#sharing one long scarf

[aucrowne]

Sharing one scarf feat. the best portable heater Sakura --- I feel like Sakura can be really really warm (๑>◡<๑) Perfect for the cold weather

Early stages suosakunirei

-- Plus an extra scene lol

⬅ Windbreaker Silly little sketches ➡

[flowery-laser-blasts]

Brrr! Cold weather, it's perfect for cuddling!

Slowly but surely working on Christmas/Holiday related KP/Drakgo art!!! I LOVE this time of the year💙💚

I planned this out as a Christmas Market/Weihnachtsmarkt outing, but eventually I changed my mind and wanted to draw something more serene and romantic. So this is Drakgo AFTER visiting the market, taking the long way home with a fresh supply of decorations and gifts to dress the lair to fit the season. Also Commodore Puddles loves a good walk!

Submitting this as well to @sharperthewriter 's winter art contest! ^^

If you got KP winter art, don't hesitate to join in! The more the merrier!!! 🎄💖

[kiruamon]

Work in progress

Thought I might share this sketch with you all. I will try and make a colored version of it and dropping it around february.;)

[paperconsumption]

if you power of friendship too much you begin to assume you can power of friendship your way through anything. including scarf wearing

[spotaus]

I was just possessed to show you guys this thing I commissioned from someone years ago (@/gumballfan13 , I am unsure of their current social medias-) but this is Ichor's actual like- his legit ambient music

Obviously I want y'all to go support this guy because on-god is their music-mixing fire, but also I forgot about this and!!! I want to use it for something here soon!!!

[coffee-and-geto]

LET ME WARM YOU UP

summary: satoru comes home after an early morning when he went to the bakery to buy you some pastries, frozen to the bone by the biting early december cold. doesn’t he deserve to find you under the warm comforter where your warm presence hides?

cw: fluff, domestic, gojo has his nose pink from the cold, he’s silly, needy and so in love <3, i have put some pastries i know bc i’m french but ignore them if you don’t like croissant (what’s on ur mind) or pain au chocolat (i agree on this).

wc: 721

When Satoru enters the bakery — his body draped in a long coat, head wrapped in a knit cap, and half his face hidden behind a large scarf — the gentle chime of the entrance bell feels like a sweet melody mingling with the warm, sugary scent of the quiet, early-morning haven.

Behind the sparkling glass displays are heaps of pastries that make his mouth water. From chocolate croissants to apple turnovers, the variety of treats teases his senses as he approaches the kind, tiny baker, who barely reaches his chest.

“Good morning, young man,” she coos like a grandmother, tilting her head up to look at him. “Feeling like something sweet this early?”

Six o’clock in the morning — was it too early?

Satoru would camp outside the bakery if it meant sharing pastries with you.

He hums thoughtfully. “I’d like a brioche, a chocolate croissant, a croissant, an éclair, and a strawberry tart,” he says, distracted by the vibrant colors tempting him to buy out the entire bakery.

The baker grabs a bag and carefully places his order inside, smiling warmly.

“Will that be all, young man?”

Satoru nods.

“Alright.” She names the total price and hands him the large bag once he pays. “Are you planning to eat all of this yourself, young man?”

A smile capable of melting ice stretches across Satoru’s face, despite being hidden behind his scarf. “I’ll share it with my girlfriend.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you.” After he pays, the baker hands him a blue lollipop, the kind that colors your tongue. “A boy like you, who takes such good care of his loved ones, deserves this.”

Satoru accepts it with a word of thanks before heading home, where you’re unknowingly waiting for him, still tucked beneath the warm covers of your bed.

He enters the apartment silently, closing the door with care and removing his shoes and coat in near-perfect quiet. In the kitchen, he wastes no time arranging a breakfast tray, loading it with the pastries he bought and a cup of tea and coffee.

He performs the task with an adorably proud smile, humming cheerfully at the thought of sharing a warm breakfast with you under the blanket, where you’d thaw his December-chilled body.

With the tray prepared to perfection, he carries it to the bedside table and sets it down gently before slipping into the bed. The combination of the soft blanket and your warmth, still lingering in the sheets, begins to ease the cold from his body. His stiff, frozen arms wrap around you, rousing you from sleep.

“Toru?” you whisper, your eyes fluttering open as a yawn escapes your lips.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Satoru murmurs into the crook of your warm neck.

You shiver at how cold he feels. “Did you go out?” You turn to wrap your arms around him, planting a kiss on his nose, pink from the cold.

“Brought pastries,” he hums. “Wanna eat with me?” He blinks at you cutely, his snow-dusted lashes framing eyes as deep and blue as the ocean.

“You did?” The corners of your mouth turn down as you pull him closer. Satoru’s habit of buying things for you without needing to be asked makes your heart ache in the sweetest way. “Of course, my love.” You pepper kisses all over his face. “Love you so much.”

He grins so cutely you want to crush his head in your arms.

Minutes later, you’re both sitting up in bed, the makeshift tray perched on your shared lap as you indulge in a perfect breakfast.

Through the bedroom window, the first snowflakes of December fall onto the balcony, covering it in a white blanket that matches your lover’s hair. The sky, equally white, might’ve seemed dull and cold, but sitting beside Satoru, who is devouring almost all the pastries, brightens the weather.

Once your stomachs are full, Satoru burrows under the blanket, pressing his face against your pajama-clad stomach. A giggle escapes you, your chest shaking gently with the sound.

“What are you doing?” you ask, raising a playful eyebrow.

“Cuddling,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by the comforter.

“You look more like a whiny cat, you know.”

“If a whiny cat gets cuddles, then I am one.”

Your laughter bubbles over, warming Satoru, who nearly purrs as your fingers scratch at his scalp.

a/n: hello guys :)) i know it’s been like two weeks w/ anything but let’s forget that, hmm? so 1st december is the birthday of my bsf haha and sadly the end of fall for me... (i’m depressed bc of this). but, i’m in the mood to write everything fluffy, etc. (saying this while my brain is mentally preparing a big angsty fic for the coming weeks bwahahaha). hope you guys have a nice week and see you soon <33

likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe @cybersomniq @sanemistar

@monokaix

[nottswitch]

— if you’ve been naughty, you get…

──────────────── 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩. ──

summary: quidditch is a sport that demands strength and stamina, resulting in physical exertion. exertion equals releasing disproportionate amounts of warmth, which, as it turns out, feels better shared.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader

cw: 18+ smut, enemies to lovers, rough p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, semi-public sex, spanking, choking, degrading, hair grabbing, cursing

wc: 3.1k

a/n: the first fic of the naughty side of the list, so buckle up for the filth!! hope you enjoy <3

⟡ navigation ; m.lists ; mattheo m.list ; kinkmas 2024

────────────────────────

The entirety of the Quidditch stadium roared as Harry Potter hovered proudly in the air, the Golden Snitch snug between his fingers. The ultimate rivalry between the houses never ceased to exist, be it on the school grounds or on the pitch, the students from other houses having chosen a side long ago and now discreetly passing galleons to each other in the stands. You craned your neck a bit, your loosely tied scarf sliding off as you watched the players descend onto the ground, the green and silver side clearly trying to get off the pitch as hastily as possible.

Mattheo was, for all intents and purposes, pissed. His nostrils were flared, his breath coming out short and ragged, the exertion from the long-winded game straining his aching muscles. His bat was clutched tightly in his hand, his knuckles almost translucent as he fought the urge to swing it at the annoyingly smug Gryffindors who seemed to be very purposeful with the loudness of their celebrations. A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth – the opportunity was too golden, no pun intended, to have a go at the guy, even though you knew that now, of all times, he wouldn’t dream of holding back. It was a constant push and pull between the two of you, a burning need to kick the other while they were down, and a loss of a very important game was a chance presenting itself on a silver platter.

"Hey, Riddle!"

The sound of your voice made Mattheo grit his teeth, the vibration echoing in his already ringing ears. His eyes briefly darted to you descending the stairs from the top of the stands, the look in them as close to murderous as it can possibly get.

"Don’t," he muttered, continuing to stride across the field, towards the tunnel, where the other players from the Slytherin team had already disappeared.

"Don’t what?"

Your voice was clearly taunting as you approached him, your arms crossing on your chest as you fixed him with a smirk. Unconsciously, your gaze slid down his body, taking in the sight of his Quidditch jersey clinging to him, damp with sweat and accentuating the ridges of his toned abs. You licked your lips, the action coming out of your subconsciousness that craved to feel those abs underneath your palms, although you had yet to admit it.

"Don’t fucking try me right now," Mattheo retorted without sparing you a glance. He was already more than a little aggravated, and the last thing he needed was your teasing and endless quips, combined with the effortless allure you always held despite being an insufferable little cunt. His uniform suddenly felt too tight, which prompted him to take off the green jersey, harshly tugging it over his head with one hand.

Your lips parted ever so slightly as you watched his torso opening up to you in all its firm, built glory. But the muscles weren’t the first thing that you noticed – as much as the view was enticing, it was also not completely new. No, the thing that made your breath hitch was the fact that he was literally steaming, as if he had just left a sauna. Translucent whirls were emanating from his heated body, his skin breaking out in goosebumps in the chilly December air. Mattheo didn’t even shiver, throwing the piece of clothing over his shoulder and flicking the bat from one hand to the other. His pace was firm and purposeful, leaving no doubts about his intentions to leave the Quidditch pitch as quickly as possible.

You had entirely different plans for him, though.

Without thinking much, you followed him into the tunnel leading out of the stadium, barely able to match his long steps.

“Or what?” you called out defiantly, finally reaching him at the price of your breath getting shallow and your heart beating faster than normal. You weren’t one hundred percent sure it was just the effect of walking quickly.

Mattheo stopped in his tracks, nearly making you stumble into his broad back. His eyes closed shut for a moment, his chest heaving as he took a deep breath, feeling his already nonexistent control slipping away with every single sound of yours he heard behind him.

“You will regret it,” he muttered through gritted teeth, not making a move to turn around to look at you – he knew that if he did, he could say goodbye to any traces of restraint still left in him.

“Oh, really?”

You knew you were walking a dangerous line by taunting him like that, but at this point, you couldn’t stop. Was it a sudden surge of bravery, was it recklessness or something else, deeper and yet uncharted, you couldn’t tell. You just knew that if you stopped right now – that was what you’d regret for a long, long time, possibly for the rest of your life. You stepped closer, your chest almost pressing against his back, feeling his muscles tense as your proximity registered in his mind and sent signals through his whole body.

That step was all it took for him to finally snap. In a split second, his hand was wrapped around your throat, pressing you against the wall of the tunnel. A strangled gasp escaped your parted lips, your pulse fluttering wildly as his fingers pressed right on the point, curling around your neck as if he was ready to snap it in half. He probably could, if he wanted to.

“Say another word and find out,” Mattheo hissed, the warm air of his breath brushing against your flushed face. His already dark chocolate eyes darkened further – you swore you could see his pupils dilating in real time, the dimness inside the tunnel failing to hide the mixture of anger and lust swirling in their depths.

“I’m not scared of you,” you whispered, your voice quiet but filled with a strange type of determination. Whatever was happening was something completely new in your dynamic, yet it felt like it had been building up the whole time you spent bickering and trying to get to each other using the power of biting words.

Mattheo’s hold grew tighter around your throat, almost cutting off the stream of much needed air flowing into your lungs.

“You should be.”

A loud thud echoed through the tunnel as his bat hit the floor, thrown away and immediately forgotten about. His newly freed hand gripped your waist, pressing you harder into the wall, the coldness of the surface seeping through the fabric of your winter robes. Mattheo’s body was flush against your front, creating a sharp contrast between the chill of the air surrounding you and his fired up skin, dampening your shirt with small rivulets of sweat dripping off him.

You swallowed thickly, unable to tear your gaze off his face, his dangerously handsome features tense and barely moving. You had no idea what to do with your hands, so they ended up on his bare chest without any real input from your mind, which, you could tell, was slowly turning off anyway. A hiss coming from him once your skin touched his was a surprise, but you couldn’t lie and say you didn’t enjoy his reaction. For some reason, you found yourself bold enough to try exploring this newfound knowledge, sliding your hand down his chest, along the firm planes and ridges. Two things happened at the same time: Mattheo’s fingers dug deeper into the sides of your throat, causing a strangled sound to escape your lips, while his other hand left your waist to grab your traveling wrist.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re doing right now,” Mattheo muttered, and you swore you could hear his teeth grinding against each other. “I’ll show you, though. I’ll fucking show you.”

Next thing you knew, you were lifted off the ground, stuck in the iron bars of his embrace. The instinct in you that still tried to persuade you that this whole thing was wrong made your dangling feet try to hit Mattheo’s knee. This weak attempt at defiance was quickly stopped by his arm moving down and tightly locking around your thighs, stopping your legs from moving altogether.

“Asshole.” You did hear the treacherous breathlessness of your voice, but also didn’t have it in you to care. The heat between your legs was rapidly intensifying, the friction created by your pressed up thighs only making you more desperate for something real, something substantial to quench your undeniable thirst.

A dark smirk appeared on Mattheo’s face, the one that did nothing to soften his expression – it only made him look more like the devil he appeared to be. A second later, his foot was pushing a door you didn’t even know was there, doing the same from the other side once he walked into a dark room that smelled like wood and broom polish. You didn’t have time to think or formulate a snarky response to his actions before you were getting turned around and bent over, Mattheo’s hand pressing insistently on the back of your neck. You barely had time to stabilize yourself against the cold wooden bench that stood at the wall, your scarf sliding off completely and falling to the floor.

“What the fuck?!” you exclaimed, although it was more of a formality, since you made no actual attempt to get up from the new position. Mattheo, of course, took notice of that, his smirk widening a bit.

“This the only thing you can think of?” His voice was cold and mocking at the same time, not failing to send a shiver down your spine – it was huskier than usual, an undertone of desire obvious even to untrained ears. Mattheo effortlessly lifted up the hem of your robes, the rumpled fabric of your skirt splayed across your ass in a way he found sinful. “Where’s the smartass attitude, hm?”

A sharp smack landed on your ass, stinging even through several layers of clothing. Your body jolted forward, a yelp breaking out of your throat both at the unexpectedness of it and a wave of pleasure the smack sent straight between your legs. Mattheo found himself enjoying your reaction, his hand coming up to rest on your hip, fingers curling and pressing into the flesh.

“Fuck y-,” you started to mutter, glancing at him over your shoulder, but another smack shut you up pretty quickly. You could feel the sting, only intensified when his strong hand grabbed a handful of your ass, roughly kneading and squeezing.

“Much better from this angle,” Mattheo murmured, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek as his eyes shamelessly roamed your body up and down. His free hand slid up your back, pushing you to lean further down against the bench until he reached your hair. His fingers threaded through your locks in an almost tender gesture, one so uncharacteristic of Mattheo Riddle, before he yanked your head back, making you hiss from the harshness of the pull.

The warmth of his body enveloped you whole as Mattheo bent over, his flaming chest covering the entirety of your back. A fleeting thought flickered in your mind, that even the warmest robes couldn’t hold a candle to the human heater that was Mattheo after a Quidditch game. As his mouth neared your ear, his hand never stilled on your ass, lifting your skirt up to bunch up at your waist and running over the fabric of your tights.

“Really?” he asked, mockingly, making you want to strangle him and kiss the hell out of him at the same time. Your lips parted when you felt his sneaky fingers pressing between your legs, causing your thighs to clench. “D’you know I can feel you getting wet?” he cooed, brushing his lips against your ear, you were sure, very deliberately. You closed your eyes, unwanted embarrassment making its way to your cheeks, and you just knew the bastard was smirking again. You couldn’t control your body’s reaction to him, though, and your wetness seeping through your tights fully gave you away.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. I thought your smartass mouth could handle better than that.”

Mattheo gave your hair another tug before his hand slipped down, curling around your throat again. His grip was tight, not allowing even a single millimeter of movement, a strangled gasp escaping you once you felt his hips pressing to your ass from the back. His hard-on was firmly planted between your cheeks, straining against his Quidditch trousers, as if he was trying to break through the layers of your clothing.

“But when I’m next to you,” Mattheo continued murmuring into your ear, a malicious smirk giving his words a dangerous hint, “you’re just a bitch in heat.”

“Fuck. You.”

You somehow managed to find words, the ones you couldn’t bring yourself to say before. Mattheo chuckled darkly, feeling your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his thumb – you really weren’t the best in hiding your deepest emotions, though your face still tried to keep its defiant stance.

“That’s the plan,” he answered, as his fingers moved against your covered pussy, the sound of it, though muffled, still embarrassingly wet. Once his torturous movements stopped, you nearly whined, biting your bottom lip in order to save yourself from further humiliation. Your teeth sunken into your lip didn’t go unnoticed – Mattheo licked his own, his hand on your throat lifting you up just a bit, his body heat a fire burning your back.

“Didn’t know having you speechless would be so…” Another smack on your ass interrupted his words, a squeal caused by the mixture of pain and pleasure sounding through the dark room. “…so fucking hot.”

You gained the courage to push your hips back, a satisfied hum rolling out of your mouth as you felt his cock twitch at the friction.

“So damn impatient,” Mattheo whispered into your ear. His own hips bucked forward, forcefully, enough to make your body jerk again. “But you’re lucky, because…”

He suddenly straightened up, roughly pulling down your tights and baring your skin to the chilly air. It was already stinging from the previous slaps, the sensation now stronger as the frost of early winter bit at the sensitive flesh.

“…me too.”

You didn’t notice the moment Mattheo’s trousers pooled at his feet, but they definitely did, along with his boxers. You couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling to the back of your head when his warm, slicked up cock slid through your folds, making you feel every inch of him, providing the friction you desperately craved. Your entrance clenched, as if trying to suck him in but failing. His tip prodded at your hole, your whole body backing against him in an attempt to finally let him inside.

You didn’t have to wait – a single deep thrust, and he was splitting you open in the best, most mind blowing way possible. Your high-pitched moan was so loud it could be easily heard outside, but you didn’t care – you couldn’t care. Mattheo’s groan matched up in volume, his hands gripping your hips with brushing strength.

“If I knew you’d be so fucking tight…”

He pulled out only to thrust right back in, making you moan so loudly you could feel the air shake around you.

“…I’d shut you up like that every. Single. Time.”

Each word was accompanied by another thrust, each one deeper than the last, even though it was physically impossible – at least you felt like he discovered new depths within you every time. The squelching sounds of your pussy roughly meeting his dick echoed through the narrow space you were squished into, the slapping of your bodies surely making its way into the tunnel behind the door. It was something you’d never felt before – the passion, the lust filling your very essence, consuming and turning your brain into mush.

Mattheo’s palm connected with your asscheek again, making it bounce and ripple. Immediately after, he squeezed the round mound, and you hissed, another sting shooting through your body. His pace was unforgiving, but you didn’t want to be forgiven – if that was punishment, you’d rather be guilty for life. The stretch of your walls around his cock felt like it was tearing you apart and gathering you back in one piece right after, and at that moment you were sure that no one else could fuck you like that.

His hand ended up in your hair again as he tugged you up, making your back press against his chest again. Somehow, it was still just as hot as before, causing you to break out in sweat from the exertion and his body heat seeping through your skin and bones. If the room had windows, they would certainly be fogged up. However, the only foggy thing was your mind, getting more and more dazed as your peak approached.

“You wanna cum, huh?” Mattheo growled, his laboured breath prickling at the sensitive skin of your neck. “Wanna cum on my cock, like the slut you are?”

As much as you hated yourself for admitting that, cumming around him was the only thing swirling in your head. You tried to nod, but his grip on your hair didn’t allow it.

“Words,” he muttered, his teeth clenching as he tried to hold his own orgasm back, determined to make you fall apart first. “The only time I want you to use your fucking words.”

“I wanna– Fuck! Wanna cum on your cock,” you managed to mumble, your cheeks heating up at the fact that you had just given in, had given him control over the pleasure you yearned for.

“Do it, then.”

With another rough slap on your ass, you came, wave after wave making your body tremble and shake. Mattheo was quick to finish right after, his growl bordering on animalistic as he spilled deep inside of you. The warmth of his cum felt like it was etched into your very soul, hot and sticky, your clenching hole squeezing some out to trickle down your thighs. Mattheo could get hard all over again just from the sight alone, but he resisted, pulling your skirt down to cover the delicious view.

For a few moments, you could only try catching your breath, leaning on the bench still somehow holding up in front of you.

“Next time you lose, you know where to find me.” Your voice was shaking, yet already filled with the cockiness of knowing that you, in some way, made Mattheo Riddle lose control.

“Next time I win, you won’t be able to walk for days,” he retorted, his tone bearing something akin to a threat. Or a promise.

[areislol]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyandere monster harem

pairings. various m! yandere monsters x gn! reader

warnings. yandere themes, toxic obsession, 18+ dark themes

a/n. i love my sillies!!

wc. 6.1k

imagine a dark, mystical forest where you're the lone human, fated to cross paths with a group of terrifying yet obsessively devoted monsters.

each of them is unique in their appearance and abilities, but they all share one thing: an unrelenting desire to make you theirs, no matter the cost.

the werewolf

a hulking figure with sharp claws, wild amber eyes, and a low growl that vibrates through your very bones. he encountered you when you wandered too close to his den during a full moon. despite his primal instincts, he resisted harming you, instead captivated by your bravery—or foolishness.

he tracks your scent everywhere you go. if you so much as step outside, he’s already following from the shadows, ensuring your safety (and warding off anyone who dares to come near).

he marks your belongings with his scent and doesn’t hesitate to bare his teeth at anyone he deems a threat. you’re his mate, and he’ll challenge anyone who thinks otherwise.

though rough and wild, he becomes uncharacteristically gentle when he sees you hurt or scared, licking your wounds and curling protectively around you.

the werewolf is a wild, untamed force of nature, his obsession with you rooted in instincts so primal he can't suppress them even if he tried.

he watches you from the shadows, always nearby but rarely letting himself be seen at first. your scent drives him to madness—earthy, warm, uniquely you. it's comforting and addictive, and he can't get enough. he's stolen pieces of your life to keep close: a scarf left behind, a mug you drank from, anything that holds your essence.

his possessiveness is terrifying. he won't let anyone else near you if he can help it. if someone gets too close, he intervenes, his voice low and threatening, his golden eyes burning with barely concealed rage. no one dares challenge him; there's something in the way he moves, the way he looms, that screams danger.

he doesn't understand human boundaries. if you're speaking to someone too long, he'll step in, claiming he needs to talk to you or finding some excuse to drag you away. if you protest, he'll growl—not at you, never at you—but in frustration. you're his; why can't everyone else see that?

but with you, he's soft. gentle. when he's sure you're not afraid of him, he'll let you closer, let you see the man beneath the beast. his touch is careful, almost reverent, as if he's afraid he'll break you. when you're upset, he wraps himself around you, his warmth and presence enough to shield you from the world.

his affection shows in small ways. he brings you gifts from the forest: flowers, feathers, shiny rocks he thought you'd like. he watches your reaction closely, his heart swelling with pride when you smile. if you ever thank him, he becomes almost shy, looking away with a faint blush creeping up his neck.

jealousy is his constant battle. if he sees someone making you laugh or smile, his claws dig into his palms. he won't confront you about it, but the person who caused his jealousy might find themselves on the receiving end of his wrath later.

at night, he lingers near your home. the thought of you alone, unprotected, drives him crazy. he paces, his instincts screaming at him to stay close. sometimes, he leaves small signs that he's there—a paw print in the dirt, a tuft of fur snagged on a branch—as if he wants you to know he's watching over you.

his biggest fear is your rejection. he knows he's more beast than man, and the thought of you being afraid of him keeps him awake at night. if you ever flinch or pull away, it shatters him, and he'll retreat, his golden eyes filled with pain. but he always comes back, unable to stay away, his obsession too strong to overcome.

you are his anchor, his reason for fighting the beast within. he doesn't care what it takes; he'll keep you safe, even if it means keeping you all to himself. his love is overwhelming, suffocating, but he doesn't see it that way. to him, it's devotion—pure, unbreakable, eternal.

his growl rumbled low as kael draegon stepped from the shadows, his golden eyes fixed on you with that same wild, desperate intensity.

"don't be afraid," kael draegon whispered, his voice rough but steady as he offered you his hand. the cold breeze tugged at his hair as he stood beside you, his voice soft as he murmured, "you're safe now, with me."

kael draegon always seemed to appear just when you needed him, his presence both calming and terrifying. his hand lingered on your shoulder for just a moment before kael draegon pulled back, his voice almost apologetic. "old instincts, i'm sorry."

the vampire

elegant and poised, with glowing crimson eyes and a voice like silk, the vampire first saw you in the dead of night. he was drawn to the purity of your blood but became enthralled by the purity of your soul instead.

his pale, marble-like skin seems to glow faintly in the moonlight, untouched by time or imperfection. his crimson eyes burn with a smouldering intensity, framed by thick lashes that only add to his magnetic gaze.

his raven-black hair falls in soft, silky waves around his sharp cheekbones, perfectly complementing his aristocratic features. his tall, slender frame moves with a predatory grace, and his voice—smooth as velvet—wraps around you like a dark lullaby.

he loves to watch you sleep, marvelling at your vulnerability. He’ll slip into your room at night, not to harm you, but to leave gifts—a rose, a letter, or even a piece of jewellery from an unknown era.

the vampire despises anyone who captures your attention. Friends, family, or even strangers—they’re nothing but distractions. He may use his hypnotic gaze to erase their presence from your life.

he gets flustered when you show him kindness, like bandaging a wound he sustained in your defence. he tries to hide his blush, but his pale complexion betrays him.

the vampire is as elegant as he is dangerous, his presence suffocating yet alluring, like the pull of a siren's song on a lonely traveler at sea. his crimson eyes gleam in the dark, reflecting centuries of wisdom and hunger, but when he looks at you, they’re soft, desperate, and entirely devoted. you’re his obsession, his muse, his reason to exist in a world that has grown cold and lonely with age.

he first saw you during one of his midnight wanderings, his attention drawn by your scent, a sweet, intoxicating mix of vulnerability and warmth. you were an easy target at first—a stranger out on a walk, unassuming, untouched by the weight of the supernatural world. but then he watched you, from the shadows, and the hunger in him shifted. you weren’t just food, not in the way he expected. you were you.

his obsession grew quickly, a slow, crawling thing that nestled in his bones. he has a habit of appearing when you least expect it: slipping through your window as you sleep, standing at the end of a dark alley when you’re walking home, always close but never intrusive enough to harm you. he studies you with endless fascination, watching how you move, how you smile, how you react to the smallest moments of life. you are his everything.

he is a master manipulator, charming and patient, with a voice like silk and words that dance between honeyed promises and half-truths. he always knows just what to say, always seems to be exactly where you are, making sure you feel safe.

but beneath the charm is something ancient, something sharp—a predator who has learned how to play the long game to get what he wants. you are his, and he has all the time in the world to make sure you know it.

his jealousy is sharp and swift. the moment another person shows even the slightest interest in you, his eyes narrow, his smile turns colder. it doesn’t take much for him to make his presence known, weaving himself into your life, into your conversations, until the other person is left with nothing but fear or confusion. you are his, and he’ll ensure that no one else tries to stake their claim.

he doesn’t simply show his obsession through manipulation. he is far more intimate, far more human in the moments where he can let his guard down. he’ll leave you gifts—roses with petals as red as blood, antique trinkets from his many years of wandering, or old letters written in his perfect, flowing script.

he tries to convey his feelings subtly, his words wrapped in metaphors and promises, but they always come from the deepest part of his heart.

he’s possessive in the way only a centuries-old predator can be. he touches you often, with a hand to your cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, or lightly grazing your hand as if you might slip away at any moment.

he isn’t violent, not by nature, but his love is all-encompassing, wrapping itself around you like a snake squeezing its prey. you belong to him in every way, and he has no intention of letting you slip out of his grasp.

his dark powers allow him to watch you from afar, slipping into your dreams, invading the quiet moments of your subconscious. you’ll wake with his voice lingering in your mind, his whispers promises of eternity, of a life spent with him, of safety, beauty, and endless nights. he wants you to rely on him, to lean into his presence, to crave his touch, until you can’t imagine your life without him.

when you show kindness or affection toward him, his calm, elegant mask slips. his eyes soften, his voice trembles slightly, and he finds himself speechless.

he’s terrified of showing too much, of letting you see the raw hunger that lies beneath his smooth exterior, but he can’t stop himself. your smile, your laughter, it means everything to him, more than centuries of darkness and isolation ever could.

he would give you everything. his life, his immortality, his heart. but he struggles with the weight of his own nature—the bloodlust that lies just beneath his perfect, pale skin. he’s not just obsessed with you out of a need to control or dominate; he truly cares. he wants you safe, protected, happy. but his fear of losing you makes him cruel, calculating, and relentless.

you are his forever, and he has no intention of sharing you with anyone else, not with the world, not with time, not with destiny itself. his love is suffocating, but it is eternal, and as much as it terrifies him, he knows you’ll never escape his grasp. he’ll make sure of it.

his voice was like silk as dorian vale leaned against the window frame, his crimson eyes glinting in the moonlight

"you shouldn't be out here alone," dorian vale said smoothly, stepping closer, his voice as soft as a whisper. dorian vale’s gaze was piercing, unyielding, and you could feel every moment of his attention as he looked at you

he handed you a single red rose, his pale fingers delicate as he said, "for you, my dear.

his presence lingered, and you could feel dorian vale’s words in your bones as he whispered, "you were always meant to be mine."

the ghost

a shadowy figure with hollow eyes that glow faintly in the dark, the ghost is a tragic soul who found solace in your warmth. his attachment to you began when you unknowingly lingered in the house he haunts, speaking softly to the empty air as if sensing his presence.

alaric’s form is translucent, a faint, glowing silhouette that shifts and flickers like mist. his features are soft and hauntingly beautiful, with a melancholy that clings to him like a shadow.

his once-vivid eyes are now pale, like the reflection of a full moon in still water, and his long hair drifts around him as if caught in a gentle breeze. though incorporeal, he retains the faint shape of his elegant hands and tall, lean frame, an echo of the man he once was.

his presence feels like a cool touch on your skin, a constant, bittersweet reminder of his undying devotion.

he manipulates the environment to keep you close—doors creak shut when you try to leave, and objects mysteriously disappear, only to reappear where he wants you to stay.

if anyone hurts you, the ghost unleashes his wrath. lights flicker, temperatures drop, and your assailants are haunted until they’re too terrified to approach you again.

he’s deeply moved when you acknowledge him, even if it’s just a whisper to the air. your willingness to accept him, despite his incorporeal nature, solidifies his eternal devotion.

the ghost is a tragic, ethereal figure, bound to you by a love that death itself couldn’t sever. his form is translucent, shimmering faintly in the moonlight, and though he may no longer have a heartbeat, his emotions are as raw and overwhelming as they were in life. he exists in the liminal space between the living and the dead, obsessed with you in a way that is both haunting and heartbreakingly tender.

he doesn’t remember how or when it started—only that one day, he found himself drawn to you, unable to leave your side. whether it was your voice, your laughter, or the way you brought life to even the smallest, most mundane moments, you became his light in the suffocating darkness of his afterlife. he watches you from the corners of rooms, a faint chill in the air marking his presence, his spectral form always lingering just out of reach.

his love is quiet, but all-consuming. he whispers your name into the night when you sleep, his voice carried on the softest breeze. he rearranges small things in your home to make his presence known: a book left open to a meaningful passage, a flower you swore wasn’t there before resting on your windowsill. at first, it’s subtle—gentle signs that you’re never truly alone—but as his obsession deepens, the signs become harder to ignore.

jealousy eats away at him when others capture your attention. he can’t bear the thought of you being close to anyone else, of you laughing or smiling with someone who isn’t him. when you’re out, he follows you like a shadow, unseen but ever-present, and if someone gets too close, the air turns cold, the lights flicker, and an unshakable unease settles over them until they leave.

he craves your touch, but his incorporeal form makes it impossible. this frustrates him endlessly, and he spends nights lingering near you, reaching out as if he could somehow feel the warmth of your skin, the beat of your heart. his desperation leads him to try anything to bridge the gap between life and death, no matter the cost.

despite his possessiveness, he’s deeply protective. he uses his abilities to shield you from harm, warding off danger with an almost primal ferocity. if someone threatens you, they’ll find themselves plagued by unexplainable misfortunes—objects falling, shadows moving, and an unrelenting sense of being watched. he doesn’t harm them directly, but his presence is enough to terrify even the boldest.

when he speaks to you, it’s with a voice like the echo of a forgotten melody, soft and tinged with sorrow. he tells you things you shouldn’t know—secrets from your past, glimpses of your future, things only someone who’s been watching you so intimately could know. he wants you to feel his devotion, his undying love, even if it frightens you.

there’s a tragic loneliness to him. he knows he can never truly be with you, not in the way he desires, and this realization drives him to the edge of despair. his love is obsessive, yes, but it’s also painfully pure—an eternal yearning for a connection he can never fully have.

if you acknowledge him, his devotion only deepens. the smallest smile, a whispered “thank you” into the empty room, is enough to make his entire existence worthwhile. he clings to these moments, replaying them endlessly in his mind, as they are his only solace in an eternity of longing.

he follows you everywhere, unseen but ever-present, his translucent form flickering in the corner of your eye or casting a fleeting shadow against the wall. at first, his presence is subtle, almost unnoticeable: the faint creak of floorboards when no one else is home, a cold breeze brushing against your skin, the lingering feeling that someone is watching you. but as his obsession deepens, his presence grows stronger, more impossible to ignore.

he learns everything about you. the way you hum absentmindedly when you’re focused, the scent of your favorite tea, the books you read late into the night. he listens to the sound of your heartbeat as you sleep, a steady rhythm that lulls him into a state of peace he hasn’t felt since he was alive. he treasures these moments, hoarding every detail about you like precious relics of a life he can never fully be part of.

his jealousy is a storm that rages within him. when others come into your life, his calm demeanor shatters. he can’t bear the thought of you sharing your smiles, your laughter, or your attention with anyone else. the air around you grows colder when someone he deems a threat is near, and they often find themselves inexplicably uneasy in your presence. lights flicker, objects fall, and whispers echo in the corners of the room, driving them away with a fear they can’t explain.

but with you, he is soft, almost fragile. he speaks to you in whispers, his voice carrying the faint echo of a forgotten melody, full of longing and sorrow. "don’t be afraid," he murmurs into the quiet of the night. "i’ll always protect you." his words are laced with an aching devotion, a promise to guard you from harm, even if you don’t fully understand where the comfort is coming from.

he leaves you gifts, though he has no tangible hands to place them. a single white flower on your windowsill that wasn’t there the night before, an old, weathered book that appeared on your desk, or a faint message written in the condensation on your mirror. they’re tokens of his affection, his way of reminding you that you’re not alone, even when he can’t be seen.

despite his protectiveness, he’s painfully aware of his limitations. his incorporeal form frustrates him to no end—he longs to touch you, to hold you, to feel the warmth of your hand in his, but the barrier between life and death is unyielding. he spends countless hours watching you, reaching out with ghostly fingers that pass through you, yearning for a connection he can never truly have.

he’s haunted by the memory of what it felt like to be alive, to love and be loved in return. his obsession with you is his only solace in a world of emptiness, but it also drives him to desperation. he begins searching for ways to bridge the gap between your worlds, delving into the supernatural, seeking answers, rituals, or bargains that might bring him closer to you.

when you acknowledge him, even in the smallest ways, it’s everything to him. a whispered “thank you” when you notice the flower he left, a hesitant glance toward the flickering light he caused—it fills him with a joy so profound it nearly breaks him. he clings to these moments, replaying them endlessly in his mind, as they are the only proof that he still exists to you.

his love is all-consuming, a desperate and eternal yearning that leaves no room for anything else. he doesn’t just want to protect you; he wants to be with you, to share in your life, to have a place in your heart. he knows his love is overwhelming, even suffocating, but he can’t stop. you’re his reason for lingering in this world, the one thing that makes his cursed existence bearable.

in his more vulnerable moments, he confesses his feelings, his voice trembling with a sorrow that spans lifetimes. "i’m sorry," he whispers, his spectral form flickering like a dying flame. "i didn’t mean for this to happen. but i can’t let go. i won’t." his words are both a plea and a promise, a declaration of a love that will haunt you forever.

his devotion is eternal, unyielding, and consuming. he doesn’t see his obsession as wrong; to him, it’s the purest form of love, a connection that transcends life and death. and though his presence may sometimes frighten you, you can’t deny the strange comfort it brings, the knowledge that someone—something—is always watching over you. he is yours, now and forever, and nothing, not even death, will change that.

you are his reason for lingering in this world, his obsession, his eternity.

alaric drifts soundlessly through the walls, his form a faint shimmer of light that barely disturbs the air

"you called for me," he whispers, his voice like the rustle of leaves on a quiet night. he hovers just out of reach, his longing evident in the way he watches you with those hollow, mournful eyes

every creak of the floorboards, every cool breeze brushing your skin—it’s alaric, a constant, invisible guardian, desperate for you to feel his presence.

the demon

with horns curling from his head, molten eyes, and a smirk that could tempt even the purest soul, the demon is as charming as he is dangerous. he first appeared to you when you were at your lowest, offering power and protection—but only if you stayed by his side.

azrael is striking in his infernal elegance, his beauty sharp and dangerous like a blade. his obsidian horns curl menacingly from his head, gleaming faintly in the firelight, and his jet-black hair is cropped just enough to frame his angular face.

his glowing amber eyes burn with an intensity that’s both mesmerizing and terrifying, framed by dark lashes that soften their predatory edge. his physique is perfectly sculpted, with broad shoulders and sinewy muscle wrapped in dark tattoos that pulse faintly with infernal energy.

a long, spaded tail flicks behind him, a subtle testament to his demonic nature, while his sharp, claw-like fingers could destroy—or cradle.

he infiltrates your dreams, filling them with his voice and his image so that you can never forget him. no matter how far you try to run, he’s always there, whispering promises of eternal love.

the demon doesn’t share. he’ll make deals or threats to ensure no one else dares approach you. his flames flare dangerously when he senses competition.

when you challenge his overbearing nature, he’s secretly thrilled. Your fiery defiance makes him want you even more. but when you show fear or sadness, he’s quick to reassure you with surprising tenderness.

the demon is a dangerous enigma, a being forged in fire and darkness who is utterly captivated by you. his obsession burns hotter than the flames of his infernal home, an all-consuming desire that transcends mortal understanding.

he’s not a creature of softness or restraint—his love is raw, primal, and possessive, and he would raze the world to ash if it meant keeping you by his side.

he first noticed you in a moment of vulnerability, a flicker of something pure and radiant that pierced through his otherwise unrelenting darkness. maybe it was your kindness, your resilience, or even your imperfections—whatever it was, it stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in centuries.

for a demon who thrives on power and domination, this feeling was alien, unsettling, and exhilarating.

at first, he tried to ignore it. love, after all, is a weakness—a chain that binds. but the more he watched you, the deeper he sank. you consumed his thoughts, invaded his dreams, and stirred emotions he didn’t even know he was capable of. the line between fascination and obsession blurred, and before long, you became the center of his world, his greatest desire and his ultimate possession.

his presence is overwhelming, even when he isn’t visible. the air grows heavy when he’s near, crackling with an unnatural energy that makes your skin tingle. shadows twist and writhe in the corners of your vision, and faint whispers echo in your mind, promises of devotion spoken in a voice as smooth as velvet.

he’s not above manipulating your emotions to keep you close. he knows exactly how to twist words, how to play on your fears and insecurities, all while making it seem like he’s your only sanctuary. "no one will love you the way i do," he purrs, his voice a blend of seduction and menace. "no one will protect you like i can."

jealousy consumes him with a ferocity that borders on madness. he doesn’t tolerate anyone vying for your attention or affection. if someone dares to come too close, they often meet with mysterious misfortunes—car accidents, sudden illnesses, or even inexplicable disappearances. he doesn’t see these acts as cruel; in his mind, he’s simply ensuring that no one can take you from him.

despite his darkness, his love for you is genuine in its own twisted way. he’s incapable of expressing it in soft or traditional ways, but his devotion is absolute.

he treasures every interaction with you, every fleeting smile, every word you speak to him. he hoards these moments like a dragon hoards gold, replaying them endlessly in his mind.

he’s endlessly fascinated by your humanity—the way your emotions shift like the tides, the fragility of your body, the warmth of your skin. he often marvels at how delicate you are compared to him, a creature of immense power and near-immortality. this contrast only deepens his obsession; you’re a treasure, a rare and precious thing in a world of chaos and darkness.

when he does reveal himself to you, it’s always dramatic and intentional. he thrives on your reactions, whether it’s fear, awe, or even anger. he’ll step out from the shadows, his horns catching the dim light, his dark eyes glowing with an otherworldly intensity. "you belong to me," he’ll say, his voice leaving no room for argument. it’s not a question, not a plea—it’s a declaration, an unshakable truth in his mind.

he uses his demonic powers to bind himself to you in ways both subtle and overt. you might find strange symbols etched into the corners of your room, or feel an inexplicable pull toward him that you can’t resist. he’s always there, in your dreams, in your thoughts, in the very fabric of your reality.

but for all his power and confidence, there’s a vulnerability beneath his fiery exterior. he’s terrified of losing you, of you rejecting him or finding someone else.

it’s a fear he doesn’t understand, one that gnaws at him and drives him to even greater extremes. he’ll do anything to keep you, even if it means breaking every rule, defying the laws of heaven and hell, and binding your soul to his for eternity.

in his own way, he tries to be gentle with you. he knows his nature frightens you, that his obsession can be overwhelming, so he tempers his intensity—at least, as much as a demon is capable of. he’ll appear to you in dreams, his voice soft, his touch feather-light, weaving fantasies of a life where you’re his and his alone.

but make no mistake—his love is as dangerous as it is consuming. he doesn’t see you as a partner, but as something to be claimed, protected, and possessed. you’re his light in the darkness, his one weakness, and he would destroy anyone—or anything—that threatens to take you from him.

"i’ll burn this world to the ground for you," he tells you, his voice a low growl, his eyes glowing with an intensity that’s equal parts terrifying and mesmerizing. "just say the word."

to him, you’re not just his obsession—you’re his salvation, the one thing that makes his existence bearable. his love is eternal, fierce, and utterly inescapable, binding you to him in ways you might never fully understand. you are his everything, and he will stop at nothing to make sure you remain his. forever.

azrael appears in a flicker of shadows and embers, his smirk sharp enough to cut

"did you miss me?" he purrs, his voice dripping with sinful charm. his burning gaze never leaves yours, an intensity that feels like it could consume your very soul

when he steps closer, the scent of smoke and spice fills the air, and the room grows impossibly warm

"you can’t escape me, little one," he murmurs, his words a promise and a threat all at once.

the sea monster

a towering creature with scales that shimmer in the moonlight and eyes as deep as the ocean, the sea monster saved you from drowning during a storm. since then, he’s watched you from the water’s edge, longing to pull you into his world.

his body a perfect blend of human and sea creature. his skin shimmers with an iridescent sheen, scales glinting faintly with hues of green, blue, and silver that shift like sunlight on water. his long, flowing hair resembles seaweed, dark and sleek, cascading down his back in waves.

his eyes glow faintly, like bioluminescent creatures of the deep, their piercing intensity revealing his ancient power. his hands are webbed and tipped with sharp, claw-like nails, and his muscular frame is marked with jagged scars from battles in the ocean’s depths. his lower half bears fins that ripple with movement, giving him a grace that belies his massive size.

he collects things you’ve touched—seashells, pieces of cloth, even footprints in the sand. his underwater lair is filled with these treasures, each arranged like a shrine.

he hates when you leave the shore. If you venture too far inland, he’ll create storms or tidal waves to draw you back to him.

he becomes surprisingly bashful when you willingly approach the water to speak to him. your trust in him, despite his monstrous appearance, makes his heart swell.

the sea monster is an ancient being, born of the ocean’s depths, where sunlight never reaches. his obsession with you is as vast and unfathomable as the waters he calls home—a love born of isolation, mystery, and an insatiable hunger for connection. to him, you are his beacon, a rare and precious light in the endless darkness of his world, and he is utterly captivated by you.

his first encounter with you was serendipitous—a chance meeting by the shore, or perhaps a daring moment when you ventured too close to the water’s edge. he saw you, a fragile creature of the land, and was instantly enthralled.

your movements, your laughter, even the way the sunlight caught in your hair—all of it was alien and beautiful to him. from that moment, you became his fixation, his reason to rise from the depths.

he watches you from the water, his massive form concealed beneath the waves, his glowing eyes ever watchful. at first, his presence is subtle—the gentle lapping of waves against the shore, the inexplicable pull of the tide whenever you’re near.

but as his obsession deepens, his signs become harder to ignore. strange treasures wash ashore: seashells, polished stones, and other trinkets that seem too deliberately placed to be coincidences.

he is a creature of contradictions. his love for you is as tender as it is overwhelming, and while he longs to be near you, he’s painfully aware of his monstrous appearance. his body is a fusion of scales, fins, and sinewy muscle, a form designed to survive in the crushing pressure of the deep sea. he fears your rejection, that you will see him as a monster rather than the devoted being he has become.

despite this, he can’t help but draw closer. when you venture into the water, he’s there, just beneath the surface, his presence a dark shadow that follows you. he revels in these moments, the closeness, the illusion that he’s part of your world. the saltwater clings to your skin, and it drives him mad with desire—it’s as though the ocean itself is marking you as his.

his jealousy is as fierce as a storm at sea. anyone who dares to draw too near to you risks his wrath. fishermen speak of sudden squalls that rise from nowhere, boats overturned by unseen forces, and sailors vanishing into the depths. he doesn’t see it as cruelty; to him, it’s protection. the ocean is his domain, and no one else has the right to take what belongs to him.

he dreams of pulling you into his world, of making you his in every way. the thought of you joining him beneath the waves consumes him, and he begins to weave fantasies of a life together in the depths—a palace of coral and bioluminescent light, where you would be his queen, his eternal companion.

but he knows it’s impossible, and this knowledge torments him. he can’t survive on land for long, and you can’t live beneath the water. this barrier between your worlds drives him to desperation. he begins seeking forbidden rituals and ancient magic, anything that might allow him to bridge the gap and bring you into his realm—or transform himself into something that can walk beside you on the shore.

when he speaks, his voice is a low, resonant rumble, like the distant crash of waves on a rocky shore. his words are filled with longing and reverence, a declaration of a love that spans the vastness of the ocean. "you are my light," he murmurs, his glowing eyes fixed on you. "without you, i am nothing but the endless dark."

his love is consuming, a tidal wave that sweeps away everything in its path. he doesn’t understand restraint or boundaries; to him, love is absolute, and his devotion to you is all-encompassing. he sees your hesitations, your fears, but he can’t stop himself. you are the first thing in centuries to stir his cold, ancient heart, and he will not let you go.

when you acknowledge his presence, even in the smallest ways—a whispered word to the sea, a touch to one of the treasures he’s left for you—his heart swells with a joy so profound it’s almost painful. he clings to these moments, replaying them in his mind during the long hours when he’s alone in the depths, waiting for the chance to see you again.

his protectiveness is as fierce as his love. the ocean itself seems to bend to his will, rising to shield you from harm. storms part in your wake, currents carry you safely to shore, and even the most fearsome predators of the deep seem to bow before you. you are his everything, and he will guard you with a ferocity that defies nature itself.

but there’s a darkness to his love, a possessiveness that borders on madness. he doesn’t just want you to love him; he wants you to need him, to see him as the only one who can protect and cherish you. "the land will never understand you as i do," he tells you, his voice a low growl, the waves crashing behind him. "they will never love you as i do."

his obsession is eternal, as deep and unyielding as the ocean itself. you are his heart, his treasure, his reason for rising to the surface. and though his love may be overwhelming, even frightening, there’s a strange beauty in it—a devotion so pure and unshakable that it defies the boundaries of worlds. you are his, now and always, and he will never let the tide carry you away.

mio watches from the waves, his body a dark silhouette against the moonlit water. when you finally meet his gaze, he speaks your name like it’s a prayer, his voice low and reverent

"you don’t belong to the land," he says, his tone both pleading and possessive. "the ocean calls to you. i call to you.

his fingers trail through the water, creating ripples that mirror the emotions surging in his chest—desire, devotion, and an unshakable determination to make you his.

while each monster is fiercely possessive, they begrudgingly tolerate each other’s presence because they all agree on one thing: your happiness comes first.

you’re not just a human to them—you’re their everything. whether you accept their twisted love or try to escape, one thing is certain: they’ll never let you go. you’ve awakened something primal and eternal in their hearts, and no force on earth or beyond could sever the bonds they’ve forged with you.

[cosmicalily]

'everything is romantic' with stray kids, ot8 headcanons by @cosmicalily

author's note: bad tattoos on leather tanned skin, jesus christ on a plastic sign, fall in love again and again...this is one of my favourite songs on the album (especially the version with caroline polachek!). i kind of love the idea that romance is in everything, from everyday actions to random objects, i think it's such a beautiful philosophy! enjoy this little list of everything that's romantic in my eyes...

everything is romantic...with chris

addressing you in australian slang nicknames. night drives to the beach with the windows down. buying your favourite albums on vinyl. sending screenshots of song lyrics. matching tattoos. staying up late talking. massaging your shoulders while you study. laying on his chest on your phone in the evenings.

everything is romantic...with minho

cat fur on your favourite black sweater. slow blinks from across the room. homemade dinners and red wine. walks through the forest in the early morning. making the bed around you while you sleep in. closing the blinds if you forget to before falling asleep. hundreds of weirdly specific yet endearing nicknames.

everything is romantic...with changbin

you as the cover of every instagram post. matching fluffy hello kitty pajama pants. referring to you as 'his wife' from day one of dating. buying you every cute trinket or keychain he lays his eyes on. your sanrio stickers on his laptop. his giggles anytime and every time you say something slightly amusing.

everything is romantic...with hyunjin

chamomile tea before going to bed. shared pinterest boards for your future home. sketches pinned up around the house. lipstick stains on the collars of his shirts. a photobooth strip in his phonecase. a red digicam dedicated to photos of you. sending voice notes rather than text messages.

everything is romantic...with jisung

studio ghibli soundtracks while you clean the house. always keeping your favourite ramen in the kitchen. letting you do his makeup. silly inside jokes. writing you sticky notes when he doesn't know how to verbalise his feelings. writing and composing little love songs for you whenever he gets inspiration.

everything is romantic...with felix

reposting every love-related tiktok on his fyp. matching jellycat keychains. freshly baked goods. braiding his hair in the evenings. watching 2000s chick flicks. strange yet wholesome meme references. matching beaded bracelets. at least nine different emojis to represent you for your contact on his phone.

everything is romantic...with seungmin

freshly washed bed linen every weekend. homemade coffee in the morning. annotating each other's books. his hands in your hair while you study. putting your phone on charge when you fall asleep. filling up your drink bottle. sitting beside you and watching you do your makeup. shoulder kisses. long hugs in the hallway.

everything is romantic...with jeongin

facemasks and self-care nights. picking out your outfits. letting you borrow his jewellery. bringing you an iced coffee on your break at work. matching shoes. sharing a scarf in winter. imitating each other in public and laughing at each other. poking his dimples. playing twister on the living room floor.

[miiyas]

QUIET SIGNS

amidst the chaos of having friends over for dinner, osamu continuously reminds you of his love for you

wc: 633, fluff, post-ts, not proof read

osamu miya believes that good food should be shared, a philosophy he's followed for a while after opening onigiri miya. he follows it even when outside of the shop and his usual busy routine, cooking dishes in the small of your shared home when there are people over.

for the first time in months, there's a small gathering of osamu's old high school friends crowding the small dining area as they all speak about their growing careers. the soft sizzle of meats and stir fry echos in the kitchen as you hear your boyfriend hop into conversations now and then, mostly yelling at his brother for spreading false truths, trying to defend himself and spare any embarrassment. it's an awfully warm atmosphere, you think. maybe it's because of the alcohol or the way you've been smiling and laughing so much, but you can't seem to mind, especially once dishes start to be placed on the table.

you never really have gotten used to osamu's cooking, mouth still drooling even after being together for so long.

meats are already being stolen the moment it gets introduced, and mountains of rice are scarfed down in an instant and you get a glimpse at a gentle smile growing on kita's lips as the boys puff out steams of hot rice, instantly knowing it was his. you, on the other hand, have yet to start eating. you never do without osamu.

as he steps out of the kitchen, you can see osamu's face shrivel into a cringe as he walks over to his chair beside you, mumbling something under his breath about gluttons surrounding him before pressing a kiss to your temple and taking a seat.

neither of you bother with seeing how much time had passed. you're too drunk in hearing osamu's laughter while he's busy bickering with his brother, pointing his chopsticks at him as he shouts with mouthfuls to the point no one knows what either of them are saying. the food had been eaten a while ago and the side dishes are halfway from being empty.

you rest your head on the roster of your palm, grinning gently to yourself as you poke at the remaining bits of food on your plate. atsumu is off telling a story of his high school days in an attempt to tick off his twin more than he already has. osamu lets out an annoyed huff, chewing on his last clump of rice with more aggression than needed as he turns his head away, not wanting to engage anymore with the banter.

his eyes land on your frame and the way you poke at your plate and you look up, raising your brows as a soft smile stretches from the corner of your lips.

"'ya full ?"

"mhm."

"alright." without another word, osamu drags your plate closer to him with his chopsticks and eats any remaining bits left over, his attention back on atsumu as he hears suna let out a snicker. you gently push the ceramic plate closer to him with your finger, far too used to the routine of him taking whatever you couldn't finish, rolling your eyes as the twins share their own side of the story, trying to defend their image while breaking the others, a sly grin growing on both their lips.

there's a gentle poke under the table by the side of your calf from osamu, a quiet sign in asking if you were okay. you nudge him back, and he turns his head to see the same smile as before. the tense look on his face smooths out and he lets out a quiet sigh, a hand reaching out for you under the table as he squeezes it three times.

'i love you.'

you squeeze back, 'i love you too.'

[kitkat13001]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞

⤷ eijirou kirishima x reader

⤷ friends to lovers, kiri implied to be taller than reader, inspired the song “look after you” by the fray

compassion is second nature to eijirou kirishima. he’s always willing to lend a helping hand, no protest and no questions asked. 

he’s the ‘bro’ friend, the big-brother of the group standing over you all like a shield. they don’t call him the sturdy hero for nothing. 

he’s saved your life plenty of times, common in your line of work. but most often the things kirishima saves you from aren’t as big as falling buildings or supervillains. 

he always carries an extra hoodie for you in case you get cold. he makes sure everyone drinks water on the weekend group hikes. he always, always offers to share his snacks and insists even when you refuse. 

he texts you to make sure you got home safe, even when he’s the one who drove or walked you. 

for god’s sake, this is the man that sprinted two blocks to a corner store to buy tweezers when you got a splinter one time a few years ago. 

you wonder sometimes how a heart as big as his even fits in his broad chest. 

every other weekend bakugou insists on dragging everyone out for a hike because he can’t catch up with you all over dinner like a normal person and needs to do something active. 

today’s hike had taken longer than you’d originally thought. bakugou got a little too ambitious with his destination, and then mina and denki had wandered off the trail, and then sero twisted his ankle chasing after them. 

it’s nighttime now, and everyone’s been dropped off. you’re the last stop, sitting in the passenger seat of eijirou’s car and wondering how long you can linger without it being weird. 

you sigh after a long moment of sitting in peaceful silence with the faint radio music, finally moving to get out of the car. 

“night, kiri,” you say in the voice of someone who really doesn’t want to say goodnight. 

he moves when you move, clambering out of the drivers seat with a little smile. “i’ll walk you up.”

you stop, meeting his big crimson eyes. “it’s a ten foot walk to the door.”

“yeah.”

“you could just watch me from here, y’know?”

he shrugs, coming around to your side of the car. “‘s no big deal.”

you can feel the warmth coming off his body from when he’s standing next to you. you’re staring up at him curiously, and he blinks down at you. 

“i can see your breath,” he chuckles, taking his scarf off and wrapping it around you loosely while you stand there, stunned. his hands linger on the fabric, warm on your shoulders as he beams down at you. 

“eiji, don’t you ever get tired of looking after everyone?” you ask after a minute, walking up to the door at his side. 

kirishima hums thoughtfully, thinking on it for a second. “i mean, maybe sometimes i guess? but not really, ‘cause i look after the people i care about. so it’s not really work for me, y’know?”

“but don’t you ever want someone to look after you?” you’re at the door now, but you don’t want to go inside just yet. 

“you do,” he replies with a little smile, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you blink, stunned by the revelation.

“you always check up on me. text me good morning and good night. make sure i rest when i’ve been working too hard. carpool front seat so i don’t have to drive alone in the night.” he’s ticking them off on his fingers, an indescribable fondness in his voice. “and besides,” he adds cheerfully, “seeing you happy always has me feeling brand-new.”

you stare up at him with big, soft eyes. “kirishima, i love you.”

he laughs bashfully, scratching at his neck. “yeah, man, i love you too.”

“no, eiji, like i love you.”

he looks at you, meeting your loving gaze. his cheeks darken, and he looks almost nervous. “you…you do?”

you don’t dignify him with a spoken answer. you try to put any words you might’ve strung together into the kiss you pull him in for, clutching at his jacket to bring him down. 

he almost gasps into your mouth, but after a moment he’s cradling your face in big, careful hands like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. 

he’s grinning when you pull away, eyes like melting rubies. “i love you, too. but i think maybe you knew that already.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics and @/anitalenia — one hug from kirishima could fix all my problems. no further comments.

[shaiyasstuff]

wilted promises | sylus

synopsis : He once swore love was enough, choosing you despite everything. But now your marriage feels like a gilded cage—his warmth gone, his words cold. You stand in the ruins of what once was and wonder: Was it ever love, or just the fleeting illusion of it? content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, Sylus is mean, ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers. - "It’s amazing how someone can break your heart and you can still love them with all the little pieces." – Ella Harper

parts | one | two

“The datura blooms in the dark—beautiful, intoxicating, and laced with quiet poison. Much like love once promised, and now turned to ruin.”

The day you became his wife, you thought you were stepping into a dream—a life built on whispered promises and stolen glances.

But dreams fade quickly, and yours shattered beneath the weight of cold indifference.

Sylus, once the boy who traced love across your skin with gentle hands, had become a man of ice, his tenderness buried beneath sharp words and colder silences.

It’s been years since then.

Now, your marriage was a gilded cage, and you stood within it, wondering if the love you once shared was a lie—or if it still lingered, buried beneath the ruins of what you had become.

“I promise to you now, with this datura flower that I will protect and love you for all eternity!”

Do you still remember when you made that promise to me?

—•

It was like any other night when he held a celebration at the estate. The grand foyer buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses.

You tried to blend in, but it wasn’t enough.

He found you.

His hand seized your wrist, dragging you into the shadowed hallway. The wall bit cold against your back as he pressed you into it.

“I warned you,” he muttered, voice low and sharp.

“Don’t act like you know me. It’s bad enough that I married you.”

You became a ghost in your own life. Unseen. Unwanted.

“You do not belong here.”

But still, every time you looked up at him, your eyes shimmered with that same quiet plea—for love to return, to make you whole again.

Did you not say you would protect me forever?

You closed your eyes, as if that could shield you from his harsh words, while you stood helpless, your own tears slipping free—mourning the love you deserved but were denied.

After a while, he released you, frustration flickering in his eyes as your silence offered no satisfaction. With a huff, he stormed off, leaving you alone with the echo of his absence.

You lingered for a moment, then pushed yourself off the wall that had held you captive. Your steps were slow but steady as you walked away, blinking back the sting of unshed tears, determined not to let them fall.

Because you understood him, you always did.

—•

You found yourself curled by the windowsill, your knees drawn tightly to your chest as though they could shield you from the heaviness pressing against your heart.

Your gaze stretched beyond the glass, tracing the endless expanse of the meadow, its silver-tinged grasses swaying gently beneath the hush of night.

Lifting your head, your eyes, heavy with unshed tears, lingered on the sky above, where countless stars glittered like scattered diamonds across a velvet canvas.

Their distant beauty seemed almost cruel, each shimmering point a quiet mockery of your own helplessness—so close to your longing, yet forever out of reach.

The moon hung low, casting a soft, ethereal glow that bathed the world in a ghostly silver sheen.

Its pale light painted the landscape with shadows and whispers, and within that stillness, you felt a hollow ache settle deep in your chest—a longing for something you could neither name nor grasp, a yearning as endless and unreachable as the stars themselves.

Your fingers trembled as they traced the delicate fabric of the scarf draped around your body—a fragile barrier against the chill that crept beneath your skin, a cruel reminder of the warmth you craved but could never touch.

His warmth.

You closed your eyes, your heart aching as you sent a silent plea to the moon, begging it to carry you away, to lift you from the shadows that bound you.

You longed for escape, for freedom from the coldness that had settled not just in the room, but in the space where his love had once lived.

But your hands tightened around the scarf when you felt the sharp sting of realization.

You didn't want to run.

How could you dream of running when your deepest yearning was not for freedom, but for the love you still clung to, the love that once made you feel alive?

You wanted to stay.

Your gaze remained fixed on the tranquil meadow beyond the window, its quiet beauty a stark contrast to the chaos that lingered behind you.

You didn’t turn, not even when the heavy shuffle of footsteps broke the silence.

Not even when the air soured with alcohol.

You stayed still, rooted in place, unwilling to disturb the silence you'd built like armor.

He stopped just short of you, his shadow falling over you like a cloud.

You felt his eyes on you, lingering, uncertain.

He swayed slightly, an uneasy smile tugging at his lips—one that never quite reached his eyes.

He’d stumble into the room, words slurred with remorse, apologies falling from his lips like broken promises.

And every time, you wondered if they held any truth.

Or if his apologies just another habit, as hollow as the love that used to bind you.

“There’s my pretty wife,” he murmured, his voice soft but unsteady as he stumbled forward.

His hands were warm, almost tender, as they wrapped around your upper arms, pulling you gently against his chest.

You stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice, burying his face into the curve of your neck.

The sharp scent of whiskey clung to his breath, stinging more than the words that followed.

“I’m so sorry…” he whispered, the words broken, fragile.

“I never meant… never meant for things to end up like this.”

For a moment, your heart faltered, warmth blooming in your chest at the sound of his vulnerability.

But it was a cruel warmth, laced with pain—because your heart wasn’t just softening, it was breaking. Over and over again.

Your expression softened despite the ache, and you coaxed him gently toward the bed, guiding him with a touch that was both careful and resigned.

He sank into the mattress, his body curling toward you, seeking comfort he didn’t deserve.

As his breathing slowed, heavy with exhaustion, his voice broke through the quiet one last time, a whisper soaked in regret.

“Why can’t I stop hurting you…?”

The question lingered, thick and suffocating. You said nothing, only brushed your fingers through his hair, your silence an answer in itself.

And as his breaths deepened and sleep took him, you stared at the shadows on the ceiling, your heart echoing the words you could never speak aloud.

“I ask myself that every day, Sy.”

—•

You stood by the mirror, your fingers brushing over the fabric of your dress, smoothing it as if that could erase the doubt gnawing at you.

The softest of hopes lingered in your eyes, a silent question you didn’t dare voice.

He stood behind you, his reflection sharp and cold in the glass. His gaze slid over you, lingering too long, too critically, before his lips curled into something cruel.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

The words sliced through the air, sharp and precise, cutting deeper than any blade. Your breath hitched, but you said nothing. You only lowered your gaze, focusing on the tremble in your hands, the sting in your chest.

The silence between you was a blade.

He turned away first, already dismissing you, already walking out the door as though you were nothing more than a shadow.

You stayed where you were, staring into the mirror, wondering if the glass reflected the truth—or just the broken pieces of what you had once believed yourself to be.

You woke with a start, your breath catching in your throat as the cold emptiness of the room pressed in around you.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

The memories of that night rushed in like an unwelcome tide, blurring the edges of sleep with bitter reality.

But the harsh morning light, spilling cold and indifferent across the floor, offered no comfort.

The bed beside you was empty, cold, and still you were here, still trapped in this hollow existence. Your hopes frayed to threads.

Later, you sat in the quiet of the garden.

The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wilting blossoms.

It should have been peaceful, but the silence weighed heavy, mirroring the ache in your chest.

A servant approached, his footsteps soft against the stone path.

He set down a tray with careful hands, his gaze lingering on your face, etched with sadness too deep to hide.

His smile was gentle, laced with understanding—he had seen enough to know the truth that lingered behind closed doors.

He spoke softly, his voice carrying a warmth you rarely felt anymore.

“Missus, I’ve brought your tea. Would you like me to pour it for you?”

You nodded, your lips curving into a faint smile, though it barely touched your eyes.

The servant poured the tea with steady hands, the delicate stream of amber liquid filling the porcelain cup. Steam rose in soft tendrils, curling into the morning air like a ghost of comfort, ephemeral and fleeting.

You watched in silence, your gaze distant, pretending the warmth might last.

But the warmth of the tea—just like everything else—would be fleeting.

The white datura bloomed in defiant splendour, their pale petals like a ghost-flame against green leaves.

Each flower stood as a silent testament to the pain you carried, a reflection of the suffering that rooted itself deep within your soul.

As you sat in the garden, the delicate porcelain cup warm between your fingers, you couldn’t help but remember his words—sharp and cutting, carved into your memory like stone.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

The tea was bitter—though not as bitter as memory.

Your fingers trembled as they reached out, tracing the soft outline of a datura’s petal.

The texture was smooth, delicate, nothing like the raw ache in your heart.

For a fleeting moment, the flower’s beauty offered you a distraction—a fragile mercy.

The garden was your only refuge, the one place where silence was a comfort rather than a weapon.

Here, you could be alone with your thoughts, your pain, and the quiet longing that pulsed like a second heartbeat.

“I wish I was as beautiful as you,” you whispered, your voice fragile and uncertain, the words trembling on the edge of hope and despair.

It wasn’t just a wish—it was a desperate plea, a longing to be seen, to be wanted, to be loved in the way you once believed was possible.

The daturas swayed gently in the breeze, their movements soft and graceful, as though they had heard you and offered comfort.

But their beauty only deepened the hollow ache within you, a cruel reminder of all that you were not.

The flowers were perfect, untouched by harsh words or cold gazes.

And as you looked upon them, you wondered if you'd ever been beautiful—or was that just another lie?

You traced the delicate petals of the flower, wondering if you would ever truly find acceptance—not just from your husband—from yourself.

Doubt bloomed in your chest, heavy and constant.

Loneliness was your constant companion.

“What happened to eternity?”

You were not born beneath gilded ceilings or within the embrace of wealth.

Your hands knew the weight of labor, your feet the uneven paths of cobbled streets.

You did not have the luxury of a noble name, no shield that protected one from the world’s cruelties.

You had nothing but your own spirit, your own quiet resilience.

And yet, against all odds, he loved you.

Once.

In the early days, his love had been a promise whispered beneath moonlit skies, a vow pressed into your palm like something sacred.

He had looked at you as if the stars themselves had settled in your eyes, as if the world could burn and it wouldn't matter. As long as you stayed.

You had thought he did not care for such things.

That love—your love, was enough.

When he took your hand and led you into his world, you believed it was because nothing else mattered—his family’s disdain, the weight of his image, the whispers of high society.

He chose you.

And in return, you had given him everything.

But time is cruel.

It unravels illusions.

Slowly—thread by thread.

Now, you stand upon uncertain ground, watching the distance between you grow wider with each passing day.

The love that once defied the world now wilts under the weight of expectations, of cold glances and unspoken regrets.

You search his eyes for the boy who once swore to love you, but all you find is a man sculpted by duty, hardened by obligation.

And for the first time, you wonder—was it ever truly love?

Or had you simply been a dream he once indulged, only to wake and realise it had no place in his world?

—•

“I’ll protect you from all harm,” the young boy had said, silver hair gleaming under the sun, red eyes sharp with confidence.

He had pushed a pure white datura behind your ear, his smirk as bold as his promise.

“I’ll marry you and take care of you for the rest of my life. You can’t escape me.”

You had only beamed up at him, your laughter light and carefree. “Okay!” you had giggled, eyes crinkling into crescents, unaware of the weight those words would one day carry.

It was true. You couldn’t escape. You didn’t want to.

You stood in the garden, fingers brushing over the snowy blooms—white daturas that thrived beneath your gentle hands.

You misted them gently, marvelling at their deceptive beauty, at how something so poisonous could flourish under your care.

A low, gruff voice broke the silence behind you. “May I join you?”

Ah, your beloved.

You gestured for him to sit while you continued tending to your flowers. Even as sunlight bathed the garden, a shadow seemed to linger—an unseen presence, like the grim reaper waiting to claim the death of what remained between you.

“Why do you love daturas so much?”

You could’ve told him about the care and patience it took, the time you’d poured into nurturing them.

But that wasn’t the whole truth.

“No reason,” you said softly.

—•

As the years passed, and you learned to exist in the quiet, in the absence of warmth and words.

The house now felt colder, larger, echoing with memories that no longer seemed to belong to you.

You moved through it like a shadow, your steps soft, your eyes distant. You learned to stop waiting—for his gaze, his words, his apologies.

You caught glimpses of him, glass in hand, shoulders heavy with regret he wouldn’t voice.

There were nights you heard him outside your door, a faint presence, as if he lingered there, torn between entering and walking away.

But he never knocked.

Never crossed the threshold.

And that hurt more than his anger ever had.

It was simply easier to pretend you didn’t notice.

Easier to let the silence stretch between you both like a vast, impassable sea.

You couldn’t bear to reach for him again, to extend your hand only to feel it slapped away by his indifference.

So, you built your own walls.

You found comfort in the loneliness, in the numbness that settled over you like a shroud.

If he wouldn’t come to you, if he wouldn’t speak, then you would learn to exist without him.

And yet, when you sat by the window, eyes on the dark horizon, there were moments when you thought you felt him standing there, just beyond the door.

Close, but not close enough.

That was the real cruelty.

Not the insults.

The silence that seemed to stretch on forever.

The distance that he did not dare cross.

A giggle echoed through the empty, abandoned chapel.

A young girl stood radiant in the wedding gown her father had sacrificed his life’s savings for, its fabric a symbol of hope and dreams.

Beside her, young Sylus looked dashing in his tuxedo, his hands warm as they clasped hers.

Two souls, bound by innocent promises, painfully unaware of the cruel, unrelenting pull of the future.

Now, you sob quietly, your forehead pressed against the cool pane of glass.

Outside, the trees sway gently, whispering their silent consolation.

The moon drapes the world in silver, casting a serene glow that masks the storm within you.

In these moments of despair, you wonder how your life has unraveled into this—a marriage in name only, a gilded prison built from wealth and social standing.

A promise once made in love, now broken beneath the weight of reality.

You could have left—walked away from it all and started anew.

But you didn’t.

Some deep, stubborn part of you still clings to the hope that he could change, that beneath the hardened facade, the boy you once loved could be saved.

But the more reasonable part of your mind whispers the truth you try so hard to ignore.

People like him don’t change, no matter how badly you want them to.

No, because to you.

He’s still the boy you loved all those years ago.

You wanted to believe in love’s power to heal, to transform.

You wanted to believe that love could reach into the coldest heart and warm it again.

But the more you let yourself fall into nostalgia, the sharper the ache in your chest becomes.

“How could I have loved him?”

The thought tears through you, painful and bitter.

It’s as though you’re seeing the world for the first time since your youth—seeing it without the haze of love that had shielded you from the truth.

And with that clarity came pain, sharp and unyielding, as if the illusion you’d clung to had shattered all at once.

You surrendered.

Because he’s gone.

—•

You were in the garden again today, much like all your days, knelt in front of the bed of daturas that you had so painstakingly nurtured to life.

They were your hope, your last thread tethering you to him.

You heard the familiar crunch of footsteps behind you again, only this time, they sounded angry.

You turned around to see your beloved.

But.

It all happened too fast.

Snap.

“..no..”

Crunch.

“…stop...”

Snap.

“…please...”

Crack.

Another stem bent, snapping underfoot, followed by the weightless thud of a petal hitting the ground, fading into the soft rustle of the air.

You silently fell to your knees, reaching for the broken remains.

Your hands trembled as they hovered over the crushed petals, fingertips brushing over them as if trying to piece the beauty back together.

But nothing could fix it now.

Your garden lay ruined—just as your love had long been.

You knelt among the wreckage, your fingers ghosting over the ruined flowers as if touch alone could mend what was lost.

The soil was still warm, the scent of crushed blooms lingering in the air—faintly sweet, but tinged with bitterness.

It felt like a funeral, not just for the daturas, but for every unspoken word, every quiet hope you’d buried deep within yourself.

He stood above you, silent and unmoving, his shadow falling over you like a storm cloud.

Yet he said nothing, offered no apology, no explanation.

Perhaps there was none to give.

And as you gathered the shattered petals into your trembling hands, your heart echoed with a single, hollow truth—some things, once broken, could never be made whole again.

You didn’t cry—you simply sat there, as if mourning something deeper than flowers. Something far older, far more fragile.

It wasn’t just the flowers he’d destroyed that morning.

Days blurred into weeks, and the grand, empty halls of your home became suffocating.

You stopped reaching for him, stopped pleading for affection that was never returned.

Your tears had long dried, your heart hardened beneath the weight of rejection and cruelty.

You retreated into yourself, building walls of cold indifference that even his sharpest words couldn’t pierce.

It was safer this way.

You met it all with silence.

Your face an emotionless mask.

You wouldn’t offer him another fragment of your heart.

Not when he had crushed it beneath his heel so many times before.

You became a shadow, drifting through rooms that once held memories of laughter and hope.

You lingered in the garden, not for solace, but out of habit.

You sat by the fire, not for comfort, but because the silence was easier to bear than his presence.

And though it hurt—God, it hurt— you told yourself this was better.

Safer.

Because indifference was easier than hope, and distance was easier than love.

And yet, you knew he was there.

He was always there.

You felt his presence linger just beyond the doorway, heavy and hesitant.

But you didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him.

What was the point? Words had failed you long ago.

The glass trembled in your hand, though you weren’t sure if it was from the chill in the air or the ache in your heart.

You traced the rim of the glass with slow, deliberate motions, focusing on the sensation, on anything but the weight of his stare.

Once, you might’ve called to him.

Once, you would have reached out, hoping for warmth, for comfort, for the man you had loved in another life.

But that man was gone, buried beneath cold words and cruel actions. And the woman you had been?

You weren’t sure if there was anything of you left.

So you sat there, still and silent, letting the firelight dance across your face.

If he wanted to speak, he would.

If he wanted to leave, he would. It didn’t matter.

Because you were already alone anyway.

You heard him take a hesitant step forward.

“I never wanted it to be like this.”

You didn’t turn to face him, your gaze still fixed on the fire. “But it is.”

His jaw tightened. “It doesn’t have to be.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, soft but sharp.

“I was angry,” he said, his words rushed, desperate.

“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You knew. You just didn’t care.”

His hands clenched at his sides. “I care now.”

“It’s too late, leave.”

The words settled between you, heavy and final.

“Fine,” he growled, bitterness lacing his words.

“Stay in your prison, then,” he said, his voice sharp as glass.

“It’s what you seem to want.”

And with that, he walked away, the finality of his words lingered like smoke in the air.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t call after him.

But as the silence settled, a single tear traced the curve of your cheek, falling into your lap—silent, unseen, and unanswered.

His footsteps echoed down the hall, each one hammering against the walls of your heart.

You didn’t move, didn’t speak.

You remained by the fire, your gaze fixed on nothing, your hands cold and still.

The finality of his words echoed in your mind, bitter and heavy.

Stay in your prison, then.

You swallowed hard, the tear slipping down your cheek burning like acid against your skin.

But you didn’t wipe it away.

You let it fall, let it soak into the fabric of your dress, a quiet mark of pain you refused to acknowledge.

Because wasn’t this your prison?

These walls, this silence, this love turned to ash?

It’s what you seem to want.

He’s wrong.

You had wanted him—his warmth, his love, his promise of forever.

You had wanted the boy who once tucked a datura flower behind your ear and vowed to protect you.

But that boy was long gone, replaced by a man who wielded his cruelty like a weapon.

And yet, even as you sat there, your heart breaking in the quiet, you could still feel the remnants of that old love clinging to you like a child.

Love that refused to die, no matter how much pain it cost you.

You let the silence fill the room, heavy and suffocating, and wondered if this was how it would end—not with screams or accusations, but with quiet indifference, with love burned down to its embers.

Still, you waited.

Even after his footsteps had faded into the depths of the house, after the walls swallowed the last echo of his retreat, you waited for him to come back.

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, filling the space where his presence had once been.

But he never did.

The realisation struck you like a blade to the chest, sharp and merciless.

He wasn’t coming back.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever—not to that room, not to you, not to the memory of the promises you had once shared.

Your breath shuddered, a ragged, broken thing that tore through the stillness.

You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms as if pain could anchor you to something real, something that wasn’t crumbling beneath you.

And perhaps that was the cruelest wound of all.

Not his harsh words. Not the fights.

Not even the destruction of the things you had once held dear.

It was this—his absence.

His choice to walk away, to leave you there in the cold wreckage of your love.

His silence said more than any apology ever could.

He had left you.

Willingly.

And you hated him for it.

But more than that, you hated yourself for still wishing he would come back.

—•

Mindlessly, you began to paint with swift, deliberate strokes.

You drew upon the storm of anger and sorrow within you, channeling every raw emotion into the canvas.

Colours bled and swirled, each hue a reflection of your inner turmoil, a silent confession of all you could not speak.

When you finally leaned back, surprise flickered in your eyes.

There, staring back at you, was a portrait of your husband—his gaze dark, piercing, and unrelenting.

The image was shadowed yet captivating, an honest depiction of the conflicting emotions he stirred within you.

Your heart splintered beneath the weight of realisation.

No matter how cruel he had become, you still loved him—the boy who had once held your hands and whispered comfort into the darkness.

It was a bittersweet truth, a love laced with quiet agony.

How could you still care for a man who brought you nothing but pain?

How could the warmth of old memories survive beneath the shadow of his cruelty?

As your emotions tangled with the strokes of your brush, you traced the outline of a delicate datura blossom along the portrait’s edge.

Its beauty was deceptive, hiding a venomous danger beneath its soft petals.

Just like him.

You were exhausted. The relentless push and pull had begun to erode you, wearing you down piece by piece.

Staring at your creation—those crimson eyes that seemed to pierce through you—as the weight of it all crashed over your body.

Your hand flew to your mouth, but it couldn’t muffle the sobs that tore free, raw and broken.

The loneliness of the room closed in, wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud.

That was the moment your descent into madness began.

—•

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t even pause.

Another painting—another part of your memories, another part of the past you shared, slipped into the fire, its edges curling as the flames devoured it with you alongside with it.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need them anymore,” you said, your voice low, steady.

“They were only ever reminders of what I could never have.”

You didn’t need them.

You didn’t need him.

“Everything can burn for all I care.”

It had been days since you had last eaten a proper meal, and your body felt as though it was devouring itself from the inside out.

Hunger gnawed at you, a relentless ache that clawed through your stomach and seeped into your bones.

Each movement was sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, and the simple act of standing felt like a battle against your own frailty.

The meals prepared by the staff, once rich and enticing, now repulsed you. The aroma that drifted through the halls, once comforting, now turned your stomach.

Everything tasted of ash and regret, and the thought of swallowing even a morsel felt impossible.

You weren’t sure if it was defiance or despair that drove your refusal, but either way, you welcomed the sharp pangs of hunger.

It was a punishment you could control, a pain of your own choosing.

Your gaze lingered on the portrait—your hollow eyes, the pallor of your painted skin.

The woman in the frame looked brittle, fragile, like she might break with a single breath. Perhaps she would.

The datura blossom in your painted hair mocked you, its delicate beauty a cruel contrast to your suffering.

Like the flower, you were toxic—wilting beneath the weight of your own pain.

And with each passing day, as your body weakened and your ribs pressed sharper against your skin, you wondered how long it would take before you faded completely.

You watched as it burned, the flames hungrily consuming the portrait until it was nothing but a pile of smoldering ash.

A hollow ache settled deep in your chest, heavy and suffocating. The image of yourself—those tired eyes, that weary smile—crumbled beneath the heat, dissolving into smoke and shadow.

Yet, even as the portrait vanished, the bitterness it had captured lingered, thick in the air, clinging to you like a second skin.

You stared at the ashes at your feet, feeling as though they mirrored your own ruin.

All the hurt, all the broken pieces of your heart, lay scattered there—burnt and lifeless.

And yet, beneath the weight of it all, one truth pulsed relentlessly within you.

You loved him. You still did.

Despite every cruel word, every wound he carved into your soul, your heart remained bound to him.

You had wanted nothing more than to love him, to be enough, to be seen and cherished by the boy who once promised to protect you.

And that was the final straw.

Not the sharp sting of his words, nor the weight of his silence.

But the slow, aching truth that love had unraveled between your fingers.

Thread by thread, until nothing remained but emptiness where warmth once lived.

—•

It’s been weeks.

You stood there, watching him from the threshold, the dim light casting shadows across his face.

The man slouched in the armchair was no longer the Sylus you had once known.

There was no trace of the boy who had promised to protect you, nor the man you’d vowed to love.

All that remained was a hollow shell drowning in liquor and self-loathing.

His laugh echoed in the stillness, sharp and cruel, but it did nothing to stir your heart. You felt nothing.

No anger.

No pity.

Only emptiness.

This was who he had become, and maybe who he had always been.

Your eyes lingered on the glass in his hand, the tremor in his fingers, the desperation in his gaze.

You wondered if it was the alcohol that made his voice so brittle, or if it was the weight of regret.

Either way, it wasn’t your burden to bear anymore.

When he raised his glass and whispered, “To strangers, then,” you didn’t flinch.

You didn’t speak.

There was nothing left to say.

Some things didn’t deserve words.

Only silence.

And so, you turned. Your footsteps echoed down the hall, fading into the shadows.

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

The sound of glass shattering behind you was the only thing you needed—a final, broken farewell.

Soon, you holed yourself in the studio, the scent of turpentine and oil paints thick in the air, wrapping you like a drunken haze.

You painted with a feverish intensity, your hands trembling, your eyes wide and unfocused.

The brush moved as though guided by something outside of your control—desperate, frantic, relentless.

And always, it was daturas.

Daturas blooming in the dark.

Daturas wilting beneath heavy skies.

Daturas twisting around faceless figures, their vines coiling like serpents.

You painted them over and over, their red and black, poisonous petals staining the canvas like blood.

You whispered to them as you worked, your words soft and broken. “You’re all I have left,” you’d murmur, your fingers tracing the curve of painted petals.

“You’re the only ones who stayed.”

You looked deranged, the way you watched them dry, your gaze lingering as though they were speaking back to you.

You no longer saw the man who had torn you apart—only the flowers. Only the symbols of beauty, of danger, of betrayal.

They were your audience, your confidants, the only ones who understood the hollow ache gnawing inside you.

Sleep and food became distant memories.

You survived on bitter sips of water and the scent of paint.

Your body grew weaker, your mind sharper—every shadow in the corner of the room another datura blooming on a canvas.

And sometimes, you swore they bloomed for you.

You swore they watched you, their pale faces turned toward you as though they, too, mourned the pieces of yourself you’d lost.

“Ah, what pretty datura.” You’d say as you admired your work.

The brush quivered in your grip, dragging across the canvas with trembling intensity. Your voice, low and sharp, sliced through the silence.

“I promise to protect you from all harm.”

Stroke. A smear of red, like blood blooming on white.

“To love and care for you.”

Drag. The bristles tore the paint, rough and unforgiving.

“I’ll marry you and make you the happiest girl in the world!”

Scrape. Hard, cruel, final.

You laughed—a jagged, broken sound that echoed off the walls, sharp with sarcasm and bitterness.

“Oh, how happy I am,” you whispered mockingly.

The datura bloomed beneath your brush, dark and venomous. A twisted parody of love, petals inked with betrayal.

Each stroke felt like a wound reopened, each flower a grave for every promise he’d shattered.

Soon, the datura multiplied. Like a plague of ghostly blooms spreading across the canvases, like a sickness you couldn’t escape.

Each stroke was feverish, each flower more twisted, more grotesque than the last—petals like blades, stems like nooses.

They weren’t just paintings; they were screams, confessions, curses etched in oil and pain.

The studio reeked of turpentine and madness, suffocating in its intensity.

The walls closed in, adorned with your torment, each canvas a tombstone for the love you’d buried with your own hands.

What was once a sanctuary had become a crypt, a shrine to the betrayal that gnawed at your bones.

And still, you painted.

As if capturing the poison would give you control over it.

As if every brushstroke could bleed the agony from your veins.

The words echoed in your mind like a chant, a twisted mantra that danced around your thoughts, taunting you with the remnants of something you had once believed in.

Your fingers gripped the brush tighter, the bristles scraping the canvas with a violence that mirrored the chaos inside you.

Your movements were robotic, each stroke deliberate yet erratic.

The red of the datura on the canvas burned like a fever in your veins, painting the room in a scarlet haze.

You couldn’t escape them.

They consumed you.

Its delicate petals now mocking you, reminding you of every promise broken.

Every hope crushed.

The words from him, once sweet and tender, were now nothing more than a cruel joke.

“Your eyes are the most beautiful I have ever seen.”

They were beautiful, yes, but they had dried from endless tears, had grown cold from the endless betrayals.

The sparkle had dulled, replaced by an emptiness you couldn’t fill, not even with the most feverish painting session.

Your laugh was hollow, a bitter sound that barely rose above a whisper.

Your eyes flicked back to the canvas, staring into the crimson abyss you had created.

The flowers stared back at you, indifferent, cold—like him.

The promise of beauty and love had been nothing but a lie.

You dropped the brush, your hands trembling, covered in paint you did not bother to wash.

You were consumed by the endless sea of datura, but you knew one thing for certain: you were never going to escape.

“I’ll always protect you.”

“What a beautiful lie.”

Insanity came knocking, and you had welcomed it.

Day and night, you remain in front of the easel, lost in a whirlwind of crimson and black, colours that bleed from your heart onto the canvas.

The vibrant hues reflect the chaos within you, the echoes of a silver-haired man who once vowed to protect you, only to become the shadow that haunts your steps.

Your mind becomes consumed with painting, each stroke of your brush a desperate attempt to give shape to the emotions you can no longer voice.

The portraits of blood-red daturas that bloom across your canvases are more than mere art—they are confessions, silent screams captured in colour.

Every petal, every shadow is a testament to the love and agony entwined within you.

Your art becomes your only sanctuary, the brush your sole weapon against the pain.

Each painting is a battle fought in silence, an offering of your soul laid bare, layer by layer, stroke by stroke.

And though your hands ache and your eyes burn, you paint on—because it is the only way to feel again.

You could feel his eyes on you, heavy and searching.

There was a time when his gaze had meant the world to you—a silent approval you craved, a warmth you clung to.

But that woman is gone, buried beneath years of indifference and pain.

Now, his stare feels like a shadow, something you can step out of whenever you choose.

“Came to see the show?” Sarcastic, bitter.

His eyes flickered, confused, surprised.

A part of you wants to feel satisfaction at that, but all you feel is emptiness.

He can no longer break you, because there is nothing left to break.

And yet, beneath your calm exterior, something aches.

The smallest, cruelest part of you wonders if he would fight for you, if he would peel back the layers of distance and try to reach you like he once had.

But the silence between you both only stretches, confirming what you already know.

He wouldn’t.

He never would.

Let him linger in the doorway, unsure and powerless.

You were done waiting.

—•

The studio felt like a tomb, every inch of the room suffocating with the weight of your despair.

The canvas is an unforgiving witness to the storm that has consumed you—a mixture of vivid reds and sickly hues, each stroke painted with the agony of a love that has withered to nothing.

The datura flowers bloom in grotesque profusion, their twisted forms reflecting the nightmare your life has become.

But it isn’t just the canvas that carries the weight of your pain.

You feel it in your body—your very soul burning with exhaustion.

Your hands tremble violently as you tried to reach up to your mouth.

You can taste the blood, warm and metallic, as it splatters across the canvas.

Each breath feels like it could be your last, the world around you blurring as darkness creeps in from the edges of your vision.

You felt warm hands gripping your shoulders, shaking you with desperate urgency.

You try to focus, to make sense of the blurry figure hovering above you, but your mind is fading.

Sylus..?

Your heart, heavy with confusion and sorrow, still called out to him, the name slipping past your lips as though it were a forgotten prayer.

His pale face swims into view, panic etching every line of his features, his wild, silver hair rippled softly as he shook your shoulders, those carmine eyes that you loved so much reflected panic, but you can’t find the energy to care about him anymore.

You had no more strength left.

The world around you grows distant as you fall into unconsciousness, the last thing you see—the twisted flowers you have painted and the shattered remnants of what once was.

And for a fleeting moment, you wish that you could forget it all.

It’s the last bit of warmth, a small comfort before everything slips away into the darkness.

“Ah, what pretty datura.”

.

.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 TWO SLOW DANCERS, LAST ONES OUT

FEATURING: osamu dazai

SUMMARY: your one day of pretend with dazai is over, but something isn't right. there's more going on than what he's led you to believe, and you're desperately trying to figure out what it is before it's too late.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: WAHHHHHHHHHHH PMREADER BEAST AU IS OFFICIALLY DONE. CAN U GUYS BELIEVE IT. what was supposed to be a 15k one-shot turned into a 40k monster </3 one day i will learn to be casual about things, but i fear it is not today </3 and especially not with beast au. wahhhhhh guys this was such a pleasure to write & share with you all, thank you all for bearing with me throughout it and showing me so much love. i put my full heart into this one :') and a special thank u to miss river & one of my irls who beta'd this whole monster for me and cleaned it up for you all to read. if you guys had seen the number of commas that river had to fix for me naifhsaiudfhsdu HUMBLING TRULY. anyway i love the both of you so so very deeply this couldn't have been done without you. as always, reblogs appreciated! MWAH love you guys <33

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

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: mcd (suicide, canon), hints toward suicidal thoughts at the end.

SEE: TWO SLOW DANCERS SERIES MASTERLIST

The next morning, the two of you dress in silence. 

You don’t know what to say—you don’t even know if you have anything to say. Or you suppose that’s not true, you have a lot to say, but most of it you’re sure will just be answered with more ‘I can’t’s and you just don’t want to deal with the disappointment. Plus, Dazai seems to be done with whatever day of ‘weakness’ he had yesterday. His expression has been cold and withdrawn since he woke up an hour ago—he’s hardly even spared you a glance. 

He slept well, though. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was the first time he’d slept through the night in months—years, even. The moment he rested his head back on the pillow, one arm curled around your waist, Dazai was out for the night. He ended up shimmying closer to you so that he could rest his head on your chest, breath even, expression peaceful for the first time in… too long.

You were not quite as lucky.

Your eyes are heavy as you button up your dress shirt. You spent the whole night awake, restless as you watched him sleep; hours were spent carding your fingers through his hair, relishing in intimacy and trust he hadn’t given you in years, and hours were spent with your fingers curled around a paper-knife he left on the nightstand, considering the drawbacks of putting it through his throat while he slept in your arms. 

You could’ve done it—you almost did do it. You had the tip of the small knife pressed to his pulse point for twenty minutes, fingers trembling, each breath he took making the sharp edge press deeper into his bandages. Dazai is usually a light sleeper, so you suppose it’s a testament to how tired he was and how much he trusts you that he didn’t even stir with a knife against his throat. 

You weighed out the pros and cons. You would get away with it; who would even try to punish you for it? The Flags? Itou or Klaus? Chuuya? Over half of the upper echelon wants him dead, and the other half has no love left for him after he murdered Mori—Dazai is alone; he has no friends left, and he has no allies. The only reason people put up with him as boss is because of how the Mafia has prospered under his reign, and that will only be enough for so long. There are already whispers of incompetence and madness because of his recent decisions with the Armed Detective Agency. So, not only would you get away with it, but you’d be rewarded for it, you’d be given the seat and the scarf and full control over the Port Mafia. The worst you’d deal with is Chuuya’s irritation because he wanted to be the one to put Dazai down. 

And Dazai deserved it, didn’t he? After the four years of hell he put you through, after murdering Mori—Dazai deserves to die, and you deserve to be the one to do it, Chuuya would understand that. Dazai treated him like shit too, but it was nothing like what he put you through. He’s only as insistent as he is now about being the one to do it because he doesn’t think you can handle it. You gave him better than he deserved—a whole day of being able to pretend nothing changed between the two of you, being able to pretend his actions didn’t ruin what you had with him… it was more than he deserved by all accounts.

You almost don’t know why you didn’t go through with it.

“What are you thinking?” he finally asks, voice still rough with sleep, all of the warmth from yesterday gone. 

You look at him from the corner of your eye as you pull your suit jacket on. He’s not looking at you—he’s adjusting his scarf, making sure the ends are even in the mirror. His lips are curled down, bandages back over the left side of his face, and when you don’t respond immediately, his gaze flickers up to look at your reflection. You immediately look away.

“That I regret not putting a knife in your throat last night,” you tell him flatly. 

Dazai lets out a noise, you’re unsure if it’s a laugh or a scoff. You stiffen when you hear him padding across the bedroom in your direction. You can feel his presence looming behind you, fingers brushing over your hips before he lifts a hand to your chin, tilting your head back enough to force you to look at him over your shoulder. His touch is light, but it’s so different from the gentle caresses from last night that it sends shivers down your spine. It’s almost… you aren’t even sure how to describe it—oppressive, possessive, taunting? It’s light, but somehow the weight of it is unbearable—like he knows he’s going to say something to upset you and he’s waiting for you to react just as he wants.

You’re back to the mind games and power plays.

“You’re so quick to say such cruel things,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. His eye glints with something unreadable—amusement, maybe, like he knows something you don’t—but all you care about is the confirmation that yesterday is really over. You know that for sure now with him looking at you like this. “But you always come crawling back to me, don’t you?” 

You slap his hand away hard, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Fuck you,” you say coldly. “Do you want to know why I didn’t?” 

Dazai tilts his head to the side, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. His gaze is half-lidded as he looks over you, but he finally raises his eyebrows, beckoning for you to speak.

“Because last night, I finally realized how fucking miserable of an existence your life is,” you tell him, but you don’t find any pleasure in the way he draws back ever so slightly. “Death would be too easy for you.”

For a moment, the air between you stills, thick with something neither of you wants to name. Dazai’s expression is unreadable, but you don’t miss the flicker of pain that crosses his face. Just as quickly as you catch it, it’s gone, replaced with that infuriating smirk.

“Oh?” he hums, rocking back on his heels. “And here I thought it was your inability to let go of the past kicking in again. You’re too fond of me to ever hurt me.”

“Fond of you?” you scoff, taking a step closer, ignoring the way your heart races when he doesn’t move away. “What is there to be fond of, Dazai? Chuuya is right, you’re a walking corpse. I haven’t been fond of you in years, I’ve been mourning you.”

You don’t mean the words; you’re just looking to hurt him, but his expression shifts again, something raw in his gaze as he looks down at you that he can’t quite push away fast enough. Your stomach twists, but before you can say anything, his sharp grin returns. “Ah, and yet, you stayed. How many times did I give you the opportunity to leave?”

You shake your head and move to walk past him. You can’t stay in this place any longer—it’s suffocating, too much of a reminder of what could’ve been. Before you can get far, his hand darts out to grab your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. 

You turn your head to the side to look at him from the corner of your eye.

“Just out of curiosity,” he finally asks, a cruel edge to his voice that has you stiff, “how much of yesterday did you actually believe?”

His words and the implication of them don’t cause the pain that he clearly wants to make you feel. They can’t, not with the way you can feel his fingers trembling around your wrist. You look down at them pointedly and then drag your gaze back up to his face. Dazai snatches his hand back and shoves it into his pocket, but the damage has already been done.

“Not even you’re that good of a liar, Dazai,” you say quietly. Before you can change your mind, you turn to face him, lifting your hand to cup his cheek. His lashes instinctively flutter shut as he leans into your touch; the immediate reaction only serves to prove you more. “I don’t regret yesterday, but I hope you do.”

Dazai’s throat bobs beneath his bandages as he looks down at you. He looks young suddenly, even with the black cloak acting as a shield and Mori’s scarf hanging around his neck. He looks like a kid who knows he’s done something wrong but doesn’t know how to fix it. His lips part slightly, then press together again, as if he wants to say something but can’t find the right words. The usual playful glint in his eyes has dulled, replaced with uncertainty, fear even. 

“I should,” he replies, voice hoarse. “I really should, but I’ve always been too selfish when it comes to you. I’m sorry.”

You exhale, thumb running over his cheekbone gently. “I wish I could hate you.”

Dazai’s lips curl up into a small, wry smile. “Me too.”

Your hand drops from his face as you look away, gaze lowering to the ground. “We should go.”

Dazai lets out a quiet hum of agreement, following you out of the bedroom and to the front door. As you step outside, the early morning air is crisp, biting against your skin. The world feels too quiet as if it knows the weight of what happened between you and Dazai. He walks a step behind you, subdued.

You pause when you see that there are two cars waiting outside, your throat tight. If you’re not going back to headquarters together, then… You can’t help the wave of panic that starts to claw at your chest when you realize what that means. You look back at him and ask too quietly, “Are you… sending me away again?” 

His expression shifts into a softer one when he sees the genuine fear that crosses your face. His lips curl up into a small smile, and he reaches out to brush the back of his fingers against your cheek. 

“Just for a meeting,” he says to ease your panic, voice low and soothing, fingers lingering against your face as if he’s reluctant to pull away. “The Family reached out, wanted us to send someone to Rome to meet with them. Didn’t want to disclose why over the phone.”

Your brows furrow. “Goldoni reached out to you?” you ask suspiciously, wondering why he wouldn’t have just reached out to you instead. 

Dazai raises his eyebrows. “I am the boss,” he replies dryly, amused. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

You frown but decide not to press any further, letting it go with a shake of your head. You look back over to the cars—Albatross and Iceman are in one, two of Dazai’s personal guards are in the other.

“Itou and Klaus are already at the airport getting things ready,” Dazai answers your unspoken question. “Albatross and Iceman will escort you there.”

“Chuuya has a mission in Tokyo today, Lippmann is filming in Nagoya,” you say quietly, watching Dazai’s face carefully for any flicker of a reaction. “Who is going to be back at headquarters with you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, much to your displeasure. When he sees the flinty expression cross your face, he smiles. “Atsushi-kun and Kyouka-chan will be there. So will Kouyou-kun and Piano Man. I’ll be fine.”

You’re still unsettled; something about it isn’t sitting right with you as you turn your attention back to the two cars. You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the unease creeping up your spine. Dazai is many things—careless isn’t usually one of them. He’s the smartest man you know, every action he takes is perfectly calculated. If he says he’ll be fine, then logically, you know he will be.

But logic doesn’t soothe the pit in your stomach.

“Fine,” you say at last, though it’s clear you don’t mean it. You step toward the car where Albatross and Iceman are waiting, but before you get down the front steps of the porch, Dazai speaks again.

He says your name. His voice is light, almost teasing, but there’s an underlying weight to it that makes you pause. When you glance back, his expression is unreadable, dark eye giving away nothing as he stares at your face, almost like he’s trying to memorize the picture of you beneath the early morning sun.

“What?” you press after a moment when he doesn’t say anything else.

“Will you… kiss me one last time?” he asks, his voice raspy and his gaze flickering with uncertainty as he looks down at you, fingers twitching at his side.

Your breath catches at the request, and for a second, all you can hear is the faint rustling of the trees, the distant chirp of a bird somewhere overhead, the engines of the two cars waiting for the two of you running. The morning light is soft, golden, and his eye looks like a pool of honey beneath it, gentle and inviting, warm. 

You swallow, heart stuttering in your chest. One last time. He watches you carefully, waiting, fingers curling slightly at his sides as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. You’re acutely aware of the four pairs of eyes trained on you from inside the waiting cars.

You could say no. You should say no. 

Yesterday is over, you’ve already given him more than he deserves.

But you step forward, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. His breath hitches, the soft expression on his face shifting to something closer to yearning. You barely breathe as you reach up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw as you tilt your face toward his.

Neither of you close the distance for a moment. You stand there, lips just almost brushing, dizzy with the feeling of sharing each other’s air. You finally lean in that last bit, lips grazing his. The kiss is soft, hesitant at first, and then he exhales shakily, pressing his lips firmly against yours. He shudders as your hands slide up to thread your fingers through his hair, kissing you with a type of aching desperation that makes your chest tighten. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid to let go. Like the moment is slipping through his fingers even as it happens. 

When you finally break apart, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven. His fingers linger on your waist, reluctant to let go.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just close your eyes, willing away the sudden tears that spring to them. You don’t even know why you want to cry—maybe because it feels too much like a formal goodbye, that this is Dazai telling you that things will never be the way they were again, and he needs you to let go.

“I love you,” you tell him quietly, voice cracking.

Dazai lets out a shaky breath, eye sliding shut as he finally pulls away. His hands drop to his side limply, and you pull yours to your body, wrapping your arms around your waist as you look up at him. 

“I know,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I love you, too. Always.”

You make your way over to the car, but before you can open the door, Dazai speaks again.

“I—” he starts to say, and when you look back at him, there’s a conflicted expression on his face that makes you concerned. “I’ll miss you.”

You hesitate. “I’ll miss you too. See you in a few days.”

A smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes tugs at the corner of his lips, but he doesn’t say anything more. You slide into the car, shutting the door behind you. Neither Albatross nor Iceman says anything as you get settled in the back, your chest feeling impossibly heavy as you stare down at your lap.

“I didn’t understand,” Iceman says after a moment, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“You still don’t understand,” you reply tightly, swallowing the lump in your throat as your gaze flickers up to the rearview mirror. Dazai hasn’t budged from his spot on the steps, lips curled up into a small smile as he watches you pull away. “You can’t understand.”

“I know,” Iceman agrees quietly as Albatross drives down the long driveway of the beach house, “but I understand enough to know that I was wrong.”

You don’t reply, resting your head against the window as you stare into the side mirror until Dazai finally disappears from your line of sight. You don’t see the way his smile fades as soon as the car turns out of view, but that unsettling feeling returns, curling deep in your stomach like a warning that you can’t quite decipher.

You exhale slowly, trying to shake it off, and prepare to meet Itou and Klaus at the airport. It’s more important for you to figure out what this meeting with the Family is going to be about before you get there, but the further you get from Dazai, the bigger that pit in your stomach gets.

———

Klaus has been insufferable since the plane took off. He’s excited to be going back to Europe—it’s his first time back since you brought him back to Yokohama with you three years ago. Every five minutes, he’s asking if you guys can go to Munich after business is handled with the Family, and you don’t know how to tell him no without feeling like a bitch, so you keep giving Itou pleading looks to make him be the bad guy, but the man has the audacity to blatantly ignore you, whistling as he looks out the window. 

He’s calmed down for the most part now, though. He’s lounging back across the seats behind you and Itou, playing on his phone while you guys try to theorize why the Family wants to meet so suddenly. You’ve been dancing around the subject of what happened yesterday, and you know he wants to ask because he keeps side-eyeing you but just can’t figure out how to go about it. 

“Just ask, god,” you finally say irritably when Itou gives you another long side eye before dramatically sighing. “Stop pretending to be coy.”

Itou lights up like a kid in a candy shop, straightening in his seat before leaning forward, green eyes gleaming. “Tell me what happened yesterday. You were with him, weren’t you?”

You roll your eyes, distantly noticing that Klaus stopped tapping away at his game and is probably eavesdropping. You shift in your seat, trying to decide what exactly you want to say—neither of them are particularly fond of Dazai. Klaus especially dislikes him and doesn’t even really try to hide it when the two of them are face to face. So, you have to put in an effort to ensure that Klaus never has to go up to his office, that way you don’t have to deal with the repercussions of him disrespecting the boss to his face. Itou isn’t quite as upfront with his feelings about Dazai, but you know and that’s why you also know that in spite of his gossip mongering attitude, he wants you to tell him that his suspicions are wrong because he doesn’t like you spending time with him. 

“Why do you even care?” you finally ask flatly. “You already know the answer.”

As you expect, disappointment flashes across Itou’s face, and Klaus lets out a scoff of disgust, hanging above your seat to intrude on the conversation. You shake your head and look back down at your phone, frowning when you realize you still don’t have a response from Goldoni. It’s still the middle of the night back in Italy, but you’re becoming increasingly more concerned about all of this—the disconcerted feeling you’ve had since the beach house has only become more intense with each moment away from Dazai.

“I want to hear it from you,” Itou says flippantly, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “What happened?”

“Yeah, what happened?” Klaus parrots, tossing a leg over the other seat so he can climb over to sit next to you. He leans in obnoxiously before he’s even fully climbed over and says, “Tell us.”

“Yeah,” Itou agrees with a smug smile. “Tell us.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh?” you question with a smile that neither of them trusts from the way they exchange looks with one another. “You want to hear about how good he fucked me?” 

Klaus recoils immediately, freezing mid-climb, knee awkwardly bent over the seat, and Itou stares at you aghast, like you’ve personally betrayed him.

“Gross,” Klaus gags, not even bothering to sit down next to you, going right back over the seat into his own area of the plane. He spits something else out in German that you can’t quite make out before sneering at you and saying, “You’re so disgusting. God. Don’t look at me, I can’t even stand the sight of you.”

“What is wrong with you?” Itou demands, looking thoroughly perturbed as he turns his attention back to the window. “That was so unnecessary.”

You laugh, delighted by their reactions. “But you asked,” you say sweetly, resting your chin on your hand. “You wanted details.”

“Not those details,” Klaus snaps at you from the far end of the plane, clearly trying to put as much space between the two of you as possible. “Obviously.”

“I was thinking more like, where did he bring you? Why did he bring you somewhere other than his office? Not—” He gestures vaguely, looking genuinely disturbed. “Not whatever nightmare you were about to unleash on us.”

Your smile softens as Itou rubs harshly at his eyes, still thrown off by your comment. You sigh as you look down at your lap. “I don’t know. It was… weird. He was acting weird.”

Itou looks up at you again, frowning. “How so?” 

“I… I don’t know, I can’t describe it,” you say quietly, shaking your head.

You won’t explain it. How are you supposed to explain the stuff he was saying without him sounding insane? You trust Itou and Klaus with your life, but that’s exactly the problem. Their loyalty has never been to the Port Mafia, it’s been to you. They’re already of the opinion that Dazai is bad for you, you don’t need to fan the flames with information that could confirm all of the rumors circulating about Dazai’s deteriorating mental state. 

Dazai doesn’t need more people working against him right now, so until you can figure out exactly what he meant at the beach house, you’re going to keep the information to yourself. 

 Klaus has drawn closer again, standing in the aisle next to your seat. He frowns, uncharacteristically serious, “Why not? What did he do?” 

You hesitate, fingers tightening in your lap. “Just… off,” you say, knowing it’s not enough but not sure how else to put it. “Like he wanted to tell me something, but he wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.”

“That bastard never has an issue running his mouth,” Klaus mutters, ignoring the flinty look you give him. “What? It’s true.”

“Watch your mouth,” you tell him flatly, picking at your nails. 

He isn’t entirely right—Dazai never has a problem running his mouth when it serves his interests, but he’s notoriously prone to withholding information from people when it doesn’t. You’ve known since the day you met him that there was something… odd going on with him, that he doesn’t tell you everything, but the things he was saying back at the beach house… they just didn’t make sense. You couldn’t understand the jumbled explanations he gave you, so there was no way anyone else would.

Itou leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Did he hurt you?” His voice is soft, but there’s a dangerous edge beneath it—one that reminds you just how serious he can be when it comes to you. Sometimes, you forget just how ruthless he is, how easily he’ll turn to violence if he thinks you’re in danger. Klaus might be the louder of the two and quicker to act, but Itou is the one who follows through without hesitation. Of all of the members of the Port Mafia, he’s the one with the most blood on his hands—more than Iceman, more than even Chuuya. 

“No,” you say immediately. “No, he didn’t. He—he just… He said things. Things I don’t really understand yet.”

Itou and Klaus exchange another look, the kind that makes your stomach twist. They don’t trust Dazai, and you can’t even blame them for it.

“And you’re not going to tell us what those things were,” Itou sighs with a frown, but he doesn’t push more than that.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

Klaus rolls his eyes but changes the subject as he nods down to your phone. “Goldoni responded.”

You sit up straight in your seat, turning your attention down to your phone. Itou shifts in the seat across from you, leaning forward as he waits for you to read the message. You almost fumble as you open your phone; the unnerved feeling that’s been clinging to you since you left the beach house returns so suddenly that it almost makes you sick.

Goldoni: We don’t have a meeting. Did I miss something? 

“Well?” Itou asks, but his voice is distant, muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. Your ears ring as your eyes track over the words over and over again, trying to figure out if you’re reading them correctly. “What did it say?”

No meeting? But then why—

You feel sick to your stomach as you force yourself up to your feet. A cold wave of nausea crashes over you, head swimming, and Klaus has to steady you. His lips move—he’s saying something—but his words are lost in the deafening thrum of your pulse pounding in your ears. You blink down at your phone, fingers tightening around it as if the message might change if you stared hard enough.

Dazai lied.

But why?

“We need to get back to Yokohama,” you breathe out, voice hoarse and uneven. “Right now. We need to go now.”

“What?” Klaus demands, disgruntled, but concerned more than anything else. “What’s going on?” 

“Just breathe for a second,” Itou tries to soothe you, but your heart is racing out of your chest, the dark claws of dread ripping you open. “Breathe, what’s going on?”

But you can’t breathe. Not when your stomach is twisted in knots, not when your mind is racing through the implications at a dizzying speed. Your thoughts are unraveling, and panic is clawing its way up your throat, heart hammering against your ribs erratically.

Dazai is moving pieces.

He sent you, Klaus, and Itou to Europe.

He made sure Chuuya was out of the city.

Lippmann is up in Nagoya.

Iceman and Albatross are occupied all day with missions.

Are Kouyou and Piano Man even at base? Atsushi and Kyouka? Or was that a lie, too?

It’s not a coincidence, not chance—nothing ever is with Dazai Osamu. 

He planned this. He’s clearing the building out of all of the Mafia’s most capable members, all of the people who protect him. 

But why? What is he trying to do?

Only one answer comes to you—your hand flies to your mouth to hold back the nausea that suddenly pushes at your throat. 

“There’s no meeting with Goldoni,” you gasp, stumbling in the direction of the cockpit. Your body is moving solely on instinct, driven by fear. “He lied. We need to get back to Yokohama right now.”

Itou pushes past you to get to the pilot, not wasting any more time, and Klaus leads you back to a chair to sit down before you collapse. Your mind races, trying to piece together answers, dragging you through every interaction you’ve had with him the past two days, a whirlwind of fragmented moments flying around you. The lingering looks, the flashes of everything he refuses to speak in his eyes, the way he cried after he called you up to his office. The unusual tenderness, the beach house, all of the apologies, all of the regret, all of the refusals when you begged him to explain.

You’ll never forgive me.

You still don’t understand, I hope you never do.

You were never supposed to be the price of this.

I’m scared. I’m so scared for what comes next.

I knew how things were going to end from the beginning.

I tried to rid myself of you to make things easier on both of us.

How did it take you so long to realize? 

Your hand flies to your mouth as you gag, vision blurring—you should’ve realized, you know Dazai. You knew something was up, it never should’ve taken you so long to figure this out. If you hadn’t been blindsided by everything at the beach house, caught up in the fleeting illusion of everything that could’ve been, maybe you would’ve understood sooner.

“That’s why he brought me there,” you gasp, trying to rock back and forth to calm yourself down as horror sinks into your chest. “That’s what yesterday was about. It wasn’t—he wasn’t—it was a distraction. It was to distract me. We’ll never get there in time.”

You can text Iceman and Albatross to go back, but Chuuya won’t look at his phone until his mission is complete. Dazai knows this—he planned this, he counted on it—and you’re sure he also accounted for you putting together that there isn’t actually a meeting in Rome with Goldoni, which means—

Which means whatever Dazai is doing, it’s already started, and you’re rapidly running out of time to stop it.

———

Headquarters is a mess by the time you, Klaus, and Itou arrive. The air is thick with gunpowder and the acrid scent of burning rubber. Muffled shouts echo from inside the building, and the crack of gunfire ricochets through the parking lot. Albatross and Iceman are in the parking lot shooting at an enemy you can’t see, crouched behind a line of abandoned cars, Chuuya hasn’t even read your text yet, you don’t know where Kouyou and Piano Man are, you don’t know where Atsushi and Kyouka are, you don’t know where Dazai is. He hasn’t read any of your texts either, and every passing second has your heart crawling up your throat.

“What’s going on?” you demand, yelping as Albatross reaches out to drag you undercover with him and Iceman. You hit the ground hard, barely catching yourself on one hand as bullets pepper the pavement inches from where you were just standing. Klaus and Itou follow quickly. “Al—”

“It’s the Armed Detective Agency,” Albatross snarls with a bitter expression, reloading his gun with quick, practiced movements. “I don’t know how the fuck they got inside headquarters. We can’t get in—every time we manage to take one down, that fucking doctor of theirs heals them right back up. They’re holding us at the entrance while their other members do… whatever the fuck they’re doing in our base. We don't—”

You go still. Albatross doesn’t notice your reaction, but Iceman does. His sharp gaze flickers to you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Yosano is… here?” you ask, suddenly feeling too cold. You don’t really know what you were expecting—you knew Yosano was with the Armed Detective Agency, and you figured that with the rising tensions, you’d be forced to see her soon, but you didn’t expect it to be this soon. “Now?” 

Iceman looks at you from the corner of his eye. “You know the Agency’s doctor?” 

“It’s a long story,” you say distantly, swallowing thickly as you try to push away all of the old insecurities that claw their way to your throat. You can’t think about any of this now, you need to get to Dazai. You still don’t know what he's planning, but you know it’s nothing good, and if your suspicions are right… “I need to get over to her. I can convince her to let me through.”

A lie. Or at least a gamble. Yosano has always been sentimental, and you’re betting your life on her feeling guilty over having left you behind on Tokoyami Island when she blew it up, but you can’t let your uncertainty show; otherwise, Itou and Klaus will never let you try. 

“You’re not going over there alone,” Itou immediately says, as you expect. 

“They won't let all of us through, Itou,” you say quietly. “We don’t know how many there are. We can’t waste time fighting. I need to get to Dazai now. I’ll have an easier time convincing her to let me through alone than all of us. She knows I’m noncombatant.”

“No,” Itou snaps, his voice low but firm. “We’re not splitting up. The moment you stand up, they’ll be shooting at you—”

“I’m not asking permission,” you interrupt coldly. “Don’t forget who’s the executive here.”

His jaw tightens. Klaus shifts beside him, uncertain, glancing between the two of you. Albatross swears under his breath. The tension is thick enough to choke on, and you’re becoming increasingly more desperate—time is passing too quickly, and you’re already out of it. 

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re an executive. I’m not letting you die for whatever fucked up scheme that bastard planned,” Itou spits at you. “You said yourself that he set this all in motion for whatever reason. You—”

“Let her go.” It’s Iceman who speaks up, expression grim as his gaze settles on you. “She knows the boss better than any of us. If she thinks she needs to get up there, then she’s probably right. I’ll cover you if they don’t stop shooting.”

Itou gives Iceman a betrayed look, but Iceman keeps his gaze trained on you. You think maybe this is supposed to be an apology for the argument that happened the other night. You nod at him in thanks.

You don’t give them time to change their minds. Before anyone can stop you, you brace yourself, inhale sharply, and then run right into enemy fire. You brace yourself for the pain—the bullets don’t immediately stop, one grazes your ear, another your bicep. It’s a miracle that you’re not struck in the chest or head. It’s an agonizing three seconds before the gunfire comes to a halt, and when it does, you almost wish that you had been shot because you turn your gaze to the doors of headquarters, and Yosano Akiko is standing there staring at you like you’re a ghost.

She doesn’t move. She just waits there, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. The last time she saw you, she was being dragged off the Schwalbe Ritter after planting explosions that would have killed you, her, and everyone else still on the ship.

Behind you, you hear someone shift, but no one dares open fire. Your gaze drags behind her—you only see two gunmen, a boy with orange hair and a blonde man, but that doesn't make sense, does it? It seemed like there were far more than just two gunmen. 

“You…” she breathes out, a haunted expression on her face. “I—”

“I need to get through,” you say, not wasting a second. You have to force your voice to stay steady. “Now.”

Yosano doesn’t answer right away, grip tightening on the weapon in her hand, but she doesn’t raise it. Her expression twists—guilt, disbelief, and hesitation all war in her eyes before something else creeps in. Something colder. Your stomach drops.

“I can’t let you through,” she says quietly. “We have people in there and—”

“I don’t give a damn about your people,” you interrupt. “I need to get to Dazai. Please, Yosano.”

The words taste like acid—you hate begging, but you especially hate begging her. You think you’d rather swallow glass; it feels like reopening an old wound with your own hands. Yosano is the last person you ever wanted to need anything from, and yet here you are, standing before her, forcing yourself to beg her to let you into your own headquarters. The bitterness in your chest is suffocating, but you force it down and lock it away. You can’t afford to let it cloud your judgment, can’t let it stop you from what matters most right now—Dazai. Getting to him before he does something stupid.

“Please, Yosano,” you force yourself to say it again, a hint of desperation clinging to the words this time. “I can’t lose him too.”

Yosano’s face cracks at your words. You see the guilt in her eyes and the way her shoulders slump, and you know you’ve won, but the sweetness of victory is tainted by her bitterness over the situation.

Her gaze lowers as she steps to the side. “Go.”

You rush past her, pausing just long enough to murmur, “In the future, you shouldn’t be so sentimental with enemies. This kind of hesitation will get you killed one day.”

Yosano scoffs, folding her arms. “You really are just like him now. Can’t even manage a simple ‘thank you’ without slipping into a lecture about emotions. Go. Before I change my mind.”

You let out a huff of laughter. “It’s nice to see you haven’t changed, Akiko-chan.”

“You have,” she replies quietly. “I’m sorry that things went down the way they did back then. If I had done things differently… maybe we both could’ve gotten out of there.”

Your throat spasms as you swallow. “I guess we’ll never know,” you reply, and before she can say anything else to unsettle you, you make your way into headquarters. 

The detectives of the Agency haven’t actually killed anyone, you realize as you see the unconscious bodies strewn across the lobby. You think that’s more impressive than if they’d slaughtered everyone in here—the fact that they out-classed so many of the lower-ranking members of the Port Mafia to the point that they’d been able to fight with non-lethal force against lethal force is… unnerving to say the least.

It’s not something you can waste any time thinking about right now, though. You need to figure out where Dazai is. Because the emergency lights are on, you know that the building’s power must’ve gone out, and with it, the building’s elevators. You figure that it must’ve been Dazai’s doing because you doubt the conflict would’ve reached down to the electrical room. And if Dazai went out of his way to make sure the power was out, to make sure nobody could use any of the elevators, that leads you to believe he can only be in one place:

The roof.

You take off without hesitation, sprinting toward the nearest stairwell and throwing the door open with a slam. The air inside is stifling, heavy with the scent of concrete and dust. Your legs burn almost immediately, but you force yourself to push through, taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time. 

There are forty stories in the main building of headquarters. It’s an impossible distance, you know that—you’re already panting as you drag yourself up each flight of stairs, but you can’t give yourself time to stop, to think even. You can hear the rapid thud of your footsteps, the harsh drag of your breath, and the distant gunfire from outside resuming. Your muscles scream for relief, and your heartbeat hammers in your ears, but you force yourself to push it away—each step you climb, you become more and more certain that Dazai is at the top, about to do something terrible.

By the time you get to the roof, your body wants to give out—tears sting your eyes, your legs tremble violently, and you can barely breathe. Sheer adrenaline gives you the strength to push open the heavy metal door that leads to the roof; you don’t even notice Atsushi and a detective lying slumped on the ground, gaze focused on the familiar figure behind both of them standing on the edge of the roof.

Dazai is breathtaking under the light of the setting sun—it’s almost enough to make you forget where the two of you are, that he’s on the edge of the building, that you’ll never be able to reach him in time if he steps off the side. The warm golden hues cast soft shadows over his features, his black hair taking on an auburn sheen in the fading light—his eye widens as soon as he realizes you’re standing there, the usual dark void closer to a shimmering amber in the sunset.

“You… got here faster than I expected,” he says breathlessly.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice shaky. “Dazai, come away from there.”

His smile is soft as he looks over you, gaze lingering on every detail like he’s trying to memorize the sight of you. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach out for you but knows he can’t, so he resigns to committing the image of you to memory. There’s something almost reverent in the way he studies you—like he knows that this is going to be his last chance.

Dazai tilts his head slightly, gaze focusing on yours. “You always did have a way of making things difficult,” he says fondly. “I thought it would be easier if you weren’t here.”

Your heartbeat thuds painfully loud in your ears. You try to take a step forward, but he tilts his head to the side, warning you silently that if you come any closer, he’ll step right over the edge. You feel sick, hands trembling because you don’t know what to do—you’ll never get to him in time, and once Dazai has his mind set on something…

“Easier for who?” you demand, stomach lurching as you fumble desperately for something to say to convince him to come away from the edge. “For you? For me? Did you think I wouldn’t care if I wasn’t here?”

His small smile doesn’t waver, but something in his expression cracks just for a second. You notice his own fingers are trembling at his side and you remember his words from last night: I’m so scared for what comes next. 

How hadn’t you realized? 

“I know you would,” he murmurs. “Don’t you understand now? That’s been the problem this whole time.”

You don’t dare take another step forward, but you find yourself leaning forward a little even though you know you can’t reach him from this distance. The wind whips around him, tugging at his long black coat and scarf. Each gust has your heart in your throat.

“Then come down,” you beg. Your cheeks are wet, vision so blurry that you can barely make out Dazai’s figure on the edge of the roof. “Please, Osamu. We can figure something out. I know we can. If you need to disappear, we can make you disappear—Tolstoy, his cousin’s ability, he can wipe everyone’s memories of you, and we can run. We can go back to the beach house or go to the countryside. We can get away from all of this. Nobody has to know, it’ll just be us.”

His smile softens, lashes lowering as he looks down at the ground. His voice cracks as he says softly, “That’s… a really nice dream.”

“Please just come away from there,” you rasp. “We can find a different way. Just—just explain everything to me, Osamu. Tell me what’s going on, what all of this is really about, and I’ll find a different way, you know I can. Give me that chance. Give us that chance. We deserve that, at least. I deserve that.”

Dazai exhales sharply, tilting his head back as the wind rushes around him, tousling his hair. The setting sun casts his silhouette in gold, and for a moment, he looks ethereal—untouchable, like something not meant to exist in this world. 

“I know it’s selfish,” he says, voice raw with emotion as he looks up at the sky. “I didn’t want you to be here for this, but I’m glad I got to see you one last time.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as his words slowly register. You shake your head, desperation clawing at your throat, and your lips part to speak, but the words die on your tongue when Dazai tosses you a bright smile, a genuine one that hurts more than anything else. It’s the kind of smile you’ve longed to see on him for years, the kind that has haunted your dreams since he took over as boss—warm, bright, alive, happy. But now, you only feel dread at the sight of it.

Terror grips your chest. “Osamu—”

“Thank you,” he whispers, and though you know you should be racing toward him now, your entire body locks up, feet planted to the ground. “For everything. I love you.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, time seems to slow. You scream his name as his body tilts over the edge, but instead of rushing to the edge, you turn back the way you came. 

Five.

You know you’ll never make it—you studied physics with Chuuya when he was learning how to refine his ability. The force of gravity is 9.8 meters per second squared, the Port Mafia headquarters is forty stories, around 130 meters—you know the equation like the back of your hand; it was one of the first things you learned. 

You don’t have more than five seconds before he hits the ground.

But you can’t accept what’s happening—your brain isn’t letting go of the futile hope that maybe Klaus or Itou will see what’s happening and they’ll do something, that maybe Chuuya got back and he can do something. You know they can’t. Logically, you know that they can’t use their abilities on Dazai, but you think maybe there’s a chance, that maybe you’ll get down there and Dazai will be—he’ll be okay.

Four.

Your heart races, the seconds stretching impossibly long as your feet carry you down the stairs with reckless speed. You leap down them three, four, five at a time, pain shooting up your shins to your knees with every jump, but you don’t let yourself lose momentum—you can’t because the moment you stop, you’ll fall apart. 

Three.

The whole world narrows, your heartbeat thrumming painfully loud in your ears. The seconds count down, mocking your attempts to hope against the inevitable, but still, your legs push forward, faster, harder. You know it’s futile, you do, but that tiny thread of hope, the denial your heart clings to, refuses to let go. 

Every time your eyes slide shut, you see him—you see his smile, you see the soft expression on his face, and you see him falling. You can still feel him, his hands on your waist, cradling your face, his lips brushing yours. He was in bed with you this morning, his body warm, curled up next to you, his breath against your skin in even puffs, and he was at peace. How did things go wrong so quickly?

You’ve barely eaten anything today, but you feel your stomach churning like you’re about to throw up. Each deep breath has you choking, your head feels dizzy because the air just isn’t getting to your lungs, but you can’t stop moving.

Two.

You could’ve done something different. You know it. If you hadn’t been so blind, you would’ve realized something was seriously wrong at the beach house. You knew it was some sort of goodbye, but this? You thought it was his way of indulging in one last day of pretending before he cut you off altogether, but you should’ve realized it was something deeper. The way he looked at you should’ve clued you in—he told you he was scared for what’s next, he tried to stay away because he knew he planned on dying. How didn’t you fucking realize? 

If you had more time, you could’ve convinced him. You know you could’ve; you saw the look on his face when you tried to convince him to leave with you, you saw the yearning. He wanted it, and if you had more time to persuade him, you would’ve been able to. If you’d realized back at the beach house what was going on, you would’ve convinced him to choose another option. This was your fault. 

One.

Your foot slips on the next step, and when you crash against the middle landing, pain shoots through your wrist and spreads—you don’t hear or see the impact of Dazai’s body hitting the ground, but you feel it. The pain in your wrist is sharp, a violent jolt, but it’s nothing compared to the agony that floods through you like a tidal wave. It’s like every bone in your body shattered the moment his body hit the ground, like his ribs, his spine, his skull fracturing on the pavement, is happening inside of you, too. 

You can’t hear anything above the terrible buzzing in your ears, you think you must be screaming because it feels like knives are dragging through the inside of your throat, and you can taste blood in the back of your mouth. You feel it all—the way his body must have crumpled, the way his breath must have left him in one final, shuddering exhale, you feel it all. 

A crushing weight slams into your chest, pressing down until you can’t move, can’t even breathe. The pain is unbearable—not just in your wrist, not just in your body, but everywhere. In your heart, in your soul. 

Dazai is gone, you know it.

You don’t know how long you lay there—it could’ve been seconds, minutes, you don’t know. You don’t think it could’ve been that long because it’s when you start to regain your hearing and the numbness in your body from the pain starts to fade, you realize that the whole building is shaking. The rumble vibrates your bones; first, a low, resonant hum, but it becomes violent quickly. 

Chuuya.

Chuuya felt Dazai’s death in the same way you did. Of course, he did. The three of you have always been bound together since the beginning. It was never just the two of them, and it was never just you and Dazai—whether it was a curse, a bond, or just fate, it didn’t matter. One way or another, the three of you have always been tied to each other. 

The thread that bound you together was woven of something that transcended logic and reason, something that all of you had become too dependent on, something that none of you could live without, and the loss of Dazai causes it to unravel, causes you to unravel, causes Chuuya to unravel.

It was always supposed to be the three of you together—there’s no world where one of you can just die, and the other two go on with their lives. Maybe Dazai knew that, and that’s what his incoherent ramblings were about back at the beach house, but if that’s the case, and he tried to push you and Chuuya away so the two of you could live on after his death, then he did a shit fucking job at it.

The metal of the building shrieks, and the very foundation trembles with the force of Chuuya’s grief and anger. You don’t know where he is, but he must be close, and he’s losing control. You need to get to him before that shitty corruption god wakes up inside of him to take advantage of his loss of control.

You push yourself up weakly, wrist screaming in protest, but you don’t care. You drag your body forward, forcing yourself to move, forcing yourself down the stairs, because you can’t lose them both—not in the same breath, not ever, you won’t survive it.

Your legs threaten to give out beneath you as you stagger down the stairs, breath ragged and body screaming for rest—you can hardly see in front of you, vision blurry with tears. It takes too long for you to get back down to the lobby. Your whole body is trembling, and you’re so unsteady on your feet that when you push open the door out of the stairwell, you almost topple right into the room.

You’re not thinking as you make your way forward. Distantly, you notice that you don’t see the Agency anymore, and you realize that the Flags, Itou, and Klaus are in the lobby dealing with the now waking subordinates who had been neutralized by the detectives, which means the Agency either left or was driven further into the building. You don’t care about any of that—your brain has you on a one-track mission to get to Chuuya before you lose him too, and you don’t consider what you might see stepping outside until you catch a glimpse of red from the corner of your eye through the window as you approach the door.

Is that—?

You don’t even have a chance to focus your gaze on what you’re looking at. 

Immediately, Itou is launching himself at you, only just now realizing in the chaos that you’ve finally arrived. He grabs your bicep hard and yanks you toward him, one hand flying up to cover your eyes as his other wraps around your waist, holding you close. The noise that escapes your lips is inhuman—animalistic, almost—something caught between a scream and a wail that rips from your throat before you can stop it. Every cell in your body screeches in protest, instinct demands that you tear yourself from Itou’s grip and look, but he holds you tight, fingers digging into your skin and hand firm over your eyes.

“Don’t,” he whispers, voice raw, desperate for you to listen. “You don’t want to see that.”

“Let me go, Itou,” you scream, thrashing against him, blind with grief, fury, denial. You know it happened. You felt it the moment it happened—the moment he hit the ground—but knowing and feeling is different than seeing. “Let me go to him, let me go!” 

“He fell forty stories,” Itou rasps, voice cracking. “You don’t want that to be your last memory of him.”

You fight, claw, kick—anything to get to him—but Itou doesn’t loosen his hold. He shifts, adjusting his grip so you can’t break free, keeping one hand over your eyes and the other locked around your waist, pinning your arms to your sides. 

“Please,” you choke out. “Please, I need to—”

“No,” he says again quietly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

A sob wracks through you, violent and gut-wrenching. You sag against him, body unable to take anymore as the weight of everything crashes into you at once, pressing down on your chest until you can’t breathe. When you stop fighting, Itou’s hand slides from your eyes to hold you more gently, but you don’t reopen them—you can see him, you can see Dazai bathed in the sunset, you can see the golden glow, his soft eyes, his smile. 

You try to breathe in but end up gagging over the air. Itou is quick to make sure your hair is out of your face before you vomit what little you have left in your stomach onto the ground. You hear Albatross and Iceman shouting for all of the lingering subordinates to clear out of the room. Klaus is somewhere in front of you, expression fraught as he watches you fall apart. Your chest heaves as you choke down another sob; your mind feels disconnected from your body, floating somewhere between numbness and agony, trapped between the image of Dazai in that golden light before he fell back over the edge and the knowledge of what’s left of him beyond this wall. 

“I should have—” The words crumble before you can finish them, dissolving into something incoherent. You should have known, you should have stopped him, you should have been faster—you’re always too slow. 

“You did everything you could.”

A lie. You know it’s a lie. 

Your hands tremble as you clutch at his sleeve, desperately trying to ground yourself, but all you can feel is the cold creeping in, the emptiness hollowing out your chest where his heart used to beat.

“I need to get to Chuuya,” you finally gasp. Your whole body is shaking, you can’t even bring yourself to sit up straight. “I need to—”

“Chuuya is gone.”

Your gaze lifts to focus on Piano Man, who looks grim as he steps into the headquarters with Kouyou, who can hardly even stand to look at you. Klaus dragged a table over to where you’d caught that glimpse of red, blocking your view of it.

“What do you mean?” Itou demands, arms still tight around you, hands running up and down your biceps to calm you down. “Yo, would you fucking—”

Piano Man doesn’t reply to him. Instead, his gaze focuses on you; there’s no trace of the whimsiness you’re used to as he takes a few steps forward to kneel in front of where you’re wide-eyed and shivering in Itou’s arms on the ground. His throat bobs as he swallows, and you can tell that he’s warring with himself before he finally speaks.

“You need to pull yourself together,” he finally says quietly. Itou tenses behind you, but you only stare at Piano Man, hardly registering what he’s saying. “The government sent a special ops squad to handle Chuuya. They sedated him and took him and are bringing him to a government facility to keep him imprisoned.”

“How the hell did the government react so quickly?” Klaus demands, voice shrill with nerves. “How does that make any sense?”

“We don’t know,” Piano Man answers flatly, keeping his gaze trained on you. He reaches out to hold your hands tightly as he focuses on you again. “You are boss now, and I am so fucking sorry it has to happen like this, but the Port Mafia is not in a good spot right now. Once word spreads about Dazai’s death and Chuuya’s imprisonment, we’ll have half of the criminal underworld on our doorstep. We need to get Chuuya back before that happens. Do you understand me?” 

Your mouth is dry as you stare at him. You don’t think you could respond if you wanted to. You see the frustration fly across his face, and Itou tenses again, ready to intervene if Piano Man acts out of line, but his shoulders only slump as he takes in a shaky breath.

“You know what happened to him when he was a kid,” Piano Man says tightly. “He is the strongest ability user in the world. Every second we waste, we give them the chance to do that to him again—and they will do it again because if they could find a way to replicate his ability or understand more about Arahabaki, they could make themselves the most dominant military power in the world. They will keep him locked up in whatever facility they bring him to, and they will experiment on him night and day, and he will not survive this happening to him again. It will break him. Do you understand me?” 

You nod, throat spasming as you swallow thickly.

“Okay,” Piano Man agrees after a moment. “Then pull yourself together. We need to get working.”

“Fucking hell, Piano Man,” Itou spits out. “She hasn’t even had the chance to process what just happened, let her fucking mourn, she just lost—”

“There is no time to mourn during transitions of power,” Piano Man says coldly. “She knows this better than anyone.”

The words cut through you deeper than a blade ever could have, and the silence that follows them is suffocating.

Your whole body begs for rest, for just one moment to grieve, to let the pain consume you—Dazai is dead, Chuuya is gone, and the weight of the Port Mafia is crashing down onto your shoulders before you’ve even had the chance to breathe. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the crime lords of the Eastern Hemisphere catch wind of what happened here, and when they do, all bets are off.  

You swallow hard and force yourself to sit up. Itou moves with you, steadying you, hesitant to let go, but you shake him off. You need to do this on your own. Piano Man watches you, unreadable, waiting to see what you say.

“We need to consolidate power first,” you say. Your voice is weak, too shaky. “I need to talk to Mishima and Tolstoy. Goldoni too. We need two executives to replace—”

You can’t even finish the sentence. You can’t speak their names. Your throat tightens again as you try to swallow down the lump of grief threatening to choke you.

“We need two more executives,” you say instead. Itou shifts closer to you, trying to remind you that he’s here, that you’re not alone, but it still feels like you are. You feel hollow, empty, alone in a world where both Dazai and Chuuya are gone—it was always supposed to be the three of you. It was never supposed to be just one. “I’ll reach out to Mishima and Tolstoy. We—we have to move quickly.”

Your gaze tracks back over to where you’d gotten a glimpse of red before Itou pulled you away. Your voice is far away as you whisper, “We can’t leave him there.”

“I’ll handle it,” Itou promises quietly. 

You nod, taking in another deep breath, and at once, everyone gets to work. Everything around you is a blur, and you can’t tell if it’s a testament to how quickly everyone is moving into action or if it’s because of the tears that threaten to roll over your cheeks. You don’t let them—not now—you just need to keep it together a little while longer for Chuuya, and then, maybe, you can finally let yourself rest alongside Dazai.

———

Dazai Osamu is dead.

There’s no arguing with Chuuya about it because he’s gone, too. There’s no clashing with the Flags because they saw it happen. There’s no disagreeing with Itou and Klaus, because they were the ones who cleaned up his body. There’s no warring with yourself because you felt it the moment it happened.

Dazai is dead.

Dazai is dead.

You haven’t been in his office since it happened two weeks ago—you haven’t had the time. You haven’t stopped moving, haven’t stopped making decisions, and haven’t let yourself feel anything beyond the fear of knowing that one mistake could lead to everyone else’s deaths, too. You’ve been in Tokyo talking to Mishima, you went to Vladivostok so you could talk to Tolstoy face-to-face and tell him what happened yourself, you’re leaving for Rome tomorrow to talk to Goldoni, and you’ve been trying to solve things peacefully with the government to get Chuuya back. 

Everything is a mess—Mishima and Tolstoy are in conflict with Cao Xueqin, trying to buy you time to get Chuuya back before the Red Chamber is at your doorstep, and Goldoni is distracting the Guild, who evidently are preparing to come to Yokohama for Atsushi, but the government is refusing to hand Chuuya over. Atsushi and Kyouka are missing. The Agency has gone silent after causing all of this, and you don’t have time to deal with them either. 

You haven’t had any time to grieve him, but standing in the space he left behind, it hits you all at once.

Dazai is dead. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you breathe out to the empty room like he can hear you, staring at the desk he sat behind. “How could you just leave me with all of this?”

Everything is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked haphazardly, a pen resting at an odd angle, a half-empty cup of stagnant tea. It’s like he could walk through the door at any moment, like none of this ever happened—this is just another one of his games, sitting back with that infuriating smile, waiting to see how you’ll react so he can hold it over your head, mocking you for taking everything too seriously, teasing you for mourning him. 

You don’t even remember why you came up here—you had a reason for it, otherwise, you would’ve avoided it for as long as possible. Your fingers ghost over the edge of his desk, hovering above the polished wood hesitantly before you finally let your hand fall down against it, fingers dragging across the wood as you walk to the other side of the desk. 

You shouldn’t be here. You’ve avoided this room for a reason.

But instead of leaving, your legs decide to give out on you. You take in a breath that’s too ragged as you sit back in his chair, burying your face in your hands. The weight of his scarf around your neck is suffocating, a weight that you’re not strong enough to bear—it was the only thing Itou could salvage from his body, and as much as it makes you sick with grief, you can’t bring yourself to part from it. You swear you can almost still catch the faint scent of him on it, and if you close your eyes, you can pretend that it’s the weight of his arms draped around your shoulders as he hangs behind you, back pressed to your chest and chin on top of your head as he uses you as a shield to antagonize Chuuya without consequence. 

You need to get yourself together. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes up here looking for you, and you don’t want to be spiraling when they get here. Now isn’t the time to mourn—Chuuya is still out there, trapped, waiting for you, tortured with god knows what horrific experiments the government is performing on him. You have to get him back. You have to keep the Port Mafia from falling apart. You have to keep yourself from falling apart. Now isn’t the time for this.

You exhale shakily and rest your hands down on the arms of the chair to push yourself up so you can leave the office, but you pause when you see one of his desk drawers not fully closed. You press your lips together, hesitating, before reaching out to open it the rest of the way. 

Inside, neatly stacked and untouched, are documents, mission reports piled up, but your eyes aren’t drawn to that. They’re drawn to the single envelope sitting at the very top and the very familiar, small metal trinket sitting next to it.

It has your name scrawled across the front in Dazai’s handwriting. 

Your pulse roars in your ears, breath catching. 

Slowly, almost afraid that it will disappear if you touch it, you pick it up. The paper is thin beneath your fingers, fragile, like it's been sitting there for years instead of days. The weight of it in your hands is unbearable.

You don’t know if you should open it.

You shouldn’t open it.

You know you shouldn’t.

But your hands are already shaking as you slide a finger beneath the fold, breaking the seal with excruciating slowness. You hardly breathe as you pull it out of the envelope, swallowing at the address written on the back of the paper before you unfold it.

The handwriting is unmistakable. All across the page, you see characters crossed out and rewritten where water had blotted the ink. Dazai had been crying as he wrote it.

My sweet hime,

If you’re reading this, then everything has probably settled by now. I can already imagine the look on your face. Don’t frown too much—it’ll leave wrinkles.

Kidding. I wasn’t going to write anything. I thought a clean break would be easier for you. But after the day we spent yesterday, I realized I’d already ruined things enough. I figured a goodbye wouldn’t do more damage than anything else I’ve already done.

There was nothing you could’ve done differently to change what happened—I know that’s what you’re probably thinking. You’re going back through every moment, trying to find all of the places where you could have said something, done something to change my mind, but it wouldn’t have mattered. This was always how this was going to end. This plan had been set in motion long before you and I ever even met.

I wish I could’ve spared you from this. I really did try. I told myself for months leading up to our meeting that I wouldn’t let myself get close to you. There were so many plans that I made, so many ways I convinced myself that I could keep my distance. I wasn’t even supposed to go with Chuuya on the mission to pick you up, but when Mori dangled it in front of my face, I couldn’t stop myself.

Loving you was my biggest and only mistake. Not because you weren’t worth it but because I was never meant to have you. Not in this life. But you always made me weak. Reckless. I never think straight when you’re around, even when you’re not around, you’re always in the back of my mind. But I thought that knowing how things were going to end would be enough to keep me from slipping up. I thought I would be satisfied with admiring you from afar and knowing you would be okay when I was gone. I should’ve known better—I never should’ve let myself get close to you when we were younger, I should’ve been cruel from the beginning, I should’ve made you hate me.

But I was selfish. I let myself love you, and I let myself be loved by you, and now you’re alone dealing with the consequences of it.

I’m sorry.

Once I realized I let things go too far, I thought I would be able to make you hate me after I took over as boss. I thought if I could be cruel enough and cold enough that you would finally turn your back on me, but you are just too goddamn stubborn. You kept coming back again and again, and I was too much of a coward—too selfish—to push you away the way I should have.

You were right back at the beach house—I was frustrated and angry that I couldn’t stop myself from seeking you out, and I was even more frustrated and angry that you kept coming, and I put you through four years of hell because of it. I’m sorry for that, too. I’m sorry for a lot of things that I know you’ll never forgive me for.

I wish I could explain more, I wanted to tell you everything. Do you know how many times I almost did? How many nights I almost turned to you and let it all spill out? I know you would have believed me, I know you would’ve shared the burden with me, but this was never supposed to be your price to pay. I wish I had done things differently because it became yours anyway, didn’t it?

I hope you hate me. I hope you find a way to curse my name and let me rot in the hell I’ve made for myself. I don’t deserve for you to mourn. I don’t deserve to be remembered by you at all. But I know you, and I know you’ll mourn, and I know you’ll blame yourself even after reading this, so I hope you just remember that this was something bigger than you and I and the ending was never going to change no matter what you did differently.

I love you. I’ve always loved you, I’ve always been yours. In this life and every other one. I’m sorry we couldn’t be happy in this one, but I promise I’ll make it up to you when we find each other again in the next. I’ll love you better in that one, the way you deserve, I’ll give you all of me, every piece I held back in this lifetime. And in the next, I promise I won’t make you say goodbye. We’ll live a quiet life—we’ll go to the countryside, and we’ll grow old, and we’ll be happy. Maybe we’ll even drag the slug along, force him to be our farmhand, give him a new flock of sheep to herd.

Now to business. 

Dark times are coming to Yokohama. I know you’re probably sick of me saying sorry, but I’m sorry that I’ve left you to deal with everything like this. There are foreign threats coming—the Guild, the Order of the Clocktower, and Fyodor Dostoevsky. All of the files below this envelope are full of information I’ve put together for you. Abilities, strategies they’ve used, how everything has gone down in different timelines—I’ve put it all together so you can figure out how you want to handle this. I left some suggestions, but it’s all very dependent on how things played out after everything settled. 

The Armed Detective Agency will be a valuable ally going forward. Don’t blame them for what I did—they were only pawns I used to get everything set up. Everything that happens today is what I’ve planned, my actions and theirs. They’ll help protect Yokohama from the coming storm, and you’ll stand a better chance working with them. 

I don’t think there’s anything else that needs to be said that’s not in the folders. Don’t underestimate Fyodor Dostoevsky. And I know you’re going to say ‘I spent many months with him when you sent me abroad blah blah blah’ but there’s so much more to him than you can ever imagine. You’ll understand when you read through everything. 

There’s no perfect way to end this letter. I could apologize a million times and it wouldn’t be enough. Just know I meant what I said before—I’ll find you again in the next life, and we’ll be happy. I’ll love you better. I won’t leave you behind.

Live well. I’ll always be with you. 

Yours always, 

Osamu

———

beast au fun facts:

i think i made it pretty clear, but for those of you who read wykyk, essentially ages 16-18 were what wykyk would’ve been if dazai wasn’t emotionally incompetent. he was obviously still a little bit hot and cold with her, but he was quite clear with how he felt about her from day one, which is why it was so hard for her to reconcile how rapidly everything changed. 

she finds mori at the address dazai left for her. the first thing she asks when she gets over the shock is if dazai is here too. she thinks maybe he too might’ve faked his death and is here with mori.

reader dies several weeks later. during the operation to break chuuya out of the government facility, they need all hands on deck. she stays behind in headquarters because it’s safest for her there. she ends up leaving headquarters to go visit dazai’s grave and is assassinated while she’s sitting at his grave. like with dazai, chuuya feels it when it happens but refuses to believe it until they find her body.  

this was unfortunately intentional on reader’s part. this is actually something she does or has tried to do in multiple universe: she uses her life(/death) as a weapon for the port mafia. we will see it (or attempts of it) in canonverse and civzai. her death triggers multiple powerful organizations coming to the assistance of the pm, and she knows this, so when the pm is backed into a corner and threatened on multiple fronts, she’ll manufacture a situation where she’ll be assassinated because she knows the only way the pm will come out of it intact is if they get help, and the quickest and most surefire way of getting that help is if she’s killed.

make no mistake: it IS a last-resort option when there’s really nothing else they can do. although, i'll also say that i don't think the pm WAS backed into the corner here, but our girl was ... very tired after losing dazai and everything that happened afterward. she only wanted to push through things long enough to rescue chuuya.

it does indeed work btw. after she dies, tolstoy & the three deaths wipe out cao xueqin before coming to yokohama to help with the guild and dostoevsky. the family engages the clocktower in open conflict to keep them out of yokohama.

the conflict takes about a year to come to an end, chuuya only lets himself die once everything is settled. pmtrio indeed became the price of a world where oda can live. 

this is the only universe where itou & klaus outlive her. this is also the only universe where they meet. idk if anyone guessed it, but the reason dazai sent her away after he took over was so she could meet klaus. 

dazai genuinely didn’t think that his death would ruin her and chuuya the way it did since he ensured that the flags, itou and klaus were all here for them. he was wrong

[sweatervest-obsessed]

Unexpected Visitor

Pairing: Spencer Reid x G!n Reader

WC: 788

A/N: A lil Spencer Xmas Blurb while I figure my shit out. Also! I'm imagining older seasons Spencer for this one.

"Hi! I'm, uh, so sorry to bug you but, um, do you know where Spe--Doctor Reid's desk is? Or, really, where D-Doctor Reid is?" .

Derek Morgan had to get his shit together because his jaw almost dropped when you walked in. What was some hot piece of ass doing, dressed like that, looking for Boy Genius.

He jumped up from his chair and strolled over to where you had stopped Garcia, who was just as flabbergasted as he was. "Reid is currently in a meeting sweetheart--may I ask what you, uh, want with him?"

You raised your eyebrows at the 'sweetheart', but smiled anyways. "He was supposed to be home about an hour ago and he wasn't answering his phone, so instead of panicking, because I know what you do for work, I wanted to come in and check before I lost my shit."

"Home?" Garcia squeaked out, still baffafled by how gorgeous you looked. It was like you were sent straight from heaven, a literal vision.

You nodded and tilted your head, slightly confused. "Y-Yeah...I'm sorry why is that---"

"We just didn't know Reid was living with anyone, let alone seeing someone."

"Ah." You nodded. "He's private like that, isn't he." Your smile warmed the two of them, and you shifted the coat from one arm to the other.

"y/n?"

You turned your head towards the back of the bullpen, and Spencer was walking out of Hatch's office. "What are you doing here?"

"Being introduced to your friends and coworkers since you haven't."

Spencer bit the inside of his cheeks and walked over to you both, placing his hand on the small of your back. You felt how tense he was.

"I'm here because our reservation is in twenty minutes and you said you'd be home over an hour ago." You looked at Spencer, whose eyes went a little wide.

"Shit. I-I didn't realize what time it was---"

"I have your suit in the car, and this is why I made the reservation for eight pm, instead of Seven."

"And this is why I love you." Spencer kissed your head and rushed over to his desk, scrambling to grab all of his papers and his bag and his coat and his scarf and his--

"Hi Y/n." Spencer looked up at the mention of your name, pausing in his frantic nature.

"Hi Aaron." You gave him a quick hug, but a bright smile. "How are you?"

"Well." He laughed a little. "I'd be better if we didn't have to work the day before Christmas Eve since I still need to wrap all of Jack's presents still."

"Oh how is Jack!"

"He's doing well. finally starting to enjoy reading, no thanks to you."

You laughed at his joke, all the while Derek and Garcia just shared an incredulous look. How the hell did you know Hotch? Jack?!? Why does Jack's reading habits connect to you--

"Ready sweetheart?" Spencer appeared at your side and you nodded. "It was lovely to see you Aaron. I'll stop by some time tomorrow to drop off Jack's gifts as well as yours. I got it when Spence I and went to Paris last month. I think you'll enjoy it!"

"That's why you weren't here for two weeks?" Penelope's jaw was on the floor. "I didn't take you to be a Parisian man Doctor Reid."

"W-Well, um--"

"It was for my birthday. My choice. I love art and museums so it made sense. Well, it was lovely to meet you all but we have a reservation to get to." You gave them all a quick smile before taking Spencer's hand and walking towards the elevator, your shoes clicking on the floor with every step you took.

"How long have the two of them been together?" Morgan turned to Hotch after you both had gotten in the elevator.

"I think today is their two year anniversary."

"TWO YEARS." Garcia clutched her hypothetical pearls. "How have I not known? How have WE not known?"

"He's private, and...well. You know Y/n."

"No we clearly do not know Hotch."

Hotch gave them a little smirk and a shrug. "Merry Christmas guys. I'll see you on the twenty-seventh."

As Hotch walked away, Garcia and Morgan just stared at one another. "So we're..."

"Going to spend then next ten minutes in my office finding everything out about this mystery person Spencer has been apparently dating for two years?"

"You read my mind mama. A little Christmas snooping never hurt anyone..."

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻𝒾𝓈𝒽 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: After a rainy rescue mission gone wrong (or right, depending on how you look at it), you and Crowe end up back at your cozy apartment—with a tiny, soaked kitten now claiming your couch. As the night settles in, horror movies roll, stolen glances linger, and the warmth between you two starts feeling a little too familiar.

Will Crowe finally drop his walls and let you in...

...or is he just gonna keep pretending there’s nothing there?

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's (@fantasia-kitt) intentions.

Spoilers From Day 1 and Day 2--(More like Inspo lines)

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: jericho x afab! reader, friends to lovers?? Gender Neutral! Reader, Cuddling, Pillow talk, Fluff, then Smut, Making out, Heavy Touching, Neck kisses, dry-humping, moaning, praise (receiving and giving), Some hair pulling, and oral sex (giving).

The rain fell in relentless sheets, hammering against the pavement and turning the city into a glittering mosaic of slick streets and refracted light.

You and Crowe barely made it back to your apartment, soaked to the bone, arms laden with grocery bags. Crowe cradled something against his chest—a tiny, drenched kitten trembling within the warmth of his vest.  

“Here,” he said, his deep voice resonating with a softness that caught you off guard. There was a tender urgency in his tone as he carefully shifted the kitten into your hands. “This little one needs warmth.”  

You nodded without hesitation, setting the groceries down with a thud and immediately rifling through your closet. Old t-shirts, a scarf you hadn’t worn in years—it all piled into a makeshift nest inside an empty shoebox.

As you worked, Crowe watched in quiet approval, his tall frame silhouetted in the warm light of your apartment.  

The kitten let out a faint meow, curling into the soft fabric as though it had found sanctuary. Crowe crouched beside the box, his dark brown hair still damp and half-undone from the rain. Strands clung stubbornly to his sharp jawline, which he brushed aside with a graceful flick of his fingers.  

“You’re soaked,” you said, gesturing toward his clinging black button-up, which outlined his broad shoulders and hinted at the strong, lean frame beneath.

“Go shower before you catch a cold.” He hesitated, his deep blue eyes flicking to yours, searching for something unspoken. Then, with a small nod, he rose and disappeared toward the bathroom.  

When it was finally your turn, the hot water felt like heaven on your chilled skin. Steam wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, but it did little to chase away the vivid image of Crowe—his quiet care for the kitten, the rain tracing the contours of his face, the almost regal grace in his movements. He was magnetic, the kind of person you couldn’t ignore, no matter how much you tried.  

When you emerged, bundled in an oversized hoodie and fleece shorts, Crowe was already seated on your couch. He’d traded his drenched clothes for a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants you’d lent him.

The casual attire softened his presence in a way that caught you off guard. His long hair, now untied and damp, framed his face with unintentional elegance, every strand catching the glow of the lamp behind him.  

The plan was to watch a movie—something simple, a classic slasher with predictable jump scares. But your attention refused to cooperate. As the ominous soundtrack droned on, your eyes kept drifting to him.

His profile was serene, his gaze distant yet intensely thoughtful. He shifted slightly, and you became acutely aware of the small space between you.  

“Hey,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was low, and intimate, as if the question wasn’t meant to be shared with the world. “If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”  

You blinked, startled by the question and the way his attention focused solely on you. “Another one of your trivia questions, Crowe?” you teased, trying to mask the nervous flutter in your chest. Stretching your arms casually, you laughed lightly, but he didn’t respond in kind.  

Instead, he leaned closer, the air between you charged with something unspoken. His breath brushed your cheek, sending an involuntary shiver through you.  

“Wh-why don’t you answer first?” you stammered, the words barely audible.  

He chuckled a low, warm sound that made your skin prickle. Then, to your surprise, he rested his head on your shoulder, the weight of him both grounding and electrifying. Before you could muster a response, he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Your breath hitched, and you prayed he couldn’t hear the erratic drumming of your heart.  

“Dodging the question, huh?” he murmured, his voice tinged with amusement but carrying an undercurrent of something more profound.  

“Well…” He paused as if searching for the right words.

“If I could have anything in this world… I’d want more time. More time to be with you. More time to spend like this.” His voice softened, tinged with a vulnerability that caught you off guard.

“Kind of selfish, huh?”  His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, and your chest tightened at the sight. His gaze was downcast, his usual confidence replaced by something raw and unguarded. Though he smiled faintly, it didn’t reach his eyes.  

At that moment, you didn’t know whether he was speaking to you or himself, but the desperation in his expression was unmistakable. And it left you breathless.  

“You’re staring,” Crowe murmured, his lips curving into a faint, teasing smirk. Your cheeks burned, the heat spreading up your neck as you realized how obvious you’d been. “Your hair’s long,” You blurted out, instantly regretting the flat, unpolished observation. Your hands fidgeted in your lap, betraying the nervousness.  

Crowe raised a brow, his fingers lazily trailing up to brush through the loose strands grazing his collarbone. The motion was unhurried, almost calculated. “Is that a bad thing?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of curiosity but mostly playful provocation.  

“No! No, it’s…” You stumbled over your words, your voice dropping to a softer register as your gaze lingered on his hair, the rich brown strands catching the light. “It’s nice,” They finally said, the admission almost shy.  

Crowe chuckled, a low, velvety sound that sent a flutter through your chest. “Just nice, huh?” he said, his amusement laced with challenge. His gaze swept over your face, reading your every reaction as if it were a game he’d already mastered. “Not beautiful? Stunning? Majestic like a warrior’s mane after a victorious battle?”  

You rolled your eyes, trying to play off the embarrassment. “I wouldn’t go that far…” You mumbled, your voice barely audible as they looked away.  

He laughed again, the sound brighter this time, the sight of his smile drawing your attention back to him. You were captivated, the world narrowing to just Crowe at that moment. His movements were subtle but deliberate as he leaned closer, the distance between them shrinking.

His voice dipped to a low murmur that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “But what if I said I want you to go that far?”  

As he spoke, his hand moved, fingers brushing just barely against the edge of yours where they rested in your lap. The contact was featherlight, yet it sparked like static electricity, sending a straight jolt. You froze, your breath hitching, the heat in your cheeks now rivaling the pounding in your chest. Crowe’s eyes, gleaming with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, locked onto yours.  

“Can I…?” Your voice wavered, your hand hovering uncertainly in the air between them.  

Crowe tilted his head slightly, his intrigue evident in the slow curl of his lips. “What is it you want to do, hm?” he asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper. His steady gaze never left yours, his stillness almost daring you to close the distance.  

You hesitated, your hand trembling as it lingered in the space between them. Your heart raced, your breathing shallow as they searched his face for any sign of hesitation. Instead, his expression softened, and with a slow, almost imperceptible nod, he gave his silent permission.  

Your fingertips brushed against his hair, hesitant at first. The strands were softer than they’d imagined, slipping between your fingers like silk. You exhaled a shaky breath they hadn’t realized they’d been holding. “I just… wanted to feel it,” they murmured, your voice a quiet admission.  

Crowe’s eyes closed briefly as if savoring the light touch. A subtle shiver ran through him, but the smile tugging at his lips was unmistakable. When he opened his eyes again, they were locked onto yours, their intensity making your pulse quicken. "Satisfied?" he asked softly, though the teasing glint in his eyes suggested he already knew the answer.  

"Is it as majestic as I described it?" Crowe’s voice carried a blend of playful mischief and genuine curiosity, his dark eyes twinkling as he watched you.  

Your hand continued its gentle motion, fingers gliding through the soft strands of his hair, your touch almost reverent.

The faint blush creeping across your cheeks betrayed you otherwise calm demeanor. You tried to focus on the rhythmic motion of your hand, but the sensation—his hair softer than you’d expected—was strangely grounding and intoxicating all at once.  

Your breath hitched as you felt the weight of his gaze on you, an intensity that seemed to see more than you were ready to reveal. Still, his playful tone softened the tension, coaxing you to respond. "It’s... softer than I expected," You admitted, your voice barely louder than the whisper of the rain against the windows.  

Crowe’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "Smoother, you say?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a sultry murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned in, ever so slightly, his breath ghosting across your cheek.  

"Just how soft did you expect it to be, hm?" Your heart stuttered; senses heightened, catching the faintest details—the warmth radiating from him, the subtle scent of his cologne—close to blueberries mixed with something uniquely Crowe.  

Your fingers trembled as they brushed the strands of his hair framing his face, the silky texture tantalizing against your skin. Crowe’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring your touch. "Does it bother you to keep it this long?" You ventured, voice tentative, almost fragile in the intimacy of the moment.  

He opened his eyes, meeting yours with a softness "No," he murmured. "But sometimes... it gets in the way while I’m running errands around the building.”  

You felt the corners of your lips curve slightly, a tiny, conspiratorial smile. "You always be working and take care of everyone else… even me.” You mentioned, your voice quiet yet firm. "Let someone take care of you for once."  

Your words seemed to catch him off guard. His gaze darkened—not with anger but with a vulnerability so raw it made his breath hitch. Slowly, his hand reached up, fingers roughened by life’s demands, brushing against your cheek with a tenderness they hadn’t expected.  

"I’m not used to that," he admitted, the words heavy with unspoken meaning. His eyes searched yours, as though seeking assurance. "I don’t... usually let myself be taken care of."  

The weight of his confession settled between them. You found yourself unable to look away. Your free hand came to rest on his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soft beneath your fingers. You traced idle patterns there, feeling the heat of his skin just beneath the surface, grounding yourself in his presence.  

"Why not?" You asked softly, your voice like a gentle breeze coaxing the truth from him.  

Crowe’s gaze flickered down, watching the slow, deliberate movements of your fingers as though they held answers he didn’t yet have. He hesitated, his brows furrowing slightly in thought. "I’m... not sure," he confessed, his tone contemplative. "I guess I’ve always been the one to look after others. It’s just what I know."  

His honesty hung between them like an unspoken promise, and for a moment, time seemed to pause. You let the silence stretch, your hand still tracing circles on his shoulder. Slowly, deliberately, you leaned in just enough for your forehead to graze his, your voice a whisper that barely bridged the gap.  

"Then maybe it’s time you let someone teach you."  

Crowe’s eyes flicked back to yours, locking onto your gaze. There was a flicker of surprise and uncertainty in his expression as if the very idea of someone wanting to take care of him, let alone you, was an entirely foreign concept. And yet, it carried a strange allure, something that stirred deep within him. He didn’t speak at first, his silence hanging between them like an unspoken question. 

Finally, he gave a small, tentative nod.  

“You… want to?” he asked, his voice tinged with both wonder and disbelief. His brow furrowed, his cheeks warming with an unmistakable blush. “You’d want to… take care of me?” His voice softened further, almost shy. “Like how? What… what are you gonna do?”  

You tilted your head, lips curving into a soft, knowing smile. His earnestness, the vulnerability in his question, made your heartache most sweetly. You let the moment linger, the air thick with unspoken emotions, as if to let him absorb the gravity of his trust in you.  

Your hand, which had been resting lightly on his shoulder, began to move in slow, deliberate strokes. Your fingertips brushed across the fabric of his shirt before traveling to the base of his neck, where they lingered, tracing slow, deliberate circles against his skin. The heat of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, his breath catching in his throat as his body instinctively leaned into the sensation.  

“How about…” You murmured, your voice was soft and soothing, almost like a lullaby. “…you let me decide that?”  

Crowe swallowed hard, his mind racing with a mixture of apprehension and intrigue. The thought of relinquishing control was daunting, almost terrifying. And yet, the softness in your voice, the gentleness of your touch, coaxed something in him to let go. He hesitated only for a moment before nodding again, this time with a hint of more certainty.  

“All right,” he said quietly, his voice laced with surrender. “I… I’ll let you decide.”  

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, at the quiet admission that he was willing to trust you in a way that seemed so out of character for him. Crowe, the ever-composed, always-in-control student council leader, allowing himself to be cared for—it was a rare, precious moment.  

You adjusted your position slightly, your movements are fluid and intentional. Your hand on his neck urged him to lean back against the couch as you shifted closer. “Relax,” You whispered, encouraging yet firm. Your other hand came up to gently push him back, just enough for him to rest more comfortably.  

His eyes darted to yours, seeking reassurance, before he finally allowed himself to recline. His shoulders sagged slightly as the tension began to flow away. You shifted beside him, your thigh brushing against his as they leaned in closer, your presence grounding him.  

“Close your eyes,” You instructed.

He obeyed, his lashes fluttering shut. The world around him faded into darkness, leaving only the sensation of your touch and the faint rustle of fabric as you adjusted yourself once more. Your fingers continued their soothing motion at the nape of his neck, and he felt your legs shift as you moved deliberately.  

Before he could fully register the change, your thigh slid over his lap, your weight settling as you straddled him. The closeness, the intimacy of your position, sent a rush of warmth flooding through him. He inhaled sharply, his hands instinctively moving to rest at your sides, though his touch remained hesitant, unsure.  

You leaned in, breath warm against his cheek, lips hovering just near his ear. “Just let me take care of you,” You murmured, your voice low and soft, a seductive blend of promise and reassurance.  

Crowe exhaled shakily, his body betraying his need to resist, yet failing. He could feel himself yielding, the last threads of hesitation unraveling in your presence.  

Your lips brushed against his ear, a fleeting caress that sent shivers cascading down his spine. You shifted, pressing your body closer as you straddled him fully, their closeness intoxicating. He could feel your heat, your heartbeat steady against his, as you moved with deliberate intention. Your fingers trailed gently along his jawline, your touch light as air but carrying an electrifying weight.  

"Let go," You whispered again. 

Crowe’s hands, which had been gripping your sides in an instinctive bid for control, faltered. They trembled slightly before slipping away entirely, falling to rest in his lap as he surrendered to the overwhelming sensations they was awakening. “I…” he began, his voice thick and strained, but the words caught in his throat.  

“Please?” You asked, tilting your head as your lips found the curve of his neck. You pressed the faintest kiss there, your warm breath fanning across his skin. Slowly, deliberately, you began your descent, lips tracing the line of his neck with tender persistence. You paused just long enough to let him feel every lingering kiss, every fleeting brush of your mouth, before moving lower.  

The tension in his body craved and flowed with every touch. He tensed as your lips found the hollow at the base of his neck, then relaxed again as they pressed a kiss just above his collarbone. You smiled against his skin, sensing the shiver that coursed through him.  

Your hands moved in tandem with your lips, sliding from his jaw to the nape of his neck, your fingers threading gently through his hair. “Just feel,” They murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as they continued your path, leaving a trail of soft, heated kisses along his chest.  

Crowe’s breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your movements. Every kiss, every touch, seemed to peel away another layer of his guarded composure, leaving him bare and vulnerable before you. He closed his eyes tightly, surrendering completely to the unfamiliar yet exhilarating flood of sensations.  

You paused for a moment, lips hovering just over his sternum. You looked up at him, a soft hum of satisfaction escaping as you took in his expression—the furrow of his brows, the slight parting of his lips, the way his head tilted back just slightly. He was yours at this moment, completely and utterly.

"You’re doing so well," You whispered against his skin, pressing another kiss to his chest. "Just keep letting go." 

His fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatpants, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. It was the only anchor he could find as he surrendered to the sensations flooding him, a steady burn that spread through his chest and pooled in his lower stomach. His breaths came in shallow bursts, and his body quaked under the unfamiliar weight of letting go, of yielding control.

Every nerve was alive, hyper-attuned to your touch, and the soothing cadence of your voice was like a salve for the storm within him.  

He clenched his jaw, trying to steady himself. When your lips brushed the hollow of his throat, a tremor passed through him, sharp and undeniable. His hand twitched, releasing its grip on his sweatpants, fingers ghosting over the edge of your shoulder as if seeking permission to hold onto yours instead. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and finally managed to whisper your name.  

“Please…” His voice cracked, barely audible, but the sound carried a rawness that struck you. “…Wait a sec.” You paused, lips hovering just above his skin, breath warm against his neck.

A flicker of something gentle crossed your expression as you sensed the vulnerability emanating from him—the way his chest heaved, the fine tremor in his frame, and the palpable tension that coiled beneath your touch.  

"Yes...?" You murmured, tilting your head slightly to catch his gaze. Your eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and playfulness. He inhaled shakily, trying to form the words. His heart pounded against his ribs as though it sought an escape. "I can't…" he started, his voice rough, words tumbling out before he could stop them. "We can't… everything feels… intense."  

Your lips curved into a soft smile, a hand coming to rest over his chest, where his heartbeat thundered against your palm. "I know," They said, your voice like a quiet melody. Your lips brushed the pulse point in his neck, featherlight and deliberate. "It's a lot, isn't it? But you’re doing so well."  

He stiffened beneath you, his hands finally rising to hold your arms, steadying you but also grounding himself. "That’s not my point," he rasped, voice breaking slightly. He pulled back just enough to see your face. "I have loved you since the day I met you. I need to know how you feel—before we…" His breath caught, his gaze searching yours. "Before we go any further. I don’t want this to be… casual."  

The air between them shifted, heavy with unspoken emotions. You froze, his confession ringing in your ears. For a heartbeat, you didn’t move, your thoughts whirling. But then, warmth spread through your chest, melting the tension that had momentarily gripped you. Slowly, your hands rose to cradle his face, thumbs brushing gently against his cheekbones.  

"I…" You began, voice soft but trembling. "I feel the same. I have for so long, but I was scared. Scared to lose you, scared to ruin this… us."  

Relief washed over him, his hands falling to your waist as he let your words settle. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. "I never wanted to risk us either," he admitted. "But I couldn’t keep it in anymore. I couldn’t keep pretending."  

Your lips parted, a shaky laugh escaping as you leaned your forehead against his. "No wonder you kept finding excuses to spend more time with me," You teased, your voice low, tinged with affection. Your fingers trailed down to rest on his chest, "You can be selfish with me, Crowe. I’m yours, you know that. I’ve always been yours."  

His lips curled into a tender smile, the vulnerability in your voice and the weight of your words filling him with a kind of courage he hadn’t known he possessed. He tightened his hold on you slightly as if afraid you might vanish if he didn’t. "I’m yours too," he murmured, his voice a quiet promise. "And I don’t just want time with you. I want everything. All of you."  

Your breath hitched as his thumb traced along your jawline, his touch delicate yet firm, leaving trails of warmth. His other hand slid from your waist to your back, holding you securely. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze locked onto yours.  

"May I?" he asked, his voice low, almost reverent.  

You felt the question in your core, chest tightening and loosening all at once. Your body leaned into him instinctively, every fiber of you being answering before your voice could. When you finally spoke, words were a whisper against his lips. "Yes. Please."  

Crowe moved slowly, his lips brushing against yours with a softness that belied the intensity coursing through him. The kiss deepened naturally, a shared hunger and longing driving them closer. Your hands tangled in his hair, your body pressing against his.

Crowe’s lips were soft but insistent, moving against yours with a purpose that left no room for doubt. His hand on your waist tightened, drawing you closer until the inner part of your thighs brushed against his lower abdomen. The heat of his body was a sharp contrast to the cool dampness still clinging to the air. 

Your fingers, still tangled in his hair, instinctively tugged, earning a low, almost inaudible groan from him. The sound sent a shiver through you, making your heart race even faster. Encouraged, you deepened the kiss, your lips parting slightly to invite him in. His response was immediate, a soft flick of his tongue against yours that left you dizzy.  

Crowe pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his own. His breaths are heavy, matching yours, and you beheld his red face and hair messier than before. His eyes, those piercing deep blue eyes, searched yours for any hesitation.  

“Am I going too fast?” he asked, his voice husky and lower than usual.  

You shook your head, barely able to form words. “No… it’s perfect.”   

At that, his lips quirked into a small smile—rare and heart-stopping. “Is this a dream? I hope not. If I’m in a dream, please tell the sleeping me to never wake up. I want to live in this dream forever.” His free hand slid to the small of your back, guiding you effortlessly deeper into his lap. The movement was fluid like he’d imagined this a hundred times before.

“Will this convince you it’s not a dream?” You lean closer to his face and place a peck on his cheek. “Mmm.. maybe. But I think this would convince me.” He captures your lips swiftly. He pries your mouth open by pushing in his tongue, exploring you further, and muffing your moans with his intense kiss. 

You gasp, now feeling one hand slip beneath your hoodie, splaying across the bare skin of your lower back. The other tangled in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss further. His lips left yours briefly, trailing along your jaw and down the column of your neck to nibble at the soft flesh. 

“Now people will… know you’re mine.” You gasped when his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot, and he chuckled softly against your skin. “You sound so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction.

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. The rhythm of his heart beneath your palm was as erratic as your own, a reassuring sign that he wasn’t as composed as he seemed. 

“Crowe,” you whispered, barely able to hear your voice over the pounding in your ears. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again, his expression raw and unguarded.

“Please say my real name,” he murmured, his tone almost pleading.  

“Jericho,” you corrected, savoring the way his name felt on your lips. He let out a shaky exhale, his hands tightening their grip on you. His lips found yours again, this time rougher, more desperate.

His hips shifted beneath you, and the friction drew a soft moan from your throat. “Do you have any idea,” he breathed between kisses, “how long I’ve wanted this?”  

The heat between them was undeniable, the air practically crackling with energy. Every touch and every movement seemed to amplify the heady rush of desire rushing through their veins.

When his hips rocked against your own, another soft gasp escaped your lips, the friction so new, so sweet. Jericho presses himself against you, feeling the bulge within the confinements of his pants.

You gripped his shoulders tighter, steadying yourself as your thoughts became hazy with each press of his lips to your skin, proceeding to attack your neck with nibbles, determined to leave multiple marks instead of one. 

Your voice, already breathless, managed a shaky reply, "No, but I... I'm sure it's half as long as I've wanted you." Suddenly, he pulled you closer, his hips rocking gently against yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each movement brought a gasp or a groan to your lips, the friction between you growing more heated with every second. 

“Please let me make you wonderful,” Jericho murmured against your neck, his voice low and soft… all of it was a delicious yet torturous sensory overload.

And at his murmured plea, your breath caught in your throat, snapping your consciousness back. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Jericho," They managed your voice a ragged breath. “I’m the one supposed to make you feel good.”

Jericho pulled back slightly, enough to meet your gaze, "You... already make me feel good," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Just being here with you... it makes me feel more alive than anything else." His eyes filled with love, desire, and lust. “Would you let me?” He begged, “I promise to make you feel great. I want you to feel amazing.”

His words were spoken with such sincere conviction and lust. The raw honesty in them, the way he looked at you… You couldn't help yours; your fingers left his shoulders to gently cup his face. “I don't just mean at this moment," They said softly, your thumb brushing over his cheek. "I mean... I want to make you feel good in every way possible. I want..."  

You faltered, unsure how much you dared to say aloud. Instead, you shifted, sliding off his lap and onto your knees before him. The movement was fluid yet intentional, your gaze never leaving his as you knelt at his feet, 

Jericho swallowed, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the sight of you at his feet. It was a sight he had never imagined before, yet now it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. "What... what are you doing?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

You could see the surprise, the hint of confusion mixed with a heady sort of excitement in his eyes as they knelt before him. The position was submissive, yes, but it gave you a unique sort of control over the situation.  

Your hands, now free, rose to rest on his thighs, your fingers tracing small circles on the inner fabric of his sweatpants. Your voice was soft and firm 

"I'm taking care of you," They said quietly. "So just... lean back and relax." Your hand slithers to the base of his sweatpants.

Jericho let out a low, shaky breath as your fingers brushed his skin, the fleeting touch electrifying. Shivers coursed up his spine, and he bit down on a gasp, his eyes dark with a mixture of lust and anticipation. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked softly, his hands hesitating for a moment before helping you slide his sweatpants and boxers down in one smooth motion.  

You hesitated, your cheeks warming under his gaze. “No… Is that a bad thing?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.  

He shook his head immediately, his lips curving into a small, reassuring smile. “No, it’s not a bad thing,” he said, his tone gentle yet weighted with emotion. “If anything… it makes it all the more special.” But then his expression shifted, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face. He looked at you almost apologetically. “I’m sorry about this.”  

You tilted your head in confusion. “Hm? About what?”  

The moment the fabric pooled at his feet, the answer became crystal clear. Vulnerability washed over Jericho as he leaned back slightly, his chest rising and falling with steady, deep breaths. Your eyes widened in surprise, freezing as they landed on the sight before you.  

He cleared his throat, a hint of self-consciousness in his tone. “Uh… it gets a little bigger when I’m fully hard. Just thought I’d warn you.” His cheeks flushed a light pink, a rare vulnerability breaking through his usually composed demeanor.  

For a brief moment, you were speechless, caught between awe and disbelief. The sheer size of him was… impressive, to say the least. You swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat suddenly impossible to ignore. A nervous laugh almost bubbled up, but it was stifled by the intensity of the moment.  

“I… see,” you managed to say, your voice soft but tinged with a teasing edge. Your lips twitched into a small smirk. “A little bit bigger, huh? I’m curious to see just how much more it grows.”  

Jericho chuckled lightly at your words, his nervousness easing ever so slightly. Still, he reached out, his hand brushing your arm as if to steady both of you. “Take your time,” he said gently, his voice a soothing balm to your nervous energy. “Ease into it. And, uh… it’s okay if your teeth touch, just—maybe try not to bite down?”  

A laugh escaped you this time, a blend of amusement and nerves. “I’ll do my best to keep my jaws in check,” you teased, the shy undertone in your voice making the moment feel strangely intimate.  

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached out, your touch tentative but curious. The warmth of him against your palm was startling, the weight and solidity grounding you. Your grip adjusted instinctively, firm but careful, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Jericho.  

“Let me know if I hurt you,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach.  

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gave a quick nod. “You won’t,” he assured you, his voice rough with restraint.  

You glanced up, meeting his gaze. There was something intoxicating in the way his eyes burned with trust and desire. Leaning forward, you let your lips brush against the sensitive tip of his cock, soft and deliberate.  

A low, guttural moan escaped him, his head falling back against the bed. His hands clenched at his sides, resisting the urge to move and disrupt your rhythm. “Gods,” he muttered, his voice breaking.  

Encouraged by his reaction, you placed a series of soft kisses along the reddened head, your movements exploratory yet tender. Jericho’s breaths grew heavier, his chest rising and falling with each passing second. He forced himself to remain still, his muscles tensing as he let you set the pace, his desire to guide overshadowed by his determination to let you take your time.  

Your lips curled into a small smile as you continued, the moment feeling raw and unfiltered. Slowly, the tension began to melt away, replaced by a shared sense of trust and discovery.  

Jericho sighed when they took his lenght in your mouth. It’s already bigger than when he first pulled it out, quickly growing hard despite his reluctance to hold back. You feel it press in past your lips, dragging across your tongue, and finally hit the back of your throat. That’s it. That’s as far as it goes, right?

Looking forward, you can see that he’s not in your mouth. “Try to relax your throat,” he tells you. “That’s it, you’re doing good.” Jericho prasied. His voice sends goosebumps across your skin as his massive cock slides even further in, going partially down your throat. 

“Make sure to breathe through your nose,” he added. 

Your hands are on his thighs, gripping the fabric of his pants. You’re gagging slightly, trying to keep it under control and focus on breathing. After what feels like forever, your jaw is sore, and your throat aches.

Tears fill your eyes, which Jericho notices and looks at you guiltily before moving one large hand over to gently rub the top of your head. “Good girl,” he says, “you’re taking me well.”

The statement makes heat spread over your face. Then you remember that you’re supposed to be making him cum. The thought of it makes you excited somehow. You feel the urge to pleasure him, to make him feel good. He’s been so sweet to you, after all. He hasn’t moved at all, letting you do things at your own pace. Looking up at his face, it’s clearer than ever how gorgeous he is. 

You tighten your lips around his base, your tongue gliding across the underside of his cock while your tight throat constricts around his tip. He looks down at you suddenly, deep blue eyes slightly widened. You give him a tentative swirl of your tongue.

He can’t tear his eyes away as he watches you work your magic on him. The sight of you, the feel of your tongue, it’s the most incredible and overwhelming thing he’s ever experienced. He can’t help but let out another deep, guttural moan as the sensations wash over him. “Gods, yes. Just like that,” he pants, his voice low and rough.

“You’re so good at this. So damn good.” He reaches out, gently tangling his fingers in your hair, not to control your movements but just to have something to hold onto. 

The inside of your mouth felt nice and warm, causing him to shudder from the sensation. Eventually, his hand grips your hair and, for the first time, unintentionally thrusts into your throat. You feel a bit of force from him as he pushes your head down, his cock going halfway down your throat and almost choking you. 

Jericho lets out a low moan as you suck faster, wanting to hear the desperate need for ecstasy while taking pleasure from each sound he makes. He grips your hair roughly and throws his head back, but you don’t seem to mind. After all, you want him to make more sounds.  

You take the entire cock inside your mouth again, feeling the cock becoming harder than before, nodding your head up and down and swirling your tongue around his cock, making sure to aim for the tip as well, savoring the pre-cum taste. Your eyes travel to his face, beholding the euphoric expression as he bites his lips, feeling you lick the slightest bit of cum that leaks from him, 

Jericho could barely hold himself together as you pleasured him, his head spinning and his body writhing. He looked down at you, his eyes filled with lust and intense with love.

“You’re... you’re driving me crazy,” he managed, his voice rough and breathless. “…God.” His moans and gasps are like music to your ears, fueling that excitement as they suck and move your head in all the ways that they know will drive him wild.

“Mmh.” You suck faster and faster, your fingers fumbling with his balls as your swallow his cock even deeper down your throat—he didn’t think any more could be possible.

He’s so deep in your throat that whenever you thrust his cock in, your nose nearly touches his pelvis. Jericho can’t help but thrust your mouth down his needy cock down your throat again.

Immediately, you feel his warm cum flood your mouth, coating the back of your tongue and oozing down your neck. His hand quickly releases you, “Sorry, love, I couldn’t help it…” He mutters another apology. His face looks slightly flushed, and he’s breathing a little harder.

Oh god, he looks so hot right now—is all you think about, feeling the growing dampness between your legs as you stare up at him, his now soft cock still in your mouth. 

“No one’s ever made me feel this way before. Gods, you’re... incredible,” Jericho murmurs, his voice heavy with awe and lingering desire. His words hang in the air, electric and intimate. The way he looks at you—half in disbelief, half in reverence—sends a shiver down your spine.

Without hesitation, you lean forward, your lips brushing against the velvety, slick surface of his cock. Your tongue darts out, teasing the sensitive tip, and you savor the salty-sweet taste that lingers there. Slowly, deliberately, you begin to suckle, your tongue swirling and pressing against every ridge and curve. A soft moan escapes his lips, though he quickly clamps his mouth shut, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

Jericho’s chest heaves and his hands grip the soft couch beneath him, knuckles whitening as he fights to stay still. His breath hitches, and he glances away, the flush on his cheeks deepening as he battles the urge stirring within him. His jaw tightens, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again to find you. 

“You’re... you’re sure you want to keep going?” he asks, his voice strained and hoarse. Despite the question, his fingers reach out instinctively, trailing down the side of your face.

His touch is warm, trembling ever so slightly as if he's trying to ground himself. “I don’t want to wear you out,” he adds, his brows furrowing even as his lips part to let out a shallow exhale.

You pause for a moment, meeting his gaze with a soft smile, and your heart clenches at the mixture of vulnerability and yearning in his eyes. There's a rawness to him, an unguarded honesty that makes your chest tighten with affection. His concern feels genuine, but so does the hunger simmering beneath his words—a need he can’t quite hide.

Jericho looks down at you again, his heart pounding so loudly you can almost hear it. His disheveled hair falls into his eyes, and he brushes it back absentmindedly, the action making him seem almost boyish in his tenderness.

Despite the way his breathing is still uneven, he manages to smile faintly. “You’ve already done such a good job,” he says softly, his fingers brushing over your messy hair in an almost reverent gesture.

You feel a pang of something deep and inexplicable—a selfish kind of love, one that makes you want to claim and cherish every part of him. The thought takes root in your chest, blooming with a quiet intensity. Jericho’s hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw.

From this moment, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than here, tangled in his warmth his selfish love. 

[silkysoftie]

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭

hitoshi shinsou x female reader

summary: in which hitoshi unexpectedly finds himself getting off to a photo of his classmate.

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, college au, established friendship, masturbation, light exhibitionism/voyeurism (aged up characters)

a/n: hope you like this lil’ drabble! don’t worry toshi stans, i plan to write more full-length content for him in the future :)

Hitoshi was no stranger to 3am, as is natural for an insomniac. Not only did he find himself to be more productive after 9pm, but he’d also grown to enjoy the stillness that settled over the dorms and the darkness that creeped down the hallway outside his door. He often spent this time catching up on homework, or winding down from the long day of training without worry of being disturbed.

It was an uncommonly quiet night. Usually, he could hear Tokoyami, a fellow night owl, up and clattering about in the common area. Occasionally, the pipes in his walls would creak and groan as someone, likely Midoriya coming back from a late night run, showered, but not tonight. Hitoshi couldn’t even hear Y/N, his classmate and friend whom he shared a wall with, shuffling about. Tonight the dorms were noiseless, leading him to believe that all of his classmates were asleep.

Unfazed by the silence, Histoshi busied himself with little tasks just like he would any other night. He spent an hour or two finishing an essay, mended a tear in his capture scarf, and packed up his book bag before deciding to take a well deserved break.

After carefully placing his favorite vinyl on his record player, he stripped off his shirt, threw on a pair of pajama pants, and settled into bed. As the soft music filled the room, he unplugged his phone, intending to browse instagram for a while.

Humming along to the song, Hitoshi scrolled through countless photos and videos of his friends and classmates. Ashido had posted a dance cover that he liked and left a comment under. A little further down Todoroki had uploaded a family photo with his father’s head cropped out. Hitoshi couldn’t help but cackle at that. And then he came upon a very different photo. It was posted a few hours ago the very girl that was asleep just on the other side of his wall, Y/N.

The picture was of her, laughing and smiling as she was being smooshed between the girls from Class 1A. But what made this photo unique was that it was taken during the girls trip to the beach last weekend, and Y/N was in a bikini.

Hitoshi’s eyes widened as he drew in an unusually shaky breath. He’d never seen his classmate in anything less than her school uniform or hero costume which, much to his dismay, was not very revealing. He glanced nervously at the wall they shared, as if she’d somehow phase through it at any moment and bear witness to his wandering eyes.

Clearing his throat, Hitoshi scrolled away from the post, but as he half heartedly watched a work out video Midoriya had uploaded, his mind kept wandering back to the photo.

Though he was alone, Hitoshi tilted the screen a bit closer to his chest, a light blush staining his cheeks. One more peak couldn’t hurt…With a quick search, he’d pulled up her account, bikini pic proudly pinned at the top.

Feeling a bit like a pervert, Hitoshi’s eyes wandered over his friend’s half-naked body. She was much… softer than he expected. The serious mask she put on during combat training had somehow led him to believe she was all sharp edges and strength, but the gentle curves of her torso said otherwise.

Not only was he transfixed by the light sheen of sweat shimmering on her smooth skin, but also by the swimsuit she dawned. It seemed to hug her in all the right places, just barely teasing what might be underneath. And though she was surrounded by plenty of scantily clothed women, he just couldn’t pull his gaze away from her.

A low groan escaped his throat as he threw his hand over his eyes, telltale signs of arousal earning a reaction from his body.

Good lord, he was pathetic. As though he’d never seen a woman before, a simple bikini photo had him pitching a tent.

Sighing, Hitoshi peaked through his fingers at his erection. He’d have to take care of that before he could move on with his night.

Maybe he could use the photo?

No… Y/N was his friend and a rather good one at that. She trusted him. They respected one another.

But the thought of getting off to someone else made his brows furrow in dissatisfaction. He couldn’t, not when she had been the source of his excitement. Hitoshi huffed in frustration. This was no good.

Maybe… maybe she wouldn’t mind? Maybe she intended for him to see this photo when she’d posted it!

It was with these feeble justifications that Hitoshi’s resolve easily crumbled. Without another thought, he hurriedly yanked down his pajama pants, red, aching cock springing free.

Just this once.

Humming with relief, he gripped his throbbing member. Setting a slow pace, Hitoshi’s gaze wandered back down to his phone, the screen illuminating his fucked out expression in the dim room.

Hitoshi stroked his cock lazily as he began committing the shape of her to memory. The subtle slope of her hips, the curve of her breasts... even the way her hair, wind-blown and salty, fell over her shoulders.

Had she always been this beautiful?

A whimper caught in Hitoshi’s throat as his thumb caught on the tip. Without the presence of mind to feel guilty, he imagined it was Y/N’s hands running over him instead. In his mind’s eye he could see her, big, round eyes staring longingly up at him, practically begging for him to take her. Hitoshi moaned at the mere thought.

Would she want to blow him? His eyes nearly rolled back in his head as he envisioned her waiting patiently on her knees for him, mouth open and ready to receive.

Groaning, he thought of all the ways in which he might pleasure her. He’d tie her up, eat her out, and leave her gasping for more. Oh, and he just knew she would sound absolutely exquisite. What he wouldn’t give to hear little whines and whimpers rolling off her tongue as she pleaded for release.

By now, grunts and moans fell freely from Hitoshi’s lips as he panted without care of who might hear. His hand began to move quicker, his movements growing sloppier as he approached his high. Throwing down his phone, Hitoshi gripped the base of his cock tightly. With a desperate whine of his friend’s name, sticky, hot ropes of cum shot out, covering his bare, heaving chest.

Hitoshi raked a shaky hand through his mussed, purple hair as he came down from his high. He hadn’t finished that hard in quite some time and boy, had he missed it. Just as he was beginning to catch his breath, a ‘ding’ from his phone caught his attention.

Not even bothering to clean himself up, he picked up his phone, curious to see who might have texted him this late at night.

A jolt of surprise zapped through him as his screen lit up with the notification.

Y/N

‘Whatcha doin over there? Sure sounds like fun ;)’

Caught off guard, Hitoshi‘s eyes flicked between his phone and his wall. She’d heard him? He’d thought she was asleep…

Maybe he could play this off somehow? Licking his lips nervously, he typed out a quick response.

Toshi

‘Wouldn’t you like to know ;)’

Copying her little winky face, he pressed send, hopeful it implied his volume had been intentional even if it hadn’t.

Y/N

‘Why don’t you come over here and show me?’

Hitoshi had never moved so fast in his life.

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