qtvi0let

[qtvi0let]

I lowkey forgot i still had this in my notes

Spicy!

jealousy is a ugly thing darling

„Heartbeat.“

Summary:

The reader is in a toxic relationship with dabi. The reader knows they shouldn’t be at Dabi’s apartment, but they can’t help themselves. Their relationship is a mess—full of fights, jealousy, and regret—but the loneliness without him feels worse.

As always, Dabi texts first, and the reader answers. Inside, the tension is thick. They talk in circles, taunting and testing each other, neither willing to admit how much they still care. One moment, they’re kissing like they can’t get enough; the next, they’re fighting again.

Dabi accuses the reader of flirting with someone else, his possessiveness sparking another argument. They both know their relationship isn’t healthy, but they can’t let go. No matter how many times they say they’re done, they always come back, trapped in a cycle of love, hate, and obsession.

By morning, they’ll pretend it meant nothing. But they both know the truth: they’ll keep coming back, no matter how much it hurts.

HEARTBEAT

“I wanted you to know that I am ready to go, heartbeat…”

The rain beat against the pavement, a steady rhythm that drowned out the chaos in your head. You stood outside the run-down apartment complex, your fingers tightening around the cigarette you didn’t even want to smoke. Just something to keep your hands busy, something to stop them from trembling.

Dabi was inside. You knew that much. You also knew you shouldn’t be here.

You had broken up. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You should’ve walked away for good. The fights, the jealousy, the reckless nights that blurred into mornings filled with regret—none of it was healthy. But here you were, heart racing, legs frozen, waiting for him to make the first move.

You hated how easy it was to fall back into him. Your phone vibrated in your pocket. You didn’t need to check. You already knew.

Dabi: You outside?

A sharp inhale. The cold night air burned in your lungs, mixing with the nicotine you didn’t even taste. You typed back with numb fingers.

You: Yeah.

Dabi: Then get in here. Stop being stupid.

A part of you wanted to throw the phone across the street. Another part was already moving up the stairs.

The apartment smelled like cheap cologne and cigarettes. The same scent that clung to his clothes, his sheets, your skin whenever you woke up next to him. It was familiar. It was dangerous.

Dabi leaned against the kitchen counter, shirtless, scars catching the dim light. His eyes—icy and unreadable—raked over you like he was trying to figure out what the hell you were doing here. But he didn’t ask. He never did.

“Didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” he muttered, voice lazy, rough, like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You texted first,” you shot back, closing the door behind you.

A smirk. “You always text back.”

You hated how right he was.

There was a silence, thick and suffocating. You wanted to say something real, something that would explain why you were standing here after months of pretending you were done with this. With him.

But all that came out was, “You still smoke the same brand?”

Dabi huffed a laugh, reaching for the pack on the counter. “You still act like you don’t care?”

And just like that, you were back where you started.

You broke up because you couldn’t take it anymore. The nights spent waiting for him to come home, not knowing if he’d be alive or dead. The smell of burnt flesh on his clothes. The bruises—on you, on him—some from fights, some from the way neither of you knew how to love without hurting.

You broke up because he never said the words you needed to hear. Because he was cruel when he wanted to be, because he knew exactly what buttons to push, and because he always made you feel like loving him was a mistake you should be ashamed of.

But you came back because…

Because the silence without him was worse. Because you missed his voice, the rasp of it when he said your name. Because, no matter how much he hurt you, he was the only one who made you feel something. Even if that something was pain.

“Are you staying the night or what?��� Dabi asked, his tone flat, like he didn’t care either way.

Like he didn’t already know the answer. You swallowed, shifting on your feet. “I shouldn’t.”

He rolled his eyes. “You never should.” And yet, when he took a step closer, you didn’t move away.

His fingers traced your jaw, the touch light, teasing. His breath was warm against your lips. “You gonna run again in the morning?”

You should’ve said yes.

But his mouth was on yours before you could answer, and you let him steal the words right off your tongue. “You missed me,” Dabi murmured against your skin, his lips trailing down from yours, grazing that spot on your neck that always made you shiver.

You hated how easy he could read you.

“Shut up,” you muttered, hands fisting in his hair, yanking him closer.

He chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating against your throat. “That a yes?”

You didn’t answer, just pulled him into you, letting his hands wander, letting his mouth remind you why you kept coming back.

The couch creaked beneath you both as he pushed you down, pressing against you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin. His hands were rough, scarred, warm—tracing every inch of you like he had to memorize it all over again.

“You think you can just show up whenever you want?” he murmured, his lips brushing over your collarbone.

You arched against him, breath hitching. “You texted first.”

He laughed—really laughed this time. “You always text back.”

And just like that, you were back where you started. Again.

After what was like 15 minutes of making out, you noticed how dabi’s mood shifted slightly, you knew that there was something on his mind. Something has been bothering him all day. The heat between you hadn't even settled before it turned to fire again. Not the kind that kept you warm, but the kind that burned everything in its path.

You were still catching your breath from the rough kissing, when his hand slid off your waist, reaching for the cigarette pack on the nightstand. The glow of the lighter flickered across his face—jaw clenched, eyes sharp, something dark swimming behind them.

You recognized that look, that look of wanting to argue.

“You had fun talking to him?” The question was calm. Too calm.

Your stomach twisted. “Him?”

Dabi scoffed, exhaling a slow drag of smoke. “Don’t play stupid.”

Your heart sank. “Dabi, it was a conversation.”

“Yeah? Funny, ‘cause from where I stood, it looked like he wanted to fuck you.”

You sat up, gripping the sheet around you. “Jesus Christ, not this again.”

“You think I don’t notice? The way he was looking at you? The way you were smiling back?”

“It was friendly.”

He laughed—cold, hollow. “Nothing between us is ever friendly.”

“Us?” You snapped. “What even is us?!”

Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. The frustration, the exhaustion—it all hit you at once, crashing over you like a tidal wave you had no way to escape.

For a second, there was silence. Then—

“Are we dating?” The words hung heavy between you. Your chest tightened. “Are we fucking?” he continued, voice low, taunting. You swallowed hard, heat rising to your cheeks. “Don’t—” “Are we best friends?” His lips curled into something bitter. “Or are we something in between that?”

Your nails dug into your palms. You wished you had an answer.

“I wish we never fucked.” You tried to sound as mad as possible. You turned your gaze to the ceiling like you were trying to convince yourself. “And I mean that.”

Dabis teal eyes stared at you, it felt like he was looking into your soul. For a second You thought you had managed to hurt his feelings.

But then—he laughed. Dark. Rough. And when his eyes met yours again, they were full of something dangerous. „huh“ was all he said. You knew what was about to happen.

One second, you were glaring at each other. The next, he was flipping you over to your stomach, pinning you down on the couch with his entire weight as he slammed your face into the pillow.

Your face hit the pillow with a soft thud, Dabi’s hands gripping your hair and waist like he wanted to bruise you, to leave something behind so you wouldn’t forget who you belonged to—even if neither of you could say the words.

“You piss me off,” you spat out, your voice muffled by the pillow.

He smirked, his hand sliding up your sides, slow and deliberate. “Right back at you, sweetheart.”

“I bet You only argue with me because it turns you on, doesnt it? It wouldnt surprise me, you sick fuck” you panted out, your voice muffled by the pillow. He knew you were right but he would never admit it.

Then, he let go of your hair and grabbed your face from underneath, lifting ur chin up from the pillow, forcing you to look at him. His grip was firm, fingers digging into your skin just enough to make your breath hitch. His eyes—sharp, glowing in the dim light—searched yours, watching every little reaction, every flicker of anticipation.

“You act like you hate me,” he murmured, tilting your face up further, his thumb brushing over your lips. “But you’re still here.”

His free hand moved, slow, teasing, ghosting over your pants. down your thigh, then back up. Not touching where you wanted him to. Not yet.

Your pulse pounded. “Dabi—”

He clicked his tongue. “Shh. Let me take my time.”

You shivered as he dragged his fingers down the waistband of your pants, playing with the fabric, slipping under it just enough to make you want to scream.

“You are an asshole,” you muttered.

He just grinned. “And yet, you’re still here.”

It was messy. It was angry. It was everything you hated about him, about you, about whatever the fuck this was. You were ranting about how irresponsible and annoying he is, how mean he is for doing this to you, yet he paid no mind to your words. He put the cigarette, wich he lit earlier, into your mouth to shut you up as he continued teasing you. You roll your eyes and mutter out “finally something good.“ as you take a long drag of the cigarette

He loves it when You‘re mad at him. Its cute in his eyes. And you cant help but also like it, no matter how much he pisses you off, you still love him.

The way he kissed you earlier was punishing, like he was trying to hurt you, to mark you. Like he needed to prove that no matter how much you fought, no matter how much you swore you were done, you would always end up right here.

Together, breaking each other apart. Morning would come, you’d pretend it meant nothing but you both knew the truth.

You Both are drawn to one another like a moth to a flame.

And the rest shall be up to ur imagination!🤗

My obsession w this song is so bad i had to write a whole fanfic😭

[qtvi0let]

a :readmore: is a break in a text post so it’s not as long. writers typically put a read more after an intro or something like that and the story is below the cut of the read more

OOOHHH I DIDNT KNOW THAT TYSM LEMME DO THAT

DID IT WORK??

[qtvi0let]

MY BABIES 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Time to fuckin sob wtf

[qtvi0let]

Pllllsssss put a :read more: on your fics 😭

Wait whats that😭

[qtvi0let]

⭑ *•̩̩͙⊱••••••✩••••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*••̩̩͙⊱••••••✩••••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

𓏲 ˖. ✐ violet ~ 18 ~ she/her" 𓂃   !

About me: i enjoy writing and drawing. I am a self taught digital (rare Traditional) artist. Im a Dazai Osamu, Guts and Aizawa Shota enthusiast. I love Music. Im a mom to a void Kitty named popochi <3

I am also a c.ai bot creator!

I <3 long haired men

* ੈ✩‧₊˚— fandoms im in ~ Bsd, Berserk, Mha, Jjk, Aot, kny, sq (i forgot the rest..)

* ੈ✩‧₊˚— Games i play!! gi, hsr, sg, crk, reverse 1999, mouthwashing, homicipher, rblx

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𓏲 ˖. ✐ My page ~ !

���˚✧ ﾟ. — Boundaries

- what i will not be writing: age play, daddy kink, incest, step cest, pet play, race play, zoophelia and piss kink, anything spicy with minor characters.

- Do not pressure me into finishing works! Writing takes timeee n energy

₊˚✧ ﾟ. I mainly focus on dark fanfics or angsty fanfics. But sometimes i write romantic/fluff or Spicy ones. ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚— reblogging my work is fine!

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𓏲 ˖. ✐ Socials ~ !

* ੈ✩‧₊˚— Tiktok accounts

❥‧₊˚ C.ai account -@qtvilo

❥‧₊˚ Art acc -@.qtvi0let

⭑ *•̩̩͙⊱••••••✩••••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*••̩̩͙⊱••••••✩••••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

𓏲 ˖. ✐ Page guide ~ !

* ੈ✩‧₊˚— Mha fanfics

❥‧₊˚ AIZAWA SHOTA

- a flower in the dark

❥‧₊˚ DABI - TOUYA TODOROKI

- Heartbeat(spicy)

* ੈ✩‧₊˚— bsd fanfics

❥‧₊˚ DAZAI OSAMU

- Fragments of us - the devil you follow ///pre history

- fragments of us

MORE FANFICS INCOMING!!

Pink messages are all links

[qtvi0let]

Fragments of us - prehistory

The Devil You Follow

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Summary:

You were nothing when the Port Mafia found you. Just another stray, dragged from the gutters and given a gun, molded into something useful under Dazai Osamu’s careful hand. He taught you everything—how to kill, how to survive, how to obey. And in return, you gave him your loyalty.

Or maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was something softer, something naive, something Dazai saw in you and used against you. Because he never raised a hand to you like the others did. Because he smiled at you, ruffled your hair when you did well, whispered words that felt like kindness but weren’t. You mistook his control for affection. You were already broken when he met you. He just made you his. And then, one night, you saw him for what he really was.

A blood-soaked office. A body kneeling on the floor, face shattered, breath wheezing through broken teeth. Dazai, standing over him, sleeves rolled up, a revolver resting lightly in his grip.

A gunshot.

A corpse.

And Dazai turning to you, smiling like it was nothing.

“Scared?” He made you clean it up. Every last drop of blood, every last remnant of the man who had begged for his life. You did as you were told, because what else could you do? Because he had already turned you into something that could. Tomorrow, Dazai would smile at you again. And you would pretend there was nothing red beneath your fingernails.

Dazai found you when you were nothing.

Another forgotten soul swallowed by the underbelly of Yokohama, plucked from filth and desperation, handed a gun before you even had the chance to say no. The Port Mafia didn’t need your consent—just your loyalty.

And Dazai Osamu? He needed something else.

At first, you didn’t understand why he chose you. There were others more skilled, more brutal, more willing to carve themselves into something monstrous at his command. But Dazai was different. He didn’t pick the strongest. He picked the ones he could break.

The ones who wouldn’t realize they were breaking until it was too late.

At first, you thought it was kindness—the way he spoke to you in that soft, lilting voice, the way he ruffled your hair when you did something right, the way he never raised a hand against you like the other executives did to their subordinates. But kindness didn’t exist in the Port Mafia. Not in its leaders.

Not in Dazai.

He was patient with you, teaching you how to hold a knife properly, how to shoot without hesitation, how to read a person’s movements before they even knew what they were about to do.

And when you failed—when your hands shook too much, when you hesitated—he never yelled. He just looked at you. That lazy, lidded stare. That small, knowing smile. And then he found ways to remind you why hesitation got people killed. You were his. Not because he said so, not because he forced you. But because you wanted to be. Because you were naive enough to mistake control for affection. You were already broken when you met him. He just shaped the pieces into something useful. And by the time you realized it, you weren’t sure you wanted to be fixed.

The night was thick with silence when you found him, the distant hum of the city muffled by the heavy walls of the Port Mafia’s headquarters. You weren’t looking for anything unusual—just another report, another errand, another night spent proving yourself useful.

But then you heard it.

A noise too quiet to be a struggle, too soft to be a conversation. A wet, gurgling sound, like something drowning in itself.

Dazai’s office door was open.

A mistake.

He didn’t make mistakes.

But this—this was different.

You stepped inside, the scent hitting you first—copper and sweat, thick enough to taste. The room was dim, the single desk lamp casting long, broken shadows across the walls. The floor was wet. At first, your brain refused to register the scene, refused to make sense of the jagged shape kneeling in the center of the room. And then the man turned his head, and you wished you hadn’t seen.

Or what was left of his head, anyway.

One eye was swollen shut, the other bulging, veins dark against the whites as if ready to burst. His nose was shattered, broken cartilage pushing through torn skin, the blood dripping from his lips thick and sluggish. His mouth moved, forming words he no longer had the strength to say. His hands were bound behind his back, shoulders hunched forward like a ragdoll slumping in on itself. He wasn’t struggling anymore. Dazai stood over him, fingers loose around the grip of a blood-stained revolver.

And his face—God, his face—

Nothing.

Not amusement. Not cruelty. Just blank, empty nothingness.

You’d seen him smile through murders before, watched him hum a tune while ordering executions. You thought you knew him. You hadn’t met this part of him yet. The man made a sound, a raw, choking whimper. Dazai sighed. Tilted his head. And then, like it was the easiest thing in the world—

Pulled the trigger.

The shot was deafening in the quiet room, the force snapping the man’s head back before his body collapsed forward with a dull thud. Blood splattered in a messy arc across the floorboards, seeping into the wood, staining the hem of Dazai’s coat.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Dazai turned his head, slow and deliberate, dark eyes locking onto yours. No mask. No smirk. No carefully constructed charm. Just the raw, unfiltered truth of what he was. A monster, wearing humanity like an ill-fitted costume.

“Scared?”

His voice was soft, almost gentle, like he was asking if you were cold. Like the corpse between you didn’t exist. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t speak.

Dazai stepped forward, the blood soaking into his boots. You could smell it now—the faint, metallic tang clinging to the air.

“Good,” he murmured. “Fear keeps you alive.” He reached out, and for one horrible moment, you thought he was going to touch you. Smear his sins across your skin.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he plucked the folder from your trembling hands, flipping it open with a hum, scanning the contents as if this were nothing more than a casual inconvenience. Then he shut it with a flick of his wrist.

“You did well,” he said.

And then—

“Clean this up.”

Like the dead man at his feet was nothing more than an afterthought. Dazai walked past you without another glance, leaving you alone with the body. You wanted to move. To breathe. To run.

But all you could do was stare at the pooling blood, the still-twitching fingers, the hole in the man’s skull where life had been moments ago. And that was when you finally understood. Dazai Osamu wasn’t dangerous because he could kill.

He was dangerous because he could make it look easy.

The body lay sprawled across the floor, blood still creeping outward in slow, sticky tendrils, seeping into the cracks between the wooden planks. The smell of iron clung to the back of your throat, thick and metallic, mixing with the faint scent of gunpowder and something deeper—something human. Sweat. Fear. Death.

You swallowed against the nausea curling in your stomach. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen a corpse. But it was the first time you had to clean one up alone. Your fingers twitched, muscles stiff, cold. Hesitating.

“Fear keeps you alive,” Dazai had said.

You weren’t sure you wanted to be alive right now. But you weren’t allowed to think about that. You had a job to do.

Slowly, you crouched beside the body, forcing yourself to look. The man’s face was still twisted in that last, pitiful attempt at a plea, his mouth slightly open, lips cracked and dark with drying blood. His eye—the one that hadn’t swollen shut—stared blankly at the ceiling, glassy and lifeless. A fly had already landed on his cheek. You willed yourself to breathe through your mouth.

Your hands moved on autopilot, reaching for the rags tucked beneath Dazai’s desk. They were already stained—old blood, old crimes—but it didn’t matter. You’d just make them dirtier. The first swipe across the floor was the hardest.

The blood was thick, congealing where it had pooled deepest, and the rag barely absorbed it, only smearing it further. You had to press harder, scrubbing against the grooves in the wood, your muscles straining with each movement. The sound it made was awful—a wet, dragging noise, like raw meat being pulled across concrete. You didn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about it.

Your hands were steady. They had to be. You worked in sections, wiping, scrubbing, soaking the rag in a bucket of water that turned pink, then red, then black with grime. The body needed to be moved. You stared at it for a long time.

Then, carefully, you reached under the dead man’s arms, the fabric of his torn shirt damp against your skin. He was still warm. You hated that. Hated the way his weight sagged into you, how his head lolled back, exposing the gaping hole in his skull where Dazai’s bullet had gone clean through. You gagged. Forced it down.

You dragged him toward the tarp in the corner of the room—the one you hadn’t noticed until now, folded neatly beside a roll of thick, black plastic. Dazai had planned this. Had known someone would have to clean up his mess. Had known it would be you.

The body hit the tarp with a dull thump. You took a shuddering breath and started wrapping, pulling the plastic tightly around the limbs, tucking the edges in to keep everything contained. You moved like you’d seen others do before, like you weren’t new to this, like you were just another cog in the well-oiled machine that was the Port Mafia’s brutality.

By the time the body was secured, your arms were shaking.

Your clothes were stained, Your hands smelled like death And there was still so much left to do.

The blood was harder to get out of the cracks. You used a knife, scraping at the sticky residue until your hands ached, the sharp scent of cleaning chemicals burning your nose. You worked until the floor was just wood again, until the room smelled sterile, until nothing remained of the man who had died here. Nothing except the body you still had to dispose of. You stared at the bundle of plastic. Dazai had left without a second glance. Without telling you what to do next.

But you knew.

You always knew.

There were places for things like this. You would take him there. You would finish the job. And tomorrow, Dazai would smile at you like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just scrubbed blood out of the floorboards with trembling hands.

Like you weren’t drowning in something you’d never wash off.

[qtvi0let]

Second time posting, still kinda nervous

Summary:

Two years after Dazai defected from the Port Mafia and joined the Armed Detective Agency, he and the reader cross paths again during a cooperation mission between the two organizations. Once, he had been the one to take them under his wing, training them into the perfect subordinate. But his guidance was laced with manipulation, cruelty disguised as care, and love wielded as a weapon.

Back then, the reader had worshipped him—loved him despite the pain. And Dazai had exploited that love, breaking them apart piece by piece until nothing remained but the image he had shaped. Then, without a word, he vanished, leaving them to pick up the fragments of what he had left behind.

Now, standing face to face after all these years, the reader is filled with rage, fear, and something far worse—love that never truly faded. Dazai, burdened with regrets, seeks reconciliation, but the scars he left run too deep. He wants to fix what he destroyed, but the reader isn’t sure it’s even possible.

Because some wounds never heal. Some ghosts never fade. And some loves, no matter how painful, refuse to die.

Fragments of us

You had met dazai at 14. Mori had taken an interest in you, seeing potential in the way you moved, in the way you analyzed situations even at your young age. You were bright, sharp, and reckless—but that recklessness needed to be honed, shaped into something dangerous. And who better to teach you than Dazai?

Back then, you thought it was an honor.

Dazai was a legend even among the Port Mafia—ruthless, cunning, and utterly untouchable. Everyone feared him, and yet, you couldn’t help but admire him. He was a force of nature, someone who could command a room with just a glance.

And, at first, he was everything you wanted in a mentor. He pushed you harder than anyone else. He never allowed mistakes, but when you succeeded, when you finally met his impossible expectations, he would reward you with a rare nod of approval, a smirk, a “Good job, belladonna.” You lived for those moments.

Then, you fell in love with him.

It wasn’t sudden—it crept up on you, subtle at first. The way your heart beat faster when he leaned in too close, the way his praise meant more than anyone else’s, the way he occupied your thoughts even when he wasn’t there. Dazai knew. Of course, he knew.

And he used it against you.

You didn’t see it then. You only saw him. The way he held you after brutal training sessions, whispering sweet reassurances when you shook from exhaustion. The way his hand lingered on your shoulder, his breath ghosting over your ear as he guided you through strategy. The way he owned you without ever saying the words.

But his kindness was calculated. His affection was a weapon. Because when you faltered, when you questioned his methods, when you disappointed him—he knew exactly where to strike.

“You’re nothing without me.”

“Do you really think anyone else would care about you?”

“You want my approval? Then prove you deserve it.”

And you did. Again and again, no matter how much it hurt. Because you were desperate to be worthy of him.

Even when he left bruises on your skin, whether from training or something harsher, you told yourself it was your fault. That you needed to be better. That if you could just reach him, if you could just be what he wanted, he would love you back.

But then, one night, he left. No warning. No explanation. Just gone. And you were left in the ashes of what he had turned you into.

Two years had passed since Dazai defected from the Mafia and joined the Armed Detective Agency.

Two years since you last saw him.

When Mori sent you to handle negotiations between the ADA and the Port Mafia, you thought nothing of it. You were the Mafia’s secretary now—this kind of task was expected. You had mastered the art of diplomacy, perfected the balance between grace and intimidation. It was all routine. Until you walked into that room and saw him.

Dazai.

Your heart lurched violently, an ugly, painful thing. He looked different.

He still had the same lazy smirk, the same bandages wrapped around his body like armor, but his presence had shifted. There was something lighter about him. Something missing.

For a moment, you thought it was the lack of blood on his hands. But no—that wasn’t it.

It was the emptiness in his eyes.

For the first time, Dazai looked haunted. You forced yourself to sit at the table, to act like nothing was wrong. The meeting blurred together, voices muffled by the blood rushing in your ears. You felt his gaze on you the entire time, waiting, watching. You refused to look at him. The moment the meeting ended, you turned to leave, desperate to escape, but his voice—that voice—froze you in place.

“Belladonna.”

You inhaled sharply, your nails digging into your palms.

“Don’t call me that.”

Dazai was quiet for a moment before he sighed, softer than you had ever heard him. “I figured you’d say that.”

You turned to face him, forcing every ounce of steel into your voice. “What do you want, Dazai?”

He looked at you for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he said, “I wanted to see you.”

You laughed—sharp, bitter. “See me? See me?” The anger you had buried for years came roaring back, clawing at your ribs.

“You don’t get to see me, Dazai,” you spat. “You don’t get to want anything from me. Not after what you did.”

Dazai didn’t flinch. He just watched you, that familiar calculating look in his eyes. But there was something else, too. Something you had never seen before.

Regret.

It made you even angrier.

“Why are you even here?” you demanded. “What, did you think we could just pick up where we left off? That I’d just forget?”

Dazai shook his head. “No. I never expected that.”

“Then why?” Your voice cracked despite yourself. “Why now?”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he almost looked… uncertain. As if he didn’t know how to say what he needed to.

“I hurt you,” he finally said. “More than I ever should have.” You froze. Dazai never apologized.

Never.

He continued, voice quieter now. “I—” He hesitated. “I was cruel. I used you. And I thought—” He let out a humorless chuckle. “I thought I was doing you a favor.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. A favor. He had broken you, twisted you into something you weren’t, and he thought he was helping you? Your fists clenched. “Screw you, Dazai.”

“I deserve that.”

You hated this. Hated that he was standing here, acting as if he was suddenly burdened with guilt. As if that could change anything.

“You don’t get to regret it now,” you hissed. “You don’t get to come back into my life and act like you care.”

“I do care.”

“No, you don’t!”

The words tore out of you before you could stop them.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then, Dazai took a step closer. You immediately took one back.

He noticed. And it hurt him. You could see it in his eyes.

“I can’t undo what I did,” he admitted. “And I won’t ask you to forgive me.”

“Good,” you bit out.

“But…” He hesitated. “I do want to make things right. Somehow.”

You let out a sharp breath, trying to steady yourself. Your heart was still a mess of anger and something far more dangerous—something that ached when you looked at him.

You wanted to hate him.

You should hate him.

But love didn’t just disappear, no matter how much you wished it would.

So instead, you whispered, “I don’t think you can.“

Dazai’s expression didn’t change, but you saw something in his posture—defeat. Acceptance.

“I know,” he murmured.

And for the first time since you met him, Dazai Osamu had nothing left to say. Yet you? You had so much you wanted to tell him, so fucking much. You wanted to cuss at him, yell at him more but your mouth didnt move. It couldnt. You couldnt be as heartless as he was. Or perhaps its because you still love him?

Pt2?

[qtvi0let]

First post kinda nervous

Summary:

A reckless mistake. A sharp argument. “Stop acting like you’re my father!”—“I’m not your father.” But the words cut deep, and regret lingers.

At 3 AM, you slip an apology under Aizawa’s door, only to find him waiting. An invitation, a conversation, a long-buried fear laid bare. And when exhaustion takes over, you find yourself asleep in the arms of the one person who never left.

A Flower in the Dark

Before Aizawa, before U.A., before anything even close to a home, there was only survival.

You learned quickly that in this world, there were two kinds of people: those who had someone to catch them when they fell, and those who didn’t. You belonged to the second category.

Your parents were a hazy memory, faces blurred by time and neglect. Maybe they had cared once—maybe. But in the end, they had left, and that was all that mattered. The streets became your home. Hunger became your companion. And when a villain group took you in, offered you shelter, food, purpose—you took it without question.

Because what else was there?

They taught you how to fight, how to steal, how to survive. They shaped you into something sharp, something useful. And for a long time, you believed that was all you were meant to be. Until Aizawa caught you.

Until he saved you.

He pulled you from that life, dragging you kicking and screaming into U.A., into discipline, into care. But even now, even with a bed of your own, even with a future dangling just within reach, the past never truly left.

And tonight was proof of that. You messed up. Again.

It had started as something small—just slipping out of the dorms, just a quick little excursion, just testing the limits because you could. Because you hated the feeling of being caged.

Then things spiraled. A confrontation. A fight. A sharp piece of metal you hadn’t noticed until it was too late, leaving a gash across your arm. Blood, not much, but enough to make your head light.

And then—Aizawa.

He caught you, dragged you back, and now here you were, sitting on the edge of a desk in his office, watching his hands as they worked to clean your wound. His fingers were steady, careful, but his jaw was clenched.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer.

Aizawa let out a slow breath through his nose, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “You could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

“But I didn’t.”

He shot you a sharp look. “That’s not the point.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, wincing slightly at the sting in your injured one. “I can handle myself.”

“No, you can’t.” His voice was clipped, frayed at the edges. “You act like you’re invincible, like no one else matters. Like you don’t matter.”

You scoffed. “Since when do I matter?”

Aizawa’s hands stilled.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. He put down the bandages and met your eyes, his gaze unreadable. “Since the moment I took you in.”

Your stomach twisted. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard to breathe.

“You’re my student,” he continued, voice firm. “And whether you like it or not, I care about what happens to you.”

Your fists clenched. It was too much. Too close. The past whispered in your ears, ghosts of all the times someone pretended to care before disappearing.

“Stop acting like you’re my father!” The words ripped from your throat before you could stop them.

Aizawa’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not your father.”

“I know!” Your voice cracked, something raw bleeding through. “But do you know that?”

Aizawa didn’t say anything. And that silence—that unbearable, suffocating silence—was enough to make you bolt. You rushed out of the room.

You cried. Not loud, not dramatically, just silent, shuddering breaths curled up in your dorm room.

You didn’t know why it hurt so much. You knew Aizawa wasn’t your father. You knew that letting people in was dangerous. That caring meant giving them the power to leave.

But despite everything, despite every wall you built, you had started to care about him. And now, you had thrown that in his face. You wiped your eyes with the back of your sleeve, sniffing hard. This wasn’t enough. Just sitting here, wallowing, wasn’t enough.

You hesitated before grabbing your sketchbook. Your hands shook as you sketched, the lines uneven, a single flower blooming from the page. Beneath it, you scrawled the only words you could manage.

I’m sorry.

It was past 3 AM when you crept through the halls. The school was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that made your own footsteps sound too loud. The teachers’ dorms were further back, tucked away from the student housing. Aizawa’s door stood at the end of the hall, the nameplate barely visible in the dim light.

Your pulse was in your throat as you crouched, sliding the paper under the door. You turned to leave.

“(Y/N).”

You stopped dead.

Slowly, you turned back. The door was open, and Aizawa stood there, watching you with those tired, unreadable eyes.

“You’re awake?” Your voice was hoarse.

“I figured you’d come.”

You swallowed hard, throat thick. You weren’t sure what to say.

Aizawa stepped aside, wordlessly inviting you in.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t fight it.

You sat stiffly on the couch, arms wrapped around yourself. Aizawa sat across from you, silent as always, waiting.

You stared at the floor. “I don’t know why I said that.” Aizawa hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. You inhaled shakily. “I just… I don’t want to need anyone.”

“That’s not how it works.”

You clenched your jaw. “It has to be.”

“Why?”

Your nails dug into your arms. “Because people leave.” Aizawa was quiet for a long time. Then, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m still here.”

Your throat tightened. “For now.”, "No, for as long as you let me be." His voice was softer this time.

You blinked hard, looking anywhere but at him. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“You don’t have to figure it out alone.” The room was so quiet you could hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Slowly, cautiously, Aizawa reached out, resting a hand on your shoulder. And for once, you didn’t pull away. Something in your chest cracked open, a slow, aching thing. And when exhaustion finally won over, your head dipped against his arm. Aizawa let you stay there, his hand still resting lightly on your shoulder. He was still awake long after you fell asleep.

And for the first time in years, you weren’t alone.

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