skin, the smell of your blood coaxing him, the sweetness making him moan out as you turned your head away.

“you're wrong...” you say, but your voice falters, whimpering.

“but i am not,” his tongue dragged down to your collarbone slowly, chuckling, “you think you can hide from me when i can feel how hot and bothered you'd become from something as simple as this?”

laito kissed your collarbone as he began to unbutton your uniform shirt, exposing the previous bite marks on your breasts from the night before in all their glory, red and bruising, and he laid a kiss over them, too. his hands cupped your breasts, squeezing and rubbing his thumbs over where your nipples would be, hard underneath your bra.

“the way you're shaking makes me think you're quite innocent.” his words felt as if they were carving into you, “i can't help but wonder if you are a virgin. you must be.”

your face glowed as you blushed at his assumptions, “wha—excuse me?!”

even though you couldn't tell, the scent of you was becoming stronger, delicious, and laito could feel his mouth water as his fangs longed to sink inside. the sweeter the smell, the greater the possibility of a virgin, right?

his smirk grew, “i can bet you've never done anything before…” his tongue almost felt like it was burning against your flushed skin, slipping inside of your bra as if he was crying to catch a lick of something, “even though right now you're giving me such a seductive expression. it makes me think otherwise.”

“no—”

“no? but the way your body is reacting and melting into my touch means you haven't experienced something like this, no?” laito mused, swirling his tongue to make you flinch, “or could it be… that you have?”

your lips quivered as you closed your eyes shut, your chest aching, and you wanted to push him away. somehow, you couldn't. you knew laito was right, and you would be lying if you said he was wrong, especially after the many times he's claimed you with his damned fangs. every single time. laito’s touch was something that you’ve grown to crave unknowingly. before, it was never like this. your experiences before coming to the manor were limited and unpleasant, but you couldn't tell him that. he's already teased and pried at you enough, and the last thing you wanted was any more of his unnecessary comments about how far you've gone, if you've done this or that—

laito hummed, “could it be that what you've experienced before was unenjoyable?”

your eyes shot open, and you looked at him in surprise. witnessing you flustered made his lips curl up even more.

jackpot.

“oh, what a shame. it looks like i have to teach you a whole new world of pleasure,” laito rejoiced, flicking the last button open before lifting your shirt off your shoulders, “you know how good i can make you feel with just my fangs, don't you? let me show you other ways to bring you to ecstasy.”

you closed your eyes again, trying to find the strength in your hands to escape, but they only held onto him more when his lips met yours in a passionate kiss. you wanted to push him away, curse him, yet your legs felt like putty stuck in place. the more he kissed you, more deeper and with need; it was like your body softened into him.

damn him, you thought, damn him to hell…

your mind felt hazy as laito kissed you, his fingers working up underneath your skirt to your panties, and it felt like you were struggling to breathe. the heat between your legs was apparent; he could feel it, the wetness soaking through the fabric of your underwear and dampening his fingertips. you couldn't hide your arousal any longer, your hips bucking at laito’s soft touch, squirming, needy, and it all felt so unnerving. you couldn't restrain yourself, your moans muffled into his mouth. it was all happening so fast, your knees buckling from underneath as he crouched down, pulling your panties with him.

you tried to brace yourself against the wall, feeling your body threaten to slip before laito caught hold of your right leg, hooking it over his shoulder. his eyes seemed to gleam in delight, soaking in your face, so enticing, and he parted your thighs farther apart as his face settled in between. your skirt failed to hide anything, the most risqué part of you fully exposed, open and waiting, longing for his attention. you reached down to cover yourself, but laito’s hand shooed you away, his face inching even closer now.

“for someone who doesn't say it, you sure know how to show that you love me, don't you?”

you felt as if the air was knocked out of your lungs when you felt his cold lips kiss the skin of your innermost thigh, dangerously close to your pelvic bone, his breath tickling you. you didn't say anything back, you couldn't, not when you felt the tips of his fangs probe at your flesh. the sudden sensation of his teeth piercing through you made you whimper, jolting and letting your head fall back onto the wall behind you. laito’s fangs were relentless, scorching hot with every movement inside, and despite the discomfort, you were aware of the noises that slipped out of your mouth. the pain was dissolving into new surges of pleasure over your body, and your chest rose and fell with every pant, the tears beginning to well in your eyes. warm streaks fell down your cheeks as you felt your pussy dribble from below.

laito gasped once he released his mouth from you, happily smiling as blood ran down his chin, “you're shaking like a leaf…” he whispered, moaning as he lapped at your skin, “i can see how wet you are. your juices are running down your leg.”

your hands were on his shoulders, gripping his jacket in your grasp, once his fangs latched onto your other thigh like an animal. again and again, laito continued to bite into you, ravishing you, licking teasingly close to where your sweet spot is. it was all too much. you could barely stand as he hungrily fed from you, your legs twitching and numbing from the blood leaving your body. it wasn't long until you were blooming red with puncture wounds, hickey marks littered along the curve of your thighs.

“i won’t let you be satisfied with anyone else. only me.” laito’s voice was low, and the way his eyes glanced up at you from below made you squirm, “so let’s keep doing even more pleasurable things together, okay?”

his tongue found its way to your clit, licking slowly, his eyes never leaving you as he watched your lips part with a moan. and for a moment, you remembered where you were, stuck in the middle of the corridor. you prayed none of the others would see you like this. none of that mattered as laito buried himself in between your legs, his mouth latching on your pussy with a loud groan. every lick between your folds to your clit felt overwhelming, tear jerking, and you were soon a babbling mess. his tongue showed you no mercy, swirling in ways that made your hips chase for more. your hands found their way to his hair, tangling within as lapped at your hole, sucking every drop that fell from you.

the pain in your thighs was the last thing on your mind as they hugged laito’s temple, shaking as he ate you out with need. your cries were growing louder with every motion of his tongue, his hands beginning to roam free along your hips and waist, moving your skirt away so he could make sure he take in this new sight of you. the way your eyes looked down at him, still wet from your tears, filled with ecstasy and yearning, your face growing red as you called out his name. laito wanted to take in the way you were falling apart for him just like you watched him eat your pussy like his life depended on it. he would make sure this was something you'd never forget.

your eyes began to roll in the back of your head, the remnants of having your blood sucked in your most sensitive areas still lingered and spread straight to your clit as he latched and sucked from it. the pleasure you felt was overflowing within you, so good that your stomach coiled. laito could feel it too, and the taste of you and how wet you became pushed him further. he didn't stop as your back arched into him, your fingers tugging harshly at his hair as his mouth continued to lick away at your sensitive bud. your breathing became more ragged, laito’s hands seizing hold of your waist to pull you down more into his mouth as his tongue slipped inside of you.

your orgasm was creeping up on you, unbearably close, your stomach tightening and walls clenching around his tongue as you began to wail out for more. an enormous amount of waves crashed over as your body started to crumble in pleasure, your hips chasing after the sensation as warmth spread through you. your hands yanking on laito’s hair was a delicious combination as you came in his mouth, and he couldn't help but moan along with you, loving the way you rode out your high on his face. the whole show you gave him had him twitching in his pants and growing incredibly hard with the way you fell apart above him. he didn't stop eating your pussy even as you kept flinching away, the stimulation becoming overly sensitive. your whimpers only made laito want to keep going. this was something he wanted you to have engraved into your memory—this scandalous experience of him eating you out for all to see.

it was only when you pushed his head away with the little strength you had left that made him stop, eyes blown and lips flushed and glistening from you. you diverted your eyes when you caught him licking his lips clean, humming in satisfaction. you were speechless, still trying to catch your breath, your legs feeling like water, and you yelped out when two fingers eased into your soaked hole. you looked at laito in bewilderment, your jaw clenching as you felt yourself tighten around his digits. laito tilted his head mockingly in confusion, his smile trying to appear as innocent as possible despite his fingers curling inside you.

“you didn't think i would let you be satisfied with just this, right?”

thank you so much for requesting this! so, so sorry for the wait. at first i didn't intend for it to be this long but in the end i’m not mad at it. the more i kept going, the more my mind kept wandering 🥹 so i hope it's to your liking 🖤

[mercurialgrrrl]

i just realized it shows my main blog on here, that’s super fucking cool !!!!!

[mercurialgrrrl]

⊹ DIGITAL BATH

TONIGHT I FEEL LIKE MORE . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 4k

cw: NSFW—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, gn!reader, switch!Dazai, mentions of scars, cock worship, finger sucking, spit, oral (m!receiving), anal fingering, nipple play (m!receiving), dirty talk, cum eating, itty bit of Dazai-typical mindgames, just feeding fruit to tired spoiled Osamu and then blowing him like he deserves

reid: i wanna fingerbang this mfker so good it makes him believe in love

“Such a long fuckin’ day.” 

Osamu’s grumbling, wrapping himself around you from behind. 

On any other evening, you’d be inclined to mock that it’s always a long day for him when he’s throwing balled-up paper at Kunikida's head, guilting Atsushi into doing his paperwork for him, and slipping out of the office under the guise of fetching snacks for Ranpo just to go lean against the railing of Bankoku Bridge and gaze longingly at the water—but frankly, there’s two factors at play keeping you from doing so. 

One: his regular dramatics are nowhere to be seen. You hadn’t even realized he was on his way in until the door shut behind him—he’s normally sing-songing your name before he even opens it, before he’s bouncing over to you to ask what’s for dinner while he complains about the long day he had in that all too-spry voice of his. This evening, he’s subdued. Quiet complaints, quiet shuffling, quiet breath on your ear as he latches onto you.  The second is that, when you turn around from the counter to face him, he looks like he’s had a long day.

His messy hair seems messier. His eyes aren’t so wide and sparkly, and he’s got a nasty bruise blossoming on the apple of his left cheek—you bite back, too, the instinctual urge to tease and ask if it’s Chuuya’s doing. 

“Baby,” you coo, bringing your hands up to cup his face (pointedly avoiding the bruise). “I didn’t even cook. Was just cutting up some fruit.” 

“That’s okay,” he sighs, seemingly content to be under your grasp. He really does look exhausted as he grins weakly and slumps into your hold, faltering down to brush a kiss against your lips. “Cut up some strawberries, too, please.” 

“Mhm.” You kiss him back, short and sweet—not entirely pleased with such a concise request, but happy to indulge it regardless. “Go get comfy, I’ll be there in a sec.” 

So he does. He wanders off; you dump your fruit into a bowl, fetch the (thankfully not moldy) strawberries from the fridge, and toss those in, too, also preparing a glass of ice water for him for good measure. No guarantee he’ll drink it, but at least it’ll be there. 

When you pad to your bed, he’s sitting, pulling a shirt over his bare torso—the local bandages lay at his feet. A rewrap for tomorrow, you think absently, hopping like a cat onto the opposite side and kicking the covers back; not that he’ll have any use for them—the beginnings of stirrings in your brain will come to fruition more beautifully, anyway, should he leave them be. 

His quietness always spooks you a little; you hope nothing too terrible happened today, because if he wanted to talk about it, he undoubtedly would’ve started by now. 

There are very few things a bowl of cut fruit and your gentle fingertips can’t begin to mend, though. 

You flick the light out, turn the television on, lean over to abandon the water on his side table; Osamu plucks a strawberry from the bowl you nestle in your lap and cuddles up to your side. Half a fat cherry gushes between your teeth; you peck the crown of his head. 

Even if he is uncharacteristically quiet, you do always find a bit of joy in fussing over him. You might not draw from him what exactly is on his mind, but you can hold him while it simmers, take care of him—it’s one of the things you do best, after all, and you’re well aware Osamu likes being taken care of. 

He’s painted soft, staticky colors from whatever sitcom plays. You curl the arm that’s fallen behind his head to twirl his hair between your fingers, toy with the shoulder of his shirt; you can feel the tension in him. But before you move, you let the fruit in the bowl dwindle. Better if he eats. 

When his eyes flutter shut and he nudges you, mouth open like some sort of sultan, you shake your head (chuckling) and place a few halved grapes on his tongue. 

You don’t know if he knows how proud you are of him; you tell him plenty, sure, but thinking back to the quip you’re relieved to have held back today, you wonder briefly why he only ever complains gratuitously about the easy days and never the ones that leave him like this. It fills you with a certain sorrow—one that shapeshifts swiftly into determination.

“Last one’s yours.” You pan back in, referring to the sole strawberry left. 

“Mm.” Again, wordlessly, he demands you feed it to him. You concede, of course, with a sleepy grin of your own. 

It’s when his tongue flicks out to lick the remnants of sweetness off your fingertips that you strike; only when you fiddle with his bottom lip do his owl eyes flicker open to peer up into yours. 

Juxtaposition is a fascinating thing. You don’t know what happened today. You don’t know what’s happened on most of the darker days he’s left trailing behind him—you might never know all of it, other than it’s been horrible, scarring, gutting both for him and those staring down the barrel of the gun that is Osamu Dazai—but he looks so innocent before he takes your finger, all the way to the second knuckle, into his mouth to swirl his tongue around. 

You can’t help biting the inside of your cheek. 

As his jaw flexes around you, you press your middle finger in, too. Those brown eyes never falter from yours, nor does the quiet smile in them; any remaining strawberry is long gone, swallowed down, but Osamu sucks on your fingers with fervor, nearly nodding like he’s drawing some other sort of elixir from you—one that will compel him to keep moving forth another day, perhaps, and as he does, his ankles knock against yours. 

“Needy boy, huh.” It’s a statement, not a question, which he needn’t deny or confirm; the attention you shower him with after the days that drag him to hell extends to all the vulnerabilities he doesn’t allow another soul to see—the ones that stem from a depth left neglected by any previous excuse for a caretaker he might’ve had. 

Whereas, you’d be damned if you casted aside a single inch of that void. 

So you poke a kiss to the corner of his mouth before you latch onto his neck—an I’ll be back here later—softly, with just lips first, then tongue, and finally teeth. You find his pulse point and bite, dragging spit-coated fingers down his chin, past his throat to his nipple. 

The exhale from his chest prompts your knee into his lap like the kickback of a gunshot. Rolling equally into you, Osamu tugs you by your arms on top of him, across his hips so you can hunch over him and kiss, bite, kiss, bite, worship from above in the little rhythm you have that's so familiar to his fatigued body. 

Fingers flitting, you creep up his shirt. 

You work his sleep shirt off, too slow for his liking. Something he loves about what you do, though, is how you never even mind the scars; you look at the exposed, marred flesh of his chest, shoulders, arms, and abdomen like it’s empty and pristine only until you mark it up yourself. There are fading bite marks, ones from maybe a few days or a week ago, across the curves where his pectorals slope into his collarbones, and you take it upon yourself to retrace, refresh them as you caress up and down from his shoulders to his hips and back again, doting and unhurried. He sighs for you. 

The empty bowl’s lost somewhere outside the searing kiss you land to his panting mouth (one of you has likely tossed it, kicked it, or pushed it to the floor), and his hands wander, eager to offer fair exchange—but you’re quick to stop him, slow him, lick his bottom lip and pin one of his wrists to the headboard beside him before you mutter, “Let me take care of you, ‘kay?” 

In true Osamu fashion, he whines, not unlike a cat being denied a treat; after all, for him, half the fun of fucking is getting you off—but tonight, you smell insincerity in his protest, have sensed the smallness that silently begs yes, please, take care of me, and you find yourself grinning into his mouth. Osamu’s rarely straightforward; he gets what he wants anyway. 

So, in equally as true Osamu fashion, he’ll sit pretty and let you send him to the clouds. 

You creep with lips and fingertips back to his chest, to his nipples, where you both know he’s so sensitive; you could make Osamu cum just from your tongue on those pretty, pink buds of his—you have before—but you feel determined to work him up thoroughly, take your time with all of him, all of his distress, right now. 

“Want that pretty mouth on me, baby,” he confesses, quieter and meeker than usual. He keeps drilling home how tired he is—here he is, telling you what he wants so soon. 

You finish sucking a particularly harsh mark into his sternum. “It is on you.” 

“Mm—no, on me.” And then his hand, the one not held hostage by you, is pushing yours down to his cock, beginning to stiffen in his sweatpants.

“Be patient.” You rise back up to kiss him again, swatting him away just to toy with him over his pants; Osamu chases your breath with his own, hungrily, fingers flexing and relaxing in your grasp when you squeeze him, circle your thumb over his tip, nip at his mouth. “I'll make you feel good.”

It’s when you sit yourself down fully on his growing erection and begin to grind back and forth that he starts whining against your lips. 

You hold his face to yours, smile into him reflexively; it’s so easy to make him mewl. For as much composure as Osamu holds in every other corner of his life, your bed is the one place it tends to escape him, and you live to watch him crumble for you. You live to feel his jaw work into your kiss, to trace adoration into his skin, to hear the little whimpers he lets out rise in decibel the longer you drag him out. You love it most of all because he deserves it—to let go, retreat from himself into your touch. 

“Please,” he whispers into you, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. It might be nothing to make him whine, but it’s no small feat, reducing Osamu Dazai to begging. That you didn’t even have to try tells you he needs this—he needs you; no matter how much he might’ve lied if you asked or banked on you missing it, you know the outline of that word on his lips, and he knows you know it, too. So you grind, not faster but harder, slipping your tongue into his pliant mouth. 

After letting his wrist go, after he grabs your hip and presses you onto him feverishly with a few more of your undulations, you work your way down him again—stopping not at his chest this time but between his hips, waiting to peel the waistband of his sweatpants down and off until you've first circled his belly button and the gradual path of hair that disappears beneath the fabric with kisses growing more intense from one moment to the next. You seek out the little layer of fat stretching across his tummy and bite there, too; he grabs your hair and snickers, watching you through squinted eyes while he tells you hoarsely to stop, it tickles! And you relent with a giggle of your own only to kneel, shove his pants down, and settle on your stomach where you urge each of his knees over your shoulders. 

You look up and think, god, you wish you could photograph him right now. Gazing down at you, lips parted with breathlessness, Adam's apple bobbing as you tease him; he's a quiet image of ecstasy as he curls his hands around your face, only because he trusts you to let him be. When you pause and admire for a moment too long, his lithe fingers take root in your hair; he's wiggling, saying please with his low-lidded eyes and desperate hips only so he won't have to subject himself to verbalizing it again. 

You wrap an arm beneath his thigh to seek out his cock, finally, sweetly; you hold him up, lick a slow stripe from base to tip up the underside, and Osamu croons. 

“Uh—yeah, was wondering when you'd get to the whole making-me-feel-good part.”

Just when you thought you had him. 

With your free hand, you swat his leg—impatient and sassy, even while he's running on fumes. Roguish in every sense of the word, still, while you’re taking such good care of him. His spark wants to have you grinning; you try to hide the inevitable reaction by burying your face in him, lapping sweetly, diligently at the spot between his base and his balls that should shut him up. 

“You're so mean, you know?” 

You can tell from his tone he's smirking.

“Ngh—telling me to be patient wh—while I beg for you—”

Really, it should have shut him up. But he keeps going. 

“—Mhm—yeah,” he exhales, one heel digging into your back—telling you he's going to fall apart faster than he's letting on. “You always know just—uh—just where to... t’—”

In a rarer display of force you reach behind yourself for his shin, gripping it, bending it up close to him and freeing your other arm; with this, you reach up, stuff your pre-cum dabbled fingers back in his mouth—to which he can only respond with a muffled mph! and widening eyes. 

Your patience to have him drop the facade is thinning. 

You prop yourself up on your elbow to shove your fingers deeper and look up into his face. 

“How about you be quiet, Osamu?” you pose gently; your fingerpads on his tongue are anything but, and he's squirming at the loss of pleasure. “Get my fingers nice n’ wet while you’re at it.”

Osamu’s teeth are in your knuckles a little too harsh to be considered polite, but you thrust them toward the back of his tongue anyway; he holds your eyes, you shoo his legs open further so as not to have to work around them as you resume stroking him lazily, and you tilt your head, admiring again. He hums around you, sighs through his nose while he laps you up, so you pick up the talking. 

“So cute when you shut up.” 

You retract your fingers momentarily to squish his cheeks—the face as well as the sound he makes is nothing short of adorable, less in the contrived sense and more in the literal as his nose scrunches; you want to adore him by making him come, and you will, but not before thrusting your fingers back into his bratty mouth immediately. 

“When have I ever left you unsatisfied, huh?” You don’t wait for an answer. “When have I ever not given my good boy what he needs?” 

It’s rhythmic, how he echoes the cadence of good boy with his body—first in the way his hips buck into you, and next in the groan you don’t let pass his teeth. 

“That’s right. You're smart enough to know by now when I want you to shut up and take it.”

Pushing yourself up—leaving him squirming again—you leave hardly a second between replacing your fingers with your mouth, sloppy, all breath, nipping at the tip of his tongue; Osamu loves when you kiss him hard, like you need him. Loves feeling needed more than he needs. But you know—maybe better than he does.

You smear his spit down his chin, wasting it for what you're planning next; it's a good thing you know just how to work him into a pliable mess. There’s one more thing he’ll do for you, and you'll get him there; you’ll disarm this unshakably smug and prodigiously self-controlled man and turn him into your lover, like you do so often.

For what it's worth, this is the least he's made you work for it in a while.

Osamu chases you when you leave his kiss, but you pin him down, cradling his bottom lip with your two fingers like a spoon. 

“Aht—” You shove them back in, across his tongue, just the tips of them. Only until he settles, and then you hold them out for him again. “Spit.”

And he does.

“Good boy, Osamu.”

You love watching the power leave his body when you utter those two words in combination with his name. As if conditioned, his cock jumps; you notice this as you reach down, dollop of spit beginning to drip between your fingers before you circle them around his hole and oh, you're rewarded with the prettiest gasp that trails off into an even prettier whimper—yes, a whimper, because he breaks so pathetically beneath you.

You smile into Osamu’s mouth when his breath picks up, evermore unsteady as you tease the rim of his ass. Without having to ask, he pitches his hips up for you, knees bent and feet bracing when you traverse back down his jugular with your lips and teeth.

You’re fast now, eager yourself; your line's barely straight, but you meet your own hand again as you return.

“Please,” followed by your name, huffy, totally realized this time.

How can you do anything but oblige?

Curling your fingers back around his cock, collecting the leakiness at his weepy tip to stroke him fully, he throws his soft brown head back into the headboard, gripping the sheets. No free hand to use, you hum and hope silently for his legs over your shoulders once more, and like a mindreader, he obliges you now—good boy, you’d be saying, if your mouth wasn’t occupied with one of his balls, rewriting the meaning of triple homicide with the suction of your tongue.

When you’ve switched your mouth and your hand and you’re a knuckle deep in him, Osamu starts to get demanding. 

“Deeper,” he growls through his teeth, and you’re unclear whether he means he wants you deeper inside him or his cock deeper down your throat. “C’mon—I want it, baby.” 

No please—and definitely no thank you when you give into his whims both ways, thrusting your finger deeper to curl up and apply pressure to the exact spot you know will have him crooning and gripping onto your hair, and that he does—to shove your face further down on him nonetheless. 

And then he really starts talking. 

“Thought you’d be all nice n’ be in charge—n’ take care of me? Hah—” 

You still your head while Osamu holds either side of your jaw and humps upward, drawing wet, smothered heaves from the back of your throat as his throbbing tip hammers it. 

“That’s sweet, honey.” 

You really, truly do know why he doesn’t complain about easy days, and the bulb flickers only once you’re choking on him—only ever once he has you right where he wants you—that when you fuss over him, it always gives him a leg up to take that control he thirsts for so deeply with all the more force. 

He licks his lips as honey drips from it, cradling you with the same gentleness you talked to him with earlier and employing the same ruthlessness in contrast. Your eyes roll back in surrender to his brutal pace and the air he cuts off from you so cruelly—but god, if you had the faculty to, you wouldn’t even be able to deny that you love letting him use you, love letting him take what he wants from you, so you focus your swirling consciousness on pressing up, deeper into his ass, worming your ring finger next to your middle one to stretch him open, have him gasping, holding on loosely to control. 

It’s always a little push and pull between you; you always let Osamu have his fun, but he knows who he belongs to at the end of the day, because you always have him sounding like—

“God—fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck—” 

—while he leverages his heels in your back to fuck your throat meaner, harder. You gag, and you know it spurs him on—you know the ring of drool at his base and the sweet, nasty sounds you make involuntarily for him keep him chasing that pretty fulfillment you inspire in the pit of his stomach. 

“‘m not the only one who’s cute when I shut up,” he drawls on, pushing your hair away from your forehead to watch the way he possesses you when he’s in you like this; wheezing, whimpering in between, the dominator in him wants to laugh at you—but his taunting throttles almost violently back to strangled groans and cries of your name while tears bead on his lashes. For every take it, take it, take it, there’s an equal please, please, please. 

Osamu grunts in a certain vocal register higher than when he talks sultry but lower than his usual speaking voice, and each byte you draw from him by sitting and being his good little toy is reminding you how much you want to make him feel good, how much it gets you off, too—you grind against the mattress helplessly while he has you pinned in place and you squeeze his balls while you keep his hole full, keep him moaning and sobbing for you through his little semblance of authority because you know all of his tells. You know when he’s about to fall apart, you can always tell by the way he twitches fast, abrupt—when those grunts get higher than his speaking voice and he starts breathing almost panic-like, enough to make himself a little dizzy while he unloads in you but you don’t give him the satisfaction of that this time, because he beat you too easily—you have to take something back, and so when he’s cursing with his eyes screwed shut and tears slipping down his face you wrestle yourself off of him so he can shoot spurt after spurt of hot, sticky cum across your fluttering lashes, the bridge of your nose, your raw lips, your cheeks that shine with tears of your own, all while you milk it out from inside of him—he cums so fucking heavenly when your fingers are in him. 

And you accept it with a closed-eyed grin and hoarse, bubbly giggles at the way you cautiously keep one eye open to watch Osamu’s gorgeous face, jaw slack as it yawns the euphoria only you bring him just to recover into scrunched-nose, furrowed-brow satisfaction as he opens his eyes and sees you licking up your spit and his cum from around your own mouth. 

He's grinning toothily as he swipes the mess away from your eyes and draws you up with a soft come here—he’s not about to let you have it all for yourself, licking his spend off his thumb and pulling you in with great delight to flick his hot tongue across each splatter he’s left on your face. Your fingers slide out of him and he hums against you, cleaning you up diligently—because he never won’t reward you for taking care of him exactly how he wants to be taken care of. 

Osamu giggles, too—also hoarse, as if he’s the one who just got his throat fucked. 

“You’re so good to me.” That sharp tongue disappears behind a coy smile, and you collapse into him, a little delirious and fully in love—he’s a fucking dog. 

“Trust me,” you sigh back, pressing that promised kissed to the corner of his mouth again, wriggling on his thigh.

He’s going to tease you so bad for getting worked up by letting him use you, you know.

“I know I am.”

[mercurialgrrrl]

okay navigation revamp is officially done!

[mercurialgrrrl]

about me.

name domi.

age twenty-one.

pronouns she/they.

star sign virgo.

mbti infp.

muses dazai osamu + sakamaki laito.

likes sweet cocktails, manga, cats, le sserafim, tropical fruits, fur coats, ysl’s black opium over red, dark lipstick, + the color red.

dislikes neon colors, leos, bitter foods, overly floral scents, + heights.

[mercurialgrrrl]

characters i write for.

bungou stray dogs.

dazai osamu, nakahara chuuya, mori ogai, kunikida doppo, edogawa ranpo, fyodor dostoyevsky, nikolai gogol, and yosano akiko.

diabolik lovers.

sakamaki shuu, sakamaki reiji, sakamaki laito, sakamaki kanato, sakamaki ayato, and sakamaki subaru.

[mercurialgrrrl]

rules.

🫀be kind and polite in my ask box please.

🫀please don’t spam my ask box.

🫀do not spread my works outside of tumblr and do not repost my work without my explicit permission.

🫀what i do write: smut, yandere, toxic and/or abusive dynamics, angst, fluff, violence, horror, mild bdsm, and more. i’m getting back into this blog after a year and a half so i’m unsure of how i feel about writing certain things at this moment.

🫀 i write for female readers primarily. i don’t know how the male body works and i’m most comfortable writing for a female reader. if requested, i’ll try my best to write for a gender neutral but for smut, i’m afraid i just don’t feel comfortable with that.

🫀what i won’t write: pedophilia, age play (nsfw or sfw), explicit rape or sexual assault, scat, watersports/piss play, vomit, sounding/inserting things in the urethra. there’s probably more i can’t think of at this moment but if you’re curious just ask! we’ll burn that bridge when we reach it lol.

🫀no bigotry of any kind. racism, homophobia, misogyny, transphobia, ableism, etc.

🫀do not interact: bigots, zionists, minors, “proshippers”, people who want to fight and discourse (please leave me alone, i’m just here to write about my fantasies).

🫀if you don’t like what i have to say, block me! i’m serious! the block button is the world’s greatest button.

[mercurialgrrrl]

masterlist.

bungou stray dogs.

dazai osamu.

even when you lose your happy glow. (one-shot, nsfw)

public sex thirst.

birthday surprise! (drabbles, fluff)

pm!dazai office thirst.

you adored me before. (one-shot, angst).

kunikida doppo.

yandere headcanons.

nakahara chuuya.

fyodor dostoyevsky.

birthday surprise! (drabbles, fluff).

edogawa ranpo.

mori ogai.

diabolik lovers.

sakamaki shuu.

sakamaki reiji.

sakamaki ayato.

sakamaki kanato.

sakamaki laito.

sakamaki subaru.

miscellaneous.

[mercurialgrrrl]

this is probably gonna take awhile, sorry for the inconvenience.

links not working at the moment. i’ll fix them tomorrow.

[mercurialgrrrl]

i have to redo my entire navi haha cool okay😀

links not working at the moment. i’ll fix them tomorrow.

[mercurialgrrrl]

links not working at the moment. i’ll fix them tomorrow.

[mercurialgrrrl]

cqthqrtic -> mercurialgrrrl

[mercurialgrrrl]

i miss u

thank you.

[mercurialgrrrl]

cw: yandere fyodor, manipulation, imprisonment

fyodor doesn't have to try very hard to keep you by his side.

it's not that you don't try. you try your best despite how the repurcussions are never worth the momemtary illusion of freedom. you get so desperate that you cling on to any shred of hope you can find, to the point where logic and sense is tossed aside and you pull through with nothing but the pure, reckless determination of a person teteering on the edge of madness.

but you're strangely meticulous with your attempts. you study everything and anything to find a way to leave, though you should have long rationalized with yourself that there was no point tapping at floorboards and taking apart clocks. you spend hours studying locks to fashion the perfect pick. you study him, committing to memory his routine, his habits. how he tends to bite at his nails, how he never checks to see if a door is locked after leaving.

how he never looks angry when you come crawling back.

at most, he looks disappointed. the first time you walked back in, he was almost done with his dinner. he spared the clock one glance, put down his spoon and only said that he expected you to last longer.

out of spite, the next time you force yourself to never return, despite how horrible it was. you hid out in defiance, hungry, tired and hopeless, until he found you. it was drizzling weakly, and it was the fourth day. he shook his head and lifted you up by an arm, guiding you back.

the problem, fyodor finds, is that you simply underestimate him. you do not consider his connections, and the abilities they possess. there is no one who will be looking for you, no evidenve of you existing once he wipes it clean. there is nobody who remembers.

nobody who cares.

and that is why you always come back.

you're not frightened by ability users and bullets, not after meeting him. you're not bothered by the cold or your hunger. you force yourself to adapt. he knows you have a strong will, and it burns fiercer than any bodily pain or discomfort.

but the one thing that shatters your resolution and your hopes is solitude.

fyodor smiles at you despite how you bite, and his touch is always tender. fyodor looks at you when he says your name, asks about your thoughts on the music playing and the films you watch. he kisses your mouth and your fingers, and he strokes your hair. you study him so carefully that you can't avoid the feel of his skin against yours, and just how much of him revolves around you—speaking to you, holding you, just being with you.

when you leave the quiet of his house for the loud, uncaring outside, you find that nobody else tries to do the same. there is no lingering glance, no registering of your presence more than a quick look. there are no teasing smiles or light touches. there are no questions posed and no words listened to.

you are nobody if you are not fyodor's.

it is this truth that chains you down to his side, unable to stray very far.

[mercurialgrrrl]

let’s pray i have the time and energy to pump out a fic this month

[mercurialgrrrl]

The thing about Dazai is that he's cruel when he wants to be.

You know this—you've known this even before he admitted in his long-winded way that he's an ex-mafia member. He has a clever tongue, knows how to use it to his advantage when it comes to swooning women or interrogating suspects. He's multifaceted in that regard.

You've only really seen a glimpse or two of his mean streak, a vague memory of when you were ushered out of the Agency infirmary while Dazai was left alone with Kouyou Ozaki that one time. It's best not to think about it, you tell yourself, but all you can think about right now is that you really, really wish he could be that mean right now.

It slipped out somehow—in your rambling, you didn't even notice when you'd stupidly admitting your more-than-cordial-platonic-coworker feelings for him. But you did, and these are the consequences, just not the ones you were expecting.

Fingers twitching, joints tight and stiff in the cold, you look up at Dazai's blank eyes and the flat line of his lips. Stupid. You feel so utterly stupid, and you're waiting here for his response and yet there's none to be given.

What makes it worse is that his eyes are soft. He's not poking fun at you or rolling his eyes or brushing this off. You really, really wish he would, you wish he'd make a joke out of this and humiliate you, you wish he'd run to Kunikida and laugh about it with him and group you in with all the other people he's swooned before, but he just stands there. There's pity in his eyes, or maybe something like careful consideration as he chooses his next words.

"You..." and a thoughtful hum escapes him before he goes quiet again. You hate this. You hate every second of it and you just want him to laugh at your stupid feelings and leave you in the dust so you could cry alone and not in front of him. A burning feeling pricks the backs of your eyes and you're going to die right in front of him, because that'd be much better than dealing with this awful, awful silence.

"I don't think you really mean that."

And you hate him. You hate Dazai, because of course he'd say something like that. In all his self-loathing, he wouldn't think for a minute that you know what you're talking about—that you mean it. You hate him. This is crueler than anything else he could've done.

"I do, Dazai," and your voice is strained, and choked, and your face is hot with embarrassment because this is stupid and ridiculous and just supposed to be a workplace crush gone out of hand. "Just shut up. I do." And when he opens his mouth again to protest, you shake your head and roll your eyes and try not to make this whole thing more dramatic than it's already gotten.

"Whatever. I mean— whatever. I didn't say any of that. I didn't mean it like that. Can you forget it, please, and don't tell anyone, this is awful, Dazai, you're awful, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry."

In your years of working here, you've never heard Dazai Osamu say sorry, not like this. Not with gentle eyes and a hesitant breath. This is ridiculous. You're going to kill him.

"I wouldn't tell anyone," he keeps talking, he keeps talking and you're going to kill him, "That's cruel. I'm sorry."

Cruel. You want to laugh. He would know a lot about that.