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osarina · 4 days ago

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ᡣ𐭩 I'LL TAKE A QUIET LIFE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you didn't mean for things to turn out the way they did—you swear you really didn't. but when a certain someone decides to provoke you when you're trying to do the right thing… well. things take a turn for the worse. all you wanted was to peacefully borrow dazai for his birthday, whisking him away for a one-week getaway from the city and work, but you know how dazai is, and you couldn't risk any of his coworkers letting something slip. so, now, instead of a nice peaceful surprise and maintaining relations with the agency, you've had to resort to kidnapping. again. you'll make the most of it anyway.

(word count: 13.2k, fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, dazai-typical suicide mentions, past suicide attempts referenced, oral (male receiving), a bit of face fucking, unprotected sex, a little overstimulation, minor implied ptsd episode/grieving (reader))

AUTHOR'S NOTES: HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYY TO THE CUTEST BOY IN THE WHOLEEE WORLD WAHHHHHHH take a cute little post-canon fic for the big day<33 i am so proud of how this fic came out. before you read, i do want you guys to take note that there's a bit of a time jump—i have this fic set around 5-6 months after the ada-pm swap fic. i have a lot to say about this fic so maybeee come back up here at the end to read this because there are some spoilers for it ... this is ur last warning ....... ANYWAY, so as you all know (even though you have no faith in me) pmreader universe DOES have a happy ending. to get to that happy ending, the biggest hurdle that needs to be crossed is what was addressed in one of the more recent pmreader fics (i think i've seen this love before): dazai struggles to find a reason to live. i can't really see him marrying pmreader when he still feels so hopeless about himself/living, for HER sake more than his mind you, because he knows he's very fickle with life and doesn't want to marry her and then leave her behind. so i do think that this is a necessary step to the happy ending: dazai needs to acknowledge that he does see himself having a future with her & their relationship gives him a reason to wake up in the morning. now, this of course doesn't take away from his depression—i dont want any of you to misunderstand and i dont think you will, but i just want to make it clear that him acknowledging this doesn't take away from his depression. it's something that i headcanon dazai struggles with his whole life, but i think this is a necessary step to the happy ending. also on another note, pmreader !!! i hope her whole thing doesn't feel like it comes out of the blue. once they get together again at age 22, i hc that the first few months of their relationship are so chaotic that neither of them can fully come to terms with their situation, and once she does, she really does begin to doubt things. because of course she loves him, and she wants him to feel like he's fulfilled odasaku's last request so he can feel better about himself, but she starts to feel like her presence in his life might be holding him back. so those lingering doubts + her doing something that reminds her of a past she can't remember puts her in a rlly vulnerable space. AND I THINK I CONVEYED IT WELL, but i just like explaining. ANYWAY if you guys got this far, i love you, thank u for entertaining my rambly thoughts

Dazai is over three hours late to work, but in his defense, it’s his birthday, and not even Kunikida is cruel enough to scold Dazai on his birthday. Still, he very much expects dirty looks from the man, and maybe a few loud comments about his terrible work ethic, but that’s just Kunikida. If he wasn’t giving Dazai dirty looks and making loud comments, Dazai would be concerned.

Which is why when he steps into the office at half past twelve and is met with dead silence, Dazai knows something is wrong. He shuts the door quietly behind him and looks around warily, trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s no sign of forced entry or any fighting—there’s an untouched stack of papers in the waiting area that he assumes are from a new client, and a hot coffee still steaming next to it.

It’s all so unassuming, it’s what he expects coming into work, but it’s too quiet. He can’t hear Naomi bothering Tanizaki, he can’t hear Yosano complaining about the stick up Kunikida’s ass or Kunikida promptly scolding her for her language, he can’t hear Kyouka, Kenji, and Atsushi chatting away whenever Kunikida is pulled away by something. There’s no furious typing from the clerks as they fix all of the mistakes in the reports being filed, and there’s no sighing when they think they finish, only to realize that there’s another report, likely one of Dazai’s, waiting for them to edit.

It’s too quiet, and that’s how Dazai knows something is seriously wrong.

When he steps into the office, he almost expects nobody to be there—maybe they were all called out to some emergency mission, and Dazai is going to have to race to catch up with them.

What he doesn’t expect is finding his coworkers all sitting stiffly and silently in their seats, and a heavy Port Mafia presence all over the room. Hirotsu is leaning against the far back wall, a cigarette dangling between his lips, Gin is hanging over Haruno, carelessly playing with one of her knives, and Tachihara is trying to convince Atsushi to play a game of cards with him as if Akutagawa isn’t looming right behind him.

If it were just the Black Lizards, Dazai thinks that they’d probably fight back, but naturally, the red-headed slug is here too, leaning up against the wall with Hirotsu, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. Dazai’s eyes narrow when Chuuya gives him a smirk that’s far too smug, but the insult on his lips dies when his eyes land on the last person in the room.

You’re sitting on top of his desk, a pretty smile on your lips and a glitter in your eyes that promises no good. You look beautiful, and Dazai’s chest feels all warm and fuzzy—he hasn’t seen you in a few weeks now because you’ve been abroad dealing with pressure from some foreign organizations, and he didn’t think you’d be back for his birthday. He’s so enamored by the sight of you that he almost doesn’t catch the glint of metal on your lap or the way Kunikida is sitting tense at his desk next to where you’re lounging.

“Hey,” you say easily, like there isn’t a gun in your lap pointed at his coworker, safety off, finger firm on the trigger, ready to pull it at a moment’s notice. “Happy birthday.”

“What-” Dazai starts to say, baffled, but flinches when he feels something prick his neck, head snapping to the side to focus on a vaguely familiar figure now standing at his side—your new subordinate, Dazai can’t remember his name.

Whatever he injected Dazai with works fast, because he’s instantly dizzy, his gaze blurring, and his head all woozy. Just as his knees start to give out, he feels the kid grab under his arms to make sure he doesn’t hit the ground, and he hears you say proudly: “This is a kidnapping.”

---------

In your defense, you really did try to talk things out peacefully with the Armed Detective Agency before resorting to this.

You weren’t planning on kidnapping Dazai, but you knew he probably didn’t call out of work, and the last thing you needed was to be scolded by Mori for causing any more tension between the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia if they realized that you were the reason Dazai didn’t show up to work.

Things have been rocky on both sides since the failed transfer—the Agency because the Port Mafia dared to take one of their own, and the Port Mafia because the Agency reneged on their deal and took their member back—but you can’t afford for things to be rocky when things are still incredibly unstable. So instead of just picking up Dazai and leaving for a few days and possibly pissing off the Agency for not giving them any forewarning, you decided to do the right thing and tell them before disappearing with one of their detectives.

Except the President of the Agency isn’t in town. So, you were stuck dealing with that bullheaded blonde who clearly still holds a grudge over the incident with Pushkin and he decided to act on his grudge by making your life as difficult as possible.

All too smugly, he refused to give Dazai leave for the week because they have an emergency case that needs all hands on deck, and when you offered up Klaus to replace him, much to the boy’s abject horror, he refused. Then you offered up Klaus and Akutagawa, and he still refused. You even proposed giving them Chuuya for the week, and that wasn’t enough, so that’s when you realized he was just being difficult to be petty.

And you doubt the man actually would’ve forced Dazai to miss out on time with you on his birthday, Dazai is his friend and he’s not that much of an asshole. He probably would've okay'd it as soon as Dazai showed up to the office, but he was clearly just trying to be a pain in your ass. And well, you didn’t take that kindly, obviously, so all thoughts of preserving the fragile peace went out the window as you quite promptly demanded all hands on deck for a possible conflict because you were not going to let Kunikida Doppo keep that smug expression on his face for a second longer.

Was Chuuya happy about it? No, you could tell when he gave you a side eye after he showed up, but you knew he wasn’t going to sit by and let the Agency get one over you. So, he was content to stand there as a looming threat, because you were pretty sure that the Black Lizards weren’t going to be enough to scare the Agency into backing down, but the threat of Nakahara Chuuya splattering one of their own against the wall so that there was nothing left for their doctor to revive was more than enough to keep them down.

The Black Lizards and Akutagawa didn’t have the authority to question your orders, and Klaus was more than willing to spill blood at any given moment, so the only thing you have left to worry about is Mori, and you’ll deal with that once you get back from your getaway with Dazai. If Chuuya’s feeling nice, he’ll probably handle it for you, but you don’t think he’s pleased with how you offered him up like a bargaining chip to the Agency.

Your lips curve up into a smile when Klaus tosses Dazai over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Was drugging him unnecessary? Probably, but you didn’t want to deal with his smug ass making comments about the lengths you go to so that you can steal him away for the week the whole way up to the house you and Chuuya bought on the coastline of Hokkaido. It wasn’t just for Dazai—it was your own pride on the line too, it was the principle.

As you motion for Klaus to bring Dazai out to the car, you rise to your feet and look down at Kunikida. You place your gun under his chin to tilt his head up so that he’s looking up at you; he swallows thickly as he glances down at where your finger is still resting on the trigger, throat bobbing before he glowers at you. You give him a too-sweet smile.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” you say, very pleased with yourself. You look back at Chuuya, signalling him to come with you as you put your gun away and start to make your way out of the Agency. You lift your hand in a lazy wave before saying, “I’ll bring him back in a few days.”

It’s only when the door to the Agency shuts behind you that he finally speaks to you, hands shoved in his pockets as he says dryly, “Mori specifically told us not to antagonize the Agency over the next few weeks.”

“The Agency antagonized me,” you reply airily. “It would’ve been a terrible look for us if we let them walk all over us and come out unscathed. There are already too many rumors circulating in the East about us being weak after the Guild Incident, and now, Dostoevsky, the failed transfer, and the Clocktower—preserving our reputation is more important than relations with the Agency.”

Chuuya barks out a laugh. “You can twist anything to fit your narrative, can't you? If you weren’t an executive, you’d make a great lawyer.”

You raise your eyebrows, unfazed. “It’s not twisting if it’s the truth.”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath before shaking his head as he holds the door to the cafe open for you. “Right. Next time you decide to ‘preserve our reputation’ through a diplomatic disaster, at least give me a damn warning first.”

“There’s no fun in that,” you say with an easy smile. “Will you deal with Mori while I’m gone?”

“You’re shameless,” Chuuya tells you flatly. “No, I’m not dealing with Mori. You just tried to pawn me off to the Agency like a fucking mule. You can deal with him.”

“Please.” You flutter your eyelashes at him, pushing your lip out in a pout that has him rolling his eyes. You scowl and then offer, “I’ll take over your mission in Sapporo when I get back.”

“Deal,” Chuuya agrees immediately, reaching out to open the car door for you. You slide inside, and he shuts the door behind you; you immediately roll the window down. He gives you a sharp smile, resting his arms on the car door and leaning in. “I would’ve dealt with him either way.”

“I know because you’re a sucker,” you reply, raising your eyebrows and giving him an equally sharp smile. “I just thought I’d be nice and offer you something in return.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue sharply as he leans back. He stands up straight and gives you a side eye. “Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “Enjoy your week with that bastard, you’re gonna be in for hell with Mori once you get back.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” you say dryly, turning to the side as Klaus opens the door to toss Dazai into the car. Literally. “Jesus, Klaus, be a bit more careful with him.”

“No.” Klaus says and then sneers down at Dazai before slamming the door shut behind him.

You shake your head and adjust Dazai into a more comfortable position. He should be out for at least two or three hours—you aren’t quite sure, he’s always had a freaky metabolism, but you don’t know if it’s gotten faster or slower in the four years he was gone. You rest his head in your lap, brushing his hair out of his face. You’ve missed him a lot; you’ve barely been able to see him at all the past few weeks because you’ve been so busy, and your chest aches just at the sight of him in your lap. You turn your gaze back up to the window to find Chuuya staring at you in disgust. Klaus is there too, scowling.

“What is your problem with him?” you ask the boy, giving him a weird look. “You’ve hardly even met him before now.”

“I don’t like him,” Klaus replies, raising his chin.

You stare at him in disbelief, but Klaus only huffs and stalks off, likely to cause chaos elsewhere. Chuuya snorts in amusement, trying to muffle a laugh as he turns his face away. You roll your eyes and fling your hand up dismissively. Klaus has always had something up his ass about Dazai, you never understood why. You’ve learned better than to question what runs through that boy’s head.

“You should get going,” Chuuya says, stepping back from the window. “The jet’s waiting for you.”

“Right,” you agree, stretching your arms and then resting your hand on Dazai’s forehead, fingers carding absently through his hair. “Thanks, Chuuya.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies dryly, turning his back to the car to walk over to where he’d parked his motorcycle. He lifts his hand up in a lazy wave. “See you next week.”

“See you next week.”

---------

Dazai wakes up to the whole world shaking. His heart rate spikes as he shoots up, disoriented and confused. His hand flies to his head, blinking hard to try to clear his blurry vision. He doesn’t even really remember what happened. He remembers waking up late for work and feeling smug because Kunikida couldn’t scold him because it’s his birthday, and he remembers…

Oh.

You.

Dazai glances around, trying to figure out where the hell he is. He’s laying on a white couch in a small room… or, this isn’t a room, is it? There’s a window next to him. Dazai squints at the sudden bright light that blinds him, but he shifts closer to the window so he can look out of it.

He is in the air.

Dazai blanches when he realizes that he’s in a plane. It must be close to landing because the ground is much closer than he expected. He doesn’t recognize the area—there doesn’t seem to be any big cities nearby, only forests and the ocean, so he’s not really sure where you’re bringing him.

He pushes himself out of his seat, stumbling a bit before he catches himself. Whatever you injected him with was strong, but at least now he has something he can whine and complain about. Maybe he’ll be able to convince you to make him the sweet buns you tried baking a few times back when you two were teenagers. You never liked the way they came out, but Dazai had been obsessed with them and was thoroughly upset when you refused to make them every time he asked.

He salivates a bit at the thought and decides to get a head start on his guilt tripping, making his way over to where you’re sitting. A smile unconsciously pulls at his lips when he sees you sitting a few seats away. Your back is facing him, but he can see you’re focused on your computer, typing furiously with earbuds plugged in your ears. He stumbles once more before kneeling on the seat behind yours, draping himself lazily over the back of it to rest his chin on the top of your head.

His lips part to make a complaint when he pauses, gaze focusing on what exactly it is that you’re doing on your laptop.

Are you on a… video call?

Dazai stares at the screen blankly, recognizing the several faces staring right back at him. Leo Tolstoy looks unbearably amused when he sees Dazai in the frame of the camera, hiding a smile with his hand. An older man who Dazai realizes is Carlo Goldoni raises his eyebrows, lips twitching. Mishima Yukio casually rubs at his lips, pretending he’s not smiling. There are three others, two men and a woman who Dazai doesn’t recognize—they must be new allies of the Port Mafia.

Well, Dazai thinks awkwardly, staring at the screen as he realizes that he just interrupted a meeting between you and several mob bosses. He doesn’t bother moving now, they’ve already seen him, and you don’t seem bothered, considering you don’t immediately shove his face out of view of the camera.

“I’ll contact you all when I’m available again to speak next week,” you say after a moment. “Thank you for meeting.”

You exit the call without waiting for them to answer, taking out the earbuds from your ears. Dazai lifts his chin when he feels you turning your head to look up at him. He gives you a sheepish smile.

“Did I interrupt?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you reply. “We’re almost here anyway.”

Dazai shuffles around to sit across from you, resting his arms on the table and his head on top of them. He looks up at you, eyes still a bit droopy from whatever you drugged him with. Your lips curl up into a soft smile, and warmth spreads through Dazai’s chest at the sight of it. His cheeks heat up, so he hides them in his arms and peeks up at you. The smile on your lips becomes a bit fonder, you place your arms on the table, mimicking him, and then rest your head down like he did, peeking up at him the same way as he is at you.

It’s a simple action. A nothing action, really. You’re just mimicking him. Teasing him for being flustered. He doesn’t know why his chest suddenly feels like it's about to cave in. He doesn’t know why he suddenly wants to cry. He doesn’t know why he’s so suddenly and violently reminded of how much he loves you.

Maybe it’s just because he’s missed you these past few weeks.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper.

A lump that’s shaped suspiciously like his heart forms in his throat as he looks up at you. He hides his smile behind his arms and says quietly, “You kidnapped me.” Then adds belatedly, “Again.”

“I did,” you agree, eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s a bit of a tradition now, don’t you think?”

“Where are we going?” he asks curiously, hand creeping forward to try to grab yours. He pokes your arm twice; you raise your eyebrows before realizing what he wants and putting your hand in his. Dazai’s fingers slide to your wrist to press against your pulse, feeling the familiar, even thrums and matching his own heartrate to to them.

“To a foreign countryside so I can kill you and dump your body,” you say without pause.

Dazai snorts, lifting your hand to his lips so he can kiss your palm, lashes fluttering shut when your fingers brush over his cheekbone. He says dreamily, “A woman after my own heart.”

“You’re such a freak,” you say fondly.

“Your freak,” he corrects with a flirty smile before setting your joined hands back down on the table. “I can’t believe you kidnapped me again. And drugged me. I still feel a bit woozy, y’know? How are you going to make it up to me?”

“A one week escape from work isn’t enough?” you ask dryly.

“Nope,” he agrees, popping the ‘p’. “How about you make me those sweet buns you used to make this week? I haven’t had them in ages, I miss them.”

You squint at him, leaning back in your seat but leaving your hand in his. “Maritozzi?” you ask, and Dazai faintly recognizes the name from back then, so he nods. “What flavor?”

Dazai pauses and then asks, “Strawberry? Or lemon?”

“Both?” you offer.

His eyes widen slightly. He didn’t expect you to give in so quickly. Back when you guys were teenagers, he’d whine and ask you to make them and it would turn into a six hour argument of him insisting that he deserves them and you refusing him.

“That was easier than I expected,” he admits sheepishly.

“It’s your birthday,” you say like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Again, Dazai’s heart flutters, and he squeezes your hand gently. “The first one we’ve celebrated together in four years. We can stop to get the ingredients on the way to the house.”

The house. Where is it that you’re taking him? Dazai’s mind bounces around with potential answers—far enough that you had to take him on a plane, but not so far that he’s just woken up and its already begun its descent. Dazai has a quick metabolism and a high tolerance for most drugs. You know this and probably would’ve accounted for it, but there’s a large margin of error. You don’t know if his metabolism has gotten quicker or slower over the years apart, and you don’t know if his tolerance has weakened, so you probably didn’t want to risk pushing the dosage anymore than you would’ve four years ago.

Which probably puts the time at… four hours after you injected him? Which would make sense from the position of the sun in the sky. Probably took forty minutes from injection to take off between getting him here and getting everything settled. So a three hour flight? About? Where would that leave you guys? Seoul? No, it couldn’t be—there were no cities anywhere in sight. One of the northern islands then?

“You didn’t answer my question,” he whines. “Where are we going?”

You hesitate for a moment like you don’t want to tell him, but he pouts and widens his eyes in the way that always makes you give in. You roll your eyes at him exagerratedly, and he gives you a sweet smile in response.

“A property up in Hokkaido,” you finally say. Dazai is smug, realizing his deductions were right, until you continue speaking. “It’s near a small village. Pretty. Me and Chuuya scoped it out and bought it a couple of months ago just to have.”

What. Dazai stares at you blankly, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion, unsure why he suddenly closed off. He narrows his eyes at you, willing away the bitterness that suddenly swells in his chest. It’s sharp and sour, and he definitely doesn’t like it, but when he tries to push it away, it only intensifies.

“You bought property with Chuuya,” he asks flatly. “You’re taking me to a property that you bought with the slug.”

You roll your eyes. “Stop that,” you say immediately. “I’m taking you to a property that I scoped out because I wanted to bring you here. Chuuya jumped on and offered to pay for half because he wanted a place to escape to outside the city.”

Dazai squints at you, and you raise your eyebrows challengingly. He immediately huffs and looks away, stomach lurching when the plane begins the final part of the descent to the ground. He decides to change the subject instead of pressing, maybe he’ll whine about it some more later.

“So,” he says slowly, voice dropping just enough to catch your attention from the way you tilt your head to the side. “You’ve kidnapped me away from the Agency… to bring me to a house in the middle of nowhere… and decided not to tell me about it until now…”

You hum in response, eyes narrowing, and Dazai leans closer over the table separating the two of you, lips curling up into a lecherous smirk that has you rolling your eyes. You already know what’s coming, but you must let him have his fun on his birthday.

“And we’ll be there for… how long again?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, seemingly intent on staring out the window. “A week.”

Dazai whistles, leaning back in his seat again. His eyes rove over you—it's been a hot minute since the two of you have been able to do anything intimate. He hasn’t even seen you in a few weeks. And before that, most days, you’re either too exhausted or he’s too in his own head about things to get in the mood. But this… Seven days. No work. No people interrupting. No reason to spiral in his own head. His lips unconsciously pull into another small smile, teeth scraping his tongue as his gaze lingers on the top few buttons of your dress shirt—they’re undone, just low enough for him to see a hint of…

You clear your throat. Dazai’s gaze snaps back up to your face. He gives you an innocent smile that makes you roll your eyes at him again.

“Pervert,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” Dazai breaths out, voice a bit raspy as he lifts your hand back to his lips. He kisses your knuckles and then the inside of your wrist, gaze flickering back up to your eyes. “I’m going to take advantage of this week.”

The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting off a smile. “Oh, I counted on it.”

Dazai lets go of your wrist when the plane lands. He watches you tuck your hand back into your lap, pulling your phone out to shoot a text to someone before sliding it back into your pocket. His eyes stay on you as the plane rolls to a stop, watching the way the sunlight dances across your cheekbones. You look beautiful—always do—but you’ll look more beautiful tonight when he has you underneath him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you tell him flatly as you rise to your feet. Dazai follows after you, standing too close, and when he leans down to ghost his lips to your neck, you swat at his head, but he immediately dodges and then drapes himself over your shoulders obnoxiously. “Osamu.”

Dazai lets his full body weight rest on you. You stumble forward, trying to walk toward the exit of the plane, but fail miserably because you’re dragging his dead weight with you. His lips curl up into a smile when he hears your frustrated groan, arms tightening around you.

“Get off of me, you freak,” you complain. “Walk on your own.”

“But I’m still so woozy,” he sighs dramatically. “You drugged me, take accountability and carry me to the car before I pass out and hit my head and die on my birthday. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He pouts against your skin, nipping your neck for a second before resting his forehead in the crook of it, right next to the small mark he just left. Vision obscured, he misses the way you motion for the pilot, who had come out to lower the steps to the ground, to grab him until he feels two hands around his waist lifting him off the ground. Dazai yelps and flails, trying to figure out what exactly just happened, and blanches when he realizes he’s being held princess style by a grown man.

“Watanabe-san, please make sure Osamu makes it down the steps safely. We wouldn’t want him to pass out and hit his head and die on his birthday, would we?” you say with a sweet smile.

“Of course not, hime,” the man replies gruffly.

Mortified, Dazai tries to worm out of the man’s arms, but his grip is too tight. He looks at you, betrayed, but you’re only fighting giggles as you make your way over to the car waiting on the tarmac, leaving him in the arms of this man.

By the time he makes it to the sleek black car waiting for the two of you, Dazai’s face is flaming red. The moment he’s placed on the ground, he throws himself into the car and turns his back to you. You laugh and climb in after him, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“I hate you,” he whines.

“I love you too.”

---------

Dazai naps once the two of you get to the house, so you focus on getting everything together to make the maritozzi in the morning. You don’t really like making it—the pastries make you upset. Or, well, it’s not the pastries that make you upset, but the fact that every time you make them, you get this strange, aching feeling in your chest—a sense of deja vu so strong that it nearly brings you to your knees.

Your hands always remember what to do, even when your mind doesn’t. You knead the dough with a practiced ease that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. You know exactly how much flour to dust on the board, how warm the milk should be, how to press your thumb into the dough to check if it’s ready.

It’s muscle memory, maybe.

You sigh as you rest your hands on the kitchen counter. You plan to start baking in the morning, but you already feel that… odd feeling spreading through you, both sharp and tender at the same time. A homesickness for a place you can’t name. Grief for people you don’t remember. It happens every time: a flicker of something just out of reach. A child’s gleeful laugh, a pair of warm hands guiding yours, a whispered promise that isn’t kept.

You lay your head in your arms for a moment, eyes sliding shut. You can never get the maritozzi right, regardless of how hard you try. You don’t know what you’re doing wrong, or even what’s wrong with them at all, but you know it’s not right. You hate making them. Each time, you can’t help the hope that swells in your chest that maybe this time will be different. Maybe you’ll get it right.

Each time you’re disappointed.

And yet, here you are again trying.

The things you do for love.

You feel a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind, hands slipping beneath your shirt. Dazai drapes himself over your back, pinning you to the counter. He sighs softly as he kisses the nape of your neck and your shoulder before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you whisper softly, a smile pulling on your lips as you lift a hand to rest it on the top of his head. You feel his heartbeat thrumming against your back, and his fingers tracing absent patterns on your stomach. “You were tired.”

“You’ve been away for a few weeks,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your neck. You feel him yawn before nuzzling his face against your skin, eyes sliding shut. “I wasn’t sleeping well.”

“My apologies,” you say with faux remorse. “How dare I go away for work and mess up your sleeping schedule.”

He hums in agreement. “A crime worthy of capital punishment, honestly,” he says, and you feel him smile softly, kissing your neck again. You let out a breathy sigh and instinctively tilt your head to the side to give him more room. “I had to sleep without my favorite pillow. You know, the soft, warm, breathing one that makes cute little noises when I kiss her neck.”

“Oh, shut up,” you scowl, but the expression quickly fades when you feel him trailing slow kisses up your neck, deliberately lingering just below your ear.

“How are you ever going to make it up to me?” he whispers playfully before he nips your skin.

You ignore his noise of complaint when you shift in his arms so that you can face him, resting your hands on his hips as you look up at him through your lashes. You give him a sweet smile before saying, “I can think of a few ways.”

“Oh yeah,” Dazai drawls, lips curling up into a lazy smirk as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt again. “Is this the part where you beg for forgiveness?”

“Oh?” you hum, leaning in to ghost your lips against his jaw, kissing slowly to his ear as you murmur, “You want me to beg?”

He lets out a soft groan when you nip his skin. “I want you to convince me you’re sorry for leaving me to suffer all alone,” he corrects, breathing a little heavier when you start to kiss down the column of his throat. His voice catches over his words as you slide down the sweatpants he changed into and lower yourself to your knees in front of him. “Oh, fuck.”

“You poor thing,” you say softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his hip bone. “All alone for weeks. I bet you were just aching without me.”

“I—” His voice breaks into a groan as your mouth trails lower down the line of his ‘v’, lashes fluttering as he rests his hands back onto the counter and glances up at the ceiling before looking back down at you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them before. “You have no idea.”

“I think I have an idea,” you say more to yourself than to him, a teasing smile playing at your lips as you finally lift your hand to stroke his leaky cock. His hips jerk instinctively, he twitches in your hand like he’s already on the verge of finishing, and you lift your gaze. His chest is heaving, pink lips swollen and parted, head tilted back as he looks up at the ceiling again, desperately trying to gain control of himself.

God, you love him. You’ve loved him for years, since you were sixteen, even if you only started acknowledging the depths of your feelings for him when you were eighteen. He was always so flighty and unpredictable, you never expected one day he’d be yours the way he is now. You’ll never let him go now. You’ve missed him these past few weeks apart much more than you realized.

“I would do terrible things for you, Osamu,” you tell him softly, running your thumb over his tip just so you can hear the way he keens. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” he pants. You’re not even sure if he fully hears what you say, already lost in the haze of pleasure, and you don’t really care. “Please.”

You don’t look away from him for a second as you take his tip into your mouth, flattening your tongue against his slit to lap up all of the precum that had beaded there. He lets out a ragged groan, but you can’t see his face, so you lift your hand to grab one of his and tug to get his attention.

His head falls forward, bangs falling in his eyes as he looks down at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he breathes heavily, gaze entirely unfocused as need quickly fogs and dismantles the cogs of his quick brain. Having gotten what you wanted, you try to slip your hand free to hold his hips again, but his grip on your hand tightens, refusing to let go.

You hum softly, entwining your fingers with his instead as you slowly take him deeper into your mouth. His eyes half-roll back when his tip hits the back of your throat and your tongue presses against the vein on the underside of his cock. He almost lets his head fall back again, but your grip on his hand keeps him grounded to you. Even as fucked out as he is with his cock deep down your throat and your nails tracing patterns on his inner thighs, he manages to keep his gaze mostly locked to yours.

“I—haaah, fuck—you feel s’good,” he slurs, free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. He lets you set the pace, and you pick a slow and steady one that you know kills him. You want to see how long he can last before he snaps. “I—so many nights…”

His sentences are garbled and mostly unintelligible. It makes you happy—you’re glad he lets his brain shut off when he’s with you like this. He used to try so hard to maintain control that you could tell it was stressing him out when he was supposed to be feeling good, but he doesn’t bother with the pretenses anymore, letting everything crumble away the moment he has you in bed with him. Or, in this case, in the middle of the kitchen.

You can’t respond, so you resign to letting out a soft hum of acknowledgment; the vibrations make him whimper, cock twitching in your mouth as he gnaws on his bottom lip, desperately trying not to cum so quickly. You can feel his thighs tense beneath your touch as holds himself back from fucking your face.

Your gaze traces his face, catching sight of the red flush of his cheeks, his wet lips, the way his expression is all twisted—he’s so pretty, so you decide to have a bit of mercy on him.

Plus, it is still his birthday after all.

You lift your hand to tap his hip twice, signaling to him that he can take control if he wants, and the effect is immediate. His eyes snap open fully, glassy and wild with need, and then he moves.

His grip on your hand tightens just a bit, and the hand on the back of your head slips down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, tracing how they’re stretched around his cock. He rocks his hips forward once—slowly, like he’s testing the waters, worried that you might change your mind, but you stay still and pliant, looking up at him through your lashes imploringly.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again. “Love you. So good to me. Always been so good to me.”

He thrusts again, this time deeper, more sure of himself, and you relax your throat for him, letting him set the rhythm. It's not rough or frantic—not yet—just a slow, needy grind of someone who’s waited for this too long. His hand slides back to cup the back of your head as he starts to pick up the pace; you gag a little on his cock, eyes tearing up, but you squeeze his hand encouragingly, telling him silently to continue. To give you more.

He does.

He rolls his hips forward sharply, cock thrusting deeper, harder, and you take it, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as your throat stretches around him. His thighs tremble under your hands, breath ragged as he fucks your throat. The noises in the kitchen—his low groans, the way you’re choking on his cock, each wet, sloppy thrust into your mouth—it makes your head all foggy, heat pooling in your lower stomach.

His free hand comes back to your jaw, thumb swiping at the drool spilling from the corner of your mouth before he squeezes your cheeks gently to feel his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, and still, you stay there, tears spilling freely down your cheeks, because he’s close. You can feel it. His thigh tenses under your palm, his fingers tighten around yours, his rhythm stutters and takes a more erratic turn, and his voice breaks on your name, groans shifting into pitched moans.

“Haah,” he gasps, hips jerking. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, please, baby, I—I’m gonna—”

Your nose is flush to his pubic hair as he cums deep down your throat—his cum tastes so familiar, too salty, after all of these years, he still hasn’t taken your advice of a better diet. Hazily, you remind yourself to scold him about it later, but right now, you’re too focused on trying not to choke over him, swallowing the copious amounts of cum he spilled into your mouth as he trembles above you violently, still feeling the aftershocks of the intense orgasm.

When he finally pulls out, he drops to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks as he leans in, kissing you deeply. He kisses you like he’s trying to devour you—claim you, even, like he hasn’t already, like you haven’t been his since the moment the two of you met. His breath is uneven, chest heaving, and there’s a flicker of something wild in his eyes as he pulls back to look at you, eyes roving over you. His eyes slide shut again as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, hands sliding down to your sides as he ghosts his lips against yours. “God, you’re everything. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You lift your hands to cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his again. You toy with the tips of his hair as your lips slide messily against his, letting out a soft moan when his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling your body flush to his. His hands dip lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, and you smile against his lips.

“I’m not fucking you on the kitchen floor,” you say, leaning back slightly. He chases your lips to kiss you again, a hazy smile on his lips as he gives you a half-lidded look.

“It would be hot though,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip before letting out a low groan against your skin, dragging his lips from your jaw to your ear. You let out a shaky breath when his fingers slide down to your panties, pressing his finger down on your clit through thin silk and moaning again. “Have you face down, nails clawing against the tile, pinned between me and the floor—nowhere to go, can only take it.”

“Jesus, Osamu,” you say shakily, eyes sliding shut as his fingers curl into your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss down your neck, kisses wet and lingering as he sucks at your skin. He traces slow circles around your clit, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you try to ground yourself. “Not the kitchen floor.”

“Such a bore,” he complains. “Ruining my fun. It’s still my birthday, y’know?”

Before you can retort, Dazai’s hands drop to your thighs, and you yelp as he rises to his feet, bringing you with him. Sometimes you forget how strong Dazai is—it’s easy when he constantly acts like he’s helpless and drowns himself in long jackets and loose clothes. He used to be able to go blow-for-blow with Chuuya in combat, and although you know damn well he hasn’t kept up his training, you can feel the lean muscles of his biceps beneath his sweatshirt.

Your grip tightens on them; he’s still mouthing at your neck as he carries you into the back bedroom. You whisper softly, “You are so…”

When you don’t finish, Dazai nips your neck playfully and finishes, “Handsome? Charming? The image of your deepest, darkest desires?”

Usually, you would roll your eyes at him, but this time, you gasp, “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

He nudges the door open with his foot before kicking it shut. He sets you down gently on the bed, pushing you back until your back is flat and hovering above you to steal another kiss. This one is slow and lazy as he settles above you on his elbows, tongue running along your bottom lip, and fingers dragging over your ribs reverently. You think you could kiss him forever and never get sick of it.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his eyes are half-lidded, and his breath is warm against your lips as he looks down at you.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, thumb circling your hip bone.

“Always,” you answer quietly.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you, lifting his hand from your hip so he can cup the side of your face. You lean into his touch, lashes fluttering shut momentarily as you bask in the familiar warmth of his skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You give him a hazy smile as you look back up at him. “For what?” you ask, voice teasing, but Dazai’s smile only softens even more. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, and you nip at it playfully.

“Everything.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to question him, leaning down to press his lips to yours again. This kiss is chaster than the last, like he just wants to savor in the taste of you rather than outright devour you. His thumb traces soft circles over your cheek, and his other hand slides down your body to your thigh, hiking your leg over his waist so he can slot his hips between your legs.

He kisses you and holds you so gently that you forget to breathe until your lungs start burning. When you push at his shoulder to get some air, he immediately leans down to keep kissing your neck, sliding your shirt up, and tapping you to beckon you to lift your shoulders so he can pull it off.

Once he has it off and flings it to the side, he leans back to let his eyes roam your body. His pupils are blown wide, and his fingers are a bit shaky; he slides them down your body, tracing your figure like he’s worshiping it.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers more to himself than to you. “Divine. The kind of beauty that drives saints to sin and kings to kneel. You make the stars look dim, and the heavens seem dull. I still can’t believe you’re mine. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.”

“My god, Dazai,” you laugh, face heating up at his words. “A bit over the top with the poetry tonight, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly,” he says, voice low and serious as his gaze lifts back to your face. He repeats softly, “No, not nearly.”

Your throat swells as you look up at him, and he runs his knuckles across your cheek before trailing his fingers down your face. His thumb presses heavily against your bottom lip, and you give him a kittish smile before taking it into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit as you look up at him through your lashes.

His breath catches, and you hum around his finger when he presses down slightly on your tongue, rolling your hips up to grind against his clothed cock. He murmurs, voice strained, “You drive me insane.”

“Oh yeah?” you press, voice breathy. “Prove it?”

He kisses slowly to your collarbone, making sure to leave marks on his way down. “Gladly,” he rasps, swiping his tongue along your collarbone before biting over the bone lightly.

“You’re going to leave so many marks,” you complain, breath hitching when he slowly rocks his hips against yours. He’s already hard again; you can feel him through the thin material of your panties, and you want him desperately. Your walls clench around nothing, and the heat pooling in your stomach has your thighs trembling. “Shit, Osamu, will you just—”

“Good thing I have you to myself all week,” he croons, a smug smirk on his lips as he kisses down your chest to the swell of your breasts. He lets out a shaky puff of air as he pulls back just a bit to get an eyeful of your tits before his lips wrap around your nipple. He moans against you as he rolls it between his teeth, lifting his free hand to grope your other breast. Your back arches up as you press yourself into his touch, a keen escaping your lips. “Gonna mark you up all over, you won’t even have to hide them.”

“Please,” you gasp, head falling back against the pillows. “Please, Osamu, I—”

You choke over your words when you feel him slide your panties down your legs. He pulls his lips off your nipple with a pop before trailing wet kisses back up your chest until his face is hovering above yours. His thumb slips from your mouth so that he can pinch your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“Please, what?” he hums insufferably. “C’mon, baby, use your words.”

“You’re so—” You start to reply irritably, only to whimper when he rolls his hips again.

“So what?” he presses, giving you a cocky smile as he taps your cheek twice to get your attention again. “What am I? You’re so cute, I’ve barely done anything, and you’re already so close to finishing.”

“I hate you. I—haaaah, shit—” you moan, but your lashes flutter shut as Dazai slides his fingers between your wet folds. “Osamu—”

He lets out a ragged breath, hot against your skin. “Shit, baby, you’re drenched,” he groans. “All this just from letting me fuck your face? Fuck, I love you. Tell me what you need. Tell me. I want to hear you say it. It’s my birthday.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, lifting trembling hands to cup his cheeks. “Please, fuck me, Osamu.”

“God, I love hearing you beg,” he breathes out, nipping at your jaw before his lips drag hot and slow up to your ear. “Love seeing you all worked up for me. Only I get to see you like this, yeah?”

His teeth graze your ear lobe, and you exhale shakily, shivering under his touch. He laughs softly, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and you can’t even hit him with a snide comment like you usually would, because your whole body shudders when you feel his cock slide between your folds.

“You don’t even know how good you look right now,” he goes on, voice low and smooth as he traces his fingers down your body again.

The noise you let out is embarrassing, something caught between a whine and a gasp of his name when he presses the tip of his cock to your entrance. Your hips jerk up, desperate for him to sink inside you again, but he holds your hips down. It’s been weeks since the two of you have done anything together, and your body is falling apart just at the idea of having him deep inside you again.

“Please,” you whisper again, voice coming out more of a whine than anything else. “Osamu, it’s been so long, I—”

Dazai doesn’t let you finish your sentence. The words are knocked from your lungs when he snaps his hips forward, thrusting deep inside you. Your hands slide underneath his sweatshirt, nails raking down his back as you writhe beneath him. His eyes are half-lidded as he looks down at you, and you’re pleased to realize he’s just as much of a mess as you. His lips are pink and swollen, his face is flushed, hair matted to his forehead, and dark eyes unfocused. He looks beautiful.

You love him. You’ve always loved him, but it hits you so suddenly that it makes your chest ache. You surge upwards to press your lips against his, and Dazai moans into your mouth, rocking his hips against yours suddenly as he presses you back down into the mattress, tongues sliding together messily. Each thrust is deep and even, less like he’s trying to chase release and more like he’s just savoring in the feeling of being with you like this again.

“Osamu,” you beg, and you don’t really know what you’re begging for, but your lashes suddenly feel wet, and he’s lifting one hand to wipe tears you didn’t realize were falling over your cheeks. “Osamu, I—”

Your words break into a moan when Dazai thrusts just a little harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white at the edges. Dazai ghosts his lips against yours, laughing breathlessly.

“Aw, baby, you missed me, didn’t you?” His voice is teasing as he brushes kisses across your face, deceptively gentle when compared to the way he’s fucking the air right out of your lungs with every thrust. “I missed you too, we’ve both been so busy lately… Didn’t even know if you’d have time today with everything going on.”

Even with your brain fogged with pleasure, you can hear the brief waver of insecurity in his tone. You lift your hands up to cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Always have time for you,” you tell him softly. “Especially today.”

Dazai’s throat bobs at your words, and instead of responding, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin, breathless moans, and his cock driving in and out of your cunt. You gasp his name, hips bucking up to meet his, both of you now chasing release.

You’re so close that it hurts, abdomen coiled tight and thighs so tense that they’re shaking around his waist. When he slips his hand between you to rub tight circles on your clit, you finally fall apart. His name spills from your lips and your vision whitens at the edges, you let out a ragged sob that he swallows with a kiss as he fucks you through your high, gasping your name like a prayer over and over again. He’s close, too—you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters and how his breath hitches over every chant of your name.

Your walls spasm around him as he chases your high, pleasure shifting into overstimulation as he uses your body for himself now. You hiccup over a sob as your whole body squirms beneath him, but he holds you down, fucking you so hard that your body jolts further up the bed with each thrust. Your vision darkens at the edges a bit, your head feels woozy, and it’s when you really feel the pinpricks of numbness spreading from your fingertips up to your arms, that he finally finishes, burying himself deep inside you as he cums with a low, broken moan of your name.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathing hard against your shoulder, body trembling above yours. He finally lifts his head, and with a lazy, sated grin, he says, “What a birthday gift.”

You roll your eyes at him, but the smile that curls at your lips is fond.

“I love you,” you whisper, reaching up to caress his face, thumb running along his cheekbone. “Happy birthday.”

“I love you,” he replies softly, eyes sliding shut as he kisses your palm. “Thank you.”

---------

You wake up early the next morning to make the maritozzi for Dazai. He’s still fast asleep in bed next to you by the time you wake up, tangled in the sheets and curled into your warmth. Slipping out of bed without waking him is no easy feat—he’s always clingy in the mornings, even more so when he’s exhausted. You know he hasn’t been sleeping well these past few weeks you’ve been away, and the last thing you want is to disturb the rare peace he’s found.

So, for a while, you stay. You hum softly under your breath, fingers trailing gently through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. It takes nearly half an hour before his grip on you slackens enough for you to ease out of his arms and tiptoe into the kitchen.

You’ve been up for a few hours now. Dazai is still sleeping, surprisingly; you underestimated just how tired he was. Usually, you can slip out of bed, but he’ll come wandering in, looking for you within the hour. His sleep rarely lasts when you’re not in bed with him.

The pastries are almost done now; though, you just took them out to cool, and you've put together a little basket for when they’re done. You think maybe you’ll drag him outside to eat. He needs to get some sun; all he’s been doing the past few months is rotting away in your apartment or his.

You hum softly to yourself as you grab a blanket out of the closet, folding it before placing it next to the basket. You need to clean still, too, but—

You jump slightly when you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist. Dazai’s familiar weight settles on your back as he leans on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to kiss your skin gently before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Cheater,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Making my favorite, so I can’t be mad at you for sneaking out of bed. So unfair.”

You smile to yourself, looking to the side so you can see him. He still looks sleepy—his eyes are drooping shut and his breathing is heavy, but the bags beneath his eyes are lighter, if only a little. You lift up your hand so you can cup the side of his face before leaning in to press your lips against his cheek.

“Good morning,” you say quietly. “You slept for a while.”

His eyes slide shut when your lips brush his skin. “Come back to bed,” he whispers. “Lay with me a little longer.”

“I need to finish cleaning,” you tell him, ignoring the way he pushes his bottom lip out dramatically; he looks stupid pouting so hard with his eyes closed. Your chest bubbles with warmth. “It’ll be annoying to clean the cream after it hardens in the bowl.”

His eyes fly open at that, gaze suddenly sharp as he scans the counter. He lights up when he sees the two bowls on the counter in front of you, giving you imploring eyes and a sweet smile. You roll your eyes at him.

“You’re such a child,” you insult fondly, but you do reach forward to scoop up some of the leftover cream onto your finger, lifting it to his lips. Dazai immediately wraps his lips around the digit, sucking the thick cream right off your finger and moaning obnoxiously.

“Strawberry,” he says approvingly after he pulls his lips off your finger with a loud pop. He gives you a sharp smile before saying, “You taste better though. My favorite type of c—”

“Stop,” you interrupt before he can finish the sentence. He pouts again, but then presses a slow kiss to the back of your neck. You sigh, leaning into his touch despite yourself, and he hums softly as he rocks the two of you back and forth slowly, resting his forehead on the top of your head. You rest your hand over one of his, eye sliding shut and then admit, “I’ve missed you a lot.”

“It’s been a long three weeks,” he agrees softly. “I wish Mori would start sending someone else to handle business abroad.”

“I wish you could come with me,” you say with a frown. “The only time you’ve ever left the country, you were thrown in prison. There’s so many places I want to bring you.”

“You don’t know that,” he says petulantly. “I could’ve left during the two years I was underground.”

“Did you?”

“... No.”

“Do you like arguing for the sake of arguing?” you ask dryly, but you find yourself smiling fondly.

“Where do you want to take me?” he asks instead of answering the question, arms tightening around you. “Hmm? Tell me.”

Your lips part to list off all of your favorite travel destinations. Paris, the City of Love—Dazai would be horrendously obnoxious there with you, but he would love it, so it would probably be one of the first places you brought him. The Yucatán Peninsula too, you think, and maybe Egypt—he had a whole phase back when the two of you were teenagers where he would spend hours a day researching ancient civilizations, watching people explore old ruins with a pout and complaining incessantly about being stuck in Yokohama. You want to bring him to Zhuhai one day to show him the Chimelong Ocean Kingdom, but Qu Yuan and Cao Xueqin have been fighting for territory there for almost two years now so it won’t be any time soon.

But you don’t say anything, because your gaze draws back to the mess of bowls on the counter and then to where the maritozzi are cooling. More than anything, you want to bring him to a home that no longer exists. A home you don’t even remember. You don’t know why you’ve been yearning so badly for it lately; you went years without thinking of your past before you met Mori, not even once had it crossed your mind in that time, but over the last few months, it's crossed your mind frequently. You swear that you can feel familiar arms wrapping around you, a laugh that makes your chest ache that you can’t quite place; you find yourself looking up at the stars, and you can almost hear whispers of a voice you should know laying next to you, telling you all the stories of the constellations.

Dazai seems to recognize something is wrong, because he lifts his hand to your chin to tilt your face up and to the side so that your gaze lands on his. He frowns slightly, running his thumb over your skin before he says, “Dance with me?”

“Dance?” you ask, trying to laugh but it comes out too forced. Dazai only gives you a sweet smile in return before he spins you around to face him, one hand resting on your waist while the other reaches for yours, entwining his fingers with yours as he starts spinning to a song only he can hear, dragging you along with him as he dances the two of you around the island in the kitchen. “You’re so cheesy.”

“I prefer romantic,” he disagrees as he spins you beneath his arm, dipping you down slightly and holding you there for a moment so he can lean in and place an obnoxiously loud kiss right on your nose. “Isn’t this romantic?”

You laugh again, and this one is more genuine as you look up at him. His dark eyes are a warm golden color beneath the morning light, sickeningly soft as he looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. Your throat suddenly feels too tight, and his lips curl up into a soft smile as he places another kiss on your face, this time on your lips.

He lifts you from the dip, and you slip your hand from his so you can hook both of your arms loosely around his neck. His hands settle on your hips as the two of you continue to sway slowly to an imaginary song.

“Why don’t you like baking them?” he asks quietly. It’s a question you know he’s been dying to know the answer to for years; you’re surprised it took him this long to ask.

Your gaze lowers. “I think… my mother was the one who taught me how to bake them,” you say softly. “I can never get them right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything right away. His hold on you tightens just the slightest bit as he rests his forehead against yours. Your lips press together and your eyes sting with sudden tears. You think about how your hands move automatically through the steps, how your heart always sinks when they come out just a little too dense or the cream doesn’t taste quite right. It’s like there’s a version of the pastry that lives in your memory—light, sweet, perfect—and no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to recreate it.

Like it belonged to another life. Another version of you. One that was pure, sweet, gentle, and this one doesn’t deserve it.

This version of you has seen too much, done too much. You carry too many shadows in your heart and have too much blood under your fingernails. You were softer then—before the Great War, before Mori, before the Port Mafia. Every time you make them, you’re reminded that you’ll never be that girl again. The one that exists now… you don’t even know if she can be considered human by most people. The pastries don’t come out right because they’re not meant to. You no longer know how to make something so sweet. You don’t deserve something so gentle.

You suddenly understand why you’ve been thinking so much of your past.

Your gaze flickers up to Dazai as he lifts his hands to cradle your face between his hands. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. He gives you a small, sad smile before he asks quietly, “This isn’t about the pastries, is it?”

You try to look away but he doesn’t let you. Your voice is barely a rasp as you say, “They’re not right. They don’t—”

I’m not right. I don’t know if I deserve this.

“They’re yours,” he murmurs, cutting you off before you can finish what you’re about to say. He leans in to press his lips against your temple. “They’re perfect to me.”

You’re you. You’re perfect to me.

“It’s not what I want to give you,” you insist. Your voice cracks, much to your horror. You turn your face into his shoulder, not wanting him to see the tears that threaten to spill. “I feel like I’m holding you back, Osamu. That you’ll never be able separate yourself from your past as long as you’re with me, and you’ll never believe in your own goodness when you come home to me every night. I don’t want to be the reason you can never accept that you’ve fulfilled Oda’s last request.”

Dazai’s smile is unbearably soft as he gently pulls your face from his shoulder and forces you to look at him again. His gaze darts up to the basket you started putting together on the table and he asks quietly, “Did you want to eat breakfast outside?”

You nod, swallowing thickly.

“C’mon,” he nudges you. “Let’s finish getting it all together and go eat. We can talk out there.”

---------

Dazai has never had a reason to live.

The first time he tried to kill himself, he was eleven. It was when his grandfather had started pitting his siblings and cousins against each other, and Dazai first started questioning why he was even alive. He had no ambition for power like his siblings, he had no passion for any hobbies like his mother, and he had no friends, not even his own family liked him. His mother found him slumped over in the bathroom and rushed him to the hospital—she made him swear to never do something like this again. He agreed, but his promise to her died when she did when he was fourteen.

The second time he tried to kill himself, he was fourteen. His mother got caught trying to smuggle Dazai and his siblings out of his grandfather’s estate. Two of his siblings had already been killed by his cousins, and she was desperate to not lose anymore of her children. She got caught trying to escape with them, and his grandfather ordered his father to kill her. Dazai jumped from the rooftop that very night—that’s how he ended up in Mori’s clutches.

He’s not sure how many times he tried to die from fourteen to fifteen. More than he can count, and they got progressively more violent and desperate over time. When he met Chuuya and then Odasaku, he found his first friends—although at the time, he’d never been able to fully bring himself to believe that they viewed him that way. Dazai slowed down on his attempts after meeting them; he didn’t fully stop, he just became more… passive with it. Attempts to blow himself up shifted into recklessness during missions; instead of drinking various poisons, he would drink copious amounts of alcohol until his skin was gray and clammy and the room started spinning.

And then, he met you.

Dazai’s lips curl up into a soft smile as he watches you set up all the stuff you’d prepared for breakfast. He keeps trying to sneak one of the maritozzi buns, but you catch him every time, slapping his hand away and giving him an accusing look. You’re still upset, but you’re a bit calmer now as you focus on something else.

You drove him mad. You drive him mad. You didn’t flinch at his barbed humor or the way he suddenly and irrationally tried to push you away after worming his way into your life. You never gave up when he deflected conversation with a smile or silence. You didn’t recoil from the mess that he was; you just acknowledged it like it was something as simple as the weather, accepting it, him, into your life so easily. You saw through the cocky facade and self-destruction, and you stayed anyway.

It terrified him. He couldn’t fathom it for years—you didn’t lecture him over his self-destructive tendencies, and you never pulled the whole ‘please, stop for me’ shit that he hated so much. You just sat with him. On the nights when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he couldn’t remember how many bottles he’d emptied, you were there. You didn’t touch him unless he asked, didn’t talk unless he initiated it, and over time, Dazai found himself relying on you in a way that scared him.

After meeting you, for the first time in maybe his whole life, he started to want things again—small, stupid things, but things nonetheless. He wanted a morning that didn’t start with a hangover so he could wake up early and have coffee with you before you left for your meetings. He wanted to come back from a mission in one piece so he could watch a movie with you before laying down. He wanted to be able to sit beside you and not feel like a grenade with the pin halfway out, ready to take you out with him. Dazai has never believed that he deserved you, and a part of him almost wants to laugh when he realizes that you feel the same about him.

He thinks back to the conversation he had with you a few months ago when you came back from Rome early to be with him, and he feels so silly.

“What are you thinking?” you ask quietly as you set the basket to the side, finally looking up at him, but only briefly.

“Do you remember the conversation we had a few months ago? When you came back early from Rome?”

You raise your eyebrows at him, and Dazai wiggles across the blanket so that he can sit beside you. He nudges your shoulder with his, beckoning you to look at him again. You turn your head to the side, gaze focusing on him.

“Yeah,” you answer after a moment. “Of course.”

“It’s us,” he whispers. “It’s always been us.”

You look at him, tilting your head to the side. You press your lips together tightly, an expression on your face like you understand what he’s saying, but you think maybe you’re misunderstanding and don’t want to get your hopes up. You set the napkins in your hands down, and Dazai continues, voice low.

“I didn’t understand it then,” he admits quietly. “I think maybe I haven’t understood it until right now, but it’s us. My reason to live—it’s you and me, has been for years. Since we were sixteen. I—”

“Osamu,” you start to say, and your voice wavers. You want to believe him, but you’re scared of being disappointed, like maybe he’s just saying this in the spur of the moment to make you feel better.

He shifts to sit on his knees, grabbing your hands and pulling them into his lap, squeezing them tightly. He can feel your fingers shaking ever so slightly.

“It’s true,” he insists. “Being with you… it gives me something to look forward to every day. You make me want things I didn’t think I could want. You make me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling.”

He lifts one of your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles and then your palm. His voice is shaking a bit now, but he continues. “You make me want to live. Not just survive. Not just keep breathing because I haven't figured out how to stop. Live. Really live. I want a future with you, I want—”

Dazai’s voice breaks, his grip tightens on your hand. Your eyes are wet with tears, and your lips are trembling, and Dazai loves you. He loves you so much that it makes him sick sometimes.

“I want to marry you,” he rasps. “I want to wake up every morning your husband. I want you to be my wife.”

He watches as you inhale deeply. He can feel your nails digging into his hands and it stings, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t realize just how much he means the words until he says them. And he realizes, a bit belatedly, that he doesn’t have a ring and this isn’t the proposal you deserve, but there’s so much hope in your eyes that he can’t take it back now.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Osamu,” you whisper. “Please, don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.” He lets go of your hands to cup your cheeks. He lets out a broken laugh, blinking hard. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. You’re the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense. I want to live, and I want to live with you. As your husband. And I—I don’t have a ring. I didn’t plan this, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t think I was capable of ever asking anyone—of ever wanting this.”

He leans in to press his forehead to yours. He can taste the mint on your breath, and he can’t help himself from stealing a kiss, a brief brush of his lips against yours that makes his chest ache.

“But I want it with you. I want to be yours in every way a person can belong to someone. And I want you to be mine,” he says softly, hands sliding down from your face to cradle your neck instead. “This—it isn’t me asking, okay? I want to get a ring, I want to do it right, make it special, but I want you to know, because there is no world where you’re ever holding me back. You’re what keeps me going, so whatever silly thoughts you have going on in that pretty head of yours, they need to stop, okay?”

You take in a ragged breath and lean forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, and Dazai pulls you into his lap, holding you close, one hand wrapped rightly around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses the top of your head and lets out a long breath, a weight lifting from his chest. Your body fits against his like it always has, like you’re made to be here, curled in his arms with the early afternoon light painting you in gold. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in your hair, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he finally murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple in a lingering kiss. “I don’t even fully understand it, but I know that I want you. I need you. You don’t have to change for me; you don’t have to be someone else for my sake. You as you are—it’s enough. You’re enough. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted; it doesn’t matter that you’re still with the Mafia and I’m with the Agency. None of that matters to me. What Odasaku asked of me… you being in my life doesn’t change anything. He’d never have wanted me to chase after his last request if it meant coming at the cost of you. Do you even know how many years he spent trying to get me to pull my head out of my ass and make a move on you? I think he was more relieved than either of us were when we finally got together.”

You let out a watery laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, Dazai can’t really tell, but he holds you a bit tighter, savoring in the feeling of having you in his arms. He thinks he could stay here forever if given the chance. Live a quiet life away from everything, just you, him and the rest of your lives together.

Maybe one day.

“I love you,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his throat before settling against him. The tension in your shoulders slowly dissipates, and you let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

He kisses the top of your head again. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “I love you too.”

The two of you bask in each others arms, relaxing beneath the early afternoon sun. He toys with your hair absently, running soothing circles on your upper back. After a few moments, he glances back on the maritozzi you’d pulled out of the basket.

“... Can I have one now?” he asks, giving you an imploring look when you pull back to give him a deadpan one. “Please. It’s literally been five years, do you know how much self control I’ve had the past hour?”

Your lips curl up into a fond smile. “Fine.”

Dazai’s hand snatches out immediately before you can change your mind, shovelling the sweet bun into his mouth all at once. Your eyes shoot open in shock.

“Jesus Christ, Osamu,” you say, scrambling for a water bottle when he chokes over it. “What is wrong with you? My god, could you eat it normally?”

His eyes sting with tears, but he manages to give you a thumbs-up between coughs and wheezes. “So worth it,” he gasps, mouth-half-full, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

You hand him the water, watching with a mixture of horror and amusement as he gulps it down. You shake your head when he finally manages to swallow, muttering, “You’re insane.”

Dazai leans back with a dramatic groan, collapsing onto the blanket like he’s completed a Herculean task. He reaches out for your hand, entwining your fingers again and tugging you to lay on top of him.

“So perfect,” he sighs dreamily, voice still a bit hoarse. He winks at you and gives you a flirty smile and then coos, “Just like the baker.”

“You’re so corny,” you complain, but you’re smiling when you look away from him.

“I’m so yours,” he corrects teasingly, kissing your knuckles.

Your smile softens.

“You are,” you agree quietly, “and I’m yours.”

Yeah, Dazai thinks, an adoring expression on his face as you lean in to brush some of the cream at the corner of his mouth away with your thumb. Yeah, this is definitely all he ever needs.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu smut #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs smut

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babyjinsu · 2 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ ꒰ paparazzi ꒱ ˎˊ˗

sunghoon x idol fem!reader || 4.3k

౨ৎ consensual sex, stalking, one mention about starving (oh you know idols...), non-consensual pictures taking (non-sexual), reader is lowkey depressed, slight angst if you squint, alcohol, loss of virginity, cumshot, sunghoon cums on your face, he's a creep, death, drowning, probably more but i don't know how to tag this...

sunghoon thought your biggest mistake was auditioning at a newly-built company, instead of a popular one just because they were controversial.

the industry loves controversy. they fed on it. you thought you were being clever—thought you were avoiding the long lines of future idols at the big names. you didn’t realise a no-name company wouldn’t fight for you once things got hard. wouldn’t protect you. wouldn’t last.

you looked like you haven’t slept for days.

the company he worked under didn’t even know your name when his manager brought you up. you were just the center girl from a viral fancam—the clip got passed around in online forums not because of your dancing—but the way your top had slipped slightly and someone in the crowd had zoomed in too far.

assigned, dispatched, paid.

“group’s on its last leg,” he continued. “no official statement yet, but they’re disbanding pretty soon,” mr. baek hummed, his fingertips drumming against the wooden desk. “but some of the bigger companies are sniffing around. especially her.”

sunghoon leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowed to look properly. you’re pretty—as expected from an idol. this girl had that something soft and severe at the same time. a pretty girl who didn’t know how pretty she was—the stylists didn’t do a good job in pushing you to your full potential look-wise.

“name’s yn, i don’t think she uses any stage names,” his manager said, almost offhandedly. “she’s the one they want. not sure how this small company bagged her first. they said she’s got better offers lined up—and we want a portfolio for when she jumps.”

“a portfolio?”

“yeah. if she gets bought, the new company will pay a fortune for clean, rare shorts of her pre-transfer. nothing explicit—just some candid shots. you know the drill, park.”

sunghoon exhaled through his nose, his fingers pressed to massage his temples. it all sounded so dull and predictable and boring. “why not send one of the new guys?” he asked, shifting in his seat. “they’d love young idols to stalk. i specialised in scandals, not idol fluff shit.”

his manager shrugged, placing a stick of cigarette between his two lips. “c’mon,” he chuckled. “they don’t have your eyes. you can get the kind of shots that feel intimate, ya know?” sunghoon stared at the image a little longer. you were standing slightly turned from the others, a hair’s breadth of space between you and your member.

this was just one of the things sunghoon had to do in his field of work. at least, this was slightly easier than having to dig up information for a new scandal—this one’s just following around and pressing finger on the shutter. sounds easy enough.

you didn’t even have any bodyguards around to protect you.

sunghoon hadn’t planned to take his job so seriously. it was supposed to be easy money.

but now, looking at you through his viewfinder—squatting on the curb and running your hand through your locks—sunghoon found himself pausing.

you weren’t like the other idols sunghoon had seen on his coworker’s desks—you weren’t polished. messy, slipping through the cracks—pretty in a way that’s accidental.

he held his breath without meaning to. your eyes darted to the side to fight the urge to cry, tiny tension creased between your brows.

he zoomed in on your face.

a few strands of dyed hair clung to your lips, your eyes were red, skin dull and tired. sunghoon watched as you blinked slowly, like you were about to break in the prettiest way.

click—

pretty, sunghoon thought again—but he didn’t mean solely your face. the expression of mixed vulnerability and defiance that you had on—the kind of attractive people missed if they solely looked for beauty.

sunghoon lowered the camera slightly, blinking against the residual imprint of your face on the viewfinder. his body didn’t move to leave just yet.

he took another shot just in case.

——

“hey, mr. baek’s calling for ya,” his coworker said.

sunghoon sighed, “yea, okay.”

he already knew what the old man wanted—pictures, updates, progress shots of that sunghoon wasn’t slacking off.

mr. baek’s door was half-open. he barely looked up from his phone when sunghoon stepped in.

“well?”

sunghoon forced a nod, sliding a usb across the desk. “got some shots outside of the studio, and a few from last weekend. she was out with the rest of the girls.”

his manager finally looked up. “any buzz yet? forums? comments?”

“just some. fans said she looked tired.”

“nice. you send those to min-kyu, he’s prepping a piece about underdogs making it out of flop groups. tragedy-porn.” he let out a chuckle like it’s funny, shaking his head before leaning it back against the headrest.

back at his desk, sunghoon plugged in a backup drive and opened the folder titled—deliverables. the images were all tagged green, clean and safe. you laughing with your members, stylists pinning your outfit backstage—normal. pretty. usual.

but before transferring them, he paused.

his cursor hovered over another folder—one he hadn’t named yet. just a string of random numbers. inside were the other shots—

the raw ones.

a silhouette behind cheap, sheer white curtains, your body just barely visible as you pulled your shirt over your head—the shape of your back, the roundness of your pretty covered breasts, the curve of your waist down to your hips, the slope of your neck—they were all visible to his eyes.

your fingers combing through damp hair in a dimly-lit room, one where you had forgotten to properly bind your curtains together and leaving a tiny gap in between—just enough for sunghoon to see you applying lotion over your bare legs.

the pictures weren’t taken on instinct. he’d waited. stood on the opposite rooftop for forty-five minutes in the wind with the shutter off and the light adjusted. these were chosen.

a sickness bloomed in the pit of his stomach every time he opened the folder. not guilt, for sure—but something hungrier.

sunghoon knew he shouldn’t keep them—in fact, he should’ve given these ones instead to mr. baek—this was enough for sunghoon to receive his payment and move to another project, but no—

these pictures—they were just for his eyes.

——

you didn’t hear it from official mouths. the rumours slipped through cracks and half-whispers in makeup rooms and trailing after stylists’ side-eyes. they cling to the silence your manager gave when you asked too many questions.

“are we disbanding?” you’d said earlier that morning. the girls never asked except for you.

your manager looked at you like you’d asked something ridiculous. “no one said anything about that, yn,” he replied, too quickly—with a roll of eyes. “let’s focus on the upcoming schedule, yeah?”

but there was no upcoming schedule. there was no comeback, no showcase, no nothing. neither you nor the girls had brands booking or scheduled photoshoots.

you couldn’t take it anymore. everything that you’ve worked for—the sleepless nights and the degrading stages, the stomach you had to starve flat to fit in extra extra small clothes. was that all for nothing? had your efforts gone down the drain like it meant nothing?

so you stood, and left the practice room.

walking straight out the side exit of the building, you pulled your hoodie over your head. you didn’t bother with the mask or the sunglasses—you were a nobody anyway. not a normal citizen, nor anybody famous. just something in between, not belonging anywhere.

and that’s how you ended up in a small, run-down bar—the kind that didn’t need cards or ask questions. just a counter, a couple of stools, and dull old rock songs humming through worn-out speakers.

you slid into the farthest corner, tapping your fingertips against the wooden bar. you weren’t even sure what to order—you’ve never been here. but it didn’t matter, anything would do. you just needed something to sit on your tongue and keep your mind distracted.

the bartender barely looked up to you when he took your order.

so irrelevant.

by the time you knew it, on your second drink, someone slid into the seat beside you. you didn’t look at him at first—just caught the way his sleeve brushed the counter, and the faint smell of his cologne. clean. expensive.

“run away?” he said after a moment, voice low and casual.

you slowly glanced at him from the corner of your eyes, barely turning your head. he had a black cap on, face angled down, his eyes half in shadow—but he didn’t look threatening.

“is it obvious?”

he gave a slight shrug, lips curling like he was trying not to smile. “sunghoon.”

you blinked, the name taking a second to settle. it’s a nice name—an even nicer face once you’ve had a good look at him. sharp nose, two moles on his face, thick-dark brows… if you weren’t an idol yourself, you would’ve mistaken him for one.

“okay,” you muttered, turning your glass slowly on the counter. “i’m not telling you mine.”

“that’s fine.” sunghoon chuckled, his lips curled into a teasing smile as he nodded his head.

he said he worked freelance, “in production”. you didn’t press, he didn’t ask about your either. that helped.

you weren't usually like this. you didn’t flirt with strangers and you didn’t talk like this—you blamed it on the alcohol. but tonight, your life didn’t feel like yours anyway. it was crumbling, any second now, it’d turn into nothing.

the two of you talked until the bar dimmed its lights, until your hands started brushing when you reached for your drinks. “i don’t wanna go home—” you told him. sunghoon didn’t offer a solution. he paid the tab, stood up, and—

”do you wanna go back to mine?”

——

you’re so soft in all the right places.

the thought pulses through sunghoon’s head like a fever dream—unshakeable. every time his hands move along your curve, it finds something new to worship. from the dip of your waist, the slope of your neck, the way your breath catches when he touches you like that.

everything feels so overwhelming—you blame it on the alcohol. maybe it’s the way your body responds like it’s been touch-starved of warmth and comfort. of reassurance. maybe you needed this—an escape from the harsh reality that you might be a no-name when tomorrow comes.

“fuck, baby,” sunghoon pulls away to catch a breather, his lips are swollen, eyes glassy, a string of saliva connecting the two of you. you’ve never been kissed the way he did, they were all innocent back when you were in high school. but this?

this man who hovers just enough above you pressed his mouth to yours like it would anchor him had the world burn down on you. it’s rough, too many teeth and tongue involved—but it doesn’t hurt.

your chest rises too fast. your limbs feel heavy, warm, boneless. it’s not just lust with sunghoon—it’s the weight of something else pressing against your ribs.

sunghoon’s forehead rests against yours for a moment, his breath coming out shaky. you’re not sure what he’s seeing in you when he looks at you with that sharpness in his eyes.

“mh,” you let out a soft moan as he latches his teeth onto your neck to leave marks and bites on them. his teeth graze the sensitive skin, slow and deliberate. you feel it—the faint bloom of pain beneath the heat. a mark, a bite, and another.

he doesn’t bother asking if he’s even allowed to—and you’re not about to tell him of your failing career. your failing idol career. frankly, the whole shit isn’t even occupying your mind at the moment.

his mouth maps a trail along your throat like a brand, staking invisible flags in places no one else can touch—or even see. your fingers twitch against the sheet, head tips back instinctively, “oh—no, mh, not too much…”

sunghoon doesn’t pull away because you asked him to—he only pulls away to admire the damage like it’s art. your body’s a canvas, he’s the artist, and his teeth are paint and brush. “you’re so beautiful.” he praises, his chest rising in a soft, and slow manner.

you shake your head, instinctively bringing your hands up to cover your flushed face. despite being an idol and so exposed to the public, you oddly feel more bare now than you ever have on stage. and it’s not because of the fact that you’re naked beneath him.

“no, don’t,” he says, his voice gentler now. sunghoon leans in to brush your hands away slowly. his eyes hold that shimmering awe like he can’t believe you’re real. as if he’s already catalogued every detail of you but still wants more.

“i don’t think you know you do to me.” he whispers, shifting and angling himself properly in between your legs. sunghoon’s hands trail down your thighs until he lifts your legs and places them gently around his hips.

his hand wraps around the base of his throbbing, pulsing cock with his pre-cum dripping down. sunghoon swallows down the lump in his throat as he watches your sweet, wet cunt twitching and pulsing. “‘m gonna fuck you deep now,” he says, looking down as his cock slides between your folds, smothering the head of his cock with your fluid.

you nod—almost eagerly. you’re sure it’d be a tight fit, but you can’t bring yourself to care. “please be gentle,” you whine, feeling the tip of his cock brushing against your bundle of nerves. sunghoon doesn’t reply—he can’t assure you he’ll be the man you want him to be for the night; but he nods nonetheless. he can’t risk having you dip halfway.

slowly, sunghoon bucks in. he slides his cock inside of you, watching in awe and disbelief (in the best way possible) that he’s stretching open the pussy of the idol he stalks through his lens. through glass, fences, distance—whatever separates him from his subject.

you don’t hold back from the sensual, whiny moan that leaves your lips—he’s long, and he’s big—you feel him against your velvety, slippery walls. “oh—oh my god, oh,” you breathe out, shutting your eyes tightly and tilting your head back. it’s almost painful how slow and gentle sunghoon’s going that your pussy aches for more.

inch by inch, sunghoon buries his cock fully inside of your pussy, the head of his cock kisses your cervix. “fuckk,” he grunts, guttural sound deep in his chest as his shoulders drop—relaxing like he’s finally done it. your warmth washes over and spreads through him like something medicinal. he breathes in deep.

“baby,” he groans, gripping the sides of your hips as he starts to buck his hips back and forth. you’re gripping around him like vice, like you don’t want to let go of him either. “hngh,” you moan, toes curling, back arching off the mattress as you writhe beneath him. it’s uncomfortable—the way sunghoon starts picking up his pace in fucking your virgin pussy.

he buries his cock deep in your cunt, and with each thrust, you feel his hips hitting yours, “fuck, you’re just so fucking pretty, aren’t you—?” sunghoon gazes down at your face, his eyes travel down to your body—the way your perky tits just bounce so prettily and so behavedly, then down at your glistening pussy welcoming him. he’s loving the sight of his cock sliding in and out of you. your juice coats his cock nicely, acting as a lubricant.

he tugs on his bottom lip as he pounds into you, both your bodies slick with sweat despite the cold aircond—his nails take their turn to dig into your skin, gripping you tightly and ensuring you don’t move.

not like you can anywhere—

“m, more! oh god,” you gasp, voice cracking at the edges. so lost in the sensation and pleasure you don’t even realise you’re crying. so overwhelming. tears slip from the corners of your eyes as your body’s short-circuiting from how much it feels. every system nerve of yours is alive, raw and sensitive.

sunghoon notices before you do. he always does.

his pace falters, almost—for a heartbeat before it goes back faster. his gaze lifts to your face, watching the shine along your lashes. he brings his hands up, thumbs brushes your cheeks slowly, catching one tear. then another.

“look at you,” he breathes, his voice low. “my pictures don’t do you justice.” sunghoon says as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. you don’t catch what he’s saying—not when he has his cock slamming hard and desperate against your cervix. his pace quickens, balls slapping against your skin with his rigorous pounding.

you feel a bundle of nerves forming and spreading at the bottom of your stomach—from the way the bulge of his cock is visible through your abdomen. “‘hoon, sunghoon, you’re too deep—” you mumble, mind fuzzy and blurry. your walls clench around him, eyes shut in pure ecstasy.

sunghoon doesn’t slow—he only continues to abuse your soft skin with his sharp and unforgiving teeth, his mouth pressing against the blade of your shoulder, then your collarbone. each mark yells a silent declaration—that you’re his’.

your body twitches under him, overstimulated and strung out. he groans low in your ear. the way you’re contracting and fluttering around his cock, the delicious sound of your cries and whimpers confirms something—that it’s not enough to be inside you. he wants to be on you, under your skin, and etched into you.

he’ll never be able to watch from behind the lens again.

the hot pulsating sensations of your velvet walls squeezing his cock pushes sunghoon to his limit—by the looks of it, you are too. “fuck, pretty, i’m cumming,” he breathes out, hand travels down to fondle your clit lovingly. “yeah—please, i can’t take it anymore,” you squeal, tilting your head to the other side.

his lips curl into a smirk as he slams his cock against your g-spot that has you seeing the milky way—toes curling, arms wrapping around sunghoon’s neck as he impales you with his cock.

sunghoon loses his rhythm as his thrusts go sloppy, desperate cock twitching inside you. he thursts hard once, twice, three times, then four before grunting as he immediately pulls out before he bursts with his cum leaking out of your hole—he can’t have you going on hiatus for nine fucking months. not yet.

“fuck—” he groans, voice strained as he shifts forward. his knees plant on either side of your face, caging you in completely, the muscles in his thighs flexing under your fingertips. sunghoon aims his cock right at your face as he pumps and strokes rapidly with his hand.

the first jets of his cum shot out violently and lands prettily on your face—then down to your chest. “fuck, fuck, fuck—” sunghoon moans as his cock throbs in his palm as he encapsulates his fingers around it. he gasps, body spasming as he releases all over your face—the final spurts of his semen.

sunghoon’s chest rises and falls quickly, sweat beading along his skin as he tilts his head back. he lets out a groan out of satisfaction and pleasure. “wow that was…” when he looks down, his breath catches.

you’re still.

eyes closed, lips parted just slightly with a string of his cum in between your parted lips. your face flushed and damp with heat and his semen. it’s caught in your lashes, brows, and some on your hair. so pretty. so fucked and fuckable.

he would’ve gone for a second round if you were conscious.

“...yn?” he says, more to himself than you. his hands hovers over your cheek, spreading his cum across your cheek. you don’t respond. sunghoon lets out a soft chuckle and shakes his head. you’re so pretty like this too.

sunghoon just watches your for a stretched-out moment—his breath shallows.

then slowly, he lifts his hands.

thumb and index fingers curl into L-shapes, mirroring each other—framing your cum-stained face like a camera lens.

the way you look now, under him is a once-in-a-million-years type of view. the way his lovebites red-and-purple litter along your soft skin—proof of belonging, and his cum splattered on your face too.

his eyes squint slightly, head tilting as if he’s adjusting a focus that isn’t there.

“...click,” he murmurs, barely audible as his fingers hold the frame steady around your face.

not in a playful manner—this isn’t innocent.

sunghoon stares through the invisible square like he’s committing you to his memory. slowly. he lowers his hand, but his eyes never leaving your face.

“this one’s just for me,” he whispers, leaning down to place a soft, chaste kiss on your lips.

he’s finally captured what he’s been chasing all along.

——

“park, you don’t need to take any more pictures,”

the words drift over sunghoon like they weren’t about to rip out the only thing tethering sunghoon to sanity. he blinks, slow and he doesn’t answer right away.

“you listenin’?” he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “you’re good. it’s done! big company’s ready to buy the whole fuckin’ portfolio. good job, you did your job well.” he chuckles, shaking his head—the company’s stupid to fall into the scam.

sunghoon’s hand tightens on his mouse. he doesn’t feel the slightest sting of satisfaction he usually would. he’s promised to get paid higher this time—but there’s nothing left to chase in that sentence. he has no purpose.

“...yeah, got it.” he mumbles. the back of his neck prickles.

“mm, don’t waste more time on her,” his boss adds, not unkindly. just matter-of-fact. “look up on that rumour about some homewrecking bitch and that a-list actor,” he continues, rolling his eyes like he’s stressing out. he doesn’t even need to lift a finger for a living shit.

move on.

sunghoon waits until his manager disappears down the hall before exhaling sharply through his nose, his knuckles whitening.

move on?

he stares blankly at his screen. the article confirming of your group’s disbandment written by his colleague.

move on—?

he’s so far past that point, it almost makes him laugh.

——

you don’t think you’d see him for a second time.

not after that night—after the way you left without giving your name, or anything about you. not after all the chaos that followed: disbandment.

you don’t turn around immediately despite the crunch of gravel beneath sneakers. the river glimmers beneath the moonlight.

“i figured you’d be here,”

your breath catches. you know that voice. slowly, you turn, cheeks damp with tears. “sunghoon? how did you—?”

he just shrugs like it’s nothing. there’s a small smile on his face. “you okay?” he asks, feigning softness. his hands bury in his pockets as he makes his way towards you calmly.

you let out a bitter laugh, wiping your face with your sleeve. “yeah,” you nod, flashing him an idol smile. the one they taught you in social etiquette classes—when you have to fake it. chin up, corners lifted, no teeth.

but sunghoon knows better. he always does.

he steps closer. not too fast but enough to cross your boundary. “you deserve better,” he says softly.

your lips twitch. “of what?”

sunghoon tilts his head, eyes scanning you with a gentleness that doesn’t quite reach the tension in his jaw. “of this. you’re not something to be tossed and bought.” your breath hitches—you don’t even know him like that. you don’t even know his family’s name.

“i’m fine,” you say, voice thinning. “really.”

his gaze doesn’t move. “no, you’re not.”

you take a small back, arms instinctively wrapping around your body in defense. “who are you?”

“sunghoon.” he replies, soft smile still in place. “you know that.”

the weight of his words doesn’t match the lightness of his tone.

“...how did you even find me?” you finally ask the question that’s edging at the end of your tongue. it slips out before you allow yourself to—suspicion breaking through fatigue.

his smile falters for half a second. he thought you’d be happy to see him. “lucky guess,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck.

the river behind you murmurs. the moonlight outlines the curve, the slump in your posture. you’re crying and you’re messy—but to sunghoon, you’re glowing and you’re raw.

he takes another step forward.

“i don’t want them to have you,” sunghoon murmurs, eyes gazing down on his sneakers.

“what?”

he’s too close and you can’t take another step back.

“if you go to them,” he continues. “you’ll be more popular. more loved. bigger than anything this world’s ever seen.”

you blink at him, unsettled. brows knitting in confusion—what’s he talking about?

“they’ll see you the way i do,” sunghoon murmurs to himself. “then they’ll want you.”

he lifts his head up—eyes searching your face, reverently, like he’s memorising it for the last time. “...i can’t let that happen.”

your body stiffens. “sunghoon—?”

the ground shifts beneath you—not by itself, but by the same pair of hands that held you full of love a few nights ago.

a shove—just enough.

your heel slips against the damp stone at the river’s edge. you reach out instinctively, for balance—for sunghoon—but there’s nothing for your fingers to grasp. your voice doesn’t escape your lips.

the cold hits you first. not the water, but the realisation.

then comes the actual one, the freezing, fast, and full current.

it wraps around you like hands, engulfing and dragging you under like death. your limbs flail, panic quickly setting in, but the water’s too strong—that it rips your breath from your lungs in bubbles.

above the surface, sunghoon stands.

he watches in silence. still.

not an expression out of sorrow nor joy—but peace.

the water swallows you whole. hair fanning like dark ink. the river hums a low, hungry tune like it’s doing sunghoon a favour.

because now, no one else will see you the way he did. no cameras, no stage lights, and no other eyes.

just him.

because now, you belonged to the quiet where nothing could make you shed a tear anymore.

and with one last look at the ripples softening across the river’s skin, sunghoon lifts his fingers—index and thumb in the shape of a frame—and whispers again,

“...click.”

the last who ever got to see you.

💭 wow honestly i'm not too sure what to feel about this... it might be a little crappy since i haven't written smut in quite some time tbh... i feel like this is darker? omg i don't know please don't come at me :x i hope you guys enjoy... i really like this one... i really like writing consensual intercourse compared to non-consensual ones...

and something about whatever genre this is...? psychological horror or something... oh wow i'm lowkey stunned? not sure how and what to feel so please let me know what you guys feel about this! thank u for reading <3

as usual, comments, reblogs, and asks are so appreciated <3

#enhypen #enhypen oneshots #enhypen imagines #enhypen drabbles #enhypen fic #enhypen x reader #dark enhypen #sunghoon #enhypen sunghoon #sunghoon oneshots #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon drabbles #sunghoon fic #sunghoon smut #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon fanfic #enhypen fanfic #dark sunghoon

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kxsagi · 3 months ago

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Hiiii!! I like your account very much and the way you write is great. I thought something like, sae x fem reader, reader is cheerful, understanding, playful and talkative. She's always the one who initiates the conversation, the contact with Sae. But one day, she's worried that Sae is uncomfortable, so she doesn't talk to him or hug him, so what if Sae noticed?

“𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧 𝐃 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐬”

a/n: thank you so much!!! this was kinda easy to write bc i am definitely this type of person lol

also, guys i swear i see requests in my inbox, i write them down for future reference, and when i’m about to write them, they’re like gone??? 😭

like i was gonna write it, i just need a couple days because i have other things going on, and i will respond if i am not comfortable writing it lol

(art credits go to immmso_ko on X)

sae itoshi isn’t used to being the one who reaches out first.

he doesn’t need to.

not when you’re around.

you, with your sunshine grin and warm hands. you, who waltz into his life every morning like you’re the human embodiment of a golden retriever with a caffeine addiction.

you, who hum off-key to whatever song’s been rotting in your brain all week. who pops into the kitchen just to press a surprise kiss to his cheek and dramatically declare, “that was your daily serotonin dose. you’re welcome.”

you, who casually slip your fingers under the hem of his shirt when you hug him just to be a little nuisance about it. “oh wow, your back is so warm. you’re like a human heater. lucky me.”

sae rolls his eyes every time. pretends to be annoyed. but he never stops you.

and maybe that’s the problem.

because now, he’s starting to think he’s been too good at pretending.

it takes him a while to figure out what feels off.

at first, he thinks maybe he’s just in a fouler mood than usual. his teammates were particularly slow during training. his coach was nagging more than necessary. the post-practice traffic was a nightmare.

but then he walks into the apartment.

and it hits him.

the space is… quiet. too quiet.

no overenthusiastic “sae!! you’re home!!” followed by you practically launching yourself at him like a feral cat on catnip. no sudden, unsolicited dance breaks in the kitchen while you wait for the water to boil. not even a playful jab about how he never texts you when he’s on his way home.

just… silence.

he finds you on the couch, scrolling through your phone. when you glance up and smile, it’s small. polite. the kind you’d give to a coworker you barely tolerate.

okay. weird.

he figures maybe you’re just tired. long day or whatever. but no, even when he sits next to you, you don’t do… anything.

you don’t tuck your legs over his lap. you don’t lean against him or comb your fingers through his hair like you usually do when he’s within a five-foot radius.

you’re not touching him.

the realization makes his eye twitch.

he’s not even being subtle about his staring at this point. he’s glaring at you like you’ve personally wronged him. and you, being the self-aware ray of sunshine that you are, notice immediately.

"what’s wrong?" you ask softly.

he narrows his eyes. "you tell me."

you blink. "huh?"

"you’re acting weird," he says bluntly, and you blink again, caught off guard by the sharpness in his voice.

"what? no, i’m not," you say with a too-quick shake of your head.

he squints at you. unimpressed. he’s not letting this go.

"you are," he deadpans, voice low and flat.

and that’s when you start to sweat.

you glance away, suddenly very interested in the coffee table. "i’m not," you mutter under your breath, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

but he’s not buying it.

"yes, you are."

"no, i’m not."

"you are."

"i’m not."

he leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. his eyes narrow further. "you are."

"i’m not!!"

a brief, heated staring contest ensues.

… you lose. obviously.

you sigh, slumping back against the couch. your shoulders sink slightly, and for the first time tonight, you look… sheepish. almost guilty.

"i just…" you exhale softly, voice quieter than before. "i didn’t want to be… too much."

his eyes flicker. "what?" he mutters.

your fingers pick at a loose thread in your sleeve, suddenly avoiding his gaze again.

"i wasn’t sure if you liked it when i… y’know, talk so much. or cling to you all the time. you never… complain or anything, but you never really initiate either, so…" you trail off, your voice growing smaller. "i thought maybe you were just putting up with it. so i didn’t want to, like… overwhelm you or make you uncomfortable."

sae stares at you.

and suddenly, he feels like a massive fucking idiot.

because here you are, walking on eggshells around him – him – when all you’ve ever done is make his life warmer. brighter. easier.

and what did he do?

he let you think he didn’t want it.

he presses his lips into a thin line. swallows down the brief twinge of self-loathing and quietly reaches for your hand.

the moment his fingers brush against yours, you freeze slightly. but when he intertwines them with deliberate slowness, you blink, clearly caught off guard.

"don’t do that again," he mutters, voice low but steady. "don’t pull away."

your brows furrow slightly, confused. "but i thought –"

"don’t," he cuts you off, and you immediately fall silent. he squeezes your hand slightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, gaze unwavering.

"i like it," he mutters, voice a little strained, almost like the words are foreign to him. "when you talk. when you touch me. i…" he inhales sharply, eyes narrowing slightly, almost annoyed at himself for being so bad at this. "i like it. alright?"

you blink at him, wide-eyed.

he waits for you to say something. anything.

but then you just… burst into laughter.

his eyes narrow slightly, but before he can ask what the hell is so funny, you’re suddenly climbing into his lap.

and for once, he doesn’t flinch.

he exhales sharply when your arms wrap around his neck, pressing yourself against him like you’re trying to fuse your body with his. your fingers immediately find their way under his shirt, cool palms pressing against his bare skin like they belong there.

"you’re such a grump," you mumble into his shoulder, voice muffled but clearly teasing. "but you’re my grump."

he rolls his eyes, exasperated. but his arms tighten around you anyway.

"don’t push your luck," he mutters.

but he makes no effort to let you go.

#the grumpy x sunshine trope is always so adorable #sae needs his sunshine (me)#sae itoshi #itoshi sae #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae x reader #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock x fem reader #vitamin D withdrawal symptoms

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lady-luckk · 2 months ago

Text

mini bios for yandere sugar daddy harem

# pairing: yandere sugar daddy harem x sugar baby reader

# synopsis: exactly as the title says. expands more on the personality of the eight weirdos obsessed with you.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# note: i decided to make bios for all of these dudes. mainly bc we both needed a way to keep track of them 💀. so hope this helps!! also part 2 is basically almost done I just need to edit it!!! likes, commemts, and reblogs are appreciated.

elijah:

elijah is friendly but disconnected. he treats most people like background characters in the love story he’s built in his head. he’s polite, even charming at times, but rarely genuine. conversations with him tend to feel one-sided—he’ll smile, nod, and drift off mid-sentence, lost in daydreams. he struggles to form deep connections with anyone who isn’t you because, to him, no one else really matters.

he lives in a fantasy where you’re already his and nothing else matters. he sees the world through the lens of a love story he’s written in his head. with others, he’s warm but shallow—polite only because it’s expected. he rarely remembers details about people who aren’t you. to you, he’s intense and unwavering. he talks like your connection is fate, like you’re both destined. he’ll plan imaginary dates months ahead, leave poems under your pillow, and whisper about the life he sees in your eyes—whether you believe in it or not.

with others: elijah smiles politely, but there’s distance behind his eyes. he listens, nods, but rarely contributes. when asked about his life, he redirects or offers vague pleasantries. he’s present, but never engaged. with you: his demeanor shifts completely—more focused, more intense. every word you speak is absorbed like gospel. he hangs onto your sentences, responds with long, flowery monologues about the life he envisions with you. your presence seems to anchor him.

his quirk: he writes love letters he never sends and keeps them in a shoebox labeled “someday.” sometimes he narrates imaginary conversations with you under his breath, like he’s practicing for a future that only exists in his head.

“they’re just… thoughts i needed to get out. i don’t need to send them—you’ll feel it anyway, right? i already say it all to you in my head. you always listen there.”

lucas:

lucas keeps people at a distance. he’s quiet and observant, choosing his words carefully if he bothers to speak at all. he doesn’t care for small talk or socializing. coworkers and acquaintances often describe him as cold or standoffish, but he doesn’t mind. he doesn’t waste energy on people who don’t serve a purpose. control and order are his priorities—his environment, his schedule, his emotions, all tightly managed.

he moves like a shadow—calm, reserved, and constantly watching. he’s cold and clipped with most people, only speaking when necessary and never indulging small talk. he keeps a tight inner circle and doesn’t let anyone in, except for you. around you, he softens, though never fully. he doesn’t smother; he lingers. he notices everything you do and makes quiet adjustments to your life without asking—changing locks, moving furniture, replacing things he thinks aren’t good enough. he doesn’t say “i love you”—he says, “you’re safest with me.”

with others: lucas keeps interactions short. he answers questions in clipped sentences, avoids eye contact unless necessary, and never lingers in conversation. people find him cold, hard to read, and quietly intimidating. with you: he becomes grounded, but not exactly softer—just more fixated. he watches you closely, notices the smallest changes in your tone or posture. he doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s always about you. his silence with you feels intentional, like he’s claiming space by being near.

his quirk: he keeps every item that reminds him of you: receipts, empty cups, hair ties, notes. he has a drawer full of these “souvenirs,” and he’ll occasionally pull one out just to stare at it and smile like it’s sacred.

“yeah, i kept the receipt from that one cafe. you said something that day, i don’t remember exactly what, but it made me feel like… like i mattered. i just didn’t want to forget it.”

nathan:

nathan is introverted and soft-spoken. he’s not the type to make waves or assert himself in social situations. he’s often quiet, preferring to observe rather than participate in conversations. he struggles with making small talk and is prone to second-guessing himself in social settings. despite his shyness, he’s deeply empathetic and attentive to the needs of others. when he does speak, it’s often thoughtful and sincere. he’s the kind of person who remembers small details about people’s lives and shows genuine concern for their well-being, even if he doesn’t always know how to express it.

nathan is all nerves under a polished exterior. he tries to seem confident, but his need for reassurance bleeds through in every conversation. with others, he’s friendly and eager to please, but quick to fold under pressure. he tries too hard to be liked. to you, he’s clingy and full of need—checking in constantly, hanging on every word you say. he memorizes your routines and waits for your cues to feel okay. he gifts you things impulsively, overcompensating for the fear that he’ll never be enough to keep you.

with others: nathan tries hard to please—overlaughing at jokes, offering help even when it’s not needed. he often apologizes for things he didn’t do. his nervous energy is palpable, and people walk over him without realizing it. with you: he’s still nervous, but in a quieter, more vulnerable way. he constantly seeks your approval, asking if you’re okay, if you’re happy. there’s a tremble in his voice when he compliments you. he watches your reactions like they’ll tell him if he’s enough.

his quirk: he bakes when he’s anxious—muffins, cookies, banana bread—and always “accidentally” brings too much, leaving a fresh batch at your door with a shy note. it’s his way of saying what he can’t out loud.

“i, uh… i didn’t know if you were having a rough day or not, but, um, muffins help me, so… maybe they’ll help you too? no pressure or anything. just… eat one if you want.”

kai:

kai is intense. with others, he’s unpredictable and moody, never staying in one lane long enough for anyone to get comfortable. he lashes out quickly when he feels disrespected, but softens just as fast when someone shows him care. most people find him draining or confusing. he craves closeness but pushes people away the moment they get too near. he struggles with boundaries and doesn’t know how to regulate his emotions in public or private.

he's like a whirlwind. he’s charming and magnetic one second, distant and sharp the next. his mood swings keep people at arm’s length—no one knows where they stand with him. to you, he crashes hard. he’s constantly seeking emotional intensity, starting fights just to feel close, apologizing with tears and bruised knuckles. he touches you like you’ll disappear and speaks like every word might be his last. you’re his grounding point in a life he can’t control, and he’ll burn down anything he thinks is pulling you away.

with others: kai shifts gears quickly—one moment charming and charismatic, the next cold and distant. he gets bored fast, lashes out when people don’t keep up with him. most avoid getting too close. with you: you’re the exception. his volatility still exists, but it bends toward you. when you’re happy, he’s euphoric. when you’re annoyed, he spirals. his emotions run through you like a wire—tension building and releasing in waves.

his quirk: he changes his phone wallpaper to a different candid picture of you almost daily. sometimes it’s from a night you barely remember; sometimes it’s one he shouldn’t have. he’ll show it off or hide it depending on his mood.

“don’t laugh. you looked insane in this pic—like, wild—but i can’t stop staring at it. i don’t even remember taking it. you’re just… always there, even when you’re not.”

matthew:

matthew appears kind and dependable. people trust him quickly—he knows how to make others feel safe, like he has everything under control. but there’s a quiet authority to him that makes others hesitant to cross him. he doesn’t tolerate disrespect, and he doesn’t forgive easily. most people see him as stable and responsible, unaware of how calculating he really is. he prefers being in charge, even if it means subtly manipulating those around him.

matthew speaks in calm, measured tones and carries an air of quiet authority. others find him intimidating—he rarely smiles and doesn’t entertain nonsense. he watches people like they’re puzzles he’s already solved. to you, he becomes meticulous, attentive, and possessive under the guise of care. he manages your schedule, your diet, your space, always claiming it’s for your good. he runs you a bath before you realize you need it, lays out your clothes, installs tracking on your phone. he believes love is control—and he loves you more than anything.

with others: matthew is measured, efficient. he rarely explains himself. people follow his lead because it’s easier than pushing back. he’s polite, but there’s a subtle threat behind his courtesy. with you: the control remains, but it softens into caretaking. he adjusts your routine, checks your schedule, reminds you to eat. his concern feels clinical at times, but there’s a clear emotional undercurrent—like you’re the only thing he wants to keep orderly.

his quirk: he’s obsessive about timing and schedules, especially when it comes to you. he sends you reminders to eat, texts you your own calendar, and gets slightly agitated if your routine shifts—even if it’s out of your control.

“you always forget to drink water. and sleep. and eat. i’m not being controlling—i just… someone has to care enough to remember for you. i don’t mind. i like doing it.”

leo:

leo tends to avoid others when he doesn’t feel secure. he’s awkward in group settings, easily overwhelmed, and quick to retreat if he senses rejection. people often see him as overly sensitive or dramatic. he needs a lot of reassurance, which makes him exhausting to those who don’t know how to handle emotional intensity. he’s the type to attach quickly and panic when he feels alone.

leo wears his heart on his sleeve, overly emotional and endlessly attached. he’s erratic with others—too talkative, too eager, too sensitive to criticism. he gets overwhelmed easily and withdraws when people don’t respond how he wants. to you, he latches on like you’re the only safe place in the world. he calls multiple times a day just to hear your voice. he gets anxious when you don’t respond quickly and spirals into panic if you’re distant. he thrives off your attention, melts under your praise, and breaks without your comfort.

with others: leo tries to be liked, but his energy feels off-putting. he interrupts, overshares, and tries too hard to connect. people are polite, but they rarely stay close. with you: he quiets down—not because he’s calmer, but because he’s overwhelmed by how much he needs you. he lingers near you constantly, asks where you’re going, when you’ll be back. he holds onto your words like they’re lifelines.

his quirk: he sends you voice notes constantly—rambling thoughts, updates, sweet nothings. sometimes he talks just to feel close to you, whispering half-asleep confessions at 3am that he forgets to delete.

“i know it’s a lot but… sometimes it feels like you’re right there when i talk. and if you listen, you’ll know how much i miss you. even when i say dumb stuff like, ‘i saw a cloud shaped like your face.’”

xavier:

xavier commands attention in every room he enters, even when he says nothing. people respect him, but they don’t trust him. he’s intimidating without trying to be, always a few steps ahead of the conversation. he doesn’t bother pretending to like anyone. relationships are strategic—useful or discarded. he keeps everyone guessing, never reveals his full hand, and always has a plan in motion. people fear him more than they admire him.

xavier is sharp, composed, and intimidating. he commands attention in any room, and people either admire or fear him. he’s cold, dismissive, and rarely shows emotion—unless it’s anger. to you, he’s quietly intense. he studies you like a project, always ten steps ahead. he knows your habits better than you do and manipulates situations to make you more reliant on him. he touches you deliberately, speaks in low tones meant only for you. you’re his obsession, his prize, and he’ll bend the world to keep you close.

with others: xavier commands attention without effort. people watch their words around him, knowing he misses nothing. he’s sharp, confident, and not afraid to assert control in subtle, unsettling ways. with you: he shifts from sharp to sharp-eyed. his control tightens but becomes quieter. he touches your lower back in public, speaks for you in conversations, watches you instead of others. his attention is constant, and it’s absolute.

his quirk: he keeps a hidden notebook filled with hypothetical timelines—vacations, homes, investments, life goals—all built around you. he updates it weekly and treats it more seriously than his actual job.

“it’s not weird. it’s preparation. people waste time waiting for things to happen. i don’t. when you finally say yes, i’ll already know the best city, the house layout, the name of the dog. efficiency.”

damien:

damien is a ghost in most social situations. he speaks only when necessary, watches everything, and gives nothing away. people find him unsettling, like he knows something they don’t. he’s not rude—just distant, clinical, unreadable. he rarely forms connections and prefers to work alone. others might describe him as obsessive or odd, but they don’t really know him well enough to say for sure. he’s a shadow in the background—always listening, always calculating.

damien is calm, quiet, and almost forgettable in a crowd. he keeps to himself, doesn’t make waves, and most people barely register his presence. he likes it that way. to you, he’s dangerously devoted. he watches everything—your expressions, your silences, the way your hands move. he collects moments and records memories like evidence in a case only he understands. he doesn’t ask for love—he prepares for it. he leaves little traces of himself in your life: notes in your books, your favorite snack already stocked, your broken things fixed without a word. he doesn’t need you to say you’re his—he already knows.

with others: damien is unnoticed by most. he blends into the background, observing everything without being seen. when people speak to him, they forget the conversation by the time they walk away. with you: his presence becomes focused, unignorable. he knows your habits, your patterns, your silences. he anticipates your needs before you voice them. he’s quiet still—but now, it feels like he’s everywhere at once.

his quirk: he records audio of your conversations without you knowing—not for anything sinister, just so he can replay your voice when you’re not around. he names the files after your moods that day: “laughing,” “quiet,” “tired but sweet.”

“your voice changes when you’re tired. it’s softer. quieter. i like that version of you. no one else gets to hear it but me.”

#yandere #yandere sugar daddy harem #yandere sugar daddy #male yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yancore #yandere headcanons #yandere oc #yandere scenarios #yandere harem

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