kaiobsession

[kaiobsession]

Aahh i need fluff with Luka so baddd i havent recovered from Wiege 😭

I feel so bad for him omg ? ? Imagine getting starved despite having a huge diet , having multiple diseases and pushed to the brink of death over and overr

I need some fluff with him so bad where we just comfort himm 😞

You're safe now.

Luka looked perfect, as always.

Even in the dim quiet of the infirmary dorms, with a worn blanket around his shoulders and dark circles under his eyes, he still carried himself like he was on stage. Shoulders square. Jaw tight. Movements deliberate. Like the world was watching and he couldn’t afford to let them see him crack.

You stood at the doorway for a second, just… watching him.

He sat on the edge of the bed like it might disappear if he shifted wrong. His eyes were fixed on nothing, but his fingers were fidgeting—just barely—restless and unsure. The air around him felt tense, like he was bracing for something.

You stepped in gently. Quietly. “Hey.”

He blinked. Turned his head. “You again.”

There wasn’t any sharpness to it. Just tiredness.

You smiled softly and held up a bowl. “I brought you something warm. Chicken rice porridge. Mizi said it was your favorite.”

Luka’s expression didn’t change much, but you saw it—the small twitch in his lip, the way his posture faltered for a second.

He didn’t reach for the bowl.

“…I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

You walked over and sat on the floor in front of him anyway. “You don’t have to finish it. Just try a little?”

He hesitated, then—still as stiff as a statue—nodded once.

You lifted a spoonful and held it up for him.

He looked at it like it might bite him.

“I can feed myself,” he mumbled.

“I know,” you replied gently, “but… let me, just this once? Please?”

His shoulders tensed, like the kindness physically hurt. But after a beat, he leaned forward and took the spoon.

He didn’t say anything, but you saw the tiniest breath leave him—like his body was remembering what warmth felt like.

You fed him in slow silence. He only managed a few bites before he stopped and shook his head.

“That’s enough,” he whispered. “It’s too much.”

You nodded and set the bowl down. “Okay.”

Luka sat back, curling the blanket tighter around himself. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling. “I used to fantasize about food like that,” he said quietly. “When I was locked up. I’d make lists of everything I wanted to eat. I thought it would feel good when I finally got to taste it again.”

“Did it?” you asked softly.

His voice cracked. “No. It just made me remember how long I went without.”

You reached out and touched his hand. It was trembling.

“Luka,” you said, “you’re not in there anymore. You're not alone. You're not starving. You're safe.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared at your hand over his like he didn’t know what to do with it.

You stood slowly, then sat next to him on the bed, careful not to startle him. “Can I… stay with you a while?”

“…If you want.”

You didn’t hesitate. You leaned against him, arms looping around his waist, your cheek pressing gently to his shoulder.

He was frozen stiff at first. Breathing shallow. Like he was still waiting for someone to punish him for getting too comfortable.

But after a long pause—he melted.

Just a little.

His body sagged against yours, the weight of exhaustion finally crashing down. His arms slipped around you like it was instinct, and he buried his face in your shoulder.

“I didn’t think I’d make it out,” he whispered. “I thought… maybe I deserved it.”

You held him tighter. “You didn’t. You never did.”

“But I was awful. I used people. I hurt them. I thought I was doing what I had to, but—”

“You were surviving,” you said gently. “And you’re still here. That matters.”

His breath hitched.

“You don’t have to earn comfort, Luka. You don’t have to perform for it. You’re allowed to be held. To be cared for. Just because you exist.”

He went quiet.

Then you felt it.

A soft, shaking sob pressed against your neck.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You just let him cry. Quiet and fragile, like the tears had been waiting years to fall.

Eventually, when the shaking slowed, you pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Lie down?” you asked.

He nodded wordlessly.

You eased him back into the blankets, tucked them gently around him, then climbed in beside him. He clung to you instantly—his arm curling around your waist, his forehead resting against your collarbone.

You brushed his hair back, fingers combing slowly through the soft strands. “You’re safe now,” you whispered.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” you said, kissing his temple. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And for the first time in a long time, Luka closed his eyes and let himself rest.

Not as a prince. Not as a manipulator. Not as a perfect performer.

Just as a boy who had finally made it out. And the person who refused to let him fall again.

[kaiobsession]

"My Savior, Beautiful Lady"

Luka [ALNST] x Reader

[Attempted] Angst

Pov- second person POV

Tw- major character death, gun violence, description of blood, mild and short description of getting shot, unrequited love, mild suicide idealation (implied)

Your love for Luka is eternal, everlasting— and today you will die with it.

The view beyond the stage glimmers with shades of purple. The music has yet to start, but the support for your enemy-and your one sided love- is obvious.

You weren't going to win this match.

Not like you wanted to either.

When you saw your portrait next to Luka's in the tournament lineup, the decision to die has slided in to the forefront of your mind.

It has always been there, lurking.

But the idea of dying with Luka on the stage. With him looking at you flashes through your mind it makes the idea more clear.

The notes of a piano, the strum of a violin and then- his voice.

smooth, hypnotic.

just like the rest of him, perfect.

You two danced the waltz together on the stage with all eyes on your two bodies closer then ever but his eyes weren't on you like you hoped they would be. No, they were more distant, like you were just another opponent to win against before he moves on to the next match.

Your voice was carried across the stage with the aid of your microphone.

You were lost in the bright void of his golden eyes.

And you didn't plan on coming out any time soon.

Your hand in his.

Your voices mixing together to create a sweet, fleeting melody.

A gunshot that rips through the melancholy air and pierces the side of your head.

Before you fall forward and collapse into Luka. His embrace is warm,

Like the blood that stains his shirt- a deep crimson that cradles your head.

The cheers are faint. A muffled background noise to Luka. It's all a part of the act and routine he has grown used to.

Your feelings for him were obvious ever since you grew up in the Anakt Garden.

Him not returning those feelings were just as obvious, yet you never gave up on those second glances towards him during lunch, or the little notes you would drop beside him as he sits by the big tree before dashing off.

Your displays of affection were small, persistent- desperate.

They weren't enough to make his heart move any more then a gentle beat, definitely not a flutter. But you did linger in the back of his mind for a little longer then most.

With his purple tipped fingers, Luka tilted up your limp head and pressed his lips against your forehead before letting you drop onto the stage floor and walking away.

[kaiobsession]

Luka analysis/ramble below

Contains Round 7/Final spoilers

Ya know, Luka must be such an incredibly hollowed out man with enough trauma to incapacitate a different human. Like seriously, he's the perfect representation for anyone stuck under the obsessive spiral of perfectionism and repression.

He's in his early thirties, and his only attainable achievements are being covetable human flesh and doing so well at music that any potential friends or colleagues he could have will die in front of him if he takes the time to do the only thing he's allowed to focus on—sing. The girl he loves and could never talk with like a "normal kid" (but it didn't matter then because she accepted him as he was) has traumatic flashbacks just seeing him. The knowledge that her existence is so highly illegal that any achievements he has made will mean nothing if he is seen loving her... That's heavy. And that's partially on the assumption he's seen the news as it's hard to miss. (It's hard to tell with his expressions.) The moment he sees Hyuna in Round 7, the facade and mimicry is gone. All that's left is the hollow and lonely man.

How many times has he seen people he may have liked, disliked, been curious about, hated, shared memories with- how many have died or been beaten before his eyes? How many times has he supressed the screams inside of him because he's not allowed to. He's a puppet off of the stage, strictly controlled and having his fate already decided for him as long as he can probably remember.

"His eyes are lifeless." "He's so cruel." "He's just manipulative." Tell me you can't get a clue without telling me you can't get a clue. There are so many things wrong with this man, and you're going to obsess over the fact that a victim still stuck in abuse has done "inhumane" things on a planet and in a universe surrounded by creatures that teach that inhumanity is the most normal response to have to human emotions. Do you even know how the brain works when stuck in a situation where you're constantly just surviving? I'll tell you because I have firsthand knowledge. You do anything to stay alive. Anything. If brainwashed, you will hurt people you love if you think it will save them/keep them safe. And when it's all said and done, you then further crawl into the shell of yourself with hope that the emotional/mental bombs don't put enough shrapnel into your fragile, hiding self to ensure you really don't wake up this time. Because then hurting the other person would have been for nothing. Because then you'll have failed the one goal you have—survival. Trauma changes how a human brain is shaped and formed. (It's a scientific fact; go look it up if you think I'm pulling your leg.) I wonder if that, on top of the insinuated neurodivergence, is enough to make the already born outcast and alien-proclaimed prince (meaning: he's above the other humans AND nobody can touch him on his throne that only get higher each new death near him) be considered "surviving" instead of the "thriving" people seem to think of him as doing. I wonder how much he'll have to go through before he's "traumatized enough" or "injured enough" for the fandom to have a crumb of empathy (or even sympathy) for him.

Even if you have dulled feelings or no specific attachments to others—being the indirect cause of so many deaths, watching blood splatter the stage in a competition so fierce that the surviving participant(s?) develop medical problems overtime, knowing this is your very bread and water and shelter but the ones watching and clicking buttons to ensure your survival see this as an event for pure entertainment and no true depth, having to live with no attachments because either you'll never see the person again or you'll never see the person again—this fucks up a person. Isolation is the reason people take the fast way out of this world. Isolation is the reason why people go mad. Isolation makes you beg the very air surrounding your existence to end you. Yet simultaneously, you want to live so bad, and you just can't understand why humans are like this because all of you should want to be dead by now, even if the voices around you speak of how you're the greatest and most privileged.

The first time around must have been terrifying. How did Luka feel winning something like that, achieving all the praise and great treatment as his body and mouth metaphorically dripped with still-warm blood? Did he feel like he fought and died a million times over? Was he cursing or tiredly resigned because winning means he has to do it all over again if your master wishes and his master is greedy? Was he thinking of Hyuna-A? Was the win so hollow and full of traumatic moments that he tucked it down once more because even for someone detached and bullied by his peers the entire ordeal had been too much? Was he rationalizing it? Did he feel like a sick bastard for his hunger for control on stage? I wonder how much he disassociates off-screen. I wonder if he ever stopped his habit of putting his mouth on things for sensory stimulation or if he just hides it behind closed doors to be publically presentable. I wonder if he's ever acted out, gotten punished severely, and never acted out again. When did Hyun-A escape? How much did he know about it? The only love he's been taught is the faux love between owner and owned. He's obsessed with control because he has no control over his life and the stage is the only place he gets it. Is it really so shocking that he declared Hyun-A as "his" in the past and wishes she'd let herself be owned by him? This entire thing is so fucked up, and I still don't know enough about this man to be satisfied.

Luka has been stuck in this loop of being a product that exists for public consumption for at least ten years, so please excuse him if he's tired and working on instincts to live and desire for control turned to lifeless (yet pretending to be full of it) and brokenly presenting art of which he knows/thinks the muse of will never see.

[kaiobsession]

So I got into alien stage ...and I do not know what to feel about this man in particular ..

Like I wanna love you ..I wanna read fics about you and obsess myself over you ..

But God's you have that silent red flag just peeking behind you in the corner that keeps showing up in the side of my eye

[kaiobsession]

I love my bae

Ranpo is the type of boyfriend to get you a huge box of chocolates for Valentine's and then eat them all because he “couldn’t wait”. Afterward, he’ll see your disappointed expression and try and convince himself it doesn’t get to him THAT much. After all, the chocolates were very good. But he ends up feeling guilty. So as you’re sitting down in bed he’ll waddle over like a kicked dog and practically throw himself against your arms, as you huff and ask what he’s doing he’ll cut you off and shower you in a wave of quick messy kisses planted all over any visible skin, stealing your breath away from your lungs as his lips roughly connect to yours. His hands tell another story though, resting against your waist gently, reverently, and intimately as his fingers dance against your skin. Afterward, he'll pull back as if he did nothing of the sort, and when you ask why he just smothered you in kisses he replies: “I was saying sorry” he huffs feigning nonchalance as if it was common sense why he just threw himself onto you with as much affection as a five-year-old

(AHH side note from the author here I've never really written for Ranpo before despite him being like one of my top favorite I'm trying to characterize him right so bear with me 😭 if I characterized him wrong🍓– )

[kaiobsession]

you write Ranpo so well!!!! if requests are open, is it possible to request a morning with Ranpo after intercourse? like they live together and they have to get ready for work after last night? i don’t know if this is still considered nsfw though 😥😢😢🥲

“Late? Sounds Like a You Problem”

Ranpo x reader

Implied sexual content

The morning unfurled in shades of gold and quiet warmth, the air thick with the remnants of last night—whispers traced into skin, the press of bodies entwined, the slow-burning embers of desire still lingering in the sheets. You stirred first, the weight of satisfaction anchoring you to the mattress, your body humming with the memory of him.

Beside you, Ranpo lay in a tangle of limbs and careless grace, his breath slow, steady, utterly unbothered by time. His dark hair fell over his closed eyes, the unruly strands still twisted where your fingers had clutched at them, pulling, seeking. The faintest smirk rested on his lips, as if even in sleep, he knew—he always knew.

You let yourself watch him for a moment, drinking in the sight of him bathed in morning light. The marks you had left—on his throat, his shoulders, the faint crescent moons carved into his skin by your nails—stood against the pale canvas of his body, a map of your surrender, of his victory.

But the world was waking, and so must you both.

Shifting closer, you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your voice a whisper against his lips. “Ranpo… it’s time to get up.”

A small noise of protest rumbled from his throat, and he turned his face deeper into the pillow, body curling into itself like a cat unwilling to be disturbed.

“Too early,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, edged with something smug, as if he knew you would let him stay like this if he wanted. As if he had all the time in the world.

But you had learned his tricks, his deflections, the way he could stretch moments into infinity just to indulge himself. And you knew, if you let him, he would keep you here, wrapped in silk and warmth and the echoes of last night’s pleasure, until neither of you had any hope of making it to work.

With a soft sigh, you brushed his hair from his face, trailing your fingers down his jaw, your touch featherlight. “If you don’t get up now,” you murmured, “we’ll be late.”

One emerald eye cracked open, gleaming with something sharp, something entirely too knowing. He stretched, slow and languid, the sheets slipping lower, exposing more of the canvas you had claimed with lips and teeth and whispered reverence.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he mused, voice honeyed with amusement.

You rolled your eyes, but he caught the flicker of warmth in them, the way your lips parted slightly, the way your breath hitched at the sight of him like this—so utterly undone, and all yours.

Ranpo smirked, propping himself up on one elbow, his fingers tracing lazy circles over your bare thigh. “You’re thinking about it again,” he said, his voice a knowing whisper. “The way I had you last night… the way you begged for me.”

Heat bloomed in your chest, in your stomach, in the space between where his fingers lingered and where you ached for more. He always saw too much. Always unraveled you before you could hope to stop him.

But you had never been one to back down.

You leaned in, close enough that your lips nearly touched, your breath warm against his mouth. “And if you don’t get up now,” you whispered, “I won’t let you have me again tonight.”

His eyes darkened—not with frustration, but with something deeper, something dangerously close to admiration.

“You’re getting cruel,” he murmured, his smirk widening.

“Somebody has to be responsible,” you teased, brushing your lips against his before pulling away, slipping from the bed before he could pull you back down with him.

You felt his gaze follow you as you padded toward the bathroom, your bare skin kissed by the morning light.

Behind you, there was a rustling of sheets, and then—

“Need help?” His voice was light, playful, but beneath it lay something heavier, something that promised more.

You paused at the doorway, tilting your head slightly, considering. The shower waiting behind you, the promise of warmth, of routine, of reality.

But you weren’t foolish enough to believe you could resist him for long.

So you glanced over your shoulder, eyes glinting with challenge. “You’ll be late if you do.”

Ranpo only grinned, his confidence unwavering, his hunger barely veiled beneath amusement.

“Then I guess we’ll both be late.”

And just like that, time unraveled between you again.

────

It makes me truly happy that you feel I’ve captured Ranpo as you envisioned. His effortless charm and playful confidence are a joy to write, and I loved bringing this moment to life for you.

I’ll have to admit, Ranpo is growing on me like a guilty pleasure. There’s something irresistible about the way he bends time to his will, lingering between indulgence and reality. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed crafting it, and I’d love to create more moments like this whenever you’d like.

[kaiobsession]

Can't help myself, have to request again because I was thinking about this the other day, and I need to see what you would create out of this scenario:

The men of BSD reacting to their lover calling them drunk. (reader insert) just like a mini-drabble of how they'd be in this situation because we know they'd all have drastically different takes.

If you're not comfortable with this specific scenario maybe just them reaching out to them when they need help (like they're out late at night and they're scared) just like an interesting/vulnerable-ish moment is what I'm interested to see how they would each handle.

You can do whatever men you want but I was hoping for: Ranpo (I love how you write him), Dazai, Chuuya, Akutagawa, Fydor, Mori, Fukuzawa, Oda, and Ango if at all possible. Just because I'm most curious about them. I know that's a lot though so no worries if it's less or not possible.

It was just an idea I had and was curious about how you'd handle but never feel like you have to. I know you're working on other things and if this doesn't fall within things you'd like to write about, no worries at all. I just love seeing your natural dialogue flow and wanted to see where you'd go with this interesting scenario and cast of characters.

I hope you'll consider the request <3

Whispers Between the Lines

This contains several heavy psychological and emotional themes, including psychological manipulation, gaslighting, Stockholm syndrome, unhealthy dependency, emotional coercion, control, power imbalance, toxic relationship dynamics, alcohol use, intoxication, loneliness, isolation, emotional vulnerability, implied emotional abuse, existential despair, and feelings of entrapment. (Most of these are for Mori)

Chuuya Nakahara: “Love Spilled Between Midnight Calls”

The moment he picks up, the world stills.

His breath catches, sharp, and when he speaks, his voice is edged with urgency.

“Where are you? What happened?”

He thinks something’s wrong.

But then you speak—soft, trembling, a quiet storm of love and longing spilling from your lips.

And oh—

Chuuya goes silent.

You tell him how much you love him, how he is everything, how you never thought you’d have this kind of love.

How you don’t deserve him—but God, you love him anyway, with every trembling, aching piece of yourself.

And Chuuya—

He is drowning.

His chest is too tight, his heart hammering like it’s trying to break free. He presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose, his breath uneven, his grip on the phone unsteady.

You don’t say these things often—not like this, not in this raw, unguarded way.

And you’re drunk, which means you are honest.

“Damn it.” His voice is thick, heavy with something he can’t name.

“You really think you don’t deserve me?” A breath—sharp, unsteady. “You—God, you’re my whole damn world, you idiot.”

And if your voice wobbles, if you sniffle even a little—he’s done for.

“Alright, that’s it. Stay where you are—I’m coming to get you.”

He doesn’t care if you tell him you’re fine.

He doesn’t care if you say it’s nothing.

Because the thought of you, alone, drunk and overwhelmed with love, is unbearable.

And when he finds you—wherever you are—he doesn’t speak at first.

He just pulls you in.

His arms are strong, steady, unyielding, as if holding you tight enough might press all your shattered pieces back together.

You can feel it, the way his heart slams against his ribs, how he clings to you like you are something sacred.

“You love me, huh?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s a tremor beneath it, something fragile, something breaking.

You nod, small and hesitant, as if love could slip through your fingers like sand.

And then—he kisses you.

Your hair, your forehead, anywhere he can reach. Soft, reverent, like a vow written into your skin.

“Good,” he breathes, his lips ghosting over your temple. ”‘Cause I love you more, and I’ll remind you every damn day if I have to.”

Dazai Osamu: “Whispers at the Witching Hour”

The phone rings, slow and syrupy in the late-night hush.

A lull of static, then a voice—soft, silken, and just the slightest bit unsteady.

“Dazai~,” you purr, your words curling like smoke, slipping through the receiver in lazy ribbons. “It’s late, isn’t it? Or… early? I can’t tell. But does it matter?”

A pause—just long enough to feel like a caress, just long enough to let the silence hum between you.

Dazai leans back, the corner of his mouth twitching into a knowing smirk. He recognizes that tone, the way it drips with something dangerous, something intoxicating.

“I’m bored,” you continue, sighing, and he can hear it—the delicate tilt of your lips, the way amusement colors the edges of your voice like the last traces of dusk. “And I thought of you… Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Dangerous?” Dazai hums, fingers twirling the cord of the phone absentmindedly. “My dear, you wound me. Are you saying I’m a bad influence?”

A giggle, light as the clink of ice in a glass. “Oh, Osamu… don’t play coy. You know exactly what you are.”

There’s a shift in your tone now—something teasing, something languid. It trails down his spine like fingertips dragging over silk.

“Won’t you come play with me?” you muse, voice dipping into something rich, something molten. “The night feels lonely without a little trouble to keep it company.”

Dazai chuckles, but there’s something sharp beneath it—something intrigued.

“And what kind of trouble are you looking for, my sweet?”

A laugh, breathless and honey-drunk. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

Dazai exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. He can picture it—the way you’re likely sprawled out, limbs loose, eyes heavy-lidded and glittering with mischief. The way your lips would part just so as you speak, as if inviting him closer even through the distance.

His fingers twitch against the receiver, the weight of the moment settling over him like a silk sheet—thin, delicate, and undeniably electrifying.

“Come find me, Dazai. If you dare.”

And then, just like that, the line goes dead.

Dazai blinks. For a beat, he simply sits there, the air thick with your lingering presence. Then, a slow, breathy chuckle escapes him, rolling through the quiet like the first drop of rain before a storm.

“Ah…” he murmurs to himself, running a hand through his hair. “What an interesting little game you want to play.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his mind already spinning. He should let it go—chalk it up to drunken whimsy, let you stew in your own mischief.

But where would the fun be in that?

A dangerous game, indeed.

And Dazai has never been one to resist temptation.

Ranpo Edogawa: “Dial Tone Confessions”

Ranpo doesn’t answer immediately.

His phone buzzes once, twice—persistent, an insistent little thing that refuses to be ignored. It’s late, too late for reasonable conversation, but curiosity flickers in the depths of his knowing eyes as he finally picks up, bringing the device lazily to his ear.

“Hmm~,” he drawls, the syllables of his greeting stretching like melted caramel, smooth, slow, indulgent. “It’s past your bedtime, isn’t it?”

A giggle bubbles through the receiver, unfiltered and weightless, like the clinking of glass bottles on a city curb. Ah. He tilts his head, amused. There’s a slur in your tone, subtle but telling, a looseness that drapes over your words like silk slipping off a shoulder.

“Ranpooo,” you sing, voice syrupy, teasing, like you’re calling for a stray cat that refuses to be tamed. “Guess where I am.”

He exhales through his nose, a smirk curling at his lips. “On the floor.”

A beat of silence. Then a dramatic gasp.

“Okay, that was a lucky guess.”

“It wasn’t.” He yawns, stretching an arm over his head, already sinking further into his couch. “You’re drunk, and when you drink, you get clumsy. And when you get clumsy, you fall. You should be thanking me for my genius, really.”

Another laugh, softer this time. “What would I do without you?”

Now, that’s interesting.

His eyes glint with something keen, sharp, something infinitely amused but not entirely unserious. It’s always been like this between you two—an intricate push and pull, a game of cat and mouse where neither wants to admit who’s chasing who.

But here, in this hazy hour where the world is quiet and the walls are thinner, the game bends just a little.

“You’d be lost,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something quieter, something almost fond. “Obviously.”

You hum, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the faint crackle of the call, the weight of something unsaid pressing between you.

Then—

“You know,” you whisper, conspiratorial, as if telling a secret meant only for him. “If things were different… if I didn’t—if I wasn’t—” You hiccup, cutting yourself off. “We would be something.”

Oh.

Ranpo stills, lips parting slightly.

A lesser man might have asked something what? But Ranpo isn’t lesser—he is all-knowing, all-seeing, and the answer is already curled around his ribs like an old, familiar ghost.

Something ruinous.

Something catastrophic.

Something that would burn too brightly, too quickly, until all that’s left is the memory of its light.

But instead, he only chuckles, airy, effortless, a magician tucking a trick up his sleeve. “Oh, you,” he muses, closing his eyes. “You say the sweetest things when you’re drunk.”

You whine, half-complaint, half-laughter. “You’re so mean to me.”

“And yet, you keep calling,” he counters smoothly.

A pause. Then, barely above a breath—

“Because you always pick up.”

Ranpo’s eyes flicker open, caught, for the first time, off-guard.

But then, his grin returns, sharp and knowing, curling like the last move in an unwinnable game.

“Well, of course,” he murmurs, voice lighter than air but grounding all the same.

“I already knew you would.”

Mori Ougai: A Late-Night Conversation Between a Caged Bird and Its Keeper

The world was spinning.

Not violently, not chaotically—just in a slow, dizzying waltz. Like a star drifting off course, like the ocean tide lapping at the shore in endless repetition.

You lay sprawled across the floor of your dimly lit apartment, the ceiling blurring in and out of focus. A forgotten bottle of wine rested at your fingertips, its contents long since emptied.

Drinking away the silence had been the plan.

It didn’t work.

Loneliness settled deep in your bones, unshakable and cruel, whispering the same tired truth over and over: There is no one. You are alone. You will always be alone.

Your numb fingers fumbled with your phone. There was no thought behind the action, only instinct, only the need for another voice—any voice. The names on the screen blurred together until one stood out, sharp and clear.

Mori Ougai.

A dry laugh broke the silence. What a ridiculous idea. Calling Mori was like calling the executioner when already on the chopping block—foolish, dangerous, and yet… strangely inevitable.

Your thumb hovered over the dial button.

Don’t.

Pressed it anyway.

It rang. Once. Twice. Then—

“My, my. What an unexpected surprise.”

His voice was smooth as silk, sharp as a scalpel. He didn’t sound tired. He never sounded tired.

A shaky exhale. Hanging up now would be the right choice. Tossing the phone across the room and pretending this never happened would be the safest option.

But the line remained open.

“…Mori.”

His name slipped out, barely more than a breath, slurred just enough to betray your state of mind.

A chuckle. Soft. Knowing.

“What a rare occasion. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

You press a hand to your fevered forehead, warmth from the alcohol spreading beneath your skin.

“I… I don’t know.”

A pause. He was listening. He was always listening.

“Are you drunk, my dear?”

A small, breathless laugh. “Maybe.”

“And yet, you called me.”

The implication lingered.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe a distraction was all you needed—something to chase away the unbearable quiet, not… this.

But there was no taking it back now.

“Lonely, are we?” Mori’s voice was almost mocking, but not quite.

Silence.

He didn’t push, didn’t demand an answer. He didn’t need to.

“…Yes.”

A slow inhale. Then—

“How tragic. Loneliness is such a cruel thing, isn’t it?” His tone softened, coaxing. A doctor speaking to a patient on the verge of breaking. “No one to talk to, no one to hold you. It must be unbearable.”

A lump formed in your throat.

“It is.”

“But you called me.”

Not a question. A claim.

Shame coiled in your chest. What was the thought process behind reaching out to him of all people? Comfort from Mori? A joke. A pathetic, laughable joke.

“I should go.” The words were weak, barely convincing, but you said them anyway. The phone was halfway pulled from your ear when—

“Ah, but… if you hang up, you’ll still be alone.”

Your breath caught.

Because he was right.

It didn’t matter how dangerous, how cruel, how suffocating he was—he was still the only one answering the call.

Tears burned at the edges of your blurred vision. They weren’t welcome.

“Why are you doing this?” The voice that spoke barely sounded like your own.

“Doing what?”

“Being… this.”

A pause. A smirk, audible even through the phone.

“Being what, my dear? The only one who picks up the phone when you call?”

Damn him.

“If you need me,” he continued, smooth as a blade sliding between ribs, “all you have to do is ask. You know I take care of my own.”

Your breath hitched. His own.

Was that what you were now? Just another piece in his careful arrangement of pawns?

The worst part was that you couldn’t even argue.

Silence stretched between you. Long. Unspoken. Dark.

“Go to bed,” Mori commanded, voice deceptively soft.

A quiet rebellion flared in your chest. “And if I don’t?”

A chuckle. “Then you’ll stay on the line with me all night.”

A shiver ran down your spine—not from fear, not from warmth, but from something worse.

“…Goodnight, Mori.”

The call ended.

The phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering against the floor.

But the damage had already been done.

The call had been made.

Ango Sakaguchi: A Call at the Edge of the Night

The phone rings at an ungodly hour.

You don’t expect him to pick up.

You don’t even know why you called—only that the weight in your chest was too much, too unbearable, and for some foolish reason, he was the first name your trembling fingers found.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

Then, a click.

“Angoooo…”

His name slips from your lips, loose and unguarded, tangled in something fragile. Something you’ve spent too long trying to swallow down.

A long silence.

Then, a sigh—one you feel more than hear.

“Where are you?”

Of course that’s the first thing he says.

Not why are you calling me?

Not what do you need?

Just the same, measured question he asks when dealing with people who have become problems—something to be contained, something to be handled.

You laugh, but it’s small. Hollow.

“Does it matter?”

You hear him shift. The rustle of paper, the faint scrape of glasses being adjusted.

You can picture him now—sitting in that dim, quiet apartment, surrounded by papers that dictate the fate of people he’ll never meet.

Maybe you’re just another name on a list to him.

Maybe you always have been.

“You probably think I’m pathetic.”

You don’t mean to say it. But the words are already there, slipping through the cracks in your chest before you can stop them.

Another silence.

Not denial.

Not agreement.

Just Ango, sitting in the space between words, like he always does.

“What happened?” His voice is quieter now.

You close your eyes. Nothing. Everything.

It’s too much, and yet not enough to explain the weight pressing against your ribs.

Because maybe it wasn’t just tonight.

Maybe it was the months of exhaustion settling in your bones, the ache of always giving and never being given to, the unbearable loneliness of knowing someone cares but never quite enough.

And maybe—maybe—that’s why you called him.

Because Ango never lets himself care.

And somehow, that makes it easier.

“Ango,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “If I disappeared… would you come looking for me?”

The silence is deafening.

Your heart twists.

You shouldn’t have asked.

You shouldn’t have asked because you already know how this ends.

Because you know what happened the last time he lost someone who mattered.

Because Ango doesn’t allow himself to want. To hope. To save.

Not anymore.

But then—his voice, low, steady, aching.

“Yes.”

Your breath catches.

It’s a lie.

Or maybe it isn’t.

Maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe it’s the truth he doesn’t want to admit.

You swallow hard, chest tight, fingers gripping the phone like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Ango.”

It comes out softer than you intend. A warning. A plea.

And maybe you imagine it, but for just a second, you think he wants to say something more.

But he doesn’t.

Because Ango always stops himself before he gets too close.

Before he lets another name become something more than just another loss waiting to happen.

The line goes dead.

And you’re left sitting there, staring at the empty screen, wondering why you ever thought he could be the one to pull you back from the edge.

Wondering why, despite everything—you still wanted him to.

────

Apologies for the delay; I found myself immersed in capturing these gentlemen as I perceive them. Admittedly, I might have enjoyed a drink or two while penning some of these. Additionally, I was engrossed in my psychology and philosophy classes, both demanding papers recently. I will post the remaining characters soon. ♡

[kaiobsession]

ACKKKKK RNAPO 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍

“You’re Safe.”

Dazai & Ranpo x Reader – Separate Scenarios for

Comfort After a PTSD Episode.

──────────

Osamu Dazai – “Breathe, Bella.”

Dazai sleeps lightly.

It is something few people realize—most believe the act, the exaggerated yawns, the lazy sprawl of his limbs, the way he drapes himself over chairs and across people, sleeping through the dull moments of life as though he is immune to the weight of existence.

But the truth is, Dazai does not sleep deeply.

Because the night is when ghosts come.

When silence is too loud.

When memories slip through the cracks, clawing their way back into places they were never meant to leave.

So when you jolt awake beside him, gasping, trembling, clenching the sheets so tightly your knuckles turn white—

He knows.

Even before you do.

“Belladonna?”

His voice is quiet, hushed, like the whisper of wind through an open window. Gentle, but firm.

You do not answer.

Because you are not here.

Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven. Your hands twitch as if they are searching for something to hold onto, something to ground you, but everything feels foreign, unfamiliar—wrong.

The walls around you aren’t the walls of your home. The air in your lungs isn’t the air of safety.

The sheets beneath your fingers morph into rough stone, the warmth beside you disappears, the bed turns too small, too cold—

You are there again.

And then—Dazai moves.

A shift of weight, a brush of fingers against your wrist, a warmth that should be comforting.

But it is not.

Because to you, in this moment, it is not him.

It is hands grabbing.

It is fingers curling too tight.

It is a touch that does not belong to you.

And before you can think—you flinch.

Violently.

You recoil like you’ve been burned, a choked sound slipping from your throat—

“No—please—”

And Dazai freezes.

Because he knows this reaction.

Has seen it before—on himself, in the mirror, in the way his own body once tensed at the sound of approaching footsteps.

He understands.

And he hates that he does.

Hates that he cannot fix this with a joke, with a clever remark, with a flick of his wrist that makes all the darkness disappear.

So he does not touch you again.

Instead, he moves carefully.

Lowers himself back down, so he is not above you.

Does not block your space, does not make you feel caged.

And then, he speaks.

“You’re not there anymore.”

Soft, steady, unwavering.

Your breath still shudders, erratic, uncertain.

So he keeps going.

“You’re here. In bed. With me.”

A tremor ripples through your body.

“It’s warm, isn’t it?” His voice dips lower, coaxing. “Not cold like it was back then.”

Your fingers slowly loosen from the sheets.

“And you’re not alone.” His words are careful, threaded with something real. “You hear that?”

Silence.

“My voice. My breathing. You’re not alone.”

Another shift—your chest still rises too fast, but no longer frantic.

And finally, finally, you blink.

Once. Twice.

And your eyes—wild, unfocused—settle.

On him.

Dazai smiles.

Not his usual smirk. Something softer. Something real.

“There you are.”

And when you finally exhale, shaky but solid, when your trembling hand reaches for him instead of away—

He does not hesitate.

He pulls you close, slow and careful, arms circling you in a way that is protective without being suffocating.

“Breathe, bella,” he murmurs, his voice against your temple, against your skin, against the places that are still learning what safety means.

“I’ve got you.”

And this time—you believe him.

Ranpo Edogawa – “I Knew You’d Wake Up Like This.”

Ranpo knew this would happen eventually.

Of course he did.

Because he knows everything.

Knows the way your breathing shifts when you start to slip into dreams you do not want to see.

Knows the way your fingers twitch when your body remembers something before your mind does.

Knows the way your nightmares always begin before you realize they’ve arrived.

So when you jerk awake, gasping, the ghost of something terrible lingering in the air around you—

Ranpo is already watching.

Already awake.

Already ready.

“I knew you’d wake up like this.”

His voice is sharp, certain, grounding.

Your head snaps toward him.

But your eyes do not focus.

Ranpo sees it immediately.

The way your chest rises too fast, the way your fingers curl, the way you are already preparing to run, even though there is nowhere to go.

“Nope,” he says, firm, not giving you time to spiral. “None of that. You’re here.”

You don’t respond.

“You hear me?” he presses. “You’re here.”

Still nothing.

So Ranpo takes a different approach.

He grabs the blanket.

And then—before you can panic—

He throws it over your head.

You jerk violently, startled. “What—”

“Good,” Ranpo says, pleased. “Confusion means you’re thinking.”

Your body is still trembling, but your thoughts are stuttering, shifting, breaking from the loop.

“I need you to listen, okay?”

Your lips part. No words come out.

But you do not fight.

That’s enough.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. “In, out. Again.”

You do. Slow, shaky—but real.

“Now, tell me what color the blanket is.”

You hesitate.

“What?”

“Humor me.”

Your fingers press against the fabric. Familiar. Soft. Real.

”…Green.”

“And where did it come from?”

“Our bed.”

“That’s right,” Ranpo says, pleased. “Now, where are you?”

The question twists something deep inside you.

Because you are still not entirely sure.

Ranpo clicks his tongue.

“Let’s try again. Where are you?”

A slow, shaky inhale.

“With you.”

A hum. A shift of weight.

And then—the blanket moves.

Pulled down just enough for you to see his face.

Ranpo—calm, certain, smiling.

Not teasing. Not mocking. Just Ranpo.

“Welcome back.”

Your breath shudders, but steadies.

And when he pulls you into his arms, you let him.

Because he was right.

You are here.

With him.

And that’s all that matters.

──────────

@lyingistheway

Oh, this was such a lovely request—thank you for trusting me with something so intricate and emotional. I truly appreciate the thought you put into it, and I only hope I’ve done justice to the depth of your idea.

That said, I must admit I ultimately leaned toward separate drabbles for Dazai and Ranpo rather than the shared dynamic. It wasn’t for lack of interest—I simply wanted to ensure each of their reactions held the weight and intricacy they deserved. I hope you don’t mind the slight deviation, and I’d love to hear your thoughts once you’ve had a chance to read them.

Additionally, I found myself inspired to write a little something on Dazai and Ranpo’s relationship as well—if that’s something you’d like, I’d be more than happy to share it with you.

And of course, knowing you’re looking forward to my Valentine’s posts? Well, that’s just the sweetest little compliment. Consider me thoroughly flattered. ♡

[kaiobsession]

PLEASE DO THIS TO ME🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️

this is a public & formal apology to all of my beloved friends and moots whom of which i have inserted into their dms a 5,000k+ word essay on world's greatest detective edogawa ranpo. it will happen again. i'm not that sorry actually

[kaiobsession]

i think ranpo and i tend to leave little notes for each other. i'll use the stationary i keep in my bag that he'll surprise me with as a gift from time to time. of course i'd want to use such reminders that he's thinking about me in turn; sliding them onto his desk while he's away, or tucking them, folded, gently into his hand under the table in the meeting room during briefings. oftentimes, they're just little reminders. "i love you." and "thank you for working hard." you don't need me to tell you i see you for the millionth time today, but one more time can't hurt. ranpo can be more discreet. tucking them away in my purse when i'm not looking along with an object i'll end up forgetting otherwise. headphones. the lip balm i've just boughten but didn't to put in there. it's accompanied by a playful "forget something?" in black ink pen on a sticky note. other times, they can't be made more obvious, he holds them in front of my face when i'm staring into nothing and i don't hear him approach. "shouldn't you go somewhere quiet? take a break." i love you. i see you.

[kaiobsession]

. . .ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʀᴀɴᴘᴏ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ ✧ ˚ 　· .

sfw, but somewhat suggestive. edogawa ranpo x reader. no gendered pronouns used for reader.

❣ Ranpo enjoys touching you in intimate spots, but not always in a sexual way.

❣ He enjoys spooning you, snaking his hand up your shirt only to soothe just under your chest with the pad of his thumb. Or, tracing his fingertips over the sensitive flesh of your thigh. 

❣ There’s just something about it. It’s not his intention to get you flustered or turned on, although that’s no issue to him if it does. It’s just inexplicably soothing to him; like proof that isn’t exactly tangible, but evident all the same of the closeness the two of you share. 

❣ To allow him to touch you in such a vulnerable spot is just another reminder that he’s precious to you, even if he already knows it. 

❣ It’s not something Ranpo would ever doubt, of course. He knows you well. Your mannerisms, tone of voice, inflection, words used, the way your facial features soften, even just a little bit more than normal when you look at him.

❣ He memorizes all of those little details about you that probably no one else has even noticed. 

❣ At least, not on as great of a scale. He’s proud of that fact, but keeps it to himself.

❣ Why? Well…Because he actually puts a little bit of effort into it! He doesn’t really like showing that he puts effort into anything, really. He’s just good at everything, naturally. He doesn’t have to try. 

❣ That, and he’s started doing it long before the two of you got into a relationship. Like…An embarrassingly long time ago. Before he himself even realized he had developed feelings for you that long surpassed what friends would normally feel for each other. 

❣ Because, as every little bit of perceptive (scarily so) that Ranpo certainly is, he isn’t very introspective when it comes to understanding his own emotions. So he really only realizes that his feelings towards you have grown into something less platonic until it’s at a terrifyingly intense level. 

❣ And he loves really, really hard. 

❣ He is extremely fascinating to watch in public spaces, or really just anywhere where there is a ton of information to process. It’s not very noticeable for the first little bit of time that you spend around Ranpo, but you do eventually pick up on the fact that he seems to scrutinize every little thing he looks at.

❣  It’s not apparent at first, because he merely looks at everything with a seemingly passive glance. 

❣ It dawns on you at full force when you’re standing on the platform of a very busy train station with him one afternoon. Looking over at him with less of a peripheral glance as he observes his surroundings with an almost vacant yet sharp look in his eyes. Yet, they undoubtedly soften when his gaze falls back on you standing to his side. 

❣ That moment is hard to stop thinking about afterwards. 

❣ As far as love languages go, Ranpo definitely prefers to receive words of affirmation (physical touch is actually a close second!)

❣ Praise is always nice, of course, when it comes to his skill (an understatement) of perception and the art of deduction, but he’s used to that kind of stuff by now. It means a lot when you comment on other observations you make about him, no matter how big, little or seemingly insignificant.

❣ Like how caring he is towards the people he loves, albeit in often subtle ways. Or how hard working he is (although he’ll deny that one up and down).

❣ “What are you talking about? I don’t do that. Work hard, that is. I don’t have to. I’m naturally good at everything.” ❣ Ranpo knows he’s not good at everything, and he’s okay with that. But he does have a reputation to uphold, and he does care about pointless stuff like that at least a little bit. Regardless, it makes him very happy that you notice it all the same. ❣ It catches him off-guard, the way you make him feel seen. It’s paradoxical with how elated and terrifyingly vulnerable it makes him feel all at once. 

❣ The terrifying factor fades as more time goes on. But he does also ruminate on the thought of losing you more than he’d ever like to admit. 

❣ (It’s interesting. For as straightforward as Ranpo may seem, he leaves quite a bit unsaid and therefore unseen as well.) ❣ After all, he’s lost so much. It’s now impossible for him to not think about what it would be like to lose more of his loved ones every once in a while, which is partly why he’s so protective. Of those he cares for, and of the stability of his daily life. For as little bit as he likes things to be interesting, and loathes boredom, he needs stability in his life. ❣ It keeps him awake sometimes, but who isn’t kept awake by their worst fears every once in a while? Even he’s not immune to that. 

❣ The thought of losing everything and everyone is the most terrifying one to him, hands down.

❣  This is also why he is the king of pining, and I will not hear any different. 

❣ I mean, think about it; 

❣ Ranpo isn’t the type to develop romantic feelings for just anyone. The two of you would have to be incredibly close first. Like best friends.

❣ Sure, he notices when you start acting differently around him. It’s obvious you like him, he’s aware of that. It’s not the rejection he’s scared of. Not really, anyways. Of course the thought crosses his mind for a fleeting moment every once in a while, but he’s certain his feelings are well reciprocated. ❣ It’s the aftermath. You know, the part that most people who have mutual feelings for anyone are the most excited about normally?

❣ Not for Ranpo. It’s easily the scariest part. Although a lot of things would definitely stay the same between the two of you, there’s a lot of change that would come with it. Not to mention, the potential of loss, his worst fear. 

❣ What if the two of you aren’t compatible? How is he even supposed to predict something like that when he’s never been in a relationship? There’s no reliable basis to go off of, not really. Not enough to risk it. ❣ Because, then, all of a sudden, the relationship between the two of you is ruined forever. Never the same, and the thought kills him enough to keep him from telling you how he really feels for a very long time.

❣ And I’m talking for a long time. Years, if you don’t say something first (RIP if you also are unable to confess!)

❣ It inevitably happens though, because you can’t run from your feelings forever. And things end up just fine afterwards, and it makes him kind of mad! Not at you, but at himself because he realizes he’s been missing out on so much for so long.

❣ Like being able to kiss you? He’s doing it all the time now. Everything is suddenly an excuse to pull you in for a kiss. Seeing each other for the first time in the morning, or parting ways in the evening, or being away from his desk at the office for more than five minutes are all absolutely deserving reasons. ❣ (Ranpo does not care about PDA by the way.)

❣ Well, and of course things aren’t going to be perfect all of the time. Arguments are inevitable at some point. And arguing with him is actually kind of insufferable. 

❣ It’s because he doesn’t really register it as an argument. If he disagrees with you, he’s going to state it simply and list all of the reasons why you’re obviously incorrect. ❣ He can come off a little condescending and blunt (as per usual) but he doesn’t mean to. He does listen to everything you say, he just doesn’t agree with it sometimes. 

❣ That being said, he feels horrible if he makes you cry. It makes his heart break a little, because he never wants to hurt your feelings. He really doesn’t mean to!

❣ He’s a really good listener. Ranpo remembers every little thing you say, no matter how mundane it is. Be wary, it gives him ammunition to tease you about things, though. Not that you really need to say anything for him to do that, because he picks up on all your little quirks. 

❣ It’s all in good fun, though! He just likes picking on you, it’s how he shows affection in his strange little way.

❣ Also, you know those awful moments where you’re in a group discussion and you start saying something and nobody is listening and starts to talk over you?  ❣ Yeah, Ranpo is that person who is asking you what you were saying. It’s not to make you feel better, he’s just genuinely interested in what you have to say because he cares about you a lot. 

❣ He’s very sweet in the most genuine way, because he’s not trying to be. 

❣ He talks to you very softly when the two of you are cuddled up in bed. His usual boisterous and confident tone is replaced by something so gentle and for your ears only. There’s no better way to describe the way he regards you; precious, like glass. 

❣ Ranpo loves you so much, and he doesn’t have the luxury of taking you for granted. He never wants to, anyways. 

a/n: yes...more headcanons, haha. i've had an incapacitating amount of ranpo thoughts lately (more than normal) and so i needed an outlet, and a fic just wasn't cutting it! hehe, this one is really long which is funny because my original headcanons for him were sooo short because i was terrified! i guess it's a little nod to how far i've come since i started posting. anyways, i hope you enjoyed!

masterlist ✧.* part one ✧.* thank you for reading !

[kaiobsession]

On Friendship.

[kaiobsession]

content: sfw. gn!reader. references to prior abusive relationships (reader, type unspecified), reader has trauma. hurt/comfort. meant to be comforting, but please don't read if you think this might be triggering for you!

You don't even have to say anything, Ranpo already knows. He's solved countless cases, no doubt witnessing the psychological state of victims of crimes, perpetrators, and the like. He knows what signs of trauma look like, and the nuances that come with each individual. If you don't say anything, he doesn't pry. He doesn't question why you get anxious around certain types of people, or why you can't listen to certain sounds or songs. Even if he doesn't know the specifics, there's still certainly that behind it; a reason. Ranpo doesn't pry, but is relieved when you open up to him. A late night in the end of summer, the window cracked open just a bit to let in some fresh air into the room. The air is slightly crisp, but it still smells like summer. You, resting your head on his chest and him running a hand through your hair. You finally feel safe, and loved. And it breaks you. Maybe you tell him everything. Maybe you just break down. Regardless, Ranpo is there, protecting you as always. Like some sort of unspoken promise between the two of you. It makes him mad, if he's being honest. Not at you, never. Not about this. Utterly furious at whoever did this to you. Whoever tore your beautiful heart to shreds, and stole so much from you. A small part of him wants to make their life a living hell. Ranpo doesn't, though. He knows this is your battle, one you should have never been given. Yet, he's always happy to be here when you need him; never letting you carry the weight of this hell you've been burdened with alone. He lets out a small exhale, leaning down to kiss the crown of your head. "I'm proud of you."

a/n: hey, man (gender-neutral). real talk. you're so seen and loved. even if you can't talk about it yet, or are working through it. even if you've healed and it just hurts sometimes. you're so strong and loved and deserve to feel safe. you deserve a fulfilling and peaceful life. i love you, you are loved. have a great day, or a good sleep if you're about to turn in.

[kaiobsession]

Ranpo Edogawa Ramble

Also dedicated to @minasfwoopyponytail, this lil short piece is in connection with this fic.

Ranpo, whose love language is words of affirmation, and even more your words of affirmation, because he knows that when you say it, you mean it. Ranpo, who knows he’s the best detective around but has no idea if he’s even a semi-decent boyfriend, who’s confident as all hell when he’s doing literally anything else, but can get insecure when he’s dating you, who knows that when you say to him that you love him, that you want him, that you’ll never leave him, that you chose him because it has only ever been him and will only ever be him, that you’re telling the truth. 

Ranpo, who is always watching, who is always observing, who subconsciously notices every little detail about every little thing even if he doesn’t have his glasses on, who never takes people at face value because he knows the lies and the malice they can bring with them, now suddenly finds himself relaxed around you, suddenly finds that he’s only looking at you because he wants to look at you, because he likes to look at you, because he’s not worried about what he’ll discover when he looks at you, because he trusts you, because he knows you’re good, because he knows you’re his, because you tell him you’re his and he believes you. Because if he ever doesn’t believe you, you’ll tell him until he does. And he starts to believe you more and more often.

Ranpo, sweet, loyal Ranpo, who knew he had found a home in the Detective Agency, who knows what good is when he sees it, who knows how good you are when he sees you, who will never ever leave you because he will never ever let go of the things he holds precious to him, who doesn’t know how to fight but will fight as hard as he can as best as he can with whatever tools he can, just to keep you, just to protect you.

[kaiobsession]

[kaiobsession]

ranpo number one desirable babygirl in the area

[kaiobsession]

Hey, you! This is your daily reminder to stay alive!

If we lost you, we'd lose all the amazing things you could create, too. Look at your hands. They could be used for so many purposes. Not only harm-- I believe you can make something meaningful. Even if you don't think you can make anything special, I believe you deserve to keep living. I believe you are important. You are important to me.

When my depression was at its worst, I took to creating. I started writing. It wasn't particularly good, but it gave me a reason to keep going. "If I haven't finished my poetry, and I die, my parents will throw it away," I told myself, and I wrote another poem. It wasn't an instant cure, but it got my feelings of gender confusion, depression, and fear out of my brain and onto the page, and it quieted my intrusive thoughts.

Now, I look back on them and see how much it helped me to pull through a really dark time in my life. They aren't masterpieces, but they're a sign I was fighting so hard to give myself purpose-- and it worked. I made things to explain how I felt, and it actually helpd a lot.

Now, I have my comic. People want to learn more, and care about my creations, and so I keep fighting, for all of you.

Seeing you all happy and theorizing and inspired by my creations helps me keep going.

I know not everyone is the creative sort, so this may not be the best coping mechanism for all who see this, but I advise you to at least try. Just take what's inside you and pour it onto the page. If that doesn't help, may I suggest drawing on your arms and legs with sharpie? It helped me deal with SH and get through bad episodes.

I love you platonically.

--Ellis