#the potential for something good is there I think even if they just want to further cash into DE's success

[mabelmiller]

Hello, I'm here with an extremely long comment full of too many pictures and quotes, because what a fucking fic 🥵❤️

“Hey.” Joel tilts his head and squints. “That my record crate?”

“...yeah.” 

“So where are my records?”

“The floor, I guess,” you answer quietly.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I fucking love pumpkin ❤️ I love her so much. I want to give her a big fat forehead kiss and make her a cup of hot chocolate.

There’s a strange feeling that comes with punching out the window’s screen. You’ve done it before and faced the consequences, god. That awful day in the forest, being hunted down by Joel with Tommy’s dog. Joel terrorized the living fucking daylights out of you that day, scared you from ever pulling that shit again. But here you are, climbing out the window, just as you did before. You remember the mistakes you made that led you to Joel finding you. You wouldn’t make them again. 

I love this so much, because all it took was one paragraph to immediately out me as both a complete marshmallow and a masochist lol. Because on one hand, I love the concept of dark daddy joel being dark and doing fucked up shit and reminding us why he's earned that title and I'm so intrigued by the idea of seeing him like that. On the other hand I also know I would be reading this thinking, "pumpkin is just a baby, and I'm just a baby, you can't be mean to a little baby 🥺" if he starts to get too mean, even though I was just mentally encouraging all that meanness. It's like I ask someone to slap me and then immediately curl up in a ball so they can't do it. It feels kind of silly and very contradictory, but I also love when I read something that can expose those feelings. That's when you know you're reading something really good.

“Lil’ deeper now, honey. All the way down. I know your daddy raised ya better’n that, huh?”

You pull off of Tommy, a string of saliva that connects him towards your lips breaking. “Daddy doesn’t make me take him all the way,” you tell Tommy.

Tommy shrugs, makes a face. “But you ain’t suckin’ your daddy’s cock right now, are ya, girlie?” He positions himself back at your mouth, then begins pushing in. “Uncle Tommy plays by different rules.” 

This is so fucking delicious and perfect and UGH

I need weekly play dates with uncle tommy ❤️

Joel ignores you and drags you by the arm into your bedroom, where he sits on your bed. He forces you over his knee and tugs your shorts and panties down your ass, ripping them a little in the process. That fragile, old fabric. 

See, this paragraph, on the other hand, this just outed me as a masochist full stop. Maybe it's because it's all about getting spanked and I'm a big ol slut for impact play, but this part really just had me like

Joel tilts his head, frowning, intrigued. “In there?” he asks, tapping gently where your heart beats and you nod, sniffling. “Oh, not at all, sweet girl. You’re not bad,” he says. He dabs some antibiotic ointment on one of the deeper scratches on your thighs, then covers it all with some gauze. “Not by a longshot. I think you’re trouble, Pumpkin, but you’re the furthest goddamn thing from bad. I love that heart of yours.” 

Ugh, HE'S SO SWEET. He's so mean but also so sweet in his own way and I love him so much 🥺 grumpy old man ❤️

I am a liiiiiiiiiittle worried about him potentially finding out pumpkin lied about how she got out, though. As sweet as he is here, I don't even wanna think about how pissed off he'll get if he finds out how she got out, and that lied she kept lying to him about it. I don't know if you've read/watched Misery, the Stephen King book, but that was where my mind immediately went lol, and I don't know if I can handle if daddy goes full Annie Wilkes lol 😭

(Also I hope this doesn't come across as me trying to tell you where to go with the story or what to do, or to not go as dark as you want to! This is just me being a baby and being overly concerned for your characters because I love them. But I will forever support you writing exactly what you wanna write!)

“Ahh, Snoopy. My bad.” Joel rests one hand behind his head, then scratches the kitten with the other. “Thing’s fuckin’ ugly,” Joel mumbles, using just one finger to tickle the creator. “Pretty screwed up lookin’ dog f’ya ask me, Punk’n.”

I fucking love Joel's grumpy dad comments about Snoopy ❤️ and I absolutely love that while he's grumbling about this adorable little kitten, Pumpkin is just unconcerned, asking him (or maybe telling him is more accurate) to build a cat tree for Snoopy (who 100% deserves a cat tree, he's probably the best kitter in the entire world)

All in all, I know I'm fangirling a lot and this is maybe way more rambling with silly pictures than anyone needs, but I just really want you to know how much I enjoy your writing, and how much joy these characters give me (even if I do also worry about pumpkin lying more than she should and joel being too mean.) It's such a treat to get to read your work, and I'm forever grateful that you share it with the world ❤️

Kitten Fur

Tommy takes a deep breath, groaning as his cock stirs in his denim. “S’just a big secret to keep,” he says. Tommy continues, “An’ I can keep quiet for ya, but I gotta know what’s in it for me, right? S’all I’m askin’.”

You can’t get anything past Joel, but that won’t stop you from trying.

Tags - one shot, smut, unprotected piv, creampies, uncle tommy blowjobs/facefucking, cum swallowing, cunnilingus, fingering, spanking/violence, Joel gets dark, then comforts you, cat scratches, wound care, coercion/manipulation/blackmail, dark/icky daddy themes, daddy kink, dark fluff, girthy legal age gap. 8.5k words. A/N - thanks for all the love and patience 🩷🫂 thank you L who edited, i love you sweet friend

The flowers are blooming nicely. 

In the spring, when the snow was all but melted, dirty and icy on the brown grass, you were depressed. It was still cold outside and there wasn’t much to do. Joel took you out to pick out some seeds, give you something to care for, to keep yourself busy. Touching soil - it’s good for a person, you know? 

You water Joel’s flowers first: roses, daisies, tulips, and his favorite, lilies. There are honey bees buzzing about, worms wiggling through the soil. You like your flowers better, your snapdragons and gardenias. You love how your honeysuckle smells, so sweet and sugary you could almost taste it. 

Joel joins you in your shared garden, wearing a gray t-shirt and some weathered jeans. His curls are combed back, and he looks handsome in the sunlight. He reaches up and pulls a birdfeeder off of the hook of a post that’s taller than you can reach and fills it with seed, then fills a hanging glass container with sugar water for the hummingbirds. 

Joel dampens a rag with some oil and runs it along the metal post, top to bottom, all the way up and down. 

“What’re you doing, Daddy?” 

“Tryin’ somethin’ out…” Joel puts the cap back on the bottle of oil. “Gonna see if this won’t keep away the goddamn squirrels.” 

“I like the squirrels.” 

“I know you do, Pumpkin, but they’re stealin’ all my birdseed.” 

You make a face. “Maybe I’ll put peanut butter out or something for them, then. So they don’t steal your birdseed.” 

“Oh, will ya?” Joel sounds less than impressed. The critters are giving you trouble too, snacking on your flowers you’ve worked so hard to grow. You don’t mind, though. It’s a joy to watch them frolic through the garden, chasing each other. You like seeing familiar faces, but your favorite part is seeing the babies. If you’re quiet, and if you’re lucky, you’ll catch glimpses of the sweet baby animals. 

Like you’re doing right now. Under the rocking swing you and Joel sway on is a little black kitten, hanging out all alone. It’s cleaning itself, pink tongue darting out to lick its paw before swiping it over its ears. “Joel - Daddy,” you hiss urgently, tugging on Joel’s shirt. 

“What is it, Punk’n?”

“Shh.” Joel makes a face in mock offense that disappears when you point to the kitten, and then he tilts his head. “Ahh. Kitty cat, huh?” 

“Mhm. Can we bring it inside?” 

Joel sighs. “No, sweetheart.” 

Ouch. He’s inspecting his work, considering if petroleum jelly might be a better move. Those fuckers are crafty. “Hon, do we still have some Vasel - oh, don’t you give me that look.”

You cross your arms and raise your eyebrows. “M’not giving you a look.” 

Joel knows better than to get into an argument with you about whether or not you’re giving him a “look”. He’s learned to pick and choose his battles with you, and he’ll gladly lose that one, but this one, absolutely not. 

“Honey, he’s probably got worms an’ fleas and whatnot. He can’t come inside, baby.” 

“But it’s hot out,” you argue. “And - he’s black.”

“Look at ‘im,” Joel says, pointing to the kitten, which is now laying in a shady patch of dirt. “He’s coolin’ off in the shade. He’s alright, sweet pea. Look - why don’t ya go an’ play with him, okay? Tell him ‘bout what a mean old man I am. I’m gonna go make us some lunch.” 

“I’m really not hungry.” 

“Ya really are,” Joel says, parroting your tone. He gives your shoulder two quick squeezes and heads inside to make you both some sandwiches, give you some time to spook the kitten and get your mind un-addled from this thing before you’re in too deep. He hopes that this stray will keep its distance from you, letting you know itself that it wants nothing to do with you. Tough love, Pumpkin.

You approach the kitten slowly, who looks defensive at first. Eyes all wide and alert, on edge. You sit down gently, careful not to make any sudden movements, and hold out your hand for the kitten to sniff. You wonder what it is. Joel kept calling it a he. 

The kitten sniffs you cautiously, tickling your skin with its quick little breaths. It seems to approve of you and rubs its cheek along your finger, tail curling left and right. “Hi, kitty,” you smile, using one digit to scratch the kitten right between its ears. You pluck a dandelion and wiggle it in front of the animal, giggling as it bats at the flower. “Shit,” you swear when it scratches you. 

The little kitten climbs into your lap and purrs happily at you, letting you scratch its little body all over. You lift it for a moment to raise its tail and take a peek, and yep, Joel was right. “You are definitely a dude,” you laugh. 

Joel pushes the curtain of the kitchen window to the side to look at you and the kitten. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head when he sees you smiling, as beautiful as that is, watching your little friend chase a white butterfly. He cuts your sandwich on the diagonal per your standing request, then slides open the window and calls your name. “Lunchtime,” he says. 

You come walking, and Joel opens the door for you, stopping you before you can make it inside. “Ah, ah. Put the damn cat back outside. Nice fuckin’ try, kiddo.” 

It was worth a shot. You set the kitten down, mumbling something Joel can’t hear, and you’d better thank your lucky stars for that. The fuckin’ mouth on you, Jesus…

“Wash up. Soap an’ water.” 

After washing, you sit at the table with Joel, eating your sandwich. He made an extra for himself, but you’re still working on your first half. You swallow a bite of food, sip your water. “I didn’t see any fleas on him but I’m gonna give him a bath,” you tell Joel casually.   

“Uh huh, good luck with that.” Joel takes another bite of his sandwich. “An’ then what?”

“Then…I think I’m gonna keep him.” 

“Yeah? That so?”

“Yep.”

You eat the rest of your first sandwich, feeling Joel’s eyes on you in the quiet room, the tension hovering like fog. You know your choice of words was bold. Gonna. A choice you made on your own. 

“Pumpkin.” 

You pull at a loose string on your shorts. 

“Look at me,” Joel says, “‘Fore you get any ideas,” and you look at him. “No. You are not gettin’ a cat.”

“Why?” you whine, dragging out the syllable. 

“Because,” he explains, “Y’eat me outta house an’ home already. I don’t need another mouth to feed.” 

“But I’ll take care of him!”

Joel scoffs, then sucks food off of his thumb. “Yeah, you’ll take care of him?” 

“I take care of my flowers,” you shoot back. “And yours.” 

Joel gives you a look, lips pulled in a frown and his eyebrows raised. You’re testing him, and by god you’ve got him, sharp fucking girl. “Uh huh. When’s the last time you did your chores, huh? Dishes? Remember those?” 

You cross your arms and push your plate away, upset with the direction of this conversation. 

“And you’re tellin’ me you’re gonna keep up with a cat? Scoop his shit out of a litter box? I don’t think so, darlin’.”

You look at Joel, then back at your plate. And back to Joel again, who’s still staring you down. He’s not budging, and you don’t think you’ll be able to get him to, either. Finally, you sigh in defeat. You lean forward and rest your head in your hands, frowning. 

“Oh, enough with the poutin’. He’s got a mama who’s gonna come lookin’ for him anyway, right?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. You don’t think so.

“Look, honey,” Joel says, “You can go out there an’ play with him as much as you want, but he’s stayin’ outside. That’s my compromise.” 

Compromise. Joel’s been trying to work on that, little by little. The give and take of it all. He’s got you tied on a short leash and he knows that, so he’s been trying to give you more freedoms and privileges here and there. 

As soon as Joel says it, you’re out the door with your other half of the sandwich. You find the kitten right where you left it and you tear off little bits of chicken and bread, watching as the kitten happily eats. All those little noises it makes, its little ears wiggling. Joel follows behind you, then stands with his arms crossed as the scene plays in front of him. 

“What?” 

Joel raises his eyebrows. 

“It’s my sandwich, Daddy. And I’m not even hungry.” Lie. 

“You know damn well what, sweetheart. He can fend for himself.”

You ignore Joel, and feed the kitten a little more food. 

“Fine. You can fend for yourself. Don’t come whinin’ at me when you’re hungry later.” Joel spins around and heads for the kitchen to rinse off the plates, keeping a watchful eye on you as you play with your little friend. 

Joel watches you spend the entire day with the little guy, and how gorgeous you look lying in the grass in your shorts and pink shirt, teasing the kitten with sticks and flowers. You lie on your back and cover your eyes with your forearm, and the kitten curls up on your chest, the both of you basking in the sun for an afternoon nap. Joel loves these sounds of your sweet giggle, your real giggle. But you, sweet fucking girl, are going to break your own damn heart.

When Joel calls you in for supper hours later, he has to stop you from sneaking the kitten into the house under your shirt. He tells you you’re walking funny, and you tell him your back hurts. When Joel calls bullshit, you tell him that he walks funny when his back hurts too, Daddy. 

You don’t make it far before Joel has you putting the kitten back outside. You and Joel eat in silence, and he notices you staring out the window, your eyes following the kitten the whole time. He also notices the food you hide in your cloth napkin. 

“I don’t see his mama,” you mumble. 

“She’s out there, honey.” 

You don’t like that you can’t see the kitten when the sun goes down. Anxiety nags at you as Joel reads to you while rocking in his chair. You’ve hardly paid attention to the story. 

Joel yawns loudly, stretching his back as he does so, then puts his heavy hand on top of your head. “Ohh, I’m beat, baby. Let’s go to bed,” he says, gently scratching your scalp. You melt under his touch for a moment before he’s patting your ass, urging you up. You slide off of his lap first, then spin around and offer him your hands. Joel groans as you try to pull him up, deliberately making you do the lion’s share of the effort. It makes you both laugh. C 

You follow Joel toward the stairs, but stop as he continues up. “Daddy?”

“What-y?”

“Can I have like, five more minutes?”

“Whatcha need to do?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, lying, and Joel knows it, too. 

“Uh huh. No funny business, Pumpkin.”

You head back for the living room and open Joel’s blanket chest to retrieve an afghan for the kitten. You take Joel’s vinyls out of the crate they sit in and place them neatly on the floor, careful not to break anything. It’s not like Joel will care, right? He doesn’t even use his turntable. 

Although…Uncle Tommy might. He likes to play music when he sneaks over and plays with you. 

Outside, you set up a little bed for the kitten, and you leave food scraps out for him, too. You call for him, making kissy noises and pss pss pssing into the dark. You’re relieved when he comes running and snacks on the meal you’ve made for him, and you take care to make sure he likes the blanket you’ve picked. It takes him some time to get comfortable. “I can get you a different blanket, bud–”

“Pumpkin!” Joel shouts with his mouth full of toothpaste through the screen window above. 

“Coming, Daddy!”

But you don’t. Joel can picture the scene as he spits out his toothpaste and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, you tickling that flea-ridden cat. He goes downstairs in his pajamas and joins you outside, watching with his arms crossed as you care for your fuzzy little friend. 

“Hey.” Joel tilts his head and squints. “That my record crate?”

“...yeah.” 

“So where are my records?”

“The floor, I guess,” you answer quietly. Joel rolls his eyes, then snaps and points to the door. “Gonna throttle you, kid. Alright. You kiss your little buddy goodnight and get your ass upstairs. S’bedtime.” 

Joel watches you tenderly kiss the kitten, right on its forehead and between its ears that are a little too big for its head yet. He ushers you inside with a hand on your lower back, and he gets snapped at by you when he closes the door too loudly. When he kisses you on the forehead and whispers to you goodnight, he knows what’s running through that restless mind of yours. “Hey,” he murmurs. “He’s gonna be alright, okay?” 

You check on the kitten every morning and night, and you spend the majority of your days with him as long as he’s around. Joel watched you empty an ice tray into a bowl once, rolling his eyes as you filled it at the sink. “I’m just making sure he has water,” you said. 

“Uh huh. Does he really need ice water, Pumpkin?” 

“It’s his favorite, Daddy.” 

Because he likes to bat around the ice cubes. He paws at them and splashes around a little, then licks his paws. 

You gave him a name after about a week. Snoopy. It just fit the little guy. 

Joel says goodbye to you one morning, telling you that he’s stopping at the market to pick up some eggs real quick, but that he’ll let you stay outside while he’s gone. It’s only a few minutes anyway, and Joel knows you’re fixated on your little friend. You won’t be getting up to much trouble, so he gives you this inch. “Been goin’ through ‘em awful quick. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would ya, Pumpkin?”

“Mm-mm,” you lie, holding a handful of scrambled eggs behind your back as Joel kisses you on the cheek. “Can you get feathers, though? From the chickens? I want to make him some toys.” 

Joel rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he returns to you with feathers anyway. You’re a very crafty girl, fashioning some sort of teaser toy out of said feathers and a stick. Joel notices the kitten’s been getting bigger. 

You and Snoopy have a whole routine. Every morning when you greet him, you sing his name. “Snooopyyyy,” you call, and Snoopy emerges from his crate or a patch of flowers. “Big stretch,” you’ll smile, watching as the kitten leans back on his paws, then forward, wiry little tail flinching while he yawns. Snoopy sings back to you as he greets you, and he’s got the sweetest, chirpiest little meow. 

You’ll spend the afternoons playing with him, and when he tires, he naps on you while you read or doodle or something. Sometimes you’ll bring a blanket outside and nap in the grass with him, enjoying the smell of his sunlight-warmed kitten fur. His eyes are turning green now. They were blue when you first met him. 

If Joel’s not home, you’ll sit by the window and play with him through the screen. You wish he’d stop locking the fucking doors. There hasn’t been an incident in a long time, but Joel says that trust has to be earned. But he also says you’re getting there, though…he’s been saying that for a while, hasn’t he. 

Joel makes a deal with you. He stops arguing about you sneaking the kitten your dinner and instead prepares Snoopy-sized portions on a small dish so long as you eat well and take care of your chores without Joel asking you to. It seems to be working well. 

But Joel still won’t budge on letting Snoopy stay. No cats, he says. 

You kiss Snoopy goodnight each night, wishing so badly you could go to sleep with him safe in your arms instead. 

You haven’t seen such an ugly sky in so long. The clouds are green and purple like shades of bruised skin, a front rolling in quickly. You felt iffy all day when it was just gray and teasing a storm, but the storm’s here, now. 

It looks bad. There’s lightning and thunder, though it’s not yet begun to rain. Wind blowing through the screen knocks over papers in Joel’s house. Snoopy’s not by the window with you, and you can’t quite see him, but you can hear him. The kitten cries in anxiety, all alone as he hides from the storm. God, you fucking hate this. You call out to him and promise him that everything’s okay, but it probably does little to comfort the creature. 

Everything’s worse after the first few drops of rain pour from the sky. It begins pouring, then stops for a second. You mop up the mess inside with a towel. There’s a ping…ping…ping, ping against the gutters, hail then slamming against the side of the house as thunder roars. They’re large pieces of hail, too, and you worry Snoopy’ll get hurt, or worse as the storm escalates. Jackson saves its alarms for infected only, so there’s no way for you to know what’s ahead. 

You try opening a door. Then another, and another. Joel’s locked them all at multiple points.

There’s a strange feeling that comes with punching out the window’s screen. You’ve done it before and faced the consequences, god. That awful day in the forest, being hunted down by Joel with Tommy’s dog. Joel terrorized the living fucking daylights out of you that day, scared you from ever pulling that shit again. But here you are, climbing out the window, just as you did before. You remember the mistakes you made that led you to Joel finding you. You wouldn’t make them again. 

Thunder claps and snaps you out of your train of thought. Snoopy cries and you run to him, he’s hidden under his blanket in his crate. Rain soaks you as you run to him and quickly gather him, ignoring his frightened scratching as you hide him under your clothes. What compels you back inside is Snoopy’s safety more than your own, truth be told. 

You drip water onto Joel’s floors as you slam the glass window shut, then quickly bring Snoopy up to your room. The kitten is drenched, the same as you. He’s shivering and scared and you are too, but you dry him off before you dry yourself. You create a safe, warm space for him under your bed, which he seems to appreciate. He stays hidden as the storm rages on. 

With Snoopy safe, you head back downstairs to assess the damage. The screen has blown halfway across Joel’s yard, so you open the window and sprint after it to fetch it. You are so deeply fucked if Joel sees what you did to his window - the screen is broken and coming apart, and you couldn’t begin to figure out how to fit it back into the window. Especially not in this storm. 

“I’ll always come and getcha if you’re in a jam,” Uncle Tommy had told you once, like he was your guardian angel or something. He whispered it, actually, and tapped your nose with his long, thick finger. Wearing that crooked smirk of his, his eyes sparkling with something darker than mischievous. 

“No questions asked?” 

“Don’t know about that,” Tommy replied. “But if ya need me, sweetheart, I’m there. I know what it’s like to be your age, to find yourself in all sorts’a dicey fuckin’ situations.” 

“Did you get in trouble a lot?” 

“Sure did, honey.” 

“What’d you do?” 

Tommy chuckled and swiped at his nose, then shook his head. “Ohhh, darlin’. All kinds of shit a sweet girl like you don’t need to know a goddamn thing about.” 

You think now’s about as good a time as ever to get Uncle Tommy and help yourself out of this jam you’re in. You race to his house through the storm, exhilarated as it’s the first time you’ve been out like this since…you don’t even know when. It feels fucking good. 

You pound on Tommy’s door, praying to god he’s home and lucky for you, he is. You barely stutter out an explanation before you’re grabbing his hand and leading him back to Joel’s, then showing him the screen you need him to fix. “Jesus, girl. Your daddy’s gonna beat ya black and blue, you know that?”

“I know. I need your help,” you tell him. “Please, Uncle Tommy.” 

Tommy picks up the screen and opens the door, then gestures for you to move inside. “You up to no good?” he asks, only to be met with no answer. “I ain’t helpin’ ‘less you tell me what crime exactly it is that you’re makin’ me a goddamn accomplice of.” 

“Fine. I’ll show you.” 

“Show me, huh.” Uncle Tommy follows you up the stairs and into your room, where he takes in everything. The books you read, the clothes you wear, the locked window. The baby monitor Joel turns on at night. 

You lift your bedskirt and scratch the floor, and out comes Snoopy. Cautiously, as he’s still frightened by the storm. You scoop him up in your hands and bring him to Tommy, who scratches the kitten between its ears. “This is Snoopy,” you introduce, “He’s been my friend for a while but Joel - Daddy won’t let me have a pet.” 

“Mm,” Tommy hums, now scratching beneath the kitten’s chin. He can fill in the blanks himself - you broke out to rescue this kitten from the big bad storm, and now you need him to cover your tracks. “You sit tight and I’ll see what I can do, sweetheart.” 

Tommy leaves you to go clean your mess. It’s an easy enough fix - staple the screen back into its frame, then fit the entire thing into the window. He could do it in his sleep. 

He calls you downstairs to inspect his handiwork, make sure everything’s to your liking, and it’s as good as new. “Well, whaddaya say, kiddo?” 

You push on the screen, smiling in both relief and mischief. It thrills you to get away with this, to have this little secret of your own. That alone is an accomplishment when Joel keeps you under the microscope the way he does, isn’t it? You don’t have much that’s just…yours. Joel takes it all from you. 

“Thank you,” you grin, wrapping your arms around Tommy’s strong middle. You squeeze him so tightly and he hugs you back, kissing the top of your head while stroking your back.

“S’what I’m here for, darlin’. Always got your back,” he murmurs softly, then clicks his tongue. “Your daddy’s a fuckin’ hard ass, ain’t he?” 

“He–” you stop yourself from continuing. Tommy laughs at that. 

“You can say it, hon. Not gonna snitch on ya.” 

“He’s a hard ass, yeah,” you laugh, and it feels good to get it off your chest. It’s hard to talk about Joel in that way when he tells you that he’s always right, and when he punishes you for questioning him. Daddy knows what’s best for ya, Pumpkin. Ungrateful ass spoiled fuckin’ brat. He gave you life and he can take it away, you know. Keep fucking testing, watch what happens. And quit with the fuckin’ waterworks before he gives you somethin’ to really cry about. 

Tommy laughs too, swaying you from side to side in his warm embrace. It goes quiet, the only sound in the room being the rain splashing against the windows. It’s all but died completely. 

“Guessin’ you’re wantin’ Uncle Tommy to keep quiet about this too, then, huh?” he asks quietly, pointing to the window. “Yeah?”

“Please,” you answer. 

Tommy takes a deep breath, groaning as his cock stirs in his denim. “S’just a big secret to keep is all,” he says. Tommy continues, “An’ I can keep quiet for ya, but I gotta know what’s in it for me, right? S’all I’m askin’.”

You pull away, brows pinched in concern. Tommy shrugs and grins in a very matter-of-fact way, putting his hands in his front pockets. “C’mon. Fair’s fair, ain’t it? I do a lil’ somethin’ for you, you do a lil’ somethin’ for me?”

“What - what am I supposed to do for you?”

Tommy chuckles darkly. “What do you think, girlie?” He reaches for your hand and presses your palm against his bulge, sighing softly at the pressure. Even like this, you can feel just how big he is. “Got such a pretty mouth, sweet pea,” Tommy says, reaching for your face. He runs his thumb along your bottom lip and gives it a little pull, smirking in his wolfish way. “Why don’tcha get on your knees f’me?”

You kneel so pretty, Tommy thinks as he unbuckles his belt. He pushes some hair out of your face with one hand, then frees his cock using the other, resting his hefty balls on top of the elastic waistband of his boxers. His cock is too big and heavy to slap against his stomach, and bobs with the weight of itself. He holds it between his thumb and forefingers, guiding the tip toward your mouth. “Gimme a kiss, honey,” he says, pushing himself toward you. 

His cock is so warm against your lips as you kiss him, and he smells so musky, slightly bitter. His pubic hair is less gray than Joel’s is, but getting there. It’s about as overgrown, though. And he’s markedly thicker than Joel is, though maybe not as long. He’s a fucking choking hazard, is what he is. 

You’re happy to take Uncle Tommy’s cock in your mouth, truthfully, even if the whole act caught you off guard. It’s just another way to pull one over on Joel, after all. You’d probably be in big trouble if he knew what you were up to. Good thing he’ll never find out, huh?

You swirl your tongue around Tommy’s thick head, running your tongue over his wet slit, tasting that little bit of prejack that’s beaded there. Tommy holds your face with one of his large hands, stroking softly at your skin as you peer up at him. Uncle Tommy looks like nothing good for you, and you can’t help but feel absolutely intrigued by that. He’s the knife you do tricks with, the matches you play with. 

You run your tongue along the underside of his shaft, eliciting a deep groan from him. “Don’t you tease me, sweet pea. Ain’t nice.”

You part your lips and take his head into your mouth, then bob yourself on his length, about halfway or less. Tommy watches you, waiting to see if you’ll work your way down, nose buried into his thick patch of hair. “Ahem,” he clears his throat, “Lil’ deeper now, honey. All the way down. I know your daddy raised ya better’n that, huh?”” 

You pull off of Tommy, a string of saliva that connects him to your lips breaking. “Daddy doesn’t make me take him all the way,” you tell Tommy.

Tommy shrugs, makes a face. “But you ain’t suckin’ your daddy’s cock right now, are ya, girlie?” He positions himself back at your mouth, then begins pushing in. “Uncle Tommy plays by different rules.” 

Tommy takes the reins here. Hand on the back of your head, forcing his way deeper down your throat. He’s not a brute about it, of course. He’s gentle, but firm, pushing his cock inch by inch into your warm, wet, welcoming mouth. He hushes you when you gag, choking on his girth. “Slow down an’ catch your breath,” he says. “Through your nose. M’not goin’ nowhere.” 

His words soothe you. There’s a bit of panic that comes with him being so deep down your throat, but Tommy’s generous enough to give you the time to get used to him. Once you stop squirming, stop making those silly, cockdumb noises he loves so much, Tommy pulls out. And he pushes back in, and pulls out again. He repeats this until he’s steadily fucking your mouth, hand tangled in your hair. It’s less of something you do for him and more so something he does to you, reminding you of exactly who’s standing and who’s kneeling, here. 

“Open wide,” he tells you. “Quickly, darlin’.” Tommy pulls out of your mouth and jerks his cock furiously, sticking his tongue out at you to indicate what he wants you to do. You follow suit, and Tommy paints you in his load, all over your tongue and the back of your throat. “And swallow. That’s it, honey. Good girl.” 

You stand up, knees aching slightly. Tommy wipes a bit of his cum off your lip, then pushes it into your mouth. With a twinkle in his eye, he motions like he’s zipping his lips sealed; locks the key and tosses it over his shoulder and winks. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya, sweetheart, as always.” 

And he’s off. 

A week later, and you cannot fucking believe you got away with it. This kitten…god, what a clever, beautiful creature he is. Snoopy knows when to hide. He stays quiet, never arouses Joel’s suspicions. You’ve got a litter box filled with sand in an inconspicuous spot and you clean it daily, always when Joel’s not around. 

You have the most special connection with him. He sleeps in the pocket of your hoodie and plays with anything he can get his paws on. He still doesn’t like the rain, but he’s so soothed by your touch. And each night after Joel reads to you and kisses you, Snoopy appears like clockwork. It’s the gentlest little jump, the slightest shift of weight on your mattress. He tucks himself right under your chin and stays there until early in the morning, then watches the birds every morning, hiding behind your curtain. He does the cutest little ek ek ek’s that cats always do, probably saying nothing nice to any one of those birds. Little punk. 

Joel asked once about him. You told him that his mama probably found him, which isn’t entirely a lie. Joel says it’s better that way. 

The old man fucking bought it.

Snoopy’s curled up on your lap and purring happily as you brush him, collecting little tufts of black fur you’ll set outside tomorrow morning. The birds will have nice, warm, insulated nests for their babies, you think, smiling to yourself. 

Your nose tickles. You wipe it with your hand, putting more of his fur there. “Fuck,” you groan, scrunching your nose and wiggling your mouth. It’s in your eyes, too. It makes you sneeze, loudly, startling Snoopy. The claws come out immediately and dig into your bare thighs, and drag there as he launches himself off of you and darts under the bed. “FUCK! Snoopy, what the h–”

Blood is beading up on your thighs. Little kitten claws cut so deep, don’t they? Snoopy hasn’t quite figured out how to temper them, either, when to retract them. Blood is beading up on your thighs, dripping towards where gravity pulls it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How will you explain this one to Joel, huh? He’s gonna come in here tonight to fuck you and he’ll see your bloodied and scratched thighs, what’ll you tell him? 

“Holy shit, okay. Ow,” you whine, hopping off the bed and hobbling toward the bathroom. The warm red dripping down your thighs makes you feel a little dizzy. It’s running toward your knees, now. “Ow, ow, ow, oh my god.” 

“Pumpkin?” Joel calls from his room. “You hurt yourself, baby?” 

Shit. Joel’s home? “No - I’m fine, Daddy.” 

“What’s ow?”

Silence. Joel knows you should have an answer for him. “Pumpkin…”

“I’m fine! Don’t–” 

Too late. Joel’s already out of his room and staring you down in the hallway, taking you in. Your bloodied thighs, the deer-in-the-headlights look. He counts the scratches on your thighs - four that are visible, all in irregular patterns. “What did you do?”

You purse your lips, squeezing your eyes shut as the cuts throb, and Joel knows you’re lying. You’re doing all your usual tells, hemming and hawing while looking to the side. “What did you do?”

Snoopy emerges from your room at that exact moment, and Joel pieces it all together. Fuming, he marches past you and down the stairs. Your stomach drops when you hear a drawer in the kitchen open, and then Joel’s stomping up the steps, wooden spoon in hand. “Again,” he spits. “Lyin’ t’me, a-fuckin’-gain.” 

“Daddy, no. Please d–”

Joel ignores you and drags you by the arm into your bedroom, where he sits on your bed. He forces you over his knee and tugs your shorts and panties down your ass, ripping them a little in the process. That fragile, old fabric. 

He hits you with the instrument, hard. He does it again, ignoring your cries of pain. Joel hits you until he can see the outline of the wood on your ass, “Tell me, Pumpkin. How’d ya pull this one off, huh?” 

Hit. You scream, then answer him. “I don’t know!” 

“You better fuckin’ speak up, girl.” 

Nothing from you, and another smack. It’s hard to think up another lie as Joel beats you raw, but you manage to. “You left the door unlocked,” you sob. “Daddy, please. I’m so sorry.” 

“When was this?”

“Like - like a week ago!” you cry. 

“Didja go anywhere?” he asks, raising the spoon to hit you again. That’s Joel’s main concern - you’ve been getting in and out? How long has this been going on? Who are you seeing, and what do you tell them? Joel’s blind and sick with rage and you, Pumpkin, you did this to him. And you did this to yourself. 

“I didn’t! Daddy, I did - listen to me, please. I’m telling you the truth. Daddy–” 

“You better spit it the fuck out, then. Go.” 

“It was storming, you left the door unlocked. I didn’t know it until I tried it. And I was scared for him, so I got him and brought him inside. And that’s all that happened, Daddy, you have to believe me.” 

“Yeah? Why should I, kid?” he pants, red in the face. “Fuckin’ lied before, haven’t ya?”

“Yes, but–”

“But what?”

But nothing. You break down and sob, waiting for more hits to come. Joel lets you cry it out for a moment, then drops the spoon. When he stands up, you’re afraid his belt is next. 

Joel walks away. He returns moments later, a basket of medical supplies in his hands. “Flip over,” he barks, still pissed off as ever. You do so immediately, and Joel sits on the edge of the bed. He spreads your thighs and inspects your scratches, then dabs some isopropyl alcohol onto a few cotton balls. 

“Don’t–”

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, wiping your injuries with the cotton ball. It hurts worse than the spankings did and makes you scream, but it distracts you from the pain of your raw, swollen, throbbing ass. “S’posed to hurt. It’s a punishment,” he says, moving onto the next one, and the one after that.

Joel fans air on your thighs, then unscrews the cap off some antibiotic ointment. He dabs a little on his fingertip, then runs the ointment over the scratches. “Don’t look at ‘em,” he warns, though you’ve already seen them. “I need ya to be honest with me.” Joel inhales deeply, then reaches for a roll of gauze and some medical tape, both half-used. “Is this whole kitten ordeal,” he asks, gesturing to wherever the hell Snoopy ran off to, “The only stunt you pulled?”

“Y–”

“Do not lie t’me again, so help me god.” 

“It’s the truth,” you answer, convincing yourself that it’s not a lie, and that you didn’t go and see Uncle Tommy, or suck his cock and swallow his cum on his brother’s kitchen floor. It’s not hard to do when your head feels as swollen as it does, sinuses all congested, cheeks puffy and raw from your tears. Anything to get through, you know…this.

Joel feels like he could fucking puke, knowing you escaped. He feels stupid for leaving a door unlocked. He feels stupid for trusting you, too. “Why don’tcha listen to me? Hm? Why d’ya have to buck me every goddamn step of the way? I put a roof over your head and give ya food and clothes an’ all I ask is that you just fucking listen.”

“I do listen,” you argue, searching for the words. “I’m trying - I really do try to, at least.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes!” You’re defensive. Dishonest. You’re just like your daddy, aren’t you? Oh, you know the truth. You know you crave the fight and the challenge. The feeling that comes from winning against Joel…but that never seems to happen, does it? 

“Am I…bad, do you think?” 

Joel tilts his head, frowning, intrigued. “In there?” he asks, tapping gently where your heart beats and you nod, sniffling. “Oh, not at all, sweet girl. You’re not bad,” he says. He dabs some antibiotic ointment on one of the deeper scratches on your thighs, then covers it all with some gauze. “Not by a longshot. I think you’re trouble, Pumpkin, but you’re the furthest goddamn thing from bad. I love that heart of yours.” 

And Joel means that. You’re soft, tender, sensitive. Brave when you need to be. Stubborn as all get out. Joel’s special girl, always getting herself into messes he’s gotta clean up. It’s all part of parenthood. 

“You’re a good kid,” he says, “But you cannot keep doin’ shit like this to me, baby. My fuckin’ heart can’t take it.” 

Joel says it softly, in a pained way, knowing his words’ll eat at you, knowing that they already are. And they do - guilt is such an awful, nagging feeling, and it might just be the perfect motivator to get you to fucking obey. And sure, you like to hurt Joel, make him ache like he makes you ache. But causing him anxiety, deep upset…knowing what memory tugs in the back of his mind when you remind him that you can disappear if you really want to, as much as he tries to stop you. The little girl he told you about. 

Joel inhales deeply, then changes the subject. “M’gonna keep an eye on this. Cat scratches ain’t nothin’ to mess around with,” he murmurs. He lays you down on the soft mattress and brings his face close to your thigh, then gently kisses over the bandages he wrapped you in. 

Daddy’s always gonna do that, you know. He’ll always kiss your hurt all better, yes, even when he’s mad at you, yes, even when he’s disappointed in you. What else are daddies for, if not that very thing? 

Joel kisses over each of the covered scratches, coincidentally kissing his way toward your center, causing you to soak your lily-white sheets beneath your ass. You whine when he pulls away from where you need his kisses the very most. You always need him after your fights, to remind yourself that he loves you, and things can feel good with him. “Please, Daddy.” 

“No can do, Pumpkin. ‘F we screw up your bandages m’gonna have to do the whole thing all over again.” 

“Even the alcohol?”

“Reckon so,” Joel answers, laughing to himself when you pout at that. “Mmhmm, I know, sweetheart. We gotta make good decisions, don’t we?” he whispers, running his knuckle delicately along your cheekbone. “Daddy’s here to help ya make good choices. You know that?” 

“I know that,” you reply softly. 

Joel caresses your jaw softly, gently. “C’mere,” he says, but he brings himself to you. He kisses your forehead, both of your cheeks, your chin, and your nose…your lips. It’s something you don’t do enough, is kiss Joel. It’s a gentle peck at first, then deepens into something more than that. Joel’s tongue mingles with yours as he cages your body with his own. 

His hands on your neck, trailing down your breasts, pausing to gently squeeze at them. His hand goes lower and lower, fingers dipping into your heat to gauge just how badly you need this. If it’s worth the risk or not. 

And Christ, you’re soaked to the fucking bone, kid. You moan into Joel’s mouth, rutting your hips into his palm. “Ohh, fuck. Goddamn, honey,” Joel says. “I think we can do it, Pumpkin, but Daddy’s gonna go real slow and careful.” 

“Okay,” you nod, biting down on your grin. Joel will tease if he sees it. 

“Which means,” he adds, “You can’t get mad an’ throw a fit like usual when things don’t go your way. Right? Gotta be patient w’me.” 

“I’ll be patient, Daddy.” 

“Uh huh.” 

And that’s all Joel says before pulling away from you. He brings you with him momentarily, just to lift your shirt off and toss it elsewhere. Off comes his clothes next, one at a time. Joel’s in no rush. 

He lowers himself between your thighs, spreading them wide. He continues those kisses from earlier, working his way toward your center, and each one makes you throb. He kisses your lips, your mound, your belly. Joel inhales deeply, your gorgeous, warm, sugar-sweet scent. He can feel the heat radiating from your pussy on your skin, feel you thrumming with a need, a hunger only Joel - Daddy - can satiate. 

If it were a different day, if you weren’t already blemished by violence, he’d probably squeeze you hard enough to bruise. You’re soft like a peach, after all. But as promised, Joel’s gentle with you. Joel’s gentle with you as he licks a long stripe from the bottom of your pussy right to the very top, drawing a figure eight around your clit. “Guess the shape, Punk’n.”

You giggle, “Circle.” 

“Nope!” 

Joel does it again, and again, and again. “I don’t know, Daddy,” you breathe, “Figure eights?”

Joel laughs. “Attagirl,” he praises. He dips his tongue lower, nosing your clit while dipping his tongue in and out of you, tasting you. You make all the same sweet little noises you always make, quiet moans and soft whimpering. You soak his chin and the bedsheets beneath you, fingers tangling around Joel’s gorgeous, silvery curls. 

Joel savors you, like you’re syrup on his tongue. He inserts two fingers into your heat, rubbing against that special place inside you, steadily guiding you toward your release. 

Like when you lie, you have tells. Shaking, trembling thighs, a quiet voice. Joel licks and licks and licks, and there it is - cumming hard on Joel’s fingers, pulsing around them, gushing into the palm of his hand. 

Joel licks the mess, then pulls himself forward. He fits his hips between your thighs, cock bouncing between your bodies, red and swollen, beating in time with his heart. “Ready, kiddo?”

“Can I put it in?” you ask.

Joel guides his tip toward your slit, “Mm-mm. Daddy’s doin’ it this time, baby. Maybe another time, ‘kay?” 

“Can I help, then?”

Joel rolls his eyes and smiles. “Oh, yeah? You can help?”

“Mhm.”

 He’s only a man, after all. Only a daddy. Who’s he to deny his pretty girl of such a thing? “Hold me right here,” he says, wrapping your hand around his shaft. You hold him as he fits himself inside you, then let go when he swats your hand away. He enters you quicker than he used to, testing you. Seeing how you handle him. “Lookit how good ya take it, baby,” he coos, looking down to see himself fully sheathed in your warmth. He pulls out, and he’s coated in ribbons of your creamy arousal, then pushes back in. He finds a pace, then saws his hips into you. “Yeah, nice an’ easy,” he whispers, making good on his promise to fuck you gently. And like a good girl, you take it, and you don’t complain. Not for more, not for less. You moan for Joel, making all of his favorite sounds, whimpering his name in that special way nobody else gets to hear. 

Joel’s hands wander your body, squeezing whatever handfuls of your flesh he can. “Daddy!” you squeak, wincing when he grabs your thigh. 

“Shit, baby. My bad. Lemme look–” Joel pauses to give your bandages a quick peek, then continues fucking himself into your tight cunt. “Easy, sweetheart. Easy.” 

Joel fucks you gently, steadily, and you feel at home. It used to feel scary - and Joel made it scary - but there is something about it now that comforts you. Something about his body wrapped around yours, his nakedness, his weight and his warmth. Joel, finding himself closer to his orgasm, licks his fingers and massages your clit to coax your own along. 

Pleasure ripples through you, washing over you in non-rhythm. Your pulsating walls have Joel coming just behind you, pressure building deep in his gut in the same way it does yours. Balls tightening, brow pinched together, Joel grits his teeth and growls as he cums, drowning out your pleasured noises with his own. “Oh, fuck Goddamn, fuck,” he grunts, milking the last of himself before he begins to soften. 

Joel pulls out of you, then bends down and grabs his t-shirt, uses it to clean the mess he made of you. “Go potty, sweet pea,” he pants, catching his breath. 

“Daddy.” 

“Not arguin’. Go.” 

He flops in your bed, watching as you walk naked to the bathroom, watching you relieve yourself, feeling his cock stir at that, despite having just orgasmed. 

You flush the toilet and wash your hands, then join Joel in bed where he pats the space next to him. You snuggle him, inhaling his warm, sweaty skin, feeling at peace until…until you remember what’s coming after this. 

“So, uh…”

“Hm, baby?”

“About the cat.” 

“The rodent you’ve been feedin’ my eggs to, yeah, what about him?” Joel scoffs. 

“Just wondering.” 

“Uh huh. Heard ya named him, right?”

“Snoopy.”

Joel nods. “M’not mad at you for takin’ care a’ him, ya know. I’m mad about the lyin’, the disobeyin’.”

“Yeah. I know,” you whisper. Before it all feels heavy again, Snoopy jumps into bed with you and Joel, breaking the tension. He bravely walks over Joel like he’s not even there, then curls up into your side, settling right in that elegant curve between your hip and rib cage. 

“So this is Felix, huh?”

“No, his name is Snoopy. I just told you.” 

“Ahh, Snoopy. My bad.” Joel rests one hand behind his head, then scratches the kitten with the other. “Thing’s fuckin’ ugly,” Joel mumbles, using just one finger to tickle the creator. “Pretty screwed up lookin’ dog f’ya ask me, Punk’n.”

“Daddy,” you scold. Snoopy closes his eyes and purrs, tilting his head into Joel’s hand, leaning into his touch before betraying you by walking over to Joel. He lays on Joel’s chest, happily melting into those firm, warm strokes Joel gives him before settling against his neck. You hope Snoopy stays this snuggly forever. 

“Please let me keep him, Daddy.” 

“I dunno, kiddo. I’ll have to think on it.” Joel lifts Snoopy, ignoring his whines, then places him in your hands. He groans and lifts himself up and out of bed, then turns off the overhead light, leaving your lamp on. “You’re lucky I love ya,” he says, then kisses your forehead. “I mean it, honey. I do.” 

“I love you too,” you whisper, and Joel kisses you again. It’s not quite bedtime but it’s getting there, and Joel’s ready to lie in a bed that actually fits him, maybe read a book. Give you time with Felix…Snoopy…whatever the fuck his name is before he’s gone for good. Because no, Pumpkin, you cannot keep him. Rules are rules, and that cat is going outside where he belongs. 

Joel lies in his bed, reading glasses on as he flips through a book you’ve been asking to read, checking for pornography and other things of that nature, when a certain someone interrupts. Snoopy’s tugging on his comforter, clawing his way up the mattress to meet Joel, taking back his spot on Joel’s chest. “What are you doin’ here,” Joel mumbles, once again moving the kitten away. This time, Snoopy doesn’t just vocally protest, no. He swipes at Joel’s finger, nicking him right by the knuckle, then settles on his torso again. “Shit. Fuckin’ asshole.” Joel sucks his finger as he glares at the kitten. 

Snoopy stares back at him, then lowers his head and rests his chin on his little paws. “Guess you’re kinda cute,” he murmurs. “Aren’t ya.” As if on cue, the kitten flips over, exposing its belly to Joel. He laughs. 

“Bet your girl’s missin’ ya, knucklehead. Go bug somebody who actually likes ya. Scram, Felix.” 

Snoopy must’ve learned his defiance from you. He closes his eyes and opts for a nap on Joel’s warm body instead. 

There was never a definitive yes. Every time you asked about Snoopy, Joel would give you some half-hearted answer, followed by some snarky comment. 

“Can we keep him?”

“Sure, kiddo.” 

“Really?”

“Uh huh, gonna keep him and cook him up with onions an’ garlic for dinner. Since he likes to be on my fuckin’ counters so much, hm?” Joel gently pushes Snoopy off the countertop. 

“He likes to be tall,” you argue from the floor, petting a Snoopy that’s doubled in size since you brought him in from the storm. 

“Oh, give me a fuckin’ break. Likes to be tall.”

“I mean it,” you tell Joel, “I read that cats like to be up high. Maybe he’d stay off your counters if you made him a cat condo. Nice and tall.” 

“A cat condo, hm? So it’s not enough I’m sharin’ my home with this asshole, I gotta make him his own special little house, too?” 

“Well, yeah. You could make a scratching post and everything for him. That way he’ll stop scratching at your rocking chair.” 

Joel stops, then narrows his eyes at you and your little buddy. “He’s doin’ what t’my rockin’ chair?”

More dark daddy!joel here

Ty for your patience and ty for reading. Nice words keep me motivated to write. Everybody take care.

[binmeister]

Hey I was wondering can you do a bodyguard reader fiction where we start getting more closed off and distant almost always trying to be alone but the Rumi comes into our room one day and sees us sitting on the bed crying demon marks on our body as if gwi ma is starting to get in our head and she calls Zoey and more telling them what she saw being super worried for us (also I was wondering can I be a 🍪 anon) and if not thats okay I get it's a lot have a good day/night!

Heavy

Huntrix x Bodyguard! Reader (Masc)

I love potential hurt! Thank you cookie anon - welcome to the dumpster, good luck getting out there’s too much word spaghetti on the ground to find your footing.

The only thing I’ll say with this is I don’t believe Bodyguard! Reader would ever make a deal with Gwi-Ma / does not have any demon blood in him thus no markings but, Gwi-Ma’s voice definitely impacts him on a low day. Kinda detoured off the prompt but I hope that’s okay - sorry :’)

WC: 2.5k approx

CW: not perfectly proofread, potential angst (?), self-loathing, references to feelings of depression / in a slump used here - proceed with caution for your own comfort please.

Some days it was hard to wake up, your chest felt heavy and it felt like someone had decided to crush you in your sleep. But you still needed to get up. Still needed to do your job, go through the routines, get through the day. You didn’t have time to think about yourself, or rather you didn’t want to think about yourself for too long. This was unfortunately one of those days.

Getting through your morning routine is fine mostly, your body drags along but you get your teeth brushed, hair neatened, clothing changed and you manage to get food prepped for the girls so that they’re not left hangry later. When they’re awake and talking amongst themselves you can’t really make out what they’re saying, it just sounds like background noise and you feel lucky that today had no major scheduled events. 

Your hands busy themselves with cleaning up plates and cutlery, any pots and pans used to make food also get washed by hand and your body ran on auto-pilot as you simply nodded whenever you vaguely heard something that sounded like a thank you. Your eyes are struggling to focus and it feels like you’re actively trying to remember how to breathe and it’s irritating but also, numbing.

There’s a whisper in the back of your head, an annoying little thing that keeps trying to get louder but you don’t give it the time of day. You feel a little like a zombie as you settle down on the couch by the girls, they’ve got some show on at the moment as they talk about the training plans for the day and whenever they ask you something you nod and pretend you heard them. They take note of that, eyes glancing at each other nervously but they try to play it off - maybe you just had rough sleep? Sometimes that happens.

When it’s time to train and Rumi asks if you’ll be joining, you don’t nod with enthusiasm. Your face pushes a small smile onto it as you calmly say ‘no thank you, I’m a little tired’ and you excuse yourself from the living room, steps sluggish as you make your way back to your room. You don’t hear what they say after you, you can’t tell if they did say anything as you close the door to your room behind yourself.

You trudge to your bed and just flop face first onto it. Your eyes feel heavy but you don’t feel tired enough to sleep, but your body feels too tired to stay awake. So you’re left laying there before you roll onto your back and stare blankly at the ceiling. That familiar weight in your chest is back and you have to take long and slow deep breaths, that little whisper of a voice continues to spout nonsense but your tired state doesn’t even recognise anything it’s saying. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been laying there but it’s been long enough that you know the sun has set and it’s some time in the evening by now. At some point you managed to drift into a short nap but it felt like only moments later you’d woken yourself up as you just continue to lay star-fished on your bed, just trying your best to breathe and do the bare minimum to function.

There’s a light knock on your door and you hear Zoey’s voice pipe up through the barrier, asking if you’d want to come watch a movie with them or play games with them and you cant bring yourself to sit up as you call out ‘no thanks, a bit tired’. You don’t know that Zoey bites her lip and her hand hovers over the doorknob, wanting to check in on you but being worried about overstepping in case you were just tired. 

“O-okay! Sleep well.” You hear her call out and the vague sound of her retreating footsteps. 

You feel exhausted still but you’re steadily getting irritated with the whispers in your head trying their best to be front and centre, begrudgingly reaching for your headphones and blasting music in your ears as you let your eyes fall shut again. Tomorrow will surely be a better day.

The same heavy weight on your chest was what you woke up to after a restless night. You’d slip into a deep sleep for maybe an hour then jolt awake the next, then back and forth for the remainder of the time you spent in bed. There’s barely any sunlight leaking into your room as you finally manage to get yourself up to a seated position, shoulders hunching as that crushing weight you hadn’t felt in a while settles itself snugly in your chest and shoulders.

It takes a herculean effort for you to get yourself to the edge of the bed, and even more of a power struggle to get yourself out of your room and into the bathroom to do your business but as you pick up your toothbrush you inwardly groan as you drop it back into it’s place and drag yourself back to your room. Quietly clicking the door behind you as you make your way back to bed.

That voice is back in your head again, pecking away at you and reminding you that you’re so pathetic right now. With a shaky breath you grab your headphones and slam them over your ears, trying to dig for any song in your playlist at this point to drown it out and struggling as every song feels wrong. You settle on a random song and click the volume loud enough so that thinking wasn’t a possibility as you feel yourself steadily drift back into another bout of restless sleep.

At midday there’s a knock at your door but you can’t bring yourself to answer, your eyes are refusing to open at this rate and you just prayed that whoever was there would just leave you alone. Just leave you be for a while. Rumi looks at Mira and Zoey in concern, the three of them hovering around your door as Rumi finally takes initiative to crack open the door just to make sure you’re at least home.

When they spot you, you’re on your back with an arm covering your eyes and your breathing seems like you’re just sleeping. There’s the faint sound of your music leaking out of your headphones but they don’t want to disturb you at this moment since it seems like you’ve only just managed to go back to sleep based on how slow your breaths were. When the door clicks closed again, you finally lower your arm that was shielding the tears leaking out of your eyes.

It didn’t matter how loud the music was at this rate, whatever part of you that wanted to take you down a peg was loud enough that it stung.

‘Idiot’. ‘Useless’. ‘How can something so weak think they can protect others?’. ‘Waste of space’.

The thoughts kept looping in an endless cycle. When you manage to focus on the lyrics of a song or the rhythm of the music in your ears the thoughts in your head get louder. Telling you not to run from the truth. That you are nothing. You finally manage to fall asleep again after an hour of agonising over the self loathing you felt, that you didn’t feel enough as a son, as a person.

A couple hours pass and you know the sun has started to set again when your room feels cooler. When you’re not blearily staring at the ceiling, you’re in a dream getting pinned down by shadows with voices demeaning you. When you wake up from the ache in your chest, your thoughts loop in the same self-loathing that the nightmarish voices repeated over and over.

It leaks out finally, the sound of your sobbing over the music. You can’t take it anymore. You toss your headphones from your head onto the floor as you finally sit up for a little bit and just cry your heart out. Fingers dig into your chest like you could rip your heart out and throw it into the ocean, but there’s no relief as you continue to sob. You’re steadily pulling at your hair as well now, hands switching from clutching at your head to pulling at your hair in hopes that things will quieten down but there’s a roar in your head that won’t stop.

You curl in on yourself, balling up tight as your knees tuck loosely into your chest and you’re near heaving out choked sobs and hiccups as you just let it out. You want to throw up, you want to scream, you want silence, you want it to end. You don’t hear the click of your door open or the panicked gasp from Rumi as she rushes to your side, her voice is a little shaky as she attempts to get you to release your grip on yourself.

“You’re hurting yourself, hey, hey I’m here, [Name]? I’m here.” She calls out gently as she desperately tries to get your hands to stop digging into your scalp and your chest, it takes a good amount of effort until she’s finally managed to get the hand digging at your scalp out of your hair as she attempts to rub comforting circles on your back. Your body is shaking, each breath and sob that leaves you absolutely rattles through you.

“Is everything okay-” Mira asks as she peers her head in, seeing your door wide open and she’s shocked to see you crying your eyes out and soon Zoey is beside her as well out of curiosity. The two quickly make their way over as well, Zoey attempts to look at your face and try to wipe away at some of the tears streaming down your face with her sleeve. Mira’s holding your water bottle out to you, telling you that you should try to hydrate when you can - they’re all trying to tell you that it’s okay and that they’re there. 

Their voices should bring you comfort but it doesn’t.

Instead of words of encouragement and comfort all you hear is the distorted sound of them telling you that you’re so stupid for crying. What kind of cry-baby could be of any use to them? Your hand breaks from Rumi’s grasp and soon you’re clutching at the back of your head again, curling in on yourself once again as you continue to sob. Your fingers are digging into the back of your head and the back of your neck, enough to the point your nails are digging in and steadily leaving deep grooves.

Zoey is stunned, she doesn’t know what to do as she looks at the older girls for help and Rumi is trying her best to coax you to stop, that you’re hurting yourself. Mira’s hovering beside you, her hands raised like she’s going to comfort you but she’s frozen. What do they do? They haven’t seen you like this in.. years. They feel helpless.

Which in turn makes whatever is in your head scream at you, laugh even louder at your pitiful state. You’re making them uncomfortable. Shouldn’t you be the bigger man here? Why’re you crying? Then an almost demonic version of yourself leaks in and tells you that maybe you should just give up,��let someone else take your place. That maybe you shouldn't have survived from the saesang incident.

Zoey is finally talking, her voice soft but firm as she reaches out and tries to get you to lift your face up so she can look at you. It takes her a great deal to do so without hurting you but at some point your arms had lost feeling and had dropped into your lap and she’s able to get you to look at her. Her hands on your cheeks as she tries to talk to you and ground you enough so you can hear them, hear that they’re trying to reach you.

Rumi’s still rubbing patterns on your back as she looks at the damage you’ve done to yourself, thankfully no blood was drawn but just barely. Mira’s voice is low, quiet, as she tries to ask if you want to talk about it. The three of them stay close, close enough that you know that they’re there but not close enough to frighten you when you finally manage to calm down enough to look at Zoey.

Her expression is full of concern as she tries to read how you’re feeling with your eyes but it’s just, empty. Hollow. Your breathing is still ragged and you feel so tired right now. You just want to sleep. You voice that to them and they share a glance at each other and let you lie down, but they don’t leave. The three of them stay seated on your bed, Mira and Zoey on one side while Rumi is on the other.

“Do you want to talk about it..?” It was Rumi’s turn to ask you, they’re all keeping a close eye on you even though all you’re doing is staring blankly at the ceiling above your head as you try to calm yourself down. Idiot. You groan as you scrunch your eyes closed for a second, the voice in your head is actually starting to piss you off.

Fuck off. The voice fizzles out after that and you feel some relief finally.

“Just, tired... Heavy..” You finally rasp out after a minute, eyes slowly blinking back open as you hear shuffling and all the girls are making themselves comfortable on your bed. “You guys don’t have to st-”

“Too late.” “Sleep over!” “We’re staying.” 

Mira is seated, leaning her back against your headboard when she says ‘too late’ as she lets Zoey squeeze between hers and your body. Zoey happily wriggling beside you as she playfully pats your chest when she says ‘sleep over’. You feel Rumi settle down beside you and she’s looking up at the ceiling with you, her voice was quiet when she said ‘we’re staying’ but something about it helped reassure you that they were here. They were real. They weren’t the little worm in your head telling you otherwise.

You feel Zoey’s head rest against your shoulder, Mira’s pulled out her phone and there’s some YouTube video playing quietly for ambience and you feel Rumi gently grasp your hand and interlock her fingers with yours. Like when you were kids after a bad dream. There’s a small chuckle that falls from your lips and that heavy feeling you’ve been feeling the past couple days starts to ease up a bit as you finally let your eyes close shut for a peaceful rest.

When your breathing has evened out, and they can tell you’ve fallen asleep the girls all look at each other with a knowing and concerned look. Gwi-Ma almost got you, this isn’t the first time this has happened and it wouldn’t be the last try that he aims to catch you when you’re vulnerable and in a weakened state of mind.

He’ll have to try harder than that to break you.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I HAVE HOPE (SHE'S BLIND WITH NO NAME)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai underestimated just how hard it would be on him trying to get close to you again, and he overestimated his ability to separate his mess of emotions concerning you from the mission. that being said, he finds himself confused more than anything else, because he doesn't understand why you're not suspicious of him like you were the first time. and every potential answer he comes to makes his chest weigh heavier and heavier with guilt.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART THREE AT LASTTTTTTT I HOPE U ENJOY !!! this chapter was fun for me because we really see just how all of this is affecting reader, she's becoming much more reckless/careless about things & dazai is finally seeing it because it's directed toward him and its eating him up inside. next chapter is going to be VERY fun. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader (it's pretty apparent in this chapter), both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

Usually, the cafe you get your coffee from is slow this early in the morning—you’re in and out within five minutes. The sun has barely just risen, and the morning air is still too brisk for comfort, and yet you’ve been waiting in line for twenty minutes now. Klaus has been complaining incessantly about wanting to go somewhere else for coffee and breakfast, but you want a muffin from here, and you refuse to start off what’s already going to be a bad day by having to go somewhere else.

“I think I’d rather kill myself than wait a second longer,” Klaus complains so loudly that people look your way. You sigh heavily and give him a withering look, silently telling him to be quiet. Instead, he repeats louder, “I think I would rather—”

“Quiet,” you say sharply, keeping your voice low, and Klaus slumps over with a scowl. “If you’ve forgotten, there’s currently an active manhunt for you. I shouldn’t have even brought you here—I should’ve taken Akutagawa or Atsushi.”

“Don’t say that,” he pouts dramatically. “I’m in disguise.”

You roll your eyes at him, but don’t respond. His disguise is a baseball cap and sunglasses, which is probably more suspicious than if he’d come in none considering it’s cloudy today. There are only two more people left in front of you, and you’re just about ready to get back to headquarters to prepare for your next meeting with Cao Xueqin. 

It’s going to be a long day of playing word games with each other—you just need to stall long enough to give Qu Yuan of the South’s Song a chance to make a move in Beijing. You’re not happy about having to go to the woman for help, but you know she’s been dying for the chance to knock the Red Chamber down a peg. The only issue now is that you’ll be forced to send your own men to help her when it inevitably blows up into war, which you were trying to avoid. But you suppose it’s a small price to pay to ensure you’re not facing a three-front war in the heart of Port Mafia territory.  

You step up to the register to talk to the girl behind the counter, who immediately lowers her head in recognition. “Ah! I, uh, didn’t realize you were waiting in line, Miss Mori. I’m sorry. Are you in a rush? We can speed along your order.”

You have to force yourself not to cringe at how she addresses you.

“Y—” You start to say, but pause when you see something—someone—from the corner of your eye. Is that the boy from the bar the other night? “Take your time. It’s no rush.”

“What!” Klaus squawks. “I’m hungry.”

“Put your order in and shut up,” you tell him, distracted. “Put mine in too.”

“Are you joking—” Klaus complains, but you wave him off as you wander over to the far side of the cafe, tilting your head to the side as you approach the small table Dazai is sitting at.

He’s so absorbed in whatever he’s writing in his journal that he doesn’t even notice you approaching him. Curious, your gaze tracks down to what he’s scribbling—a bullet list, you barely catch the name of the cafe, the time, and the bar you met him at before he notices you from the corner of his eye. 

He physically jumps, startled by your presence, “Jesus!” he gasps, shifting the papers out of sight as he turns to look. He looks like he’s not even sure that you’re there as he squints at you, uncertain. “You—you—”

“Me,” you say with a wry smile, raising your eyebrows as your eyes roam over him. There are dark circles under his eyes—he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Wow, look at those bags. Someone hasn’t been sleeping well.”

Dazai’s lips part at your words. He blinks twice as if he thinks he didn’t hear you correctly. “What did you just say?” he rasps. “I—”

“I said someone hasn’t been sleeping well,” you repeat, glancing at the empty seat across from him before, pushing it out and sitting down. Your lips quirk up into a teasing smile. “Too busy thinking of me to sleep?” 

“Yeah, right,” Dazai scoffs, but he looks a bit thrown off by your question, which makes you tilt your head curiously. He shakes his head and asks, “What are you doing here?” 

“Wow,” you repeat, not sure why you’re so amused by the rudeness—usually, it would only serve to piss you off, but it’s almost refreshing right now. “Someone’s in a mood. I’m getting coffee—is that a crime now?” 

“Here?” he asks with a frown, looking a bit too disappointed by it.

“Mhm. It’s my favorite place” you agree, leaning back in your seat. “Problem?”

“Just… funny coincidence,” he says, face all twisted up like he doesn’t really mean it.

“Or maybe fate,” you correct, a bit caught off guard by how playful you’re feeling. You haven’t felt this way in… a long time. Since well before you killed Mori. Since Itou was killed. You glance down for a moment, a bit rattled by the sudden thought of both of them. You have to force the next smile on your lips as you ask, “Don’t you believe in fate?”

Something strange crosses his face at your words, but you don’t get an answer from him because someone comes to a stop directly in front of your table. Klaus’s shadow looms over the two of you, you don’t even have to look at him to feel the malice radiating off of him.

“I have to wait on my danish because you want to talk to a boy,” Klaus hisses, glaring at you before turning a cold expression onto Dazai, who looks uncomfortable because of the attention. “Does Chuuya know about him?”

“Klaus, if you mention this to Chuuya…” You don’t finish the threat, giving the younger boy a long look. He sighs, rolling his eyes, but settles down for the most part. “Go away.”

“I really wanted my fucking danish,” he mutters, giving Dazai a suspicious look. “Why’s he so familiar?” 

You raise your eyebrows and say mockingly, “He shouldn’t be to you, you haven’t picked up a book since the EADF dragged you out of your kindergarten class.”

Klaus gapes at you. “I read—” he protests.

“You read takeout menus,” you agree.

“That’s so rude—”

“Go away,” you repeat firmly, rolling your eyes and shaking your head, waving him off.

Klaus casts one more cold, suspicious look at Dazai, but he wanders off to go lean against the wall. You side-eye him when he keeps his gaze trained on the two of you, but he only raises his eyebrows at you.

“Ignore him,” you say as you turn your attention back to Dazai. “He’s insufferable.”

“Who is he?” he asks curiously after clearing his throat. 

Your subordinate in the Mafia, who was stuck in a trafficking ring in Europe for over ten years before another crime lord gifted him to you like he was some sort of pet.

“My brother,” you answer instead after a moment. “What are you doing out so early?”

Dazai pauses like he’s trying to come up with an answer. You tilt your head curiously, and he finally asks defensively, “What makes you think I don’t get up this early usually?” 

Your eyes drift over him once because you say, “Don’t look like the type.”

Dazai scoffs, shifting in his seat. “And what type do I look like?” 

You hum, propping your elbow on the table and resting your chin on your palm as you study him. His shirt is wrinkled, and his bandages are haphazardly wrapped around him, fingers twitching against the wood of the table. Something about him feels off—not the same odd familiarity you felt at the bar, something different this time, you’re not sure what.

“I’ve got some thoughts,” you say after a moment, keeping your voice light.

“Share them with the needy, princess?” he drawls, the corners of his lips curling up into a sharp smile.

Princess. Hime. No one has called you either of those since you took over as boss. And you know it’s a coincidence, there’s no way a random author would be aware of your former title in the Port Mafia, but it still makes you pause to collect yourself.

“Hmm,” you consider, tapping your finger to your chin. “Maybe the next time we meet, I’ll tell you.”

“The next time?” Dazai asks. “You’re already planning our next meeting?” 

“Maybe, or maybe I don’t plan on meeting you again at all, so I don’t ever have to share them,” you answer, and then squint at him. “You’re not stalking me, are you? I’ve never seen you before, now suddenly twice in the same week.”

Dazai doesn’t answer for a second. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a split second of tension in his jaw before he forces a chuckle. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he asks. “You showed up at both places after me. I was here first.”

Before you can press further, the cafe worker clears her throat loudly from across the café. “Ma’am, your order’s ready,” she calls loudly, waving you over.

You sigh, standing up and smoothing down your suit jacket. “Well, One Hit Wonder, it’s been fun. Try to get some sleep, will you?” you say. 

“One hit wonder?” Dazai demands loudly, offended, but you only grin to yourself as you walk away, lifting your hand in a lazy wave.

Klaus is already at the counter, shoveling his danish in his mouth, holding both of your coffees, your muffin, and Albatross’s order. You take yours from him and nod for him to follow you out of the cafe. You give him a sharp look when you realize that he’s still scrutinizing Dazai.

“Who was that?” Klaus whispers loudly as soon as the two of you are out of the cafe. “Who—”

“Does it matter?” you ask dryly, smile fading as you take a sip of your coffee. Now to business—you need to figure out the best course of action to keep Cao Xueqin occupied until Qu Yuan can do her thing. “Let’s go.”

“I mean, yeah, kind of,” Klaus says, stopping in his tracks. You sigh as you turn to look at him.

“He’s a civilian, an author I ran into at a bar the other night. He’s not a threat—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Klaus interrupts, rocking on his feet awkwardly, gritting his teeth as he tries to figure out what he wants to say.

“Then what?” you ask, folding your arms over your chest with a frown. “Klaus, we gotta get going—”

“It’s just—” He starts to say, but cuts himself off with a frown. “For a second, you almost looked happy. I haven’t seen you like that in… a long time.”

You look away immediately, swallowing thickly and blinking as you shake your head. “It’s nothing, Klaus,” you tell him quietly. “He’s nothing. Let’s get back to headquarters.”

“If you say so,” Klaus murmurs, continuing down the street to where Albatross is parked and waiting for the two of you. 

Klaus looks like he doesn’t believe you.

You don’t even know if you believe yourself.

Who are you, Dazai Osamu?

------------

Every Wednesday night, you meet your associates at the rooftop restaurant near his campus—the same one you brought him to for your first date. Dazai knows this. You told him this while the two of you were eating dinner, and he finally asked how the hell every waiter seemed to know you personally. You own the whole building, evidently, and it’s your go-to place for wining and dining your Mafia associates. You meet a different one once a week to maintain relations, usually on Wednesdays.

Dazai hasn’t been back here since that night you brought him, mainly because he can’t afford it, but also partly because he thinks he won’t be able to handle being back there when his only memory there is of you. This Wednesday, though, he forces himself to put on the suit you bought him for that government event and drags himself to the restaurant’s bar. You get to your meetings early—always at least fifteen minutes before anyone else arrives, so that you can keep an eye out for any potential traps or set-ups. That’s when he plans on bumping into you.

He had a feeling he was making a mistake as soon as he stepped into the building. It was too… you. The last time he stepped into the lobby, your arm was around his waist, and you guided him to the elevator as you greeted the staff. He got weird looks because he fell out of place amongst the elite of society, but you would rub a soothing circle on the back of his hand or his hip, and he would feel at ease again because he was with you, and he always felt at ease with you. 

Now, you’re not here to keep him at ease, and you’re not around to chase away the lingering stares, and Dazai feels very much out of place sitting at the bar with a glass of whiskey that is far too expensive for his meager wallet. He isn’t exactly sure how he’s going to pay for it, and he’s pretty sure the bartender has realized this from the way he keeps casting suspicious looks in his direction—Dazai had a feeling that the fancy suit would only throw them off for so long. You told him once that the rich sniff out those who don’t belong like bloodhounds, so he knew it was only a matter of time.

“Wow, One Hit Wonder, I think you are stalking me.” He hears your achingly familiar voice say from his left, and Dazai nearly chokes on his whiskey, head snapping to the side to focus on you. 

He knew you were coming, he planned this, but he’s still startled by the sight of you. You look beautiful—always do, but especially right now—you’re dressed in a new suit, arms crossed over your chest, head tilted to the side as you look down at him. Your gaze is soft, fond, and Dazai almost forgets to respond to you because he’s so stunned by the way you’re looking at him.

“I–uh–wouldn’t you be the one stalking me?” he splutters. “I was already here. Both times. All three times. You showed up all three times. You’re the stalker.”

Because he was waiting for you to show up, but you don’t need to know that. Dazai’s mouth dries when you raise your eyebrows at him, amused, and then you take a seat next to him at the bar. Immediately, the bartender comes over to give you your drink—he doesn’t even have to ask you, of course, he would know what you want. Your gaze flickers over to his almost empty glass, and you nod at it.

“Fill his up,” you say. “You can put it on my tab.”

Dazai pretends his cheeks don’t heat up as he averts his gaze, and says loudly, “Well, if it’s going on her tab, bring me calamari too.”

It says right on the sign that food isn’t served at the bar, and Dazai isn’t particularly hungry, but he just wants to see the way the bartender’s face twists up when he realizes that he can’t say no to Dazai because of you. That’s what he gets for giving Dazai dirty looks.

“You heard him,” you agree lazily when the bartender shoots you a questioning look. “Who are we to deny a celebrity?”

“Stop,” Dazai complains, burying his face in his hands. “You didn’t even like the book, stop talking about it.” 

“I did like it,” you disagree, taking a sip of your wine. “I didn’t like the ending.”

“Then you may as well have hated it,” Dazai huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away. “So you don’t get to talk about it.”

“No, I enjoyed it, really,” you insist, leaning back in your seat. Dazai is getting embarrassed; he really needs you to stop talking about his book. “I liked the plot, it was interesting. The romance—”

“Alright,” Dazai complains, flustered, turning his back to you and taking a long swig of his whiskey. “No more. Please.”

Your lips curve up into a small smile, and Dazai’s breath catches. It’s not the same as it was, but it’s close—so close that it makes his heart ache. Your smile is soft, and though your gaze isn’t quite there, it’s not as empty as it was when he met you the other day, and that’s enough to make his throat swell. 

“Fine, fine,” you agree, tossing him a teasing smile as you lean your elbow on the top of the bar. “What are you doing here, One Hit Wonder? Isn’t this place… mm, out of your pay range?”

“Well, that’s rude,” Dazai scowls, but you only look more amused by the expression he makes. “Look at what I’m wearing, what makes you think I can’t afford this?”

Now, Dazai is not and never has been stupid. That being said, he’s also never been particularly smart when you’re involved. He’s made a lot of silly decisions, ranging from trying to blackmail a mafia executive to running off to campus on some righteous mission to prove his worth while there were potentially three different criminal organizations hunting him down. So he realizes a second too late that maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned that his suit is from a luxury boutique that very few can get appointments at. You being one of them.

Your gaze flickers down, interested, and his breath catches when you reach out to touch the material of his suit jacket, pinching the sleeve between your fingers. You tilt your head to the side curiously and say, “This is one of Kido’s… who are you, Dazai?” 

Dazai doesn’t know how to reply to that. Doesn’t know how to tell you that he got this suit with you. Doesn’t know how to tell you that he hardly knows who he is without you anymore. He can’t tell you that he misses you. He can’t tell you that he hates you. He can’t tell you that he loves you. So he stays quiet for too long—so long that it should make you suspicious.

But it doesn’t.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Well?” you ask, leaning in a little with a flirty smile that flusters him. “C’mon. Give me the crash course, I have to go soon.”

Why aren’t you suspicious?

Dazai takes the out you unintentionally give him. “You just got here,” he complains. “Where are you going already?” 

Why aren’t you suspicious of him? 

Dazai feels sick to his stomach when you roll your eyes at his evasion instead of narrowing them. You should be suspicious of him—you were suspicious of him the first time around. You were suspicious of him when he wasn’t even doing anything wrong, when everything was just chance. Now Dazai is actively manufacturing these meetings with you, and there’s not even a hint of suspicion. 

Why not? What exactly has happened in the last six months?

“Business meeting,” you drawl, waving your hand flippantly. “Terribly boring.”

Dazai swallows the uncertainty bubbling in him, smoothing his hands against his slacks as he asks, “What kind of business are you in?”

You pause to take a sip of your drink, and Dazai can imagine the thoughts running through your head. How do you explain that you’re a mafia boss to a civilian who has “no idea” about what your profession is? It makes Dazai bitter. He knows you, he knows what you do, and he accepted you, and now he has to sit here and pretend he has no idea who you are? It’s so fucked up that it’s almost funny, that he almost wants to laugh, but more than that, he wants to cry. 

“I, uh, took over my father’s company recently,” you say as you take a sip of your wine. 

Ah, that’s right, he thinks bitterly, the Mori Corporation. You’re not even technically lying to him, which somehow is even worse. You’re clearly uncomfortable at the mention of Mori, just like how you were at the bar, but Dazai can’t help the way he twists the knife in deeper by pressing.

Dazai raises his eyebrows in mock curiosity and asks, “Your father owned a company? What type of company?”

He doesn’t find any pleasure in hurting you. He’s vindictive and angry, but the satisfaction he feels when you have to mask the pain on your face dissipates instantly, and then he only feels pain. He doesn’t like hurting you, it hurts him to hurt you—but maybe that’s exactly why he can’t stop himself from digging his fingers into your open wounds and pulling them open more.

You inhale and then say slowly, “It’s a… conglomerate. We have stakes in a bunch of different industries.”

“Impressive,” he forces out, voice strained. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Yeah,” you agree faintly. Your gaze flickers up to someone behind Dazai, and you say, “I should go. My meeting is starting soon.”

“Right,” Dazai whispers, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “Right, okay.”

You rise to your feet and then give him a small smile. It’s soft, gentle, and again, your eyes don’t match—not fully—but they’re not empty. It’s so close to what it used to be that it makes his chest ache with longing. 

“It was nice seeing you again, One Hit Wonder,” you say quietly.

Shit.

“You too,” he says weakly as you turn to leave, walking in the direction of a private room in the back.

You’re still not lying to him. Why not? Why not? Why not? Why was it nice seeing him? Why aren’t you suspicious of him? Dazai feels a bit manic, and he’s realizing too quickly that he might be out of his depth with this mission. Being around you is hell and heaven all at once, and it’s too much for him to handle. He’s so angry at you, but he misses you so much that it makes him sick. 

More than anything now, he’s confused—he doesn’t know what’s going on with you. You didn’t treat him like this the first time. You were so suspicious of him, Dazai could tell, and then at the end, everything with Mori confirmed it. Because even if you did ultimately believe Dazai when it came down to it, you hesitated. 

There was no faking the expression on your face as Mori told him about all of the “schemes” that Dazai concocted to get close to you. You’d believed him so easily because you were suspicious from the start, and Dazai doesn’t understand why you aren’t now. He doesn’t understand why you’re acting this way with him, doesn’t understand the teasing attitude and flirting, he doesn’t understand why you aren’t suspicious of him. You should be suspicious of him, he’s already set up running into you three times within a week and a half. 

You should be suspicious, but you’re not, and Ranpo’s words from the meeting the other day ring through his head. It makes his throat swell terribly with guilt.

Shit. He doesn’t know if he can do this. 

--------

You don’t know why you come to this place. It’s disgusting. The dumping ground by the ports stretches miles along the coast—piles of fragmented shipping containers litter the muddy ground, toxic substances disposed of in the area seep into the open soil, and countless rotting corpses are hidden in the guck, long forgotten, left for the earth to consume. You’re sure that one day you’ll be there amongst them once one of the many attempts on your life succeeds, and decisions like this certainly don’t help your odds.

It’s hard for you to get away from your tails on most days. Klaus is usually attached to your hip even when he’s not technically on duty—he has abandonment issues and gets anxious being apart from you. Akutagawa is impossible to lose if he’s the one meant to be your protection detail for the day. Atsushi’s tiger senses allow him to easily track you down when you try to slip away. 

And Chuuya is Chuuya—nothing else needs to be said there.

But on Fridays, one of the Flags is supposed to be your detail because Klaus and Akutagawa go into Tokyo to handle meetings with the Sun and Steel’s special operations unit, working with Hirotsu to get them merged with the Black Lizard, and Chuuya is busy in virtual meetings all day with Nicomedes Joaquin. The Flags are all too busy to be attached to you at once—usually, it’s Iceman or Albatross that tags along with you where you go, but sometimes it’s one of the other three. 

That being said, since they’re all busy, it’s not too hard to… confuse them. 

You tell Iceman that Albatross is with you, and Albatross that Iceman is. You tell Piano Man and Lippmann that Albatross took over for the day, because those two are more likely to seek him out if they think he’s available, and you tell Doc that Iceman took over for the day, because he’s more likely to seek him out if he thinks he’s available. This way, Albatross and Iceman are left alone to have a day off—Albatross, without fail, goes down to a club in Sakae-ku, and Iceman goes to a bar in Aoba-ku to meet some woman, no one bothers them because they think they’re working, and they both think the other is on the job, so you have at least a handful of hours to do what you want until Chuuya comes looking for you after his meetings. 

You don’t do this often because you don’t want them to catch on, but you have to at least once a month—you just need a few hours to yourself without someone hovering over you. Usually, you go to a park—the fresh air and… normality does you well after weeks of being cooped up in the black towers. But sometimes, you find yourself here: the southern ports in Naka-ku, wandering the edges of the dumping grounds the mafia uses for all of its most unsavory waste. 

You tell yourself it’s because of how forsaken this place is. Nobody comes to this abandoned shipping yard because everybody knows it’s Port Mafia territory—civilians keep a wide berth, even the government refuses to tread through the sludge when they know many of their cold cases would be solved here. You know you won’t be disturbed here—not even animals, field mice, even roaches, none of them come near this dumping ground. This is the only place in Yokohama where, at its center, you won't find a single living being within a mile.

You can think here. You’re not as suffocated by the lack of Mori’s presence and the reminder of what you did to him like you are when you’re in his office, and you don’t have to worry about eyes forever lingering on you. You’re left alone with your thoughts… whether it’s for better or for worse is still up in the air.

You exhale quietly as you step out of the car. You parked on the far end of the shipping yard. Whenever you come here, you walk along the edges of the yard. Usually, one loop is enough for you to clear your head, sometimes two when you’re trying to figure out how to proceed with whatever business is coming up, occasionally three or four if you’re in a particularly bad headspace. 

Today is just business. Two loops, most likely.

You shove your hands in your pockets as you walk down the long abandoned road. War has broken out between the South’s Song and the Red Chamber in Beijing, so Cao Xueqin is out of your hair for the time being. Qu Yuan hasn’t reached out to you for assistance yet, but she will. It’s only a matter of time. You haven’t decided yet who you’re going to send over to her—probably one of Tolstoy’s units, maybe Gorky’s. You don’t want to send over Chekhov’s, you need him available to come to Yokohama once things start heating up with the government. Gorky is more expendable.

But your first priority is figuring out who exactly Dostoevsky’s informant in the government is before any conflicts break out. You need to be able to funnel misinformation to him, because once the military police and the Hunting Dogs come down on Yokohama, you know he’ll follow. He’s always been a vulture, letting other organizations do the dirty work so he can swoop in once and pick at the corpses for what he wants. 

You’ve been testing it over the past few months of meetings with him. He likes flaunting information to you, taunting you with the realization that his rats are everywhere, listening to everything, even in the highest levels of the Japanese government. You know how information trickles down through the government, so every time you know that you’re meeting Dostoevsky, you’ll meet up with certain members of the Diet, Cabinet, and the military in the days before. 

You started broad. You chatted with groups of Representatives and Councillors at events, attended the Prime Minister’s sister’s wedding to whisper some words into the ears of his Cabinet, and met with some of the highest-ranking officers in the military for dinner under the guise of coming to an agreement. You narrowed down the rat to being somewhere within the military, high-ranked at that, because there wasn’t enough time for the information to trickle down into the lower-ranked officers between the time you met with them and the night you met Dostoevsky.

You hope that tomorrow you can figure out if it’s one of the high-ranking officers of the service branches or one of the special operations divisions. You’d prefer it if it’s the former rather than the latter, because the special ops divisions will be harder to clean. You’ve burned regular officers out of their positions before—bribed them, discredited them, and then fed them to the wolves—but the special ops officers don’t have the same arrogance that the ones in the service branches do. They’ll be more careful, more suspicious, and it’ll be harder for you to convince the rest that one among them is an imposter when it comes from an outsider—they’re bound through the shared experiences of all of the awful things they’ve done at the request of the government.

 You sigh as you lower your gaze to the ground, kicking absently at a stray piece of asphalt and watching it bounce down the road. Once you have an idea of where Dostoevsky’s informant is, you can start to plan out everything else. You’ll need to figure out when the government is going to send the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama, and then you just… need to prepare.

You lift your hand to rub your face. You’re so tired, you can feel the weariness deep in your bones, in your soul—it’s been conflict after conflict since you took over as boss, and you’re not sure how much more of it you can take. You just want to rest. You want one day without the weight of Mori’s scarf draped around your neck. One day that you’re not constantly reminded of what you did to him. One day where you can pretend to be normal.

You just want—

Your thoughts come to an abrupt halt when you see a familiar figure standing at the edge of the deserted road. It’s the author that you’ve run into a few times this week. He doesn’t even notice you—he’s staring down the steep slope leading into a particularly gross puddle of muck, an odd, conflicted expression on his face.

What the hell is he doing here?

You don’t even call out to him. You’re so flabbergasted by the sight of him that a part of you almost thinks you might be hallucinating him, but you’re not. He’s there, several yards in front of you in the heart of Port Mafia territory, dressed in a cream sweater and khakis, with hands shoved in his pockets and head hanging low. 

Your lips part to say something, but you don’t even know what to say. A part of you wants to demand to know what he’s doing here—because it’s suspicious, isn’t it? You swallow thickly, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he might be here. Maybe he doesn’t know what this place is (how wouldn’t he know? everybody knows). Maybe he does know, but he’s an author, authors do weird things for creative inspiration, don’t they? Maybe he purposely came here to try to get inspiration for a new book after the number of times you taunted him over being a one-hit wonder.

“Dazai?” you finally ask. Your voice wavers over his name, and you watch as he stiffens instantly, dark eyes cutting to the side. He looks… nervous, like you caught him somewhere you weren’t supposed to. “What are you… doing here?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, which sets off some alarm bells. Why would he be here? And why does he look like he’s just been caught red-handed? The only people who come here are… the cleaning crew. No one comes here, not even petty criminals looking to scavenge through the rubble for something to sell for a quick buck. Has he been… lying to you? But about what? Who is he?

No. There must be another explanation.

“Dazai?” you press again. “What are you doing here? It’s not safe.”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” he asks instead of answering your question. Your eyes narrow, and like he realizes that he deflected, he stammers out, “I just—I come here to think sometimes. It’s quiet.”

“Right,” you agree quietly. “Me too.”

You don’t know if you believe him. His reaction to you seeing him here was strange, on top of the immediate attempt at deflecting your question. It was suspicious, definitely, because of all places, he’s going to come here? It doesn’t really make sense even if you attribute it to… eccentricity, especially taking into account how you’ve bumped into him three times, two of the places being mafia establishments.

Is it on purpose? Is he orchestrating these meetings? Sent by an enemy organization or the government to get close to you? 

More importantly… Does it matter if he is? 

You swallow thickly at the last thought that crosses your mind, blinking as you look down at the ground. Klaus’s words from that morning at the cafe ring through your mind: “For a second, you almost seemed happy.” 

You have enjoyed your brief encounters with Dazai. You’re not sure why, but you’re not sure if it matters why, because it’s been so long since you’ve been able to exist without the overwhelming weight of your life bearing down on your shoulders. And for some reason, during your brief encounters with him, it lifts. 

You can breathe. 

You can almost feel… normal.

It’s what you’ve been desperate for, it’s what you’ve needed so badly, so you think even if he is some sort of plant, you might as well… enjoy this while it lasts, right? It might be your only chance for it, and what’s the worst that could happen anyway? Your life is already as bad as it can get. What’s he going to do? Kill you? You’re at the point where you might welcome it.

“Um—”

“Are you—”

You both speak at the same time, and you bite your tongue instantly before raising your eyebrows at him, beckoning him to continue.

“Are you sure you’re not stalking me?” he finally asks, clearing his throat as the playful lilt returns to his voice. There’s something odd in his eyes, though—uncertainty, maybe? “I mean, four times now. Kind of weird. If you have a crush on me, you can just say it.”

“Right,” you repeat dryly, and then look around pointedly. “You come here to think?”

Dazai’s cheeks flush pink as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s… hard to explain. I just—I think better here.”

“You’re pretty weird, y’know that?” you say absently, making your way over to him to glance down at where he was staring. 

There’s nothing there—just a puddle of dark slush dribbling out of a large pipe beneath the road—but for some reason, your chest gets all twisted up and for a brief second, you feel a familiar, heavy weight in your hand. Disconcerted, you look away and take a step back, shoving your hands in your pocket before returning your attention to Dazai, who seems to have noticed your odd reaction from how he squints at you.

“You’re here too,” he says with a scowl instead of calling out your strange behavior. “What does that make you?”

Your lips curl up into an easy smile as you shrug. “Pretty weird, I guess.”

Dazai’s expression softens, a smile matching your own tugging at his lips as he looks over you. It’s almost dusk now, and Dazai looks stunning beneath the setting sun. His dark eyes look like warm pools of honey, and there’s a pink flush on his cheeks as he looks at you. The expression on his face is strange—there’s a shine to his eyes and the corners of his lips are tight, like he’s trying to force them to stop trembling. 

He looks sad, you realize, wondering if maybe you interrupted him.

“You come here to… think too?” he finally asks, voice hesitant. When you nod, he asks quietly, “Why here?”

You don’t have an answer to that. You don’t know why you come here. You tell yourself it’s for the solitude, but you have a gut feeling that it’s something more than that. You could go anywhere for solitude—Itou’s old place up on the cliffside south of Higashikoiso or the property you and Chuuya bought on the Hokkaido coastline—but for some reason, you find yourself here every time. And it’s not like you ever feel better after coming here. In fact, you usually feel worse; the weight on your chest gets heavier, and you return to headquarters feeling all too lonely, heart in your throat and stomach churning.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I don’t know why here.”

You don’t think Dazai will be satisfied with that answer. You expect him to press more, or make some sort of teasing remark, but he only smiles to himself, gaze lowering to the ground as if your answer pleased him for some reason.

“Guess we’re both weirdos then,” he says lightly, but you have a feeling that’s not what made him smile. Before you can question it, he continues, “What’d you come here to think about?”

You don’t really know how to respond to that. You can’t exactly tell him that you’re worried about a three-front war breaking out in Yokohama between the Mafia you’re boss of, the government, and Fyodor Dostoevsky’s slimy organization, but you don’t want to outright lie, so you say:

“Business issues,” you say, sighing as you lean back on your heels. “New government regulations… competitors trying to take advantage, pushing us into a corner. It’s a whole mess.”

His lips curve up into a small smile like he knows something you don’t, and you tilt your head to the side curiously, squinting at him, but he only shakes his head.

“Well, the best defense is a good offense,” he says airily. “Get them to back off by targeting them somehow.”

“It’s not—” you start to say, but then pause. Getting the government to back off is out of the picture, Dostoevsky will be just as hard, but maybe not impossible if you can get Nabokov involved. You don’t really want to get more people involved than you have to—you’re already displeased about Qu Yuan—but Nabokov owes you for handling the White Guard for him. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“So I’ve been told,” Dazai teases instead of getting offended, leaning in just a little with a sweet smile. “How do I look? Pretty, right?”

You scoff and roll your eyes before asking, “What about you? What did you come here to think about?” 

His smile falls, gaze averting to the ground for a moment. He hesitates for a moment and then says, “Someone I used to care about. A lot.”

You tilt your head to the side. “The same person that made you write that bitter ass ending to your book?” 

“It was not bitter,” he scowls at you, but it’s only half-hearted. His shoulders slump as he whispers, “Yeah. Same person.”

Dazai doesn’t look at you now. He looks crushed as he turns his gaze back out to the shipping yard. His eyes are glassy, and his lips are pressed together tightly, fingers trembling in front of his body before he shoves his hands back into his pockets. Something twists in your chest at the sight of him so hung up on someone who hurt him, and you’re not sure why, so you press your lips together and push the thought away, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest. 

“Whoever they are, it’s their loss,” you tell him quietly. You’re usually good at knowing what to say and when to say it, but you find yourself at a bit of a loss here. You want to say something else, but you end up just resigning yourself to standing there with him.

“Right,” he agrees quietly, like he doesn’t believe it himself. “I should get going.”

“Right,” you echo, feeling a bit disappointed when he turns his back on you to leave. After a moment’s hesitation, you call after him, “Dazai?” 

He pauses and looks over his shoulder back at you. His voice is hoarse as he asks, “What is it?”

“I’m gonna be back at that cafe Sunday morning,” you say awkwardly, barely withholding a wince when you see the confusion fly across his face. “... If you’ll be there too.”

“Are you…asking me out on a date?” he asks, lips curving up into a teasing smile. His eyes light up, but they’re a bit distant, like he’s still lost in his own head. “How forward.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say dryly, rolling your eyes and turning to leave. “Bye, One Hit Wonder. See you there or not.”

“... See you there.”

-----------

Dazai doesn’t understand. 

It’s been three weeks since he first bumped into you at the bar. Three weeks since he started orchestrating encounters with you. Three weeks since he made the deal with the Armed Detective Agency to get close to you for information that can be used against the Port Mafia. 

Three weeks, and you haven’t accused him of anything.

No suspicious glances. No speculative stares. No questioning the way he just always happens to be there—on the same street, at the same cafe, in the same bar drinking a glass of whiskey he can’t afford. You smile when you see him. You talk to him like he belongs there. Like he’s welcome. Like you trust him.

He doesn’t understand. 

You should have noticed by now. You should have long noticed. You should have been suspicious of him that first day at the cafe, and you definitely should’ve been suspicious when you ran into him at the bar. He thought he was done for sure when he ran into you at the same place where you faked his death—that one hadn’t even been intentional, he really does go there sometimes to think, and he never expected you to go there too.

It was… welcome confirmation that maybe you still subconsciously remember him, because why else would you be drawn there to think? What else was that strange reaction you had when you looked over the edge of the road, where his body had dropped over the edge six months ago, and then immediately looked away, confused? Even with your memories of him wiped, your heart and subconscious still remember. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be drawn to such a disgusting area, and you wouldn’t have been so disturbed by the location where you once had to shoot him in the head. 

You seemed to be uncertain when you initially noticed him there. There was no disguising the hesitance on your face as you studied him, asking him what he was doing there, but when he thought that all was lost and he was fumbling out excuses so you didn’t actually kill him in the same place where you faked his death, your expression smoothed out and you teased him.

And Dazai doesn’t understand.

Or maybe it’s less that he doesn’t understand, and more that he doesn’t want to understand. Because if he’s right and you’re drawn to that area because you subconsciously remember him… It’s probably the same subconscious memory of him that’s leading you to brush off all of the things that should be setting off all of the alarm bells that he knows you have, and it’s making him sick to his stomach. That means he’s taking advantage of your memory loss, taking advantage of the trust you still unwittingly have for him to manipulate you. To spy on you. To hurt you.

And he doesn’t want to hurt you.

God, he doesn’t want to hurt you. He thought he did. He thought he was vindictive, he thought he wanted to hurt you half as bad as you hurt him when you wiped your memory of him, but he doesn’t. He feels nauseous with guilt knowing he’s doing exactly what he was once accused of. He knows you’re not doing well—he knew it the first time he ran into you, and he’s seen it in every subsequent meeting. Your eyes are empty every time you enter a room, you don’t hold your head high, and what’s even worse, you only seem to brighten when you see him. 

Your eyes light up, and you straighten up as you lift your hand to wave to him when you find him waiting for you at the cafe. You tell him in advance the mornings that you stop at the cafe, and he can tell that you’re hoping he’ll be there too. You look forward to your meetings with him, and Dazai feels sick every time he realizes it might be the only thing in your life you have to look forward to. 

And Dazai likes meeting with you, too. Not every time. Some days he’s bitter and angry, and he has to make an effort not to show it on his face or in his tone when he’s talking to you. Some mornings, he considers not going after he tells you he’ll see you there because he knows you’ll be disappointed. He doesn’t, of course, because he doesn’t want to hurt you; he’s just upset and resentful because he wants to be doing all of this with a you that remembers him. 

But it’s also because he likes meeting with you.

It’s… It’s not refreshing. He doesn’t really know what the word is for it, but there’s something about getting to know you when you’re not cold and withdrawn with suspicion, and he’s not analyzing your every word and action for answers as to who you are, that’s nice. He can let himself just be in the moment with you. He can let himself laugh when you tease him about his taste in literature. He can let himself engage you in debates about why you think Petrarchan sonnets are better than Shakespearan sonnets (which you get oddly passionate about). He can toss around ideas with you for his new novel, and he finds himself smiling at your enthusiasm. He’s even started writing again—not depressing poetry that he rage and grief writes, but his novel. He’s already written three chapters since he’s started meeting you again.

Dazai never stopped loving you, but somehow, he can almost let himself fall in love with you all over again. 

He can almost let himself forget what he’s there for. 

But he never does. Not for long, and not entirely. The moment always comes—after the laughter, after the coffee, after your hand brushes his on the table and you don’t immediately pull away, that crushing reminder of what he’s doing always returns.

You trust him. A part of you, deep down, still remembers him.

And he’s lying to you. Using you. Manipulating you. Hurting you.

Your early morning meetings at the cafe never last long—twenty-five, thirty minutes max—but he always walks away from them feeling like he needs to scrub his skin raw. He keeps telling himself that he’s doing what’s necessary. It’s this or the Hunting Dogs coming down on Yokohama, and you getting caught in the crossfire of it. It’s this or risking you getting hurt or killed. It’s this or losing any chance at you ever regaining your memories of him. 

He’s doing what’s necessary.

He’s doing this to protect you.

He’s doing this to get you back.

It doesn’t change the way his heart aches when you smile at him, and it doesn’t change the way nausea builds in his stomach when your eyes light up at the sight of him.

Sometimes, he thinks about telling you. Not everything—not about the Agency, certainly, because he doesn’t want to put them at risk. You’re still you, and as sweet as you can be with him, he knows there’s a cold and calculating mafia executive—boss, now—behind the pretty face and soft smiles. But sometimes, he wants to tell you something. He wants to hint at your past together and wants to see if your brows furrow in confusion or if your eyes glaze over as you try to remember a memory you no longer have.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t want to open that door. A part of him is scared of what he might find on the other side of it. As much as he wants you to remember—because he does want you to remember, that’s the whole point of this—he's not sure if he’s ready for it to happen so soon. The closer he gets to you, and the closer he gets to figuring out where those paintings are that store your memories of him, the more anxious he gets.

Because right now, even if it is all built on a lie, he almost has what he used to have with you. You look at him softly, and you smile at him gently, and Dazai wants to be able to enjoy it for a little while longer. He deserves it, he thinks, for the six months of hell he went through.

 Once he pulls the trigger, once your memories return, he doesn’t know how you’ll react, but he can imagine. He can imagine the anger in your eyes when you realize that everything you did to protect him was for nothing. He can imagine the frustration when you realize that he tore everything apart because he selfishly wanted you back. He can imagine the betrayal on your face when you realize the past few weeks with him have been nothing but manipulation, and worse, if you figure out that he’s been working with the Armed Detective Agency against you, that he’s been getting close to you to bring down the Port Mafia. 

If that happens, he might lose you entirely, even if you do have your memories back. You’ve never been one to take betrayal lightly. 

Dazai doesn’t think he can survive that.

So he keeps quiet. He keeps playing the part he promised to play, keeps working to get closer to you to gather intel for the Agency. He knows he’s been acting strangely and they’re probably getting suspicious of him—they know that he has a past with you, and they know he has his own reasons for agreeing to this—but he still doesn’t like the unreadable look Kunikida casts his way whenever he walks into the room, and he especially doesn’t like the knowing one that Ranpo sets on him. Yosano is the only one who still acts normally with him, and he knows it’s probably for your sake more than his. He still doesn’t know the full story of your past with her, but he knows Yosano cares deeply about you and worries about you even now after what you’ve become. 

He forces himself not to care, and he lets himself enjoy his early morning meetings with you. He lets himself bask in this before it’s inevitably ripped away.

He sometimes watches you absently stare down at your coffee and wonders if you feel it too—the hollowness, the yearning, the sense that something is missing, and no matter how many cigarettes you burn through or how many nights you drown yourself in alcohol, the emptiness never really goes away.

Sometimes, you say things that nearly make him cry. You’ll laugh at something he says and then pause, brows knitting, and whisper, “This feels familiar… weird, right?”

And he smiles, tight-lipped, and says something like, “Deja vu, maybe?”

It isn’t. He has a feeling you might know it too, but neither of you pushes it. He could, but he doesn’t know what will happen if he does, doesn’t know what he’ll do if he succeeds.

What will happen when you do remember? 

Would you still smile when you saw him or would your expression go cold?

Would you hate him for what he’s been doing the past few weeks or would you forgive him?

Would you cast him out or would you let him come home?

He wants to believe you would. He really wants to believe there’s still a version of this where you forgive him. There’s still a version of this where you understand why he’s doing what he’s doing, even if you don’t agree with it. There’s still a version of this where you choose him.

But life has proven time and time again that Dazai doesn’t get happy endings. 

“Dazai, are you even paying attention?” Yosano asks, hands on her hips as she stands near the whiteboard with Kunikida. She’s frowning at him, not in disappointment, but in concern, which Dazai personally thinks is worse. “This is important. It’s our only chance of getting in Port Mafia headquarters.”

Dazai grimaces. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “Was distracted.”

As he’s been for the majority of the last few meetings with them, but thankfully, they don’t call him out on it. 

“It’s fine,” Yosano replies after a moment, too understanding with him. “Just listen up this time, okay?” 

Kunikida sighs as he pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “We received intel that in two weeks, the Mori Corporation is going to be hosting an event at their headquarters.”

Dazai blinks. “What?”

Why would you do that? Dazai is baffled as his mind races, trying to figure out why the hell you would be hosting an event at Port Mafia headquarters when there’s so much suspicion on the organization. He knows through the Armed Detective Agency that the government has been on its ass for months, and he knows you know it because he’s pretty sure that whenever you’re ranting about “government regulations,” you’re actually talking about the military bill that passed a few weeks after the two of you separated. He also knows that the government is apparently only one of your problems, considering you’re also constantly venting about competitors that he assumes are enemy organizations.

So why would you invite more attention?

Unless that’s precisely why, he realizes, leaning back in his seat as he thinks to himself. If you’re drawing attention to headquarters in the middle of a storm of suspicion, then you’re not doing it as some arrogant flex of power. You’re not careless or stupid, so there’s a reason he’s missing.

“She’s trying to draw someone out,” he realizes quietly, barely realizing he’s interrupted Kunikida. “But who?

“What?” Yosano frowns.

“The event,” he says slowly, already going over the potential scenarios in his head. He doubts you’d be trying to draw out the government—one of the Port Mafia’s enemies, then? Or… “She wouldn’t just be hosting it to posture. She’s doing it to get someone’s attention—maybe even ours. She wants someone to come looking, to take the bait, that’s why she’s making the venue so obvious.”

Kunikida narrows his eyes. “You think it’s a trap,” he says. “Is she suspicious of you? Did you let anything slip?”

“No, she’s not,” he dismisses. “I—”

“Dazai,” Yosano interrupts, voice cautious. “If she’s suspicious of you, you could be in danger.”

“She’s not suspicious of me,” Dazai repeats loudly. He doesn’t mean for his voice to crack, but it does. That’s the whole problem—you’re not suspicious of him, and you should be, and it makes him sick to his stomach. “She’s not. I’m not in danger.”

There’s a moment of silence. Kunikida and Yosano exchange looks with one another at his abrupt outburst, and Ranpo studies him carefully. Dazai wants to shrivel and die.

“Well,” Kunikida finally says, tone clipped. “Whether it’s a trap or just a way to provoke chaos, it’s an opportunity we can’t afford to waste. If the Port Mafia is opening its doors, even for a single evening, we need to be there. It could be our only opportunity to stop a major conflict from breaking out in Yokohama.”

Could it be a trap for the Armed Detective Agency? Dazai isn’t sure. He knows he’s been extra careful not to implicate them in his conversations with you, so you shouldn’t know anything from what he’s said to you, but god knows what type of intel you get from your insiders. He knows you have some high up informants in the government. If you have any inkling that the Agency might be working with the government…

“You guys shouldn’t come to this event,” he says tightly. His throat swells as he remembers what you had done to Professor Ui and the journalists at the Ivory Eagle. “She… If it’s you guys that she’s trying to lure out… You don’t want to fall for that trap. But I can go. She trusts me. I’ll be okay.”

The words escape Dazai before he can really understand what he’s saying, and he shifts uncomfortably when Kunikida squints at him—not with judgment, but with something closer to worry. Worry for him.

“Are you sure you’re… okay with all of this?” Kunikida asks hesitantly. “You don’t have to keep doing this, we can find another way, I—”

Dazai shoots him a withering look. He doesn’t even want to know what expression must be on his face for Kunikida to be giving him that look and talking to him all softly like he’s about to break.

“Ah, Kunikida-kun, I didn’t know you loved me so much. You don’t need to worry,” he says, faux-playfulness in his tone but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine. I’ll do it.”

Is he fine though? What the hell is he supposed to do? You haven’t invited him to this event, and he can’t show up without really blowing everything out of the water. If he shows up there, you’ll be forced to confront him and acknowledge that he’s been orchestrating these meetings with you. Manipulating you. Using you.

But if they go, and this is a trap for them, who knows what you’ll have done to them. And the detectives in the Agency have been here for Dazai in the last six months—all of them have checked in on him in some manner to make sure he’s okay. They took him under their wing so quickly when he showed up at the cafe that day. They didn’t press when he couldn’t answer their questions about you without choking up, and they didn’t take offense when he got vile and defensive if they caught him on a particularly bad day.

They accepted him as he was and with open arms, so Dazai wasn’t going to let them go out and put themselves in danger. Especially not when he knows what you’re capable of.

“If Dazai can get into this event through an invitation…” Tanizaki says, leaning forward. “We were going to try to sneak in as attendants, there’s a huge chance of us getting caught if we go about it that way.”

“It’s up to Dazai,” Yosano says, looking at him with a frown. “... But I really don’t like the idea of sending you in there alone. It’ll be dangerous. Pit of the snakes and all. If you get caught there, we can’t even use Tanizaki-kun for extraction because of your ability.”

Kunikida looks displeased. “I don’t like this at all.”

“I’ll handle it,” he replies, quieter now. “I can get the invitation.”

He doesn’t know how he’ll manage it. Maybe you’ll mention the event during one of your early morning meetings in the next few days, and he can steer the conversation that way and invite himself along. Maybe you’ll even invite him once you realize what he’s getting at. He doubts it—even if the event is under the guise of a Mori Corporation event, he knows it’s going to be a Mafia one, and he knows that there are going to be a lot of unsavory figures in attendance. You’ll need to be focused on all of the things happening there and whatever your plan is, not him.

Getting an invite is not going to be easy.

Yosano still looks like she wants to argue, but she relents with a sigh. “Be careful, Dazai. Please.”

Ranpo doesn’t say anything. He just stares at him with a gaze that sees far too much, and it takes every ounce of Dazai’s strength not to look away.

-----------

“And why is it that we’re here tonight, Dostoevsky?” you drawl as you enter the private room in the Ryugin, one of Chuuya’s favorite restaurants in Tokyo. You adjust your fur shawl with one gloved hand, lifting your chin as the man rises to his feet to greet you. “Have you grown bored of our shows?” 

“Hardly,” Dostoevsky replies, holding his hand out and beckoning you to place yours in it. You raise your eyebrows at him before doing as he wishes, watching as he leans down to brush his lips against your knuckles, lingering for just a moment too long. “But I thought tonight deserved a quieter stage.”

“Is that so?” you hum, careful to keep the expression on your face unbothered when his fingers brush the inside of your wrist. He releases your hand after a second, straightening as he tilts his head to the side to look down at you. “And why is that?” 

Dostoevsky’s smile is as enigmatic as ever, teeth sharp beneath the dim golden lights of the private room. There’s a glimmer in his eyes—dangerous, amused, and you know that this meeting is not going to fall in your favor. You’ve come out of the last two on top, narrowing down the place of his informant to one of the government's most elite special operation units, but you have yet to pinpoint the exact unit they’re in. This meeting will not be as kind to you—Dostoevsky is too at ease, and that’s never a good thing. 

“Because things are finally about to begin,” he says lightly. You press your lips together and wait for him to continue. When he does, he changes the topic. “Utilizing Nabokov was a good move. I had to divert more resources than I was comfortable with back to the motherland… It wasn’t quite enough, though.”

You had a feeling it wouldn’t be, but with Dostoevsky’s attention split, your job becomes easier, if only marginally. You don’t sit down right away, even when he beckons you to. Instead, you trail your fingers across the smooth lacquer of the table, gaze fixed on him. Dostoevsky has always been dangerous, but there’s something different tonight. You can feel it in the air, in the way the servers left so quickly, in the way only the two of you are here, in the way he’s looking at you. 

“Are they?” you ask slowly, ignoring his last comment. “I’ve only been waiting six months for you to finally make your move.”

Dostoevsky chuckles lowly, pulling out your chair. You sit down after a moment and let him slide your chair in. Your breath catches when he leans down behind you, lips brushing your ear and hands resting on your shoulders, slowly sliding down to your biceps.

“Not me, my dear,” he murmurs, voice soft as it is suffocating. “Not yet.”

Dostoevsky finally pulls away to lower himself into the seat across from you, folding his hands in front of him. You try to brush off the way his proximity left your hair standing on end. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” you reply dryly. “You’ve always been one to pick at the corpses after everything has settled. You’re much like a vulture, you know?”

Dostoevsky smiles like it’s a compliment, fingers drumming once against the edge of the table before they still. “And yet, here you are—dining with the vulture.”

“Here I am,” you echo flatly, watching as a waiter brings out two glasses of red wine. You wait for him to leave before asking, “If not you, then who?”

“Where is the fun in cluing you in?” Dostoevsky hums. “I would much prefer to watch it all unfold on its own. Unless, of course, you have something to exchange for the information.”

“Information doesn’t come free from either of us,” you reply coolly. “And I’m not in the habit of trading truths for your riddles. I know better than to deal with snakes—your exchanges are never fair.”

“Do you?” he questions, eyes glittering in a way that makes you pause. “Because it seems you’ve become quite… fond of one the past few weeks.”

Dostoevsky is a filthy liar. You know this. In the years you spent with him abroad, you watched him spin complex and meticulous lies at a moment’s notice—the two of you had made a game of narrating stories of your pasts, seeing which of you could get away with weaving in the most lies without getting caught. Dostoevsky has lied people into bankruptcy and the grave with the same soft eyes and pretty smile he wears now—you’ve laughed along with him as he did it. You know better than anyone what he’s capable of.

But he doesn’t seem to be lying right now, and that makes you hesitate. 

“Here,” Dostoevsky says, taking a sip of his wine. “How about instead of trading information, you trade an invitation?”

Your only response is to raise your eyebrows at him.

“I want to come to the event you’re hosting next week,” he explains with an easy smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to attend a good party.”

“You can’t be serious,” you say flatly. “Absolutely not. Why?”

“I told you,” he replies. “It’s been a while since I’ve attended a proper party, and I have a feeling this one is going to be quite entertaining. I assure you, my information is well worth the invitation.”

You’re half inclined to laugh in his face, but you find yourself hesitating. Having a snake in your inner circle when the government is preparing to bring down its wrath on the Port Mafia is not in your best interests, but having Dostoevsky attend an event where you’re trying to lure out some of the Port Mafias more… reckless enemies before war breaks out is equally ill-advised.

But which is worse?

“Fine,” you finally say firmly. “If I suspect you’re plotting anything, you’ll long for death, Dostoevsky.”

Dostoevsky lifts a hand to his heart in mock sincerity. “I will be on my best behavior, I assure you. I only wish to observe.”

“The information,” you prod.

“I got word from my informant that the government has made a deal with the Armed Detective Agency,” he says, leaning back in his seat, a more serious expression settling on his face as he studies you. “They were… concerned that they were wasting time waiting for the detectives to fulfill their end of the bargain. They were under the belief that you were planning to use the event to draw out and assassinate some of the more persistent advocates for military intervention in Yokohama.”

You have to force yourself not to react. Even if the information about the ‘snake’ turns out useless, the invitation has already become worth it. You funneled that little piece of misinformation into the ears of one unit: the Hunting Dogs. 

Is Dostoevsky’s informant in the ranks of Japan’s most elite group of ability users? 

The thought is chilling. You’ll need to confirm it, but you have to share your suspicions with the executives as soon as you can, because the implications if you’re right… Well, they’re very dark to say the least.

“As if I would be that stupid,” you scoff instead. Then, you add derisively, “Although, I assure you I haven’t gotten close to any of the Agency’s detectives.”

“I told them as much,” Dostoevsky hums, taking another sip of his wine, eyes sharp and calculating as he studies your face. “I figure someone must have purposely fed them wrong intel.”

“I wonder why,” you say off-handedly.

“I wonder indeed,” he echoes, carefully examining your expression before frowning, evidently coming away answerless. “It’s not one of the detectives they’re using, my dear. It’s a civilian. An author.”

The amusement and satisfaction that settled in your chest immediately disappears as you sit up in your seat. A civilian, an author, ‘you’ve become quite fond of one these past few weeks.’ 

Dazai?

“The detectives would never risk using a civilian to do their dirty work,” you dismiss immediately. “They’re too honorable for that.”

“I thought the same,” Dostoevsky agrees lightly, “but it’s true. The government offered them two jobs: either get information to call for the removal of Walter Lippmann from office or capture and hand over the foreign terrorist who goes by the name of Klaus Mann. I assume since the civilian is trying to get close to you, that they’re attempting the former.”

Lies, you want to immediately spit out, but the word catches in your throat. You had been suspicious of how many times he bumped into you—especially that evening at the shipping yard—but you let yourself be willfully blind.

“Do you have proof?” you ask flatly, “or are you just spinning another lie?”

“Come, darling,” Dostoevsky drawls. “We know each other well enough to know when the other is lying. I don’t have proof for you, but you can prove it yourself… I’m sure over the next couple days, he’s going to try to find a way to get an invite to the event you’re hosting. When he does, he’ll be expected to immediately go back to the detectives so they can plan. Offer to walk him back to wherever he’s going—he’ll either refuse or lead you to the cafe beneath the Agency. Either way, you’ll have your answer.”

“Or he’ll just lead me somewhere else,” you say dryly, but your voice is tighter than you intended for it to be.

He won’t. You’ve noticed over the past few weeks that Dazai is extraordinarily smooth and good with words whenever he’s talking to anyone but you. Whenever you catch him off guard, he’ll fumble with an answer and get embarrassed, cheeks flushing a pretty pink as buries his face in his hands and groans. 

If you offer this, he’ll fumble and then refuse, and you’ll have your answer. 

But do you want it? Do you really want to know? 

You’re not sure.

“He won’t,” Dostoevsky confirms your thoughts. Then, he leans forward a bit, a playful smile dancing on his lips. “Although, I am curious, what exactly drew you to him? I must say, I’m a bit jealous of how fond you are of him.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “He entertains me,” you reply flatly, even though it’s in no way so simple to describe. You don’t even know why you’re so drawn to him. “Green is unflattering on you, and jealousy implies there’s something between us that makes you feel threatened by him. There is nothing between us.”

“There’s no color unflattering on me,” he dismisses, “and you and I both know that there is certainly something between us.”

“Yes, irritation. Mostly on my part,” you scoff. “There is nothing between us, though I often wish there was a wall.”

Dostoevsky laughs, delighted by the snide comment. Then, he repeats with a teasing smile, “We know each other well enough to know when the other is lying.”

“Sure,” you agree with a roll of your eyes.

“Are Tolstoy and his cousin still in the city?” Dostoevsky suddenly prods, changing the subject. When you raise your eyebrows, he says, “Just curious if I’ll see them at the event.”

“For your sake, you should hope not,” you tell him. “Tolstoy prays for your death every day.”

Dostoevsky sighs dramatically. “He never did get over Tula,” he says more to himself than to you. “So emotional. It was only business.”

“That business cost him all four of his siblings and his parents,” you remind him, “and you only got him involved through a lie.”

Dostoevsky waves his hand dismissively. “Collateral damage for a greater good.”

“I’m sure,” you agree dryly.

“Well, business has concluded,” he says with a contemplative look, dark hair framing his face prettily as he tilts his head to the side inquisitively. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

You know you should probably take the opportunity to go, but you find yourself hesitating—you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts tonight, not when Dostoevsky has thrown in your face that the one thing you’ve been able to look forward to these past few weeks might be a lie. Your gaze meets his, and he raises his eyebrows tauntingly. You let out a soft scoff, and then straighten your shoulders, unfastening your shawl and draping it over the back of your chair before tilting your head to the side.

Dostoevsky’s lips curl up into a pleasant smile, violet eyes lighting up in delight. “You always do manage to surprise me,” he breathes out. 

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“I would never.”

----------

Dazai is running out of time to try to get an invite to this event. 

It’s already Wednesday. He has less than two days, but every time he tries to bring it up to you, he ends up floundering and telling himself that he’ll just ask next time. He thinks maybe you can tell he wants to ask you something, because every time he goes quiet for too long, you squint at him, waiting.

He thinks maybe that’s why this morning has been so awkward. Usually, when you get here, the two of you slip into easy conversation about whatever the topic of the day is—sometimes the new book he’s started writing to spite your loathsome nickname for him, sometimes a random poem he wants your opinion on. This time, he didn’t say anything besides a quiet ‘hello,’ so the two of you have been drinking your coffee in silence. 

“Sorry,” he finally says. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Terrifying,” you reply instantly.

“Rude,” he complains, feeling a bit more at ease when he sees the way your lips curl up into a soft smile. “I just…”

His voice trails off again. I just need to come with you to your event so I can snoop around for information to give the Armed Detective Agency so that they can give it to the government to use against you.

Right, he thinks dryly, words immediately dying on his tongue. He just has to… ask you what you’re doing on Friday. Like he wants to take you on a date. And maybe that will prompt you into asking if he wants to come with you? Or maybe you’ll just say you’re busy—what should he do then? How is he supposed to press? Should he insist on knowing what you’re doing and then invite himself along? That’ll be so… suspicious and—

“Are you busy Friday?” you suddenly ask, and for a brief second, there’s a strange expression on your face. He can’t tell if it’s resigned or sad, and it’s gone too quickly for him to figure it out. “Hm?” 

Dazai stares at you, lips parting to reply, but no words leave them.

Your eyes narrow slightly and then you raise your eyebrows. “Well? Are you?”

“No?” Dazai offers after a moment, voice stunted and awkward. “Um, why…?”

“I’m hosting an event at our headquarters,” you say, leaning back in your seat as you sip your coffee. “It’s going to be miserably boring, and I don’t have a date. Come with me?” 

“You’re… inviting me?” he asks in disbelief, praying it doesn’t come out as suspicious as he thinks it does. “I mean—why me? I’m sure there are better options.”

“Because I like your company,” you say easily, so unguarded that it makes Dazai twist up inside. “Do I need any other reason?”

Yes, Dazai wants to scream at you. Yes, you do need another reason because just enjoying his company doesn’t explain why you aren’t looking deeper into this. It doesn’t explain why you haven’t used your resources to get information on him—if you had, you’d know he’s pretty much been an honorary member of the Armed Detective Agency for six months. It doesn’t explain why you’re not more suspicious of the number of times he coincidentally “ran” into you. It doesn’t explain why you’re letting him into your life so easily when you fought him at every corner the first time. 

He thought maybe it was because you subconsciously remember him, and because of that, you trust him—he still thinks that—but he thinks there must be something else going on. What’s happened to you the past six months? What happened after you wiped your memories of him and took over the Port Mafia? You must have an inkling of what’s going on here, what happened to make you not care?

“I guess not,” he whispers, and then adds, “I like your company too.”

Your smile is sadder this time—it doesn’t reach your eyes like it’s started to the past few weeks. Dazai’s lips part to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say that won’t make his stomach churn with guilt. 

“So, will you come?” you finally ask again, tilting your head to the side. “Or are you too busy for me?”

“Never too busy for you,” he murmurs, voice too raw. He clears his throat quickly, “But, I hope you’re prepared to be embarrassed. I’m notoriously bad at fancy events.”

Your smile is a bit more genuine as you avert your gaze. “You’ll be fine.”

Dazai breathes out a laugh that sounds too much like a whimper, masking it by taking another sip of his coffee. He thought he would feel relieved, but he only feels suffocated. He needs to get out of here and tell the Agency that he got the invite before they settle on doing something stupid because they think he wasn’t able to get the invite.

“I have a meeting in fifteen minutes,” he says after a moment. “I should get going. I’ll see you Friday?”

Something shifts in your expression as he grabs his bag and rises to his feet, he gives you a small smile that he hopes isn’t as shaky as he feels, but pauses when he sees that strange expression return. He was right—it is resignation, or something between resignation and dread, maybe. Why?

“Do you want me to—” You cut your question off abruptly as you look down at your coffee.

Dazai tilts his head to the side with a frown. “Do I want you to….?” he prods curiously.

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “I should get going too. I’ll see you Friday.”

Dazai gives you a curious look but he nods, shouldering his back and giving you one last long look before he turns to go. He doesn’t let himself linger, doesn’t let himself ask the questions that he suddenly very desperately wants answers to. He can’t afford to think about the way your voice faltered or the hesitance on your face—if he does, it’ll consume him. 

He’s gotten what he wanted—needed—hasn’t he? He got the invitation, now he needs to go back to the Agency so he can let them know and they can drop their risky plan of sneaking in as attendants. 

So, he forces himself to keep going. He walks out of the cafe and toward the Armed Detective Agency with his heart in his throat and guilt heavy in his chest.

[dakusan]

📁 ASK DUMP 𓆩🩸𓆪 | 10 JULY 2025

hello again to the bloodthirsty, the sleep-deprived, and the anons shaking in the crypt.

you came into the inbox like:

“hi daku! love your work 🥰 anyway what if seungmin refused to pull out and jeongin said ‘you fix this’ while sobbing into my throat?”

and honestly? i respect it. violently.

today’s ask dump includes:

vampire breakdowns at the sight of your natural curls

photocard confessions in the wild

“why does it feel too good” sex (answer: you’re built different)

deep lore around fear, autonomy, and blood-bound softness

and minho being soft for you and only you (naturally.)

so light your candle. sharpen your fangs. and let’s begin.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🥀 ANON LOGGED: “🥀 CLAIMED — VAMPIRE LORE LOVER AND FELLOW WRITER”

🥀 anon… WELCOME TO THE COVEN. Your words? Straight to the bloodstream. I’m honoured you’ve been enjoying the vampire!SKZ madness—especially the lore dumps and mechanics, that’s my lifeblood fr. There’s something so thrilling about twisting vampirism into something feral, magical, and dangerously functional, and hearing that it inspires another writer? Priceless.

Now that you’re marked, 🥀, you’re officially on the blood ledger. Stay as long as you like. And if you ever want a specific vamp!SKZ scenario or worldbuilding deep-dive? My fangs are at your service.

🩸 welcome to the night, darling 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

© ANON LOGGED: “Hanahaki Disease and Vamp!SKZ”

hi © anon!! so first—chef’s kiss on the angsty prompt. hanahaki disease is such a visceral concept: coughing up petals, lungs blooming with pain, all because your love isn’t returned. the imagery? divine. the angst potential? off the charts.

but… let’s get logical for a second.

⸺⟡⸺

In the vampire!SKZ world? Hanahaki Disease just... wouldn’t survive.

Here’s why:

💉 You’re their blood doll – which means not only are you chosen, but you're cherished, fed, touched, worshipped, and claimed. Blood dolls aren’t casual partners. You are the center of their grounding ritual, their scent sanctuary, their lifeline when the hunger bites too deep.

🩸 Unrequited love? Doesn’t exist here. Each vampire—whether Abnormal or Normal—feels everything at a soul-deep level. Especially if you’re their bonded one. You could whisper a wish in your sleep and they'd be enacting it by dusk. You want attention? Already curled around you. You feel insecure? Already muttering devotion in your ear, brushing your hair back. You think you love them more than they love you? Try again. They are feral, loyal, and so unfathomably obsessed with you it defies biology.

🌹 Hanahaki disease could try to sprout—but it would be ripped out by the roots. Because before you could cough up even one trembling petal, they'd feel your distance, your ache. And then?

❝Who made you feel unloved? Was it me? Then I’ll spend centuries undoing it.❞ —Vampire!Hyunjin, cradling your jaw with crimson-stained fingers.

❝You don’t need to bleed flowers to get my attention. I’d rather carve them into your skin myself.❞ —Vampire!Minho, deadly calm and terrifyingly sincere.

❝My blood sings your name. I could never love you less. I’d sooner tear out my heart than make you doubt it.❞ —Vampire!Chan, on his knees, glowing veins pulsing.

⸺⟡⸺

So © anon… They’d never let you die unloved. Not while they’re alive. And trust me—they always will be 🦇💋

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🦄 ANON LOGGED: “MERRY FANGMAS: BLOOD DOLL WRAPS, VAMPIRES UNRAVEL”

🦄 anon… you get it. You get them. You get me. Because the second you said “meticulously hand wrapped with wire-edged ribbon,” vampire!SKZ across the board stopped breathing. And they're dead. That’s impressive.

So let’s set the scene: It’s winter. There’s velvet and garlands. A twelve-foot tree. The whole place smells like cinnamon, cloves, blood-warmed wine, and you. You’re thriving—ribbons everywhere, a little frosting on your cheek, playlists going, twinkling lights blinking in time with your heartbeat.

But the kicker? You’ve refused to tell them what their gifts are. Just perfectly wrapped, and buried under the tree. And they are going feral.

⸺⟡⸺

Bang Chan – "Acting Unbothered But Already Investigating"

He acts like he’s giving you space—“Baby, I’ll wait until Christmas morning, I promise”—but secretly? He’s already analysed the ribbon loop patterns for fingerprint pressure. Has the house cameras bookmarked on his laptop. Keeps asking things like “You sure Minho’s not getting the black velvet one?” with the most obvious attempt at reverse psychology you’ve ever seen. When he opens the gift—your handwritten songbook titled "For When You Can’t Hear Yourself Anymore"—he doesn’t even try to hide it. He pulls you into his lap by the tree, lays you flat on the velvet rug, and makes love to you slowly. Keeps his forehead pressed to yours the entire time. Whispers, “You always know what I need before I do.”

Lee Minho – "Silent and Uninterested. Secretly Casing the Tree."

He pretends not to care. Shrugs when the others are whining. “If it’s not labelled, it’s probably not for me.” Lies. He’s memorised every inch of wrapping. Late at night, you find the gifts moved half a centimetre, like someone picked them up then changed their mind. He doesn’t say a word when he opens his: an antique dagger you found in Spain, inscribed with a rune that means “homebound.” You say it reminded you of the way he always comes back to you. He disappears for ten minutes. Then comes back. Shuts the door. Takes your wrist in his hand and murmurs, “Mine,” before biting slow, deep, until you’re gasping on your knees. No words. Just proof.

Seo Changbin – “Gift-induced Breakdown in a Tank Top”

He teases you at first. “Gonna make me wait? What if I go feral and rip the tree in half?” But the truth is, he’s watching you. Every ribbon curl. Every sparkle you tap into place. Every crinkle of wrapping paper pressed by your careful fingers. And something in him softens to liquid gold. Your gift? A custom-made pair of weighted gloves—black steel core, vampire-forged leather, with your heartbeat waveform pressed into the lining. Engraved inside the wrist: “Hold on. Stay with me.” He opens it, blinks once. Then again. And then… sits on the floor. Silent. “You made me something that… keeps me grounded,” he whispers. “You always know what I need. Even when I don’t.” Ten minutes later you’re pinned to the wall in front of the fireplace. Your thighs around his waist, legs trembling, as he growls into your neck, “You wanna show me I’m still yours? Let me show you how deep I can stay.”

Hwang Hyunjin – “Theatrical Meltdown in Cashmere”

Oh, he does not cope. The second you say, “No peeking. You’ll see on Christmas,” he becomes a full dramatic poet, sighing like a 19th-century French lover who’s been denied a letter from the battlefield. He cuddles the presents under the tree. He bats his lashes and bribes you with kisses. He writes poems titled “The Agony of Unwrapping Denial.” Your gift? A handcrafted oil painting kit, imported from Florence, paired with a velvet-bound sketchbook engraved with: “For the hands that show me who I am.” He opens it and stops breathing. Touches the palette like it’s sacred. Then touches you. Eyes glassy. You don’t make it to the bedroom. He lays you down on the rug, candles flickering, and spends the next two hours pressing paint-dusted fingers into your skin as he worships your body and whispers, “You made me feel human again.”

Han Jisung – "Christmas is Serious Business and I’m Being Emotionally Abused"

He pouts. So dramatically. “WHY won’t you tell me?? Just a hint, babe. Like—how much does it weigh? Is it for me? Do I get to cry about it???” He literally nests under the tree and sniffs every present. You find a bite mark on one of the bows. He swears it wasn’t him. His gift? A leather-bound scrapbook of all his art you’ve secretly saved—napkin doodles, back-of-bill sketches, stained notebooks—and on the final page: a charcoal sketch of you and him, curled up together with your ribbon around his neck. He chokes up. Like fully has to hide his face. And then he wrecks you in bed. Whispers, “You’re everything. You’re everything.”

Lee Felix – “A Christmas Angel with Bite Marks”

Felix lives for the holidays. He’s hanging mistletoe. Baking cookies. Watching Elf and crying every time. But when you tell him you’ve got a secret gift? He’s flustered. “Wha—me?? You got something just for me? But I didn’t even—" Your gift? A jar full of tiny scrolls, each one a handwritten note with a reason you love him. There are 365. One for every day. The jar is etched with: “For the boy made of light. Here’s why I stayed.” He doesn’t even read them all. Just opens the first: “You make monsters feel soft.” “You did this for me?” “Every word.” “You’re my favourite miracle.” He carries you to bed like you’re glass. Spends the night under the covers—worshipping, praising, whispering thanks into your skin until you’re sobbing from how gentle he is.

Kim Seungmin – "Dry Sarcasm Disguises Meltdown"

He acts like this is beneath him. “Why are you doing wrapping paper themes, we’re not running a magazine shoot.” But then you catch him adjusting the spacing between ornaments. Muttering to himself about tinsel symmetry. His gift is the simplest: a worn hoodie of his you embroidered secretly with a Latin phrase: “In tenebris, invenisti me.” — In the dark, you found me. He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls it on. Then pulls you in. You think he’s just hugging you until he backs you against the kitchen counter, lifts you up, and murmurs, “You want to act like I don’t care? Let me ruin that theory. And your voice.”

Yang Jeongin – “Chaos Gremlin Turned Possessive Sweetheart”

At first? He’s the grumpy youngest. Arms crossed. “Whatever. I’m not curious. It’s probably socks.” But five minutes later he’s on the floor shaking presents. Sniffing wrapping paper. Leaving tooth marks on the ribbon. Absolutely feral. He corners you one night like, “Be honest—am I your favourite or not?” Your gift? A custom chessboard made of white ash and black walnut. Each square carved with runes only visible under moonlight. On the bottom of his king piece, it says: “Checkmate. I choose you. Always.” He blinks. Once. Then twice. And then his expression changes. All soft and gentle. He pulls you onto the board, lips on yours, breath hot. His hand between your legs as he murmurs, “You’re mine now. Let me play you like I’ve already won.”

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🦄 anon, you have officially created the FANGMAS COLLECTION, it's giving me inspo for 2025 December. Gift tags soaked in love. Wrapping paper stained with worship. And vampires willing to burn the world down for a ribbon you tied just for them 🦇💋

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🕯️ ANON LOGGED: “🕯️ CLAIMED — THE CANDLE IN THE INKSTAINED DARK”

🕯️ anon!! You’re officially on the roster — and your candle isn’t cliché or stupid at all. It’s perfect.

Candlelight is timeless: a guide in the dark, a symbol of softness, intimacy, warmth that flickers but never fades. That’s not corny — that’s powerful.

Thank you for being here, for reading, for caring. You’re seen and cherished. Bang Chan’s finale is coming soon! 💋🦇

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sheerfreesia007 LOGGED: “THE NEEDY QUEEN SUMMONS THE UNHINGED”

oh sheerfreesia007, my divine menace. you wanted validation? baby, they need salvation. because if you let them in and it’s that good? that clenching, silken, pulse-milking, mind-fracturing kind of good? oh, sweetheart. they’re not walking out the same.

welcome to: “IN TOO DEEP — vampire!SKZ the moment you suck them in and they lose their minds”

(i'm assuming you meant vampire!skz, if not, well, imagine the same but without the vampire)

🔞 CONTENT WARNINGS – NSFW / 18+ ONLY. Explicit sexual content (penetrative sex, detailed smut) | Dom/sub dynamics (consensual, implied) | Overstimulation | Praise kink | Possessive behavior | Marking/biting (implied) | Crying during sex | Begging/dirty talk | Power imbalance themes (soft doms losing control) | Emotional vulnerability | Unprotected sex (wrap it up whores) | “Breeding” talk / Implicit breeding kink (e.g. “don’t make me pull out,” “wanna stay inside you forever”) | Light degradation (“You ruined me,” etc) – always paired with worship

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Bang Chan

He planned to make love to you. Slow. Gentle. Worshipful. But the moment he slides in, he chokes. His hips stall. Hands tremble against your waist. “F-Fuck—baby, you—hnnh—what the hell did you do to me?” And then it’s over. The CEO is gone. All that control? Collapsing in the wet, tight grip of your heat. He’s buried in you, breath stuttering, thrusts suddenly erratic. Praise turns guttural. Whimpers break through. He panics halfway through because he realizes he might cum so quick, and he’s never done that before. “You feel like you were made for me. I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop. I won’t.” After? He collapses on you, twitching, sweat-soaked, murmuring how you’ve broken him.

Lee Minho

Slides in slow. Keeps his eyes on you. Wants to see the ruin. But then— He feels you flutter around him. Your warmth pulling him deeper. The pulse of your blood singing against his cock like a spell. “You—oh my god, you’re… dangerous.” Snaps. Full-blown possession. His jaw clenches, arms shake, and suddenly he’s pounding into you like he’s possessed. He doesn’t speak—he growls. Bites your throat, your shoulder, your lips. Tells you in a shredded voice that you’ll never leave this bed again. Not after this. “You feel too good. You feel too fucking good. What are you?” Doesn’t stop until you’re crying. Then kisses the tears and murmurs, “Again.”

Seo Changbin

He thinks he can handle it. He’s been talking all week. “Gonna make you scream,” “Bet you’re gonna cry on it,” “I’ll fuck you dumb, baby, you’ll see.” But the second he pushes into you? “Oh—fuck. Oh my—what the fuck is this.” His arms give out. His abs contract. His voice breaks. One second he's the tough dom whispering filth and the next he’s sobbing against your neck, whispering, “It’s too good—too fucking good—I can't—fuck, you feel like heaven and sin and—” And then he loses it. Thrusts sloppy, erratic, hands gripping anywhere he can—your waist, your throat, the back of your knees. He doesn’t even realize he’s begging. “Please let me stay. Let me cum. Let me do it inside. I’ll give you everything, I swear.” He worships your pussy like it’s a god he’s offended. He praises you through every second of it. “You’re perfect. You’re unreal. I can’t live without this—I can’t live without you.” He doesn’t pull out. Won’t. Holds you to his chest and whispers, “You’ve ruined me, baby. You made me yours. And I never want to be anything else.”

Hwang Hyunjin

He makes it beautiful. Lights candles. Kisses your body like you’re sacred. Murmurs how he’ll make you feel adored. But then? He pushes in and everything breaks. His whole body shudders. He lets out this desperate, raw sound like he’s been touched by divinity. “Oh—god—you’re all I’ll ever need.” He gets frantic. Not rough. But deep. Stays locked to you. His lips never leave yours. Eyes wide and scared at how good it feels. “I can’t—I can’t control it. You’re too much. You’re everything.” He’ll go until you’re both spent and soaked. Whispers, “You made me yours. You can never take it back.”

Han Jisung

Oh, he was talking. Nervous babbling. Sweet compliments. Silly pillow talk. But once he’s in? 🧠: shuts down 🗣️: absolutely gone 👅: only useful for drooling into your neck while chanting your name “You—fuck—you’re gonna ruin me. I’m gonna die. Right here. Happy.” He grabs your hips and slams into you like a man starved. Doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore—just moans, headboard shaking, lip bitten raw. The moment you clench on him? He moans so loud. So feral and worshipful. Groans through his orgasm, then keeps fucking you through it like he doesn’t believe it’s over. “I can’t stop. I don’t want to.”

Lee Felix

He gasps. No. Whimpers. Like the second he pushes in, it’s too much. Too warm, too tight, too perfect. His freckles are flushed, his hands shaking as he clutches your thighs. “You’re—fuck, I didn’t know it could feel like this.” He sinks into you. Not just physically. Emotionally. He’s babbling. Moaning. Saying everything. “You feel so good, baby. So perfect, so mine. I wanna stay inside you forever. Please—please—don’t let me leave.” He makes love to you like a prayer. Slow and sloppy and overwhelmed. When he cums, he mutters how you’re everything he’s ever wanted. Then stays buried in you, whispering, “One more. I can give you more. You deserve everything.”

Kim Seungmin

He pretends to be calm. “It’s not going to be that—oh my god.” Instant meltdown. Grunts through his teeth. Head drops to your shoulder. Hands clamp down like he’s trying to survive. You laugh and he just shoves deeper. Stares you in the eye with this wild look like, “you think this is funny? okay. let’s see who’s laughing when you can’t walk.” “You're gonna take it. You’re gonna take all of me, and then you’re gonna beg me not to stop.” He does not let up. And when he finally cums? He’s trembling. Eyes half-lidded. Whispers, “Don’t make me pull out. I’m not done. I’ll never be done.”

Yang Jeongin

Smirks at you. “Gonna ride you so good—oh—fuuuck—” You break him instantly. His head thunks against the pillow. He freezes. Moans with his whole soul. “That’s not fair. That’s not fucking fair.” He folds fast. Voice cracking. Fingernails dragging down your back. Becomes obsessed with watching himself disappear into you. With hearing the filthy sounds you make when he hits that spot. “You like this? Yeah? Then you’re mine now. All of you. All. Of. You.” When he cums? His back arches. His eyes roll back. He doesn’t stop. Not even when he’s too sensitive to think. He needs to give you more. “You did this. You made me like this. You fix it.”

⸺⟡⸺

you wanted validation, my queen? here it is: you are the one thing they can’t survive without. your body is a religion. your touch is an addiction. and once they’ve had you once?

they’ll never be sane again 💋🦇

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ANON LOGGED: “NEW HERE, FIRST TIME, FOREVER MARKED”

anon, sadly bubble tea emoji is taken, BUT, i shall brand you with a new one, 🍪. You are cookie anon, forever in the roster, done, can't take it back.

Also that message?? I had to bite my hand reading it. You're so soft and sweet and full of love, and now you’ve just stamped yourself into the ledger as a permanent favourite.

So you want to know what Minho is like when he’s soft for you and only you? Strap in. Because in vampire!SKZ? Minho isn’t just dangerous. He’s ritualistic, possessive, and terrifyingly loyal— And that softness? Is exclusively for his blood doll.

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Around others?

He’s cold. Calculated. Beautiful, but distant. Moves like a blade. Speaks when necessary. Doesn’t emote unless provoked.

Even the other vampires tread carefully.

He doesn’t tolerate mess. Doesn’t entertain weakness. Minho is the one Chan calls when there’s a bond violation, when a rogue vampire needs putting down. He’s their final option. The one with blood-stained gloves and a black ritual blade with your name etched under the hilt.

“I don't take orders,” he once said. “Except when she asks.”

Around you?

The mask melts.

He never raises his voice. Never looks away for long. Never lets you walk near glass barefoot or pour your own tea if he can help it.

He doesn’t say “I love you” out loud much. But it’s in:

The exact way he wipes your mouth with his sleeve after feeding you.

The way he loosens his tie and lets you lay your head on his chest.

The soft brush of his thumb under your eye after you cry, followed by, “Tell me who made you feel that way. I won’t ask again.”

The softness is sacred. It’s for you only. He lets you do his hair after a shower. Lets you curl up beside him when he’s in a rage spiral, and holds back for you.

He buys your favourite snacks. He sits beside you in silence for hours when you can’t sleep, just breathing with you. And when you call his name—softly, sleepily? His whole world stills.

“Yeah, baby. I’m right here.”

He doesn’t say no to you. Ever.

If you ask for space? He gives it. If you ask him to be gentle? He becomes air. If you ask him to ruin you? He obliterates you with reverence.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers into your neck. “I’d kneel. I’d bleed. I’d end everything if it meant you’d smile at me one more time.”

He lets you touch his neck, his chest—vulnerable places. Because only you are allowed, only you are entitled to be around him, to touch him.

When he thinks no one’s watching?

He strokes your cheek. Kisses the back of your hand. Watches you sleep like you’re his last remaining tether to sanity.

And when you stir? He’s already there—pulling you into his lap, whispering, “You okay, sweetness? You need anything?”

He’d never call anyone “sweetness” but you. Never soften his voice that way. Never let anyone see the shiver in his chest when you call him your Minho.

But you? You own him. Completely. Quietly. Forever.

⸺⟡⸺

🍪 anon, you said delusional? Baby, you’re not even delulu. You’re right.

And he’d slit a throat just to prove it 💋🦇

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🦢 ANON LOGGED: “FIRST FLIGHT, FIRST FEAR”

Welcome to the coven, my sweet swan. Your prompt? Not odd at all—it’s delicious. And honestly? You nailed something important.

Because vampire!SKZ may be possessive, obsessive, even feral in love… But they are never careless with fear.

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If you’re scared of them? They wouldn’t move forward. Not with claiming. Not with bonding. Not with feeding. Not with anything.

Because here’s the thing:

🩸 You’re not a blood doll yet.

You’re just you. Someone they’re drawn to. Watching. Learning. Maybe falling for. And in this world, fear is a full stop.

They wouldn’t force closeness. Wouldn’t corner you. Wouldn’t say “you’ll understand eventually.”

No.

They’d take it slow. They’d want to earn your trust—not through seduction or power, but through presence. They’d give you time. Let you ask questions. Let you run, if you need to. And they’d never, ever follow unless you called them back.

🧷 Autonomy is sacred.

Vampire!SKZ might be feral, obsessive, a little unhinged when it comes to the ones they love. But they don’t mistake fear for affection. They don’t want you afraid. They want you safe. Held. Protected. In control of your own choices.

So if you stay scared, even after time? They will walk away. Not because they stopped caring. But because they care that much.

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🦢 anon, in this world:

Consent is everything.

Fear is not romance.

Safety is the foundation.

Only when you feel safe. Only when you choose them back does the blood bond begin. And once it does? You’ll never have to fear again 💋🦇

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🦦 ANON LOGGED: “THE BLOOD-BOUND BIOLOGIST RETURNS”

🦦 anon. Oh, you have not been rejected. You’ve been heard. You’ve been seen. You have been etched into the bone of this place, gently and without question.

Your words are not only welcome here—they’re holy. You don’t need to apologize. Not for slipping into the dark. Not for hesitating at heat. Not for seeking lore over lust, bite over burn, mystery over madness.

Because here, in this corner of crimson-lit space? You are allowed to be exactly what you are: — curious — wary — enthralled — and completely safe

You are 🦦 anon now. And always, always welcome in the vault of lore and ruin.

p.s. i fucking love otthers omfggoishfuoksfjhfkshhf

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🐳 ANON LOGGED: “PHOTOCARD LOVE CONFESSION IN THE WILD”

welcome back, my aquatic darling 🐳 anon!!

your pc holder mission = approved

and this prompt?? absolutely melted me. it’s that kind of soft, “caught feelings in 0.2 seconds” chaos that Stray Kids would not know how to emotionally regulate.

so, here’s how they’d react if they randomly noticed you carrying their photocard around—on your phone, in your bag, flashing out of your wallet—and you never mentioned it.

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Bang Chan – "Wait. That’s me."

He blinks at it. Squints. Tilts his head. “Is that—hold on—is that me in your phone case?!” You’re caught. He’s already blushing, smiling like he just got proposed to. “You’ve been carrying me around?? Like a good luck charm?? Do I get to sign it?? Frame it?? Cry about it?? I’m—honestly—wait, don’t look at me, I’m melting.” Pokes fun every time he sees it: “You bringing me on a date again today, baby?” But secretly stores that memory in a little mental scrapbook labelled Proof That I Matter to You.

Lee Minho – "You’re embarrassing. Don’t stop."

He sees it peeking out of your wallet and immediately goes: “Wow. Obsessed much?” But the way his ears turn red? The fact that he keeps glancing at it while pretending not to care? He loves it. Will never admit it. But it ignites something dark and smug in him. Later that night: “If you’re gonna carry me around like that, I better be the only one in there.” Then he slips another photocard into your case without asking. A rarer one. One no one else has. “That one’s just for you. Try not to lose it, stalker.”

Seo Changbin – "AYO?!"

He notices it in the wild—maybe you’re taking a photo, or flipping through cards—and when he sees his face: “AYO. IS THAT ME? YOU CHOSE ME??” Cannot believe it. Keeps teasing you, but not in a mean way. “Wow, couldn’t get enough of me, huh? Had to lock me behind plastic?” Then gets all bashful about it. Will be grinning like an idiot for hours. Definitely asks if you want to switch it out for a newer, hotter version. “I got one where I’m flexing. Just sayin’. Could upgrade.” Secretly takes photos of your phone every time he sees it.

Hwang Hyunjin – "You—have my soul in your phone."

He’s the drama. You pull out your mirror or wallet and there he is. And he gasps like you unveiled a masterpiece. “You carry me with you. Every day. You look at me. Whenever you want.” He’s stunned. Shy. A little shaken. “That’s so soft. You’re so soft. I’m gonna paint you. I need to paint this moment. Do you even know what you do to me??” He starts writing you poems about being your phone-case prince. Adds his perfume to the card next time.

Han Jisung – "I need a minute to scream into the sun."

You’re just pulling your phone out when he freezes. “Is that… is that me? In the little sparkle case? Next to your stickers and your Starbucks receipt???” He malfunctions. Full blush. Mouth open. Does a little spin and flops onto the nearest couch. “YOU HAVE MY FACE IN YOUR CASE. LIKE—TO LOOK AT. EVERY DAY. CASUALLY.” Keeps glancing at it like it’s too powerful. Starts calling it “my altar.” “How long has he been in there? Is he laminated with your love??” He’s so flattered he won’t shut up about it. But also now makes sure his hair looks good in case your phone is showing.

Lee Felix – "That’s… I’m gonna cry."

He sees it in your phone case and just gasps. Hand over heart. “That’s ME?! You picked me?? Out of everyone?? You’ve been keeping me next to you like—like a little guardian sparkle??” He is so touched it’s ridiculous. Immediately offers to take new pictures for you, better ones, cuter ones, maybe even “one where I’m holding a heart cookie, I can recreate it!” Tells his mom about it. Carries your photocard in return. “We match now. Soulmate energy.”

Kim Seungmin – "…You didn’t tell me that."

You drop your phone and it lands face-up. There he is—your precious Seungmin photocard, right under the clear case. He stares. You’re ready for teasing. Sarcasm. Something. But he just… picks up the phone. “You could’ve just told me you liked me, you know.” Then puts your phone back in your hands with a very smug, very quiet: “Don’t forget me when you put it down.” Later that night, you find another card slipped into your bag. A signed one. With a note: “Since you’re carrying me everywhere, might as well have the limited edition.”

Yang Jeongin – *"Shut up. You don’t actually—wait is that laminated??"

He tries to act cool. “Pfft. I’m not surprised. I’m photocard material. I get it.” But the second he realizes it’s been there a long time? Protected? Adored? His face goes red. He starts giggling and covering his face. “You’re such a nerd. You carry my face around like I’m your comfort object.” Then he sends you the most unhinged selfie with a caption: “for the photocard case. rotate us out. give him a break.” Starts competing with his own card.

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🐳 anon, they’d all be so gone for you. Because carrying their photocard around? That’s not just crush behavior. That’s claiming them in public. That’s soft love in armor. That’s I like you and I’m not afraid to show it.

And they’ll give it right back. Every time 💋🦇

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🪼 ANON LOGGED: “JEALOUSY IN THE BLOOD”

🪼 anon, welcome back, my sweet drifter of the blood current. You asked about jealousy—and darling, in this world? It’s not just a mood. It’s biological. Instinctual. Something rooted in scent memory, psychic vibration, and blood-claiming hierarchy.

Jealousy in vampire!SKZ is rarely loud in the traditional human sense. It’s simmering, strategic, and ritualistic. Because you’re theirs. And anything that touches what's theirs? Triggers the hunger.

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Bang Chan

Chan doesn’t get loud. He gets still. The second someone steps too close, calls you beautiful, or even just lingers too long in conversation? His eyes flick to you. Then to them. Then away. His jaw tightens. A single vein pulses in his temple. No words. Just evaluation. He’ll wrap a hand low on your waist. Press a kiss to your temple. Soft. Sweet. But underneath it: a message. “They don’t get to have your attention. Only I do.” He won’t say anything unless you ask. But later, behind closed doors? “You’re mine. You know that, right? No one else touches you. Ever.” And then he proves it. With his mouth. With his hands. With his bite right at your pulse.

Lee Minho

Minho won’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. He’ll watch. Chin tilted slightly. Expression unreadable. His aura shifts—subtle but oppressive. You feel it on your skin like smoke and silk. The room gets colder. The lights seem dimmer. And whoever touched you? Is about to lose a limb. He’ll call you over sweetly. Fingers crooking. You come. Of course you do. And he’ll lean down, whisper, “That hand on your lower back? It won't happen again.” Later? He fucks you in front of a mirror. Leaves bite marks shaped like ownership. Doesn’t stop until your voice breaks on his name.

Seo Changbin

He growls. Not even subtle. “What the fuck is that guy doing—why’s he looking at you like that?” He steps between you and whoever made the mistake. Blocks them entirely. Glances down, teeth bared. “Look somewhere else.” Then turns to you, instantly soft. “You okay? You want to leave? You want me to leave them bleeding?” Later? He needs you under him. Needs to hear you scream his name. Needs to bite you so deep the mark lasts days. Because when he’s jealous, it’s not about rage—it’s about keeping you his.

Hwang Hyunjin

Hyunjin feels jealousy like a knife. His body language shifts—fluid, sensual, lethal. He’ll act like nothing’s wrong, but his hand on your waist is tighter. His kisses deeper. He needs to feel you choosing him, again and again and again. “Tell me,” he’ll whisper at your throat. “Tell me I’m the only one you want.” You say it. He believes it. But he’ll still paint you after—naked, flushed, bite-bruised. “So no one forgets who you belong to.”

Han Jisung

Jisung’s jealousy is raw. Not because he doesn’t trust you—but because his instincts are louder than logic. He sees someone flirt and immediately short-circuits. “Wait—wait, are you smiling at them?? Are they—are they trying to take you from me?!” He doesn’t confront the person. He just spirals. Starts clinging to you. Gets whiny. Over-affectionate. Then—later, when you’re alone? Breaks down. “I know I shouldn’t get like this, but you’re mine, and I don’t—I don’t want to lose you.” Cue desperate, needy sex. He kisses every inch of your body like he’s trying to rewrite your skin with his love.

Lee Felix

At first? He’s confused. “Why are they standing so close…? Do they not see you’re mine?” He tries to reason. Keeps holding your hand. Kissing your cheek. Gentle reinforcement. But if it keeps going? He snaps. Aura thickens with heat and static. The air around you tightens. “Step. Away. From her.” You’ve never seen him like that. Voice low. Too calm. That terrifying stillness before the burn. Later, he apologizes softly, kisses your forehead like you’re holy. But the mark he leaves on your inner thigh? That’s not gentle.

Kim Seungmin

Oh he notices. He watches everything. And instead of direct confrontation? He uses that deadly tongue. “Aw, that guy thought you were single? Tragic. Want me to show him how not-single you are?” He’ll pretend it doesn’t bother him. But suddenly he’s everywhere. Standing closer. Wrapping an arm around you with surgical precision. Kissing your neck mid-convo like it’s nothing. You: “Are you jealous?” Seungmin, sipping blood tea: “No, I just like reminding people you walk funny when I’m done with you.” Later, he takes his time. Leaves bruises shaped like teeth. Smiles into your shoulder and whispers, “Mine. Remember that.”

Yang Jeongin

Youngest? Sure. Weakest? Not even close. Jeongin doesn’t snap. Doesn’t raise his voice. He just smiles. “Cute that they thought they had a chance.” The air around him drops. Whoever flirted with you? Regrets it immediately. You feel it when he kisses you later—slow, cold, possessive. He bites down on your throat and says, “Want to be looked at? Fine. But you only get fucked by me.” The bruise on your neck glows like a brand. And he makes sure everyone sees it.

⸺⟡⸺

🪼 anon, jealousy in vamp!SKZ isn’t petty. It’s primordial. It isn’t about distrust. It’s about instinct. They’ve chosen you. Bonded to you. Claimed you. And anything that dares get between you?

Is either ignored… Or eliminated 💋🦇

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🫂 ANON LOGGED: “CURLS IN THE DARK, BEAUTY IN BLOOM”

🫂 anon, first of all: Your hair? Is not something to fix. It’s just something to know. To understand. To learn how to love. Like every part of you—it just wants to be seen.

Now picture this. Vampire!SKZ walks in post-shower. You’re in the bathroom. Steaming mirrors. Curl pattern still damp, but you’re already reaching for the straightener.

And here’s what they’d do:

⸺⟡⸺

Bang Chan

He knocks softly before entering. Sees the iron in your hand. Then steps behind you. Wraps his arms gently around your waist. “You don’t have to do that for me, you know.” Kisses your temple. Touches your curls with such a gentle hands—twirls one around his finger and watches it spring. “This is you. All of it. And I want every version, but… you don’t have to erase this one. Not for anyone.” Later? Buys you silk pillowcases and a satin bonnet. Watches haircare videos with you.

Lee Minho

Leans against the doorframe. Crosses his arms. Tilts his head. “Hn. You straightening it again?” When you nod, he walks forward. Doesn’t say much. Just slowly—delicately—undoes the one section you just pressed. Watches it curl back up. “Why would you hide something so alive?” You say you don’t like how it looks. He scowls. But only at the thought. “Then let me show you. How I see it.” Spends the night brushing out your curls with his fingers and worshipping each strand with kisses down your back.

Seo Changbin

Bursts in like a himbo and freezes. You’re mid-pass with the straightener. “Wait, wait—what’s wrong with your curls?! I love those!” You laugh it off. He doesn’t. “No, seriously. Do you know how freakin’ soft they are? How good you smell when they’re damp? That little halo you get when they dry?” Goes on a full monologue about how your hair drives him wild. Ends with: “If you let me, I’ll spend the whole night with my face in them.” Now calls your natural hair your “crown.”

Hwang Hyunjin

Freezes in the doorway. You’re there, towel wrapped around you, one hand on the flat iron, looking unsure. “Why… are you hiding the curls?” You explain. Quietly. He listens. Then gently takes the straightener from your hand, sets it down, and kneels in front of you. “They remind me of wildflowers. Soft. Alive. Free. The way you are when you’re happiest.” He paints you that night—hair unstyled, undone, real. And says, “This is how I see you. Even when you don’t.”

Han Jisung

Pokes his head in and immediately gasps. “Wait—NOOO. You’re straightening the spirals??” He’s dramatic. But earnest. “I love those. They bounce when you walk. They’re so you.” Then softens. Eyes on your reflection. “...Do you not like them?” You shake your head. And he’s instantly on your lap, running his fingers through your damp curls like they’re treasure. “Then we’re gonna figure it out together, okay? I’ll learn product combos. Diffusers. Pineapple techniques. Whatever you need.” He’s in this with you.

Lee Felix

Immediately hugs you from behind when he sees you straightening it. “Noooo, baby, I love your curls. They’re like sunshine loops. Like stars when you move.” You tell him you don’t like how it dries. He frowns. Brushes a damp coil off your cheek. “That’s okay. But I wish you could see how I see them.” He wants to learn. Wants to understand your hair, your relationship to it, your rituals. Starts calling your curls his “galaxy halo.” “You don’t need to be polished, baby. You’re already divine.”

Kim Seungmin

Walks in, sees the iron heating up, and immediately goes— “No. Stop. Hands off the curls.” You give him a look. He gives you one right back. “They’re cute. You’re cute. End of discussion.” You tell him you don’t feel confident with them. He goes quiet. Then steps forward and cups your cheeks. “Then we’ll keep working until you do. Together.” Next day he surprises you with a curly-hair-specific brush, a spray bottle, and the exact right leave-in conditioner. “I did research. Shut up and let me be helpful.”

Yang Jeongin

You’re mid-straightening. He walks in, towel around his shoulders. Stops. Blinks. “Wait, no no no—your curls are the best part!” He’s pouty. Gentle but stubborn. “They smell like you. They feel like safety.” Sits on the bathroom counter while you finish. Doesn’t pressure. Just watches with soft eyes. Later that night, as you’re falling asleep, he whispers: “I hope one day you love them. But until then… I’ll love them enough for both of us.”

⸺⟡⸺

🫂 anon, your curls are magic. Not messy. Not wrong. Just a part of you waiting to be seen the right way. And in this world? They see you. All of you. Even the parts you’re still learning to love 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

CONGRATULATIONS. If you’ve made it to the end of this ask dump without collapsing, or combusting—you’re already stronger than most.

To the brave souls who poured blood and brainrot into my inbox today: 🫀 you are the reason I live 🩸 you are the reason I die 🧠 and you are the reason I write until 4 a.m. whispering “just one more thirst post.”

Thank you for every ask, every feral theory, every “would he cry if I sat on him?” I love making these dumps. I love crafting this world. I love screaming with you. Keep your requests coming.

⚠️ POSSIBLE FUTURE CHAOS: SKZ Squid Game AU. Yeah. I said it. Tethered Tuesday mini-series?? Who’s in. Who’s dying. Who’s cheating. Who’s biting during Red Light Green Light. Let’s unpack that later.

🎶 STREAMING UPDATE: I’m slowly uploading all my albums to streaming platforms. Right now I’m uploading R-3 — maybe it’ll go live later today or tomorrow. If it does: STREAM IT. If it doesn’t: STREAM THE OTHERS. Because nothing says “I love you” like blasting music chaos at unsafe decibels.

Okay. I love you. You’re hot. You’re feral. You’re feeding me. See you tomorrow for Filthy Friday. Bring water. Or don’t. You’ll be dehydrated either way 💋🦇

[farfromharry]

rejection part 2?? it was too good 😭

Summary: Lando finally realises he was stupid, but is it too late for them now?

lando norris x reader

w/c 1604

a/n you ask and you shall receive, sorry it took so long

Lando didn’t realise how much time he spent with Y/N until she disappeared. It had been at least 2 months since he last saw her, that night where he ripped her heart out and stomped it. She hadn’t wanted to see him, that much he could understand, but he didn’t think she would have gone to such an extent to isolate herself. She wasn’t even spending time with the rest of their friends. She was too embarrassed. 

He was worried about her. Life didn’t stop just because he’d fucked up. He still had to work, to fly around the world. She was the only thing ever on his mind though. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he was distracted. When that meant Oscar had to pick up his slack with media, something he despised, he thought it needed to be addressed. 

The Aussie found his teammate sulking in his driver’s room. There was no announcement of his presence, no knock, he just barged right in. “Okay, what’s your problem?” 

Immediately Lando was on the attack. “Excuse you?” he hissed.

Oscar scoffed. “You’ve been pissy for weeks. You’re blunt, quiet and you look miserable mate. So, what’s up?” 

He considered denying everything. There really would be no use. Clearly he wasn’t hiding things as well as he thought he was. The man sighed, running his hands over his face. How had a girl he claimed was just a friend fucked with his head this badly? “You remember Y/N?” 

There had been a few races last year that she attended. Always smiling, always cheering for Lando. Then there were the instagram stories, public and the special close friends ones. At first Oscar thought they were a couple, or at least seeing each other in some sense. She had been introduced as nothing more than a friend. He had never brought it up. And he hadn’t seen her in a while. It would explain a lot. 

“Yeah.”

“She kissed me and I pushed her away. She hasn’t spoken to me since.” The memory of that night tugged at his heart strings. She hadn’t deserved that. Surely there could have been a way to let her down more gently. 

Oscar could tell he was pretty down about it. There were regrets. But he was keeping something secret too. “Okay. And why is it bothering you so much?”

He dodged his eyes. “Now that she’s not around I realised how much I enjoy her being with me. I-I think I’m in love with her.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud. The realisation was overwhelming. It hit him like a ton of bricks. “Fuck. I’m in love with her.” He pulled at his hair, fighting the urge to throw something across the room. How had he messed up this bad?

Really he should have thanked Oscar for helping him meet this realisation, but instead he just brushed past him. He had something he urgently needed to do and he needed privacy. 

He was fishing his phone out of his pocket and searching for her contact before he even consciously knew what he was doing. He had no faith that she would answer his texts, she hadn’t the last 20 times he’d tried, but he was really hoping she might take pity this time. 

The text was written and then rewritten numerous times. What was he supposed to say in this scenario? How did he tell the girl who’s heart he broke 2 months ago that he finally realised he was hopelessly in love with her? It wasn’t really something you could do over text. It was a tough one. 

In the end he settled for something simple. 

Hey, been a while. Think we should talk. If you want to hear me out meet me at our cafe Tuesday 1pm x

He didn’t expect a response, he just had to hope that she would turn up. 

The days leading up to their potential meeting were horrible. He was tense, distracted. Zak wanted to slap him just so he would get his head in the game. He had a race to do, he couldn’t be lost in his head somewhere about some girl. Lando just couldn’t get her out of his mind though. He needed to see her. 

When he finally sat at their usual table in the cafe he hadn’t been to in months, it all started to feel too real. If she showed, which he was unsure she would, he was going to have to confess. The truth was going to finally come out. It was scary. 

No matter how hard he tried, Lando couldn’t get his knee to stop bouncing. Never had he been so scared to see her. Usually he felt nothing but calm and peace around her. Right now he felt like he was going to throw up. He checked his watch, for what must have been the hundredth time. 13:07. She was late. He tried not to jump to conclusions, but he couldn’t help but think she wasn’t coming. 

He dropped his head into his hands. This time he really had screwed everything up. He was so lost in his self degrading thoughts that he didn’t hear the jingle of the bell above the door. Nor did he hear the footsteps growing closer until someone pulled out the chair opposite him with a loud scrape across the floor. 

When he finally looked up, there she was. His breath hitched. 

She looked as he remembered, maybe a little bit more lost. Her hair was scraped back, a hoodie on her frame that he was 95% sure had been his at some point. She looked beautiful.

“Hi.” There was no hiding the amazement in his voice. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

She shrugged. Neither had she up until a point. “Yeah, me neither.” 

Things were awkward. It never used to be this uncomfortable between them. This was all his fault. He just needed to spit it out. “Look, I made a mistake.”

Y/N sighed, shaking her head. She didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want him to lie to protect her feelings just because he missed all the stuff she used to do for him. “No, Lando. I don’t want your sympathy or your lies. I’ll get over it.” 

He reached over the table and grabbed her hands. “I’m serious. I didn’t realise what was right in front of me until it was gone.” He was putting his heart out there. “I’ve never been in love before. I didn’t know that’s what I felt when I looked at you, or whenever I was with you.” 

Her heart was beginning to race.

“When you kissed me,” she physically recoiled at the memory, “It caught me off guard. I had no time to think about what was happening. One minute I was enjoying the moment with you and then the next I was confused. I was harsh because I was scared.” Lando wasn’t a big feelings guy. Nor was he exactly mature when it came to life altering changes. He ran away when things got real, just how he ran away from his feelings then. 

The sigh he let out was loud. She couldn’t take her eyes off his face. She was waiting, reading every slight change in his expression, dissecting what it meant. She should have been able to predict what was coming. 

“I know now that I love you, Y/N. I’m in love with you.” There it was. “I’m sorry it took all of this for me to figure that out.” His chest was pounding. Everything was out in the open now. It was her turn. Any hope in his heart was crushed the minute she hesitated. She was going to reject him just like he’d done to her. Now he was going to get his heart ripped out. 

“I need some time.”

For some reason he had expected her to immediately cave and fall at his feet. That’s how it had played out in his head anyway. 

She must have seen it in his expression. “I’m not saying my feelings for you have disappeared, or that I don’t want to be with you. I’m saying I need to think.” She wasn’t refusing to see him ever again, or storming out in disgust. That was a bonus. “For the last couple months I’ve been resenting you. It wasn’t even your fault, but I was so upset I couldn’t help it. I directed my anger at the thought of you.” She felt horrible about it now. “I can’t get over that right away, but I will eventually.”

He could understand it. He wasn’t a monster, nor was he in any rush. They had all the time in the world to finally be together. Waiting wouldn’t kill him. He would wait forever for her. “That’s okay. Anything you need.”

She smiled, squeezing his hand. “I’ll call you, I promise.” She would stick to that promise. 

As she rose from her chair, he followed. They were standing face to face, closer than they had been now there wasn’t a table stuck between them. 

“I’ll see you soon, Lando.” 

He pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly to his chest. He didn’t know how long it would be before he saw her again. She hadn’t been expecting the affection, but she didn’t turn away from it. Instead her arms came around his torso, her body melting into his like they were made to slot together. He kissed the top of her head and then released her. 

“See you soon.”

[aninipanin1]

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐒

Synopsis: The moment he first saw you, he wondered, why did his heart beat so fast? Why did it feel like his soul was emboldened by the flames of life? Most importantly, why did it seem like he met you before?

Notes: May or may not be canon to the Manager series, just a fun piece I wanted to make. And yes, historical inaccuracies, lol. I think I went a lil too bananas on this. Enjoy~

CHARLES CHEVALIER - Childhood Bittersweetheart

"You remind me of the morning breeze that dances along with the dandelions in a wide grass field."

Charles was immature. He knew that, and he embraced it with pride. Call it unprofessional or rowdy, but there was something about seeing people confused about what his true intentions that tickled the funny bone in his system.

So, the moment he stepped foot in the unfamiliar facility of Blue Lock, he had already imagined the potential stunts he could pull in the participants and maybe even the staff, being the cheeky little imp that he was.

"Welcome to Blue Lock, everyone. I hope you had a good journey.

His golden eyes blinked at the greeting, the robotic voice of the translator saccharine, a familiar type of sweet that felt like the first sip of one's favourite morning coffee besides the early shine of the sun.

Seeing as he only had one plucked on his ear, he looked at the girl in front of the team, one with (h/c) hair that was in a messy updo, (e/c) eyes softly creasing due to her polite and welcoming smile.

The glint in her eyes, the shape of her smile, the shine of her hair...it felt like deja vu. Like a dream, he always ends up forgetting but never abandoning.

For the first time in a while, the French midfielder was rendered speechless.

His heart was going overdrive, cold sweat threatening to break for unknown reasons.

What is happening to him?

What is it his body wanted to tell him for it to act this way?

'This has happened before...'

For it has, in a place with greener pastures and smaller dreams. A place where the sounds of nature is more prevalent than the whispers of the people, where people tend more to their cattle than their children at times.

Well, that cannot be said for everyone, but to a 9-year-old Y/n, it was her sad reality.

There are times when she would just look out her window, watching as the sun slowly rose and set, all alone with no one to talk to. Nothing but the few books her mother urged her to read about being a proper lady and the wooden toys her father carved for her when he had the time.

To a kid who yearned connections, it was a hellish nightmare.

But, she just had enough! Enough of being alone and wasting her hours away! So that is why she headed out, ran in the field like a goose on the loose.

Laughs and squeals left her mouth as she spun and ran around, not even caring if she looked stupid, for once she is not the daughter of two busy business owners. She was just...a kid.

"What are you doing?"

Preventing the shocked shriek from coming out of her lips, she turned around to face an unfamiliar grinning face. A boy her age peeked from the tall grass, small fangs poking out of the mischievous smile on his dopey face. Golden eyes that paired with his blonde hair reminded you of the sun you always watched from your windows.

"I was just...playing...yeah."

"Cool! You aren't boring! I like that!"

Sitting down beside her, the boy looked out at the wife pastures in front of them, a priceless memento of the silent beauty of their small town.

Maybe this is what her parents saw that made them decide to move here from Paris.

"By the way! What are you doing here? Are you also escaping from your strict older brother who keeps insisting you learn how to use a hoe?"

"A wha-"

The boy was peculiar in her young eyes. He was talking so fast, with a huge splurge of words too. Something her parents would be horrified at if shs did it. His small fangs showed itself even more as his smile widened.

"Good! So you're like me! Let's go west, that's the best place to hide, I promise! My brother never finds me there, but we do have to be careful because there are snakes there."

"Snakes?!"

She panicked, but it was too late as he grabbed her wrist and took off west where the grass kept growing taller and taller, and her heart kept leaping out in fear of the thought of the slithering creature.

"You-! You're an absolute buffoon! Firstly, you should never invite someone to anything when you just met them! And second of all, snakes are bad! If they bite you, you'll be dead!"

"Oh yeah, I know! But isn't it fun to disobey every once in a while! The adults make the funniest faces when they're mad."

Yup, he was absolutely insane, she thought. Though the fear of getting lost and meeting her early death through a snake made her stay put with the boy.

"Oh, by the way, I'm Charles! The best entertainer in all of France!"

"No, you aren't. Papa said that the King's personal Jester is the best of all the land!"

"Boo! Boring!"

She rolled her eyes, chubby cheeks puffing out in annoyance. The more she spent her time with this...idiot, the more she felt her patience grate into annoyance.

Sss...

She jumped from her position, body alert, and ready to run the moment she heard the slithering sound.

"Did you hear that?!"

"What?"

"That ssss sound..."

"Pfft, you sound funny-"

"Shh!"

And it was at that moment the two kids found themselves running from a three-foot snake who was trying to protect her eggs.

Though she did get scolded hard by her parents, her little mind remembered the blonde boy. Although it ended up in a disaster, she found herself laughing at the memories.

The freedom, the laughter, it felt like she was gifted a playmate. Something she always wished to have but was too awkward to do.

"Charles!"

"Wha?"

The midfielder blinked, shaking his head to awaken from his daydreaming session. Loki, who had his hand on his shoulder, looked confused and albeit worried.

"You were zoning out."

"Yeah! Just daydreaming about the clouds...and stuff...yeah."

The master striker just sighed and shook his head, standing up straight and walked up to the ball near the goal.

"Just make sure to be in tip top shape once the first match starts. Remember why we're here for."

"Whatever~ It's not like it was my decision."

Standing up from his position, Charles put his palm on his forehead, feeling a bit of whiplash from the sudden snap Loki did.

Just what was it he was daydreaming about again?

He couldn't remember. Whatever scenario it was that ran in his head long vanished from his hippocampus. But his heart remained ever loud.

Great, what does it want again?

"I want you to stay with me, please?"

"You know I can't do that, Charles... my parents..."

Your once soft and joyful (e/c) eyes, one that he grew up looking at now, held the weight of the world in them. Soft hands, ones fitting for a princess in his much rougher ones from all the work, was not bare anymore.

No, it now had a beautiful band around its fourth finger, one that shimmered under the sunlight, glaring at him as if to mock him.

Hurl insults at him about how he was just a mere farmer, born in this small town and cursed to die in this small town. While you were born from two parents who owned most of the lands in this place, hailing from the capital itself.

Of course, you were destined to marry a wealthy man, one that would make sure the soft hands he held unto stayed soft for the rest of your lives.

A promise he can never even tell you.

"Charles..."

"I know it's wishful thinking. But at least, lend me these last few days before the ceremony, my dear partner in crime."

Pearl like tears pricked your eyes, remembering the dreaded ceremony as you hugged the man that owned your heart.

You both knew, this was forbidden. A maiden should never act this intimate towards a man she is not married to, much less someone like you who is someone else's bride-to-be.

Echoes of the ancipated overdramatic gasps from old gossipers around town to the slurs of cursed words from your parents if they find out about this secret affair had you buckling at the knees.

All your years, you tried to escape the fear of your parents. You really thought you would be able to do it, especially with someone like Charles by your side, you'll be able to fly free in the near future.

Until your wings were clipped and you were weighed down by a golden ring.

"I'm sorry...that you loved a woman so weak like me, Charles."

"Shhh, you're not weak. You're the strongest person I know, like imagine coming from being scared of a snake to marrying one. You're unbeatable~"

A chuckle escaped your lips at the joke. Even at this predicament, where everything was falling down around you both, he was still charming and humorous as always.

He never did change.

"Just know of this, Charles. Even if...I say I do to that man, you will always be the man in my heart. Never doubt that, ever."

"How could I ever doubt such sweet words uttered to me by my beloved partner in crime?" And for one last time, he bowed his head, lips kissing your hand before swaying with you in his arms.

One last show, one last act of defiance to those who wish to separate you both.

For even as the time ticked fast, even if you said your 'I do' to an unknown man, even if he perished as a single man who never forgot the only woman he has ever held affection for, the ties of love can never be severed by fate.

Especially not one as strong and everlasting as yours and his.

"You remind me of the morning breeze that dances along with the dandelions in a wide grass field."

"I'm afraid I don't understand whatever it is you are implying?"

You let out an awkward chuckle, unure if you should feel embarrassment or flattery. Though, even as you tried to avoid looking at his eyes, gold pupils remained on your figure stubbornly.

Each detail is a gold mine of information of what he truly felt, yet the entrance code is something only time and space knew of.

"Sorry about that, heh. What I meant was, you...aren't boring! I like that!"

"Um...Thank you...?"

"No problem! My name is Charles, how about you?"

ITOSHI SAE - Vow to the Daimyol

"Have we met before? For a smile that can make the sunflowers envious is something my mind can never forget."

Sae hated - no, loathed smiling. As someone under the scrutinizing eye of the paparazzi all the time, he hates this arrogant belief of photographers and journalists who always asked him to look and smole at their camera.

As if his choices and actions were something they had control over.

No, he hated putting on a mask to those people who want nothing more than the juicy 'reality' to get more clicks. If they want the reality, then they'll get it.

And the reality was, he truly hated their guts, so of course, he shows his true feelings without any filter.

Not just that, he also hated anyone else's smiles. Not laughter, no, no, most of the time, laughter is genuine. But a smile? Faker than fake.

From picture taking to conversations. Smiles meant secret emotions, that maybe the person is feeling awkward or thinking of something uncivilized. Hence, they put on a smile to appear innocent.

So, why was it that the small smile you, Blue Lock's manager, and the one he is going against today, made his heart clench?

He does not know you, and you did not know him either. The smile was a small but genuine gesture of respect, as he gave a subtle nod back.

Was he sick? No way. He feels alright, a little excited even to go against Blue Lock, but why was his heart beating this fast? Was he about to suffer a heart attack?

Putting on his black gloves, the midfielder just focused his gaze at something else, waiting until he is called by the U-20 team staff to head to the lockers, mind going a million miles away.

Why did your smile paralyze his legs that much? Why did it seem so... familiar yet new at the same time?

Why did he imagine blooming flowers in the middle of spring whenever he remembers your smile?

"Who are you, and what is your business within my garden?"

A jolt ran through your veins as you turned around to search who caught you wandering around, like a mischievous kid. The ends of your ko-uchiki dirtied by the mud from the soil.

Though you could care less about it, as you happily enjoyed the view of the garden. It was not like your family did not have one, hailing from a prestigious clan of samurais that are loyal to the Shogun, your family had more wealth than what they need it for.

From silken kimonos made from the highest quality of fabric to jade jewelries that is three times the price of a worker's salary, you or, rather, your elder sisters and brothers had access to it.

You were half-blooded, born out of wedlock by the clan head and a slave long dead after giving birth to you. An embarrassment to the family, especially to the matriarch who can not even stomach looking at you.

The only reason why you even retained some form of good grace was because one of your sisters (S/n) favoured you dearly and insisted you become her lady in waiting. She treated you better than your family, giving you clothes she did not like and making sure you had everything you needed.

That is why you were here. At the young daimyo's estate, as a servant for your sister and father who wanted to have a discussion with the daimyo, if he can take (S/n) as his wife.

Though, as you tried to look for the bathroom to hopefully relieve yourself after a long trip, you did get lost amongst the hundreds of hallways and shoji doors, and found yourself in the garden tucked away from the rest of the world.

It was beautiful. Rare flowers bloomed in every crevice of the garden, some you have never seen before. The colours flourished under the sun, giving you this giddy feeling as spring neared its peak.

If only your daydreaming and sightseeing was not interrupted by this mysterious man.

He had bright red hair and an even brighter pair of jade eyes, one that looked even more priceless than the jade jewelries sold by merchants of foreign descent. He looked to be in a perpetual state of frowning, his mouth in a straight line, eyes devoid of any emotions.

"My apologies... I got lost on my way to the restroom..."

He just blinked before walking up to you sitting on the empty space beside you on the engawa.

"That is quite alright...for the least, you did not touch the plants. Hence, I can put this on the back of my mind."

"Do you take care of this garden, sir?"

Jade eyes looked at you in uncertainty, as if shocked and somewhat confused about something yet. He remained ever stoic and proud, nodding his head slowly.

"You could say that. This place is a safe haven for me in a place where the world is happening too fast."

An understanding hum replaced the words you wanted to say, as you remained ever focused at the scenery in front of you. For someone who seemed quite unbothered, he looked to be carrying a deep burden.

Though, you were not here to judge. Instead, you faced him, a smile on your face that rivalled that of the exotic sunflowers, eyes glimmering in excitement at the prospect of meeting someone new in the midst of such a place with a tense atmosphere.

"I feel the same, and I just want to say you must have quite the dedication to care for this garden. Hopefully, this place will last forever to lessen your burden, kind sir."

"We will make sure to defeat those... naive children to show them what real Football is."

Sae continued scrolling on his phone, not even caring about whatever bullcrap the spineless manager of this mediocre team was spouting.

For someone with a shameful team, he has the arrogance of a god.

Though, he just shrugged. He is only here for the match tonight, anyway. Social media was flooded with talks about the upcoming U-20 vs. Blue Lock match, hyping it up so much that it felt like the whole of Japan will be watching.

Until his hand stopped to see a random user post a picture of themselves and you, sheepishly smiling back at the fan's camera, probably a little overwhelmed by the sudden push to the cameras of the world.

Again...that smile, where has he seen it before?

It was so frustrating, like his mind had etched the space of the unfound memories in the whole of his brain, yet the piece was thrown away somewhere, leaving it blank.

The etching is there, but the piece is missing.

What is that missing piece?

He was Itoshi Sae. He never felt like this. He was a man of work and integrity, not one easily taken down by something so trivial as recognizing someone.

Were you a model before that he has seen? Or perhaps a passerby in one of the few times he roamed around Japan when he visited? Even being acquaintances when he was a child? No... it is none of those.

But, the way his grip on his phone tightened to the clenching of his heart, he knew that there had to be a reason as to why he felt this way about you.

Did his mind forget about something that his heart and soul still remembers?

"My heart and soul are yours for eternity, so never doubt, my love, for I could care less about what your family or the world says."

He hated the frown on your face, as well as the insecure look in your eyes as he played with the loose hair that fell from its place. You looked breathtaking under the intimate glow of the moonlight as you both sat on the floor of your shared quarters.

It had been a month since your wedding with the shugo daimyo, whom you met by fate under the spring sunlight surrounded by the fresh aroma of the blooms.

Much to your surprise, though, when you found that the man you thought was a gardener was the Itoshi Sae instead, the youngest daimyo in the history of Japan, who ruled his territories with a rational hand and a perceptive eye.

He rejected your sister and father's proposal, much to your surprise as he simply stated that she never did interest the meticulous eye of the powerful daimyo.

That is probably one of the first times you see your sister heartbroken. She did admire the young leader for his strength and principles. You spent a few nights comforting her and despising the Itoshi head.

He did not have to be so harsh to your sister, and what is up with him not giving you a heads up about who he truly was in that garden? Truly abhoorrent in your humble opinion.

At least, at that time. But fate had other plans as a few months after that commotion, you found yourself garbed in the most expensive matrimonial clothes, ready to be sent to the red-haired lord, love and excitement both in your hearts at the prospect of starting a new life with each other.

Though, the marriage felt like a fairytale. It did not come without any problems, especially in a place where political gains and gambits were the priority.

You and Sae had heard it all, the outrage from your family about how he should have picked one of your other sisters, to some of the other aristocrats stating that he was a disgrace for picking a 'harlot's daughter.'

"It's just... I'm afraid. What if they try to separate us even if by the eye of the Shogun and the Gods we are married? I don't want to leave you."

"And you do not have to worry about that. I will always be here to protect you. I adore you too mucn to let that happen."

The moon bore witness to the embrace and love you shared that night with each other, tangled up beneath the sheets, warm in each other's hold as the God of Love himsef smiled upon the purity and passion between both of your hearts.

If only the God of Fate felt the same way, then maybe, just maybe Sae would not have found himself shedding tears on the pristine silk sheets that engulfed your pale, unresponsive body that now rest in an eternal slumber.

The people were cruel, the world was cruel, and fate was cruel. Everyone was cold and heartless to those who wish nothing but love, and sadly, Sae had to pay the price for indulging in such a weakness in a position where those who feel are punished.

Only that he was spared from the punishment, as the world laid its brutish hands on you, his beloved wife instead.

The dreams and hopes for a better future are nothing but a cautionary tale, a tragic love story passed down through generations about the mighty daimyo and his beloved wife whom fate toyed with, making sure that death did do them part.

"Itoshi-san? Why are you still here...?"

A soft, chattering voice asked. The midfielder turned around and found himself face to face with the reason as to why he was still there, outside the stadium, looking out at the quiet night.

He was exhausted, yes, but not tired. Like there was this unconscious and invisible force that pumped him of life to remain there instead of heading away like he usually does.

"Just wanted to rest before heading out. You?"

"I helped clean up a bit. I felt bad for the staff because today was really tiring."

How hypocritical of you. Being a manager and a glorified maid at the same time? You must either be compensated well or just too kind for your own good.

He stayed quiet for a few minutes before turning his pupils back at your bundled figure. The coat was too big for you, which made you look quite adorable, if he was honest.

"Have we met before?"

"Pardon?"

"Forget it. You just seemed familiar to me. Maybe just saw you play before."

He shrugged, standing up before starting to head out, leaving you confused. It was not like he was in a rush, but he did have a reputation to uphold.

And he was unsure if you seeing the conflicted look on his eyes and the reds of his cheek that was the cause of his pumping heart will help with dismantling said reputation.

He really needs to know what your deal is. Why is it that every time he sees you, he feels so giddy, like a child awaiting in line to buy a toy.

The butterflies in his stomach, the sinking of his heart, the light-headedness he felt, all of it was an anomaly. A phenomena that leaves him stunned and unsure no matter how hard he tries to explain it.

He just hoped this was just some random sickness that will heal all in due time, not knowing that this fever is from millennias of work by the force of their souls trying to converge their hearts once more in hopes of their love having a better chance in this life.

Blue Lock is WRITTEN by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and ILLUSTRATED by Nomura Yusuke. All credits to the both of them.

[beevean]

Thinking about Tenna and Kris… Perhaps an unpopular opinion, but I actually LOVE their relationship when Tenna is properly portrayed as the manipulative, cruel, and terrifying TV host he can be. Yes he’s pathetic and tragic, but he still contains The Horrors and I love it so much. A kid and their morally dubious uncle figure is amazing, especially with the themes of nostalgia, escapism, and a desire to avoid the future that their whole dynamic represents.

I honestly love the fact that Tenna is willing to pressure and hurt Kris to make them love him again. To want to stay with him. It’s so interesting! It is fucked up, certainly, and that’s why it’s so fascinating. Tenna doesn’t JUST adore and love Kris with his whole heart, doesn’t just want them to be happy and smile. In a way, he wants to be their world again. He wants them to NEED him. The idea that they don’t is too much to bear, so Tenna pretends. Pretends that Kris needs him even more than he needs them.

And this isn’t to downplay his interesting dynamic with Susie or Ralsei either— but I think it’s so fascinating how he fixates on Kris. He’s always talking about them, thinking about them, wondering what will make THEM happy. Not Ralsei. Not Susie. Kris.

The borderline possessive behavior he displays towards Kris is so so delicious. He loves them so much it hurts, so they’ll hurt too. He’s so confident in his knowledge of Kris, the more and more they reject him the further he slips into mania to try and get SOMETHING from them.

And, y’know, nothing I’m saying here is new or isn’t already obvious. But I think Tenna and Kris’ relationship has so much potential outside of the art of them drowning out the fighting with Tenna — which I do adore!

Tenna holds on to anything he can, even the employees he mistreats and exploits. He wants to make people happy because HE wants to be needed and adored. He holds on so hard it hurts. He tries to draw Kris in by reminding them of the good old days— but just pushes them away even further, leading him to more and more extremes to try and get their love and attention back. Dude was on the verge of committing war crimes to get Kris back.

Kris isn’t a kid anymore. But to Tenna, they’re still his kid. Even if they need a… not-so-gentle reminder! Teenagers, right? So rebellious! They can forget how much they need their caretakers.

Tenna loves Kris. And that does not make him above hurting, manipulating, and displaying possessive behaviors over them in a vain attempt to make them love him as much as they used to. And I love it.

(Also I just realized I don’t have a link on my account to my Ao3, which you asked for— so my bad! It’s Calamit_Y on ao3– I’ve got two fics about Kris and Tenna if you’re up for reading them! Currently I’m tossing around an idea where Kris gets the Snowgrave treatment instead in chapter 2… but nothing concrete. Yet.)

👀👀👀

You're so right. I was pretty disappointed when I looked in the tag and saw very little dark Kris & Tenna content. Don't get me wrong, I also love the art where he's the kind uncle shielding his nibling from the Divorce, but... he's not just a kind uncle.

I read your two fics and they're perfect! You 100% nailed Tenna's demeanor, affable and desperate even as he's hurting others, a love that borders on obsession without going full yandere.

It makes sense that Tenna will all be about Kris. The fondness he has for Susie is all new, which thematically makes sense since the whole point of Susie is creating a new future. But Kris? That's the kid he raised. Or, at least, it's how he feels. Funnily enough, Tenna never reminesces of times they watched TV alone, it's always with Asriel or Asgore. I guess he needs to feel important, because if he is not a formative part of Kris' childhood, then what use is he?

Tenna definitely gives the vibe of a parental figure who has a very specific, yet outdated view of their child. He knows best. He knows what Kris truly needs (him). He loves Kris, his cute kid Kris - so he doesn't know how to approach the depressed teen Kris. And since he knows best, he's not afraid of gently "parenting" his sassy nibling if they resist his love.

It's just. ugh. he's so creepy but never in a hateable way, I love him 😭 you can't say he's just a selfish bastard who only cares about himself, there is this wonderful combination of genuine love for his family and self-centered desperation! It's complex, and it's realistic, and it's ughhhhh tenna is so goooooooood

This is all Tenna, of course. It's harder to gauge how Kris feels about him. But considering that Tenna is the personification and reminder of a happy childhood that no longer exists, which incidentally is a behavior that Asgore shares and makes everyone uncomfortable, I can't imagine they care a lot. And this absolutely creates a push and pull where the more Tenna tries to bond with Kris to recreate "the good ol' times", the less Kris wants anything to do with him. They can't stay home and watch TV, they have friends now. Friends who won't push him to return to something they no longer are.

Huh. Of course Kris wouldn't be comfortable with yet another parental figure trying to control them :)

(and I haven't even touched the part where in the Mantle game Tenna reveals he had a deal with Kris, and the guy still has to kill him, which can mean nothing.)

Thank you for the ask and the recommendations, I can't get enough of the funny TV guy and his nibling <3

[ginnymoonbeam]

It's been so interesting trying to read where Jom is in his feelings toward Yo, especially over the last couple episodes as the romance rises to the surface. From what he said to Kaew when she first arrived, I think initially all his teasing was solidly under the assumption that Yo was straight and wouldn't even register Jom as a serious romantic possibility. That started to change when Yo displayed blatant, unambiguous jealousy toward Kaew.

Since then, my best guess is that Jom has been trying really hard not to let himself think or imagine that Yo might be interested in him. Partly it's the fear of falling for a straight person, or for someone who might not be straight but might not be prepared to be fully in it with a same-sex partner. Partly it's the age gap. Partly it may be just his own general wariness of getting into something again... I get the sense that he's been single for a while and things did not end great with the mysterious Thee (sidenote HENG WHERE ARE YOU???). Whatever it is, he seems to be bouncing wildly between letting himself fall into the attraction and connection he feels for Yo, and yanking himself back. There does seem to be some testing of the waters with Yo, dangling something and then pretending it's a joke, but I can't tell how much that's conscious testing and how much it's just impulsive.

Either way, it's so good that Yo is a brave and decisive lad and moves forward to make his feelings clear. My read of Jom in the lotus boat scene is that he pretty much knows what Yo is going to say, and is scrambling to avoid it because once Yo confesses things will get real. He'll have to decide whether to accept this thing that he wants, and everything that comes with it (including potentially coming out in the Pho Chai community... we'll see how much the story decides to actually deal with that but it feels very significant even though unspoken right now.) I can see how it feels scary. I can see how it feels much easier and safer to keep flirting and teasing Yo, enjoying the little romantic zings without serious consequences. Fortunately, as Yo has demonstrated in this episode, he is capable of holding Jom up when he falters.

[soniluuuu]

SHIFTING ISN’T JUST ESCAPISM. IT’S EXPANSION.

I think an underrated shifting tip is to have your own life along with your shifting journey. To not let it consume you, to not let every waking and sleeping moment of your existence in this reality be taken up by shifting. I mean, yeah, you can shift with an unhealthy mindset. You can shift hating your life. You can shift even if you’re using this as escapism, as long as you believe you can. HOWEVER, I feel like that’s not appreciating shifting for all it can be.

1. Living your own life helps you shift.

Living your own life is a good way to use LOA. While you’re focusing on shifting, focus—do your shit, twin. Attempt, manifest, meditate, journal, script, do what you feel you need to. But when you also live your own life along with shifting—let it go. Don’t think about it. Don’t overthink. Don’t obsess. Don’t focus on the shifting or when it’s going to happen. Live your life with the intention to let the universe do the rest for you while you focus on your life here.

2. Shifting isn’t just escapism—it’s something so much more beautiful.

Shifting is knowing that you and your consciousness are infinite. It’s having an internal locus of control. It’s knowing you can do everything you want to here AND experience things you never thought you could experience in other realities as well. So if you solely focus on shifting, you’re not taking advantage of all this has to offer. You’re limiting yourself and everything this world has in store for you. Just because you’ve unlocked the key to 3 new windows in your home doesn’t mean you’re going to stop using the front door you’ve always used.

3. Shifting is the same as manifesting.

Guess what? You’re a master shifter already the SECOND you decided to try shifting, so henceforth you’re a master manifester. SO BITCH GO MANIFEST WHATEVER YOU WANT IN THIS REALITY! Dream body? Get it, babes! Dream job? You got it! Self-confidence? Already yours! Don’t limit yourself. Don’t underestimate your own power by only getting what you want in your DR—you can have it here too. Honestly, even if I have not had the experiences I’ve wanted in my DR, I have had some good ones here, and I’m thankful. Because wdym I can go on missions with the Avengers, learn magic with the Golden Trio, go to My Hero Academia and become one of the top 3 heroes and have OP powers, AND become varsity soccer captain here? AND get into my dream college here with a scholarship? AND grow my dream media following here? AND do journalism and social activism here??

4. In conclusion:

I think people who are using shifting as escapism are not using it to their full potential. Why not use it to enrich your life here AND have amazing experiences elsewhere instead of escaping this life? And I’m not trying to be insensitive—if you need this as a crutch to get you through the day, by all means babe, do what is best for you. But as someone who’s been there, who’s been suicidal, who’s been depressed, who’s attempted—I stand firm in my stance that using shifting as a tool here and in your DR is 100x better than using it as an exit.

And let me leave you guys with a final thought:

I think shifting, as amazing as it can be, can be used as a replacement for suicide in some way. To get so obsessed with another reality that you stop caring for yourself here, that you let yourself erode away. You can still shift whilst doing that, but you’re not using your own power to its fullest.

You can shift.

You have the universe at your fingertips.

Use it.

[tohruies]

HELLOOO?????? HELLO?? is anybody else seeing this.... um HELLOOOOOOOO?????? i usually do coco's little library annotations for longfic but this made me feel a lot of things i didn't expect. Woahg. something very off about this man.. anywaysies!!! more of my thoughts under the cut. bunny...... (๑꒪▿꒪)*

They say psychopaths have the potential to make some of the best parents.

this is such an intense opening wah.... i like it a lot;; drawing this comparison to bunny n suggesting how he is capable of acting loving without actually feeling love </////33 it is gutting to think about but also!!!!! i understand the fictional appeal ;u;

Bunny doesn't define himself by anyone else's terms, but he wonders if how he treats you is something like that.

so he knowwwws what he's doing doesnt he!!!!!!! >:o he doesn't deny it... and is aware he's acting..... and still continues.. Evil and Horrible!!!! but hot. i suppose. next question!!!!!

He could give you a beautiful love.

how he knows the shape of love!!!!! how he chooses control instead of the kindness that he could be capable of....

Holding open doors, driving you home, buying you gifts…

all these sweet boyfriend things are just. tools for him!!!!!!! him acting gentle only because it lets him get close to you and keep you close;;;; how he doesn't do these things because he feels it;;;; (would he ever be able to feel it???)

But he thinks it might just be more fun to reveal a little bit of the truth.

AAAAAAAAAKJDAFHJN.... sorry i do not really know how to respond to this hhdnxshxh it is just like!! the mask is slipping.... and you can feel how much danger you're in!!! even if the hand that hurts you is the same one stroking your cheek.... uurhgh.. something like this TAT i am not making sense i think!!!!!!!

He doesn't really care about your orgasms…

my blueb, you must already know how excellent you are at writing smut and i really love how you use it in fics like these for character exploration;;; the way he brings you pleasure--not to make you feel good, but to watch you fall apart... at least this is how i interpreted it!!! :D orz......

“Mmf-, please, enough,” … you don’t see his surefire grin…

HIM FINDING YOUR HELPLESSNESS FUNNY IS TERRIFYING WAHH.....

He's had other girls before… But it's never really satiated him quite like this.

;u; i am very fixated on this line /pos.... the way you describe it makes me think that he is treating you like a drug. a new drug... not like a person. your pain not being a warning to him but something that brings him excitement is making my head spin.... with this way you wrote n described it..... CORA!!!!!!!!!!!! >;O

Your slick coats his cock as he slides into you…

SHAKING MY FISTS AT THE HEAVENS WHY MUST YOUUUU MAKE ME FEEL THINGS FOR A MAN I HAD NO INTENTIONS OF FEELING ANYTHING FOR OHHHHH.... cora this flavour of bunny is so.. you know!!!!!!!!! gesturing vaguely. u/////u

your body still evidently wanting more from him with how much you're creaming his cock vs your brain telling you you've had enough... i m almost imagining bunny using that against you;;; telling you that you're still so wet around him, it must mean that you need more!!!! Gah.

"We're not done yet," something low he says right in your ear…

bunny is so scary to meeehdjfdhdk the way!!! he has decided this for you!!!! but then the praise that comes right after? he's a villainous man indeed.... knowing exactly what to say to keep you pliant;;;;

Something about his praise feels like sunlight filtering through the trees…

aaaaaa this sentence made me tear up a lil!!!!! oops >u<;; i think just!!! your desperation for something soft and gentle!!! that even fake kindness feels like warmth wahhhh...... i wish to hug this reader;;;;;

You know this well, how every orgasm he gives you feels like he's taking it from you instead…

UURRJKRLKR??!!? gosh this line is so true for toxic love and you wrote it very viscerally here in this fic /pos.... he gives in order to take and you have to accept it like it's the only love you're allowed to have and the only love you have earned your right to;;;; uurjhrjhsdnxc :c coraaaa :c

you know how enamoured i am by anything you write and post already!!!!!! <3333 despite how cold my tummy felt reading it--it's what makes the writing so powerful wah..... it's written so well and i am so in awe of your skill (you must know this as well by now!! heh;;;;) and it is like!!! the words are velvet but i am made to feel like knives are poking at my gut... and i think that's what bunny does best too actually!!! how to play pretend so well that sometimes even he gets close to believing it.....

bunny iglesias x f!reader. smut, overstimulation, bunny gives you more than you can take. word count: 500ish author's note: i do make comparisons to some symptoms of mental disorders but i don't explicitly say he is anything

They say psychopaths have the potential to make some of the best parents. For instance, neurotypical parents usually have to feel love before saying "I love you," meaning they may also withhold from saying it when they don't. Psychopaths often don't feel love like people usually do. However, they know how to soften their eyes, ease their tone, and make it seem genuine when they feel the moment is right — when the child wants to hear it, regardless of their own emotions.

Bunny doesn't define himself by anyone else's terms, but he wonders if how he treats you is something like that.

He could give you a beautiful love. He knows what you want to hear, what relationships look like. That a kiss on your forehead in front of your friends has them telling you how lucky you are. How you beam with radiance when you open the door and find him standing there with a bouquet of flowers. Holding open doors, driving you home, buying you gifts from little things you're surprised he remembers.

It's simple, trivial, being what other people would consider to be a good boyfriend. But he thinks it might just be more fun to reveal a little bit of the truth.

He doesn't really care about your orgasms, not in the way he probably should. But he likes the fucked out look you get after he's wrung three out of you, when you try to push him away but you're not quite able to.

"Mmf-, please, enough," is what you seem to say to him, but your voice is muffled behind the arousal thick in your throat and the sheets. Your eyes drift and close with the pain-pleasure of overstimulation, so you don't see his surefire grin and the way he might just eat you up.

He's had other girls before, sure. But it's never really satiated him quite like this. The way your slick coats his cock as he slides into you, dripping off, how warm and tight you are and the satisfying groan he lets out when he bottoms out inside of you.

All you can think about is how hot you feel. His heated palms on your skin, the sweat that starts to slide. You feel hot on the inside too, like you're overheating, like there's so much feeling that it's too much feeling and he's relentless in the way he gives you more, his finger wet with your fluids tapping on your clit until your body jolts involuntarily.

"We're not done yet," something low he says right in your ear, you swear you almost hear him laugh, like you're reacting exactly how he wants you to. "You've been so good." His thumb is gentle as it caresses your cheek, wiping your tears. "Don't disappoint me now."

Something about his praise feels like sunlight filtering through the trees, makes your body give in to him despite everything. At least you've been good. You know this well, how every orgasm he gives you feels like he's taking it from you instead, how he gives you so much more than you can take and then some, only to barely satisfy his greed for you.

You try and fail to bring your arms up to protest as he presses into you over and over again, looping them around his neck. "It's too much," you try to tell him.

"I know," he kisses your cheek, so sweetly, so unlike the way his pace picks up. "It's supposed to be."

author's note: I pulled a "not like other girls" line not because of any personal feelings (I am not a fan of this idea) but to push the kind of mindset/his pov i was thinking of

[jezuschristsuperstar]

idk why some sydcarmy fans are quick to dismiss the romantic potential of sydluca?? like if we watched the same show, the former is riddled with trust issues and has a lot of work to do to even maintain a business partnership. it doesn't mean that their relationship isn't important, but sydney and luca having mutual flirting is what makes people scramble to call them platonic and nothing else? sydluca naturally clicking well as good friends and having an open, respectful yet playful vibe around each other, it's not surprising at all people are drawn to this relationship.

i'm not even insisting on any "endgame" for this show but the pushback from some sydcarmy stans regarding sydney having a healthy dynamic with another character and wanting a romance from that.... Just weird.

I have my own thoughts on Sydluca. I genuinely wouldn’t mind that possibility being explored. It would be interesting to see Sydney within the context of a romantic relationship and how she’d act as well as whether she’d have problems establishing a work/life balance (much like we’ve seen with Carmy). I feel like that’s something we are missing, especially when we have seen almost everybody else’s romantic dynamics.

Ayo and Will Poulter have amazing chemistry and even though they have less than 7 minutes of screen time together, they still manage to convince the audience of a connection. The Chive scene kinda got me, I’m not going to lie. That being said, they have less than 7 minutes of screen time together. We aren’t really presented with a relationship to draw from. Whilst their initial interactions can be perceived as flirtatious, the writers of the show haven’t yet or aren’t bothering to define the nature of their relationship. This is unlike with Carmen and Claire, Richie and Jess, as well as Sydney and Carmen. They don’t necessarily have to tell us outright, but with these three pairings we are given something beyond banter. So I would understand why some Sydcarmy fans don’t feel connected to this ship. Claire and Carmy are a case of childhood lovers. Richie and Jess are coworkers with underlying tension who now seem to depend on each other- and Sydney and Carmen are this dynamic dialled up to 100 with an added layer of messiness. So where do Luca and Sydney fall? What is there to root for? Personally, I see no problem shipping them. However, I also feel as if their dynamic isn’t yet interesting enough for people to care.

It’s all about what’s intriguing and being given something to vouch for at the end of the day, I think. Because this is a story and these are fictional characters- we remove them from what we would actually desire in reality in order to have something compelling and entertaining. Which is why people are so drawn to sydcarmy- the entire idea of their relationship is engaging, entertaining and unique.

Them being destined to meet because of that blood orange dish? Interesting! Her coming to work at his restaurant because of this dish? Interesting! Them becoming partners after months of knowing each other? Interesting! The subsequent tension that comes from piecing everything together and Carmen finding himself outside of work (the introduction of Claire)? INTERESTING!!!! The chef coat and the table and every other tender moment in between. The tension post friends and family night. The fact that we are seeing their relationship at its most efficient and it’s least efficient. And now him calling her The Bear. It may not necessarily be healthy, but it’s engaging. We are taken on a journey, and ultimately we are made to root for this relationship to succeed.

Similarly with Carmen and Claire (although less people seem to be fans of this pairing). We are taken on a journey with them- we see Carmen start to realise that he can have a life outside of work and perhaps enjoying himself and having relationships isn’t a bad thing, despite being very apprehensive at first (him not giving her his number because he felt as if he doesn’t deserve to have fun). We see Claire indulge him- they go to a party, they deliver some mail, they have fun together, and she feels as if she’s finally getting to know him. However, it all comes crashing down when he’s locked in a freezer. He spends the entire time afterwards riddled with guilt and back to where he started because he had already told himself initially that he was too fucked up to be in a relationship or to be a functional human being. On paper, this dynamic is very interesting too as it showcases how the things we tell ourselves can affect how we navigate life and challenges that we are faced with. On top of that, it is layered with the childhood friends to lovers trope which is sweet enough to root for. However, not only does it kind of pale in comparison to the tension we are presented with Sydcarmy- we are more so told that Claire is good for Carmy rather than shown. We only get a glimpse of Claire being a positive influence on Carmy in one episode (s2 ep5), and the rest of the time it’s everybody asking Carmy whether or not he loves her which ultimately takes away from what’s supposed to make it interesting. But all in all, we are still presented with a relationship to draw from and something to root for.

Hopefully, Syd and luca are given some time in the next season to explore their dynamic- whether platonic or romantic. They need to give the audience more things to chew on

[secretlyafiveheadeddragon]

You know something thats always kinda bothered me that I feel like nobody will cover understand?

The How to Train Your Dragon movies. (Here me out, in going somewhere)

I read the books when I was in middle school and fell head over heels in love with them. They’re still some of my favorite books ever. I love the pacing and the aesthetics and the writing and the messaging. I love the tone and the art style and the characters and the absolutely immaculate worldbuilding. They’re a fucking triumph. So I decided to check out the movie, which I had intentionally tried to avoid detail of before I finished the series, I was kind of riding on a very specific kind of high that comes from the ending of that fantastic series.

And I was disappointed. It simply was not the story I had come to love. It bore absolutely no resemblance to anything from those gorgeous books. All the characters had the same names (except Astrid, who isnt even in the books a little bit and is a replacement to a character i think is far superior named Camicazi) but they’re appearances, personalities, and roles in the story were just completely different in a random sort of way. It was like someone had written a movie and then the only way they could get it greenlit was if they wedged in elements of an already existing IP. I cannot stress enough how different the movies are from the books, like drastically, unrecognizably different. So I was dissatisfied, because I saw a huge amount of potential in adapting the books onto the screen, but the movies just threw the books aside without even consulting them.

But here’s the kicker here: the movies are good. They’re so good! They are creative and heartfelt and have amazing heart and humor and an amazing world. The characters are fun and lively and emotional and have a wonderful bond. If they didn’t have the same name as the books, I would be fucking obsessed with them! The animation is gorgeous! The voice acting is amazing! The score is mind blowing! But because of the fact that they will always overshadow my beloved books (that I do think are better overall) I can’t fully enjoy them because I’m constantly comparing them to an IP that shares only their name in common! AAAAAAAHHHHHH!

I don’t know what to do. Ive never met anyone who has had a similar experience to me. I can’t engage in the fandom for the books without constantly bumping into the fandom for the movies, which I think are good movies but I don’t want to engage in the fandom for them. Everyone in my real life who’s even read the books hasn’t read all of them, and like the movies better anyway! I feel so alone! What! Huh! Please someone justify my feelings. I need help

[miquellah]

ok this guy might just be cooking. doesn’t believe SOTE is a retcon, and knows miquella’s motivations started because he cares about malenia, so that’s a great foundation to start. AND,

he puts up a pretty good case for the idea that godwyn wouldve died AFTER godfrey left, and BEFORE miquella was able to know him. as well as the idea that the godskins were actually, secretly allied with the carian demigods, touches on the potential connections between godfrey’s sharing imagery with the hornsent… and more

now, the ultimate conclusion he comes up with for the statue is. NOT something i want to accept. i kind of yelled in exasperation when he got to it. but he DOES have a point on not only how the journey toward that conclusion a process, but how it ALSO has interesting implications, as to what is said further in other areas

i think he drops the ball pretty harshly on mohg at the end, and i don’t necessarily agree with everything he has to say. but despite my qualms, i DO think its a worthwhile video. he does pull up some VERY interesting, underrated connections in lore, and i do appreciate his philosophy on approaching lore in and of itself. it’s not just the conclusions we reach, but also what those things say about other aspects further, and how we ourselves are making an effort to engage with things. even if i don’t agree with someone else’s takes entirely, if it’s compelling nonetheless, i still feel that was more than worth my time and consideration

[bee2029]

Once More To See You (Hannibal AU)

(Art for AU on page, Chapter One, Seven more on Ao3)

Summary:

Will Graham never joined the force, never went to school. Haunted by a brutal childhood and burdened by a mind that won’t let him forget, he spends his life running his dog rescue out of his cluttered home in Wolf Trap, no structure, just fur and chaos and the fragile peace animals bring. Isolated and spiraling into alcoholism, Will hides from the world and from himself, believing the only good he can do is for creatures who can’t speak.

But everything begins to shift when he picks up a rescue from a crime scene and he catches the eye of a well-dressed stranger standing in the distance. Dr. Hannibal Lecter sees something in Will. something broken, something fascinating and he’s not the type to look away.

As Will’s episodes worsen and memories from his past claw their way to the surface, he finds himself drawn to the man who seems to be the only one to truly see him. What begins as therapy teeters into obsession, danger, and a connection.

Tags:

Chapter One:

I live with seventeen dogs. Eighteen, if you count the one under the porch who still doesn’t trust me. I don’t force it, she’ll come in when she’s ready, or she won’t. That’s the rule around here. You come in when you're ready, no one pushes you. 

I don’t have a kennel. I have a living room with claw marks on the doorframes, a kitchen that smells like liver treats and bleach, and a hallway I mop twice a day even though it never actually looks clean. There’s a dog chew in the microwave and someone pissed in my shoe last night. I haven’t figured out who yet. Probably won't, justice is mostly symbolic around here. 

Still there’s a structure to it.  

Wake up at six.  

Feed them.  

Let them out.  

Clean up what they left behind.  

Make calls.  

Take calls.  

Drive out to whatever backroad hell someone left a shaking mess of fur tied to a fencepost in. 

Bring them home.  

Do it all again tomorrow. 

It’s exhausting but it's mine. 

Routine is what keeps the wheels from falling off. If I don’t have that imagery list, I forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget to think. Thinking is dangerous, that’s when the rest of it creeps in. The stuff I can’t outrun. 

I didn’t plan on this life. Didn’t dream of being the barefoot guy at the end of the gravel road with a fridge full of expired vet meds and a porch collapsing under the weight of second chances. But I’ve learned to make peace with it. People used to say I had potential. That I could’ve done something great, if I just let people help me. If I just got out of my own way. But I never did.  

I never got a degree. Never took up any jobs and settled somewhere lonely and cold. And now I’m just a man in a house full of dogs, pretending that saving them makes up for wasting myself. 

But the thing is… they don’t ask for anything I don’t have. They don’t want brilliance or ambition or whatever the hell else people kept expecting from me. They want soft words and gentle hands. A quiet corner to sleep in, that I can give. 

I help them because I know what it’s like to be terrified for no good reason. To flinch when no one's raised a hand. To sit in a room full of warmth and still feel like you’re freezing to death. And maybe that’s enough, maybe the understanding is enough. 

I drink too much. 

 I know that.  

I lie to myself about it every morning and promise I’ll cut back every night. Then I wake up with a headache, step in something, and the cycle begins again. 

But no one here judges me. Not the mutt with half an ear or the one with a heart murmur. Not the blind old shepherd who sleeps at my feet. They don’t care who I could’ve been. They’re just glad I showed up. 

Some days, that’s the only thing that keeps me going. That, and the sound of paws on the floor in the morning. Little lives depending on me. I guess that counts for something. 

People call it empathy, like it’s this beautiful, noble thing. Like feeling everything too much is some kind of virtue. It’s not, it’s a trap. It’s noise I can’t turn off. I don’t have boundaries. If someone’s scared, I feel it in my teeth. If someone’s angry, I taste blood. 

It would’ve been useful, maybe. If I were someone else, who used it to do something important. But I never went that way. I didn’t go to school. Couldn’t sit still long enough for any of it. So now it just sits in me. Like a radio stuck on the wrong station, playing only the worst parts of people. 

It’s not just strangers I pick up on. I feel my father like he’s still standing behind me. Sometimes all it takes is a sound, the clink of glass, the slam of a door, a dog whining too sharp and I’m back there. Ten years old, knees on cold tile. Holding my breath because I spilled his drink. Knowing he’s going to make me pay for it. And I’ll feel it, even now. I feel it. 

I never really left that house. I just grew up and built another one around me and filled it with dogs. Animals I can understand, creatures that don't lie. They bark, they bite, they run. But they don't pretend they love you when they don’t. They don’t hit you and say it's because you needed it. 

People ask why I live like this. Why I isolate and I don’t let anyone in. The hard truth is I don’t trust myself not to break under it. Not to become him or worse, to still be that scared little boy who couldn’t stop shaking, even when it was quiet again. 

So I take care of the dogs. I rescue them and make sure they get to loving homes. Because if someone gets to be safe, even if it’s not me, then maybe the world isn’t all bad. Maybe something good can still come from someone like me. 

I wake up before the sun, like I always do. A dog pressed against my back has been stealing heat all night, and my sheets smell like damp fur and regret. I don’t bother changing them anymore. Why start?

I shuffle through the house in socks, stepping over toys and sleeping bodies. The kitchen light flickers once before it stays on, like it’s half awake too. I feed them in order. Routine matters. Wet food for the old ones. Chicken broth for the jumpy ones. Kibble for the rest. I talk to them while I work, not like I’m trying to be nice, just noise to fill the quiet.

Outside, the frost crunches under my bare feet. The gate swings open, and they bolt past me paws and breath and tails wagging like they don’t know a bad day. I watch them, I’m jealous.

Morning is spent cleaning. Pawprints appear the second I look away. Dishes pile up again by night. I drink coffee, lots of coffee but tend to forget I’m drinking coffee and make a new cup before finding the old one that's gone cold

Afternoon, I’m in the truck, following a call about some poor bastard left tied to a tree behind a trailer park. Windows down, radio static humming. I don’t play music. Lyrics feel like they’re sneering at me.

The dog is bony, eyes too big for his head. I kneel in the dirt and murmur until he lets me leash him. I don’t ask what happened, I don’t have to.

Back home, the light turns gold through the trees. I let the new one in, let the others sniff, let it settle. Dinner, cleaning, checking in on everyone.

Then the drinks start.

One.

Two. 

Three.

The house shrinks around me, full of sleeping dogs and the smell of whiskey and cedar chips. I slump on the couch, glass loose in my hand, half full. I don’t remember finishing the second, or starting the fourth.

The TV flickers, I’m not watching though. Just staring at nothing.

I tell myself to get up. Shower, eat. Do something different. But my limbs feel like lead. The spiral’s started.

By midnight, I’m still here. One dog at my feet, another on my lap. I’m not crying. I don’t do that. I just breathe and wait for sleep to drag me under like a tide I stopped fighting a long time ago.

The morning comes, but I don’t. Not really. I’m trapped beneath the weight of the blanket, sweat soaking the pillow, hands shaking like they want to break free but can’t. My head pounds like a funeral drum, slow and relentless.

The dog’s soft breathing nearby is a reminder of a quiet accusation. He needs me. I need to get him to the vet. But the thought of getting up feels like staring down a cliff I can’t climb. My limbs refuse to obey, and the room shrinks tighter, walls pressing in like they want to suffocate me.

I lie there, heart hammering against my ribs, every breath a shallow panic. The nightmares from last night are still clinging to my skin, ghosts crawling under it, whispering warnings I don’t want to hear. The sweat stings my eyes when I blink.

I want to tell myself to get up. To pull myself together but that thought fills me with a dark, cold dread, like the whole day is waiting to swallow me whole. Even the simple act of standing feels like a betrayal, like I’m choosing to let the panic win.

I don’t move, I can’t. I just lay there, caught in the space between wanting to do what’s right and the crushing fear that I never will.

The only thing that drags me out of bed is the sound of paws scratching at the floor, hungry eyes waiting, patient but insistent. I tell myself they don’t ask questions. They don’t care how broken I am. 

They just want to eat.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, heart pounding as the room tilts beneath me. The nausea rises fast, like a storm in my gut. My hands shake as I stand, and every step toward the kitchen feels like I’m wading through mud.

I fill their bowls, one by one, trying to ignore the sharp sting in my throat. The dogs gather around, tails wagging. I should be grateful, but all I feel is heavy. Like I’m carrying the weight of every bad choice I ever made.

I reach for the coffee pot. Black, bitter. I pour it half full and then reach for the bottle beside it. A splash of whiskey, because mornings like this aren’t made for clarity. They’re made for survival. I cradle the cup like it’s a lifeline and sip slowly, trying to convince myself I’ll be okay.

The dogs eat, I drink. The day moves forward, whether I want it to or not.

The drive to the vet is a blur. The dog lies quiet in the passenger seat, head resting on my knee like he knows I’m barely holding it together. I keep my eyes on the road, muscles tense, stomach twisting with every bump. 

The vet’s office smells like antiseptic and hope. The new dog gets poked and prodded, nothing too serious, but enough to keep him here a few hours. I sit in the waiting room, running my hands through my hair, trying not to think about the pile of dogs back home, waiting, barking, needing.

When I finally get him home, it’s late afternoon. The sky is bruised purple. I’m halfway to the couch when my phone buzzes. 

Caller ID flashes a number.

I recognize one of the animal control officers who usually calls when something’s gone wrong. I don’t want to answer. But the dogs don’t feed themselves. Someone has to show up.

The voice on the other end is sharp and urgent. A dog was left abandoned at a crime scene. Poor things family, gone, just like that. A sharp pain hits my chest.

 No time to waste. 

They need me to come get him now.

I close my eyes and press the phone to my forehead. 

Not again. Please, not again.  

But the world doesn’t care about my plea.

I drag myself back into the truck, my hands grip the steering wheel so tight they ache. I know what this means.

At the scene, the air is thick with the smell of gasoline and burned rubber. Yellow tape flutters in the wind like grim banners. I park a little ways off, telling myself to keep it together. 

Don’t look. Don’t imagine. Just get the dog. 

But my mind doesn’t listen.

I see the house, the shattered glass. The dark stains on the porch, a scent of death, of fear, of something I’ve tried to bury deep.

I tell myself to breathe.

To focus on the dog.

He’s sitting in the truck of an animal control officer, trembling like he knows his life has changed. His eyes are wide, unblinking, but there’s a spark, a fragile thread of hope when I bend down and reach out.

I clip the leash on, picking him up, and fight the urge to look around again. To watch the past unfold right before me.

I keep my voice low, steady. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Behind me, a shadow moves, a man stepping out from the other side of the truck.

“Will! There you are.” The voice is bright, too bright for this place. I turn slowly, a faint dull smile forced onto my lips. The animal control officer, Rick, weathered but with that easy smile that’s supposed to put you at ease steps into view.

Rick’s eyes light up like he’s seen an old friend. “How the hell have you been, man? We haven’t caught up in ages. How’s the rescue going?”

I swallow past the tightness in my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s… surviving.”

Rick nods like he understands more than I say. “Good, good. You know, it’s important work. You’re doing a lot out here.”

I force a small, humorless smile and chuckle. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

Rick steps closer, lowering his voice a notch, like he’s sharing a secret. “Listen, I know it’s rough. But you look like you’ve been through hell lately. You holding up alright?”

The question lands like a fist. I want to deflect, to say something clever or just walk away, but the weight of the dog in my arms and the buzzing in my head keeps me rooted.

“Some days are better than others,” I say quietly. “It’s hard to keep it all together.”

Rick nods again. “I get it. You ever wanna talk, you got my number.” He lands a soft punch to my shoulder.

I give a brief nod, already feeling the tight coil of anxiety curling in my chest. The conversation isn’t over, but the dog whines softly, breaking the moment.

I think Rick took the hint and took off to retreat back to his truck, and I tighten my grip on the leash, ready to leave this place behind.

Then, from the edge of the trees, a figure emerges quiet, composed, every movement precise as if choreographed.

His eyes find me, steady and unreadable, weighing without judgment.

“You move as though you carry more than this poor creature,” he says smoothly, his voice low, deliberate, as if savoring each syllable. The man had an accent and an alluring presence.  “Fatigue that no amount of sleep can touch.”

I stiffen. Strangers don’t usually speak this way, not here, not now.

He inclines his head, a polite gesture, eyes flickering with a depth I don’t want to meet.

“I am Dr. Lecter,” he says, voice as calm as a winter lake, “a student of the human mind and its many intricacies.”

I say nothing, watching the dog shift beside me.

He reaches into his coat pocket and produces a simple, elegant card white with black lettering.

“Should you ever find the burden too heavy to bear alone,” Dr. Lecter continues, offering the card with the gentlest of smiles, “know that I am available to listen.”

I take the card, fingers brushing his for a moment longer than necessary.

He steps back, the shadows embracing him as effortlessly as his words embrace the silence.

I stand there, a little more unsteady than before, wondering what it means to be seen by a man like that and whether I want to be.

I lower the dog to the ground letting him walk beside me. Too obedient for a creature that’s just seen something awful. That’s always the worst kind of quiet

My other hand still holds the card.

Dr. Lecter. 

He said it so simply, like he’d been waiting to introduce himself to me. Like he already knew I’d listen.

I don’t know what I expected from today, a headache, sure. A mess to clean up. But not this, what a curious man.

His voice still lingers in my ears, smooth and steady, laced with something I can’t quite name. Not pity, something older and sharper. Something that noticed me too well.

I shouldn’t care. I don’t have the room for it.

But as I toss the card on the passenger seat and guide the dog into the truck, I realize I haven’t stopped thinking about him.

That bothers me.

The drive back to Wolf Trap is short, but it drags. My head feels packed with cotton and broken glass. The sun's dipping below the trees by the time I pull into my driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. The house is still standing, still overrun with barking and paws and clutter, and that’s the only comfort I’ve got left.

I brought the new dog inside, making sure I grabbed the card out of the seat and shove it deep in my pocket.

 He freezes in the entryway, unsure, like he’s waiting for a blow that won’t come. I kneel down and unclip the leash.

“You’re alright,” I murmur. “No one’s gonna hurt you here.”

The others gather, sniffing, crowding, barking. They’re excited to meet the new one. They don’t care that I look like hell. Don’t care that I reek of sweat and nerves and sleeplessness. They just know I came back.

That’s more than I get from most people.

I feed them wet food, broth, and kibble in bowls already half-cracked. They eat like they’ve never known pain. I envy that. Then I open the back door, let them pour into the yard in a rush of tails and teeth and happy sounds.

Only then do I sink into the kitchen chair, elbows on the table, hands buried in my hair.

The card is still in my jacket pocket. I don’t need to look at it to remember the name.

Dr. Lecter.

His face calm, unreadable presses at the edge of my mind. His voice, too articulate to be casual. The way he looked at me like he was cataloguing every fracture, every quiet ruin, and still found it worth examining.

I should throw the card away.

Instead, I pour a drink.

Half coffee. Half something that burns on the way down.

I sit there until the cold creeps in, letting the silence take over.

The dogs will come scratching at the door soon. I’ll let them in, I always do.

But for now, it’s just me, the bottle, and the quiet hum of something I don’t want to name.

Not yet.

I lock the back door after the last of the dogs shuffle inside, their bellies full, their bodies warm against mine as they find places to settle for the night. It’s the only time this house feels like it’s holding itself together when they’re all here, breathing softly in the dark. When I can pretend I’m needed.

I don’t brush my teeth. Don’t change clothes. I just collapsed on the bed, too broken to care if I smelled, clinging to the sheets and my skin.

I close my eyes just for a moment.

A flash.

The scene unfolds like it always does uninvited, unrelenting. I’m back at that porch. The yellow tape flaps like wings, slow-motion in the breeze. The door is cracked open, just enough to invite the imagination. I try to turn away, but my mind walks inside anyway.

The blood is brighter here, fresh. Pooling beneath fingernails, soaking the floorboards. There’s no sound but breath, mine.

Then I’m moving. 

Not watching. 

Doing. 

The knife in my hand is so detailed I can feel the weight of it. The resistance of skin and sinew. The rage, the method, the heat.

I see the victim’s face but it’s already gone slack. Dead long before I even blink.

The walls close in around me. I look down, and the hands are mine.

It’s not real.

It’s not real.

But the worst part is I almost understand it.

I jolt violently, breath ragged, shirt soaked through. One of the dogs stirs beside me but doesn’t move.

I sit up, hands in my hair, nausea curling low in my gut. I can still see it, like an afterimage behind my eyes. 

The violence. 

The part of me that could almost believe it was true.

I stand too fast, the floor tilts. I find the kitchen by memory.

The bottle’s still there, half-empty from earlier. I don’t bother with the coffee this time. Just the liquor, straight. Then I pop open the little orange pill bottle beside the sink.

Two pills tonight. 

I don’t care.

I chase them down with a burning swallow, lean against the counter, and wait for the weight to return, not the emotional kind, but the thick, drugged gravity that promises sleep without dreams.

Or at least without memory.

The house is silent now. Still.

And if I’m lucky, it’ll stay that way until morning.

[aventurineswife]

Hello! So I have a bit of different request than what you usually get. Basically I want your take on what Herta and Ruan Mei will think about a s/o with an omnitrix from Ben 10. If you don't much about the omnitrix or the series I'll summarize:

Can transform you into different alien species and to catalogue all life in the universe.

Has a universal translator so that they can understand any language

Can scan new DNA that's not in the omnitrix and can transform into that (For example an Halovian, Sunday and Robin's race, and Foxians)

A failsafe to keep the user from dying (by switching to an alien that would survive the deadly hit)

The omnitrix can even transform the user into a God on par with aeons (a Celestialsapien dubbed Alien X)

The story for s/o could be an enigmatic galaxy Ranger that goes around planet to planet helping others and stopping threats. They love what they do and just want to make the universe they live in better.

For Herta, the omnitrix would probably fascinate her completely, and Ruan Mei, being a scientist involved in biology, would also be absolutely fascinated by the omnitrix since to her, this would be the key to helping her with her research. Aeons forbid these two find out about Alien X.

Hope this is good since this is my first request.

Curiosity Became Admiration

Synopsis: In the sprawling reaches of the universe, you’re known as the enigmatic Galaxy Ranger—a lone traveler wielding the Omnitrix, an ancient alien device capable of cataloging and transforming its user into lifeforms across all of creation. You roam from world to world, healing, protecting, and uncovering truths. But your path crosses with a mind that may just be more complex than the Omnitrix itself.

Tags: Herta x Reader, Ruan Mei x Reader, Slow Burn (Ruan Mei), Alien Technology, Found Family Vibes, Philosophy, Soft Angst, Power Couple Dynamics, Emotional Vulnerability, Mutual Fascination, Light Humor, Existentialism.

Warnings: Mild language, Emotional trauma/backstory (Ruan Mei), Existential themes (immortality, godhood, scientific ethics), Implied off-screen violence (galactic threats, Omnitrix failsafe use), Minor angst (coping with isolation, grief), Herta occasionally toying with morality/science boundaries in dialogue.

The soft glow of the Simulated Universe core pulsed in rhythm with the simulated heartbeat of the universe itself. You leaned back against a marble column, Omnitrix glowing faintly on your wrist, as Herta walked in on one of her puppets, arms crossed and expression unreadable save for the spark in her eyes.

“Interesting,” she muttered, gaze flickering to your wrist like a predator studying its prey. “A device that catalogs life across the universe? Transforms the wearer into any of them? Including some that defy the bounds of physical law?”

You chuckled. “You make it sound like I’m cheating at existence.”

She stepped closer, curiosity overpowering even her usual detachment. “You are cheating. That’s the appeal. The potential applications are... unspeakably vast. There’s something fundamentally unfair about how fascinating you are.”

“Jealous?”

“Jealous? Don’t be ridiculous.” Her lips curled into a half-smirk. “I could replicate something similar if I had, oh, a few thousand years and a laboratory on the event horizon of a black hole. But your version? Organic, adaptive, and—” She tapped the Omnitrix lightly. “—almost playful. It responds to your emotional state. That part’s brilliant.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m fascinating now?”

“You were fascinating when I first saw you pull a Florauna battle-form out of nowhere to rescue a mining colony. Now you’re something between a case study and a muse. Don’t let it get to your head.”

She leaned closer, tone softening. “But be honest—does the failsafe hurt? When it switches you into something invincible? I’ve read theoretical pain echoes that could cause—”

“Herta,” you interrupted with a smile, “I’m fine. I promise.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her puppet’s gaze dropped to your hand. “Good. I... I like having you around. You’re the only anomaly I don’t want to fix.”

And just like that, she walked away, but not before leaving behind a holographic blueprint of your Omnitrix—labeled, indexed, and annotated. You had the distinct feeling she’d already built three versions of it by the time you blinked.

The soft hum of genetic stabilizers echoed through the bio-dome Ruan Mei called her lab. You stood in the observation ring, admiring the crystalline forest below. She approached in her usual elegant silence, eyes landing on your Omnitrix like it was the crown jewel of the cosmos.

“You contain millions of genomes in a single device?” she asked, almost reverently.

“Closer to billions, and counting,” you replied. “It updates every time I scan something new. I figure, if I’m going to travel this much, I might as well collect something other than bruises.”

She stepped forward, her pearl earring catching the low light. “This... this is the missing link. The living blueprint of evolution across the universe. You don’t understand what you’ve given me just by existing.”

You gave a lopsided grin. “Glad I could be your living thesis.”

Ruan Mei smiled faintly—barely perceptible, but it was there. “I wouldn’t reduce you to a project. No... you’re something rarer. You’re a key. One I could spend lifetimes studying, and still never exhaust.”

Her fingers brushed against the Omnitrix, light and delicate, like she was touching something sacred. “It responds to your instincts. Adapts to your morality. That’s not just biology. That’s... love encoded into science.”

You blinked. “You think the Omnitrix is love?”

She gave a small laugh, elegant and sad. “Perhaps not. But your will—your choice to use it to protect rather than dominate—that’s a love I understand. It’s the same reason I never tried to bring back the dead. I wanted to, once. But I realized... meaning comes from choice, not replication.”

You watched her closely. “And what do you choose now?”

Her gaze met yours—soft, sharp, infinite. “I choose to stand beside the one being who holds every answer I’ve ever sought—and still chooses to ask questions.”

You reached out and gently took her hand. “Then ask me anything. I’ve got time.”

[star-centric]

REQUEST: Maki x reader from an impressive clan, but their curse technique kinda sucks so said clan treats them like garbage

NOTE: I wanna say I’m more than halfway through my requests (I think?) and that makes me very happy 🙂‍↕️

CW: gender neutral reader, reader's family/clan sucks just as much as Maki's

“I hope you know that you’re not weak.” 

You hated the way you flinched, trying to wipe away your building tears. Your pride was hurt more than the throbbing bruise on your side, the ice pack doing nothing more than reminding you of your loss. 

“I would love it if my own clan believed that.” You shot back. You know that you shouldn’t take it out on Maki, but you were angry— angry at yourself, angry at your curse technique, angry at your so-called bloodline, angry at everything. 

You belonged to a powerful clan. While it wasn’t on the same scale as the Gojo clan, they were still a formidable force. The name held weight in the realm of sorcery. The issue wasn’t with the clan themselves.

The issue is with you. 

Where your own immediate family didn’t lack the strength or potential to carry the bloodline for years to come, you did. Your technique paled in comparison to the others, and it was obvious. They believed that you were holding them back— the sole reason they were facing scrutiny in the eyes of others. They made sure to show their disappointment daily— whether it was by their glares, their harsh words, the “training sessions”, and so on. 

You felt like the modern day Cinderella, except there was no ball to use as a temporary escape. No prince— no one— to whisk you away, granting you some sort of a happy ending. 

But you didn’t deserve it, you believed. This was your punishment for being a failure, for failing your family and dishonoring the generations that came before you. 

“You don’t need a good technique to be a good sorcerer.” 

Maki’s words broke you out of your thoughts. 

“Hell, if that was the case— I would’ve been dead or kicked out of Jujutsu High a long time ago.” 

And she was right. If it was anyone else, their words would have went one ear and out the other. But it was Maki, who’s been through the similar if not the same treatment. She couldn’t even see curses without her glasses but she didn’t let that stop her. Her strength was admirable, and she was someone that you looked up to.

You wanted to be strong, just like her— but you were at your breaking point. 

“What keeps you going— how do you not just, give up?” Your voice shook, giving away just how vulnerable you were being. But you needed an answer now, because you were reaching your wits end. 

“Because I know that they’re full of shit— both of our clans are.” 

It was crude, but the truth.

Maki called your name, fingers grabbing at your hand. She demanded your full attention with just the tone of her voice. "I've been where you are. I was at the bottom— and if I let myself stay there any longer, I would have hated myself." Her tone shifted to something softer, a side of her that you rarely get to see.

“The moment you start taking your words as truth is the moment you admit defeat.”

Maki stood up, offering a hand and a smile. “We don’t need them to become the best sorcerers, we don’t need them to live our lives— we don’t need them at all. And we can prove that to everyone. Don’t give up on me now.”

You wiped away your drying tears, taking her hand into yours and letting her pull you up.

The weapon you discarded before was soon back in your palms, a new resolve filling you as you got into your fighting stance, mirroring Maki whose smirk grew.

As you made the first blow, you realized that this was the first time in your life that you didn’t feel alone.