#like Mori knew them and was like

[akikos-tribble-army]

Oh, hello, Schoethe obsession. Welcome back.

[taintedmind6669]

They watch studio ghibli films together in my head

[greeneyeofenvy]

ignore how long she took me,

Lamore Cupia, youngest of the current Cupias, a famous potion family in the wizarding world: they historically invented the Amorentia and other love potions. And holds blood of the Cupid(s), but that’s a family secret. The mirror selfie and the profile drawings ig, it’s close to her real handwriting, cursive and hearts on her i’s. total time taken: roughly 18 hours. fun lore abt Lamore:

-She’s a Ravenclaw, despite how ‘dumb’ love can make her, she’s talented in potions by birth (which created a sort of friendly rivalry with Daniel Page)

-her family is LOADED, and pure blood. Lamby a like the sugar mommy, and least traumatized (she has no trauma, yet.)

-she just knows love about people, wether it’s their orientation, crush, status, she just knows. Hell she’d likely even know if someone like someone before they knew themselves! I imagine she gets little tingles when a ship of hers becomes a reality.

-she goes by many names: The matchmaker, Mory, Lam, Lamby, ‘that girl who knew he was gay before he even knew what gay meant’ (true story?). Either way she’s a cupid woman of many names.

[bluebellhairpin]

KYOYA OOTORI THE MAN THAT YOU ARE.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 IF WE WERE YOUNG AGAIN

FEATURING: osamu dazai

SUMMARY: your day was a mess from start to finish, and you knew it would only go further downhill when dazai inevitably called you up to his office once you got back to headquarters. still, you never could've imagined just how badly it would take a turn for the worse.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: AHAHAHAHAHA GUYSSSSS ARE U READY ARE U READYYYYYYYYY BEAST AU PMREADER AT LAST!!!!!!!! anyway there's not much to say yet, i shall be saying my thank yous and my full piece at the end of the last part, so ENJOY! this first part is a doozy dafuhsdiufh sorry the summary sucks i couldnt think of one and just wanted to get this out for u guys. be gentle on our girl reader, she's going through it. reblogs appreciated!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, beast!dazai, tragedy, angst, canon compliant.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: dazai is quite cruel in this first part (with reason of course but it still might be hard to read). alcohol & drug usage. unprotected sex. finger sucking. a bit of implied/explicit misogny & slut shaming.

SEE: TWO SLOW DANCERS SERIES MASTERLIST

Dazai Osamu is dead—that’s what everyone tells you, at least.

Chuuya is convinced he died somewhere between his fifteenth and sixteenth birthday, months before you ever met either of them. He tells you that if you’d seen the way he acted when he and Chuuya first met—if you’d seen how bright his eyes got whenever he insulted Chuuya and goaded him into stupid challenges, if you’d seen the way he was so careless with his life and how he’d laugh gleefully when Mori panicked trying to keep him alive, if you’d seen him compared to how he acted afterward, you would know that something happened in those months that killed the boy that once went by that name. Chuuya is vehement in his belief that Dazai has been long dead, and the thing that lives on the top floor of the Mafia’s main headquarters is only a husk that wears his ex-partner’s face.

The Flags agree with him—they never knew Dazai well, but they knew of him enough to know that something had seriously changed in those few months. You’d never been convinced of it, though. You didn’t know Dazai before his ‘death’ date, but you know that he wasn’t dead when you met him. 

He was always odd; you could always tell that something heavy was hanging over him. There was an air of gloom and despair that clung to him like a second skin, and it made people keep him at arm’s length. Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he’d get a faraway look in his eyes like he was lost in some other world, and sometimes he became cold and standoffish for no reason at all. It would happen so suddenly that it would give you whiplash, and you never knew what triggered it. Still, you could see the way his fingers trembled with guilt after.

He was odd, but he was alive. You fought Chuuya tooth and nail about it for two years; he always tried to get you to distance yourself from Dazai, warning you that something was wrong with him, that he was not right, that something changed him for the worse, and every time would end with you slapping him and the two of you not speaking for days. Dazai was alive—it was so abundantly clear to you in every interaction with him. His eye shone brightly whenever you walked into the room. You could hear and feel his heart racing when the two of you were curled up on the couch or in bed. His cheeks would flush a pretty red whenever you teased him, his breath would catch when your lips brushed his—he was alive, and there was no one you wouldn’t fight about it.

Your partner, Itou, didn’t know Dazai before his speculated ‘death’ date either, but he too was skeptical of how adamant Chuuya and the Flags were about it because all he saw was the way he acted with you. It made you feel validated, you would vent to him about it whenever you and Chuuya got into fights because you didn’t want to tell Dazai what Chuuya was saying about him, although you had a feeling he already knew. 

Then he hopped on the bandwagon two months before Dazai took over as Port Mafia boss. You don’t quite know what happened between the two of them—Itou and Dazai were never friends. Dazai was always cold to the older boy, and Itou always kept a distance from him, but they were cordial for the most part. Something changed at eighteen when Dazai picked up a mission that was supposed to be yours. He went with your subordinates up to Kyoto to handle Ihara Saikaku, who was undoing all the work you’d done up there before you came to Yokohama. When they got back, Itou could never look at him the same. He wasn’t quite as loud and adamant about Dazai as Chuuya and the Flags were, but you could tell that he wasn’t fully on your side anymore when you vented to him.

So you were alone in your defense of Dazai. Alone, and for a long time, you never wavered—Dazai was odd, but he was indubitably alive, and he was indubitably human. You fought Chuuya on it, you fought Itou on it, but eventually, you had to fight yourself on it, too. 

Your throat swells as you look at the small metal trinket resting in your hands. It’s ugly, haphazardly made—a bunch of wires twisted into an indecipherable shape. It’s only because you remember the offended expression that crossed Dazai’s face when he saw the confusion on yours after handing it to you as a gift when you guys were sixteen that you know it’s supposed to be a crab, and he has his own to match. Had his own to match. Chuuya had one, too, but he destroyed it right before your eyes during one particularly bad fight three years ago. 

Dazai had made them after watching a movie with you and Chuuya before their shaky friendship fell apart entirely toward the end of the Dragon’s Head Conflict. You’re not really sure what pushed him to make them, but Chuuya immediately called them ugly and said that he didn’t want a stupid crab, and Dazai promptly threw it in his face. The two of them started brawling on the ground for almost an hour, but even after they fell out, you know Chuuya took careful care of the stupid crab—it brought you solace for a time because you knew it meant that a part of Chuuya, however small, still clung to his old friendship with Dazai even if they weren’t on good terms anymore. 

Until he used his ability to ensure that there wasn’t even dust left when he destroyed it, that is.

“You already finished up with Mishima? I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

You lift your gaze from the crab, eyes falling on Chuuya as he leans against the frame of the door to your office. There’s an odd expression on his face, and you realize that he’s not looking at you but instead at the object in your hands, trying to figure out what it is. As casually as you can, you lean back in your seat and bring your hands into your lap, giving him a wry smile.

“Dealing with Mishima never takes more than a couple of hours,” you say, quietly dropping the trinket in your desk drawer before sliding it shut. “I figured you’d be busy with the new recruits today. I heard they were incompetent.”

“Don’t get me started,” he replies dryly,  pushing himself off the doorframe to make his way over to you. He sits on your desk and you give him a withering look when he carelessly moves the documents you’d been reading. “I left Iceman to deal with it.”

“How considerate.”

“Always,” he agrees with a sharp smile. He leans back on his hands, hair falling in his eyes and hat crooked on his head as he looks down at you, eyes curious—you know him well enough that there’s a question on the tip of his tongue, but it’s likely a question he already knows the answer to and just wants to see what you say.

“We’re meeting at the bar in Hodogaya—you gonna come?”

It’s a casual question, an invite out with friends, so unassuming, but you know what the underlying question is. 

Are you going to answer him when he calls for you?

It’s a Thursday night. Dazai usually calls for you on Fridays because you’re not quite as busy trying to get together reports before the weekend—he knows you like to have them done before Friday morning—but you had a mission today, so you know, and Chuuya knows, that he’s going to use it as an excuse to call you up to his office tonight. 

There’s a heavy look in his eyes as he stares at you, waiting for a response, and you know what he wants to hear. He wants you to say yes, he wants you to turn your back on Dazai at last and come out with them instead—and you think he has some nerve expecting that of you when he still acts like Dazai’s loyal dog, killing and destroying on his command. This is going to lead to an argument between the two of you, not the first and certainly not the last. Every time you argue about this, he tells you that what he does for Dazai is different, he throws things in your face that you regret ever telling him, and then he’ll apologize when he calms down later. 

Then the same fight will happen next week like clockwork. 

“Chuuya,” you say quietly, letting out a sigh as you lean back in your chair, looking away. “You know—”

You sit upright when Chuuya suddenly leans forward, using his foot to push the drawer he’s sitting over open to grab what you tossed in there before he entered the room—you hadn’t been subtle enough. Your heart rate spikes, hand darting out to grab his wrist, but Chuuya is stronger than you, and he wrenches his hand away, staring down at the twisted wires with a disgusted expression

“Give it back,” you say tightly, holding your hand out. The air suddenly feels very hot, the room is suffocating. “Chuuya, give it to me.”

He doesn’t.

“You still have this shitty piece of scrap metal,” he spits, hand tightening around it. The Tainted Sorrow responds to his anger in an eerie red glow that emanates around his hand. Usually, Chuuya has impeccable control over his ability, he has to otherwise, destruction will follow him everywhere he goes, but the topic of Dazai is the only thing that manages to rattle the careful control he’s built. The only thing that wakes up the sleeping calamity god inside of him. “Why?”

“None of your business,” you say tightly, rising to your feet. “Give it back, Chuuya.”

“What the fuck are you still holding onto?” he demands, voice raising as he too comes to his feet, holding the trinket tight in his hands as he comes face to face with you. “He’s gone. How many fucking times does it have to be shoved in your face for you to understand? Dazai is gone.”

“Stop it,” you tell him, voice quiet but it wavers in a way you wish it didn’t. You’re not sure if you’re trying to convince yourself or Chuuya when you say, “He’s still there.”

“Dazai is dead,” Chuuya hisses. You can see he’s trying to calm himself down, but the frustration is whittling at his self-control. You used to be able to have conversations about Dazai, discussions about your opposing viewpoints, but now the instant his name is brought up, it’s like guns being drawn on both sides. “He died years ago. Whatever that thing is up in that office, it’s not him. Let him go, for fuck’s sake.”

“Rich,” you say with a laugh that you know grates his nerves. “Then why are you still here, Chuuya? You’re the strongest ability user in the world. No one could stop you if you wanted to leave, but you still answer his every whim like a well-trained dog.”

Chuuya’s expression twists like you’ve physically slapped him. A hurt expression crosses his face, and then something closer to guilt as he looks down at the ground. You know why—you know he partially blames himself for how Dazai changed. He thinks that there’s something he could’ve done differently in those months he knew him before he ‘died’ that could’ve led to a different outcome, and that’s why he stays at his side.

“Because once you’re done holding out hope that he’s still there,” Chuuya says, voice low and threatening in a way that has your hair on end—you’ve only ever heard him take this tone with enemies, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” you reply, voice just as low. “He’s still the boss.”

“He’s a walking corpse.” 

“Watch your mouth.”

Chuuya suddenly laughs, taking a step away as he shakes his head. His eyes are wild, and you tense, waiting for him to escalate the argument, but you can’t brace yourself for the words that fly from his mouth.

“Always running to his defense, all for him to treat you like a whore,” Chuuya spits, slamming his hands down on your desk. He’s loud enough that you know all of the subordinates wandering the halls can hear. You don’t breathe as you stare at him, words processing slowly. “He calls you up there because he wants to get his fucking dick wet, and you spread your legs for him every time. Where’s your fucking self-respect?”

Your hand shoots out before you can stop yourself, palm stinging painfully as you slap Chuuya so hard that his head snaps to the side. He doesn’t budge for a second, staring at the far wall, a guilty expression crossing his face as if he only just now realized the gravity of his words.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, and you hate that your voice wavers. “Get out of my office.”

Chuuya says your name quietly, regretfully. “I—”

“Get out, Chuuya,” you scream at him, taking one of the books on your desk and throwing it at him hard. He could use his ability to stop it from hitting him, or he could dodge, but he lets it drive hard into his chest, grimacing at the pain. “Get the fuck out.”

He leaves without another word, placing the bundle of twisted wires back down on your desk and only sparing one last glance in your direction before shutting the door quietly behind him. As soon as he’s gone, your hand is flying to your mouth to muffle the ragged breath you take in. Your eyes blur with tears, but you don’t let them roll over your cheeks—you don’t even have the chance to because your phone is buzzing with a message you’ve been expecting since you got back to base. 

What timing, you think dryly, desperately trying to calm yourself down.

Dazai: Come up.

———

When you reach the top floor, your heart is in your throat. You don’t meet the eyes of either of the guards in the hall leading to Dazai’s office. You can’t even if you wanted to—as soon as you stepped out of the elevator, they averted their gaze to the ground. 

You only come up here once a week—you only see Dazai once a week. You can hardly handle being in that office, it reminds you too much of Mori. It’s been four years, and you still sometimes expect to see him when you walk down this hall and through the double doors at the very end of it. You still haven’t fully processed his death—how could you with no closure? Dazai never even let you say goodbye. He didn’t tell you what was happening and had Mori’s body dumped before you could even race up to the top floor to stop him. By the time you got to the office, the deed was done, and Dazai was sitting at his desk, blood still fresh on his face and Mori’s scarf draped around his shoulders—a spoil of war, a symbol of his conquest.

There was no apology. No explanation. Not even a hint of guilt over what he did—for keeping you in the dark, for not even giving you the chance to cry over your father’s corpse.

He looked at you and said, “You were slower than I expected.”

He let you yell at him, he let you cry, but he never rose from where he was sitting at his desk. He watched impassively as you screamed your throat raw and cried until there were no tears left to shed, and when you sat on the ground heaving, finally starting to calm down, he told you to pull yourself together. That he needed your help reconsolidating power because the weeks directly after the transition would be the most vulnerable to internal and external conflict. That you needed to reach out to Leo Tolstoy and Mishima Yukio to let them know about the power transition and to ensure they were vocal in support of him.

Sometimes, you wonder if Chuuya is right because you don’t understand how Dazai could be so callous. And to you of all people. You can’t reconcile the Dazai of that day to the Dazai you knew for years—the one who lived in your apartment, who failed miserably every time he tried to make dinner, whose fingers trembled when you kissed him the first time.

He adored you for years, he looked at you like you were his whole world—he was cold to everyone else, but never you. From the day he met you when the Dragon’s Head Conflict was raging through Yokohama, he was gentle, overly affectionate, he gave you silly trinkets that reminded him of you, and picked the shittiest movies on Friday nights. He couldn’t sleep unless you were near him—a week before he killed Mori, he was curled up in your bed and complaining when you took too long brushing your teeth. You’d known the night before it happened that something was wrong, but you never could have expected what happened. Not ever. Not from Dazai.

He never explained why he really killed Mori; he blows you off with some shitty excuse about how it was what was best for the Mafia. How Mori knew this was coming. How it was always meant to happen. But you know there’s something he isn’t telling you, and his refusal to do so is as much of a betrayal as the act itself was.

When you reach the tall wood doors leading to his office, you take a moment to collect yourself. You remind yourself that it’s Dazai behind them, that Mori is gone, Elise is gone—you do this every time you come up here, but it’s never enough to rid yourself of the hope that briefly swells in your chest before it’s crushed by the sight of Dazai.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally push the door open and step into the office. The air is cool, brisk compared to the stuffy air of the hallway, and Dazai is standing on the other side of his desk, back facing you, hands clasped behind him. The door slams shut behind you with a deafening thunk, and you stay rooted to the ground in front of it, staring at the back of Dazai’s head.

He turns his head to the side, looking at you from the corner of his eye. For a moment, you almost think that his gaze softens as it lands on you, but it’s wishful thinking. You brace yourself when you see the way the corners of his lips quirk up into a sharp smile, how his eye glitters with a type of amusement that can only be malicious. His hands slide from where they’re resting behind his back to his front, out of view, and he says:

“You were slower than I expected.”

The air whooshes from your lungs—you don’t know what you thought he would say, but it wasn’t that. You try not to let the pain show as you recover from the blow dealt, but you know you failed to stop a grimace from crossing your face with how Dazai’s eye crinkles. 

“You’re lucky I came at all,” you finally bite back, hating the way your voice so obviously wavers. 

It’s always him, only him, who hurts you like this—he’s the only one with the ability to do this to you. Even Chuuya’s worst doesn’t come close to the damage Dazai can do with a few words. With everyone else, you can fight back, you can match their cruelty, surpass their cruelty, but he leaves you at a loss for words. He always has. He used to tease you with it—he was sweet and flirty, and it left you flustered, but now he’s cruel. He digs his fingers into wounds that he created and twists, violently reopening them so he can watch you bleed, and the worst part is, you don’t know why.

“Is that right?” he drawls, voice low and languid as he finally turns to face you, gaze roving over your body once before settling back on your face. His lips are pale and chapped, cheeks a bit sunken, the bag under his visible eye is almost black—you want to find pleasure in the fact that he’s clearly not doing well, but you can’t. He takes a few steps closer to you, and it takes all of your willpower not to let him back you up against the door. He lifts two fingers to your chin, tilting your face up to him and forcing you to hold his gaze—his fingers are so cold that it makes you shiver. “As always, all bark, no bite—you and I both know you’re too obedient to go against a direct order.”

You slap his hand away hard. His lips curve up into an unsettling smile that doesn’t reach his eye. He takes a step back to put some space between the two of you, hands taking their place behind his back again.

“What do you want?” you ask him after a moment, shaking your head as you look away. You know what he wants—you just don’t know what game he wants to play before he gets it. Especially not right now; he’s been so irritable and unpredictable the past few weeks. Sometimes, he likes playing politics, asking you about missions and how relations are with the Port Mafia’s allies; other times, he likes testing your limits, seeing how cruel he can be until you finally break. It always ends the same way for you—bent over his desk. “Hm?”

Dazai tilts his head to the side, giving you a lazy smile. “So cynical. What makes you think I want something? Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

You know better than to fall for that, lips tightening before you say, “You always want something.”

He leans forward on the balls of his feet, head dipping down, and there’s a playful expression on his face that gives you whiplash. You shift back, and for a brief second you see the Dazai you remember. The Dazai who giggled as he held your phone out of reach and watched you struggle to get it back. The Dazai who teased you into giving him your first kiss when you guys were sixteen. The Dazai who learned the names and stories of all of the constellations in the sky for you.

The Dazai you loved.

The Dazai you desperately want to believe is still here.

“Do you know what tomorrow is?” he asks, visibly excited about whatever it is. But you don’t know what he means, so you don’t know how to answer, and your throat feels clogged with fear. 

What is tomorrow?

You’re fumbling, taking too long to answer, you know it, but you want this Dazai, you want him to stay, you want to drag him down to Chuuya and shove it in his face, ‘I told you it’s still him, don’t you see?’, and you want things to go back to how they were. You’re frustrated and panicked trying to come up with an answer for him, and on top of everything, you’re angry at yourself because you don’t know why you still cling so desperately to the boy he used to be after everything he’s done. 

His smile starts to fade when you don’t immediately respond, and you blurt out:

“We have a meeting with the Red Chamber tomorrow.”

It’s not the answer he wants—you know it as you say it, but it’s the only thing you can think of.

“Right,” he agrees quietly, smile gone and gaze lowering to the ground. For a moment, he looks disappointed but not surprised, and then he closes off from you again. His eyes empty of excitement, and his expression flattens—the Dazai you loved is gone again just like that. You know you shouldn't feel as gutted as you are, but you are. Not for the first time, you wish that you could rip out that traitorous beating thing in your chest. It would be so much easier if you could hate him. “Come.”

You don’t move immediately, a heaviness settling over you as you watch him pace back over to his desk, lithe fingers flipping through a manila folder lying on top of it. You swallow thickly before making your way over to him. He slides the folder in front of you and shifts so that he’s looking over your shoulder. He’s too close. You can smell the smoke on his breath from the cigarettes he chain-smokes, the whiskey staining his tongue, the familiar metallic scent of blood. Your gaze drags from the folder to the bandages that peek out from under the dark sleeve of his jacket and then up to his face.

He’s already looking at you through his lashes, eye half-lidded. His gaze isn’t empty anymore, it’s heavy, dark. You don’t know what he’s thinking—you used to be able to read him well, but you haven’t been able to in years. You wish you could now more than ever. 

“What is this?” you finally ask, voice quiet as you force yourself to look back down at the folder he passed over to you. The file is of an executive of the Red Chamber—an acquaintance of yours who worked to get Cao Xueqin to meet with you and Dazai tomorrow. “Why are you showing me this?”

“This friend of yours—”

“Acquaintance,” you correct with a frown.

“Acquaintance,” he echoes with an empty smile. “I want you to kill him tomorrow.”

What?

You don’t even realize you speak the word that instantly flies through your mind at the order he gives you. You turn to look at him again, and he’s watching you carefully now. You don’t know if this is a real order or if Dazai is just saying something ludicrous to get a reaction out of you. You can never tell with him.

“You heard me,” Dazai replies, dark eye dancing with amusement at your confusion.

“What purpose does that serve, Dazai?” you demand, shaking your head. You want to take a step away from him but his presence is magnetic, a black hole that relentlessly pulls you in. “Baoyu Jia is the closest to an ally that the Port Mafia has inside the Red Chamber. We may as well be shooting ourselves in the foot. You—”

Your words falter when Dazai reaches up with his left hand to grab your chin. He tilts your face up again, but this time, his thumb rests on your lower lip, effectively silencing you. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and you know that it’s a power play—forcing you to look at him, silencing you, and then just holding your gaze, daring you to continue. You want to rip your chin out of his grip and scoff at him.

You don’t.

“Don’t question me,” he finally tells you, voice cold, eye flashing with something indecipherable when he sees the rage that crosses your face, but it fades into disappointment when you don’t say anything. 

Did he want you to? 

You don’t understand him.

“I don’t do assassinations, Dazai,” you say instead, voice hard. The pads of his fingers are so hot against your skin, and his thumb against your lip feels too heavy. “I handle politics. You know that.”

His grip on your chin tightens just a smidge, there’s a cruel glint in his eye that you don’t like. You brace yourself for whatever he’s about to say, but nothing can prepare you for what he does.

“You slit your own mentor's throat in her sleep,” he says casually, like it wasn’t something you confided in him about when you were at your lowest years ago. “Surely, you can handle an acquaintance.”

You rip your chin from his grip, taking in a sharp breath as you physically step away. You turn your back to him so he doesn’t see the way your throat spasms as you swallow the sudden lump in it, the way your eyes sting with tears at his words. You don’t know what you expect coming up here every time he asks. You don’t know why you still have hope that he’ll treat you the same way he did before he put a knife in your father’s back and draped his red scarf around his shoulders while his corpse was still warm. 

You don’t know why you still want him to.

“I hate you,” you breathe out, hating how shaky your voice comes out.

Your breath catches when he takes a step closer to you, chest brushing your back, fingers ghosting your hips. His presence is deceptively warm, considering he has no heart to keep his blood pumping, and you hate the way it makes your hair stand on end. You hate the way he knows because you don’t have to look at him to know that his lips are curved up into an amused smile.

He leans down, breath fanning against the nape of your neck as he whispers, “Then leave.”

You won’t. You don’t. You never do.

One of his hands rests on your hip, fingers deceivingly gentle as he caresses you when his words feel like knives through your back. He lifts the other to graze your jaw, leaning in to brush his lip against where he’d touched before he lets his hand drop back to your side, sliding down your body to join the other on your opposite hip, holding you steady when your knees feel weak.

“Leave,” he tells you softly again. You press your lips together to hold back the moan that nearly tumbles out of your lips when his teeth graze that spot below your ear that makes your knees buckle. Luckily, you have enough control over yourself that your knees don’t give out, but you don’t think you were as successful at muffling the moan as you thought you were because you can feel Dazai’s lips curl up into a smug smirk against your skin. “Go, I won’t stop you.”

You should. You know it even as he resumes the slow, languid kisses down your jaw. You know it when you feel his hands slide from your hips to your upper thighs. You know it when he shifts you forward so that the front of your thighs are flush against his desk, the wood pressing uncomfortably into your skin, and you know how this is going to end. You should leave, you should shove him off of you and go back down to your office, you should give him a hateful look and tell him that the way he touches you makes you sick and you can hardly stand to look at him even if it is a lie just to see if he’s still human enough to be hurt by your words or if he’ll just stare at you with that unnervingly empty gaze that makes you question if Chuuya had been right from the beginning. 

But you don’t.

He pauses for a second. His hands go still on your thighs, his lips ghost your pulse point—he’s waiting to see if you’ll leave even though he knows that you won't. You never do. When you don’t move, you hear him take in a sharp breath, and you feel his grip tighten before he slides one hand up your back to fold you over his desk. 

Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes you would leave, if he wants you to fight back, if he’s disappointed when you don’t. 

You’re still wearing the black slip you wore to meet Mishima and his daughters. You purposely wore it because his daughters have wandering eyes and are prone to letting more information slip when they have something pretty to look at.

“You wore this for them.” 

It’s not really a question, but there’s an edge to Dazai’s tone that makes you hold your breath. You turn your head to the side to look at him from the corner of your eye, hoping to catch something on his face, but it’s as blank as ever, entirely unreadable even with you bent over his desk in front of him, hands on your thighs as he slides up your short dress.

“What does it matter?” you ask, voice tight. 

You don’t know how you want him to respond, but it’s certainly not with the way he does: “It doesn’t.”

His voice is as cold as it always is when he calls you up to his office for this. He’s never warm, never intimate—it’s always a quick fuck, it’s always over his desk and never in a bed, his fingers are always rough, and he never kisses you, not on the lips. He hasn’t since the two of you were eighteen. 

But sometimes you’ll hear his breath hitch when he’s deep inside you, you’ll feel his whole body shudder, fingers digging into you so hard like he’s terrified of letting go, and when you look back, you’ll see Dazai. The Dazai you know, the Dazai you loved, the Dazai you can’t let go of. You see it in his eye when he looks down at you—the adoration and the desperation, the tears that he tries desperately not to let spill over—and in the way his lips part like he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to. 

It’s why you keep coming back. It’s why you don’t leave when he tells you to. You cling to the idea that he’s still here like it’s the only thing that keeps you going. A part of you wonders if maybe it is the only thing that still keeps you going because the thought of your Dazai being gone leaves an aching hole in your chest that you don’t think will ever fill.

Sometimes, you wonder if you just imagine it. There’s no hidden intent. There’s no love that he pushes away because he can’t afford the weakness as boss of the Port Mafia; he’s not bringing you up here because he wants to indulge in something he shouldn’t be allowing himself to have. This is just another power play. He just wants to prove that he can have you whenever he wants—that you’re his even after everything he’s done. 

You’re just as much of a spoil of war as the scarf around his neck.

He lifts his hand to shift your hair out of the way, and the tips of his fingers brush the nape of your neck. You hear him let out a noise akin to a scoff when he sees the ribbon tied neatly around your throat. There’s a pinprick of satisfaction that flies through you when you get the audible reaction from him.

“You still wear this thing?” He’s careful to keep his voice calm as he asks the question, but you know from the way his fingers are tense against your neck that he’s bothered.

“It was a gift,” you reply quietly, watching him intently. Your cheek presses against the mahogany of his desk. It’s cool against your skin, but you feel like you’re on fire with the fingers of one of his hands digging into your hip and the other resting on your neck. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He leans down a bit more, his chest to your back, weight pressing down on top of you. His hips are flush with your ass, and you can feel him straining against his black slacks. Your lips part in a silent gasp when he presses his lips to the underside of your jaw, trailing slow, wet kisses down your neck.

“You cling to the past too much,” he murmurs against your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point before he bites down far more gently than he usually does. “You need to let go.”

You have a feeling that he’s not just talking about Mori.

“Letting go has never been my strong suit,” you whisper, lashes fluttering shut when he sucks a dark mark into the crook of your neck. Your eyes snap back open when you feel him grab one of the ends of the ribbon, preparing to take it off. You grab his wrist to stop him. “Don’t.”

He pauses, you can feel his sharp gaze trained on the side of your head, but you don’t look at him this time. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking right now—you can tell from his body language that he’s about to make a comment you’re not going to like.

“What a dirty girl you are,” he murmurs, kissing the crook of your neck over the bruise he left on it. It’s deceptively soft, which lets you know whatever he’s about to say is going to twist the knife still lodged in your back. “Letting me fuck you over Mori’s desk while you wear the first gift he gave you… I’m sure he’d be rolling if he knew.”

You physically jerk at his words, head snapping around, a shocked expression on your face, but before you can get out more than a ‘you—’ he uses his foot to knock your legs apart, hand dropping from your hip to slide against the silk material of your panties. You inhale sharply, lips parting in a moan that you can’t catch as Dazai circles his index finger around where your clit is hidden beneath your panties, his lips trail from the crook of your neck to the top of your spine, and he uses his free hand to slide the zipper of your dress down, revealing your bare back to him.

He doesn’t take off the ribbon around your neck. 

You almost wish now that he would.

“I hate you,” you say again, but your words catch over another gasp when he starts trailing hot kisses down your spine, fingers pushing your panties to the side so he can slide his fingers between your wet folds. You hate how your body is so quick to react to his touch. “I hate you.”

“So convincing, hime,” he drawls. You choke at the use of the title that Mori gave you as he sinks two fingers inside of you—it’s not his first time saying it, he used to tease you with it all the time four years ago. But it was always a soft teasing, you could see the way the corners of his lips curled up gently and the way his gaze was fond. This is mocking. It’s sharp. It’s the same tone people took when they used the title to insult you, to imply you weren’t worthy of your high-ranking position in the Mafia, that the only reason you had a seat at the table was because of your relationship with Mori. The ribbon around your neck suddenly feels too tight, cutting off the airflow to your lungs. “I can feel your hatred dripping all over my hand.”

“Fuck you,” you spit out, blinking away the tears of frustration that suddenly sting your eyes. Chuuya’s words ring through your head: where’s your fucking self-respect? “Fuck you, Dazai.”

You feel his lips curl up into an unkind smile against your spine. “In due time.”

A part of you wonders if the fleeting sight of the boy you once knew is worth dealing with who he’s become. If the pleasure you feel when he touches you is worth putting up with the cruelty. You enjoy the time you have with him—physically, at least. Dazai knows how to touch you in ways that no one else can compare to; he knows all of the ins and outs of your body and can bring you to the precipice with just a few touches like he’s doing now. You’ve tried seeking out others to warm your bed, but they paled in comparison to the way Dazai makes you feel.

But he knows your mind as well as your body; he knows all of the ways to make you hurt, and he knows how to make it as painful as possible. He reopens a wound slowly with honeyed words and sweet smiles before digging his fingers in and twisting. The hime was intentionally cruel—not just to remind you of Mori, of where you are, of what Dazai did, but also to remind you of who Dazai once was. He was shoving it in your face again, just like Chuuya always says he does—you cling to the past too much, you need to let go.

“I hate you,” you gasp again, but your lashes flutter as he fucks his fingers deep into you, slow and steady—the stretch is pleasant, familiar, dizzying in a way that no one can replicate. He hums against your skin as he drags his tongue back up the length of your spine after he’s left a trail of bruises down it, like he’s marking his territory on you. “I—hah—”

He kisses the nape of your neck at the same time as he presses that spot deep inside you that makes your eyes knockback. You claw at the mahogany of the desk you’re on top of, breath quick and thighs trembling as he leaves you on the edge.

“Things would be so much easier if you did,” he murmurs, and you think you’re not meant to hear it. You try to look back at him, and you catch an oddly resigned expression on his face as he stares down at the marks he left on your spine, the fingers of his free hand tracing them delicately. It’s so out-of-character that it draws you back from the edge, which is what finally pulls him out of whatever trance he was in, something strange crossing his face when he realizes that you caught him staring. 

At once, his fingers slip out of your well-stretched hole, and you can’t stop the pitched whine that slips from your lips, breathing heavily as you try to regain your senses after having been brought so close to your high. Your cheek rests back down against the desk, vision a bit blurry as you reel from the loss of his fingers, but you know you won’t have to wait for long because you can hear him undoing his belt, pulling out his cock to use his drenched fingers to stroke his cock before he presses his tip to your entrance.

Your body shudders at the familiar feeling, eyes half-rolled back, just knowing what’s about to happen. You feel him lean over you again, chest to your back, and he lifts his fingers to press the two that were inside of you to your lips. It takes a moment for your gaze to focus on his expectant face, and you’re too out of it to consider turning your head away to be spiteful, lips parting so that he can push his fingers into your mouth, tongue instinctively swirling around them.

Where’s your fucking self-respect?

Again, the question echoes through your mind, but before you have the chance to answer it, Dazai fucks it away as he thrusts forward, hips flush to your ass as he suddenly pushes his cock deep into you. And fuck, if the stretch of his fingers was pleasant, the stretch of his cock is heavenly, the closest to rapture you’ll ever get. The moan of his name that spills out of your lips is garbled and unintelligible around his fingers, and he lets out a breathy noise—a scoff? a moan?—you can’t tell, too focused on the intoxicating feeling of being split open on his cock.

For the first time since you left his office last week, you feel whole, and maybe that’s the reason why you keep coming back. Dazai Osamu has ruined you to the point where you can’t feel whole without him—you need him in you, on you, around you. You want to be consumed by him, you want to consume him. From the day you met him when you were sixteen, you knew it would be him. It was always him, it could only be him. He loved you in a way that you never thought you’d be loved from the moment you met. He had you as early as that night he brought you to the rooftop to tell you the stories of the stars—you were his, and you thought he was yours. 

You fell so hard for him, so quickly, it was almost unreal. He understood you in ways nobody else ever did. Sometimes, you swore it felt like he knew you before he ever actually knew you. You’d never felt so seen by someone before, you’d never felt so loved. You spent years alone in Kyoto, and before that, you were following around a man who was hyper-focused on your ability and your failures. Dazai was the first person who saw you for you. He was the first person to make you feel like your life had meaning beyond just furthering the interests of the Port Mafia for Mori.

And Dazai is observant, sure, but you've seen how he interacts with everyone. You studied it carefully because, at first, you were worried that you were reading into things you shouldn’t be, especially with Chuuya’s warnings about him ringing through your head. But the way he saw everyone else was different from how he’d seen you—he saw them for their weaknesses and their faults, so he could exploit them whenever he pleased, but he saw you. He knew you—he knew little things that he had no reason to know, that he couldn’t exploit: how you took your coffee, that you love thrillers and are bored by comedies, he knew your favorite book, your favorite constellation, your favorite color, he knew everything from trivial details to all of the fears that you could never bring yourself to speak out loud.

That’s why you cling to the past, that’s why you keep coming, that’s why you never leave. You can’t accept that he’s gone, you can’t accept that he sees you now the same way he sees everyone else: as a pawn, as someone to exploit. So even if it means having to endure his cruelty and the whirlwind of emotions that follow every meeting with him, if you can get a glimpse of who he used to be, any shred of proof that the boy you loved, the boy who loved you is still there, it makes it worth it. Because it’s easier to deal with cruel words than it is to deal with the loss of meaning in your life that would follow accepting that he's gone. It wouldn’t just be losing him, you would be losing the only other thing that’s kept you moving, too, because Dazai became the Port Mafia as soon as he took over as boss.

The breath you take in around his fingers is ragged. You don’t know why you’re suddenly thinking of this—maybe it’s because Chuuya’s words are haunting you, demanding to know where your self-respect has gone, maybe you just need to rationalize why you’re so dependent on someone who treats you like this. You don’t realize you’re crying until Dazai’s hips suddenly still, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth to grab your chin, turning your head to force you to look at him.

Something strange crosses his face—pain, guilt—and it’s only then that you realize that your vision is blurry, that your cheeks are wet. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he’s uncharacteristically gentle as he uses his thumb to wipe away your tears. His hand drops from your face, and you lay your head back down on the desk, taking in a shuddered breath when Dazai rests his weight on top of you. He kisses your shoulder blade, and he kisses up to the crook of your neck again before burying his face in it for a moment—it’s almost intimate, it almost feels like an apology, but you know better than to hope for that. 

You don’t know how long you lay there with him like that, but you bask in the intimacy he rarely allows you. One of his hands runs up and down your side soothingly, his breath steady against your neck, you can feel his heartbeat against your back. 

A reminder that he’s alive, a reminder that Chuuya is wrong.

For a second, your Dazai is back. The Dazai that loved you.

It’s only when your breathing starts to steady and the tears stop rolling over your cheeks that Dazai finally moves, but it’s not to pick up where he stopped. Your lungs are drained of the air within them when you feel him move away from you, when you hear him tuck himself back into his pants, when his fingers brush the small of your back to zip your dress back up. Just like that, you’re left hollow again, a shell, half of a whole without him to complete you.

“Dazai—”

“Get out,” he says, voice cold and sharp. It’s not the same teasing ‘then leave’ he says every time you come in. It causes a pit to form in your gut, uncertainty riddling you as you stand up unsteadily. His back is to you, hands out of sight in front of him as he looks out the window over the skyline of the city, only lit up by various buildings now that night has fallen.

“But—”

“Get out,” he repeats, harsher this time. “That’s an order. Don’t question me. And don’t make me say it again.”

Your throat swells as you stare at the back of his head in disbelief. “I—”

“Now.”

You feel sick to your stomach, straightening out your dress as best as you can, fixing your hair, and making sure your makeup isn’t terribly smeared. You don’t dare to look at him, you think you might cry if you do. So you set your gaze on the far wall as you fix yourself up, not looking back even when you hear him moving.

Once you feel somewhat presentable, you raise your chin and make your way out of his office, only pausing when you get to the double doors to spare a short glance behind you. Dazai is sitting at his desk, face buried in his hands, fingers trembling almost as much as his shoulders are shaking. Your throat swells—you want to say something.

You know better.

You leave his office quietly, making sure to hold yourself together as you walk past his curious guards. You know they must have an idea of what goes down in his office when you’re called up; they’re probably the reason why so many rumors circle around about you sleeping your way into an executive position, but you refuse to let them see you with your head hanging, so you only meet their curious stares with a cold one of your own before taking the elevator back down to your floor. 

It doesn’t take long for you to get down to your office, and you inhale as you brace yourself for your subordinates’ attention, but you freeze when the elevator doors open and you’re met with an empty hall. This hall is never empty, and it’s only when you see Chuuya waiting for you at the end of it near your office that you realize he must have cleared them out.

His expression is taut, but his eyes are gentle as they roam over you, and you let out a wet, shaky breath when you realize that he’s here to make sure you aren’t alone even after the argument the two of you had. You take one step toward him, and then another, and then you’re breaking over a sob and rushing toward him a bit faster—he meets you halfway, strong arms circling your waist as you cling to his shoulders.

“It’s not—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say as you choke over your words. “It’s not simple, Chuuya. I can’t just—you don’t understand—”

“I know,” he murmurs, turning his head to the side to press his lips to your temple. “I’m sorry. Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

“... Yeah.”

———

You’re already wasted by the time you get to the bar with Chuuya. The two of you went to his penthouse to drink away your sorrows before Albatross started spam-texting you, trying to get you to come to the bar with them. Chuuya was planning on ignoring him and spending the night relaxing with you, but you didn’t want them to think something was wrong, so, against better judgment, you ended up making your way to meet them.

They’re already there and several drinks in by the time you and Chuuya arrive. You’re still steady on your feet, but you can feel the wine that the two of you had been drinking getting to your head. You just want a nice night, you want to forget about Dazai, you want to get drunk with your friends, and maybe if you’re feeling especially spiteful, bring someone back to your bed because you know it will get back to Dazai because everything gets back to Dazai.

No, you remind yourself, no more thinking of Dazai tonight. Even in spite. 

Unfortunately, your hopes are crushed the moment you approach the private booth where the Flags are drinking.

“Do you hear half of the shit they say about her?” Iceman asks, not realizing that you and Chuuya are approaching. “I beat the shit out of one of my own subordinates who thought it would be okay to say shit about her around me. When the fuck did they start getting so bold?”

“I’m just worried about her,” Lippmann murmurs as he takes a sip of his drink. “You haven’t seen her lately, she’s…”

Great, you think, teeth grinding together as you try to push their words out of your mind. Chuuya squeezes your bicep before his arm drops from around you, clearing his throat and giving Iceman a heavy side-eye. Iceman and Lippmann, to their credit, do go quiet when they realize that you overheard what they said.

You force a smile onto your face as you move forward to take a seat in the booth, knocking your hip against Albatross to force him to move in. Chuuya sits on your other side, squeezing you between the two of them. You reach out to take Albatross’s drink from him, not caring what it is or what it might be laced with knowing the older boy, you just want to fucking forget about Dazai tonight, and if that means consuming Albatross’s questionable choice of liquor, then so be it.

“You guys are so dramatic,” you say. “I’m fine.”

You can tell that they don’t believe you. Lippmann and Iceman exchange a long look with one another, and Doc’s gaze lowers to the table. The corner of your lips waver, throat tight as you look down at the drink in your hands before taking a long swig of it. The plain vodka nearly makes you gag, but there’s an odd sweet aftertaste that leaves you a bit suspicious. Before you can swallow, you feel Albatross toss an arm around your shoulders and drag you into him, causing you to nearly choke over the liquid.

“I knew you’d come out,” Albatross croons, pressing his face hard into the side of your head and nuzzling. He kisses your temple obnoxiously twice before licking your cheek; you slap him away with a scowl. “My favorite girl’d never let me down like that.”

His sunglasses hang off the bridge of his nose, and when you see the way his pupils are the size of nickels, you start to question what exactly is in the drink you just took from him. He seems to know exactly what you’re thinking from the way he tosses a wink at you and leans back against the booth, arm still snug around your shoulder.

“It’ll make you feel good,” he promises with a sharp smile before turning to Doc. “Hey, so about that…”

You tune Albatross out as you turn your attention back to Chuuya, who gives the glass in your hands a reproachful look but otherwise doesn’t say anything else. You give him a pointed stare before you take a sip of it, you don’t have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes at you.

You turn your attention to Iceman and say, “You should probably stop going out of your way to defend me. Otherwise, there’s just going to be more rumors about me spreading my legs for the whole upper echelon. They already say I’m sleeping with Chuuya, Albatross, and Piano Man too.”

Piano Man’s expression twists in disgust at your words, immediately taking another sip of his drink, and Albatross quiets down, looking at you from the corner of his eye. Chuuya only gives you a heavy look that you can’t bring yourself to look at him. 

“So you just want us to let them talk about you like that?” Iceman asks with a frown, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “They’re tearing your reputation to shreds.”

“It works in my favor,” you reply, although your voice is strained as you say the words, lips pressing together as you look down at your drink. “It makes it easier during negotiations, our enemies aren’t as guarded because they think I wasn’t given my position through merit.”

“Bullshit,” Iceman snaps, the corner of his lips curling into a sneer at your words. You shoot him a flinty look, but he’s unrepentant. “You can sit there trying to convince yourself that to make yourself feel better, but not me. I’m not going to sit and let my subordinates disrespect one of our executives.”

“Rich, considering how you talk about Dazai behind closed doors,” you say lightly, but your fingers are tight around your glass as you take another sip. Dazai’s name feels like ash on your tongue, a heavy feeling settling over your chest as you remember what happened in his office—weren’t you supposed to forget about him for the night? 

Always running to his defense, all for him to treat you like a whore.

You think Chuuya is reminded of his words from earlier, too, because you see his throat spasm as he looks down at the table. The moment Dazai’s name is spoken, the tension at the table spikes—sharp and sudden. You’ve never confronted them about their resentment toward their boss. It’s always been an unspoken rule, a line carefully danced around but never crossed. They respect him, acknowledge how he’s elevated the Port Mafia to new heights, but his name still leaves a bitter taste in their mouths—especially when it comes to his treatment of you and Chuuya.

But it’s more than that. It’s not just bitterness and resentment—they don’t understand him. They never did, even before he took over as boss. To them, Dazai is something cold, something wrong, something inhuman. They prescribe to the same belief Chuuya has: Dazai Osamu died seven years ago, and the thing living on the top floor of the building is a husk that wears his face. He doesn’t think like they do, doesn’t feel like they do. When they report casualties from missions, he turns a vacant gaze on them and tells them to leave; you don’t think they ever fully got over how he murdered Mori and how he treated you afterward. He’s a machine—a monster—in the shape of a man, all calculations and sharp edges where warmth should be. They might fear him, might even admire all he’s done for the Port Mafia, but they’ll never trust him, and they’ll never like him.

On nights like this, when you all have a few drinks in you, they get a bit bolder with their opinions—especially Doc and Iceman. You made a mistake bringing him up, you don’t want to argue with them—not tonight, not after you argued with both Chuuya and Dazai already. You’re so tired, you just wanted a nice night out after how shitty the rest of your day had been. 

“Oh my,” Piano Man sighs airily. 

“Come on, guys,” Albatross complains. “Can we not?” 

But Iceman has a temper. The table shakes as his fist drops onto it, he leans over to get closer to you, putting his cigarette out on the ashtray. “It’s because of that bastard that half of the fucking Mafia thinks you’re a walking fleshlight—”

“Jesus Christ, Iceman,” Chuuya spits, interrupting him as he slams his hands against the table and rises to his feet. You don’t react to the comment—it’s nothing you don’t know, nothing you’re not used to hearing in whispers. You finish the glass of vodka, that sweet aftertaste lingering in your mouth. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

“Come on, man,” Albatross complains again, rubbing his face. “Too far.”

“I’m only repeating what I have to hear,” Iceman says, holding his hands up before he lights another cigarette. You can tell he’s upset because it takes three tries for him to get it lit, fumbling with the lighter. “What I have to hear because of how he fuckin’ treats her, only for her to keep defending him.”

You should be angry, you think, but whatever was in Albatross’s drinks must be working because all you can feel is a dull haze as your fingers thrum against the tabletop.

“I have free will,” you say, voice distant even to your own ears. Doc raises his eyebrows and looks down at the table, not commenting but making his position clear with how he gives you a long look. “I choose to go up there, I let him fuck me. Albatross whores himself out like no tomorrow. He spends every night in a different person’s bed. Why is it an issue when I fuck one guy?”

“Yo, why am I catching strays?” 

“Because of the optics of it,” Doc replies, ignoring Albatross as he fiddles with something under the table. “Because of who you are, who he is. Because of how it looks.”

“I know the first thing Kitada-san taught you was the importance of optics,” Lippmann agrees quietly. “He knows, too. He could have anyone he wants, there’s no reason for him to be letting the Mafia drag your name through the mud like this.”

The thought of Dazai with anyone else makes you feel distinctly unsettled to the point where the intoxicated haze starts to abruptly fade away. 

“He could easily find a whore to fuck if that’s what he wants,” Iceman adds with a scoff. “He knows what he’s doing to you by making you spread your legs for him, he knows how it looks on you. On both of you.”

 And just like that, lines are drawn. Doc, Lippmann, and Iceman are on one side; you, Chuuya, and Albatross on the other. Piano Man remains in the middle, ready to intervene if things escalate. Though you know Chuuya and Albatross agree with the other three, they’ll always take your side in public, and you know the other three are only angry because they’re angry on your behalf, but it makes you sick to your stomach to know that they think… they think what? That Dazai calls you up there, and you have no say in the matter, that you let him on you, in you, because you can’t say no to the boss and not because you want it.

“I don’t give a shit,” you say tightly. “He’s not making me do anything. If I want to fuck Dazai, then I’ll fuck Dazai. If I don’t want to fuck him, I won’t fuck him.”

“Right,” Iceman drawls sarcastically. “You think that piece of shit gives a fuck about what you want?”

The rage hits you suddenly—you don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the stress that’s been weighing on you all day, or whatever Albatross had in his drink, but it makes your vision go red too quickly for you to control. You rise to your feet, the table shaking as your palms hit it hard—you think it must be a combination of the alcohol and whatever was in Albatross’s drink because you don’t even feel the pain you should feel when a piece of glass cuts into your hand.

“What the fuck does that mean?” you demand.

Iceman raises his chin, exhaling a cloud of smoke before he says coolly, “Exactly what it implies.”

“Fuck you,” you reply, eyes stinging with sudden tears as you stare down at Iceman. The older man has the decency to at least look ashamed when he sees your reaction, but he’s unapologetic otherwise. “You don’t know shit about Dazai, and you clearly don’t know shit about me either. This was a mistake.”

You move to leave, but Chuuya is in your way. Glaring down at him, you snap, “Move.”

“You’re drunk and fucked up on whatever Albatross is on,” Chuuya says, disagreeing, but when your face twists in frustration, he lets out a heavy sigh and moves out of the way. “Let me come with you.”

“I just need some air,” you say, voice rougher than you intended as you stumble out of the booth. “I’ll be back.”

Distantly, you hear Albatross spitting something at Iceman, and you can hear the anger dripping from his tone. Albatross never gets angry, and you don’t know why that makes you tear up more. You feel too suffocated in the bar; you can feel too many eyes on you, and you just can’t breathe. You slap away the hand of an attendant who tries to help you when you stumble, pushing the door open and greedily inhaling the cool air of the midsummer night. 

You rest your back against the wall of the building, trying not to let the tears in your eyes roll over your cheeks. You don’t know why today has left you so emotional—it’s just like any other day you meet Dazai. You argue with Chuuya, you go to meet Dazai, and then you deal with all of the emotions that the meeting drags up. Maybe it’s just that you’re drained from dealing with the Mishimas all day, or maybe it’s because Chuuya didn’t have to spend hours trying to calm down before he came back to you, or maybe it’s because you don’t know what went so wrong earlier with Dazai.

You still don’t fully understand why you spiraled so much. More than that, you wish you hadn’t left when Dazai had told you to. The way his fingers were trembling, the way his shoulders were shaking—there was no hiding that he was crying, and you think that if maybe you’d stayed, if you tried to press a little harder, you might’ve been able to get some answers out of him at last.

You take in a wet, shuddered breath as you try to get ahold of yourself. You miss Dazai, you miss how things used to be, and you don’t know how much more you can take of whatever this is.

You hear noise from your left, and you think that Chuuya or one of the Flags came out to check on you, but you’re startled by an unfamiliar face staring down at you, expression unreadable.

“Who-”

You yelp when his hand darts out to grab your arm. He tugs you into his chest harshly, and you don’t even have time to scream for Chuuya before there's a rag being placed over your mouth. Your hand claws at his wrist when the familiar sharp scent meets your nose, but it’s to no avail. You find your vision darkening and your knees going out—and the last thing you think of before everything goes black is him.

[wonder-and-wildflowers]

Dazai canonically rambling about his loved ones at every possible opportunity is so dear to me.

Mori knew a lot of the things he did about Oda because Dazai told him. Akutagawa also knew about Oda and how important he is to Dazai because of Dazai's ramblings. Random, unnamed PM members know about Oda being very dear to Dazai, because Dazai praises him and talks about how great he is.

Chuuya knew straight away that Dazai had been speaking about him to the ADA. It wasn't something he expressed feeling betrayed or suprised about. It was just an immediate understanding that of all the ways they could probably have known about him and his ability despite it being confidential information in the PM, Dazai's ramblings were most likely the reason.

The way that Dazai speaks about Ranpo to quite literally anyone who will listen. To Fydor, to random cops, to Atsushi.

Dazai canonically brags about the people he cares about in an 'omg omg omg my person my people I love them look how amazing they are' way.

[myinterestsvary-writes]

AKwaRd tensions

Shoving my OHSHC agenda down YALLS throats for now

[science-hoes]

Daylight: Month Two

Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical medical descriptions, mentions of child loss, Robby’s arm tats

Chapters: Month One, Month Two, Month Three

Description: Robby and the reader enjoy domestic bliss and the annoyances of pregnancy, but a patient case that hits close to home wedges between them.

—————

The thick smell of bacon lured you awake before your alarm clock ever went off. When you opened your eyes, darkness still blanketed the bedroom. No crack of light stretching between the blackout curtains just yet. Only the illumination of the alarm clock on Robby’s side of the bed gave you an indication of the time. 4:18am.

You already knew Robby was out of bed aside from the obvious aroma and sounds coming from the kitchen. He usually had you tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm snug around your waist. His absence left you feeling incomplete…but you had the whole bed to yourself. You sprawled your limbs out across the mattress, mirroring a starfish. Your eyes fell heavy again, content with a smile, ready to sleep for two more hours before your alarm.

But the bacon smelled so good.

Like a zombie, possessed by an unknown virus, you sat up in bed. Your legs swung off the mattress, not even taking a moment to stretch. Before you could evaluate the pros and cons of abandoning the empty bed that you rarely get to have to yourself, your feet padded across the wooden floor, shuffling until they hit the cold tile of the kitchen. Damn. The baby must really want some bacon.

In the low glow of the light above the stove, Robby was searing the final batch of bacon on a sizzling pan. Dressed in only gray sweatpants with his glasses perched on the sharp bridge of his nose. Black ink slithered around his biceps, Memento Mori and Amor Fati, his constant reminders of the fragility of life. His hands worked diligently, ridges of veins and tendons competing against each other as he flipped over the strips of bacon with a regular fork.

A splatter of burning fat made a beeline for his broad chest, landing on the bare skin.

“Ah, fuck.” He hissed, recoiling at the brand it made on his flesh.

You giggled, alerting him of your presence. “You know, you’re a hypocrite.” You teased.

Robby raised an eyebrow but smiled nonetheless at your presence. “How’s that?” He asked.

“Always grumbling about patients who put themselves in ridiculous situations that get them hurt.” You explained, then gestured towards him. “Yet here you are, cooking bacon with a fork and no shirt.”

Your boyfriend chuckled, returning his focus back to the crisping strips of meat in front of him. “Do as I say, not as I do.” He defended.

You walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, your hands clasping on his warm, toned abdomen. You peppered kisses on his back, catching the freckles with your lips. “Why are you up so early?” You asked.

Robby let out an exasperated sigh, already feeling the weight of his shift on his shoulders. “Quarterly chiefs meeting at six.” He answered.

Your cheek pressed against his spine as you moved your hands to his waist, massaging the skin there. “Couldn’t be a Zoom meeting?”

He chuckled insincerely. “Oh, no. Gloria likes to do her berating in person.” He said as he began to fish out the perfectly crispy strips and place them on the plate next to the stove.

“Humiliation kink?”

“I think it’s more of a voyeurism thing.”

Shared laughter filled the air, the most familiar sound of the kitchen in your home aside from the Eagles on vinyl and medical news podcasts.

Robby clicked off the stove after removing the final piece of bacon from the pan. “You know, I’m still not on board with the whole bacon thing.” He mumbled.

You shrugged, snatching a piece from the plate and taking a bite. “It’s only a problem if you undercook it. Did you?” You teased.

Just like the day you found out you were pregnant, he gave you an offended look. “Of course not. I don’t undercook my food. Ever.” He jabbed a finger softly at your shoulder.

“Besides. It’s what the baby wants. Not me. Who am I to say no?” You added.

Robby peered over his glasses to look you in the eyes. Gosh, you loved that stern, sexy professor glare he always gave you. “The baby should want eggs instead. Safer and good source of protein.” He lectured and pointed over to the plate of yellow fluff on the other counter that he made before you woke up.

Once you made eye contact with the scrambled eggs and its smell connected with your olfactory nerve, your mouth watered mid-bacon crunch, and not in the good way. Immediately, you sprinted to the bathroom, making it just in time to puke your guts out. Robby wasn’t far behind, and he pulled your hair out of your face as your body reeled from the very smell of eggs. It didn’t last for long, just a few seconds, and when the nausea subsided, you slouched back into his embrace.

“See. The baby is in charge.” You said with a small giggle, wiping the corner of your mouth with the sleeve of your (Robby’s) sweatshirt that you slept in.

Robby pressed a kiss to the back of your head, cradling you in his lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was as stubborn as his mom.” He teased, throwing in his guess at the baby’s gender.

You scoffed, reaching behind you to poke his stomach, making him flinch at the ticklish sensation. “She’s as stubborn as her dad.” You corrected, slating your guess as well.

He held you in his embrace for another moment before tilting your head to look up at him. His glasses were askew now, hair still in disarray from sleep. He traced his thumb across your cheek, wiping away a tear that formed while you threw up. “Are you gonna be okay to go to work by yourself?” He asked.

Your natural reaction would have been to roll your eyes at your boyfriend’s silly question. Of course you could get to work by yourself. You managed to do it every day before moving in with him several months ago. The drive was short, the parking garage was safe. Safe-ish anyway. But you could see the worry in his eyes. The same look he gave you every time that he knew he wasn’t going to be there to protect you. That look had been more frequent over the last month. But this was the first morning that he couldn’t take you to work with him.

You tilted your head into his touch, letting his hand hold your weight. “I’ll be fine. I’ll text when I leave here.” You promised.

“And when you get there.” He added.

A small laugh left your chest through your nose. “You’ll see me when I’m there.” You reminded him.

Robby pressed his bottom lip tightly against his top lip, his characteristic expression of stress. “I know. I just…if I’m with a patient. I want to know exactly when you’re safely inside.” He explained.

You wanted to joke that there was hardly a difference in crime rate between the inside and outside of the Pitt. But his eyes, fuck, those gorgeous, earthy brown eyes were a stargate to his vulnerability. Instead, you nodded. “Okay, I will.”

The laugh lines around his eyes deepened as his cheeks rose with a smile. “Thank you.” He said before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, his glasses bumping against your nasal bone as he did.

You scrunched your nose as you smiled into the kiss. “I just threw up. You still wanna kiss me?” You asked.

Robby chuckled and secured you tightly in his arms before standing up, eliciting snaps, crackles, and pops from his ancient joints. But he still moved with ease and strength as he carried you back to bed. “Unfortunately, my love, your vomit is not the worst thing to ever get in my mouth.” He replied.

You laughed as he delicately deposited your body onto the soft mattress. “Gross.” You deadpanned, snuggling back under the covers.

He sat on the edge of the bed, arranging the blankets to cocoon your frame. “When you’ve been an ER doc for twenty years, then you can come talk to me.” He warned, leaning over to give you one last kiss before rising.

You smirked as he turned to walk away. “Yeah, I’ll make sure to stop by your grave that day and tell you all about it.”

Robby stopped in his tracks, stunned, then he hunched over with an explosion of laughter. He turned and launched onto the bed, tackling you, carefully all the while, and pressed a scratchy kiss on your cheek. “Oh, I’ll be here for another twenty five years. Can’t get rid of me that easy.” Another kiss to your giggling mouth. “I’m gonna die in the Pitt anyway.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, and your cheeks ached from smiling and his bearded kisses. “I thought you and Jack were gonna hold hands and jump off the roof together.” You teased.

Robby nodded. “Yep, that’s the plan.” He agreed.

“Then you’ll die in front of the Pitt. Not in the Pitt.”

An eye roll. “Grammar police.”

A smirk. “Actually, it’s semantics police.”

He rolled off your body and hopped off the bed. “Okay, that’s enough of you for one morning.” He joked, but turned as he made it to the doorway. “I’ll make you a smoothie and put it in the fridge to grab before you leave. Prenatal vitamins will be on the counter with a water bottle. And I’ll handle the eggs.” He said.

You craned your neck towards the door to catch a glimpse of his silhouette framed by the distant light of the kitchen. “You’re doing so much for me. I don’t know how to ever repay you.” You mused out loud.

Although you couldn’t see it in the darkness, you knew Robby smiled. “You’re giving me a baby. I’m forever indebted to you.” He countered. “Get some rest. Enjoy having the whole bed to yourself.” You could practically hear him wink before he walked back to the kitchen.

You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face as you closed your eyes. You felt so loved, so happy, so…at peace.

…

The peace didn’t last for long. You had texted Robby the moment you walked through the doors of the Pitt, just like you promised. But you received no confirmation that he received it. He had been elbows deep in a gunshot victim from the moment he stepped out of that quarterly meeting. You could see him towering over the other providers in Trauma One, commanding the room with a respected power.

You leaned against one of the Hub desks, looking toward Dana. “They need any help in there?” You asked.

Dana shook her head, desk phone against her ear. “No, we’ll need you out here. MVC, pregnant woman coming in. They think she’s preeclampsic and in active labor.” She answered. “We’ll need Trauma Two.”

You nodded and hustled to the ambulance bay, snatching a yellow gown on your way. McKay met you outside and tied the back of your gown, then you tied hers. “Preeclampsia is some scary shit.” She murmured. “Happened to me with Harrison.”

“Is she full term?” You questioned, moving your ponytail out from the neck of the gown where it had been tucked in.

“They didn’t say. I already paged NICU.”

The sound of sirens loomed closer, and the rig turned the corner, thundering towards the bay. A swarm of more nurses and residents appeared to help unload the patient. Blood covered her hands and legs, and one arm draped over her swollen abdomen, bent out of shape.

As you moved along the gurney, heeding the less-than-stellar vitals being screamed in your ear, the woman reached out to you in the chaos.

“Please, save my baby. Please.” The woman on the gurney begged you, clutching your yellow gown with her bloodied hand, leaving its mark on the sheer material.

You didn’t know why she said it to you. Maybe because you were a woman. Maybe because you were around her age. Maybe she had a sixth sense and knew you were pregnant, too. A few months ago, you wouldn’t have given much thought to her words and proceeded with the most logical treatment. But the desperation in her voice struck a chord with you.

You followed the team into Trauma Two, and within seconds, Robby popped in from the adjacent room. McKay read out her vitals, and you placed the fetal heart monitor over her belly. Medicines were ordered to fix the blood pressure and stop the labor, but nothing seemed to work. The fetal heart rate was dropping, the woman began to have intense vaginal bleeding. Placental abruption was taking its course. Finally, a cold statement cut through the madness that sent you into a spiral:

“Start putting efforts towards the mother. She’s got a better chance.” The order came from Robby’s mouth.

You froze and stared at him. “No, she said she wants to save her baby.” You said.

Robby’s eyes met yours for just a moment, an indecipherable flicker in them, before continuing to work with his hands to stop the bleeding. “Her mental state was altered, she can’t make that decision.” He replied firmly.

In an incredibly rare stroke of defiance, you countered with: “Did you do a neuro eval?” Robby didn’t look at you and didn’t stop working. No answer. “No? That’s what I thought.”

Robby barked orders for more units of blood. The beeping of the fetal monitor began to drop lower and lower. “You need to back down. You are the resident.” He hissed.

The tension in the room was heavy, every other nurse and doctor eyeing each other as they all worked in tandem to stabilize the patient from Robby’s instruction. “She expressed her wishes to me. She told me what she wanted. She had the capacity to make the decision, and her autonomy should be-“ You continued.

But Robby cut you off with, “I don’t need a fucking lecture in bioethics. We are going to save who we can. This is not a cadaver lab. If you do not follow my explicit instructions, you will be reprimanded.”

His words had a sharpness that cut you deep. He had never used that tone with you before, especially in front of others. McKay finally stepped in between the two of you, hoping to get you a few steps away from each other. You decided to yield to his power, but there was an unmistakable sense of loss as the baby’s heartbeat dropped lower.

And lower.

And lower.

Until there was nothing.

…

After the patient stabilized and was sent upstairs for surgery, Robby took the woman’s husband to the family room and explained the situation. You shucked your PPE off and went to get a drink of water from the lounge.

Guilt hung in your chest as you remembered the woman’s plea before she lost consciousness. She was going to wake up without her baby. The nursery had likely been finished, the first round of toys and diapers stacked in a corner, blankets with a monogrammed name hanging over the crib.

Angry tears dripped down your cheeks. You heard the door of the family room close, muffled by the quiet of the doctors lounge. You watched through the small window and saw Robby rub the back of his neck anxiously. His eyes scanned the entire department, and they finally settled at the sight of you through the window. Your breath hitched, and suddenly you were a baby deer in the path of a lion.

Robby walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. You stood, shaking your head. “We’re not doing this right now.” You said.

He crossed his arms, blocking your path to the door. “Oh, yes ma’am, we are.” His voice was patronizing, and his eyes had a darkness to them that you didn’t recognize. “That little show in there? That won’t fly.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, taking a step closer to him. “‘That little show’ was advocating for the patient’s wishes. Same as a DNR.” You argued.

Robby huffed, almost a laugh. “A DNR is an official document made when a patient has the capacity to do so. That patient, who clearly did not have the mental capacity to make decisions, told only you. And even so, the baby was crashing too fast to even try and deliver.” He explained.

You felt more tears storm down your face. “She is going wake up without her baby.” You hissed.

He pulled his lips into a thin line. “Yes. But at least she is going to wake up.” He replied.

He just didn’t get it. If you had stayed any longer, you were going to start screaming words that you’d regret. You pushed past him and walked out of the lounge, swiping your tears away with the palm of your hand.

…

For the rest of the day, Robby tried to get you alone, but you turned your back to him and jumped into a patient case every time. It was only when the night shift began to trickle in that he was successful in cornering you.

“Are you ready to go home?” He asked, calm and collected like nothing happened.

You nodded. “Yeah. I’ll follow you.” You replied, reminding him that you drove separately.

After collecting your things from the lounge, you both headed to the parking garage. Even though the walk was silent, Robby kept a protective hand on your lower back as you crossed the street and again when you climbed the concrete stairs. You followed his navy Ford F150 all the way back to your home, refusing to turn the music on. You felt like you didn’t deserve the distraction.

Once home, you began to tidy the house. Doing anything to keep your mind and hands busy. Robby recognized it immediately. Although it wasn’t a harmful anxiety escape, he didn’t want you losing your mind. Without a word, he went back out to the garage, disappearing for a few moments and returned. He sat on the couch, watching you wipe down the coffee table.

“Will you sit down with me for a second?” He asked.

You didn’t look up. “I need to clean up.” You responded in a tone that would make a robot jealous.

Robby sighed and reached his hand out to grasp your forearm. “Please, love.” He begged.

You stopped moving. Still refusing to meet his gaze, you placed the microfiber towel down and moved toward him. He guided you into his lap, pressing your back against his chest. His breathing was warm on the nape of your neck as he laid his head to rest on your shoulder.

“I was scared today.” He whispered. “That woman. She’s the same age as you. She was pregnant. All I could see was you. Even though you were standing there next to me. I couldn’t separate you from her.”

You turned your head, pushing his head off your shoulder with your nose, so that you could look him in the eyes. “Scared?” You questioned.

“I was scared I couldn’t protect you. Scared I couldn’t protect our baby.” He said, and you could hear his voice tremble as he fought back tears. “Fuck, I still am scared. Her husband, he…he cried so much. Even when I told her that she was okay, he couldn’t stop saying how he should’ve been there to keep her and the baby safe…”

Robby’s face was burning red, and a single tear fell from his eyes. You reached up to place your hands on either side of his face. “Michael…” You pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Honey, you did everything right. I was wrong to challenge you like that. It got personal for me.” You confessed.

He shook his head, clenching his eyes shut as more tears fell. “You were a good patient advocate. I was being selfish. Maybe we could have saved the baby. I don’t know.”

You pressed your forehead against his, trying to ground him. “Don’t do that to yourself. You made the right judgement call, even considering the bioethics. If you’d listened to me, they would have both died.” You replied.

Robby didn’t make another attempt. He just sat in silence as his tears dried, holding you close to him. One of his large hands rubbed your belly, the baby bump still unnoticeable. “I love you.” He whispered. The words were not a punctuation to the hours-long argument. They were a sacred prayer.

You leaned into his embrace, nestling against the warmth his body radiated. “I love you more.” You replied, a small smile on your lips, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist topping your answer.

Like a moth to a flame, he matched your mild smile and answered with, “I love you most.” Then he shifted, reaching his hand into the pocket of his navy hoodie.

You shook your head, brushing your nose against his in an Inuit kiss. “Can’t prove it.” You teased.

Robby removed his hand from his pocket and raised it near your face. A sparkle caught your eye, and you leaned away to inspect it. In his hand was a ring. Simple gold band with a large, oval cut diamond. “Wanna bet?” He said, the slyest smirk on his lips.

You couldn’t find the words to speak. Butterflies filled your stomach, surely invading your baby’s personal space. His name left your lips in a whisper.

“We live together. We’re having a baby. Might as well make it legally official.” He said.

“Michael, I-” Your voice trembled. “I want to. I really do. But I don’t want you to feel compelled to do this because of the baby. If you aren’t ready for this, then you don’t have to rush it.”

Robby chuckled, shaking his head. “This has been in my toolbox in the garage for four months.”

A small, hopeful smile found its way to your lips. “Really?” You breathed.

“I was waiting for our anniversary. But today, after everything that happened…I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.” He explained.

The pure joy bubbling in your chest stunned you into silence. Robby reached to his neck, starting to rub his nape anxiously. “I know I probably should have made it a little nicer. I could’ve changed out of scrubs first, maybe shower-”

His rambling was silenced when you threw your arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. He laughed and returned the gesture, standing up straight, your feet dangling in the air as he held you in his embrace.

“It’s perfect.” You whispered. “It’s us.”

Robby pulled back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “So that’s a yes?”

“It’s a ‘fucking finally’ yes.” You answered.

[calmlb]

It’s been clear that the Tanizakis aren’t siblings from the very beginning

here’s some evidence now that it’s been confirmed canon…

everyone who’s read irl Tanizaki’s book knew that Junichiro & Naomi weren’t siblings as soon as they introduced themselves

BUT just because the Tanizakis aren’t siblings doesn’t mean you can’t feel uncomfortable about them. if you feel uncomfortable, GOOD. that’s exactly what they want

the Tanizakis, Mori— they all use these disturbing ruses to disarm or distract people in order to protect themselves, or to accomplish their goals. this is a writing device that asagiri commonly employs as a way to parallel the irl literature (it’s actually ingenious)

there are 4 main indicators that have always made it clear to me that Junichiro & Naomi are not siblings:

1. most obviously— their character designs. Harukawa is extremely intentional with character designs, & she very intentionally made Naomi & Junichiro look nothing alike

their eye shapes are purposely different

their color palettes are contrasting

even their differing styles of clothing have meaning

this was all done so that the audience could PLAINLY see that they’re not related— so that WE know that they’re lying when they say they ARE related

2. how the people around them respond to their act.

the general reaction is “don’t question it”— which is exactly what they want. “be distracted by how uncomfortable you feel so that you look away from what we’re hiding” (this is likely a protective measure)

3. most importantly, this is meant to parallel irl Tanizaki’s book “Naomi,” where the main character Joji picks up Naomi to raise her into his ideal woman, but since she's so young (& a minor) they call each other cousins (Joji makes no sexual advances on young Naomi btw)

however, his plan backfires because when Naomi gets older & they get married, she flips the script on him & manipulates HIM so that he's under her thumb (which is why bsd Tanizaki is at a domineering Naomi's mercy). Joji let her have her way because of his masochistic tendencies

4. lastly is the emphasis that Asagiri and the Tanizakis themselves put on calling each other siblings.

over & over, it’s “my brother this” & “my sister that”

like they’re desperately trying to convince us that it’s true (“don’t let your lying eyes deceive you”)

here are just a few of many examples from the light novels…

again, if you’ve read “Naomi” you knew that Junichiro & Naomi weren’t siblings as soon as they introduced themselves

just like if you’ve read irl Mori’s works, it’s clear that bsd Mori isn’t a pedophile

just like if you’ve read No Longer Human you know that Dazai’s an unreliable narrator. he makes you think he’s a bad person bc he believes he’s a bad person, but those around him see him differently (btw this doesn’t mean he’s never done anything “bad,” though bsd isn’t about morality— but that’s another discussion)

anyway, i’m so excited for the Tanizakis backstory to be revealed so that we can better understand why they use this defense!!

also let this be a reminder to READ THE LITERATURE if you’re able to!! even reading synopses & analyses of the coordinating books makes bsd make much more sense 🥹

reminder that this how you’re supposed to react while reading bsd:

also, if you’re interested in a post explaining how Mori isn’t a pedo, i wrote this analysis on twt. OR you can read this document that one of my moots sent me (remember: analyzing a character does NOT mean you condone any actions they may or may not commit!)

[starlightshadowsworld]

Concept:

“Oh Kunikida finds out Dazai was a Port Mafia member and thinks less of him for it.”

Booo! Boring! Uninspired and factually incorrect.

The worse kind of incorrect.

Give me Kunikida learning Dazai was not only a Port Mafia member but an executive at that. Have him slowly turns to face his partner eyes shining with barely concealed rage.

“So you mean to tell me…that you’ve been fully cable of being a competent employee this WHOLE TIME!”

And watch as the light slowly leaves Dazai’s eyes.

Because oh they have an alliance now and naturally Kunikida made it his mission to learn the inner workings of the Port Mafia.

So that he could better coordinate things between them. And oh oh he learned that there’s many things they have in common.

And in any case one isn’t given such highly ranked position so lightly.

Mori starts bringing up the old Demon Prodigy and Dazai’s trying to kill him with his mind as Kunikida inquires about what responsibilities that kind of role requires.

Chuuya (because oh no the I know your every move goes both ways and revenge is sweet) instantly perks up and is more than happy to regale Kunikida in what it means to be an executive.

And now Dazai’s trying to kill him with his mind too because nooo Kunikida was never supposed to know I am fully capable of doing my job.

Because that’s the real reason he kept it a secret for so long.

Granted Kunikida always knew he was capable but now he has proof.

And so he keeps guilt tripping him into doing his job because “oh I see the Port Mafia has earned your work ethic and respect and I have not, no no it’s fine I see I am below even them.”

Everyone else instantly gets in on it like wow Dazai that’s kinda fucked up and they’re guilt tripping him and it’s cruel and evil.

And possibly working.

“Im serious I can’t do this report. It’s just yet it’s sooo difficult you know so maybe someone else should do it 🥺?”

“But if I was Mori Ougai you’d have completed your reports, wouldn’t you?”

“…I’ll have it done by the end of the day…”

“Thought so.”

[pegging-satan]

UNLESS fukuzawa purposefully doesn’t put that much force into it because he doesn’t actually want to kill mori

And it’s even better and funny to consider that this is foreplay for them lmaooooo

I love watching Fukuzawa and Mori fight but like there’s no way Mori’s gay ass girlypop twink scalpels are strong enough to stand a fucking katana

[z4rph1m]

Platonic Yan!Batfam X dazai! GNreader X Yandere DC

Forgotten child

Pro. Ch.1 (you are here) Ch.2

No longer human….

The name of your ability to nullify any type of meta power or other ability within your radius.

Something that your mother made you aware of before she went along with the clouds.

Mori did once told you that she also had an ability, the Setting Sun

An ability that allow the user to give out the sense of despair and hopelessness to their target….

Upon hearing about it you started to wonder if your mother once use it against you

Months had gone by yet the manor felt emptier than ever.

A lingering presence of a child who was life greatest failure or was it life that failed the child?

The presence wasn’t a blissful innocence and joy but instead a lingering sense of sadness and self-destruction of the child.

The place where the presence is almost as if the child is there has to be their bedroom.

A place where the child find solace and comfort,

A place where Alfred mostly goes to whenever he has the chance.

As much as he wants to denies it

Your path of darkness had already started the moment you were born.

Born not out of love but instead a result of a stringless and loveless action during intimacy.

Alfred knew that there was no hope in saving you from the dark pit of despair and sadness but maybe, just maybe if you were surrounded by care and love instead of indifference and neglect, you would’ve turn out differently.

Alfred raised you with all the care and love he could give yet it still doesn’t stop you from being self-destructive and suicidal.

He knows about your struggles with fitting in with your peers.

Your struggles to overcome your self-destructive tendencies.

Especially with how often he helped with bandaging yourself again and again.

He secretly keep pictures of you throughout the years you’ve stayed in the mansion.

Especially when he took you to a fun fair, away from Gotham.

But that still doesn’t give you the light of hope.

He prayed that one day you’re surrounded by the love that you needed and want.

But he hopes you won’t hate him for what he’s about to do

Bruce know whenever his children comes in and out of the manor, yet he couldn’t help but felt as if someone is missing.

He thought that one of them is probably playing some type of prank on him until Alfred came knocking on the door before entering.

“Master Bruce? I’ve come with your tea prepared and old news to bring”

“Old news? Then do tell” putting down all of his paperwork’s, tapping the pen down on the table

“You’re second child had move out a few months back, it’s a sudden but they didn’t bring anything with them.”

Bruce stare at Alfred in confusion. Jason move out, since when did he move in in the first place?

Alfred gave Bruce a knowing look, as if he can read his mind before opening his mouth to speak.

“It is not master Jason, he is your third child. I suggest to take another guess”

Bruce kept a confused look and thinking on who exactly move out from the manor.

It’s definitely not Dick or Jason, nor is it Tim since he’s currently in his room, or is Damian who’s too young to even move out.

Or coul- no, it couldn’t be….

The bitter truth struck to him like a pile of sadness and despair came hugging his very body.

His first biological child.

The one who join after Dick.

His precious child.

[N] Wayne

Does he even remember how you look like? Actually scratch that, did he even have time or actually look at you throughout your life in the manor?

To add the salt to the wound, Alfred once again speak up.

“I had inform you of their departure but you were quick to dismissed it. I decided that it be best for you to be inform of it the second time”

A sense of dread continue to hug Bruce’s body like a blanket, as if a sadness and the guilt of a child had been passed on to another.

Did he ever had a proper conversation to you, or even attend any events at school with you?

God he hopes not.

He doesn’t even remember how your voice sounds like or even what’s you’re likings to simple things like food or even hobby.

“Alfred, how old are they now exactly?”

It’s embarrassing for a parent to even ask that simple question about their child.

“They’ve just turn 22 a month ago, from what I know, they’re currently living in a apartment”

God how many birthdays did he missed.

He didn’t even gave you a simple card and a cake, actually have you ever even had a birthday cake?

Or even any celebrations?

“Alfred, if you may, lead me to their room”

He wants to know what type of person you are, or at least an idea of it.

What a pitiful excuse of a father isn’t it?

You blankly stare at the dead bodies of the people who tried to kidnap you to threaten the port mafia boss.

Having no emotions In your eyes, bandages being redder and dirtier than ever, and 4 subordinates behind you.

“Bring their body to the slaughterhouse, at least their body would be useful in the market”

They were quick to obey to your command, like little rabbits afraid to get killed by the wolf.

The blood on the floors were left alone, and the deafening silence was your company.

Keyword : Was.

You’re not stupid to not know you’re being watch.

By Bruce’s other child no less, the one who was presumed dead by the members.

“You can come out now Jason. Or should I call you by your vigilante name, Red Hood?”

You watch as he slowly show himself to you, putting his gun down, hands holding nothing.

You just blankly stare at him before putting on a small smirk.

“Try to put me in jail? Or did you change your mind when you saw it was me?”

You change your expression to a blank one, the one that shows the darkness in your eyes and the feeling of the grim reaper surrounding you.

In Jason eyes, there’s something wrong with your silhouette.

Is it the way you’re staring at him? Or the feeling of despair, death and sorrows that clings to you.

It was as if you’re not even a human being.

You turn back and walk away from him, having enough of one of the famous vigilante of Gotham.

“You can take the leftover bullets if you want, must be frustrating to use the rubber ones”

Inspired by @-acid-ixx again & again series and @-marcyvamp1re-blog silly little bat

[moomuzan]

B⃣   U⃣   Z⃣   Z⃣   K⃣   I⃣   L⃣   L⃣

ੈ INFO — you’re their affair but the mafia wants your head!

༘⋆ PAIRING — pm! dazai, chuuya & akutagawa x gn! reader

༉‧ TAGS — angst, mentions of killing & death

➶ ˚ A/N — please let me write a part two

Mori’s words cut through the haze of DAZAI ‘s thoughts like a knife. “Get rid of them.”

Dazai’s expression remained unreadable, but inside, the world had stopped turning. His eyes flickered to the desk, where a glass of whiskey sat untouched. “Get rid of them,” Mori had said. So simple. So final. So damn easy.

But Dazai had always been good at lying. To others, and especially to himself. He didn't expect to feel this conflict, this gnawing sense of betrayal, not when it came to the Mafia—not when it came to this. But the moment Mori had delivered the order, Dazai had known. He had known exactly who the target was.

It’s you. It’s always been you.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as his mind raced. The affair, the stolen moments of tenderness, the way they both pretended it was nothing more than fleeting… He never thought it would come to this. But here it was. The consequences of living a double life, of finding solace in someone who could never belong to him.

Dazai’s lips curled into a faint smile, as though mocking himself.

Did Mori know? Did he know that the one person he’d ordered to be eliminated was the one person Dazai had secretly allowed himself to care about?

Dazai wasn’t so naive to believe his mentor wouldn’t play both sides, wouldn’t force him into this situation for his own amusement.

The mafia executive wasn’t sure if he could live with the idea of losing you... or if he could carry out the hit, knowing it would destroy him.

His fingers hovered over his phone, the screen showing your contact. If I call... if I tell you... could we run away? The idea of abandoning the Mafia made him laugh bitterly. The thought of betrayal, of leaving behind everything he’d built... but it wasn’t the Mafia he feared losing. It was you.

Yet, when the moment came—he would do it. He would bury everything, including the feeling you had given him. Because that’s what he did. He always did what was expected.

CHUUYA sat in the dimly lit room, the weight of the letter in his hand heavier than anything he’d ever held before. Mori’s voice echoed in his mind.

“Get rid of them.”

“Them?”

Chuuya was used to the cold indifference of orders. He’d executed people for less. He had done it with no hesitation, no second thoughts. But this—this was different.

The person Mori was speaking of wasn’t just someone. It was you. You, who had filled the hollow space in his life, who had shown him a side of himself he had long buried. He never expected this to happen—not with you. He never let anyone close enough to matter before. But you had broken through that wall with nothing but a smile and understanding.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, fighting the tightness in his chest.

Could he do it? Could he actually carry out the hit on you?

He stood up, walking to the window, staring out at the city below. The light of the streetlamps blurred as his anger and confusion boiled over.

Did Mori know? Did he know about the late-night meetings? The stolen kisses in dark corners?

Chuuya gritted his teeth. He wasn’t that naive. Mori had eyes everywhere, and nothing escaped his notice. The question wasn’t whether Mori knew—it was whether Mori was playing a sick game. Did Mori want to test his loyalty, push him over the edge?

“I won’t do it,” he muttered to himself, his voice shaking with the weight of his decision. But then, the cold truth hit him.

If he didn’t do it... what would Mori do to you?

AKUTAGAWA stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. His jaw was clenched, his eyes cold. But his mind was anything but calm.

“Get rid of them,” Mori had ordered.

The word felt like a punch to the gut. You. The one person who had wormed your way into his life without his consent, and yet, now, you were all he thought about.

It’s a mission, he told himself, a simple task. Nothing personal.

But it was personal. Everything about this was personal. He had never intended to care, but he did. His mind flickered to the stolen moments, the rare smiles you’d shared, the quiet understanding between you two. You were a weakness he’d allowed himself to indulge in, and now it was all crashing down.

Did Mori know? Did Mori know that Akutagawa had let himself fall in love with someone he should have never even thought of?

The possibility gnawed at him, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the task at hand. He had a duty, a responsibility to the Port Mafia. Loyalty was everything. And yet, there was this one painful truth that sat at the back of his mind: If he killed you, he would be killing the part of himself that wasn’t just a weapon.

His fingers flexed as he gripped his coat tighter, the faintest tremble in his hand betraying the turmoil inside him.

“Damn it,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and venomous. “I can’t do this.”

But he had no choice.

He turned away from the mirror, eyes filled with a mixture of anger, pain, and uncertainty. You had made him feel human—had made him feel something that had terrified him. And now, for the sake of the Mafia, for the sake of his loyalty, he would have to bury all of that.

[elikajinnie]

Every Move You Make, I See It - P.J

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Jay X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Murder, Death, Stalking, Predator/Prey, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Suggestive Content, Feral Behaviour, Psychological Thriller, Graphic Descriptions, the endings a bit fucked up.

Synopsis: The Entity's favored killers are violent, but a new hunter has arrived—and it’s fixated on you. Man or beast, no one can tell. All you know is: you’re being hunted.

a/n: did heeseung, sooo why not jay as well? interested in heeseungs? -> heeseung

disclaimer! all the killers and survivors in this is in dbd the game. I do not own any of them. the idea of jay was a creative endeavour. for educational purposes: mori means killing and it takes two hits in the game before you are downed. And to avoid confusion: when he`s running, his weapon is on his back.

now playing: rock you like a hurricane -2011 by scorpions | daydream by enhypen | chase it by set it off

--

You hated the killers who weren't human or weren't human before they ended up in the Entity's realm. The Xenomorph, the Unknown, the Singularity, the Dredge, Nemesis, Pyramid Head (you weren't really sure about that one), and the Demogorgon—all of them were violent, sparing no survivors, relentless, and merciless. Anytime you found yourself in a trial and they were the killer, annoyance simmered within you because you knew the round would be painful.

Then there were the other killers who weren't human anymore, like the Hag, Freddy Krueger, the Blight, Pinhead and Chucky. You were kind of relieved when the new killer, the Houndmaster, turned out to be more humane—well, unlike her dog, but that didn’t matter.

So when the survivors of the latest trial came back and announced they had just gone up against a new killer, you didn’t think much of it. New killers weren’t exactly rare, and the Entity loved throwing curveballs your way. But then they said something that made the room pause.

“I’m not sure if it was a man or a beast. It looked… human, but it also moved like a wolf.”

Jake, sitting across the campfire with a brow quirked, asked the obvious question. “Like a werewolf?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Great. A creature killer. The worst kind.

“Are you serious?” you muttered, glaring at Nea as if this was somehow her fault. “So, what? We’re dealing with something that bites again!?”

Nea shrugged helplessly, her face still pale from the trial. “It howled. Loud. I swear I heard it from across the map, and… it was hunting me. Not chasing, hunting.”

That word made something twist in your gut—uncomfortable, sharp. You hated the killers who acted like monsters, but the ones who actually were monsters? They were a nightmare. There was no bargaining with them, no understanding their patterns, no telling yourself they were just people corrupted by the Entity. Killers like the Demogorgon didn’t stop. Didn’t waver. Didn’t quit.

Now, apparently, this new killer—a wolf, a man, something in between—was joining that list.

Jake, always too curious for his own good, looked over at you. “What do you think its power is?”

“I think I don’t care,” you shot back, sharper than you intended. “It’s probably something that’ll tear you apart limb by limb, Jake.”

They looked at you for a moment, your irritation lingering in the air, before turning to the others to explain.

“We’re calling it The Beast,” Nea said, voice low, as though speaking the name might summon it. “It manipulates the map, and it hunts with precision. I swear it knew where I was the entire time.”

A chill crept up your spine, but you crossed your arms tightly, trying not to let it show.

“It had wolf attributes,” she continued, glancing around at the rest of you. “Fangs. Claws. The whole package.” She hesitated before adding, “It’s fast, too. Faster than most killers I’ve seen. The way it moves… it doesn’t just chase. It stalks, like Myers and Ghostface. But it’s worse.”

“How can it be worse?” Lara muttered.

Cheryl swallowed. “Because it runs on all fours. One second you see it watching from a distance, and the next, it’s charging you—low to the ground, like an actual wolf.”

Your jaw clenched as you listened, the mental image piecing itself together in your mind. A hulking figure with glowing eyes, tearing through the map with unnatural speed. It wasn’t just a killer anymore; it was something primal. Something built to hunt.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, looking away toward the shadows beyond the firelight. “Another killer that moves faster than us. Just what we needed.”

Feng, ever the optimist, tried to make light of it. “Well, maybe it’s like Huntress. You know—scary but manageable.”

“Manageable?” You shot her a look. “Did you not hear what they just said? It stalks. It runs like an animal. If it’s anything like Huntress, I’ll eat my boots.”

“I’m just saying,” she replied defensively, but you weren’t listening anymore.

Nea`s words echoed in your head: It knew where I was. That wasn’t normal. Killers had their tricks—perks, instinctual guesses—but this? This sounded like something worse. Like an instinct that couldn’t be evaded.

“So, what did you guys do?” Ada asked them. “Did you escape?”

They all looked at each other, and their expressions turned grim. “We didn’t.”

The group went quiet, everyone processing the meaning behind those words. You exhaled sharply through your nose and leaned forward, staring into the flames. Another killer to outwit, another trial that would leave you with scraped knees and shallow breaths if you were lucky.

But as much as you hated the creature killers—the ones who weren’t human anymore—you couldn’t deny the shiver of unease curling at the edge of your thoughts.

If The Beast hunted like a wolf, what did that make you? Prey.

It didn’t take long before you were face-to-face with The Beast. Three trials. Three exhausting rounds of barely escaping hooks and killers that felt almost predictable in comparison. You should’ve known your luck wouldn’t hold out forever.

The moment you entered the trial, you knew something was different. The forest was unfamiliar—not the usual suffocating realm of the Red Forest or Mother’s Dwelling. This was something worse. The trees were taller, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The underbrush was thick with sharp brambles, and the fog was heavier than you’d ever seen, curling around your ankles like it was alive.

You huffed quietly as you adjusted the toolbox in your hands, crouching low as you moved forward. The leaves crunched softly beneath your boots, and your eyes flickered upward every time you passed a crow perched on a twisted branch. You weren’t about to let those bastards give you away.

Stick to the shadows. Avoid open paths. Survive.

But just as you turned a corner around a massive log, you froze. A distant shout cut through the silence, sharp and panicked. Then came a sound you weren’t expecting: bells. Not the sharp, haunting toll of the Wraith—no, this was something different. Rhythmic and unnerving, like chimes carried by the wind.

Without thinking, you bolted in the direction of the noise. Branches whipped against your arms and face as you ran, your heart pounding in your ears. The toolbox rattled in your grip, but you didn’t dare stop. When you burst through a thicket of thorny bushes, you saw her—Sable.

She was on the ground, her leg caught in a snare trap. But this wasn’t a normal trap. It wasn’t the crude, rusty bear traps you’d seen with the Trapper. No—this snare trap was made of barbed wire, coiled tight around her calf, digging into the skin. Blood dripped from the cuts, staining the ground beneath her, and her face was twisted in agony.

“Sable!” you hissed, dropping to your knees beside her.

“It—it’s a trap,” she whimpered, trying to pull her leg free. The movement only made the wire dig deeper. “It came out of nowhere. I didn’t even see it.”

“Stop moving,” you snapped, fumbling with the wire as you set the toolbox down. Your fingers trembled as you worked, trying to pry the barbed loops apart without hurting her more. The sharp metal bit into your hands, and you hissed through gritted teeth as you felt blood well up along your palms.

Keep going, you told yourself. Ignore it.

The bells rang again—closer this time. You stiffened, head snapping up as your eyes darted around the clearing. The forest was too dark, the fog too thick. You couldn’t see anything, but you could feel it.

Something was watching you.

“Hurry,” Sable whispered, panic creeping into her voice. “It’s coming. I know it’s coming.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. With one last twist, the wire gave way, and you yanked it off her leg. Sable gasped, clutching her bleeding calf, but there was no time to stop and tend to it. You grabbed her arm, pulling her up as gently as you could.

“Can you run?” you asked urgently.

She nodded shakily, wincing. “Yeah. I think so.”

The bells tolled again, louder this time—low and hollow, like they were reverberating through the earth. You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up as the sound was followed by something worse: a low, guttural growl.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

“Move,” you ordered, shoving Sable forward as you both started running.

You didn’t get far before you heard it—a sound you’d only heard described before, but never experienced yourself. The heavy thud of something large hitting the ground, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws digging into soil.

It wasn’t chasing you. It was hunting you.

The Beast had found its prey.

You and Sable made the mistake of turning around as you ran—and the sight froze your blood.

The Beast stood at the edge of the clearing, partially shrouded in shadow and fog, but you could see enough.

It was a tall man—if you could even call him that anymore. His frame was draped in black, torn clothes, a cloak of thick fur resting over his shoulders, matted and dark with grime. In his right hand, he held a glaive, its curved blade coated with blood, the metal glinting faintly in the low light. But it was his body that made your stomach twist.

His left arm was no longer human. It was covered in coarse black fur, stretched unnaturally over muscle and ending in claws that could shred through bone. The same grotesque transformation had overtaken his legs, fur and sinew wrapped around animalistic joints.

But it was his face that rooted you in place.

Black hair hung wild and untamed around sharp, angular features. His yellow eyes burned like embers in the darkness, fixed unrelentingly on you and Sable. And when he parted his lips, fangs appeared. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Cause then he tilted his head back—and howled.

The sound was deafening, ripping through the trees and echoing in the fog. It wasn’t a human scream, nor was it the howl of an animal. It was something in between, guttural and monstrous, vibrating deep in your chest like a death knell.

Sable gasped sharply, stumbling against you as her hands flew to her ears. “Go! Go!” she screamed.

You didn’t need to be told twice. The Beast lowered his gaze, his lips pulling back into a feral snarl, and then he moved.

It was almost too fast to process. One moment he was standing still, his claws flexing—then he dropped to all fours and charged.

You ran harder than you ever had before, pulling Sable with you as the sound of claws and snapping branches grew louder behind you. Your lungs burned, your legs ached, but you didn’t dare slow down. Each thud of his movement felt like a countdown, and you knew if he caught you, it was over.

Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

But even as you sprinted through the forest, weaving between trees and leaping over roots, you could still hear him. The low growl, the heavy breath. He was toying with you—getting closer, letting you hear him hunt.

“Split up!” you shouted to Sable, shoving her forward as the two of you reached a fork in the path. She hesitated for a split second, fear painted across her face, but she nodded and darted left while you veered right.

It wasn’t long before you realized he had made his choice too.

The sounds of his pursuit didn’t fade into the distance. The thundering steps—furred limbs pounding against the earth—stayed close. Too close. You risked a glance over your shoulder and cursed under your breath. He was coming for you.

“Of course you’re following me!” you hissed through gritted teeth, adrenaline flooding your system. Your legs burned with effort, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Up ahead, salvation presented itself in the form of a wooden pallet propped precariously between two crates. A quick escape. You angled toward it, lungs screaming for air, and forced yourself to move faster. You could hear him gaining on you, his growl vibrating through the air like a warning.

As soon as you reached the pallet, you grabbed the edge and slammed it down with all your strength. The wood crashed onto the ground, kicking up dust, and you whipped around, a shaky smile breaking across your face as you realized you’d timed it perfectly.

You’d stunned him.

The Beast halted mid-pursuit, the heavy pallet pinning him momentarily. His claws curled against the wood, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl. You allowed yourself a triumphant exhale—until his eyes snapped up to meet yours.

Your blood ran cold.

His eyes were no longer yellow. They were crimson—deep and glowing, like freshly spilled blood. The shift was immediate, like something inside him had awakened. The low growl that rumbled from his chest sent shivers down your spine, and for the first time, you noticed something you’d missed before.

The collar.

Thick and black, it wrapped around his neck like a cruel shackle. And on the front—glinting faintly in the dim light—were small silver bells. The bells. That’s where the sound had come from. Every movement, every step, was punctuated by that unnerving chime.

Your breath hitched as realization struck. The bells weren’t just for sound. They were a warning.

“Shit,” you whispered, backing up instinctively.

He growled again, louder this time, the sound vibrating through your chest. Then, in a blur of motion, he brought his clawed arm down on the pallet with enough force to shatter it. Wood splintered and exploded outward, shards clattering against the ground as the remains of your so-called “safety” crumbled at his feet.

You didn’t wait to see what he would do next. You turned and ran.

Your heart pounded in your ears as you darted through the underbrush, branches snapping and whipping against your face. Behind you, you could hear him—close enough that you swore you could feel his breath against the back of your neck.

You didn’t make it far before you felt it.

The whoosh of air as something massive swung toward you. A sharp, burning pain exploded across your back, and you screamed as claws tore through your shirt and raked deep into your skin. The impact sent you stumbling forward, your legs nearly giving out from the shock, but you pushed through it.

Move. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a small, rotting building with a open window. You sprinted toward it, ignoring the sticky warmth of blood seeping through your clothes.

As you reached the window, you grabbed the frame and vaulted over with everything you had, landing hard on the floor inside. The room was dim, filled with scattered debris, the smell of mold heavy in the air.

You turned, panting, your hand pressing instinctively against the wound on your back. Your heart sank when you saw him.

The Beast was already leaping after you.

His massive form vaulted the window with terrifying ease, the bells on his collar jingling faintly as he landed. His crimson eyes—still glowing like coals—locked onto you and didn’t waver. He wasn’t looking around. He wasn’t searching. He was focused, utterly and completely.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, stumbling backward. “That’s gotta be a perk.”

It had to be. You’d seen this kind of precision before—Killers who always seemed to know where you were, whether it was through a heartbeat, scratch marks, or some cruel Entity-given power. But this? Those eyes were more than just for show. They were locked onto you like a heat-seeking missile.

There was no time to think.

You bolted for the door on the far side of the room, practically throwing yourself through it. You could hear him behind you, his footsteps heavy but fast, the sound of claws scraping against the wood.

As soon as you were outside, you didn’t stop—you started looping the building. It was a classic move, one every survivor knew by instinct. Buildings meant walls, walls meant obstacles, and obstacles meant a chance to survive.

You rounded the first corner, adrenaline surging through your veins. The pounding of his pursuit was right behind you, relentless. You glanced back just in time to see him skid around the corner, his glaive dragging through the dirt with a metallic scrape.

Keep moving.

The building’s loop wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to give you a sliver of breathing room. Every time you turned a corner or ducked through an opening, you’d gain a precious half-second before the sound of claws and bells filled the air again, signaling that he was still there. Still chasing.

You risked a quick glance behind you, just once, and instantly regretted it.

His red eyes were still locked onto you. Even as you looped him, even as you vaulted and sprinted, he hadn’t faltered. If anything, he looked… determined. Like the hunt was enjoyable.

“God, I hate creature Killers,” you growled under your breath as you rounded the building again, already trying to think of your next move.

You couldn’t loop forever. He was too fast, too precise. And worse, the burn of the slashes on your back was starting to slow you down. You needed a plan—and fast.

It wasn’t hard for him to catch up.

You’d pushed your body to the brink, but it wasn’t enough. Before you could make another desperate turn around the building, you felt the glaive swipe across your legs with brutal precision. Pain shot through you as your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the ground with a groan.

Dust and dirt kicked up around you as you hit the earth hard. For a moment, you just lay there, dazed, trying to breathe through the pain. Your ears rang, your body felt heavy, but instinct kicked in—you had to move.

With trembling arms, you started crawling. You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere was better than staying there.

Don’t stop, you thought, dragging yourself forward inch by inch. Your blood left a streak in the dirt as you moved, but it didn’t matter. You had to—

A shadow loomed over you.

You froze, your head snapping to the side as you caught sight of it—a massive, bloodied paw. It dug into the earth by your face, the claws curling into the dirt with a sickening scrape. They were long, black, and sharp enough to skewer you where you lay.

You turned onto your back with a shaky gasp, dread settling deep in your chest as you looked up—and up.

The Beast stood over you, towering and monstrous, his hulking form casting you in shadow. Up close, the details were even worse. Sharp jaw. Unnaturally long fangs, his nose perfectly straight but twitching faintly, as if he was smelling you. The red glow of his eyes had narrowed into thin slits, like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Drool hung from his parted mouth, dripping down to the dirt next to you.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Your gasp caught in your throat when he leaned down.

Closer.

The world seemed to slow as he brought his face near yours, so close you could feel the heat of his breath. It fanned across your skin, hot and heavy, as though he was tasting the air around you. Then he inhaled—a long, deliberate breath that sent a shiver down your spine.

Somewhere deep in his chest, you heard it. A rumble. Low and resonant, like a growl—but there was something else in it. Something almost… pleased.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stared up at him, wide-eyed, unable to look away.

Finally, he pulled back, just far enough for you to see the edges of his sharp grin. His lips curled as his gaze remained locked onto yours, and when he spoke, his voice rolled out in a deep, guttural tone—one that sounded as though it hadn’t been used in years.

“You… run well.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, your mind reeling. His voice was gravelly, rough around the edges, yet disturbingly clear. There was something undeniably human in the way he spoke—twisted and broken, but human all the same.

You blinked up at him, your throat dry, unable to form a response.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing. “But you’re slow now.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t mocking. It was observational, like he was analyzing you, trying to figure you out. He crouched lower, his furred claws pressing deeper into the dirt, his bells jingling faintly with the movement.

You flinched as his glaive scraped against the ground beside you, the noise grating against your ears.

“What are you?” you croaked, your voice barely audible, trembling as the question left your lips.

The Beast’s grin widened, and the crimson glow in his eyes seemed to burn brighter.

“Hunter.”

And with that one word, he reached down. The moment his clawed hand wrapped around you, you knew what was coming.

“No, no!” you gasped, but it didn’t matter. With an unsettling ease, the Beast picked you up as though you weighed nothing and slung you over his shoulder. His grip was firm—too firm—and you felt the sharp edges of his claws pressing into your side, a silent warning not to squirm too much.

Like hell that was going to stop you.

You immediately started wiggling in his hold, kicking your legs and twisting your upper body, desperate to break free. You’d done this before—countless times. It was second nature to fight, to struggle, to buy yourself just a few more precious seconds. But this time, it was different.

Your movements barely fazed him.

The Beast huffed out a low growl, annoyed more than anything, like you were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. His bells chimed softly with every heavy step, each sound growing closer and closer to dread.

“Let go, you bastard!” you hissed, pounding a fist against his back. It was like hitting solid stone beneath that cloak of fur.

Before you could muster another attempt, you felt him stop. Your stomach dropped. You turned your head just enough to see it—the hook, rusty and towering.

“No—wait, wait—!”

You screamed as the sharp, unforgiving metal pierced into your shoulder, the pain blinding. Your body arched involuntarily as you were hoisted upward, the hook locking you in place like a gruesome marionette. Tears pricked at your eyes as you gasped for breath, the white-hot sting radiating through your arm and chest.

You forced yourself to look down through blurry vision, trying to center yourself despite the pain. That’s when you noticed it.

The Beast had turned away from you, his posture rigid. His yellow eyes—no longer the deep red from before—snapped toward something unseen, a faint snarl escaping his lips. It was subtle at first, just the twitch of his ear and a low growl that rattled through the air. Then, without warning, he took off.

Fast.

You barely had time to process it. One second, he was standing still, and the next, he was gone, his speed a blur that rivaled the Nurse when she blinked through the map. His bells jingled sharply, fading into the distance like some terrible alarm.

“Shit,” you muttered, panting as you hung from the hook. You had seen Killers leave quickly before—Michael Myers, Ghostface, even Wraith when they heard someone nearby—but this? This was different. His speed was unnatural, like he wasn’t just hunting—he was responding.

Someone had grabbed his attention.

Clenching your teeth, you scanned the area. The thick fog made it impossible to see much, but you knew better than to waste time. With shaky hands, you reached up and gripped the hook, biting back a scream as the movement sent pain jolting through your shoulder. You had to get down.

With one sharp tug, you gasped as you unhooked yourself. The motion sent you tumbling to the ground, your knees hitting the dirt hard as the metallic sting in your shoulder flared hot.

For a second, you didn’t move, staring at the ground in disbelief. You did it.

You turned your head, breathing heavily as you glanced upward, seeing the Entity’s claws frozen—hanging mid-air, its barbed talon twitching as though struggling against something unseen.

You scrambled to your feet, clutching your injured shoulder as you stumbled away from the hook. Pain pulsed with every step, but you pushed through it, dragging yourself behind two massive boulders just far enough from where you’d been hooked.

The moment you were hidden, you sagged to the ground, leaning against the cold stone. Your fingers shook as you fumbled for your med-kit, flipping it open and pulling out a roll of bandages. “C’mon, c’mon,” you muttered, forcing yourself to focus.

You could hear the forest around you, the eerie quiet broken only by the occasional whisper of wind and the faint creak of trees swaying in the fog. But just as you started wrapping your shoulder, the peace shattered.

A distant, loud howl cut through the silence.

You froze, the sound rumbling across the map like thunder. It was long and drawn-out, echoing ominously through the thick fog, sending chills racing down your spine.

Somewhere far off, a generator powered up with a loud hum. You flinched at the noise, your heart racing. The sound was like a signal, bright and sharp against the quiet, a neon sign for the killer to follow.

Then, almost immediately after, you heard it: two survivors screaming.

“Shit,” you whispered, yanking the bandages tight around your shoulder with a hiss. You ignored the sting, forcing yourself to finish patching up as quickly as possible. You couldn’t afford to waste time, not when the Beast was on the prowl.

Sliding the med-kit back into your belt, you pressed your back against the boulder and carefully peered around its edge.

He’s fast, you thought, replaying everything in your mind. Faster than most killers you’d faced. And those howls… they weren’t just for show. He was tracking you, tracking everyone.

And if he had heard those screams—if he was responding like he had with you—then two survivors were about to have a very bad time.

--

You crouched by the generator, your fingers working quickly to untangle wires and tighten bolts as the machine clunked and whirred under your touch. The hum of progress filled the tense silence, but your eyes never stopped darting to the treeline. You scanned the fog for any sign of movement—any flash of red eyes, any sound of bells.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

There were no growls. No howls. No heavy, animalistic breathing. For a brief moment, you let yourself believe you were safe.

Then, a distant scream pierced the stillness, sharp and panicked.

You froze, your hands hovering above the generator as you closed your eyes with a sigh. “Again?” you muttered under your breath. He was relentless—hunting like a wolf with no intention of letting up.

You shook your head and got back to work, forcing your hands to steady. There wasn’t much else you could do. The generator needed to be fixed, and the only way anyone was escaping this hellhole was through powered gates.

The next time you glanced up, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Sable limped toward you, her form emerging from the fog like a ghost. She looked like she’d barely escaped—her clothes were torn, and fresh blood streaked down her leg from a deep gash. Her face was pale and damp with sweat, but she still managed to flash you a weak grin as she knelt beside the generator.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sable muttered, already reaching for the wires to help. Her voice wavered, but her hands moved with practiced precision. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you shot back, though your brow furrowed as you spared her a quick glance. “But you look bad. Did he—”

“Caught me near the edge of the map. The bastard’s too fast, but…” She paused to take a sharp breath, wincing as she shifted her weight. “I got away. Barely.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “He hooked you?”

“No, but it was close.” Sable’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think he wanted me to get away.”

That made you pause. “What?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her hands fumbling with a stubborn wire. “I don’t know how to explain it. He had me. He could’ve downed me completely. But he just… watched me. Like he was testing me.”

You frowned, unsettled by the idea. “You sure he didn’t just screw up?”

Sable let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not a chance. He’s too precise. The way he hunts, the way he moves—he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like…” She trailed off, biting her lip as the generator sparked briefly to life. “It’s like he’s playing with us.”

You tightened your grip on the wrench, trying to ignore the chill that crawled up your spine. You didn’t want to think about that. The Beast was already terrifying enough without the idea that he was toying with you.

“Let’s just get this gen done,” you muttered, shaking your head. “We can freak out later.”

Sable gave a small nod, both of you falling silent as you focused back on the task at hand. The generator rattled and sparked, the noise jarring in the quiet forest. You worked faster, both of you aware of how loud it was, how easy it would be for him to find you here.

Minutes stretched on, and you let yourself hope. Maybe you’d finish it. Maybe you’d—

A low, distant howl echoed through the fog.

You both froze.

“Shit,” Sable whispered, her face going pale.

The howl was closer this time, vibrating in your chest like the low growl of an engine. You heard the faint jingle of bells somewhere in the distance, growing louder—closer.

Your stomach dropped. He was coming.

The generator sparked again, and you and Sable flinched at the noise. Your hands were a blur, working faster now as dread crept up your spine. Every second counted. Every wire fixed, every bolt turned brought you closer to escape.

But then—

“That’s twice now,” a voice rumbled behind you. Low. Deep. Familiar. “You really ought to pay more attention to what’s around you.”

Your blood ran cold.

You and Sable froze mid-action, your breaths hitching in unison. Slowly—so slowly—you turned around, dread bubbling up like bile.

He was there.

Crouched in the shadows of the fog just a few meters away, half-hidden behind the curve of a tree. His yellow eyes were locked on the two of you, unblinking and unrelenting.

From this angle, you could see him clearer than before. His long glaive rested lazily in his normal hand, its blade still slick with fresh blood. His furred legs were bent as though ready to pounce at any second, his sharp claws digging into the dirt beneath him. And yet… he wasn’t rushing forward. Not yet.

Sable’s breath hitched beside you, her fingers curling tightly around a wrench as if it would do her any good. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…” she whispered.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his yellow eyes narrowing as a low rumble vibrated in his chest. His gaze slid between the two of you like he was deciding which one to strike first.

“Run,” you whispered to Sable, not daring to break eye contact with him. “On three.”

“He’s too close,” she hissed back, her voice shaking.

“I don’t care—three!”

Before she could argue, you grabbed Sable’s wrist and yanked her with you as you bolted to the side, darting between the thick trees. A sharp, guttural growl erupted behind you, and you didn’t need to look back to know he was coming.

The bells. You heard the bells.

They rang in quick, chaotic bursts, each chime louder than the last as he pursued you. Leaves crunched and twigs snapped under his heavy, relentless strides, the sound too fast—too close.

“He’s on us!” Sable cried out, stumbling as she tried to keep pace.

You pushed her forward, urging her on. “Move!”

The forest blurred as you ran, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. You risked a quick glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his glaive held low, his yellow eyes locked directly on you, his movements unnervingly fluid—unnervingly natural.

He’s toying with us.

“Split up!” you shouted, veering sharply to the right.

Sable cursed but didn’t hesitate, darting left as you broke off in the opposite direction. You weaved through the dense trees, ducking under low-hanging branches and leaping over exposed roots. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t dare slow down.

The bells stopped.

You skidded to a halt behind a thick tree, pressing your back against its rough bark as you tried to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell sharply, your shoulder aching where the hook had pierced you earlier.

Silence.

Where is he?

You froze when you heard Sable’s scream cut through the forest, sharp and gut-wrenching. You exhaled shakily, your fingers tightening around the edge of the tree as you processed what had just happened. He went after Sable. A pang of guilt flared in your chest, but it didn’t linger long—survival didn’t allow for much remorse. Sable knew the rules of the game as well as you did.

Without wasting another second, you turned back the way you came, darting quietly through the trees until you reached the half-finished generator. It sat there waiting, wires exposed and sparking faintly.

You crouched down and got back to work, your hands moving with a practiced urgency. Your ears were still on high alert, listening for the telltale jingling of bells or the rustle of something heavy moving through the fog.

Above you, the sky let out a deep, thunderous rumble, and the faint hum of the Entity’s claws slicing through the air echoed through the forest. Your stomach sank as you realized what that meant—Sable had been sacrificed.

Hooked twice already, you thought grimly, your expression tightening. I didn’t even realize.

You pushed the thought aside and focused on the task in front of you. There was no time to dwell.

"Sorry, Sable," you muttered under your breath, twisting a stubborn wire until it clicked into place. "Guess you’re out."

The generator sputtered, the sound growing louder as it inched closer to completion.

When the generator let out a loud, jolting clunk as the last bolt clicked into place. Sparks flew, and its lights blared to life, piercing through the thick fog.

You didn’t wait.

The second the generator roared to life, you took off running, your feet pounding against the forest floor. You knew better than to linger.

Two more. Just two more.

The thought became your mantra as you ducked low, weaving through the dense trees and tall grass. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out the sound of the forest around you.

You needed a new plan. The others were still out there somewhere, working—hopefully—on the last remaining generators. If you could find one, or them, you’d have a chance.

You slid into a crouch behind a massive log, taking a second to catch your breath and survey your surroundings.

Then you heard it.

A faint jingling.

Shit.

You stayed low, your pulse spiking as the sound of bells grew louder, each chime like nails scraping across your nerves. You scanned the trees, your eyes darting wildly, trying to catch any sign of movement.

A shadow.

You flinched when you saw it—a dark silhouette moving through the fog, slow and deliberate. He was hunting again, his glaive dragging faintly against the dirt as he moved.

You held your breath and stayed perfectly still, your body coiled tight like a spring. He hadn’t seen you yet. You could wait him out—let him pass.

The jingling slowed. Stopped.

You frowned.

Why did he stop?

Before you could react, a low growl rumbled behind you.

No. No, no, no—

You spun around just in time to see him emerging from the fog towards you, his yellow eyes locked directly on you. His glaive gleamed in the pale light, slick and ready, his sharp claws flexing at his side.

You didn’t think—you ran.

He was on you immediately, the bells ringing out in chaotic bursts as he gave chase. You zigzagged through the trees, vaulting over fallen logs and ducking under branches. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t stop—couldn’t stop.

In the distance, you spotted something—a structure. Another shack.

You darted toward it, adrenaline pushing you forward as the growls and bells got closer, louder. You risked a glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was gaining on you.

With a desperate burst of speed, you vaulted through the window of the shack, landing hard on the other side. You stumbled but kept moving, running for the exit on the far end.

A loud crash echoed behind you as the Beast vaulted through the same window, his crimson eyes locked on you once again.

“You’re fast,” he growled, his deep, unused voice vibrating through the air, “but not fast enough.”

You ignored him, barreling out of the shack and looping back around, trying to buy yourself time. You knew he was faster but you had experience. Loops. Pallets. Technique.

You screamed as the Beast’s claws suddenly sliced across your back, sharp and unrelenting. Pain exploded through you, white-hot and disorienting, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Gritting your teeth, you pushed through the agony and darted around the corner of some cages—rusted metal stacked haphazardly.

Your heart hammered as you sprinted, the sound of his heavy steps pounding behind you. You ran around as you desperately tried to put distance between you and him. Each turn felt like an eternity, every breath burning in your chest.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you skidded to a halt on one side of the cages, gasping for air.

The Beast stopped too.

You froze, your body tense as you watched him through the gaps in the rusted bars. He stood on the opposite side, unmoving. His yellow eyes, glowing faintly in the dark fog, stared directly into yours—sharp, unblinking, predatory.

And then, to your horror, he straightened up.

His hand reached over his shoulder, and you watched as he pulled his glaive from his back with a deliberate, almost casual motion. The blade gleamed darkly in the faint light as he spun it around his hand once—twice—with an unsettling ease.

The growl that followed was deep, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest, but there was something else there. Amusement.

“Done running, little bunny?” His voice was low and rough, the words dripping with condescension.

Your blood ran cold. Little bunny.

“Shut up,” you spat, though your voice wavered.

He chuckled—he actually chuckled. The sound was dark, guttural, but far too human. It made your skin crawl.

“You’re a scrappy one, I’ll give you that,” he continued, tilting his head slightly as he dragged the glaive along the ground. “But you’ve been running for nothing.”

You frowned, your breath still coming in shallow gasps. “What?”

His eyes seemed to gleam as his lips pulled back into something halfway between a smirk and a snarl. “You haven’t noticed yet, have you?”

A sinking feeling settled in your stomach. “Noticed what?”

“You’re alone,” he said simply.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

“What—?”

He stepped closer to the cage wall, his gaze never leaving you. “You’re the last one left, little bunny. All your friends? Gone.”

You felt the ground shift beneath you, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re lying.”

Another rumbling chuckle. “Am I?”

The weight of his words crashed over you. The distant screams, the sound of the Entity rumbling in the sky—it all clicked into place. You hadn’t seen or heard anyone since Sable was taken. You thought someone else must still be working on the last generators, that maybe you had a chance.

But there was no one.

You were alone.

The Beast twirled his glaive again, the movement smooth and practiced. “You’ve fought well, but there’s nowhere left to run now.”

You tightened your grip on your side, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you met his predatory stare head-on. “Yeah?” you shot back, forcing your voice not to waver. “We’ll see about that.”

His grin widened, showing those gleaming fangs. “That’s the spirit.”

And then he moved.

You bolted the moment he lunged, the sharp whistle of his glaive cutting through the air as it missed you by mere inches. Your legs burned, your lungs screamed, but you pushed through, adrenaline surging through your veins. Run. Run. Run.

The Beast’s snarls echoed behind you, low and feral, punctuated by the pounding of his paws against the dirt. Every sound he made—growls, the snapping of his jaws, the guttural rumble of his breaths—sent chills racing down your spine.

You vaulted through a broken window of an old cabin, landing hard and stumbling but managing to stay upright. Without hesitation, you sprinted to the door on the other side, pushing it open and darting back out into the fog.

He’s still coming.

A heavy crash followed as he smashed through the window, unwilling to waste time following your path.

“Run faster, little bunny,” he growled from behind you, voice vibrating with dark amusement.

You hit a pallet, slamming it down just as he reached for you. The pallet struck his claws and chest with a loud crack, stopping him for a brief moment.

His red eyes snapped to you through the wooden slats, glowing with a furious intensity. Saliva dripped from his open jaws, long strings of it trailing to the ground as his chest heaved. With one clawed hand, he punched the pallet and crushed it into splinters.

You didn’t wait to see more—you ran.

Vaulting another window, you kept going, looping around the same structures, buying yourself time. He didn’t stop. No matter how many pallets you threw down, no matter how many windows you vaulted, the Beast was relentless.

You could hear him—feel him—close behind. The slap of his claws on the ground mixed with heavy breaths and the eerie jingling of the bells around his collar.

You passed through what looked like a slaughtered campsite—shredded tents, broken traps scattered across the dirt. A bloodied deer carcass laid limply on the ground, stomach ripped open. Nearby, a hunting lodge sat in decay, its walls splattered with claw marks. You didn’t slow, vaulting through the shattered lodge window.

As you looped through, your eyes darted across the environment.

A ruined jeep, long abandoned and covered in deep gashes. A pile of deer antlers stacked near an overturned trailer. Rusted cages lined with old bones—animal and human.

Everywhere you looked, the theme was clear. Hunting.

This was his map.

Everything—every structure, every grim detail—centered on the hunt. It was like you’d been dropped into his personal territory, a domain built to trap prey.

And right now, you were the prey.

You dashed between two more carcasses, your breathing ragged as you tried to keep moving. You could hear him still—too close, too fast.

“Run, little bunny.”

The words echoed in your head as you hit another pallet. You slammed it down just in time, hearing him growl as the wood cracked under his claws.

But this couldn’t last forever.

Your lungs were on fire, legs trembling as you stumbled around the thick trunk of a massive tree. His claws whistled through the air behind you, grazing your back just enough to tear the fabric of your shirt but leaving your skin intact.

And then you saw it.

The hatch.

It was nestled behind a massive fallen tree, partially hidden in the fog and decay, but there it was—your way out.

Your heart leapt in your chest as adrenaline surged through you. This was it.

You veered sharply to the right, pushing yourself faster than you thought possible. The fallen tree was a jagged mess of roots and splintered wood, but it didn’t matter. You scrambled up and over it, your hands scraping bark and dirt as you propelled yourself forward.

A deafening snarl erupted from behind you, so close it sent shivers crawling across your skin.

He’s right there.

But it didn’t matter—because you jumped.

You threw yourself toward the hatch, gravity pulling you down into its dark void. For a split second, you heard him—his enraged growl echoing through the trees, his claws slamming into the ground just inches too late.

And then you fell.

Everything went black for a heartbeat.

When you opened your eyes, you were back at the campfire.

The soft crackling of flames greeted you, warm and soothing compared to the oppressive silence of the fog. You landed on the damp ground in a heap, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

You were okay.

You glanced around, the familiar sights of the survivor camp slowly coming into focus. The fire flickered, its glow dancing across the empty logs and scattered supplies.

Your hands shook as you pressed them to the ground beneath you, grounding yourself, your heart still racing.

You did it.

You survived.

The realization hit you like a wave, leaving you breathless all over again. You were the first to survive the Beast.

The first.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you sat back, wiping the sweat and dirt from your face.

--

After that trial, when you managed to crawl into one of the ramshackle tents at the survivor camp, exhaustion dragged you under almost instantly. Your body was drained, and the adrenaline crash left you hollow and heavy. Sleep overtook you like a wave pulling you down into the deep.

But rest didn’t come easily.

The dream came swiftly, vivid and all too real.

You were back in the forest—his forest. The trees loomed tall, twisted and unkind, the ground littered with sharp branches and the glimmer of moonlight cutting through the fog. You could hear him in the distance: the soft jingle of the bells, the heavy thump of his claws on the ground.

You ran.

Your lungs burned as you tore through the darkness, stumbling over roots and ducking beneath low branches. But no matter how fast you moved, he was always there—just behind you. You could feel his presence, the weight of his stare pressing into your back.

“Run, little bunny,” his voice rumbled, dark and teasing, drifting through the fog like smoke.

You glanced back—and there he was. The Beast.

His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness, locked on you with unwavering focus. He chased you on all fours, his sharp claws tearing into the earth as he moved with an unnatural grace. His glaive was gone, leaving him raw and feral, his fangs gleaming in the dim light.

You screamed, pushing yourself faster, your body aching with every step.

And then—he caught you.

It happened so suddenly, you barely had time to process it. A sharp weight hit you from behind, sending you tumbling to the ground. Before you could scramble away, his body pinned you down, trapping you beneath him.

You froze, chest heaving as you stared up at him. Up close, he looked even more terrifying—wild and untamed, his mouth parted just enough to reveal sharp fangs, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

But then, something shifted.

He didn’t harm you.

Instead, he scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you in his clawed arms as though you weighed nothing. You tried to struggle, but it was no use—his grip was firm, unrelenting, and yet… gentle.

He carried you deeper into the forest, further into the unknown, until you reached a cave nestled within the hills. It was dark and cool inside, the air heavy with the smell of earth and stone. He set you down carefully on a soft pile of fur—furs like his cloak.

You pressed yourself against the cave wall, unsure whether to scream or cry, but he only crouched before you, his red eyes staring into yours.

“Mine,” he growled, the word rumbling deep in his chest like a purr. His voice was dark and heavy, yet strangely… soft.

You blinked up at him, trembling. “W-what?”

“Mine,” he repeated, his hand brushed your cheek with shocking gentleness. The way he touched you sent shivers down your spine.

He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. “My bunny. Mine to keep.”

The growls in his voice softened into something sweet, almost melodic, as though he were coaxing you to stay calm. It should have terrified you—it did terrify you—but there was something unsettlingly comforting about the way he spoke.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

And then you woke up.

You shot up in your makeshift bedroll, a strangled gasp escaping your throat as your heart pounded violently in your chest. Your hands gripped the thin blanket, sweat cooling on your skin.

You looked around frantically, the familiar interior of the cabin grounding you. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But it felt so real.

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, trying to calm your racing heart.

It was just a dream…

A dream.

Sleep was out of the question after that. Every time you closed your eyes, you could see him—his crimson gaze, his claws brushing against your skin, his voice growling.

With a frustrated sigh, you kicked off the thin blanket and stood up, walking out of the cabin. Your thoughts were too loud, your body still tingling with the residual terror—and something else you didn’t want to name.

I need to clear my head.

You started walking, keeping close to the edges of the survivor camp but wandering far enough to feel alone. You let the quiet of the place settle around you, your boots crunching softly against the dirt.

Eventually, you found yourself near the invisible barrier that separated the survivors from them—the killers. You weren’t even sure why you wandered so close. Curiosity? Stupidity? Maybe you just needed to remind yourself where the line was drawn.

But then you froze.

Two figures stood just beyond the thin veil of fog.

The Trickster and Ghostface.

Their presence sent a cold shock through your chest, and you instinctively took a step back. But it was too late—they’d seen you. Trickster tilted his head, a grin already curling across his lips, and Ghostface’s mask turned to you.

“Well, well, well,” Trickster drawled, his voice dripping with wicked amusement. He leaned casually against a tree, his golden eyes practically glowing as he looked you over. “If it isn’t the Beast’s bunny.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Ghostface let out a low, chuckling hum, his gloved hand tracing the edge of his knife as he stepped closer. “Oh, don’t play dumb. We know. You gave him quite the wild ride, sweetheart.”

You felt your face flush hot with anger and embarrassment. “Shut up,” you snapped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Trickster cackled, his laughter loud and sharp, the sound echoing eerily in the fog. “Oh, come on. He came back furious after your little escape. Threw a fit like I’ve never seen. It was delicious.”

Ghostface chimed in, his tone teasing but low. “You’re all he could talk about, too. It’s like you’re his personal obsession now.” He mimicked the Beast’s deep growl mockingly: ‘Bunny.’

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you clenched your fists at your sides. “I don’t care what he said.”

“Mm, but you do care, don’t you?” Trickster purred, his smile widening as he leaned closer to the invisible line that separated you. “I bet you’re wondering why you’re so special. Why he didn’t mori you when he had the chance.”

“Leave me alone,” you hissed, taking a step back.

Ghostface tilted his head, the white of his mask gleaming through the fog. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like his attention? After all, he went easy on you. That doesn’t happen often, you know.”

Trickster tapped a clawed finger against his temple. “You should feel honored, little bunny. Not every survivor gets a pet name.”

You glared at them, your skin crawling under their relentless teasing. You wanted to scream at them, to tell them to go back to their side of the fog and leave you alone, but you knew better. Picking a fight with killers—even ones that couldn’t touch you here—was asking for trouble.

Instead, you turned on your heel and stalked away, their laughter following you like a shadow.

“Sweet dreams, bunny!” Trickster called out behind you, voice dripping with mockery.

You didn’t look back.

Your head spun as you walked further into the camp, their words replaying in your mind. The Beast’s bunny. His obsession. Why didn’t he mori you when he had the chance?

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, frustration and unease settling deep in your chest. Why didn’t he?

--

The drop into the trial was as dizzying as always—the world around you materializing in a disorienting rush of fog and cold air. You hit the ground with a stumble, steadying yourself with a sharp breath. But as soon as you looked up, your heart sank.

No.

No, no, no.

Tall, twisted trees loomed in every direction, their jagged silhouettes clawing at the sickly sky. Bushes dense enough to hide anything rustled faintly in the breeze, and the unmistakable scent of damp earth and decay filled your nose. Ahead, you spotted the broken remains of a hunting lodge, its rotting wood and shattered windows familiar. Then, a flash of metal caught your eye—the glint of a rusted, blood-streaked hunting trap half-buried in the dirt.

Your blood ran cold.

You were on his map.

“Damn it,” you muttered, your voice barely a whisper, but the words echoed loud in your head.

Your stomach twisted as you remembered the last trial, his relentless pursuit, the flash of red in his eyes, the scrape of his claws.

“Get a grip,” you whispered to yourself. You couldn’t afford to freeze up now—not here, not on his turf.

Taking a deep breath, you gripped your flashlight and started moving, staying low as you weaved between the trees. Every step you took felt heavier than the last, like the map itself knew you were here—like he knew.

The broken-down jeep came into view, its rusting shell half-buried in leaves. You recognized it instantly—another landmark of his hunting ground. Just past it, you spotted the faint silhouette of a generator.

Focus, you told yourself. Find the gens. Fix them. Get out.

You crept closer, crouched low and trying not to make a sound. As you reached the generator, you knelt down and set your flashlight beside you.

You swallowed and started to work, your hands shaking slightly as you connected wires and tightened bolts. The hum of the generator grew louder with every adjustment, breaking the oppressive silence just a little.

But then you heard it.

A low, deep rumble carried through the trees.

Your hands froze. You didn’t even breathe as you strained to listen. At first, it sounded distant—almost like thunder rolling in—but then it grew closer. A soft, rhythmic growl, paired with the faint jingle of…

Bells.

Your heart plummeted.

Slowly, you turned your head, your blood running ice-cold. Through the thin veil of fog, you saw him—The Beast.

He stood just at the edge of the clearing, partially obscured by the shadows of the trees. His black cloak swayed faintly in the breeze, the fur draping over his broad shoulders as if it were part of him.

But it was his eyes—those glowing crimson eyes—that locked onto you like a predator spotting prey.

You couldn’t move. For a moment, it was as if the entire world held its breath.

Then he tilted his head, and his lips curled into something too sharp to be called a smile.

“Found you, little bunny.”

The sound of his voice—deep, rough, and unnervingly calm—snapped you out of your frozen state.

Run.

You shot up to your feet, abandoning the half-finished generator. Sprinting through the trees, you heard the pounding of footsteps behind you—heavy and impossibly fast. The bells on his collar rang softly with each movement, a haunting counterpoint to the blood rushing in your ears.

You weaved around trees and over logs, your lungs burning as you pushed yourself to move faster. But no matter how hard you ran, the growls grew louder, closer.

He’s toying with you.

The thought made your chest tighten with panic. You darted past a deer carcass, its lifeless eyes staring blankly, and nearly tripped over a hunting trap concealed in the leaves. A quick glance over your shoulder made your blood freeze.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his claws dug into the dirt with every step, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow. Drool dripped from his snarling mouth, and those red eyes—those damn eyes—never left you.

You turned sharply, sprinting toward a cluster of old crates and barrels. The familiar sight of a pallet gave you hope, and you grabbed hold of it, shoving it down just as he lunged forward. The pallet crashed to the ground, momentarily blocking his path.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next.

Vaulting over a window in a broken shack, you stumbled inside, gasping for air. Your heart thundered in your chest, but you seized the moment. The shack was small and dark, its rotting walls barely holding together, but the row of lockers against one wall caught your eye. Hiding was risky, you knew that, but running blindly wouldn’t get you far—not against him.

Quickly, you slipped into one of the lockers, squeezing yourself into the cramped space. The door creaked softly as you pulled it shut, and you winced, holding your breath as you pressed your body back as far as it would go.

You put a trembling hand over your mouth, forcing yourself to stay silent. Through the thin gaps in the locker, you could see into the room—shadows cast from the broken windows danced across the splintered floor. For a few agonizing seconds, there was nothing but silence.

Then you heard it.

The faint clink of bells.

Your stomach dropped.

The door to the shack creaked as it swung open, and the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the room. Slow, deliberate steps—he wasn’t in a hurry. He knew you were here.

Through the locker’s slats, you caught glimpses of him. He prowled into view, hunched slightly forward as he sniffed the air, his claws scraping the wood with every step.

Then he stopped.

Right in the middle of the room.

You bit down on your hand, trying to control your ragged breathing as your chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm. His head tilted slightly, his crimson eyes sweeping the shack as though he could see through the walls. He growled—a low, vibrating sound that rattled in his chest.

“Little bunny,” he called softly, his voice rough and cruelly sweet.

You squeezed your eyes shut, praying he wouldn’t hear the pounding of your heart.

“I can smell you,” he continued, dragging out the words. “You ran so far… fought so hard… yet here you are. Hiding.”

His footsteps began again, the sound of bells chiming with each movement. You peeked through the slats and saw him move toward the lockers. Your blood turned to ice.

He stopped at the first locker.

The metal hinges creaked loudly as he tore the door open. Empty.

A low rumble escaped him—disappointed but patient.

Don’t open this one… don’t open this one, you thought frantically.

You watched as he moved to the second locker.

Your heart was in your throat, your entire body shaking as you clamped your hand harder over your mouth. He gripped the handle of the second locker door, then yanked it open with a growl.

Empty again.

He chuckled darkly, the sound making your skin crawl.

Then he turned to your locker.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensed as you stared through the gaps. His red eyes locked onto the locker door—onto you. You felt it.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the glaive scraping against the floor as he moved. He was toying with you, savoring the fear that radiated off you in waves.

His clawed hand reached out, wrapping around the handle.

No, no, no—

Suddenly, the faint sound of a generator powering up echoed in the distance.

The Beast paused. His head snapped up, and his growl turned into a snarl. He hesitated for only a moment, then released the locker handle.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

With one last glare toward your hiding spot, he turned and stalked out of the shack, his bells jingling softly as he disappeared into the fog.

It wasn’t until you couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore that you dared to move.

Your hand fell away from your mouth as you gasped, air rushing into your lungs. You were shaking so badly you nearly fell out of the locker when you pushed the door open.

Slumping against the wall of the shack, you wiped sweat off your forehead and tried to steady your breathing.

That was too close.

“Get it together,” you whispered to yourself, standing up on wobbly legs.

You slipped out of the shack, your steps light as you crept toward the edge of the clearing. The cool air hit your face, but it did nothing to soothe the burn of exhaustion in your chest. Just as you were about to get your bearings, a blood-curdling scream cut through the silence.

Your stomach twisted at the sound of another survivor being hooked. You could almost feel their pain.

Shaking your head, you adjusted your grip on your flashlight and made your way back to the generator you’d started earlier.

The map was eerily quiet now, save for the faint hum of the Entity’s realm and the crunch of leaves beneath your feet.

You eventually spotted the generator up ahead, the same one you’d been working on before everything went sideways. It was tucked between two thick trees, its rusted frame bathed in the faint glow of moonlight.

Crouching down, you wasted no time. Your hands moved quickly, twisting bolts, reconnecting wires, and steadying sparking circuits. The generator let out small electric whines as you worked, and you winced every time it sounded too loud.

Your pulse quickened when you saw the progress bar fill just a little more. You were close—so close. The distant sounds of the map felt muffled as you zoned in on your work. Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up.

Then you heard it.

A growl.

Your hands froze mid-movement. You didn’t dare look up.

The sound was distant at first—like an echo carried by the fog—but it was unmistakable. Him.

“No,” you whispered to yourself, forcing your shaking hands to continue fixing the generator. If you stopped now, it’d all be for nothing.

You twisted one final bolt, and the generator sputtered before roaring to life. Its floodlights lit up the area, and the familiar blaring noise followed, announcing your progress to anyone listening.

Your breath hitched.

And that included him.

Somewhere close by, a howl ripped through the forest. Loud, guttural, and far too close for comfort.

Your eyes snapped up.

The fog shifted unnaturally ahead of you, parting like something monstrous had disturbed it. Through the haze, yellow eyes burned bright as they locked onto you.

Your heart dropped.

“Of course,” you muttered bitterly, turning on your heel and sprinting into the forest without a second thought.

The Beast roared in response, and you could hear the pounding of his claws against the dirt as he gave chase. The bells chimed in time with his steps, their sound twisted and distorted as they echoed behind you.

Trees blurred past you as you ran, leaping over roots and dodging branches that reached out like skeletal hands. You dared a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it—he was there, close enough for you to see the gleam of his fangs in the moonlight.

“Move, move, move!” you hissed to yourself, adrenaline pushing you forward as fast as your legs would carry you.

You felt it before you saw it—the sharp, searing pain of claws slicing across your back. The force of the blow sent you stumbling forward, your scream ripping through the fog as blood soaked into your shirt. The Beast snarled behind you, the sound a dark promise that he wasn’t done yet.

Move. Don’t stop.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a pallet resting between two large trees. You pushed your legs to move faster, ignoring the burning sensation in your muscles as his heavy footsteps closed the distance.

With one final burst of speed, you reached the pallet, and in one fluid motion, you grabbed it and slammed it down with all the strength you had left.

The wood hit the ground with a satisfying thud just as he lunged, the pallet catching him mid-swing. He staggered for a moment, a low growl vibrating through the air as his red eyes locked onto you in fury.

But you weren’t done yet.

With shaky fingers, you flicked your flashlight on and aimed the beam directly at his face. The bright light pierced through the dark fog and hit him square in the eyes.

The Beast recoiled, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he jerked his head to the side, blinking furiously against the glare.

It worked.

You let out a shaky breath, a triumphant smile tugging at your lips despite the pain. The flashlight always works. He was blinded, even if just for a moment.

“Sorry, big guy,” you muttered under your breath, already turning on your heel and bolting away.

You didn’t have time to celebrate as you sprinted deeper into the forest, weaving between trees and broken fences.

The pounding of your footsteps against the dirt slowed as you spotted a faint glow through the trees—a generator, partially lit but still sputtering with effort. Relief rushed through you when you recognized three familiar figures huddled around it: Haddie, Ada, and Steve.

You stumbled toward them, blood still trickling from the slash on your back, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Hey!” Haddie called, her sharp gaze snapping to you. “Oh!”

“Jesus,” Steve muttered, already pulling out a med-kit and kneeling beside you. “Sit. You’re not gonna last like this.”

You hesitated for only a moment before sinking to the ground, letting Steve’s steady hands work on patching you up. The sting of antiseptic burned through the haze of adrenaline, but you bit your tongue, trying to focus on Ada and Haddie, who were whispering urgently to each other as they worked on the generator.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words froze in your throat.

The sound came first. Faint, but clear.

Bells.

The soft, eerie jingle carried through the trees, distant at first… but quickly growing louder.

Steve stopped his hands mid-wrap, while Haddie’s and Ada’s both paused.

Slowly, all four of you turned to look behind you.

There, standing just at the edge of the clearing, was him.

His red eyes were glowing in the shadows, piercing through the fog like twin beacons. The glaive in his hand stained with blood, and his massive clawed arm twitched as though eager to tear into flesh again. He tilted his head, his stare locking onto all of you at once.

And then he spoke, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that made something in your stomach tickle.

“I can see you… all of you,” he drawled, his lips pulling back into a sharp grin that revealed rows of teeth. “When you’re together.”

Your heart stopped for a second.

“Oh, shit,” Haddie whispered.

Before anyone could move, the Beast lunged forward, his speed blinding.

“RUN!” Steve shouted, shoving you forward as he scrambled to his feet.

The air erupted in chaos.

You turned just in time to see the Beast barrel into the group, his glaive slashing outward. Haddie screamed as she was hit by the blade. Ada dove for cover behind the generator, her flashlight slipping from her grip.

Steve grabbed your arm, dragging you up as you stumbled.

“Go, go, go!” he yelled.

You bolted into the trees, your legs screaming in protest as pain flared through your back. From behind you, you could hear the heavy thud of the Beast’s footsteps and the ragged sound of his growls.

A scream echoed through the clearing—Haddie’s voice.

You glanced back for a split second and saw him standing over her, his claws raised, his red eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He’s looking at me.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to keep running, Steve at your side as the two of you crashed through the brush. Branches whipped against your face, the fog curling thicker the deeper you went.

The sound of Haddie's scream suddenly cut through the fog like a blade, sending a shiver of dread through your body. You could barely register the sound of Ada's scream following shortly after.

Tears stung your eyes as the wind howled through the trees, but you blinked them away.

But then you heard it—snap.

The world tilted as a sharp, searing pain shot through your leg, and you collapsed to the ground with a scream.

"Shit!" you gasped, clutching your thigh.

Your hands trembled as you looked down, the panic rising in your chest. You’d stepped into a snare trap. The sharp sting was immediate, its barbed wire coiled tightly around your upper thigh, the more you moves, the more the wire tightened, digging deeper into your skin with every movement, the barbed edges cutting into you like they were meant to hold you there—forever.

“No, no, no,” you panted, struggling to pull yourself free, blood began to trickle down your leg, warm and sticky, as you gasped, the pain making your vision blur.

“Help,” you cried out hoarsely, your voice breaking.

Steve, who had been ahead of you, didn’t hesitate to come back after hearing your scream. He rushed back to your side, his face pale as he looked down at the trap.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath, kneeling beside you. His hands were frantic as he assessed the trap. “It’s too tight.”

You bit back a groan, trying to hold yourself still, but every small movement made the pain shoot deeper.

“Hold on, just… just hold on, alright?” Steve's voice was steady, despite the panic in his eyes as he worked at the wire. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t stop, trying to loosen it around your leg.

His movements were careful, slow, and you could feel every second ticking by like a countdown. The Beast could be right on top of you, you didn’t know.

“Steve, hurry!” you begged, the tears you had been blinking away now threatening to fall freely.

“I’m trying,” Steve muttered, his teeth clenched as he twisted the snare, trying to get it loose. “You’ve got to stay still, alright? You’re making it worse moving.”

You nodded, fighting against the urge to scream, biting down on your lip as you did your best to remain still.

“I’ve got it,” Steve said finally, relief flooding his voice as the wire loosened just enough for him to work his hands under it and pull your leg free.

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain in your leg as Steve pulled you to your feet. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you couldn’t afford to stop now.

“We need to go—now!” Steve urged, his voice tight with urgency. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the fog, clearly sensing the Beast’s presence growing closer.

You nodded, swallowing the panic rising in your chest. The last thing you needed right now was to get caught. You limped, your leg barely holding up as you tried to keep pace with Steve, but every step sent a jolt of pain through you.

He kept his pace faster, glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you were still moving. “Just a bit further. We’ve got to make it to the generator—then we can heal, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were focused entirely on the uneven ground beneath your feet.

And then, just as the rustle of movement caught your ear, Steve spun around, blocking your path. His face was tight with fear.

“He’s close,” he said breathlessly.

You nodded, trying to steady yourself against the pain in your leg, but it was getting harder to move. Every step felt like an eternity.

“Steve…” you whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know how much longer I can…”

Before you could finish, a blood-curdling howl echoed through the air, the sound unmistakable. The Beast had caught your scent.

"Go! Run!" Steve shouted, urgency in his voice.

You stumbled, torn between the need to run and the instinct to stay with him. "What about you?" you asked, voice strained as the Beast’s growl grew louder.

Steve shot you a look, his expression grim. He didn’t have time to argue. “You heard what he said,” he panted, pulling away slightly. “He can see us when we’re together. We’re better off apart.”

You wanted to protest, to grab his arm and drag him with you, but his eyes were already scanning the fog, watching for any movement. His resolve was set.

He gave you a slight push, his voice soft but firm. “Go.”

Without another word, Steve turned and bolted in the opposite direction, breaking away from you. His footsteps disappeared into the thick fog.

You hesitated for only a moment before you took off running, forcing your legs to move despite the pain.

You were alone now.

You found a quiet place to heal, between two thick trees. The tension in your shoulders was unbearable as you worked, each slow, painful motion making the process feel like it took a lifetime.

But then, a scream.

Steve’s scream.

The sound tore through the fog, sharp and raw. Your heart clenched. The scream was cut short, but it was enough to stop you dead in your tracks.

Steve was on the hook.

Without wasting another second, you groaned as you pushed yourself to your feet, your leg screaming in protest. You couldn’t afford to leave Steve behind. You couldn’t. Not when he was still alive and needed you.

You looked around nervously, trying to get your bearings, but the dense fog made it almost impossible to see anything clearly. You limped toward the source of Steve’s scream, heart pounding, knowing you had to be quick.

You passed by broken trees and fallen branches, your breath quick and shallow. Each step was more painful than the last, but you pushed through it.

The sound of Steve’s struggles echoed faintly ahead, his voice barely audible but enough to urge you forward.

Hang on, Steve. Please hang on, you thought desperately.

When you reached the clearing where the scream had come from, you saw Steve struggling, dangling from a hook.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know where Haddie was—if she was even still alive—but Ada? You weren’t sure.

All you knew was that you didn’t see him close by, and so you took the chance. You rushed forward, limping toward Steve, your heart pounding in your chest as you neared the hook.

But then, you heard his voice—a strained shout.

“Stop!” Steve yelled, his voice tight with fear.

You froze, mid-step. Your eyes locked with his, confusion rushing through you. He was staring at you with wide, frantic eyes, almost as if warning you.

You didn’t understand at first, but then you heard it—the subtle scrape of claws on the ground.

From behind the hook, he emerged, his body low to the ground, his yellow eyes fixed on you. His mouth was twisted in something between a snarl and... a smirk? It was unsettling. He wasn’t even trying to hide his hunger now. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Your heart skipped a beat as he crawled closer, his sharp claws scraping against the dirt. The bells jingled softly, but it felt like they were ringing in your ears, louder with every passing second.

Your eyes darted between Steve and the Beast. The decision was clear.

Without another thought, you spun on your heel and ran.

Every muscle screamed in protest, but adrenaline was the only thing fueling you now. Branches whipped past you, the fog pressing in around you, blurring your vision. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, each thundering step closer than the last.

You heard him, the low growl vibrating in the air, and then the unmistakable sound of his bells—ting-ting-ting. You thought you could feel the ground beneath your feet trembling, his pace quickening as he closed the distance. You tried to cut left, darting around trees in an attempt to break his line of sight, but he was still behind you.

In that moment, you realized the truth: he wasn’t chasing you to catch you. He was chasing you because he enjoyed it. He was savoring this. The thrill, the fear that radiated off you, the helplessness that grew with every passing second. You were his prey. And he was playing with you like a wolf with its catch—only, you weren’t meant to escape.

You felt the slash against your back, a sudden, agonizing pain raking across your side. The scream tore itself from your throat as you stumbled, falling to the ground in a heap. Blood welled up from the wound, pooling around you, but you barely noticed it, your mind too frantic to focus on anything but the Beast who loomed over you.

You turned your head, gasping for air, your vision swimming as you fought to stay conscious. The Beast stepped over you, his massive, clawed feet brushing the dirt, and for a moment, everything went still. He stood there, towering over you, his presence suffocating, making it feel like the world had closed in. His red eyes locked onto yours, glowing.

He didn’t move, just watched you, his expression unreadable. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath you. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow and ragged, but you couldn’t look away. His eyes were mesmerizing, wild and filled with hunger.

For a moment, it was as if time stood still, the forest around you fading away into nothing. There was no escape. No hope.

A slow, almost sinister smile spread across his face as he leaned down, his claws brushing against your cheek in a slow, deliberate motion. His breath was hot and heavy, and you could feel the weight of his gaze as if he were searching for something in you—something he wanted to claim. You shuddered under his touch, your body unable to move, paralyzed by fear.

"You're mine now," he murmured, his voice a guttural growl that sent shivers down your spine. His fangs gleamed in the low light, sharp and ready.

You couldn’t fight him. You were too weak, too broken, and all you could do was stare up at him, eyes wide with terror. The Beast crouched lower, his form blocking out the sky above you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your soul.

Then, without warning, he licked your cheek, his rough, warm tongue brushing against your skin like a dog's. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. His hot breath fanned across your face as he sniffed at you, inhaling deeply as if savoring your scent, his gaze lingering on your every move.

You felt an uncomfortable twinge of vulnerability, but you couldn’t move fast enough to get away. His eyes darted downward, now focused on your leg, the one still bleeding from the snare trap. You hadn’t even noticed until now how much blood had soaked through your pants.

Before you could react, he suddenly ripped open the fabric of your pants, exposing the wound. The rough sound of tearing fabric filled the air as his claws made quick work of the material, revealing the injury beneath.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him, confusion and fear flooding your mind. What was he doing?

You gasped when the Beast's rough tongue suddenly brushed against the open wound on your thigh, the sensation shocking you. It felt strange—like something was pulling at you from within, and you instinctively flinched.

"Stop..." you gasped, though the words came out weak, as you tried to crawl away, desperate to get some distance between you and him.

But before you could get far, his sharp claws sank into the soft flesh of your thigh, gripping and pulling you back to him. The pressure was intense, and you couldn’t move. He held you there, unyielding, as his tongue continued to lick at your wound, collecting the blood.

You whimpered, trying to push against his hold, but his grip was like iron, and no matter how hard you struggled, you couldn’t escape.

As the Beast continued, the warmth of his tongue against your skin became oddly less weird. The fear remained, but you couldn’t deny the strange sensation of being so completely under his control. His actions were relentless, but they were also slow, as though savoring something delicate.

Then, suddenly, he pulled back. You heard soft whines escape from him, and it sent a cold chill down your spine. You met his eyes again, and you could see the remnants of your blood, mixed with his saliva, dripping from the corners of his mouth. The sight made your stomach twist.

He slowly licked the blood from around his lips, his gaze never leaving you. His breathing was deep, his chest rising and falling with each inhale. He crawled closer again, his eyes intense, and for a moment, all you could hear was his heavy breathing.

Then, with a low growl, he spoke. “You smell so... good,” he murmured, his voice deep and gravelly. “You taste so sweet...”

The words sent a shiver down your spine. He seemed to be savoring them as much as he had savored the blood from your wound. His voice dropped even lower, his words tinged with something darker.

“You’ve had me going crazy ever since I first caught a scent of you. I can’t get you out of my mind.” His eyes gleamed, hungry and wanting.

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your mouth. “I crave you,” he repeated, his tone possessive, as though the very thought of you was driving him wild.

Fear mingled with something else in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure what it was, but his words were like a trap, a pull that made it hard to think clearly, harder to remember why you needed to escape.

His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming, and before you could react, the Beast leaned in, his face inches from yours. Your heart raced in your chest, fear and confusion coursing through you. Then, without warning, his lips pressed against yours.

The kiss was rough, urgent, as if he were trying to claim you. You froze, unable to process what was happening. His mouth was warm, and for a moment, everything seemed to disappear around you, your thoughts clouded by the shock of the moment.

You felt his hands, still strong and unyielding, keeping you in place as his lips moved against yours. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced, and the unexpectedness of it left you breathless, your mind unable to fully comprehend his actions.

For a long second, time seemed to slow. He pulled away just enough to gaze at you, his red eyes intense, searching for something in your expression. The kiss had left you disoriented, unsure of how to feel, and you could see the hunger in his eyes.

Before you could gather your thoughts, he whispered low, “My little bunny.”

His grip tightened for a moment, and you could feel the intensity of his words as they settled in your chest. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice low, but there was an unsettling tenderness to it. "But I have to kill you now."

Before you could react, he flipped you over with ease, pinning you beneath him. His paw pressed down on your back, the weight of it overwhelming as his gaze locked onto you.

You squirmed beneath him, trying to push against his hold, but it was useless. His strength was far beyond yours, and every attempt to free yourself only seemed to make his grip tighten.

"Please," you gasped, voice trembling as you struggled.

But he didn’t stop. His eyes were locked on yours with an intensity that sent a chill through you, and his body felt like a heavy weight, pressing you into the cold ground.

"Can you at least tell me your name?" you asked, your voice desperate. It was all you could think of to try to connect with him, to find some way to understand him.

He stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered your words. There was a flicker of something—something almost human—in his gaze before he growled, a low rumble vibrating through his chest.

"Jay," he said simply, the sound of it rough but clear.

You repeated it softly to yourself, tasting the name on your lips. "Jay."

He paused again, almost as if surprised- "You're the first one to know it." A flicker of something—maybe amusement, flashed in his eyes.

But then, without warning, he threw his head back, releasing a haunting howl that echoed through the night. The sound seemed to reverberate through the very air, a chilling symphony of raw power and unbridled emotion.

As the echo faded, Jay lowered himself, his jaws parting slightly as he moved closer to you. There was no mercy in his eyes, no hesitation. With a swift motion, he sank his teeth into your neck. The pain was sharp and intense, but before you could even process it fully, darkness claimed you, and everything around you vanished.

You gasped as you fell back into the survivor camp, unharmed, alive, as if nothing had happened at all.

The others were going about their business, completely unaware of the nightmare you had just experienced. The tension in your body remained, though, a tight knot in your chest that wouldn't loosen.

You knew you couldn't tell anyone what had happened. No one would understand. They would think you had lost your mind.

Shaking the lingering thoughts from your head, you stood up, your legs a bit unsteady. The sharp, eerie silence that had enveloped the camp was suddenly pierced by the unmistakable howl from the direction of the killers' area. It echoed through the foggy air, loud and clear, that it made the other survivors nearby glance up in alarm.

The howl was different from the usual ones. It was the triumphant cry of a successful hunt—an announcement to the realm that the beast had claimed his prize.

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[chuuyascumsock]

Where Gay Goes to Die || Minors DNI

Summary: I have no words, and no apology because this actually slapped so hard. Let’s go lesbians lmao. Happy pride month.

Tags: Female! Chuuya Nakahara/Reader/Fem! Osamu Dazai, Afab reader, Threesome, Brief Voyeurism, Pet Names (Baby, Doll, Belladonna, Love, Pretty Girl, etc.), Classic Dazai-Chuuya Bickering, Fingering, Nipple Play, Hair Pulling, Face Sitting, Squirting, Strap-on Use, Slight Bit of Aftercare, Hints of a Poly At The End, Idk Maybe I’ll Make a Part Two, Haven't Decided, Honestly Downright Filthy Smut, Literally Wanna Be Stuffed Between Them Like a Sub Sandwich.

How you ended up in bed between your co-worker and her ex-partner from the mafia was a mystery to you. 

One minute you were having drinks with the ADA earlier that night before slinking off to grab another drink from the bar. And the next you were being complimented by one of the five mafia executives herself who was sitting nearby, Nakahara Chuuya. You’ve never had anyone so boldly eye fuck you while smoothly commenting on the way you fought during one of your missions— and against their organization no less. Chuuya was ethereally beautiful, her russet tresses fell over her freckled shoulders, sleek dress hugging her physique tightly to reveal her curves. The most captivating characteristic of hers had to be her heterochromatic eyes, soft blue and brown that sealed your fate as she dragged you away from the bar shortly after your interaction.

Dazai had only noticed your disappearance after she was finished with her Sake. Whining and complaining to Kunikida about how much she missed you, Kunikida scoffed and fixed her glasses. “The last I saw her was talking to the bartender.”

Dazai was quick to jump to her feet and trail off to the bar, only to find no one but the bartender there. When asked, the bartender nodded his head off to the back door that led to an alleyway with a small warning that you had left with a woman described way too familiar with Dazai. Not only was it Dazai’s ex-partner back in the mafia, but you had fought against her just the other day. Dazai felt off when approaching the door, weary of what to expect.

Entering the alleyway, Dazai hadn’t been expecting to see Chuuya feeling your soft body up with her gloved hands while shoving her tongue down your throat and vice versa. 

It took minutes for either of you to notice Dazai’s presence, too caught up in one another to see her staring you down as Chuuya had her way with you. The woman had tugged at the neckline of your tight dress, freeing your breasts to the cold air for the brunette to see before cupping and squeezing them. Your soft and cute mewls had both women wanting more as Chuuya’s lips captured yours again in a sloppy kiss.

Something in Dazai snapped and she knew that there was no more hiding her want for you behind sweet, charismatic smiles and adoring looks from across the office. She cleared her throat, a small gasp of surprise leaving you and not much of a reaction from Chuuya. 

“The hell do you want, shitty Dazai?” Chuuya nearly rolled her eyes as she kept your plush tits groped and spilling between her gloved hands. 

“What are you doing here?” You timidly ask, embarrassed for getting caught, especially with someone who was supposed to be the agency’s enemy.

Dazai kept her composure. “You were gone for too long so I came looking for you— but I see that you’re busy.” She completely ignores Chuuya for the time being.

“Sorry…” You whisper bashfully, head tilting down in shame.

“Well she’s perfectly fine, so you can leave now,” Chuuya grumbles, leaning forward to litter your throat with more hickies.

“I don’t think so— it’d be a shame for the president and Mori to find out what’s happening right now. Why don’t we talk about this at your place, hm, Chibi?” Dazai was clearly planning something.

And that something ended up with you sandwiched between both women in Chuuya’s king sized bed— Dazai’s long, manicured fingers stuffed in your cunt to the knuckles while Chuuya’s tongue entangled with yours, her calloused hand pinching one of your nipples between her fingers.

The loud squelching of your pussy around Dazai’s fingers makes your ears burn as you moan into Chuuya’s mouth, kisses growing messy and mostly tongue filled. Dazai grins in satisfaction as she presses a thumb to rub at your throbbing clit, enjoying every second of your soft walls clenching around her fingers. “Look at how cute her pussy is, Chuuya. Such a needy little slut— wanting both of us at once.”

Chuuya’s lips disconnect from yours, leaving a small string of saliva to break apart from your panting mouths. “Can’t you keep your big mouth shut for three seconds? You’re ruining the mood with your annoying voice,” She mutters in irritation at Dazai’s voice while looking anyway, her gaze glued to your slick pussy as Dazai’s fingers thrust back inside. Chuuya bites into her bottom lip at the scene momentarily before moving back to marking your neck up with love bites.

Dazai blissfully ignores Chuuya’s snippy comment, curling her long fingers to rub into a certain spot that makes your thighs quiver. “She’s so soft, I bet she tastes good too.” The brunette hums thoughtfully, her eyes trailing from your soaked pussy up to your eyes. “Do you?” She smiles mockingly, watching you stumble incoherently over your words into a muddle of whimpers. Her bottom lip juts out into a small pout as she continues to taunt you. “Oh, poor baby… can’t even talk— do my fingers feel that good?”

There’s a small wince as you feel Chuuya sink her teeth into your shoulder just slightly harder than the other bites when Dazai talks, most likely annoyed by how much more she was doing. Wanting more attention, Chuuya growls out, “Oh please, she’ll be crying over my strap compared to your lousy fingers.” 

“Toys? A bit of a cheater, aren’t you, Chuuya? Can’t satisfy her on your own?” Dazai finally responds, mockery evident in her tone.

“Keep talking and I’ll throw your ass out to walk home in the cold.” Chuuya glares at Dazai before she moves away from you momentarily to crawl over to her nightstand to grab out a bottle of lube, harness, and a relatively long dildo. 

Your face must’ve shown just how intimidating the size of the toy was as Dazai gives a light laugh. “Too big for you, darling? Bet you wanna keep my fingers,” She says in a sing-song voice, curling her digits once more. It’s enough to distract you momentarily from their bickering as you feel a familiar feeling building in your lower tummy.

“Relax, doll. It’s only eight inches,” Chuuya sighs nonchalantly, already strapping the harness around her hips and prepping the silicon toy with a thick glob of lube. The sight of Chuuya slicking the toy up with her hand only makes you clench tighter around Dazai’s digits.

“Well some of us aren’t as loose as you are, Chuuya-dear.” Dazai gives a faux innocent smile, malice clear in her eyes and tone. Her fingers falter a bit at Chuuya’s next words.

“You’ve got to be out of your damn mind to talk— you should be considered a fucking graveyard at this point with how many bones you’ve had in you.” Chuuya scoffs, slapping Dazai’s hand away from you as she grabs one of your ankles with her other hand to drag you to her.

You give a small whine, eyes hazy as your orgasm was ripped away from you. 

Chuuya’s gaze falls back to a softer expression as she looks down at you, “I got you, doll.” Her hands move over to grab your hips and lift them until your lower back and ass are resting on the tops of her thighs, bright purple dildo resting between your ass cheeks.

“Well now you’re just being unfair,” Dazai complains, voice pitchy as she gives Chuuya a nasty look.

Before Chuuya could make a snippy remark about her leaving, you reach to lightly tap the brunette’s knee, signaling her to straddle your head. “Just so no one is left out…” You murmur, flustered.

“Well aren’t you just a sweetheart?” Dazai’s mopey expression washes away quickly as she shifts to make her way across the bed to straddle her knees on either side of your head. Her head tilts down to look at you, lips pulled back into a grin and lithe fingers threading into your hair. “You look cute between my legs, ‘donna…” 

Your eyes lull as your gaze drops from her face to her  cleanly shaven pussy, folds practically drooling with arousal which makes your mouth water. You nearly forget about the strap-on nudging against your entrance until it’s pushing in with no warning, the bulbous tip stretching you back open, though not as much as Dazai’s fingers had been. As your lips part to gasp at the sensation, Dazai is lowering herself down until your mouth is enveloping her, your tongue pushing through her folds and labia to lap along her tight hole.

You think you could drown in these women and let them fuck you until you’re nothing but a mindless, pussy-drunk slut for them, your hands coming up to grip into Dazai’s bandaged thighs and your hips jerking to take Chuuya’s strap deeper. And they don’t even keep it from you, letting you have your way as Dazai settles her weight fully onto you and Chuuya shifts to slip deeper into your aching core, walls greedily clutching around the dildo. Your moans are muffled by Dazai, your tongue laving through her succulent pink cunt, clit throbbing wildly against your muscle. She isn’t sweet like how it’s always described, a musky arousal evading your senses— but it isn’t unpleasant and it has you slurping noisily at her sloppy pussy loudly, making her moan and buck gently against your mouth.

It’s overwhelming how they both selfishly take as much as they give, Dazai’s free hand reaching behind her to rub your clit as she rides your face and Chuuya is sinking into you to the hilt and pulling away to create a tortuous pace, her hands gripping into the flesh of your hips. Your ears are muffled and you can’t tell if it’s from the pleasure or Dazai’s thighs pressing to your ears, hips rolling down to hump against your wriggling tongue.

“O-Oh, fuck, look at you… made for eating this pussy, huh, ‘donna?” Dazai groans, her fingers tightening in your hair painfully which causes you to gently scrape your teeth along her clit. She gasps and releases your hair slightly, fixing it almost apologetically and pets it down, her other hand now resting to cup your mound, middle and ring fingers gently rubbing circles into your clit.

You don’t let the stinging sensation in your scalp bother you when Chuuya’s pace picks up and her hips are slapping against yours, thighs jiggling each time she fucks the dildo deeper into your sopping pussy. That and Dazai’s insistent rubbing against your clit has that coil tightening in your lower abdomen once more. You wish you could see the way Chuuya thrusts into your eager pussy, the loud squelching of the dlido fucking into you being all you had to know how good she was treating it. 

“Shit… look at you taking it all, dollface— your pretty pussy is sucking me in so. damn. tight,” Chuuya growls, hips slapping harsher with punctuated words, your body jolting with choked breaths. 

“Don’t be so rough with her,” Dazai chides, not really caring about her being rough, but wanting to piss Chuuya off.

It works as Chuuya glares at Dazai and only picks up the pace, thighs stinging with each thrust as you feel her skin slap against yours and her grip grow tighter on your hips. “Don’t tell me how to fuck my girl, shitty Dazai.”

“Your girl?” Dazai humorlessly laughs out before letting out a small moan from your mouth sucking at her clit again. “Please— after this, she’s with me. I’m just nice enough to share this once.”

“Like hell, I made a move first, go find someone else to whore around with,” A huff leaves Chuuya, but her pace doesn’t change and neither does Dazai’s fingers against your clit. It has your mind reeling and body twitching, nearly teetering the edge of a climax— not that either woman noticed as they continued to bicker. 

“Well I SAW her first, I called dibs. Besides, she works at the agency with me so that means that she’ll be coming back with me anyways. You lose, face it, Chibi.”

“Doesn’t matter if you saw her first, you’re just mad that I acted before you did. You’re such a petulant child, can’t even handle losing to me for once.”

“That’s because I didn’t lose, she’s mine.”

“Oh, you fuckin’ bitch—“

Their arguing is cut off by a loud muffled whine from you and an orgasm that has your body shuddering deeply, your pussy creaming all over the purple dildo. A small, frothy ring of your cum forms around the base with each thrust, leaving the two women to finally quiet down as they watch, movements faltering to a slow pace momentarily.

“Fuck… I wanna make her squirt now,” Chuuya exhales quietly.

Dazai nods slowly before murmuring, “Finally, something we can agree on.”

You pick up on their muttering and let out a muffled groan into Dazai’s pussy in attempts to disagree, not sure if you were able to take another orgasm, but it falls upon deaf ears and their movements pick back up to a frenzied mess now.

You squirm beneath them, eyes squeezing shut and limbs spasming as they overstimulate your flushed pussy, folds puffy and clit thrumming as Dazai adds even more pressure to your sensitive nub. You try so hard to focus on Dazai’s rutting against your mouth, but it’s difficult when they’re double teaming you like this and Dazai takes over, allowing her hips to grind down on your face. Her clit bumps against your nose and your tongue occasionally slips into her clenching hole, serving her just enough as she tries to desperately reach her own climax.

“C’mon, hun, let go for us, yeah? We know you can come again— wanna see you squirt, baby,” Dazai pants out, her bangs sticking to her forehead from the sheen of sweat she was working up. You can’t see Chuuya, but you know she must look similar to Dazai’s state.

Your head feels like it’s underwater and you can’t help but give into what the two women want, thighs clamping around Chuuya’s waist as your eyes flutter closed and your second orgasm crashes over you more intensely to the point your ears start to ring. A stream of arousal squirts out, splashing against Dazai’s fingers and Chuuya’s lower abdomen. A soft gasp slips from their lips and Dazai can’t help but come at the sight, her viscous cum coating your tongue and slipping down your throat like honey. It’s a pleasant feeling and tastes almost like nothing with a hint of her scent, making you moan weakly against her as her hips falter to slow down but refuse to let up from your mouth, insides pulsing against your tired tongue.

It’s a couple minutes until you gather your bearings and Dazai finally lifts her hips, breath hitching at the string of your saliva and her cum connecting your mouth to her pussy that breaks when she pulls away. It nearly gets her worked up enough for another round, but she presses the feeling down and moves to lay beside you, clinging to your side and burying her face into your neck. 

Chuuya pulls out of you shortly after, slipping the harness off her hips and begins to clean up. She disappears off into the bathroom momentarily and returns with a small rag to clean your face off first of Dazai’s cum and then between your legs. The mafioso pecks your lips gently in comparison to her rough treatment earlier and glances at Dazai, throwing the rag at her lazily without a care. “Clean yourself up, would you?”

“What?” Dazai whines out, “How come she gets the princess treatment and I’m treated like a peasant?”

“Because you are one, you’re lucky I haven’t kicked you out at this point,” Chuuya clicks her tongue and turns her attention back to you and scoops you up into her arms. “I’m starting a bath, I don’t give a damn if you join or not,” She says to Dazai over her shoulder, leaving the brunette to complain about the unfair treatment she’s getting as she stumbles up to follow after the both of you. 

With your arms looping around Chuuya’s neck lazily, a small smile curls in your lips, knowing that this wouldn’t be a one time thing.

[kawoala]

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES . . . !? suna rintarou ; 4.

╰ ⨳ word count ; .5k ( 533 )

╰ ⨳ content warning ; hungover 、 bruises 、 half-naked reader 、 accidental injuries 、 throwing up 、 lyyyinnngg.

previous ; masterlist ; next.

you wake up with a headache. which, to be fair, you knew was going to happen even before you started drinking last night. you don’t remember much, but you do remember how strong komori’s drinks were.

for a long moment after you wake up, you lay in your bed, sheets pulled over your face in a sad attempt to block out the beaming sunlight. eventually, though, after what feels like an hour but is probably only ten minutes, you have to pee.

reluctantly, you pull yourself out of bed and trudge out of your room and to the bathroom. your feet drag behind you, hardwood floor cold against your skin. it's not even fall yet, so why is it so cold in this apartment?

without thinking to knock, you push the door open. your hand fumbles with the light switch, only to realize that the light is already in. you properly open your eyes and realize three things at once.

one; rintarou’s knuckles are bruised, both of them. right now, he’s running water over them and there are bandages sitting on the counter.

two; he’s tall. you don’t know how you didn’t realize this when you first met him, but it's achingly obvious now.

and three; his eyes are glued to your legs.

slowly, you follow his gaze. you have no pants on. you have no pants on. you have no fucking pants on.

simultaneously, both of your hands reach for the door. your hand reaches it first and you quickly pull it towards you, hitting rintarou’s hand in the process.

you don’t shut the door all the way, meaning you can still hear the hushed curse rintarou lets out. you peek your head through the door, brows pinched together. he’s holding his hand against his chest, eyes closed as he looks up at the ceiling.

“i’m sorry!” you whisper. “i didn’t know you were in here. i’m so hungover i forgot i had a roommate! are- are you okay?” you look at his knuckles and wince. “you’re bruised pretty badly. what happened?”

he looks back at you and just stares for a moment. eventually, he shrugs and flexes his hands. “must have drunkenly punched the wall last night. ‘mori’s pretty good at pong and i’m competitive.”

there’s a feeling in your stomach, like he’s not telling the truth. but then it hits you that it might just be your stomach contents from last night because you suddenly get the urge that you need to throw up.

apparently rintarou recognizes the look on your face because in an instant, he’s moving out of the way, kicking the toilet lid up with his foot.

it's disgusting, really. but rintarou doesn’t seem to mind as he holds back your hair. something about this feels vaguely familiar, but you’re not sure why.

“i’ll get you some water,” rintarou says after you’ve finished hurling. “and some ibuprofen? tylenol?”

“how come you’re not as hungover as i am?” you ask, wiping the side of your mouth. well, you know what they say; show them your ugly from the beginning, so they’re used to it at the end.

he snickers. “i guess i just handle my alcohol better huh?”

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