theseabreezestreet

[theseabreezestreet]

unchained | dark romance w. dabi

chapter 4

wc: 4.6k

cw: captivity/abduction, psychological distress, power imbalance, sensory discomfort, dubious morality, surveillance, toga being scary, dabi being soft ???(ooc)

ೀfrom bee: surprise, it's an early chapter drop! felt really inspired to finish this one quickly. the pressure of school is also upon me because i start a summer class this monday :(( hope fully my updates will stay consistent. i can only hope you enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it. :)) support on ao3!

Just a tray, waiting by the door. Food again—something warm. Something different.

For a moment, your body stalls, not from fear but from confusion. He always brought it in. Said something. Gave you a look, at least. But this time?

Nothing.

Your socked feet against the cold floor as you cross the room, slow and cautious, like something might lurch out of the shadows if you move too fast. You crouch by the tray and stare.

Oatmeal. A banana. A boiled egg. Not ration scraps or reheated soup. There’s more thought and care being put in to this meal.

You don’t touch it right away. You pick up the spoon, hold it like it might be a message folded in metal.

He’s trying to get in your head. Or maybe you’re already in his.

You eat. Your tastebuds not granting you the satisfaction of savoring the meal. But it’s not comfort. Not really. It’s just fuel in a cage with a semi-soft bed and hot running water.

After eating, you place your tray by the door, where he normally picks it up, and you sit back on the mattress, and wait.

And eventually—he shows.

The door whines open without warning. Dabi steps inside with a dog-eared paperback.

He tosses it onto the mattress beside you with casual disinterest.

You glance down. The Count of Monte Cristo.

“Subtle,” you say dryly.

He gives a half-shrug, eyes already scanning the corners of the room. “Figured you’d start talking to the walls if I didn’t give you something else to do.”

You run your fingers over the cover. “What is this? A hostage enrichment program?”

“You're welcome.”

You pause. Then smirk faintly. “Didn’t peg you as a reader.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you as the type to survive this long.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just awkward. Uneasy. Like two people trying to remember which mask to wear.

You look back at the book. “Is this supposed to mean something? Revenge and all that?”

“It’s a story,” he says simply, folding his arms. “Take it or leave it.”

You turn the book over in your hands, flipping through a few worn pages. The margins are underlined. Not recently. But intentionally. You don’t ask if it’s his copy.

“Did you used to read a lot?” you ask instead, not looking up.

There’s a pause.

“Before.”

That word again. Before.

“Sometimes,” he says eventually. “It's hard to focus when you’re on fire.”

You laugh—soft and hollow. “Fair.”

He sits across from you again, in the same chair, the one he always seems to claim like a ritual. The distance between you stays the same. The tension, however, does not.

You shift on the mattress, letting your legs stretch out over the side. “So. . . Are you planning on keeping me here forever, or just until you get bored?”

He doesn’t answer.

You look up at him. “Because it’s starting to feel like either way, I die here. Doesn’t matter if it’s by your hands or theirs.”

He regards you for a long beat. “You’re not dead.”

“Yet.”

“That’s more than most get.”

The weight in those words slams into you harder than expected. Like there’s a ledger in his head, and you’re still on the right side of it—for now.

You chew your bottom lip, then try again. “Do you even know what they’re going to do with me?”

Another long pause. “I don’t ask.” he states quietly.

You blink. “You don’t ask?”

He shrugs, eyes cast somewhere over your shoulder. “Nothing good ever comes from the answer.”

It makes you cold. Not because you believe he’s lying. But because you believe he isn’t.

“Why bother feeding me then? Why give me books and let me shower and—” You cut yourself off before your voice cracks. “Why pretend I’m not just another loose end?”

His jaw ticks. “You don’t scream.”

You freeze. “What?”

“You don’t beg. You don’t cry. You just… sit. Think. Talk.” He shifts, like the words are too sharp in his mouth. “Makes it easier.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

The silence returns to fill the gaps in the words you both would to say, but don’t. This time like a wall.

You pick at the corner of the book again.

“…You ever miss it?” you ask, almost to yourself.

He glances at you.

“Normal,” you clarify. “Whatever that means.”

He lets out a faint scoff. “Normal’s just another lie people cling to.”

“That’s not a ‘no’.”

Glacier-like eyes stare into your own, bottom lid twitching. And before he can speak, someone playfully knocks. The door opens a sliver.

“Daaabiiii,” Toga sing-songs, head peeking through. “Shigaraki wants you. Something about a recon detail.”

She pauses when she sees you.

Her eyes flicker over you—curious, hungry.

You stiffen under her gaze.

Dabi doesn’t turn to look at her. “Out.”

Toga pouts. “I was being polite.”

“Get. Out.”

“You’re no fun.” She twirls a knife between her fingers and sighs. 

Then she’s gone.

The door shuts a little too hard, but not before she gives you one last wink and a smile.

A warning wrapped in teeth.

Dabi doesn’t move for a long moment. He brings his fingers to the bridge of his nose, rubbing it.

Sucking a deep breath, he finally stands. Doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“You’ll be fine. Just read the damn book.”

He walks out.

And this time, the silence he leaves behind feels different. Less like prison.

More like something just waiting to cave in.

-

The screen flickers, casting pale light across his face in the dark.

Dabi sits at the desk where the monitor broadcasts the current enigma in his life. An elbow rests on the grainy wood surface, supporting his head up while he continues to observe the grainy black-and-white feed in front of him. His right leg bounces up and down as his mind races. 

You're sitting cross-legged on the mattress, the one he dragged in two nights ago after hearing the way your breathing changed when you slept on concrete. You’re touching the book he left—haven’t opened it yet. Just picking at the edges like you think it might burn you. 

Maybe it will.

He doesn’t know why he left it. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

Your movements are slower now, more thoughtful, like you’re trying to make sense of what your body remembers when your mind won’t keep up. You don’t talk to yourself. You don’t cry when you think you’re alone. You just sit there and exist like that’s enough. And it’s getting to him. Eating away at every thought.

He shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t matter.

But you do. You’re all he ever thinks about now. 

Dabi exhales slowly, and slings his coat over his shoulders. The door groans on its hinges like a greeting as he pushes it open. You look up sharply, but there’s no fear in your eyes this time—only guardedness. A flicker of suspicion. He feels like that’s worse.

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him with less force than usual. The room feels warmer than it should be.

"Hey," you say carefully.

He doesn’t respond. Just walks over to the chair, drops into it, and rests an ankle on his knee. You notice he’s fidgeting with his fingers.

There’s a long silence.

You break it first..

“I forgot to tell you that I saw someone the other day,” you say. “Blonde. Big eyes. The same one who called for you yesterday. Looked at me like she wanted to carve a heart into my ribs.”

“Toga,” he mutters. “Don’t take it personally. She’s like that with everyone.”

“Comforting.”

“She didn’t touch you, did she?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t say what he’d do if she had. You’re not sure if it’s a warning or a promise.

You glance down at the book between you. Your fingers are resting on it again like a nervous tic.

“Did you actually read this?” you ask. “Or was it just lying around?”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “What do you think?”

You flip the cover open. A name is scratched inside in messy handwriting. Not his, probably stolen.

“It's about revenge,” you say, testing the air.

“Isn’t everything?”

You hum quietly, scooting back and leaning back against the wall. For a moment, there's no violence between you. Just steam-thick air, soft breath, the faint rustle of pages as you finally start to read.

He stays longer than he should.

At some point, his head drops back against the chair, lids lowered like he might drift off. You watch the staples along his jawline catch the light, you wonder how it would feel to run your fingers over them.

"Can I ask you something?" you say after a while.

His eyes crack open, one pale blue flickering with tired amusement. "Do you ever stop?"

You ignore the jab. "If they kill me, will you watch?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke.

When he answers, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “I’d make sure it was quick.”

You flinch. But you don’t look away.

He holds your gaze in his for a long beat. “I’m not gonna lie to you.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s why it scares me.”

Another silence. He looks away first.

He watches the hallway camera feed from his phone this time, eyes narrowing when he sees Twice pacing two doors down. Muttering to himself again. There’s been talk about movement. Pro Hero patrols shifting east. Pressure rising.

He hears voices down the hall. Shigaraki. Compress. A disagreement.

And he knows your time here is running out.

You’re not a long-term plan. You were never supposed to become anything. But you have.

Dabi scrubs a hand down his face and exhales through his teeth.

When he walks past your door again, he stops.

Just for a second.

And then, against his better judgment, he opens the door

Your head shoots up from the book, you look surprised, even though you shouldn’t be. However, he never comes back twice in one day.

You wait.

“We might move you soon.”

Your heart stutters. “Move me?”

He nods once.

“Why?”

“I don’t ask,” he says again, but this time it’s laced with something else. A warning. A regret. A quiet kind of run while you can, even if there’s nowhere to go.

 “Just… stay sharp.” he softly states.

And before you can ask what that means, before you can ask if he’s coming with you, he’s already gone.

Door shut.

Boots fading.

And the room feels smaller than it ever has before.

-

The hallway is dim, its only light coming from the flickering bulb above the main junction where several of the warehouse corridors meet. Dabi rounds the corner with his coat pulled tighter than usual, trying to walk past unnoticed. He needs air. A cigarette. Something.

He doesn’t get far.

“Touyaaaa~”

Her voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.

Toga steps out from behind a support beam with her arms behind her back, swaying slightly like a child waiting to be praised—or punished. Her hair is a little messier than usual. There's dried blood on her cheek. Not hers.

He doesn’t stop walking.

She follows.

“I saw you go in again,” she says, voice lilting. “That’s four times this week. You usually get bored after once.”

“Maybe I’m just getting more patient,” he mutters.

She giggles. “That’s not it.”

Dabi stops.

Turns.

“They’re cute,” Toga says sweetly, and the way she says it makes his skin crawl. “All soft and scared and grateful. Makes me want to see what color they bleed.”

He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t raise his voice.

But the heat rises.

“Toga,” he says, and it’s not a warning. It’s a promise.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “I didn’t touch her. You told me not to, remember?”

“You so much as look at them wrong again, I won’t repeat myself.”

Her head tilts, eyes wide, voice dropping to a whisper. “Why do you care?”

He says nothing.

Because he doesn’t have an answer he likes.

Just then, Twice appears from the side hallway, hoodie half-zipped, mouth already mid-sentence.

“I told you guys this was gonna get messy—wait, are we fighting? Is this a fight? Please don’t fight.”

Toga spins toward him with a dramatic sigh. “Our dearest Dabi is getting attached.”

“I am not,” Dabi snaps, too fast.

Twice blinks. “Dude. You brought them food. Like, not even the gross stuff. Real food.”

“They needed to eat.”

“You brought them a book.”

“They were going to start talking to themselves.”

“You put a bed in their room.”

“They were—” He cuts himself off.

Twice raises both gloved hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not judging. I think it’s nice! Creepy. But nice. But also creepy.”

Toga leans back against the wall, twirling a knife idly. “You better be careful, Touya. They’re starting to look at you like you matter.”

Dabi meets her eyes, unflinching. “That’s their mistake.”

“Or yours,” she sings.

Twice snorts, trying to defuse the tension. “Well, we can’t all be emotionally constipated murder machines, right? Right?”

Neither of them laughs.

Dabi turns back toward the hallway, boots scraping the floor as he walks away. “Stay out of their room,” he throws over his shoulder. “Both of you.”

Toga watches him go, expression unreadable.

Twice looks between them and sighs. “Y’know, this is how those enemies-to-lovers stories start. Just saying.”

Toga flips her knife and grins. “Not if I end it first.”

-

The warehouse halls feel colder when he leaves them behind.

Dabi slams the door to his room shut behind him and leans against it for a long moment. He should’ve burned that conversation to ash. Let Toga scratch her curiosity out on someone else. Let Twice run his mouth until it exhausted him. But no.

They’re all watching now.

Not just you.

Their face when I walked in… they looked relieved.That’s the problem.

He pushes off the door, drags a hand through his hair, and crosses the room to the corner where the monitor glows faintly, humming like a heart that won’t die. His thumb grazes the edge of the table as he sits back down.

The feed pulls him in again—grainy, black and white, but clear enough to see you curled up on the mattress, facing the wall. The book he left you is tucked under your arm like it’s something precious. Like it matters.

He taps a knuckle lightly against the monitor frame. Not hard enough to make a sound, just a ghost of a touch. Just enough to admit he’s still here.

They’ll touch them, he thinks, jaw tight. If I stop watching, someone will. Toga, bored and impulsive. Shigaraki, if the wrong idea takes root. Compress, if leverage becomes liability.

He’s seen what happens to people who get left alone in League custody.

And maybe you’re not supposed to be the exception. But you are.

That pisses him off.

He tells himself it’s just a habit now. A way to keep control. A way to monitor the variables, keep the rest of the idiots from getting creative. But when you shift slightly and curl your body tighter on the mattress, Dabi leans closer to the screen like that’ll let him feel the warmth too.

He sits like that for too long.

Boots kicked up, cigarette burning out in his fingers, face lit only by the pale glow of the camera feed.

He can’t trust them with you.

And the more he watches, the more he realizes—

He’s not sure he trusts himself, either.

-

You hear the door before you see him.

It opens quieter this time. Not Dabi’s usual impatient creak—this is something more theatrical. Intentional.

You glance up from the book, body already tensing.

The man who enters doesn’t move like Dabi. He’s smoother. Slower. Every step feels like it’s part of a performance. His clothes are more tailored to his body. His mask glints in the low light as he tips an invisible hat with a flourish.

“Well, well,” he says smoothly. “So this is the infamous guest.”

You straighten, posture taut. “You’re not him.”

“Correct,” he replies, stepping fully into the room, heels of his shoes clicking. “And judging by the way your shoulders just locked up, you already miss him.”

You say nothing.

He chuckles, a deep, velvety sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. Curiosity got the better of me.”

He walks toward the chair Dabi usually occupies, but doesn’t sit in it. Instead, he glances around the room like he’s assessing a gallery exhibit. His gaze lands on the book stretched out on its spine, the mattress that your body rests on, the towel folded on a table by the open panel of the bathroom.

“My, my. He’s really gone soft.”

You frown. “Why are you here?”

“To observe,” he says honestly. “To understand why a man like him would bend his routines for someone like you.” 

His words aren’t cruel—but they sting. You aren’t sure why.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you mutter.

“No one ever does,” he replies. “But it’s not about what you ask for. It’s about what you cause by being here.”

You look up sharply. “So what is it? What do you think I’ve caused?”

He finally sits in Dabi’s chair, resting one ankle over his knee like he has all the time in the world. Taking over the presence of your captor companion.

“I think you’ve stirred something dangerous,” he says lightly. “Not because you’ve tried to. But because he’s watching you like he’s looking at something he lost.”

Your heart thuds once, heavy.

“I think,” he continues, voice still polite, “that you should be very careful. Because when a man like Dabi remembers how to care, he starts to remember everything else too.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s not your bad thing,” Compress says with a shrug. “But it may become one.”

He stands again, dusting invisible lint from his coat.

“Do you want my advice?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

He leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to send a chill through you.

“Don’t become a weakness. Because we don’t have room for those here.”

Then, just like that, he turns and exits with a dramatic flourish of his mannerisms, leaving behind the faintest scent of spice and smoke.

You stare at the door long after it shuts.

Suddenly, the room feels colder again.

Like no matter how clean you are, you’re still something they’re waiting to use—or discard.

-

The click of the door echoes louder than it should.

You don’t move right away. Just sit there, frame rigid, staring at the space where he stood like you expect him to reappear. Like it was all an illusion, some eerie theatrical piece performed for your benefit.

But the room stays empty.

You press your hands into the mattress, digging your fingers into the weathered material, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help. Your skin still prickles, not from fear exactly, but from something colder. Something more corrosive.

Don’t become a weakness.

The words replay in your head, over and over, each pass cutting deeper.

You’re already a weakness. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. Not because you’re powerful or important, but because you’re the opposite. Just some unlucky bystander who got dragged into the orbit of monsters playing pretend with power.

But now you’re something else too. A liability. A variable.

You glance toward the corner of the ceiling, toward the watchful eye of the camera lens.

And for the first time since Dabi cut the ties from your wrists, you wish you were still bound.

Because at least then, there were no illusions. No masks pretending to be mercy. No warmth passed off as indifference.

Your throat tightens. Fingers twitching like you can summon some quirk that could shield you from everything you don’t understand. But you're quirkless. Useless. 

You don’t cry. Not yet.

But it’s the first time you feel like maybe you should have, from the start.

Because Mr. Compress didn’t threaten you.

He warned you.

-

A tired creak emits from the door. The noise has conditioned you to flinch.

Dabi stands in the doorway, backlit by the dim hall light. His posture looks exhausted, one hand braced on the doorframe like he’s debating whether to walk in at all.

You straighten your spine, trying to bury the remnants of your unease. But it lingers in your mouth like ash.

His eyes scan the room. You. The mattress. The book, with extra dog-eared pages. His eyebrow twitches.

“What did he say to you?” he asks.

No preamble. No lazy sarcasm.

Just that.

You lift your chin. “So you were watching.”

His expression hardens. “I always watch.” 

You’re not sure if it’s meant to be reassuring or a threat.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say quietly. “It’s not like he hurt me.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

There’s something in his voice that’s more than curiosity. Something… sharp. Controlled, but only just. Like he's already bracing himself to torch the world if the answer’s wrong.

You look away. “He just talked. Said I shouldn’t make myself a weakness. That people like you don’t have room for them.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

You expect a scoff. A dismissal. One of his usual sardonic comebacks.

But instead—

“I told him not to come in here.”

Surprised by the bluntness. “Why?”

His eyes meet yours, unreadable. “Because he doesn’t know the difference between a threat and a warning.”

“…And you do?”

“I know what it looks like when someone’s already lost too much.” His delayed response coming out strained. 

Your breath catches in your throat. That wasn’t what you expected. And the worst part? It sounds like the closest thing to an apology.

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him—not slammed, not locked. Just closed. The air shifts again, heavier now, but not oppressive. Just… full.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of him,” Dabi says after a long pause.

You wrap your arms around yourself. “I’m not sure who I shouldn’t be afraid of.”

He exhales, steps closer, but doesn’t sit. He stays near the wall, like he doesn’t trust himself near you right now.

“You want the truth?” he asks.

You nod, slowly.

His voice drops low. “Everyone in this place is dangerous. Some of them more than others. Some of them are less honest about it. But I’m the one who keeps them out.”

You study him, heart thudding harder than you’d like.

“Why?” you whisper.

His mouth pulls tight. His gaze drops for a second.

And then, barely audible— “Because someone has to.”

The room is so quiet. You can hear the distant hum of the warehouse electricity through the walls. For a second, you wonder if he regrets saying it. If he’s going to backpedal, throw up that wall of cold indifference again.

He just stays there—standing in a room too small for how much space he takes up. For how much he’s taking up inside of you now. You’re still not sure if it’s fear, or something far more complicated.

You hug your body tighter,, suddenly aware of the way your shoulders still tremble—not from cold, but from the aftermath of Mr. Compress’s words. From the knowledge that your presence here is changing something that maybe wasn’t meant to bend.

“You . . . okay?” Dabi asks, voice low.

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Am I okay?

“I don’t think I’ve been okay since I woke up in this room,” you murmur. “But . . . I’m not falling apart.”

He nods slowly, like that’s the most he can hope for. Then, without a word, he moves to the chair—but instead of sitting, he lowers himself down onto the floor. Just beside the mattress. Not too close. Just enough to make himself… present.

You glance at him, confused. “What are you doing?”

He stretches one leg out, crosses the other over it. “Making sure no one else drops by.”

Your heart kicks a little harder.

“You’re staying?” you ask.

“Just for a bit.”

You lie back against the wall, still watching him. The mattress creaks beneath you. He keeps his gaze forward, focused on the wall, like looking at you too long might undo him.

“Don’t read into it,” he adds.

“I already have,” you reply, barely above a whisper.

That makes the corner of his mouth twitch—just a fraction, but it’s there. Something close to a smile. Or the memory of one.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time. It’s the kind that settles around two people who no longer feel like strangers, even if they haven’t decided what they are yet.

“You always sit on the floor when you’re being nice?” you ask quietly.

He shrugs. “Better than standing guard outside. You’d just get paranoid.”

“I already am.”

He glances at you then briefly.

“You’ve got more fight in you than you think.”

You hold his gaze. “You keep saying things that sound like compliments.”

“Maybe you’re hearing them that way.”

You both fall quiet again.

And slowly—carefully—you stretch your hand out, let it hang off the edge of the mattress. You don’t expect him to take it. You don’t even know if you want him to. But something inside you wants him to know it’s there.

He doesn’t move right away.

But then—softly, without looking—he shifts his hand just enough that his pinky brushes yours. Not a grip. Not even a touch, really.

Simply contact.

Enough to say, I’m here.

And for now, that’s enough.

It’s barely a touch.

Flesh to flesh, if you can call what’s left of his skin that. Just the edge of a pinky brushing against yours. The kind of contact most people wouldn’t even notice.

But he notices.

Because he shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be sitting on the floor of a room they use for leverage. Shouldn’t be close enough to see the way your breathing changes when you think he’s not looking. Shouldn’t be watching you the way he does every time you shift like you’re learning how to trust your body again.

But he is.

And now your hand is there—open. An invitation, or a challenge. He can’t tell the difference anymore.

You’re too clean now. Too quiet. Like a smoothed-over scar that hasn't started itching yet.

He told himself he’d just keep watch. That this was about control. About protecting the mission. That you were a loose thread he couldn’t let someone else pull.

But you're more than that now. You’ve become a variable in a system that’s supposed to be airtight. And he hates variables.

They make people soft.

They make people reckless.

And he’s been both before.

He tilts his head, just enough to see the curve of your cheek, the lashes resting against your skin. You’re pretending to sleep—or trying. He doesn’t blame you. Being watched wears a person down. He knows that better than anyone.

Your fingers twitch, ever so slightly, still hanging off the edge of the mattress.

His eyes narrow.

You’re not afraid of me anymore when you should be.

He leans back slowly, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. His joints ache. His scars itch. The room is filled with the intoxicating smell that is you. Pure.

He doesn’t close his eyes.

He can’t.

Because if he does, he might forget that this is a cage. That he’s supposed to be the one holding the keys. Not standing on the inside with you.

He tells himself again: Just keep watch. Just make sure no one else comes in.

But even he knows it’s a lie.

He’s not just watching you.

He’s protecting you.

And the moment Shigaraki figures that out, it’s all going to burn.

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[theseabreezestreet]

⚠︎ ˒ ៸៸ cw: f!reader, cult themes/religious abuse, noncon, dubcon, power imbalance, fearplay, bloodplay, objectification, breeding, exhibitionism, sexual coercion/spiritual coercion, yandere behavior

cult leader!sylus who gets cute virgin women sacrificed and corrupted in his name. he especially likes when their hair is long enough for him to pull when he robs them of their purity.

cult leader!sylus who loves it when they cry big fat tears of fear; licks them away with a smirk and a compliment on his lips at how delicious the saltiness of their tears are and how much they’re turning him on right now.

cult leader!sylus is not familiar with the concept of condoms. he’s got a raging breeding kink and is looking to raise the perfect little heir to his throne. so naturally, there are days dedicated to ensuring his seed takes. even when you’re exhausted and (borderline) asleep or protesting and weakly attempting to push him away he’ll find himself in your walls again, giving you cervix kisses with his fat tip.

cult leader!sylus who tells his followers sex (whether it be with him or others) is a mandatory spiritual duty. it is the pathway to salvation, higher consciousness, and divine favor. you want to be cleansed of your bad karma, right?

cult leader!sylus who preaches about the divine feminine in his own twisted way. he relishes in the awe and zealous looks from all the women listening and hanging onto every last word he says. and the ones that disagree? well, they know better than to challenge his teachings.

cult leader!sylus satisfies his exhibitionist side by telling all his followers that in order to appease him, they are bound to watch as he defiles women on the altar. over and over again. everyone is advised never to avert their gaze, for if they do, punishment will be swift and imminent.

cult leader!sylus choosing you to be his favorite. you take pride in this, and love to gloat when the other girls glare with envy as clear as day at you as you sashay by his side past them. you are his prized possession; and it shows with the way he looks at you as if he’s just as devoted to you as you are to him. he swears you’ll be his downfall one day.

cult leader!sylus makes you off limits to everyone else but him. no other man is to touch you—with friendly gestures or otherwise—without his say so. and if they try to circumvent this rule, well that just won’t do. the very next day, he has them sacrificed in his name.

cult leader!sylus collecting the blood from your broken hymen when he takes you for the first time. he then has it fashioned into a ring by a bloodsmith that he always keeps on his ring finger.

cult leader!sylus uses mephisto to record your first time together, and the many times after that. he swears that the footage (especially the one where your virginity is taken) holds power that strengthens him every time he touches himself to them.

cult leader!sylus officially decrees one day that you are of equal status to him, and that all are to worship you both. this sparks many murmurs and whispers, but no one objects knowing very well what their fate would be should they question their leader that has never steered them wrong.

cult leader!sylus knows it in his very heart, spirit, and soul that you two were made for each other and that you were always meant to rule alongside him as the divine feminine to his divine masculine.

© INKYTORU — do not repost, translate, feed AI, or plagiarize any of my content. please refrain from sharing or recommending my work on other platforms outside of tumblr such as tiktok. MINORS DNI.

[theseabreezestreet]

unchained | dark romance w. dabi

chapter 3

wc: 3k

cw: captivity/abduction, psychological distress, power imbalance, sensory discomfort, dubious morality, surveillance

ೀfrom bee: pardon my tardiness on this chapter, had some family visiting me. hope you're ready for some confrontation and dabi only growing softer for reader <3 give this love on ao3

You wake before the lights come on. Again, no sun. No clock. No way to measure time except by the ache in your joints and the smell of your own skin.

You need a shower. Badly.

That fact hits you harder than you expect, how much your body wants to be clean. To feel like it belongs to you again. You feel as if it’s all clinging to you, the still room, reminding you what’s been taken from you and what little control you have left.

Your wrists still ache. The zip ties haven’t been removed since the day you woke up here.

And it’s starting to feel permanent.

You don’t know how long you’ve been held. The days have begun to blur. You’ve done your very best to eat the food that comes and goes. Dabi comes and goes. And every time he leaves, you’re a little more frayed at the edges.

The door creaks open before you can spiral too far.

He steps inside, commanding your presence. Well, there isn’t much to command it anyway. Your eyes shift to his hand, he’s holding something in one hand—a knife. Not drawn. Just resting in his fingers like an afterthought. 

You stiffen automatically, heart kicking up in your chest. Looks like he’s finally decided to take you out of this misery.

“Relax,” he mutters. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t use a kitchen knife.”

Charming.

He takes slow steps towards you in the corner you’ve found comfort in. You sit up straighter, eyes following the blade. But he doesn’t come at you. He crouches in front of you and holds out the knife.

“Wrists.”

You blink. “What?”

He flicks his eyes up to meet yours. “You want to stay tied up forever?”

There’s no teasing in his tone. No malice. Just fact.

You hesitate, but extend your hands out towards him. 

He gently grabs one of your arms. The plastic tie digs into your skin as he slides the blade between the loop and your wrist. One swift pull, and snap—it’s gone. He catches your wrist when you instinctively jerk back.

“Easy.”

His hand is warm. 

Too warm.

He moves to the other wrist, repeating the motion. The second tie falls away. Dabi moves to your ankles, doing the same uncharacteristic movements.

The skin beneath is red and raw, and you flex your fingers, breathing a little deeper.

You’re free. Kind of.

He stands again and tosses the knife back into his coat pocket.

“Get up,” he says. 

Your eyes blink at him, like he’s just spoken to you in a different language. “I said, get up. I’m not dragging you.”

You rise slowly, the blood rushing back into your arms like lightning. Your legs are stiff, but they hold. Standing on your own two legs felt foreign.

He walks toward the wall opposite the camera and presses his palm to a panel you hadn’t noticed before. It clicks, swings open, and reveals a narrow tiled room beyond. A shower. A toilet. A sink. A shelf with a towel and soap.

You can’t help it. The relief hits you like a wave.

You inhale sharply, shoulders sinking as the tension you’ve been holding in your body begins to finally, finally let go.

“You’re letting me shower?” you ask warily.

He shrugs, stepping aside. “You smell like shit. It’s not charity.”

Your eyes narrow. “So it’s a favor to you?”

“I like not gagging when I walk in. Take it or leave it.”

He doesn’t follow you in. Just gestures with his head. “You’ve got ten minutes. There’s a clean change of clothes in there.”

You hobble over to the opening, then linger in the doorway, uncertain. This feels too generous. Too… human. Your eyes dart back to him, searching for the catch.

“I could lock you in there,” he says flatly. “Or I could drag you out mid-rinse. But I won’t. So just go.”

And for some reason, you believe him. 

You step inside.

The door stays open behind you, but he doesn’t look in.

You begin to peel away the clothes that have almost melded to your skin. You had forgotten that you were still wearing your scrubs. The dull blue of the fabric had patches of grime stained by the floor you had been sleeping on since your capture. Standing on the cool tile of the bathroom, naked, felt nice.

The water is hot.

Not lukewarm. Hot.

The first blast stings your skin, so sensitive, so worn, that even clean water feels different. But then the heat seeps in. And for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel alive. Water running down your body gives another illusion of freedom. Your oasis in the desert.

The soap is plain. You don’t care. You scrub your arms, your legs, your face, wincing when your fingers brush your raw wrists. You stand there until the grime is gone. Until the tightness in your chest eases. Until the air fills your lungs.

You don’t cry. But your eyes burn.

When you dry off, the towel is coarse, but dry. You pull on the clean clothes—gray shirt, soft black pants, socks that fit. Your old clothes are gone. You don’t ask why.

You step out slowly, sheepish.

Dabi is sitting on the edge of a bare mattress, one leg propped up, arms crossed. Wait, when did this room have a mattress? Did he move it while you were showering? Maybe it’s better not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He glances at you, then at the floor.

“Better,” he says.

You nod. “Thank you.”

The words fall out before you can catch them. He doesn’t react.

Just mutters, “Don’t make it a habit.”

You stand there. The floor feels a little less unforgiving now. You’re clean. Unbound. Still watched. Still uncertain.

But in this moment, for the first time, you feel like a person again. 

And somehow, that’s almost worse.

-

You both sit in silence for a while. You on the bare mattress, Dabi on a chair.

The mattress is old, the springs biting through the thin padding each time you shift. It's not soft or comfortable. But it’s better than the concrete. Better than nothing.

The air is still thick with steam from the bathroom, warm against your skin like a memory you’re scared to trust. You’re clean now—cleaner than you’ve been since this started. And your body hums with it, the strange afterglow of soap and hot water.

But across from you, Dabi sits like a shadow stitched into the room, a reminder that this isn’t freedom. Just a softer kind of cage.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just leans back in the chair, arms folded, one ankle balanced over his knee like he owns the room—or doesn’t care who does. His coat hangs open, the worn fabric slipping off his shoulder. In the low light, the staples running down his cheeks and chin glint like old nails in a coffin.

You wonder how long it took before he stopped feeling them. You wonder if he ever really did.

Finally, you break the quiet.

“…You always this talkative?”

He lifts his head and meets your gaze, eyes sharp but unreadable. “You’re the one who keeps starting conversations.”

You shrug, lips twitching. “Figured if I’m stuck here, I might as well know who’s keeping me in this shithole. You know why that is?”

He leans his head back again, eyes closing like your voice is something he’s tolerating.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he says, voice flat. “If that’s what you’re fishing for.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Too bad.”

You roll your eyes, tugging your legs up, arms wrapped around your knees. It’s a defensive position. It’s also warmer.

“I’m serious,” you say. “Why me? Why talk to me at all? You could’ve left me in silence. Would’ve been easier.”

He exhales through his nose—not quite a sigh. Not quite anything. Just a sound to fill space.

“Silence gets boring.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So I’m entertainment now?”

He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug. “Something like that.”

You study him—his posture, his voice, the way he never really sits still for long, always one breath away from burning through the floor.

“I have a feeling you’re not like them,” you say, quieter now.

That gets his attention.

His eyes open. Sharp. Cold.

“The others you work with,” you clarify. “You act like you’re above it all. But you’re still here. Still doing the same things they do. So why stay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words. Not with movement.

The silence that stretches between you is different now. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… heavy. Weighted with things you’re not sure you have the right to ask. But you asked anyway.

Finally, he says, “You ask a lot of questions for someone who should be scared of the answers.”

You hold his gaze. “I’m already here. What’s left to be afraid of?”

A dry sound escapes him—something between a laugh and a scoff. Not amused. Just surprised you said it.

“You’d be surprised,” he says, and for a moment, it almost sounds like a warning.

You shift again, watching the way his eyes flick away from you, to the floor, to the wall, anywhere but back.

“So… Touya,” you say, testing the name like stepping out onto thin ice.

He stiffens. It’s subtle, but you catch it.

You hesitate, then soften your voice. “Is that really your name?”

He doesn’t confirm. But he doesn’t deny it either.

You nod slowly. “You were someone else once. Before all this.”

“We’re all someone else before,” he mutters.

You chew your bottom lip, the next question is dangerous on your tongue.

“Did it hurt?”

He turns his head slightly. “What?”

“Becoming this.”

His jaw tightens. You expect the mask to snap back into place. Expect him to get up and leave again, slamming the door behind him. Honestly, he could just incinerate you here on the spot.

But instead, he’s quiet.

Still.

For a long time, he says nothing.

Then, voice low and flat, he answers, “I don’t remember what it felt like before.”

You let that sit. Let it settle into the quiet between you like dust.

Because in that silence, you hear something that matters. Something he didn’t mean to give.

And maybe that’s why it matters more.

After a moment, you whisper, “I think that’s the worst part.”

He meets your eyes again. And for the first time, there’s no fire in them. Just smoke. Faint. Fading. Human.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You’re both quiet again, but it’s different now. Not guarded. Not hostile. Just two people on opposite sides of the same silence, trying not to drown in it.

You shift on the mattress, fingers running along the fabric of your borrowed clothes. They smell like soap and dust and something faintly medicinal. Not yours. Nothing in here is. Except your voice. That’s still yours.

You let the silence stretch, but it doesn’t ease anything. It just makes the thoughts louder. Thicker. More pointed. Your hands curl in your lap.

“You know,” you say finally, voice rougher than you expect, “no one’s ever actually given me an answer.”

Dabi doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You press on. “About why I’m here. Why it was me.”

Still nothing.

You exhale hard through your nose, frustration catching under your ribs. “I mean, I’ve asked. Over and over. And the only thing I’ve gotten is ‘leverage.’ But leverage against who? I’m a fucking nobody.” Your voice cracks at the last part.

That gets him. A twitch of his jaw. Barely there, but it’s something.

“I’m not a hero. I don’t have connections. I don’t have money. So what the hell makes me valuable enough to keep breathing in this place?”

His gaze flicks to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You’re already spiraling. Might as well finish it. “Was it random? Did someone point at me on a map? Did I just look like someone who wouldn’t be missed?”

That last question hangs in the air, heavier than you intended.

Dabi leans forward, slow and steady, until his elbows rest on his knees. “You done?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He cocks his head slightly. “You want a neat reason? Some villain manifesto shit that'll make you feel better about being stuck here?”

 “I want the truth.” The words come out through gritted teeth.

Dabi scoffs faintly and runs a hand through his hair, fingers dragging along his scalp like he’s tired of carrying this conversation. “You were in the wrong place. That’s it.”

“That can’t be it.”

“It is.” He looks at you now, flat and direct. “You were seen. You were close. And someone thought you might’ve heard something. Or might’ve been useful. That’s all it takes.”

“That’s nothing.”

“It’s enough.” His voice drops a notch. “It’s always enough.”

You shake your head. “So I’m here because someone got paranoid?”

“Or bored,” he offers darkly. “Or cruel. Doesn’t matter which.”

You fall silent, the words crashing over you like water too deep to stand in.

Dabi watches you, expression unreadable.

“People get caught in crossfire all the time. Doesn’t mean they’re clean.”

The implication stings.

“You think I deserve this?”

His eyes meet yours again, steady. Tired. “I don’t think anything matters enough to deserve.”

You whisper, “This is insane.”

He shrugs. “Welcome to the party.”

Your eyes search his face, looking for something—remorse, doubt, anything—but you don’t find it. Just exhaustion and fire under the surface. A man built from aftermath.

“So why talk to me?” you ask finally, softer this time. “Why even pretend I matter?”

Dabi rises, slow and unbothered. His coat shifts around him like smoke.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “Maybe I just like the sound of your voice better than screaming.”

And with that, he turns away, leaving your question to echo in the space between his footsteps and the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Your hands curl into the mattress, the weight of it all pressing harder now. But part of you can’t let it go. Because if this is all a mistake—if you’re here just because you saw something you weren’t supposed to—then what does that mean for your future? For your chance of leaving?

-

He shuts the door gently this time.

No slam. No sharp finality.

Just a soft click, like he’s trying not to wake something fragile. He’s afraid it may become a habit.

Boots echo down the hallway as he walks, slow and measured. The steam from the makeshift bathroom still clings to his coat, and the scent of medicinal soap trails faintly behind him.

He shouldn't have let you ask so many questions.

He shouldn’t have answered.

But there’s something about the way you look at him—like you see what’s there, not what’s been painted over with fire and myth and rumor. Like you’re trying to read the smoke.

That’s dangerous.

That’s stupid.

That’s—

“Getting soft?”

The voice comes from just around the corner, and Dabi stops mid-step.

Shigaraki is slouched against the far wall, hood down, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s been waiting there the whole time. His red eyes gleam in the dim light, lazy and deliberate.

Dabi doesn't respond. Just stares back.

Shigaraki tilts his head. “You spent a long time in there.”

“They’re not dead, if that’s what you’re checking on,” Dabi mutters.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dabi takes a step closer, posture loose but coiled.

“You bored, or just feeling nosy?”

Shigaraki shrugs. “Just trying to figure out what exactly they are to you. You treat them different. That’s not like you.”

“They’re leverage.”

“You said that three days ago.”

“It’s still true.”

Shigaraki’s gaze sharpens. “You don’t usually bring leverage warm food. Or towels. Or let them shower. Or a fucking bed.”

He pushes off the wall now, “You think I don’t see what’s happening?”

Dabi’s fingernail starts picking at the scarred skin on the side of his fingers.

“You see what you want to see.”

Shigaraki steps closer, and the space between them crackles with static—thick with words they’re both not saying. “They’re not a project, Dabi,” he says. “Not some broken thing for you to fix because you never figured out how to fix yourself.”

Dabi’s eyes narrow.

“They’re a risk,” Shigaraki continues. “You keep feeding it, you get burned. And don’t act like you don’t know how that feels.”

Dabi lets out a low, sharp laugh—humorless. “You’re one to talk about ghosts.”

They’re toe to toe now. Neither backing down.

Shigaraki’s hand flexes slightly—just enough to remind Dabi that he could end this conversation, and the wall they’re standing next to, with a twitch of his fingers.

“I’m not going to tell you how to handle your attachments,” he says, voice low and even. “But don’t let them handle you.”

Dabi’s hands stay at his sides, but his fingers curl.

“You think I’m getting soft?” he asks, voice flat.

“I think you’re forgetting what we do when things get soft.”

His gaze flickers.

Shigaraki grins—sharp, knowing. “Careful, Dabi. You start caring too much, you stop making smart decisions. You start asking the wrong questions. And one day, you hesitate.”

Dabi doesn’t respond right away.

The silence stretches just long enough to make it dangerous.

Then, voice quiet and deadly, he says, “So does pretending you don’t care about anything. Makes you sloppy.”

Shigaraki steps even closer—breath close, red eyes like blood in water. “Keep your head. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ve got it,” Dabi mutters.

“Good. Then prove it.”

Shigaraki turns, the moment finally diffusing—but Dabi speaks before he can get too far.

“If you’re so concerned,” he says over his shoulder, “maybe keep your pets out of their room.”

Shigaraki looks back. “Toga?”

“She pulled a knife.”

“She didn’t use it.”

“She thought about it.”

A beat.

Shigaraki smiles faintly. “Then maybe she’s the one who still has her edge.”

Dabi doesn’t answer.

He just keeps walking, fists jammed into his pockets, jaw clenched.

Because the truth is—he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

You’re not a weapon. You’re not a spy. You’re not anything but present. Quiet. Observant. Stubborn. And still human in a way he forgot people could be.

And somehow, that’s the problem.

You haven’t cracked yet.

And he’s starting to realize he doesn’t want you to.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

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[theseabreezestreet]

KISS WITH A FIST ── .✦ ꒰ caleb y. ꒱

SYNOPSIS: You were tired of constantly being treated like a thing to protect by your older stepbrother, Caleb. Having reached your breaking point, you punch him. These are the consequences of your actions; the aftermath spelling out the beginning of the end.

PAIRING: caleb yizhou x f!reader WORD COUNT: 2.4k ⚠ CONTENT WARNINGS: dubcon, pseudo/stepcest, non-consensual spanking/impact play, humiliation, blood, violence, power dynamics/imbalance, unhealthy relationships, yandere behavior, vaginal fingering, manipulative aftercare

A/N: minors dni. this was supposed to be a short drabble idk what happened. anyways, angry caleb with a nosebleed anyone?

ao3 mirror.

“You always do this, gege!” you whine, and Caleb thinks you look breathtaking as always, but especially so with the way tears of frustration bead at your lashline and how that damned pout of yours makes his cock stir.

The restraint it took to not ravage you right then and there almost makes him want to groan.

Instead, a slight frown tugs at his lips as he looks down at you.

“He’s no good for you, pips. Why do you always go for the shitheads?” And why won’t you ever look at me the way you do at them?

You looked as if a scream was about to tear itself from your throat.

“Who are you to tell me who’s good for me or not?!” your voice was rising to a dangerous volume, and Caleb was glad grandma wasn’t home.

“I’m not your girlfriend!”

“You may not be,” Caleb grits through his teeth, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t look out for you.” The way a good boyfriend would do.

At this point, the tears that were welling up in your eyes now fell freely and slid down your cheeks. It broke Caleb’s heart that he was the one making you cry, and a flash of regret might’ve flickered across his face, but you were too busy wiping your sleeve against your eyes to notice.

“You need to understand that not every boy will have your best interests at heart,” Caleb goes on to say softly, but his disapproval still remains weaved within his words, “trust me on this.”

You slowly lower your arm from your face to glare at him from below your lashes as betrayal is written plainly on your features.

“Then why were you snooping through my phone, Caleb?”

His face pales.

“Pips, it’s not like—“

You cut him off with your quiet tone and unwavering gaze.

“You were the one who violated my trust in you, and you dare to tell me to trust you when you go so far as to look through my messages? Not only that, but you also deliberately found out my boyfriend’s address just so you could threaten him? What, did you really think I wouldn’t know? What’s wrong with you?”

Caleb’s eyes were downcast, his frown beginning to quirk up into an infuriating small smile.

“So, you’ve got me there,” he replies with a leveled voice, sunset eyes going on to peer at you as the most punchable expression you’ve ever seen him wear makes your insides boil and simmer with anger.

“Aren’t I pathetic?”

It was as if the fractured lines within you finally gave way as something snapped, and you reeled your clenched fist back before connecting it firmly against his nose. You didn’t even register that you did it until you spot the red seeping from his nostril.

Not expecting your violent retaliation, he had stumbled a step backwards, eyes widened in shock as he looked at your just as shocked face, to the now bloodied hand he had just used to touch his now broken nose, then back to your face.

You watch in abject terror as you see the surprise morph to hurt in his eyes, then to how it darkens like a storm cloud; the calm before the downpour of a quiet fury you’ve never seen him direct towards you now settled onto your frozen form.

With a vice grip like unyielding iron, Caleb drags you screeching by the wrist up the stairs.

“I-I… I didn’t mean to—! Gege, that hurts, stop—!“

Your frantic stammering does nothing to deter him from shoving you hard onto his bed as he closes the door behind him with a jarring softness.

“Do you know,” he begins lowly, “how many times I have let you off the hook?”

Words seemed to be lodged somewhere between fear and your throat. All you could muster in response was a tiny nod.

“How many times I have been nothing but a good brother to you?”

As he talks, he slowly approaches you, feet stopping right before the foot of his bed.

You crawl backwards out of fear until you reach his headboard.

“You’re not getting away scotch-free this time, no,” he barks out a laugh before he’s on the bed inching closer to you.

“You’re going to be punished, and you’re going to see just how mean gege can get.”

“Caleb, let me go! I’m sorry!”

He shakes his head. “It’s too late for sorries.”

With ease, he yanks you down by the ankles; then, in a flash he pins your wrists above your head.

The blood from his nose drips onto your face as his hovers above yours, its metallic taste meeting your tongue as it dribbles into your agape mouth.

It tasted like the beginning of the end, like a jigsaw puzzle falling apart, like the pieces of it will never be able to be connected the way they once were ever again.

Then, your eyes travel down his body to see the tented up fabric of his jeans. Your eyes widen— part trepidation, part incredulity.

“Are you seriously hard from—“

Before you could finish your sentence, his crimson-stained lips crashed against yours, the taste of his blood becoming ever more omnipresent to you.

He growls into the kiss as you squirm around beneath him. Your whimpers were muffled before being silenced by his tongue wrestling against yours.

Why was heat flaring up within your core? Were you… liking this as much as he was?

After a moment, he pulls back, a string of shared saliva stretching from his lips to yours. He looks at you with an indiscernible look in his eye before going to sit at the side of the bed.

Without the tenderness that usually accompanied his words, he sharply demands:

“Get up. Strip and lay across my lap.”

“Caleb, I don’t think we should be doing this.”

His steeled stare doesn’t budge from you. “That wasn’t a question.”

Biting at your lip, you do as you’re told; you shrug off your top, then slip out of your shorts and panties.

“No bra?” Caleb’s breath hitches in his throat. “You want to be ogled at by men, don’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for your reply before he impatiently jerks you towards him by the hand. You get the memo and sprawl yourself down onto his lap.

A large hand deceivingly trails up the back of your thigh to the flesh of your bare ass.

”Count.”

Without waiting for your reaction, that same large hand was mercilessly and swiftly raised in the air before striking you on the left asscheek. A loud yelp leaves you.

“O-One,” you begin.

Your stepbrother wordlessly raises his hand again. The palm of it meets your skin once more, and another cry falls off your lips.

”Two!”

Deceptively, Caleb’s palm caresses your reddening behind. But what relief it provided was short-lived as it was struck against the meat of your ass again.

”Three,” you sob out with a hiccup, jolting slightly in his grasp. Your gaze remains on the carpeted floor as heat not only rises to your asscheeks, but also to the ones on your face. You were a tad curious what expression he was sporting right now, but knew better than to look.

”Four.” Tears of humiliation well up in your eyes this time.

”Keep moving around so much and we’ll start again from zero,” comes Caleb’s flat voice devoid of any joviality that you were so used to hearing from him.

You try to give him a small nod in acknowledgement amidst your breathy whimpers, but Caleb tuts in dissatisfaction while pinching the fat of your ass hard enough for you to shriek “yes gege!”

As the fifth spanking lands, your tears were now streaking down your flushed cheeks and your voice began to wobble while continuing to count.

”N-Nine…”

If only you were able to see the hardened yet pitying expression on his face.

But bad girls needed to be punished, and you were no exception to the rule.

Two fingertips dance along your slit, now coated in your slick— Caleb quirks a brow, his voice taking on a teasing lilt.

”What’s this? Are you seriously wet from this, pipsqueak?”

Your ears burn red at him using your own words against you from earlier; your immediate reaction was to deny it, but he had already made it clear that he was onto you and the way you actually enjoyed this with your stepbrother of all people.

An impatient resounding slap echoes when it meets its mark and you hiss in pain. “I asked you a question,” he chides.

You bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

”Oh? So it’s like that, huh.”

Smack!

That last one hurt more than any of the others, evident through how you wail out his name.

”I didn’t tell you to stop counting either.” Caleb’s tone was resolute and pertinacious.

”Ten!” you cry out, “yes I am, sir!”

”Yes, you are what?”

A beat passes before you think twice about ignoring his questions again.

”I’m wet because of you, gege!”

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, almost reverently. You wanted so badly to deny it, but when you’re rewarded by his long digits dipping within your folds, the shameful slickness there told the truth for you. You couldn’t help the embarrassingly lewd mewl that escapes you at how the two of them easily slide in with the help of your natural lubrication.

”Now was that so, so hard?” Caleb rhetorically asks as you squirm around atop his lap. You can feel his neglected bulge poke your stomach with every motion you make.

His deft fingers curl upwards to repeatedly stroke your walls, eliciting another drawn out moan from you as they directly make contact with your g-spot. The obscene squelching noises resulting from it cause you to squeeze your eyes shut in burning shame.

”Look at me,” he orders.

You oblige by turning your head with a sniffle. By now the blood from his nosebleed had dried up, the fading red stripe from his nostril down to his shirt reminding you of your monumental mistake.

When your tear-stained face peers up at him, something in his stare softens, but only by a small margin. He hated to see you cry—always had ever since you would bruise your knees at the playground when you two were little—but he knew this was necessary to make amends for your misstep out of line.

Actions never fail to have consequences, as you would come to thoroughly learn.

”There’s my girl,” he says with a slight quirk of his lips, “y’know, I’ve always wondered how you would scream my name and come undone by my touch. Not like this, however.”

You stay silent, unsure of how to proceed with this conversation. You also did not want to incur more of his wrath by saying the wrong thing.

Much to your relief, he continues it for you by sighing and issuing another command.

”Sit up.”

Obediently, you straighten yourself up on his lap, wincing as the sore flesh of your ass chafed against the rough material of his jeans. You wrap your legs around his midsection before burying your face into his chest.

And then it was like the dam broke, the brunt of your mixed emotions surfacing and coalescing into more intense, body-wracking sobs. You unreservedly snivel into his shirt as you shed more and more tears.

His arms tighten around you when he notices your smaller form begin to quiver like a leaf in the wind. Only when he realizes you’re speaking does he relax his hold while leaning back to hear you more clearly.

”I’m s-sorry,” you babble, your words tumbling out one after another while being intermittently punctuated by hiccups, “it was spur of the moment, I’m sorry for hurting you Caleb, you didn’t deserve that…”

Your beloved gege cups your face in his large hands, the pads of his thumbs brushing sweetly against the wet skin underneath your eyes; the very same pair of eyes he swears will be his downfall one day.

He rocks you both with a gentle back-and-forth movement, shushing you in an attempt to soothe you as the hand splayed against your back rubs mollifying circles into the skin there.

Even as he cradles you, you can feel it— how he wasn’t comforting you to exactly make you feel safe. He comforts you to remind you: you belong to him.

“Gege’s here. You’re safe with me— safe from yourself, too. You just don’t know it yet.”

It felt safe. But only because he’d made everywhere else unsafe.

Caleb holds you without another word until you tire yourself out from your weeping. As you succumb to sleep within his arms, he carefully lays your head against his pillows before fetching a throw blanket nearby to drape over your peacefully slumbering frame.

For a long while, he sits and watches as your chest slowly rises up and down with every shallow breath you take. He tenderly moves the stray strands of hair away from your serene countenance.

Finally, he gets up to go to change shirts before going to the bathroom. He stares at his reflection with a hand raised to lightly trace the crusted trail of blood that extends from his nose, down to his chin.

Seeing the aftermath before him made it all so much more real to him— he also couldn’t help the small laugh he had to himself. He knew he had taught his little sister how to throw a good punch well, so naturally she got him so good he was sure his nose was definitely broken.

But, one little punch wasn’t enough to deter him from exterminating the latest pest in his and her life.

One day you’d understand. Of that, Caleb was certain of.

He fishes his phone out of his jean pocket to swipe it open. Then, he navigates to his notes app where your boyfriend’s address is laid in waiting for him.

459 Twilight Boulevard.

Quietly so as to not disturb you, Caleb gets up to pluck his gun from the drawer of his nightstand. He leans down to give you a light kiss against your forehead, to which you adorably crinkle your nose in your sleep.

He chuckles, the sound ominous amidst your innocent breathing.

”I’ll be right back, pipsqueak. Gege has some business to take care of.”

[theseabreezestreet]

DEAREST BEE !!!! i’m here for ur amazing flower stall event :3 ooo ok so for my bouquet, i’d like a sunflower (grumpy x sunshine — i’m the grumpy one and tsum is the sunshine hehe), peony (fake relationship), and tulip (mutual pining) with mr miya atsumu !! atsuyue is the epitome of opposites attract, i’m an introvert and hes an extrovert :3 we’re very different individuals so everyday is full of surprises honestly but very fun !! tsum is always unhinged around me and i act like i don’t like it but i secretly do HAHA we’re both very much simps for one another but show it in different ways. tsum tends to be more outwards about it like initiating PDA and posting about us a lot on his socials whereas i tend to be more private and do it via cooking him his favourite meals or dyeing his hair (i showed him purple shampoo too sigh). buut we also do tend to clash bc of the difference in our personalities but theres nothing we can’t overcome :33 ILY I HOPE THIS WAS OK !!

request a bouquet at my summer market stall !

You should’ve said no.

When Atsumu had shown up unannounced at your door two weeks ago, cheeks pink from the cold and a smug little idea tucked behind his teeth, you should’ve slammed the door.

But instead, you’d let him in. And you let him talk.

“So here’s the plan,” he said, flopping face-first onto your couch like it was his. “You and me—fake date. Just for a bit. Until that Volleyball Weekly girl stops harassing me, and maybe until Osamu finally shuts up about me being chronically single.”

You’d raised a brow. “That’s a stupid plan.”

“But a fun one.”

That should’ve been your warning.

But somehow, you were now sitting on his couch with his legs tangled over yours, your hoodie swallowed by his cologne, and his latest Instagram story captioned “My grumpy lil house goblin 🥺💛” featuring your deadpan expression next to the breakfast you made him.

You hated how domestic this all felt. And you hated even more how much you liked it.

He nudges your thigh with his heel, “Yo, are ya even listenin’ to me?”

“No,” you reply flatly, not bothering to look up from your phone. He huffs and throws his phone onto the coffee table. “You’re such a brat.”

“I tuned out when you started explaining how you got into a fight at the hair salon over purple shampoo.”

“Almost got in a fight,” he corrects, smirking. “And it was your fault! You got me addicted to that magic shit. Now I can’t stop talkin’ about undertones and toning masks. I ain’t ever comin’ back from this.”

You shrug, trying not to show how warm your chest feels when he says that. “You looked like a lemon last time. You’re welcome.”

He gasps, flopping dramatically across your lap. “That’s rich comin’ from someone who literally massages the toner in like it’s a love spell.”

You exhale slowly, trying not to laugh—but he sees the corners of your mouth twitch. His grin is blinding.

“Y'know,” he continues, voice dropping just a little, “If this is fake, I think I wanna stay fake-datin’ you forever.”

Your heart trips. You keep your face neutral. “You said this was to throw off your brother and that nosy reporter from Volleyball Weekly.”

“Yeah, and?” he murmurs, cheek pressed against your thigh now. “You pretend to hate all this, but you’re the one who made me bento yesterday to take to practice and spelled ‘idiot’ in cut-up seaweed.”

“It was cathartic," you mumble, face growing warmer. The grin doesn't leave his face.

There’s a brief moment of silence between you both. Atsumu clears his throat , tone more serious, “Sweets, maybe I wanna fake date ya every day. Maybe I wanna wake up to those weird little sticky notes you leave on the fridge. Maybe I wanna keep postin’ about how much I’m obsessed with ya, even if you pretend not to like it. Maybe…” He pauses, peeking up. “You like it a little, right?”

You say nothing. Just slide your hand into his hair and start gently combing your fingers through it, like you always do when he’s being a little too soft and you don’t know how to say I like you, too without combusting.

He melts instantly.

“You’re such a simp,” you mutter.

“‘N you’re worse,” he says into your hoodie. “You just hide it better.”

You roll your eyes, tugging gently at a lock of his hair. “You’re lucky I like you, Miya.”

“I know,” he replies, smiling into your lap. “But it’s not luck. You were always gonna fall for me anyways.”

And the worst part?

He’s absolutely right.

when i see atsuyue i go crazy i go absolutely bonkers

tysm for requesting smth yue 😭😭😭🫶🫶🫶 i had so much fun writing this, truly my otp for ever and ever 🙂‍↕️ hopefully i captured ur dynamic well <3

[theseabreezestreet]

unchained | dark romance w. dabi

chapter 2

wc: 3.5k

cw: captivity/abduction, psychological distress, power imbalance, sensory discomfort, dubious morality, surveillance

ೀfrom bee: surprise ! i'm posting this chapter a lil early c: thank you for all the support i received on ch.1, it really keeps me motivated to keep this fic going. as always, pls enjoy

Two Weeks Before

The night shift was always quieter in theory.

That was the lie you told yourself every time you clocked in past midnight, the city already yawning its way into sleep. The hospital lights buzzed faintly above you, cool against your temples and harsh on sleep-starved eyes. Coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, you drifted between rooms like a ghost in scrubs.

Tonight was different.

The air had that edge to it again—static on the skin, that eerie sixth sense that said something was coming, even if you didn’t know what. You’d felt it before—just before the pro-heroes rolled someone in half-burned, or when gang members stumbled through the emergency doors, screaming and soaked in blood.

The city never really slept. It just held its breath.

You stopped in front of Room 407. Little girl. Seven. Quirk onset came with internal bleeding—a rare mutation in her genetics. She was brave. Didn’t cry when you took her vitals. Smiled with a mouth too big for her face and said she wanted to be a hero, “like Mirko, but scarier.”

You smiled back.

You always smiled back, even when it hurt.

A nurse passed you in the hallway, nodding. “You going home after this?”

“Soon,” you said.

Lie.

You had two more charts to finish. Another patient in observation. And a coffee you hadn’t even touched. Your life had rhythm then—exhausting, yes, but your own. It was predictable. You walked home at sunrise. You knew which alleys to avoid. You bought fresh fruit from the lady who opened her market before dawn.

You weren’t special.

You were safe.

You had no idea someone was already watching you. That somewhere in the darkest corners of this city, your name had been written down by hands that burned.

Present

You wake up with the taste of hospital antiseptic still in your mouth.

For a moment, just a second, you expect to see the buzz of fluorescent lights, the soft beep of monitors, the comfort of clean sheets and sterile halls.

But the world that greets you is concrete. Cold. Still.

The memory evaporates as your eyes adjust.

The tray of food is still there. Untouched. The water is warm now, condensation gone. Your body aches from sleeping curled in a ball on the floor, your shoulders stiff, jaw sore from clenching in your sleep.

You don’t know what time it is. There are no windows. No clocks.

Just the camera.

You glance at it, and even though you know logically it’s just a blinking red light, your skin crawls.

He’s watching.

You shift, stretch your legs slightly, testing your restraints. Still tight. Your wrists throb from sleeping on them, but you’re intact. Unhurt. Not bleeding. Not dead.

Not yet.

You exhale shakily.

Last night plays on a loop in your head. The way he looked at you. The way he moved. Calm. Detached. Not like a man—like a wildfire that learned how to walk.

Dabi.

You try saying the name in your head without flinching. It doesn’t work.

You’d read about him before. Seen clips. Reports. Flames licking up from buildings. Civilians screaming. Pro-heroes chasing a blur of blue fire through the night.

None of it had prepared you for the way he stood in that room. Like he was daring you to scream and betting you wouldn’t.

You hadn’t.

You don’t know if that was bravery… or just instinct. He hadn’t come back.

Not yet. 

But he will.

And when he does, you have a decision to make: survive by staying silent, or start figuring out who he is beneath the ash and the name that makes people run.

You hear the lock before you hear his footsteps.

It’s not loud, but your body recognizes the sound now. It sends a ripple down your spine before your mind catches up. The bolt retracts, the hinges creak, and the door opens with all the ceremony of a breath held too long.

You don’t move.

You’ve already decided that.

You’re still seated against the wall, face carefully unreadable. You’ve had all night to think about what to say—what not to say—and somehow you still don’t have anything ready.

He steps in, like he never left.

Same coat, same boots, same lazy, soulless expression. But something in his shoulders reads differently this time. Not tension—restraint. Like the temperature in the room rose with him, and he’s holding the heat in his palms.

His eyes land on you.

You wonder if he was expecting to find you curled up, crying, broken.

You meet his gaze head-on.

Neither of you says anything at first.

Then he lets the door close behind him with a soft thunk.

“You didn’t eat,” he says, nodding toward the tray.

You shrug.

“Didn’t trust it,” you reply.

Dabi tilts his head like that’s mildly interesting. “Not poisoned. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t waste the time.”

Charming.

He takes a few steps further into the room, keeping a generous distance between you. You can feel him, though. Like smoke curling under a doorframe—he doesn’t need to be close to suffocate you.

You wait for him to speak again, but he doesn’t. He just watches you, the way someone watches a storm cloud—not afraid, not fascinated, just calculating the odds of thunder.

“I thought you said I was leverage,” you say, voice low. “Is this how you usually treat hostages?”

That earns the ghost of a smirk. Barely there. “Only the interesting ones.”

You don’t let your face flinch. “What makes me interesting?”

He leans against the wall, folding his arms. “You didn’t scream.”

“Maybe I will next time.”

“Wouldn’t blame you.”

He says it so casually, so disinterestedly, it makes you want to stand up just to break the stillness. But you don’t. You stay still, and so does he.

For a while, the silence stretches. This time, it’s not oppressive. It’s observational. Mutual.

You speak first again. “Why are you here?”

Dabi raises a brow. “In the room, or in the existential sense?”

“Either.”

He looks away, eyes flicking to the ceiling like the answer might be written in the cracks.

“I’m here,” he says slowly, “because the others would’ve made a mess. And you’re more useful not crying in a corner.”

You study him. “You’re not what I expected.”

He shrugs. “Most monsters aren’t.”

That catches you off guard. Not the word, but the ease with which he uses it. No denial. No pride. Just a statement of fact.

You shift forward, cautious. “You don’t strike me as someone who follows orders.”

“I don’t.” His voice sharpens slightly. “I do what I want.”

“And what do you want right now?”

He looks at you then. For a moment, you swear the flicker in his eyes is uncertainty.

Then it’s gone.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Your pulse kicks harder, but your face doesn’t show it. You hold his stare for a breath too long before breaking it, looking toward the tray again.

You speak softly this time. “I’m not going to beg.”

“Good.”

Another long pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he straightens up and walks back to the door.

Halfway there, he says without turning, “I’ll bring something fresh next time.”

You blink.

“What?”

“The food.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him, the lock clicks into place.

But this time…

The silence doesn’t feel as empty.

-

You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring at the tray until your eyes start to blur.

It’s still there—untouched, as much a part of the room now as the camera and the cracks in the ceiling. The water’s probably lukewarm. The bread’s stiff. You should eat. You know that. But doing so feels like a concession. A thread of compliance you’re not ready to hand over yet.

Even if you’re starving.

You roll your shoulders, wrists aching again. The zip ties haven’t been cut. Dabi didn’t offer, and you didn’t ask. Some twisted part of you knows: the longer they’re on, the easier it is to remind yourself this isn’t normal. This isn’t peace.

You aren’t safe.

You glance at the camera again.

Still blinking red.

Still watching.

You wonder if he’s behind it now, the way he had been last night. You wonder if he’s already making observations. Filing you away under “useful” or “breakable” or something worse. You wonder if he’s the kind of man who watches for fear or for interest.

You hate that you’re wondering anything at all.

Time passes strangely in this place. You think an hour goes by. Maybe two. Your thoughts spiral and slow until they collapse in on themselves. The tension in your body finally gives way to exhaustion, and you drift in and out of a shallow, uncomfortable half-sleep.

Until—

Footsteps.

Soft. Deliberate.

You sit up straight just as the lock shifts again.

This time, your heart doesn’t race. Not the same way.

The door creaks open, and your muscles go tense on instinct.

But it isn’t Dabi.

It’s her.

The girl from the voice outside the room. The laughter.

Blonde, messy hair. Pink cheeks. Eyes too wide, too sharp. There’s something wrong with the way she moves, like a child mimicking grace. In her hands, she holds a little bag—like she’s stopping by a friend’s house with snacks.

Her smile is too sweet.

“Hi there,” she says, sing-song. “Touya’s busy, so I thought I’d come say hello.”

Touya. You almost miss it. 

She doesn’t notice your expression. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. She walks in with the casual confidence of someone who knows she can make you scream if she wants to.

“Brought you something,” she says, dropping the bag in front of you. “New food. Not poisoned, promise.”

You don’t move.

She crouches, getting a little too close for comfort, resting her chin in her hand as she watches you.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” she pouts. “Touya said you were ‘quiet.’ He likes quiet things. Broken things, too.”

Your stomach turns.

“You know…” she hums, drawing a little knife from her pocket and spinning it between her fingers, “you’re really lucky. If it were up to me, I’d already be trying you on.”

“Trying me on?”

She tilts her head. “I like to wear people I like. Just for a bit. Get inside them. See how they move.”

Your body goes rigid.

She giggles. “But he said I’m not allowed to touch you. Isn’t that sweet?”

No.

It’s not sweet. It’s terrifying.

The door creaks again, and Toga’s eyes flick up, disappointed.

“Oh well. Looks like my playtime’s up.”

She twirls on her heel and skips to the door. Just before she leaves, she glances back and adds, “He’s watching, you know. All the time.”

Then she winks.

The door shuts behind her.

And this time, the silence that follows is different.

Tainted. Sharpened.

You stare at the camera again, pulse roaring in your ears.

If he’s watching, he saw all of that.

If he’s watching, he let her come in.

And if he’s watching now—he knows you’re not afraid of him the way you’re afraid of her.

And maybe that’s exactly what he wanted to see.

-

You don’t move for a long time after the door shuts.

Your breathing is shallow. Controlled. The kind of breathing that comes from training your body not to react. You learned that from long nights in the emergency room—when a patient flatlined and you had to keep your hands steady, your voice calm, your mind ruthless.

It’s different now.

You’re not the one doing the saving.

You’re the one trying not to fall apart.

Toga’s visit lingers like a stain on the air. Her giggle still echoes in your head, high and sharp, like glass against your eardrums. The glint of the knife. The word Touya. You turn it over in your mind, unsure whether it was a mistake, a threat, or both. Your eyes shift to the bag she had left of what you assumed to be snacks. Your stomach rumbles at the thought of crunching on chips. But you can’t give in so soon.

You glance at the camera again.

Still blinking.

Still watching.

You whisper into the silence, more to yourself than to the lens.

“Are you going to let her come back?”

The red light blinks once. No answer.

Of course.

You wipe your palms on a pant leg. They’re damp. You hate that. You hate that your body betrays what your face won’t show. Fear is supposed to be a defense mechanism. But here, it just feels like an invitation.

You scooch back and curl into your corner again, knees pulled tight to your chest, heart thudding dully against your ribs.

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

It’s hours later—maybe night, maybe early morning—when you hear the lock again.

You stiffen instantly, pulse surging.

This time, you know the footsteps.

Measured. Heavy. Him.

The door opens, and he walks in with the same expression as before, like the world bores him and you’re just another piece of it. But his eyes track you carefully, sweeping the room once, then landing on you.

You’re still where he left you.

But now, you speak first.

“Is she going to come back?”

Dabi doesn’t respond right away. He sets something down—another tray, this one warmer, steaming slightly. A thermos beside it.

“You eat yet?” he asks, like you didn’t just bring up the girl who nearly carved your face off.

You don’t look away. “She called you Touya.”

He pauses, only for a heartbeat, before picking up the plastic bag of snacks, grimacing as he looks inside. “She talks too much.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Dabi crosses his arms. He looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether you’re stupid or brave. “She won’t bother you again.”

You narrow your eyes. “And I’m just supposed to trust that?”

His jaw tics. “You don’t have to trust anything.”

He walks toward the wall and crouches to adjust the tray, sliding it closer to you. The steam from the thermos carries something you didn’t expect—heat, yes, but also spice. Real food. Something cooked. Not whatever sugary junk Toga had likely stolen from a convenience store.

“Why are you being nice to me?” you ask, voice softer now, not accusing—genuinely trying to understand.

He lets out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a scoff.

“I’m not.”

You look down at the tray. Then up at him again.

“You stayed.”

That stops him.

He looks at you, really looks this time—like your words touched something raw beneath the skin. And for a fraction of a second, something almost vulnerable flickers behind his eyes.

Then it’s gone.

“I’ve done worse things than keep people in a room,” he says.

“I believe you.”

You pause.

“But that’s not what I asked.”

Another silence.

“Eat,” he says. “Before I change my mind.”

He turns and walks out without another word.

The door shuts.

The lock clicks.

And for the first time since you woke up here, the food in front of you doesn’t feel like a trap.

It feels like a question.

You don’t touch the food right away.

You sit there, staring at it, steam curling lazily in the still air. The scent drifts toward you—familiar, comforting. Warm broth. Rice. Maybe curry. Someone cooked this. He cooked this?

You doubt it. But he brought it. Set it down himself. Told you to eat.

And now you’re sitting here, legs numb, stomach knotted, and all you can think is—

Why?

Not just why the food.

Not why the careful distance, the control, the vague threats wrapped in silence.

But—why you?

You whisper it into the room like it might answer back.

“Why am I even here?”

It echoes, thin and useless against concrete walls.

You’re not a hero. You don’t have a quirk anyone would weaponize. You don’t work for the government. You’ve done nothing special—just studied, worked, lived quietly.

So why?

You stand slowly, every muscle aching from stillness, and pace across the room. It’s a short path—five steps, turn, five steps back. But it helps. Sort of.

The camera blinks in the corner.

You stop and look straight at it.

“Is this supposed to mean something?” Your voice is louder now. “Is this punishment? Leverage for what?”

Silence.

You breathe through your nose, grounding yourself, trying to stay calm—but you’re fraying. You can feel it in your hands. In your voice.

“I don’t matter,” you say. “That’s the part you’re missing. I’m no one.”

The door stays shut.

But your chest tightens with something hot—not fear this time. Anger.

“Tell me why I’m here,” you mutter. “Say it. Or kill me. Pick one.”

You don’t expect an answer.

So when the door opens, you almost lose your mental balance.

Dabi steps in like he never left. He leans against the doorframe this time, arms crossed. Watching.

“Yell a little louder,” he says. “Maybe I’ll feel something.”

You glare at him, your breath sharp. “I want to know why.”

He raises a brow. “I already told you. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

You stare into him from your seated position.

“I’m not stupid,” you bite. “You said I was leverage, but for what? I don’t have connections. I’m not rich. I’m not someone who matters. So why—why me?”

Dabi looks bored. Tired. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t blink.

“Maybe it wasn’t about you. Maybe it was about who was supposed to come looking.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate.

You wait, but he just shrugs.

“Guess no one did.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Your throat goes tight. You don’t know if it’s anger or humiliation or the ache of a truth you were trying not to name. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it’s the idea that he’s right—that you are no one. And maybe that’s the real reason he’s not afraid to keep you here.

Because who would miss you?

Your voice is quieter now. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t need to.”

“You act like I’m some puzzle you’ve already solved,” you snap. “Like you can just keep showing up with food and silence and expect me to play along.”

“You are playing along.”

“No. I’m surviving.” Your restrained body language showing the best emotion you can.

Dabi’s eyes narrow slightly. Not in anger—more like interest. You watch him watching you. He walks towards you and kneels in front of you, close enough so you can see the color in his eyes. Not just blue, but glacial. Cracked. Ancient.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The air between you is charged—frustration wrapped in a stare-off neither of you wants to lose.

And then—

He gets up and steps back.

Just one step.

He doesn’t break eye contact when he says,

“If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one who doesn’t know why they’re still here.”

Then he turns and walks out.

And for the first time—

You hear the lock click behind him, and it doesn’t feel like a prison.

It feels like a wall.

A wall you’re starting to want to break through.

-

You don’t move for a long time after the door clicks shut again. This time, it doesn’t feel like being locked in.

It feels like being left behind.

The difference is subtle. But it’s there. You feel it in your chest—like a door inside you closed too, sealing something off before you even had time to give it a name.

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t know why they’re still here.”

The words replay over and over.

You’re back to your seated position against the wall. The food is still sitting where he left it, but your appetite is gone. What’s curling inside you now isn’t hunger—it’s something else. Guilt? No. Loneliness?

Maybe it’s the quiet.

Maybe it’s what silence sounds like after someone almost let you see their humanity, then took it away again.

You glance at the camera. Still blinking. Still watching.

But he’s not there now.

You’re sure of it.

You shift your gaze to the wall, to the cracks in the paint, to the corner where the cement doesn’t quite meet the floor. You start counting breaths.

In. One, two, three. Hold. Out. One, two, three.

You used to be good at finding meaning in the little things. A soft smile from a tired nurse. A kid drawing pictures in the waiting room. A stranger’s kindness on the subway after a double shift.

You wonder if those things still matter in the world outside.

You wonder if the world outside even misses you.

Because no one has come.

No alarms. No police. No search.

Dabi was right.

Maybe no one did come looking.

Your eyes sting. Just a little. Not enough to cry. Not yet.

You tuck your face into your knees and exhale.

You don’t want to care about him. You don’t want to wonder about the weight in his voice or the look in his eyes or the way he steps back like he’s afraid to be close to something that still breathes without guilt.

But the wondering is already there.

And deep down, you know this is how it starts.

Not with kindness.

With curiosity.

With questions.

And for now, those are the only things you have left.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

taglist (open + ask to be added): @reggieswriter @d4rlinxs @dabislittlemouse @ppomodori

[theseabreezestreet]

-ˋˏ COLOUR VISION ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. in which one is given a brand new outlook of the world: the empowerment of oneself and realization of controlling their destiny.

CHARACTERS. albedo, diluc, ganyu, jean, kaedehara kazuha, kaeya, lisa, mona, tartaglia, venti, xiao, zhongli

CONTENT. gn!reader. mix of canon-compliant (albedo, diluc, ganyu, jean, kaeya, lisa, tartaglia, zhongli) and modern au (kaedehara kazuha, mona, venti, xiao). angst, fluff, hurt/comfort. established relationship (albedo, diluc, ganyu, jean, kaeya). broken up (kaedehara kazuha, mona, tartaglia). 3.5k wc. rewrite of my milestone event colour vision at my old blog @/verxsyon. inspired by the album colour vision by max. other warnings vary for each section and will be listed there instead because uh, it’s a lot.

VERA. happy pride month! i was gonna release another tot rewrite, but thought this was more fitting because it had to do with colors - a lot of them. 2021 me peaked, i fear. colour vision was my milestone project, condensed into a single fic. hmmm… should i do another album-inspired fic?

ALBEDO • yellow • SOS

albedo makes empty promises. reader suffers from a terminal illness.

i ain't gonna run away / always gonna find a way / i got me, myself and i / but i got a little more, got a little more / when i got you

everyone in mondstadt hails albedo as a genius. although not because of his expertise, but because of his empty promises. he lies to others and to avoid disappointment. he remembers promising to the impossible, such as curing your terminal illness. for sure that creating one is unlikely due to the stage you’re in right now.

he tells himself that he’s invincible, hoping that one day a miracle would solve all of his problems. yet whenever he sees you in a bedridden state, the sight haunts him with the reminder that he’s not the genius scientist that everyone reveres. his guilt of lying to you is eating him alive, but he doesn’t want to crush your dreams of being able to move again.

if only you know what’s going on behind the scenes. as your profession of love replays in his mind, he breaks and shatters like the test tubes all over his workspace except one – the yellow liquid that mocks him of his cowardice. the geo vision clipped on his chest does the same thing – the doubt from geo archon as a wielder of his element.

you see him as a hero just like his little sister. he prefers your false hope to stay that way. he’s the chief alchemist, the genius scientist who never strays away from difficult situations and who always finds ways to solve them. yours, however, is one he can’t simply work with.

his knowledge can’t spare him from being helpless against the clock.

[ YELLOW (-): cowardice, deception, egotism, caution ]

DILUC • white • checklist

diluc is deeply in love with reader that he needs help proposing to them. kaeya helps out, for better or for worse.

checklist, 1, 2, 3 / you can tell me what you need / baby check this A, B, C / you make it look so easy

diluc doesn’t want to admit that he’s whipped for his significant other, because he doesn’t want to admit that a certain blue-haired menace has been right all along.

no one in mondstadt has foreseen the nobleman dedicating his life to a special someone. upholding his reputation as the wealthiest man in the city is his main priority. with you in the picture, he doesn’t seem to care too much about it anymore. dear archons, he’s never been deeply in love before.

he believes you’re the one, yet doesn’t know how to convey the message. of course he won’t know, so he has a third party to explain why he feels so fuzzy inside whenever you’re present physically or in his imagination. he didn’t think said third party named kaeya will be helpful due to their animosity between them, but he’s his best chance of navigating through the romantic department. diluc prays to lord barbatos that you will love his gifts, especially a white velvet box inside his pocket.

and you do. he watches your spectrum of reactions burst into life as you begin to unwrap his welcome back gifts. you’re fully invested in what he has to notice him kneeling on one knee and presenting a particular box containing what determines the future of your relationship. the nerves are becoming so overwhelming that he forgot everything on the script kaeya wrote just in case.

will you do the honors by checking off that box for me?

[ WHITE (+): goodness, hope, clarity, openness ]

GANYU • gray • where am i at

character death. smoking using pipes.

where am i at these days / now that you're gone?

nothing good comes out in the rain. unable to fall asleep, ganyu trudges away from the campsite to grab some fresh air, despite her hatred of the present weather. although her vision is blurry from the drowsiness, she can detect traces of smoke expelled from her partner. to pass the time, she decides to keep them company.

smoking is one of the bad habits that the qilin helped you successfully break, but the archon war caused your reversion to it as a stress reliever. it’s the least of her worries. no ounce of anger is on her face, but dread that concerns the divine.

centuries later, ganyu walks down the streets of liyue with an umbrella over her head to shield herself from the downpour. unlike the rest of the adepti who chose to isolate themselves to protect the heart of their lord, she chooses to guide humanity as a secretary. living among the common folk makes her feel lonely, but the gray atmosphere makes her feel even lonelier.

she stops at a grave in mount tianehng, paying her respects by exhaling gray smoke drawn from her pipe. with a gentle touch on the stone, she discards her pipe to the side before returning to work. 

nothing good comes out of the rain, for it’s a remembrance of a broken promise.

[ GRAY (-): pessimistic, sad, indecisive, unemotional ]

JEAN • teal • there is a god

somewhat suggestive (reader slips their fingers under jean’s top).

the way that you love me, way that you are / makes me believe that there's a god

you don’t believe in the archons. sure, they exist and are rumored to live alongside mortals. libraries contain a wealth of information about their efforts of establishing teyvat, which one can’t simply ignore. quite the magnificent read, but not worth to be taken seriously.

you don’t judge people who are devoted followers of the seven, however the amount of faith that everyone in mondatadt has in barbatos is very questionable. given that he is the god of freedom, he has little control over his nation yet they still worship him – one of which is jean, your significant other.

speaking of jean, she’s in her office meditating – sword upright and a teal aura emitting from her vision. she feels a warm sensation envelop her from behind, wrapping their arms around her waist and nuzzling against the column of her neck. their fingers mindlessly skim over her stomach, causing her to hum sweetly.

you confess how much you think about her, your inspiration. she laughs at how you casually visit her office only to compliment her, then kisses you sweetly. the teal light in her vision glows brighter than ever, which indicates her promise to continue protecting mondstadt and those she loves in the name of her archon.

you don’t believe in the archons, but you believe in the person who does.

 [ TEAL (+): concentrate, growth, peace, empathy ]

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA • brown • circles

alcohol consumption. risky behaviors.

we keep running in circles / i hate that i hurt you / we still have a heartbeat / don’t give up on me

you’re at his doorstep, barefoot and wearing loose pajamas. a brown bottle is firmly grasped in your hand, its content rendering you lost within the toxins flowing through your veins.

this is stupid. someone like yourself shouldn’t be drowning out sorrows with fancy glass bottles you stole from the fridge due to selfish reasons, nor should you sneak out of you window very late at night. you should be aware that you aren’t in the right state of mind to confront them. you shouldn’t be here, as your presence itself breaks every rule in existence.

this stupid, the same phrase plays inside your head like a broken record. why the hell are you out here anyway barely conscious, waiting for the person who basically shunned you without an explanation? leave while you have the chance, without having second thoughts and regrets.

the day kazuha told you he doesn’t want to see you anymore, you didn’t go after him. you didn’t wait at his doorstep. you didn’t see him broken as you were. you never touched his warmth or listened to the steadiness of his heartbeat. you never told him to stay. you never heard promises of coming back to you. 

you regret not choosing to walk on this path instead.

[ BROWN (-): boring, dull, timid, predictable ]

KAEYA • purple • colour vision

kaeya and reader are married. implied sex. nudity.

wake up in a dream, seeing things that i’ve never seen / every color so heavenly and i could not look away

every morning, kaeya wakes up to black and white. there are more better things he wishes he would’ve done, such as accompanying the traveler and paimon on their journey. besides carrying out his responsibilities as the cavalry captain and drinking at angel’s share to bother diluc, there is nothing worth the excitement to look forward to. black and white. same old everything.

until one night, he wakes up to purple. he wonders how an interaction with a suspect from an investigation escalated into what might be the best moment of his life. he isn’t the type to settle down. his flirtatious nature nature gives him leverage to merely obtain information, not to spark interest. yet here he is, half-asleep and half-naked with his arm around the body next to him.

news about the smooth talker of mondstadt tying the knot spread like wildfire – the hottest topic of the year. admiring your hand splayed on his chest that is adorned with a purple ring. relaxed and free, he feels like at the top of the world. he’s so glad to marry you, and you reciprocate.

there is someone worth the excitement to look forward to.

[ PURPLE (+): compassion, fantasy, wisdom, creativity ]

LISA • green • acid dreams

inspired by midsummer island adventure: act iii.

you’re beautiful / something like these acid dreams, acid dreams / it’s something i ain't used to girl / i’m gon' give you everything, everything

it’s unusual for both the acting grandmaster and the calvary captain to be absent from the guild. and it’s very unusual for lisa to be in charge for the meantime. funnily enough, your partner yawns in agreement as she flips to the next page of the book she’s currently engrossed in.

not only are those two gone, klee and albedo are nowhere to be found. you assume that they chose to take their leave for some sibling bonding time. that gives you a brilliant idea – you and lisa deserve to relax during this sweet summer season as well.

lisa sighs, knowing that you made a very good point. being romantically involved with a member of the knights is quite the challenge, finding it difficult to schedule dates. she envies how much free time you have, but it can’t be helped. 

now here comes a more brilliant idea – watching a live performance of a fontainian band at the good hunter during its happy hour with huffman taking over as the acting-times-four-grandmaster. she still has the green dress you bought her a while back, and you grab her hand to drag out of the building without hesitation.

poor huffman will be paid in leftovers as compensation for his initiative.

[ GREEN (+): generosity, hope, prosperity, luck ]

MONA • black • missed calls

mona and reader fell out of love since graduating from college. terrible communication.

i used to have so many missed calls / now i just sit around and miss your calls / i had the chance when i was with ya / now i’m hoping that you'll pick up, yeah

compatibility. timing. current circumstances. goals. uncontrollable occurrences. wanting different things. these factors are obstacles on your path that challenge your perception of an ideal relationship.

sometimes they can be overcome, and sometimes there’s the chance for it to crash and burn because of a single factor that could be the breaking point. realistically, life isn’t a utopia. the world can barely align the fates of two people to be together forever.

following graduation from university, mona has changed for the worst. communication becomes less of a commitment, eventually calling quits. It’s mentally and physically exhausting to maintain a relationship, as if you’re the only one who is making the effort to keep it alive.

you finally gather the courage to contact her for the first time in years, although the probability of her picking up is zero to none. she doesn’t, and the first thing you hear from the other side is an automated voice message system. your head hurts. your heart hurts. everything hurts. no calls can fix this mess. 

you cry for the future that is now black, hours away and never coming back.

[ BLACK (-): depression, sadness, pessimism, dominance ]

TARTAGLIA • red • love me less

betrayal from childe. blood. character death.

would you love me less? / if you knew the places that i’ve been? / if you knew the damage that i did? / would you love me less?

the fatui are ruthless with negotiations. one oversight and you’re gone, wiped out from the face of the earth. not even your family who is in debt was spared from their wrath. from that moment on, revenge against the organization and your god are the only things inside your mind. that is, until a red-haired snezhnayan entered the scene.

you should’ve known better. the man in front of you is never your lover to begin with, but your biggest enemy who murdered your own blood. regardless of what they mean, you believe the possibility of him being a member of the fatui is too good to be true. the rules of romance states that you must love the person inside, not the person you see. but those rules are meant to be broken, and they should have been long ago.

tartaglia, or childe which is the name he introduces himself with, is a person of many secrets. he conceals his position from his little brother for the sake of his future, and from you to prevent a heartbreak. the fact that you discovered it yourself speaks volumes. maybe you would have hated him less, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

but could you hate him less when you find out childe loves the color red, a representation of his bloodthirsty nature? could you be fine when red drips stains the floor and your stomach, where his weapon temporarily resides? somehow, there’s a sliver of hope that he doesn’t see you as his enemy. or perhaps he still loves you; not that you would ever know.

he usually doesn’t feel remorse, but he makes the exception when the red light in your vision fades.

[ RED (-): anger, danger, revenge, aggression ]

VENTI • pink • working for the weekend

reader works two jobs, resulting in insomnia and passing out at the dorms.

i’ve been working for the weekend / but that weekend never came / will you pat my back tomorrow / if i break my back today?

at the sight of signature braided tails, you think your day can’t get any worse. you glare at him, wiping the counter for venti to get the message that you want him to leave. however, he plops into a seat, shifting his attention to the drink a patron is downing on his right – the strongest alcoholic drink your bar has.

as soon as you disappear to the other side to fetch ingredients, the patron beside venti beckons the boy to come closer. he doesn’t think twice, not minding social interactions with strangers. after all, interesting people tell interesting stories. when the man asks him if he’s friends with you, the bartender, he isn’t too sure how to answer the question. he isn’t exactly friends with you, and you aren’t exactly friends with him; just two people who happen to know each other through unfortunate circumstances – your words, not his.

there’s a story about a workaholic at his college circulating in the dorms – working two jobs at the same time on top of being a full-time student to prove to their parents that they can support themselves. every so often they can be found passed out before reaching the reception desk, and venti should know because he happens to be there one of those times.

you’re beyond exhausted, and that is one weakness you refuse to display while catering to customers. now knowing that you’ve been in that state for quite some time, the boy feels the need to help you out. seeing that you’re almost approaching his spot, the boy quickly scribbles his message on a sticky note and jerks numerous dollar bills out of his wallet. it reads out that he stole your glass and invites you to his dorm to get it back. under the note is his number and wishing you a good weekend – if you call it a weekend, that is. 

the man urges you to go after him, so you do and appreciate his advice.

[ PINK (+): kindness, warmth, romance, intuition ]

XIAO • blue • blueberry eyes

xiao is implied living in unstable living conditions. self-deprecation from xiao.

kiss you each morning / with strawberry skies / ‘cause i get so lost in / your blueberry eyes

soulmate. a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner. a person with whom one has feelings of deep or natural affinity. a person who xiao believes he doesn’t deserve. in a universe where soulmates exist, how they are connected with each other is through dreams. first encounters usually occur at around sixteen years of age, which becomes subsequent until two merge into one. not all of them are successful, and that is what he fears the most.

so he stops dreaming. he was sixteen when he first encountered his soulmate. back then he was constantly on the run from the demons in his own home, hopping from place to place until he sought refuge within a kind old woman. due to the conditions he was suffering under, he can’t bear to face his destiny. no matter how many times he’s advised to do so, no words of wisdom can repair anything that’s beyond broken.

years later, he winds up in a domain full of clear blue skies where his first encounter with you took place. usually when a soulmate connection fails to follow through the sequence of dreams, the people involved can’t do much about it other than remove each other from their respective histories and be on their merry way. considering the amount of time passed since his last visit to this realm, you should have forgotten about him by now. yet somehow, this dream still managed to exist.

hearing the sound of relief in your voice, he would never imagine being basked in your presence after abandoning you for so long. stopping dead in your tracks, your eyes widen at his state of conflict before you. one side of him wants you to stay out of his life for your sake, yet the other wants you to come closer and comfort him. your hunch tells you that he went through so much for the past few years, which causes him to inherit this type of mindset. instead of following his command, you listen to the latter side of him by giving him the tightest hug you could ever give to someone.

he’s no longer afraid of his destiny, finally accepting you as his reality.

[ BLUE (+): confidence, peace, honesty, reliability ]

ZHONGLI • orange • new life

self-deprecation from reader.

i ain't lookin' back, this a celebration / lookin’  forward to my new situation / standin’ in the mirror, had a conversation / i’m takin' my own advice

the receptionist comments that you’re out of place. truth be told, no one invited you aboard the prestigious pearl gallery. in fact, you stole a boat to travel all the way there without a second thought. it’s your first time hearing about the place, so you’re not aware of the rules. one thing you heard from some shady locals is something that could be beneficial for you at least in the short-run, and you’re about to find that for yourself.

your body becomes stiff by the richness and sophistication of a male voice coming from behind you. a refined man shows up beside you, acknowledging your presence with his intense amber gaze. from the looks of it, he seems to be highly revered in this society. the lady named luoxia refers to him as zhongli, who just covered your back by treating you as his honored guest. she bows to the both of you before taking her leave.

you thank the empty space where the receptionist formerly occupied, obviously confused. she retreats to the cabin merely seconds ago, but your mind has been busy processing the fact that a man like him saved your butt from getting kicked out. he considers you a friend which is quite the surprise, given that he just met you seconds ago. you shrug it off, noticing how genuine he seems in meeting your acquaintance.

the sun casts an orange glow upon the world, prompting him to turn his head to admire it. streaks of the particular color with hints of red and blue decorate the sunset sky. gazing at this beautiful view in front of you makes the weight in your chest light as a feather. what motivated you to travel is everything teyvat has in store such as this sight, but your inner turmoil fails to make you appreciate it more.

luckily, he already has an answer in mind – one that is enough to convince you to build your new life here.

[ ORANGE (+): spontaneity, creativity, warmth, positivity ]

[theseabreezestreet]

unchained | dark romance w. dabi

chapter 1

wc: 2k

cw: captivity/abduction, psychological distress, power imbalance, sensory discomfort, dubious morality, surveillance

ೀfrom bee: been meaning to start up a new multi chapter fic for a minute with my favorite arsonist. this has also been cross-posted to my ao3. please enjoy <3

the first thing you notice is the air.

it’s too still. stale. thick with the weight of something unspoken. there’s no hum of life—no street noise, no fluorescent buzz of hospital lights, not even the distant hum of machines you’ve grown used to from your late-night shifts. just silence, dense and unnatural, pressing against your eardrums like cotton packed into your skull.

then, pain.

a slow, blooming ache begins behind your eyes, and you realize your head is pounding—dull and rhythmic, like a warning. the floor beneath you is concrete, unforgiving against your spine and shoulder blades. cold seeps through your clothes, through your skin, until you feel like part of the cement itself.

you try to move.

your wrists are bound.

plastic digs into tender skin—zip ties, tight and unrelenting. your arms are behind your back, stiff from however long you’ve been lying here. ankles too—tied, but looser. enough to shuffle. not enough to run.

you inhale sharply through your nose. the scent is faint but unforgettable: smoke. not fresh, not fire-alarm urgent, but old. embedded. burned into walls, clothes, maybe even people.

your eyes blink open slowly. the light overhead is yellowed and swinging slightly on an exposed wire, casting shadows that pulse with every sway. the walls are gray—chipped cement, water-stained in places, claustrophobic. no windows. one door. steel. bolted.

you’re in a room meant to keep things in.

the panic is slow to rise. you’ve seen enough er cases to know what adrenaline does when it crashes through the bloodstream. it doesn’t feel cinematic. it feels cold, like your limbs are flooding with ice water. your breathing shortens. your vision tunnels.

this isn’t happening.

but it is.

voices rise on the other side of the door. laughter. sharp, high-pitched and childlike. then something lower, theatrical and amused. another voice, rasping, sounds irritated.

“enough. i’ll handle it.”

the voices stop.

you freeze.

that voice is quieter than the others. less emotion, more weight. like every word is carved out of granite and dropped into the room with intention.

the lock turns.

you don’t even realize you’ve pressed yourself against the corner until the door swings open and he walks in.

he doesn’t say anything. not at first.

the smell hits you before the full sight does—ash, charred leather, something metallic beneath it all. burnt skin. the scent of fire that didn’t just touch him—it claimed him.

he’s tall, his figure framed in the doorway like a question you don’t want answered. his body is built like smoke—slight but coiled, like he’s always seconds away from snapping. a long coat hangs open over his form, dark pants tucked into heavy boots. his hands are stuffed in his pockets like he couldn’t be bothered to use them. or maybe like he doesn’t trust them.

but it’s his face that truly makes time stutter.

his skin is patched in scorched, deep purple—like the remnants of something dead. staples hold pieces together, twisted metal where flesh once was. it should look monstrous.

but it doesn’t.

it looks… deliberate.

he meets your eyes.

icy blue. clearer than they have any right to be. the kind of blue you’d associate with glaciers, not fire.

“you’re awake,” he says, voice dry and disinterested. it’s not a question.

you don’t answer. your throat is too dry.

he watches you, head tilted slightly. his gaze lingers, not like he’s seeing you, but like he’s studying you.

no pity.

no satisfaction.

just calculation.

you force your mouth to work. “where am i?”

“does it matter?”

your stomach tightens. “who are you?”

a pause. he lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug.

“dabi.”

the name lands like smoke in your lungs. you’ve heard it before. everyone has. a villain. a murderer. fire incarnate, wrapped in skin he shouldn’t still have.

you should be screaming. you should be begging. you should be breaking down.

but all you do is stare. and he stares back.

“i’m not here to hurt you,” he says finally, like he’s repeating something someone else told him to say. “you’re leverage. that’s all.”

he steps forward and sets a small tray down near the wall. food. a bottle of water. your body wants it desperately, but your pride keeps you still.

he turns to leave, hand on the door.

you speak again, hoarse. “why you?”

he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. his expression is unreadable—somewhere between annoyed and amused.

“because i’m the only one who won’t break you too fast.”

then he leaves.

the door shuts with a deep, echoing finality that seems to vibrate through your ribcage.

then comes the click of the lock.

it’s a small sound. simple. mechanical.

but it hits harder than any slam could.

you’re alone again.

the silence rushes back in, louder than ever. it feels heavier now. not just oppressive, but watchful. like the air remembers he was here.

you stay frozen for a few seconds longer, back pressed to the wall, pulse still rabbit-fast in your throat. your skin is clammy, your mouth dry. there’s a ringing in your ears from the sheer effort of keeping your fear locked behind your teeth while he was in the room.

you replay everything he said.

“you’re leverage.”

“i’m not here to hurt you.”

you want to scoff. or cry. or scream. but instead, you just sit there, too hollow to choose which one comes first.

your eyes shift to the tray he left behind.

it’s not much. just a bottle of water, a roll, something that looks like rice or maybe oats. probably cold by now. definitely tasteless. still, the smell of it turns your stomach—not because it’s unappetizing, but because your body wants it. and it feels wrong to take anything from him.

you stare at it for a long time.

at the water. the food. the small, quiet offering from a man made of fire and stitched-up fury.

was it kindness? control? a game?

you don’t know. and that terrifies you more than his threats.

you shift slowly along the floor, wrists aching from the zip ties. the concrete is rough beneath you, scraping your skin even through your clothes. when you finally sit upright, back pressed into the corner, knees pulled to your chest, the silence swallows you again.

but now, it isn’t empty.

now, it echoes with a name.

dabi.

you’ve heard it whispered on late-night broadcasts. muted news flashes and pro-hero briefings. the name that shows up in grainy security footage and crumbling crime scenes. the name they say with a warning, never with certainty.

and now he has a face.

a voice.

a smell.

a presence.

and somehow, that’s worse.

you rest your head against the wall and close your eyes, just for a moment.

he didn’t touch you. didn’t hurt you.

but somehow, he’s already gotten under your skin.

and deep down, you know this was only the beginning.

-

the door clicks shut behind him, and dabi exhales slowly through his nose.

he doesn’t slam it. doesn’t bother glancing back.

let the silence hang in there like smoke.

let them wonder what it means.

the hallway outside the holding room is empty for now. cold concrete. fluorescent lighting that buzzes just wrong—slightly off tempo, like the building itself is nervous. somewhere in the distance, water drips, regular and mechanical. leaks in the pipes, maybe. no one’s gotten around to fixing it.

he doesn’t bother with the elevator. just takes the rusted staircase up two levels, footsteps echoing against the metal grating like gunshots in the stillness.

when he pushes open the door to the main floor, the stench of the league hits him instantly—dust, damp wood, cigarette smoke, and whatever the hell twice was microwaving an hour ago.

they’re waiting for him.

toga is sprawled on the torn-up couch, upside down and grinning with her teeth. “how’s your little pet?”

dabi doesn’t break stride. “alive.”

“ohhh,” she sing-songs, twisting to look at him as he walks past. “that’s more than i expected.”

“didn’t ask for expectations,” he mutters.

twice pops his head out from behind the fridge, half of his mask pulled down. “they cry yet?”

“no.”

he opens a cabinet, shuts it again, starts opening another. always fidgeting. “i would’ve cried. probably. unless i was feeling brave. or stubborn. were they stubborn?”

dabi doesn’t answer.

he pulls a cigarette from his coat pocket, smoking whenever he's pissed off, which is often. the lighter clicks. flame flares.

he catches shigaraki’s gaze across the room. the leader’s hunched over a table strewn with blueprints and news clippings, fingers twitching over them like he might disintegrate them just to feel something.

“ they're not important,” shigaraki says without looking up. “they're leverage. that’s all.”

“i said i’d handle her,” dabi says flatly.

“and you are.” shigaraki looks up now, red eyes narrow. “just making sure you remember what they are.”

dabi doesn’t flinch.

he exhales, smoke curling from his nostrils in twin streams, and says nothing.

because the truth is—he does remember.

he remembers exactly how you looked at him.

not like a villain. not like a savior.

like something in between.

and it’s not supposed to matter. you’re leverage. a pawn.

but the way you didn’t scream…

that sticks with him.

that bothers him.

“you’re quiet,” toga calls from the couch. “are they pretty?”

dabi’s eye twitches.

he flicks ash onto the floor and walks away, ignoring twice’s cackling and toga’s laughter echoing after him. he heads back to his room—bare mattress, cracked mirror, half-melted light fixture. no windows. same as yours, but colder.

he shuts the door, locks it, and leans his head back against the wall.

the silence creeps in again.

but this time, it isn’t empty.

it’s shaped like your voice. your stare. your question.

why you?

he doesn’t know.

but he chose it.

and that, somehow, is worse.

the mattress creaks beneath him as he drops down onto it, boots still on, coat still wrapped around him like armor he never takes off. the room is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow from the small monitor embedded in the wall above a crooked desk.

it’s a crude setup—just one camera feed. a grainy, static-pulsed view of the holding room below.

of you.

you’re still in the corner, right where he left you. knees drawn up to your chest, back pressed to the wall. the tray of food untouched.

you haven’t moved.

dabi leans back on one elbow, cigarette still burning between his fingers, and stares at the screen. not watching. studying.

he’s always been good at that.

body language. microexpressions. the little ticks people think no one sees.

you’re scared—but not broken.

you’re still calculating. still breathing through your nose like you’re trying to hold in the scream you think might make you weak.

he wonders what kind of life you had before this.

he wonders what it must be like to still have something to lose.

he flicks ash into the metal tray on the floor. the sound barely registers.

you shift a little, finally, your eyes flicking to the camera in the top corner of your room. you don’t stare at it—don’t confront it. but you know it’s there.

smart.

he doesn’t look away from the screen.

your lips move slightly, like you’re murmuring something to yourself. repeating a phrase. or maybe a name.

not his.

that shouldn’t bother him.

but it does.

he turns the volume up on the silence in his room, hoping it’ll drown out the way his chest tightens.

this isn’t about you. it never was.

you’re leverage. collateral. a chess piece in a game no one’s winning.

and yet—

he keeps watching.

he watches as your head tilts back against the wall, your eyes fluttering shut, jaw tight with exhaustion. you’re fighting sleep. fighting stillness. fighting him, even when he’s not in the room.

and he doesn’t know why, but—

he likes that.

he likes that you’re still trying.

that you haven’t broken.

not yet.

the cigarette burns low in his hand, the smoke curling lazily in the stale air.

dabi exhales.

and in the dim glow of that flickering monitor, he tells himself, one last time, the lie he needs to believe:

this means nothing.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

next update: 5/25/2025

taglist (lmk if you would like to be added): @reggieswriter

[theseabreezestreet]

UNCHAINED | dark romance w. dabi

synopsis. you weren’t supposed to go missing. just a medical intern in the wrong place at the wrong time—until you end up in the hands of the league of villains.

they assign someone to watch you: cold, detached, and unpredictable. dabi.

what begins as survival turns into something far more dangerous when silence becomes conversation, and hatred gives way to something harder to name.

because the longer you stay, the harder it is to tell who’s holding who captive.

cw: captivity/abduction, psychological manipulation, violence, dubious morality, past child abuse, self-hatred, angst, slow burn, eventual smut, “i hate everyone but you” energy

updates every sunday | support on ao3

chapters

I. II. III. IV. V. -> 6/15/2025

taglist is open, just request to be added ♡

[theseabreezestreet]

sweet relief

pairing: charlotte katakuri x reader

contains: established relationship, mentions of an arranged marriage, afab reader, bratty reader, brat tamer (or maybe enabler? i don't know) katakuri, slight hurt + comfort (nothing too serious i prommy), size difference, d/s undertones, impact play, subspace (?), fingering, squirting, implied aftercare; word count: 3.3k

author's note: man. . . i didn't plan for this to get this long as this was born only out of a daydream i had at work sigh. . . thank you to @sincerelyhunnybee and risu for beta-ing and happy birthday to my lovely wife @viboraneno <3 i hope you enjoy!!

please read my rules before interacting! minors, ageless / blank blogs will be blocked!

katakuri felt the vein on his forehead tick in time with his thrumming heart, he was stressed. was it from his responsibilities? absolutely. they were relentless and inescapable.

but another thing that was testing his seemingly endless patience was you, his spouse. ever since your wedding last year, you had been on his neck. constantly pestering him about little things, walking around the island without him or any guards present, sitting on his lap during tea parties, just being in his face constantly.

he could admit to himself he was being distant and a little cold with you, but you’d have to understand – he was the protector of his family, constantly having to patrol and be hyperaware of everything happening in his mother’s territory. katakuri was constantly alert, not really ever getting a chance to rest and recharge. maybe he was letting it out on you, just a tiny bit. but he wasn't talking much to you either, so you couldn't know what's going on his head. but you knew he needed an outlet.

you had become needy over the last year of your arranged marriage and katakuri could tell. you were becoming increasingly touchy with him, rubbing against him in meetings with his crew, grinding against him while sitting on his lap, even going so far as to masturbate way too loudly when you knew he was near. but instead of giving you the attention you wished for, he became even more cold towards you.

determined to make him snap, you had a very risky idea.

could it backfire? possibly. were you scared? shitless. but you figured it was worth a try.

so you put on your tiniest shorts and tightest shirt and just started wandering around the chateau, chatting up the guards and maids who quickly averted their gaze as to not garner katakuri’s wrath onto themselves. they would suddenly find anything else to do, whispering amongst themselves about how unbecoming this behavior was for you.

you continued your antics until you felt your husband’s menacing presence behind you, his large hand gripping your arm almost bruisingly.

“what do you think you're doing?” he snapped, eyebrows furrowed and grip getting tighter. you turned in his hold with a smile, feeling your heart jump to your throat in anxiety.

“i’m just taking a walk around, darling.”

the way you acted so nonchalantly had his pulse quicken in anger. he pulled you along to your chambers, ignoring the way you could barely follow his stride. he forcefully opened the door, pushing you inside before locking the door and turning to you with a scowl.

“is this really necessary? for you to walk around like this?” he motioned to your outfit, “for everyone to see?”

you folded your hands in front of you, tilting your head like a puppy. “what do you mean? is this too much?”

you saw katakuri’s nostrils flare as he took a deep breath, closing his eyes before looking back at you but not quite meeting your eyes.

“yes,” he sighed, pinching his nose bridge in frustration, “yes, it is. people are talking.”

“is that so? i don't really care about that.”

katakuri looked at your seemingly innocent smile which didn't meet your eyes. he knew you didn't care. but he knew that you knew that he cared.

he also understood why you were doing it. he knew you wanted his attention. and he so desperately wanted to give in, give you all of his devotion but somehow was too proud to actually do it.

he walked over to the bed, sitting down and ignoring the way it creaked under his weight. he patted the bedding beside him, quietly inviting you to sit beside him. you obeyed, sitting down with an arm’s length between you, as always. he sighed, feeling his heart tighten with how far away you seemed. and he was the only one to blame.

“please just cover yourself next time you want to take a walk. even if it's only a robe. i don't want people getting the wrong idea,” he murmured, looking into the distance but not really focusing on anything in particular before returning his attention to you.

“and what idea would that be?” you bit back, crossing your arms and gleefully noticing the way his gaze lingered a little too long on your chest. katakuri quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat. he turned to you, leaning a little closer.

“you know how easily rumors spread. people are talking. it's not only affecting your image, i know you don't care about that,” he murmured, carefully sliding his hand along your back. you could feel the heaviness and the slight divot of the wedding band on his ring finger and arched into his touch with a relieved sigh. “more importantly, it's affecting mine. and how i’m not caring about my spouse enough. now, that's not true, is it?”

you closed your eyes in bliss, happy that your husband was finally giving you even just a fraction of what you wanted.

“i don't know, katakuri,” you mumbled, leaning towards him so that you could feel the heat radiating from him, “is it not true? you have been buried in work constantly, not really speaking to me or even spending more than a minute in the same room with me. you don't seem to care about me.”

he was quickly getting up to calm himself from the stabbing pain in his heart. but before he could even process what he did, you pulled him back onto the bed with all the force you could muster. catching the both of you by surprise and before you could fully register what happened, you quickly climbed onto his lap.

you sat on his thigh and his eyes almost rolled back when he felt the heat from your core through his pants. your brows were furrowed, fake angry while a smirk lifted the corners of your mouth. you put your hands on his shoulders while his found purchase on your hips. even now, he was too shy (maybe even ashamed) to look at you. his cheeks were flushed a petal pink, the tips of his ears matching.

“do you really think i don't care? do you really think that low of me?” he mumbled, deep voice reduced to almost a whisper. you could feel your heart squeeze, knowing you pressed against a sore spot.

heat rushed to your cheeks as his hands hesitantly slid further back and he started squeezing and groping your ass. “w-well,” you muttered, “you have been very distant lately and you keep rejecting my advances. nothing i’ve tried before so i thought– ”

“so you thought you’d parade yourself like this and show yourself off to everyone?” he quietly snarled, although with no real malice. quite the contrary, he was wounded. he knew he was more quiet and short with you and he was painfully aware of the hurt your gazes held when he would reject your touches and offers to relieve his stress. truthfully, he had been constantly hard since he first saw you all dolled up on your wedding day. in his eyes, you seemingly got more and more beautiful each day and the way you were throwing yourself at him made it increasingly harder for him to control himself.

your voice grew in volume, frustration simmering under the surface. “well, i have to act like this so my husband will finally touch me, let alone look at me. it's not my fault you can't even look at me when i am parading myself around!”

you felt the pressure of incoming tears behind your eyes and willed yourself into calming down with a deep breath. “i know you're all riled up, katakuri. i know you have been since the day we married. i have been begging for your attention and affection every day since. and yet, you can't even look me, your wedded spouse, in the face because you're acting like a fucking virgin!”

he whipped his head up, his red eyes were boring into you and he was really looking at you now. he clearly wasn't expecting for you to explode like that on him.

“i know this is only a marriage for means but i still have needs. and you are my husband, you are supposed to fulfill them. i want you to, i am begging you to. you haven't even touched me or looked at me much during our honeymoon. not ever, not even when i’ve been offering myself to you like a cheap prostitute.”

katakuri, despite acting cold all the time, was somehow incredibly attuned to your emotions. there was never even a minute where he would question your feelings for him. he was the opposite, closed off and guarded, never giving you more than a split second of a glimpse into his inner world.

you were like an open book to him, always have been but never more so than now. he could see the poorly concealed hurt in your eyes, voice dripping in fake contempt. he knew your obnoxious behavior and brattiness were another way to beg for his attention, his touch, his love. he couldn't speak, couldn't move, he was witless. nevertheless, you continued, pouring your heart out.

“do you not find me attractive? do you not want to touch me?” your voice went quiet and your husband could feel you trembling in his hold. “is there someone else that's receiving what i so desperately want?”

suddenly, your world turned. it all happened too fast.

in a split second, you were folded over his thigh, your shorts being nearly ripped off with how much force katakuri pulled them down, along with your underwear. you let out a surprised noise from the back of your throat when his hand gently met your buttocks.

“is this what you wanted? hm?” he mumbled, low timbre barely reaching your ringing ears. his gloved hands gently slid along the backs of your legs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. you felt the heat prickling, simmering underneath the surface. you let out an incomprehensible whine, trying to hide your face. you felt a hand gather your hair and pull, the sting on your scalp making you gasp involuntarily.

“c’mon, darling. use your words. is this what you dreamed would happen when you paraded yourself around the chateau like that?” he spoke quietly. “you could've just told me what you want. we are married.”

your voice strained and shook, you didn't know whether it was from embarrassment, hurt, or arousal. “i tried showing you, my dear husband. but it’s like interacting with a wall. and i’m not talking about your physique.”

smack!

a sharp sting. heat soon followed, blossoming throughout your left buttock. when your brain finally caught up, a gasped “thank you” left your lips, a grin stretching over your face right after. you were finally getting what you wanted, what you had gotten on his last nerve for.

another slap followed soon. and another, and another. the glove padded his hand just slightly but with how much force he was spanking you with, it didn't matter whether his giant hands were covered or not.

“how dare you talk about yourself like that? do i not find you attractive?” he scoffed, disbelief coating his words. hurt was evident in the way he spoke, knowing that his behavior had pushed you to that point and he hated himself for it.

he continued his assault on your ass, watching in awe as your cunt started dripping, a pearl of arousal sliding down to your clit before dropping onto his pants.

“do you know how hard it is to restrain myself around you?” he snarled, adding five more slaps to the tally. you felt your whole body heat up, releasing all of the pent up tension and frustration you’ve accumulated ever since the wedding. his words made you feel warm, even if his hands were cruelly slapping your buttocks and pulling your hair.

“how much i have to control myself, especially when you're so sweetly offering yourself to me? it’s true that this is a marriage for means but that doesn't mean i am not incredibly aroused by you.” his voice was strained and you didn't have to look to know that his scarf hung loose around his neck now, the ends of it tickling your back. “and only you.”

you knew that katakuri’s face was contorted into a pained scowl, hurt by your words and his own incompetence as a husband. his hands let go of you for just a moment, their warmth leaving your backside and scalp as he slid off his gloves. they returned to gently rub and knead your ass, admiring the warmth and marks he had left already. you whimpered at his gentleness, such a stark contrast to how harsh he was before. he spread your cheeks to watch your cunt drool and clench around nothing at all. he felt his own cock throb heavily, pearls of his own arousal slowly dampening his underwear.

“i know what you want and i so desperately want to give it to you but i know you can't take me. no one can,” his voice was quiet again and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss onto the crown of your head. your brain started to feel fuzzy but you reveled in the affection. you didn't care how he showed it, you were just happy to finally receive it.

his hands lifted again, preparing for another onslaught of spanks onto your ass. his eyes watched as your cheeks rippled with every smack, how your cunt clenched when his hand came down. you gripped onto his leg, lips parted and slicked with drool as moan after moan left them. “m-more,” you managed to gasp out, “please, please, give me more!”

katakuri grunted, feeling his hands starting to sting as well. he continued, saving your desperate pleas and whimpers in the back of his mind for when he was away from you. your skin was starting to split in some places and so he moved onto your lower ass cheeks and upper thighs. knowing your skin was much more sensitive there, he let up on the pressure but it was still enough to have you squirm and cry out for him.

he quickly stopped yet again and you whined at the loss of skin to skin contact before all the air left your lungs abruptly. one of his thick fingers was filling your dripping pussy to the knuckle so suddenly that you could only squirm to try and accommodate the stretch.

“see, my darling spouse? only one finger and you can't take it,” he teased, the pad of his digit slowly pressing against that spongy spot that made you see stars. “how are you ever gonna take my cock, give me an heir, hm?”

he leaned down to grip your face with his other hand, pulling you into a mean arch and squishing your cheeks slightly. “i would break you,” he mused, his mouth stretching into an eerie grin that made your cunt clench around his finger. his pride roared in his chest as he felt your warmth and wetness, mentally lashing himself for waiting this long.

you gasped for air, holding onto his wrist. “please, please! break me, fuck me, p-please,” you sobbed, tears starting to roll down your cheeks. “i don't care, i just wanna please you!”

he chuckled, letting you fall back down as he slowly added another finger. you screamed, sobbed, squirmed to try and get away from the borderline painful stretch that only two of his fingers were giving to you. “oh, i’m not gonna fuck you, not tonight. but you will be punished,” he scowled, his other hand rising to come back down onto your ass for a final crescendo.

your whole body was starting to buzz, your brain going static, you weren't even fully listening to your husband. there were noises coming out of you, but you didn't know if you were coherent at all (you weren't). the pain coming from your ass, paired with the stretch of katakuri’s fingers in your pussy and the relief that you were finally getting what you so desperately wished for had you barreling towards the edge. it only took one more curl of his fingers to release the knot in your core and you screamed as you cunt gushed around his fingers, soaking his legs in the process.

he watched in awe as you continued to cum, amazed by how much time it took for you to stop gushing and screaming, the ecstasy prolonged by his fingers inside you still. he was so fascinated by how beautiful you looked, he wasn't even aware he was holding his breath until his head started to spin.

he was blushing furiously, chiding himself. if only he had understood how much you had truly wanted and waiting for him, he would've made you come undone much, much sooner.

he slowed his ministrations, gently rubbing your wounded buttocks as you twitched in his lap, coming down from your high. he watched as your breathing steadied and your head turned to look at your husband with unfocused eyes.

“thank you,” you rasped, voice hoarse and weak. katakuri gently lifted you onto his lap and wrapped his arms around you to hold you close. “no, i have to thank you,” he whispered.

his large hands rubbed your back and your breathing started to slow, along with his. your damp skin stuck to his as he started peppering soft kisses along your neck and shoulders, feeling his heart buzz when you giggled in bliss.

“next time you need me, please just talk to me. i know i have been neglecting you and been cold towards you. and i apologize,” he mumbled against your skin, feeling goosebumps trail up his spine when you started scratching his back.

“i will. all i wanted was some affection, i don't think i’m asking for too much. but i know you have been stressed and may have gone about it the wrong way. though i can't say this wasn't fun,” you laughed quietly, wincing at the pain coming from your bottom.

he agreed with a chuckle himself and buried his nose in your hair to inhale your scent. you opened your embrace and looked at each other lovingly, his thumbs gently caressing your sides. your hands cradled his cheeks and you pressed a kiss against his forehead.

“you're not asking for too much. i am your husband, it’s my duty to make you feel loved and adored, even if our marriage was arranged. and if i could give you the world, i would. because i do love and adore you. you're the only one who gets to see me like this and i trust you,” he mumbled before leaning close to press his lips against yours. “please trust me the same and know that i will do what you ask of me.”

your heart threatened to burst at his confession and you squealed in delight against his lips. after a few more appreciative kisses, he gently set you down on the bed and ran to start a shower for you. he quickly grabbed some ointment, a towel and a robe for you while the water warmed up. running back to you on the bed, he noticed your eyes starting to get heavy and he smiled warmly before softly picking you up.

“now, let your husband take care of you, darling."

© hikentomori 2025 – all rights reserved, do not copy, modify, repost, translate any of my works. do not feed my works to any kind of ai.

[theseabreezestreet]

when you love someone, featuring lyney. ʚɞ heavy angst, death/murder, fontaine archon quest spoilers, detail to injury, ooc lyney? not proofread. w.c. 1.3k words.

there's a melancholic harmony that comes with dating that infamous, ash blond magician who's name is uttered from every fontainian's mouth across the country. 'he's miraculous!' they exclaim, eyes glittering like stars as they leave the opera epiclese, grins wide on their faces. he truly is, you think to yourself as you follow the crowds out on some evenings after witnessing your boyfriend's abilities for the nth time. yet you also know better than this. the lies intertwined between soft kisses shared in the moonlight and the forced smiles he'll throw in anyone's direction.

lyney knows better too when he fumbles for his house key, a gloved hand fishing into his pockets to pull out the cold metal. a prospect he never thought he'd grasp when he devoted himself to the orphanage beside his sister, starved and defensive. there's almost a pained smile on his face when he calls out to you that he's home. at this hour of the night, the court of fontaine is a quiet city, especially in this quarter. the night life clings to the hotels that bustle with activity, drinks and other numerous acts that people indulge themselves in to drown their pains out - but he knows that the house he'd made a home with you was never this quiet.

it's a strange thought to him that you'd ever go to bed without waiting up for him first - that was your favourite routine, curled up on the couch with a plate of fresh conch madeleines you'd baked earlier in the day. a crocheted blanket would be draped over your bare legs, one of lyney's own white dress shirts hanging flimsily from your frame with the buttons done up. he would grin at the imagery if only it wasn't for the slow, tense anxiety creeping up his spine, leaving a trail of hairs standing on edge at the silence you'd left him with.

"ma chérie?" he calls out again, that sweet nickname rolls from his tongue like it has a thousand times before since you started dating. it's familiar, it tastes warm and like your homemade cooking you'll bring to him before his shows - a comfort he'll cherish no matter how much his acts crumble him.

you knew months into speaking with lyney that he worked for the fatui behind that whimsical act of a magician. you remember that tight feeling that choked your lungs for breath, you remember the vivid way the corners of your vision darkened and his words echoed in your head. he looked so pitiful, his brows knit together and a beautiful glitter to his lilac eyes when he's on the brink of tears from your lack of response.

growing up, you recall the stories your parents and elders had spat in distaste regarding the fatui - snezhnayan scum, good-for-nothings, troublemakers that cause nought but harm wherever they go. you truly believed that lyney was none of these, how could he be? he'd swooned you so lovingly after one of his shows on a starry night, having caught your eyes in his audience. he claims it was love at first sight, the cheesy phrase making you giggle whenever he'd reference it. he'd whispered sweet nothings in your ear the first night you'd shared a bed together, fingers dusting down your body in feather light touches like he considered you porcelain.

surely these were things that proved his innocence? that proved the truth in his words when he first mumbled 'i love you' against your soft lips midway through a kiss? you gave him his chance and lyney was determined to not let his affairs as a fatui member ruin what he had with you. things were perfect for the upcoming year, even if that smile he flashed to anyone who looked in his direction was so fake that you could almost grimace.

it is not lyney that anyone should have doubted the faithfulness of - the safety that his arms brought you. it is the fatui, the harbingers, the organisation that tears lives apart for their personal gains. it's the promises to protect their members' families and loved ones that fall on deaf ears yet feed their members' minds with relief and keeps that every faltering loyalty in check. they have them wrapped around gloved fingers that are ready to snap at any moment.

lyney kicks off his boots by the front door, twirling his hat as he hangs it next to your coat. in his younger years, he'd debated what the meaning of love was. he'd thought over the concept of a home - of four walls that were safe and permanent. every time something took a wrong turn in his life, he considered if he was capable of being loved, perhaps if he was even capable of loving too. if there was one thing he was certain from his time with you, it was that you'd proved him wrong.

his legs carry him tiredly up the staircase, his footsteps light as he steps over a particular floorboard he has memorised that creaks - just in case you'd truly gone to sleep without him tonight. the silence is deafening, he can't even hear the faint sounds of your breathing from your shared bedroom where the door is cracked open and the moonlight floods out like a liquid river. he glimpses red through the crack and his brow furrows in concern, picking up the pace of his steps.

the world you'd built with lyney crashes down the moment his hand - free of its glove - pushes the bedroom door further open and his eyes fall onto your body. you're limp on the floor, laid on the soft, fur rug you'd begged lyney to buy when you were furnishing your first home together. he still vividly remembers the beam you gave him when he caved and agreed. there's a pool of blood around you, drenching that cream fur and seeping into the floorboards beneath you. it's oxidising, darkening - how long had you been here like this?

lyney falls to his knees beside you, your blood soaking through his stockings and wetting his skin but he shrugs the uncomfortable feeling away when his hands push you onto your back, your head rolling to the side limply. your eyes are white, rolled back but there's a look of fear written across your face and lyney's eyes begin to sting with the idea that you'd been scared in your final moments; no, he refuses to accept that you're dead. you're simply injured, passed out - he'll get you to a doctor and he'll never let you out of his sight again.

but the waterfall of red that decorates your neck and stains his white shirt he knew you'd be wearing tell him otherwise. his hands clasp at your cheeks, cupping the cold skin as his thumbs desperately rub at you in hopes that you'll come to, smiling and reassuring him. he blinks the tears in his eyes away but all they do is fall down his pale cheeks in precious streams of emotion when he doesn't wake up. he doesn't open his eyes again to see sunlight streaming through the light fabric of your bedroom curtains. he doesn't hear his favourite laugh in the whole of teyvat when you notice he's woke up. the silent atmosphere is still very much present, tense and ready to be sliced with a knife.

the only sounds are lyney's jagged breaths, desperate as he starts to hyperventilate to get air into his lungs. he presses his ear to your chest, not caring if his blond locks fall into your blood as he frantically searches for your pulse, a sign of life. there is not even a shallow breath that falls from your chapped lips.

you had taught lyney many things in the time you'd devoted at his side, things that the fatui could never teach him. you taught him how it feels when you love someone but as he releases a pained cry into the night, you'd also taught him the anguish that comes from the decision of trusting the fatui the way he had before.

© circism 2025. please do not repost my works onto any other social media platforms. uploading my works into ai is strictly prohibited. associated with @theseabreezestreet.

[theseabreezestreet]

ʚɞ i wanna be the only one you need (eren x afab!reader) ʚɞ

♡ cw: modern au, smut, drinking, aggressive and possessive behavior, eren (he’s a content warning himself), explicit and foul language, angst w/ happy ending ೀfrom bee: this is a long overdue piece for @theseabreezestreet lyrical love event (sowwy </3) i highly recommend listening to the song before or after reading i looove it !! but ikr eren in my 2025 ?? who would've thought. enjoy <3

mdni - 3.8k

The street lights lit up the inside of the car as you passed them, casting soft, fleeting shadows across the dashboard. Eren kept his eyes on the road, expression unreadable, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other resting against the window. You sat in the passenger seat, watching the empty sidewalks and shuttered storefronts blur by. The only sound in the otherwise dead silent car was the soft grunge bleeding from the radio. It sounded like Radiohead. Of course Zeke’s music taste would rub off on him, you thought.

Fifteen minutes of silence had stretched too far. You chewed on your bottom lip, nerves crawling beneath your skin. Had you really done it this time? Had you finally pushed him too far?

The night had started out innocent—just you and some friends celebrating the end of a stressful week. Totally normal, right? Except your ex had shown up. And between the drinks, the dim lighting, and whatever heat the music stirred in your chest, you found yourself making out with him by the bar. Every warning Eren—and all your friends—had given you about staying away from him evaporated the moment his lips touched yours.

You remembered pulling back, staring into his eyes, momentarily forgetting why you'd even broken up. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, or some pathetic ache for something familiar, but the words still left your mouth: “We should try to make things work again.” And he laughed. Right in your face.

“Are you serious? I just wanted to see if we’d fuck or something,” he said, brushing you off like you were nothing.

You stood there, dumbfounded, humiliated, your high hopes crashing into the floor like glass. He chuckled at your expression and shook his head, “It was nice seein’ you around,” before disappearing into the crowd.

To recover from the burn, you ordered a shot. Maybe two. Maybe three. Drunk and spiraling, you made the worst mistake of the night—you pulled out your phone and called the one person you shouldn’t have. The one person who’d been through enough because of you.

Eren answered on the second ring with a confused, “Hello?”

You spilled everything. And his silence said more than words ever could.

Not even thirty minutes later, he was dragging you out of the club by the wrist—your knight in a dull black hoodie.

And now here you were, sitting in silence, enduring the cold shoulder from your childhood best friend. It was warranted, sure. Still sucked. By now, the buzz had worn off, thanks to the bartender who insisted you chug water before Eren showed up. You stared down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers until finally—

“We’re here.”

You blinked, looking up to realize he’d pulled into his apartment complex.

“This isn’t where I live,” you muttered.

He parked, unbuckling his seatbelt without looking at you. “I know. But who knows what the fuck else you’ll do if I leave you alone.”

His words cut sharper than they probably should’ve. You flinched. Still, you climbed out of the black Dodge Challenger and followed him up to his place. Inside, the apartment felt unusually quiet. No one was there—not even Connie, who usually crashed on the couch with a bowl in hand and 90 Day Fiancé on full blast.

“Armin’s out of town visiting his grandfather,” Eren said flatly, already making his way to his room. “He’ll be gone for the weekend. You can sleep in his room. He won’t care.”

You stood in the entryway for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. Eventually, you slipped off your shoes and made your way to Armin’s room. It was neat, like always, and smelled faintly of fresh linen.

Meanwhile, Eren stood in his room, hands buried in his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as if that would help untangle the mess in his head.

How could you be so stupid? How could you run back to someone who gave you nothing—when he’d always given you everything? How could you do that to him?

The love he poured into you—silently, constantly—was supposed to be for him. Only him. And still, here he was, picking you up off the floor like always. Playing the part of the fool.

He shook his head and peeled off his hoodie, tossing it aside. He walked over to his Bluetooth speaker and let some indie rock fill the room, hoping the sound would drown out his thoughts. Falling back against his black sheets, he stared up at the ceiling, fingers tapping against his chest in time with the music.

A knock broke through the haze.

“Come in,” he called, voice flat.

You stepped in cautiously, trying to make your presence as light as possible. The air felt thick, the tension unbearable. You were in deep shit with Eren, there was no denying it. The easy, nonchalant version of him had vanished. Now he leaned back on his elbows, green eyes flickering with something unreadable. Annoyance. Frustration. Maybe worse.

It felt like your existence in his space irritated him. But you were wrong.

You lit something in him. You always had. He didn’t just feel bothered. He burned for you. Craved your voice. Your defiance. Your warmth. Even now.

You swallowed hard. “...Hey.”

You shifted from one foot to the other, your discomfort plain. “You mad at me?”

What a dumb fucking question. Of course he was mad.

Eren raised a brow. “What do you think?”

Here it comes.

“I don’t know. Maybe the silent treatment since you picked me up? Locking yourself in your room after saying maybe ten words to me?” Your voice rose, irritation seeping in. “If you’re so mad, Eren, why the fuck did you bring me here? You could’ve left me at home. Hell, if I was such an inconvenience, I would’ve just taken an Uber.”

“You’re the one who called me. Drunk, might I add. You think I wasn’t gonna show up?” Eren moved his body off of the bed, standing up now. His body language defensive.

Fair point. But still, why show up only to ice you out?

“Well yeah… you’re my friend. Isn’t that what friends do?” Your voice cracked a little on the last word. It made you feel weak. But shouldn’t you be allowed to feel weak around your best friend?

Eren stepped forward, head tilted slightly. “And what does that mean to you? Being friends?” He took another step. “Does it mean one person is stuck worrying if the other’s going to destroy themselves the second they’re left alone?”

You stepped back. “What the fuck do you mean by that, Eren? You think I can’t take care of myself?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Clearly, it fucking shows that you can’t! Who’s the one making sure you’re drinking water? Who reminds you to eat? To finish that paper due at the end of the week? Without me, where would you even be, huh?”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes. “Am I really that much of a burden to you? Aren’t we friends? That’s what friends do… right? Take care of each other?”

He looked away, eyes landing on the poster above his bed. “Of course we’re friends.”

“Yeah? Then what does that mean to you? Because right now, you’re acting like it’s a chore to care about me.” Your voice wavered, but the anger behind it was solid. “Just say it. If you don’t want to be in my life anymore, I’ll fucking go. I’ll leave you alone, Eren. You won’t have to worry about me again.”

“No, that’s not—Ugh, that’s not what I’m saying!” He ran his hands through his hair again. “Just stop being so fucking blind for one second!”

“NO! Stop telling me what to do! What are you, my fucking babysitter? You get mad every time I go out or do anything that doesn’t involve you. You’re acting like a jealous, possessive child.”

He scoffed. “A child? That’s rich coming from someone who made out with their ex like some pathetic excuse for closure. What was it again? Oh right… You’re still in love with someone else. Admit it.”

“In love? With someone else? Like who, Eren? You?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Pain flickered across his face.

“You… You don’t mean that, do you?”

“Oh, now you wanna act like you care about what I think?” you snapped. “Maybe I should’ve called Jean. Or Reiner. At least they wouldn’t throw shit in my face the second I let my guard down.”

You turned to storm out—but his hand caught your arm, firm. “Only me…” he mumbled.

Your eyes widened. “Eren, what the fuck are you doing? Let me—”

“I said, ‘I want you to need only me.’”

“You were just complaining about—”

“I know what the fuck I said,” he interrupted, his voice breaking. “But I’ve never once not shown up for you. Not once. I’m just so fucking frustrated because you don’t see it—you don’t see how much I care about you. How much I want to be the only one you need.”

You stood there, speechless. He’d never seen you that way. Quiet. Still.

And then you said it: “I… I don’t get it. You have women lining up for you. You never made it seem like I was anything more than just your friend. And now you’re yelling at me about not being able to take care of myself? That’s not how you confess to someone, Eren.”

The silence stretches. Eren’s jaw clenches, his fingers still wrapped tight around your arm. But now it’s not to stop you—it’s like he’s holding on, afraid that if he lets go, so will you.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, his voice softer now, tinged with something close to desperation. “You’re not a burden. You never were. It’s just—fuck—it’s exhausting watching you let people treat you like shit. Watching you chase people who’ll never show up for you like I do. Like I always fucking do.”

You stare at him. His face is flushed, eyebrows drawn together in frustration, but beneath all that, there’s something raw. Something fragile. You’ve never seen him this way. Not even when his mom passed. Not when his dad skipped town. Not even on that night you both sat under the train bridge, seventeen and scared of the world.

“I didn’t chase him,” you whisper. “It was stupid. I was drunk. I thought I wanted something that made sense because everything else feels like it’s spinning and—”

“You called me.” His voice cuts through, low and heavy. “You could’ve called anyone. Jean, Reiner… hell, even Mikasa. But you didn’t. You called me. So don’t stand there and act like I don’t matter.”

You blink at him, and maybe it’s the way his voice cracks near the end, or how his grip loosens as if afraid he’s crossed a line. But you can’t deny what he's saying. Because he’s right. You always call him. He’s the first name in your contacts and the only one who always picks up.

“Then say it,” you whisper. “Don’t skirt around it. Say what you want, Eren. Because I’m tired of trying to figure it out.”

His lips part, but the words falter on his tongue. You watch the war in his eyes—pride versus fear, longing versus restraint. Then, slowly, like he’s choosing to jump from a cliff with no landing in sight, “I want you. I’ve always wanted you. And I hate that it took you breaking your own heart for me to say it.”

You exhale shakily. The room feels still. His confession hangs in the air, vibrating with a quiet intensity.

“You’re a dumbass,” you finally say, but your voice is shaking. “You could’ve just told me instead of being a passive-aggressive shit head for the past few months.”

He snorts, eyes softening. “Yeah, well, you weren’t exactly giving off ‘date me’ vibes either.”

Silence again. This time, it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy with everything unsaid, but also something new.

Hope.

You glance down at his hand, still wrapped around your wrist. Then back at him. “So now what?”

Eren steps forward, slow and cautious like you’re something delicate. Something he’s afraid to break. “Now... you sleep in my bed. And we talk in the morning. And maybe... maybe you let me show you what it’s like to be loved right.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. His words are gentle, but his gaze is fierce, protective, possessive in a way that should scare you. But instead, it makes you feel safe.

The word leaves your lips so quietly you almost don’t hear yourself say it. “Okay.”

Eren exhales like he’s been holding his breath for eons. He steps forward again, slow and deliberate, his hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers. He intertwines them with his, grounding himself in the feel of your skin.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “If you don’t want—if this isn’t what you want—tell me now.”

Your heart pounds. “I called you because I wanted you,” you whisper. “Even if I didn’t realize it then… It’s always been you.”

That’s all he needs.

His mouth crashes onto yours, not rough, not forceful, but urgent. Like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart, and you just gave it to him. He kisses you like he’s starved for it. Your back hits the wall as his hands come up to cradle your face, lips pressing into yours with a desperate kind of reverence. His tongue slips past your lips, slow and deliberate, tasting, savoring. You moan into his mouth, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt until you yank it up and over his head. 

He breaks the kiss for a moment to shrug off his shirt. His hands go to cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks like he’s memorizing the feel of you, green eyes are blown wide with something primal.

You respond with a soft moan.

“I want you to remember this,” he says, voice low and firm. “Not him. Not anyone else. Me.”

He gently pushes you down onto the bed, crawling over you. He took you in below him. Your warm face, lips slightly swollen from kissing, and needy eyes that he could get lost in.

“You’re beautiful,” he mutters, almost like it hurts to admit. “You’re mine.”

You arch into his touch when a hand slides down your side. “Then show me, Eren.”

“Let me take my time with you,” he murmurs, kissing a path down your neck. “Wanna learn everything that makes you shake.”

You nod breathlessly.

Eren trails kisses over your collarbone, then lower, pulling your shirt up, lips ghosting over your stomach before you feel the warmth of his tongue teasing around your belly button. He glances up at you as he unbuttons your jeans, eyes asking silent permission.

You lift your hips in answer.

He slowly slides them off, dragging your underwear with them. “Soooo fucking pretty,” he mutters under his breath, spreading your legs gently. You feel exposed—vulnerable—but the hunger in his eyes makes you melt into it.

Eren leans down, pressing soft kisses along your inner thigh, then lets his tongue trace an agonizing path upward. His hands hold your hips in place as he licks a slow stripe up between your wet folds, piercing, emerald eyes flicking up to watch your reaction.

“God,” you breathe, fingers tangling in his hair, undoing the half bun.

He groans into you. “Say my name.”

“Eren…”

“That’s it. Louder, baby.”

He works you open with his tongue, methodical and unrelenting. One hand snakes up to squeeze your breast, thumb brushing your nipple while he sucks gently at your perky clit.

You’re a mess already, hips bucking toward his face, legs trembling. “Please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for.

“Want my fingers?” he asks, lips glistening as he pulls back just enough to speak. “Or should I keep making you cum just like this?”

“I-I want—fuck—you.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He crawls up your body, kissing along your stomach, your sternum, your jaw. His lips find yours again, and you taste yourself on his tongue. As he settles between your legs, two fingers slide into you first, slow, curling perfectly to hit that spot inside that makes you gasp.

“Feel good?” he whispers, thrusting them in and out gently.

You nod, panting. “Yes, Eren! I’m s-so close already—”

His fingers pump into you faster. “Wanna feel you cum around me. Want you to fall apart for me first.”

And you do. Your legs lock around him as you cry out, head thrown back, the orgasm crashing through you in waves. Eren keeps going until you’re twitching, until you have to push weakly at his hard chest.

He slides his fingers out gently, kissing your temple. “Still with me?”

“Barely,” you whisper, dizzy with pleasure.

“Good.” He undoes his belt with one hand, eyes locked on yours. “I’m not done showing you how much I want you.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, pulling out his hard cock from his jeans. You see the small glint of precum dripping down from the head to the shaft in the dim lighting of his room. Lining himself up between your thighs, he pushes the head of his cock to kiss your clit a few times. Sending waves of euphoria down your spine. One hand holds your waist, the other cups your face. “Look at me,” he says. “I wanna see your eyes when I’m inside you.”

You make eye contact with him, and it’s intense. When he pushes in, it’s slow, controlled. You both release a moan at the same time, and Eren buries his face into your neck with a strained breath. “Fuck. You feel like home.”

His hips roll, building a rhythm that’s deliberate, possessive, but worshipful. Each thrust grows more desperate, his lips brushing yours between curses and confessions between gritted teeth: 

“Only I get to see you like this.” “You called me, baby. Don’t forget that.” “Let me take care of you—like I’ve always wanted to.”

“Say you need me.” He begs.

“I need you,” you whisper, breathless. “Only you.” Your fingers claw down his back, nails leaving faint red trails.

That does something to him. His thrusts get sharper, deeper, and his voice turns guttural. “That’s right… You belong to me.” A hand moves down to grip your thigh and pushes it up, getting even deeper. Wet paps and huffs are all that fill the room 

Your moans turn incoherent, your body trembling under his. Eren slows just enough to press a kiss to your cheek, then your lips. “Gonna come for me?” he whispers, voice ragged. “Come while I’m inside you, yeah?”

You nod frantically, and with a few more thrusts, it hits you. Hard. Eren follows moments later. He groans your name like a prayer, spilling into you and holding you through every second of his orgasm. His thrusts become slower and sloppier until he stops, but still buried at the hilt.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just holds you close, his forehead resting against yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, lips brushing his.

A warm glow of morning leaks through the black curtains, painting gold across Eren’s bedroom walls. The apartment is quiet, still empty, still yours and his. The sheets are tangled at your ankles, warm skin pressed against warm skin. You’re the first to stir, blinking into the new day.

Eren’s arm is heavy around your waist, face buried into the crook of your neck. He’s not fully awake, but his grip tightens slightly when you try to shift away.

“Mmm, don’t move,” he mumbles, voice gravelly from sleep.

You smirk, the tension from the night before now replaced with something softer. “Dude, I have to pee.”

“No, you don’t,” he grumbles. “You just want to escape before I tell you how annoyingly cute you are in the morning.”

You snort. “You’re delusional. I look like I wrestled a raccoon in my sleep.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. His hair is a mess, wild wispy strands frame his face, and there’s a sleepy sort of affection in his gaze that makes your stomach twist in the best way.

“I’d wrestle a raccoon for you.”

You blink. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He grins, kisses your collarbone lazily, then flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “Too early to be emotionally vulnerable. Let me pretend I’m cool for ten more minutes.”

You roll to your side to face him. “You’re not cool. You cried when we watched A Silent Voice.”

“That was Armin’s fault for putting it on during finals week,” he says defensively. “I was already emotionally compromised between organic chemistry and microbiology.”

You laugh, and it’s easy—too easy, given everything that’s just happened the night before. That scares you a little. Because it feels good, and nothing good ever stays for long in your world.

Eren notices the shift instantly. Your laughter dies out, and your eyes fall to the sheet you start fidgeting with between your fingers.

“What is it?” he asks, softer now. “Talk to me.”

You hesitate for a moment, “Why’d you wait so long to tell me how you felt?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. You can almost hear him sifting through his thoughts before he finally answers.

“Because I thought I’d ruin what we’ve had for so long,” he says plainly. “You’re the most important person in my life. If I fucked this up—if I said the wrong thing, if you didn’t feel the same—I don’t think I could’ve handled losing you.”

Your throat tightens. “So instead you let yourself sit there and watch me fall apart?”

“I thought being your friend was enough,” he says. “But watching you kiss someone who didn’t give a shit about you? Watching you call him instead of me, or worse, go home with him instead of me. It killed me every single time.”

“I didn’t realize how much I was hurting you.”

“You weren’t,” he says quickly, reaching for your hand under the blanket. “Not on purpose. You’ve never been cruel. Just… blind. Like I was.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Eren shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. I’m telling you because last night meant something to me. Not just the sex. Not just the fighting. All of it. And I need to know we’re not pretending it didn’t happen.”

You stare at him. His brows are slightly furrowed, lips parted like he’s holding back more. And in that moment, you realize just how long he’s loved you. Quietly, steadily, even when you were looking the other way.

“We’re not pretending,” you whisper. “We’re here. I’m here.”

Relief softens his expression, like he’s been waiting years to hear that.

You press your forehead to his. “What now?”

“Now,” he says, brushing your cheek with his thumb, “you let me take you to breakfast. And we pretend like this is normal. Like we’ve always been like this.”

“And after breakfast?”

“I keep showing up. Like I always have. But this time, you let me love you out in the open.”

special thank u to @qichun for beta reading 🫶

[theseabreezestreet]

BEE'S SUMMER FLOWER STALL 2025

this year @theseabreezestreet is hosting its 2025 summer market event !! for my stall i have chosen to write present flowers w/ tropes and have it be about your selfships!

this event will only run from may 26th to june 23rd

what do i do?

i will have a lovely selection of flowers for you to pick from and each pertains to a fun little trope. please make sure you only select up to 3, as i want to ensure as many people as possible can get a bouquet. after selecting your flowers tell me who your f/o is and what your relationship is like :) after that, expect a fun little drabble on the tag of your bouquet !

rules

as i am only one person running this stall, make sure its only max 3 flowers per person. i ask that if you would like drabbles for multiple different ships send them in separate asks. i also hold to right to delete asks if they are anon

i only write for certain fandoms: aot, jjk, hq!!, mha, demon slayer, overwatch, marvel, league of legends, and star wars. i do not write for gatcha games (yet at least)

flower list ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

₊˚. rose - soulmates

₊˚. sunflower - grumpy x sunshine

₊˚. peony - fake relationship

₊˚. night-blooming cereus - enemies to lovers

₊˚. lavender - hurt/comfort

₊˚. tulip - mutual pining

₊˚. bleeding heart - ansgt w/ happy ending

₊˚. hydrangea - second chance romance

₊˚. pink carnation - friends w/ benefits to lovers

₊˚. ghost orchid - forbidden/secret love

₊˚. white lily - childhood friends to lovers

© 2025 sincerelyhunnybee. all rights reserved. please do not plagiarize, translate, reproduce, or distribute any of my writings. thanks!

[theseabreezestreet]

hello, hello, come here, come here! this is sunflower holiday agency, please come here for you free holiday tickets for you and your partner... haha, i jest. welcome to my event stall for @theseabreezestreet summer market event! are you, perhaps, interested in what i have to offer?

so, have you ever wondered what would be the perfect holiday for you and your partner? worry not, because i can help you with that! send me an ask and i will create a holiday-themed moodboard for you, alongside with a short description of the holiday i think you would enjoy with your f/o! 🏖 free of charge and with tickets gratis!

to request, all you need to do is send me an ask that includes your selfship, general information about it, how do you like to spend time together, and whatever else you would like to add! i won't mind if your ask ends up being a bit long, but please only put one selfship in one ask. note: it might take me a moment to do your request but rest assured, i will get to it. hopefully!! the fandoms i accept are genshin impact, honkai star rail and haikyuu. the stall is gonna run from 26th may to the 23rd june! thank you and enjoy <3

[theseabreezestreet]

circe's classical composition event stall !

one of my biggest passions in life will forever be music since i've been playing piano since i was five so i thought it'd be perfect to integrate music into my market stall for @theseabreezestreet's 2025 summer market event! this event will run from the 26th may to the 23rd june.

how do we request?

please send me an ask! this is a selfship event where you send me asks containing as much detail as you can about your selfship (and who it is with) so that i can make you a small playlist of songs regarding your selfship - maybe with a hidden surprise too! at least one song will be that of classical music as well. try not to overload the info but keep it to personalities, dynamics, jobs, relationship status and au!

are there any rules?

when requesting in this event, try to send one ask at a time as to not fill my inbox up to the point where it's overwhelming! if i've finished your request, feel free to come back with another! you can request for your canon universe or alternative universes, just let me know in the ask. please note that some fandoms i might be more confident in than others! typically i found in the following fandoms; genshin impact, honkai star rail, love & deepspace, jujutsu kaisen, the apothecary diaries, bungou stray dogs, windbreaker, demon slayer, overwatch, my hero academia and haikyuu. this event is open to all fandoms though, just make sure to include what fandom your selfship belongs in so i can search up your f/o successfully for you!

i'll see you all on the sheet music, happy requesting!

[theseabreezestreet]

-ˋˏ THE NEWLYWEDS ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. marrying the person you are in love with has to be the best decision you have ever made. here, we explore the daily life of these four suitors as newlyweds.

CHARACTERS. luke pearce, artem wing, vyn richter, marius von hagen

CONTENT. f!reader. married au. fluff, suggestive (artem & marius). 1.3k wc. rewrite of the newlyweds at my old main blog @/verxsyon. reader can be imagined either as rosa or an original character.

VERA. i don’t play this game much anymore, but i miss my boy luke.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. LUKE PEARCE

epitome of childhood friend romance. he’s the top tier bestie anyone could ask for.

he has been with you for as long as you can remember – through thick and thin, and through the good and the ugly. it’s natural for him to make jokes here and there around you, including marrying you when he comes back to stellis. little did you know, he was very serious about it. years later he will be at your door to put a ring on your finger, and the rest is history.

whenever he comes home from work, you are either cooking in the kitchen or sleeping on the couch while the TV is on. you two have a special welcome home greeting, which starts with a kiss on your temple followed by an exchange of heys.

“hey, lu.” to which he responds, “hey, you.” and afterwards, he’ll pepper more kisses along your jaw until he places one upon your lips before asking how your day went.

he loves to update you about his investigations. realizing that he can’t keep everything to himself, his goal is to confide in at least one person he can trust. it makes you so happy to hear that he’s enjoying his job despite the amount of stress he may be experiencing.

on his day-offs, he’ll marathon crime shows with you — popcorn, drinks, and everything. his favorite show to marathon is sherlock since he is inspired by him.

he claims to miss you whenever he’s away for long hours performing his investigations. to cope with his concern, your husband keeps a picture of you in his breast pocket so you’ll always be in his heart no matter where you are in the world.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ARTEM WING

he may appear cold and strict on the outside, but is actually a warm and awkward softie on the inside.

due to his status as basically being married to his job as a senior attorney, romance is the least of his worries until you enter his life. his approach to you for a date isn’t as smooth as the both of you had expected, but he improved in that aspect when he popped the question.

even after months into your marriage, he still doubts how he gives you affection. are his lips in the right place? is he holding your hand right? ever since the incident where he accidentally groped below your back when he was trying to hug you, he remains self-conscious whenever he touches you.

to make him comfortable with initiating intimacy, you would walk around the house half-naked and observe his reaction from there. instead of admiring your body, he rushes to lend you a piece of his clothing to cover yourself. what a gentleman indeed, but this is not the result you wanted.

“artem, honey.” he flinches at the heat enveloping his front. the sight of your bare legs makes his skin flush and paralyzes his movements. you guide his hands to your sides with a gentle smile on your face. “relax. you’re doing everything more than perfectly.”

a hidden talent of his is that he can cook, and my goodness his food is brilliant. on some days when you come home late at night, seeing a delicious platter by your husband is quite the treat. to further practice his romantic skills, he would set up wine, candles, and flowers as well. to be honest, he doesn’t need to go all out because cooking dinner is already romantic enough for you.

he is fond of children, especially their positive energy. in fact, it’s canon that he visits orphanages and hangs around them. the moment you step into one, he knows that the children will automatically love you. he would be lying if he said he didn’t imagine having a family with you, but time will tell when the two of you will be ready.  

𝄞༉‧₊˚. VYN RICHTER

a wise person once said, “he is the whole package.” a psychiatrist who is also a criminal psychologist and he’s hot as hell? not to mention that he’s also good at pretty much everything the universe has to offer.

his emotions are still hard to read even after marrying him, but he’s trying his best to make them transparent. although you can’t tell in plain sight, he appreciates every single thing about you, most especially your belief in him being loved.

in addition, he appreciates your knowledge in classical music. you have brought up the fact that you did play piano a while back multiple times while the two of you were still dating. his wedding gift to you was a grand piano, which made you cry not because he had thought of you, but because it cost thousands. that being said, you are touched that he had thought of you.

the grand piano surprise motivates you to regain and refine your musical skills from the past. you challenge yourself by practicing a difficult piece, which vyn recognizes almost immediately just by a few notes. your hands crash and burn against the white keys, startled by your husband’s sudden presence.

“keep playing, my love.” he snakes an arm around your waist to pull you into a kiss. “you are doing so well.”

besides psychology, he’ll be glad to teach you some of his hobbies such as equestrianism and gardening. in comparison to luke, he is also quite knowledgeable in areas either related to or outside of his expertise. you don’t know whether to admire or fear the capacity of his intellect.

whenever he’s free of work, he’ll take you on bike rides around the city and perhaps have picnics at the park. spending time with his spouse is what he deserves from juggling between teaching students to treating patients to solving cases on a daily basis.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. MARIUS VON HAGEN

a little shit. always a little shit, but is your little shit who deserves a slap in the face (affectionate).

your first meeting with the heir of the pax group was insufferable to say the least, justified by his constant teasing and duping. he was a person that you wanted to avoid at all costs, but he eventually managed to win your heart and settle down with you.

the von hagen household isn’t itself without the two of you bickering left and right. the topics in questions are usually miniscule, and marius is aware that lawyers do not invest their time in such types. he always forfeits from the arguments in your favor, suggesting that he’ll make it up to you with gifts.

speaking of gifts, he loves spoiling you with a range of his own paintings to stuffed animals from the arcade to luxurious brands of the pax group. he has done so much for you already, you tell him to stop buying all those things. of course, he doesn’t listen and still does it anyway to keep you happy.

the ultimate king – pun intended – of teasing doesn’t let you breathe in peace, whether that be in public or at home. as an act of revenge, you do the same. except more… spicy.

he sometimes catches you in your robe when he comes home from work. he seems to not suspect much other than you look very sexy in it; after all, he was the one who bought it. you’ll make your intentions known by whispering in his ear, “i’m not wearing anything under.” let’s just say he doesn’t waste any time to wipe that so-called innocent smile off your face.

somewhat on the same side of the spectrum, he paints portraits of you which he hangs around the house. you made a mistake of telling him to “draw me like one of your french girls”, and now he won’t stop pestering you to take your clothes off. the paintings of you are priceless; they’re for his eyes only.

[theseabreezestreet]

Our June application season has started albeit a day late! It will close again on the 13th June as per taking the late day into account. We are currently hosting our Summer Market event and will be catching up the vendors' works soon!

You can find more about applying to become one of our vendors in our pinned post.