iâm obsessed with the idea of cult leader!geto pining for a reader who just fucking hates him. i donât know why just. maybe itâs someone from his past that he left behind when he defected, maybe theyâre bitter and spiteful and all they do is hiss and bite but heâs so smitten. you can do no wrong in his eyes. he deserves the curses and anger, he knows, and he receives them with a smile and eyes full of hearts. he gets giddy when you scowl at him. he just thinks youâre love personified. heâs so gentle and patient that itâs infuriating because nothing you do or say will get him to bite back. itâs like youâre a kitten gnawing at his fist but he does nothing but coo at you even when you draw blood
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âsatoru put me down!â
âcmon sweetheart you know Iâd never drop you,â he grins, effortlessly walking to the middle of the living room with you in his arms, âhold on tight âkay?â he smiles, watching as your eyes grow wide.
âwh-â youâre cut off by your own shriek as the wind around you whooshes, and you feel like youâre free falling for a second before you open your eyes again.
âwhoa!â satoru cries, letting go of you for only a moment, enough to make your grip around him tighten and your eyes to screw shut again, âkidding!â he giggles, holding you tighter to his chest and placing a soft kiss to the top of your head.
âi thought i was gonna die!â you cry out, wiggling out of his grip and finally standing on solid ground, a new found gratitude for the floor as you cross your arms over your chest. âI am never doing that again,â you mumble.
satoru pouts at you, groaning a bit as he pulls you into his chest. âcmon baby it wasnât so bad! you got to be carried by me the whole time!â the cocky grin on his face turns into a sheepish one when you smack his chest repeatedly. âand no traffic!â
âyou almost dropped me!â you fight back, trying your best to not smile at the white haired sorcerer, âi saw my life flash before my eyesâ you frown.
âtechnically i only pretended to drop you,â he corrects, but the look in your eyes has him standing up a bit straighter, ânot that it matters, i should have never done that and i should definitely repent for my wrong doings.â
he hangs his head low, as he lets out a sigh, âplease find it in your kind, beautiful heart to forgive me, my love.â you canât help as the smile breaks onto your face, shoving him slightly. satoru is quick to lift his head, a charming smile on his lips as he looking at you through the bangs tickling his eyes.
âi guess i can forgive you,â you sigh dramatically, âjust this once, next time youâre done for.â satoru nods happily, pulling you into his arms and kissing your face.
just as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek, heâs moving to your ear, his breath sending a chill down your spine as he speaks up. âjust for the record, Iâd never let you get hurt.â
your mind is a bit hazy as he straightens out, mumbling something about there being a better view across town. youâre only snapped out of your daze when you feel his arms lifting you up, eyes wide as you realize whatâs happening.
âgojo donât you-!â the air is whooshing around you once more, and the familiar drop of your stomach has you shrieking and gripping onto your lover tighter than before.
âcalling me gojo now?â he pouts, giggling when you smack him and force him to put you down. âlook,â he points, watching as you turn around, mouth agape as you take in the view ahead.
you could see the whole skyline from where you stood, the sunset painting the city in hues of red, oranges and yellows. âokay, maybe itâs a little worth it,â you whisper, giggling as satoru pulls you into his chest. âitâs so pretty up here.â
satoru doesnât take his eyes off you as he hums in agreement, âbeautiful,â he replies, a smile growing on his face as you shove him.
he doesnât care, giggling uncontrollably when he sweeps you off your feet again, laughing when you shriek as he pretends to lose grip again, apologizing in kisses and setting you down.
masterlist
a/n: hi hi just another sweet little something while i finish writing this paper due tonight </3 i hope u guys liked it :3
taglist (send an ask to be added!): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @4sat0ruu @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags @fushironi @nineooooo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @gojoshooter @sat6ru @beautiful-is-boring @luna0713hunter @torusmochi
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SIXTY-FOUR EQUALS SIXTY-FIVE!
RANPO EDOGAWA ⎠BUNGO STRAY DOGS
premise. ranpo loves to give you all sorts of little riddles, but this one might have you stumped the most out of all of them.
story notes! fem!reader. fluff! reader works as part of the ADA office staff. animated dividers by @/cafekitsune!
love, misa âš3 if you know what the title is referencing, ily! also, reblogs, comments and interactions are vrie appreciated!
â. . . Pardon?â
Ranpo looks to you with a pointedly smug grin playing on his face, hands relaxedly folded behind his head as he leans back in the ADA officeâs chair. It creaks beneath him as he plants his feet atop the mahogany desk and swivels around slowly, a sign that you should probably get the seat oiled soon.
âItâs simple, is it not?â He asks and you slowly shake your head no, mouth slightly agape when he starts to sigh, repeating his prior statement.
âSixty-four equals sixty-five, and thatâs that!â
You blink a few times, hoping that the information sinks in a little more inside of your beain just long enough that you can even begin to process whatever he means.
The words play back in your mind like an old VHS tape, abruptly coming to a halt when you canât fall into a proper, conclusive or logical answer that would make sense in any normal situation.
âThatâs . . . false,â you begin to argue, albeit a bit unsurely as you have no idea what to even say in the moment. Your mouth moves faster than your brain as you tell him the only logical thing you can think of.
âIf sixty-four equalled sixty-five than it would be sixty-five and not sixty-four.â
Ranpo lets out a laugh, only telling you that âYouâre wrong,â and for a second you look around the ADA office wondering if there were any cameras filming the two of you. You find that the other office clerks are merely seated at their own desks though, watching the spectacle between you and Ranpo go down, and a little amused at your bewilderment.
Youâd think that for a man who is labelled as the greatest detective in all of Yokohama (and quite possibly the entire world once you took into account his inherent genius and lack of an ability), that much would make sende for someone like him.
Surely he couldnât have said a more incorrect statement than that with such confidence in himself.
But no, of course not.
Itâs Ranpo youâre dealing with, and he says a lot of odd little phrases and sayings just to mess with your head sometimes. It started since your first day with the ADA, itâs been years now and heâs still going too.
He doesnât show any signs of stopping soon either.
(âYou just look so funny with your face all scrunched up in thought!â He once told you after a particularly difficult riddle that had you stumped for hours on end until the end of the work day, afterwhich you realized the answer was unfathomably easy once he had revealed it to you.
Nobody else in the ADA couldâve gotten it though, so it saved you at least some of your dignity.)
You assume that this must be another one of those cryptic riddles heâs thrown your way, maybe a test to see if youâve somehow managed to improve from last time. An inkling of hope swells inside your chest, hoping that today is the day you finally manage to answer correctly to one of Ranpoâs mysterious riddles.
Setting down the bowl of candies in your hands on his desk, you stand in thought for a moment, scouring your brain for anything that could relate to the riddle as Ranpo delightedly digs into the newfound treats, appearing blissful to the mental agony he loves to put you through sometimes.
The little dish clinks against his fingernails as he searches through the pile of sweets for his favourites at the bottom, the sound of the plastic unwrapping in tune with the beat of the ticking in your brain while you think over his words from earlier.
He gave no set up, no punch line, no nothing at all. There wasnât any indistinguishable context to the riddle-like words that you could recall, it was onlyâ
âSixty-four equals sixty-five . . .â Ranpo hears you mutter underneath your breath, and his lips curl up in delight as he munches on a decadent chocolate truffle, filled with sticky caramel and generous bits of toffee.
The caramel sticks to his teeth, with the toffee clinging to the sides of his tongue and the roof of his mouth as he chews away at the treat, patiently watching while you continue to talk to yourself, still thinking over his words from earlier.
âCould it be a math riddle? No, thatâs not possible though if weâre going by technical math terms and rules . . . Maybe something to do with physics? But how could anything simultaneously be sixty-four and sixty-five?â
Ranpoâs mischievous grin only continues to grow as you remain oblivious to his watchful eyes, and his gaze scans over your features, wordlessly taking in your appearance.
Your knitted brows, the way you subconsciously pout your lips whenever youâre in deep thought, your crossed arms, all while unknowingly talking to yourself as you piece together the clues.
Ranpo sees it all as clear as day. And he finds it unbelievably cute.
âMaybe itâs about hex codes from the colour wheel, since one colour can look different depending on the background itâs placed over. It could have less to do with the numbers themselves than the meaning or history behind themââ
âAre you done yet?â Youâre brought back to reality by the sound of Ranpoâs voice interrupting your thoughts, head perking up as youâre met with the sight of his nougat stuffed cheeks. All puffed out and full of sugar as he holds back a laugh once he sees how quickly your face softened from itâs previously hardened features.
âYou were taking forever to solve that one! And itâs really not that hard to begin with!â
âSpeak for yourself,â you scoff, taking one of the chocolates from the bowl and unwrapping it for yourself. The plastic crinkles beneath your fingertips, you stuff the wrapper in your pocket before popping it into your mouth.
The caramel sauce encased in the hard chocolate shell explodes when you crunch down on it, a sweet little victory to make up for the quizzical hurdles youâre put through on a regular basis, courtesy of the man sitting right across from you.
âYouâre Yokohamaâs greatest detective, itâs obvious that these sorts of riddles come naturally to you,â you wholeheartedly confess, savouring the light cocoa and sweet, subtly coconut flavours that coat your tongue. âIâm not like you, Ranpo. Nobody in the ADA is, what takes us twelve weeks to solve you can answer in twelve seconds.â
âAwee, really?â He giggles, swiping more of the little candies from the bowl on his desk. He seems to have missed the original point entirely by now, as he motions for you to continue, âGo on, tell me more about how great I am!â
You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him, maybe you shouldnât have gassed him up so much during your little acknowledgement speech. Though with the cases heâs solved in his repertoire, you really canât argue against that title of his.
âNo, youâve had enough of that from Kunikida and Atsushi just this morning alone.â
A small pout graces Ranpoâs lips as you sigh, ignoring the kicked puppy eyes he gives you while walking back to your desk, continuing to mutter underneath your breath the same words that will probably leave you stumped for the next few days on end.
âSixty-four equals sixty-five?â
Ranpo cranes his head as he eats away at the rest of his candy stash, watching you immediately turn to one of your co-workers from his own work space to ask them the same question Ranpo gave you, inquiring about any clues they might have as to the answer.
âNo, thereâs gotta be an answer,â he overhears when your colleague shrugs their shoulders, simply telling you that whatever Ranpo says is probably just a load of gibberish meant to mess with your mind.
âJustâ just give me anything you can think of, okay? Iâll solve one of his riddles one day.â
The sight has Ranpo smiling behind the back of his hand, eyes crinkling at the corners with glowing cheeks when you sees you bring out one of your notepads from the desk drawerâs, clicking your pen as you begin to write down any guesses you might have to tell him later.
Truth be told, unlike the rest of the spontaneous mind games Ranpo pulls on youâ this one has no actual meaningful answer. At least, not one that youâd understand at the moment if he were to tell you itâs solution.
But despite that looming factor always casting itâs dark shadow onto you, the thought of Ranpo giving you a riddle truly impossible to solve has never really crossed your mind.
Otherwise, you would very easily give up solving them after just a moment of contemplation.
Ranpoâs noticed though that you tend to wallow on them for days at a time unless he comes clean and tells you the answer in itâs entirety, letting his silly and easily misconstrued words stew inside your head during your lunch breaks and slow times at the ADA where youâll maybe sometimes bound up to him excitedly with a guess as to what you think the answer is.
Itâs charming how much thought you put into your solutions, and admittedly youâve gotten quite close a few times to figuring them out all on your own. Ranpoâs always impressed with whatever you come up with, even if itâs outlandishly ridiculous or nowhere even close to the actual answer itself.
Itâs really your explanations and logic behind them that he likes, with some of the ideas you bring up for splutions are those that he hasnât even thought of beforehand until you ask him if theyâre right.
(Sometimes he wants to cut your little game short and just give you the win for once if your guess is creative enough.
But whereâs the fun in that?)
Heâll give you more of these up until the day you leave the ADA (though he hopes thatâs not anytime soon) if it means he gets to see that delightful little confused but hopeful expression you make while deep in thought.
Your persistence in finding out the answer on your own until youâve been truly worn out by him is also admirable.
Because while youâre always just a bit confused by all the different riddles, puzzles and play-on-words he hounds on you each day, he finds that youâve yet to actually reject his proposal to solving them, never even considering walking away from his absurdity unlike with most people he knows if he asked them the same.
He prays itâll stay that way too.
Otherwise, who else would he have to fawn over in secret?
Ranpo deduces that while you may be clever (anyone who works at the ADA is, itâs basically a requirement when working with ability users such as them), heâs always just a few steps ahead of you.
Itâs not an insult towards you on his end in any way either. Your way of thinking is totally different from his own, but he reasons out that he can make arrangements to improving your logical deduction abilities once he finally figures out how to convey his feelings for you.
Properly, and not through a series of complex paradoxes and logic puzzles.
The most complex riddle of them all though that the ADA office staff asks themselves each day while witnessing the two of you has to be:
Whose logical reasoning is really being tested here again? Yours, or Ranpoâs?
The ADA believes that Ranpo should use less of his time giving you intrinsically methodical puzzles and focus more of his energy on realizing his blooming, lovesick crush.
works Š amamisa 2024. no copying or stealing, please!
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[When the curse activity rises around the country, you reluctantly return to the school to help the sorcerers. Gojo Satoru seizes the opportunity to plead the case of his lovesickness. If you came back, maybe you and him can come back together, too?]
You've often wondered how it would feel to come back. Would you be excited? Or would the weight of the memories push you to the ground? How many things would be different and how many would you recognize?
A bitter chuckle leaves your mouth. You're a grown woman and yet you're nervous like an 8-year-old with mismatched socks. The overhead sign Jujutsu Tech feels imposing as though the genius loci of the school is telling you to turn back and leave; just like it did when you were a teenager, entering an unfamiliar world of unfathomable possibilities. The girl you used to be, afraid of what the future is bound to hold, could never imagine the respect and awe with which your name is spoken now. It's almost miraculous, really.
But there are more important things at hand than melancholy.
You sigh, pushing yourself to walk forward. The rock steps feel the same under your feet as they did years ago, the wooden floorboards inside the entry room still creak in the same note. For what it's worth, nothing about Jujutsu Tech seems any different than it did then.
Nothing.
You know very well he's sitting in the corner, staring at you. It's a habit he has picked up quite a long time ago - watching, observing, studying. He used to do that only to learn a few things about you and appear as charming as he possibly could. But with time this little unnerving habit stuck around.
At first, he looks laid-back. Overconfident, as he usually is. Although you know him a little too well and so you notice the way he's crossing his arms on his chest, his shoulders tense and raised. The greatest sorcerer in the world is nervous when in the presence of his high school sweetheart.
"Long time no see, Satoru," you finally speak up.
"You're even prettier than I remember," he answers, bothering to sound casual. He almost succeeds.
"And you're exactly the same, it seems."
You stare him up and down. The blindfold in place of sunglasses and the plain, black robes make him appear more professional. Still, Satoru's untamed white hair gives him a juvenile look. Maturity is supposed to arrive with age but perhaps the age arrived alone in his case.
Gojo sits further back on the old couch. He rests his hands behind his head. A half-grin curves his lips - the very same smile that always made you equally annoyed and weak in the knees. Truly, if Satoru wasn't as charming as he is, you'd have strangled him years ago.
"Ah," he sighs. "Perfection can't be improved."
Crossing your arms on your chest, you give him a playful look. "Then how come I'm supposedly prettier?"
Suddenly, Gojo leans forward. "Good question." He rubs his chin in faux thoughtfulness. You've learned better than to trust his little theatrics, no matter how amusing they are. "I never understood how this works. Just when I thought you're equal to a goddess, you make all of them look plain."
You feel your hands shaking. If your heart doesn't slow down soon, you might have a serious problem. As warm as your face gets, you hope the blush is not visible. How embarrassing to fall again for his wax poetic right away...
Trying to hide how flustered his words have made you, you force out a chuckle. "Gojo Satoru, always the sweet-talker, eh?"
Despite your best attempt at dismissing the entire situation, the man in front of you seems to have caught on to your bashfulness. After all those years, has he been craving to see you blushing and giggling again?
"If you keep saying my name like that, I might fall in love with you," he warns you half-heartedly.
The realization hits you at one moment. Something you've been suspecting, maybe hoping for even, has been proven right between his smooth talking and shaky breaths. Now that you think about it, it's all painfully obvious: how excited he seems to see you again, the immediate rush to dish out compliments and the rather poor attempt at appearing all suave and laid-back.
"You never fell out," you declare with undeniable certainty in your voice. "Did you?"
Something about the air changes instantly. The sparks of a maybe-rekindled romance have gone out, leaving both of you cold and distant towards each other.
Those few seconds of silence feel almost like hours. The quietness is ringing in your ears, pushing at your thoughts to say something. Anything! Just stop this suffocating unease from eating you alive.
This time, it's Gojo who breaks the silence first. "I stand by what I said back then: you're the one for me. It's either you or no one."
Fortunately, unforeseen aid comes almost immediately - before the tension between the two of you could choke you, a cacophony of teen voices, seemingly engaged in a loud feud, echoes throughout the building.
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RODEO STATION, 2 â MEGUMI FUSHIGURO
A collection of you and Megumi through the years, through Gojoâs eyes.Â
content, warnings: childhood friends to lovers, canon-adjacent, satoru adopts megumi and tsumiki, reader has a cursed technique sort of delved into here
word count: 2.2k
part ii: you and megumi are ten, tsumiki is eleven, gojo is twenty-ish?, about six or seven months after gojo meets all of you, and adopts megumi and tsumiki. you can read part one here
The moment that Satoru met him, he knew that Megumi was a little troublemaker and there was little he could do to stop that. Satoru didnât mind for the most part, and he couldnât blame the kid eitherâhonestly, he was more surprised that Megumi didnât routinely get himself into more trouble, but he supposes he has you and Tsumiki to thank for that.Â
Heâd naively believed that you and Tsumiki both played the role of anchoring maternal figure for Megumi, but it only takes a few weeks for Satoru to learn that itâs Tsumiki that serves as the anchor for you two. Satoru then earnestly wonders if you were bullying Megumi with the way youâre able to keep him under your thumb, but when Megumi adamantly refutes this with the nastiest, most offended scowl Satoruâs ever seen on a kid before, he backs off and reasons that this is just how your relationship with Megumi works.
And, as it turns out, Megumi is the only one doing any sort of bullying. Heâs ten and Satoru has been to more parent-teacher conferences than any other parent has ever possibly attended in their lifetime. He didnât even know that it was possible for kid his age to get kicked out of school, especially at this point in the year. Thereâs only three months left until summer vacation, so Satoru enlists Ieiriâs help in enrolling Megumi into public school to finish out fifth grade. She also reassures him that this separation from you and Tsumiki is temporary, and that you would all be able to attend middle school together again in the fall.Â
The major problem then becomes that you all get dismissed at different times. You and Tsumiki used to end your days at the same time, but Tsumiki starts staying late to take piano lessons. However, this is remedied by the mother of a friend of Tsumikiâs, who drives her home afterwards; an older woman that Satoru becomes eternally grateful for. Even so, youâre dismissed thirty minutes before Megumi, and some shuffling has to be done to align your commutes. Satoru knows that the three of you took yourselves to and from school before he came into the picture, and that most kids your age are more than capable getting home on their own, but after you told him that some old man from the Kamo clan came to talk to you after school one day, he canât help but to worry.Â
Satoru isnât your guardian, not in the way that he is for Megumi and Tsumiki, but that doesnât mean that he doesnât feel responsible for youâmorally, financially, emotionally, and more importantly, for his own safety because he knows heâd have both Divine Dogs biting at his ankles if something curse-related happened to you and he didnât do anything to stop it.Â
You were currently under the care of your elderly great aunt who hadnât a shred of cursed energy from what Satoru could tell. He had Principal Yaga do a background check, and found no other sorcerers in your immediate family, nor any traceable Kamo relatives, and more importantly, you didnât possess any sort of Blood Manipulation technique. Satoruâs seen what you can do so far to control water, has even seen you give the Divine Dogs trouble in a gentle sparring matchâyouâre impressive, even at your young age, so he can understand why a powerful clan might see the potential in you, but the Kamo clan isnât historically welcoming of outsiders. If youâre not related to them, he canât fathom why any member would physically approach you.Â
The old man never revealed his name to you, but Satoruâs certain itâs either a clan elder, or the current head himself; neither of which bring him any comfort. In the spirit of their traditional ways, he doubts anyone would actually try to harm you out in the open, but Satoru still wants to keep you on close watch for a little while. He thinks heâs the best man for the job. Heâs quickly proven otherwise.Â
He exorcises curses with a bit of hastiness and little tact in order to be there when you get dismissed from school. Ieiri says itâs creepy to follow you from a distance, but Satoru is just doing what he can to protect you. If somebody else is following you, he wants to see who they are. Theyâll never approach or reveal themselves if he hovers next to you, and if you half the pride that Megumi has, youâd run him out of town if he ticked you off by playing overprotective big brotherâso, instead, he positions himself far enough away to observe you, and close enough to defend if need be.Â
He never needs to.Â
For as wild and boisterous as you are with Megumi and Tsumiki, you follow a simple, quiet after school routine. You walk with Tsumiki and her friends to the west gate to drop them off at piano practice, then cross the street to buy a snackâthis differs, but you always get a carton of strawberry milkâand then walk to the train station. Itâs a ten minute walk from your school to the station, and a fifteen minute walk from Megumiâs school to the station, which is why Satoru doesnât quite know how the kid manages to keep you waiting for only seven minutes on average when he already gets out of school thirty minutes after you.Â
Once he gets over the initial shock, he canât help but to be amused. He knows that when Megumi first changed schools, he started meeting you on the train, two stops laterâat the one closer to his new school. But in the last week, Megumi has walked himself seventeen blocks east, at what Satoru guesses must be an inhuman pace, just to meet you at the station closest to you.Â
When two weeks have passed since the unknown Kamo elder has contacted you, and no other incidents have occurred, Satoru resigns his position as perimeter watchdog. He has a bunch of missions to catch up on anyway, and he figures that you and Megumi are safe in each otherâs care for now.Â
A few weeks later, after catching up on his assignments, Satoru decides to check back in. He knows he doesnât have to, but something in his stomach is telling him to. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the curse he fought earlier today had some kind of toxic blood that has him thinking the worst could happen to you, or getting a call that Megumi had been cutting some of his classes, or that heâs tired and delusional and worried and scared, or maybe itâs just his blooming maternal instincts telling him something is wrong, but he rushes to spy on your commute home.Â
Heâs late. Megumi isnât with you, and youâre already on the train when he makes it to the station and he can sense two sources of cursed energy trailing way too close behind you just as the train doors shut. His mind is racing irrationallyâis this an unusual move by the Kamo clan, or perhaps someone else? Word had certainly gotten around that heâd picked up Toji Fushiguroâs kid, plus another kid with immense cursed potential, and Satoru himself and the Gojo clan have more than enough enemies. Whatever it may be, he doesnât take his chances, using his newly honed short-range teleportation skills to make it to the next station before the train can.Â
Heâs panting, thinking about every worst possible scenario at once, wondering how to best deal with whoever or whatever was targeting you, especially in such a crowded place, wondering if youâre safe, if Megumi was safeâwhy wasnât he with you? Has someone already gotten to him, too? Was Tsumiki even at piano practice? Oh god, if he hasnât already been kidnapped, Megumi is totally going to kill him if something happens to you.Â
Satoru rushes onto the train as soon as the door opens, eyes wildly scanning for you through the crowd, ready to strike when he finally finds youâseated towards the back of the car, reading the book that Tsumiki had loaned to you, quietly, and both the black and white Divine Dogs sitting on either side of you.Â
And Satoru has to laugh at himself. If heâd stopped for even a moment (or if heâd gotten more than two hours worth of sleep in the past three weeks trying to make up all his assignments), heâd have recognized Megumiâs residuals, would have recognized the energy of the dogs, and would have pieced together that there wasnât a single threatening aura in the vicinity.Â
Oopsies.Â
âGojo?â you call to him, not too loud as to not to disturb everyone elseâs commute. âHow come youâre here?âÂ
Satoru shuffles through the crowd and holds onto the overhead rail once heâs next to you. The white dog moves to settle underneath your short legs, blinking at him with disinterest. âGot off a little early today, thought Iâd surprise you brats, thatâs all,â he says, then motions to the dogs next to you, âWhereâs Megumi?âÂ
You blink at him. Satoru knows you probably donât believe him, but you spare him the embarrassment when you donât push it further. âHe had to make up a credit today, so heâs getting on at the next stop. Do you want a sandwich? They only had ones with peppers today, so Megumi wonât eat it, but Mr. Teuchi gave me two, anyway.âÂ
âWhat, is he allergic or something?â Satoru questions, accepting your offer, and the seat next to you when he starts to unwrap the sandwich.Â
âNo, heâs just picky,â you tell him, closing your book to unwrap yours, too. Youâre quiet, taking your first two bites, before you turn to him again, âHow did you know Megumi was missing?â
Satoru chokes. It gains him a few concerned stares, and even a pointed ear from the black dog, before he regains his composure. âUm... he tells me usually he follows you home from the other stop, thatâs why.âÂ
âThen why didnât you try to surprise us at the other stop?â
Satoru pauses again. Since when did ten year olds get so lippy and observant? âI did, but I was late. So I sort of,â Satoru leans down, crinkling the empty sandwich wrapper in his right hand and uses his left to beckon you towards him to whisper, âTeleported here.â He pulls back, prideful, and crosses his legs, âPretty cool, right?âÂ
âSo, why didnât you just teleport to the first station when you realized you were going to be late?â You question, mocking his whispering tone when you repeat the word.Â
âHey, you think doing that kind of stuff comes automatically? I canât just pop up anyplace at any time,â Satoru groans, a bit overdramatically, âNot yet, anyway. Iâll be able to do that soon.âÂ
You hum, kicking your legs happily as you take another bite out of your snack. âI think I get it. Megumi says itâs hard spreading out and controlling your cursed energy over long distances, but heâs been practicing hard. He can send the dogs way far away from him now.âÂ
âI see,â Satoru turns his chin down, eyeing the Divine Dogs with a gentle smile. He almost says that itâs easier to send shikigami on their own, especially those like Megumiâs, and particularly when you anchor them to another source of cursed energy such as yourself, but you look way too proud of Megumi for him to burst your bubble. He also declines to say that Megumi probably doesnât send the dogs to you on days like this just for the sake of practicing.Â
A crush isnât quite exactly the motivation Satoru pictured when he told Megumi heâd have to work hard and get strong, but whatever works, works.Â
Ten minutes later, the train comes to a steady halt. Megumi is the first new passenger on board, and unlike Satoru, he doesnât need to turn his head wildly, every which way to find you. Youâre like a beacon to Megumi, he easily finds the both of you in the last seats in the car, and steadily makes his way to you.Â
Megumi greets you before he greets Satoru, taking the seat across and facing you before he turns to the taller man with a much less receptive frown, âWhat are you doing here?âÂ
âI believe the word youâre looking for is hello, Megumi,â Satoru teases, reaching across to ruffle his already unruly hair. Megumi grumbles, batting his offending hand away.
âGojo ate your sandwich,â you chirp.Â
âWhat?â Satoru yells, incredulous, âI did not. You gave it to meâtell him!âÂ
You have much more fun watching Satoru scramble than defending his honor. Itâs only when Satoru gives his best pout that you admit to Megumi that you offered up his sandwich, consoling him with the fact that it included his least favorite ingredient and making it up by pulling out two cartons of strawberry milk for him. Megumi accepts them both with quiet thanks, cheeks growing pink to match the cartons, and you smiling widely when he takes his first sip.Â
Satoru had a hunch those were for Megumi. So, this isnât one-sided. Good for you kids.Â
Itâs another twenty-six minutes before itâs time for you all to get off the train. The Gojo-Fushiguro residence and your great auntâs house are in opposite directions, but are both just a short five minute journey from the station exit. One you can certainly make on your own, and still, Megumi insists that you let the dogs walk with you and that heâll release them once youâre home.Â
âItâs good practice,â Megumi mumbles, shooing you on your way uphill, âI want to know how long I can keep them out, too.âÂ
You have that same look on your face that you had earlier, like you donât quite believe Megumi, but just as with earlier, you donât say anything, sparing Megumi and Satoru a formal goodbye and a wave before heading home. Satoru and Megumi turn to walk back to their own house, he canât help but to smile every time Megumi turns his head to look back at your silhouette.Â
Satoru decides that youâre not Megumiâs anchor, youâre the lighthouse that guides him to shore, a light that he follows with faith and reason; a safe haven that Megumi seeks to protect. Satoru can admire that, but he wonders what happened that could make the most unruly kid he knows pledge his allegiance like that. Megumi would have refused Satoruâs aid if he hadnât agreed to let you stay in his life, and although heâd chalked it up to puppy love before, Satoruâs beginning to wonder if thereâs anything he, or anyone, even could do to separate the two of you.Â
Likely not, he concludes, when two weeks later, your class goes on a field trip and Megumi is the one who comes home exhausted and crashes onto the couch immediately. When Satoru asks, all he gets is a tired grunt; but shortly after Megumi falls asleep, he can feel a few extra shadows at his feet, and a glimpse of the white dog before she completely vanishes into the darkness.Â
Satoru chuckles, leaning down to ruffle Megumiâs hair before heading to the kitchen to make a snack for Tsumiki. If this is the rate that Megumi trains to keep his loved ones protected, then Satoru has no worries about him getting strong enough to keep up with him.
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á´ÉŞÉ˘á´Ęá´á´á´á´ ę°á´Ę á´á´Ąá´ | á´á´ÉŞ Ęá´Ęá´á´á´á´Ąá´ x Ęá´á´á´
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syn: as strong-willed as he thinks he is, aki can't help but indulge you every once in a while. he's too weak for you. or, aki shotguns you.
in the past, aki wouldâve never admitted to being an addict.
whether it be the cigarettes that are always a few inches away from his twitching fingers, tucked in his pocketâ or the alcohol he lets himself indulge in as a sort of tradition he'd treat himself to; a toast to the next day he lives to see, he likes to think his resolve is a little stronger than an itch in his lungs here and there.
still, it's not like he refrains from doing itâ his policy is that he's going to end up in the grave soon one way or another, so in his eyes, it's just one rusted nail in the coffin that's a sliver away from being sealed. youâve complained about it before, but he just canât rip himself away from the smoke. itâs too bad he canât turn you pocket sized and carry you around in his palm; youâre a great substitute to the hit of nicotine in terms of soothing his constantly buzzing mind.
his leniency towards those types of things dashes when it comes to you, though. like the breaking foam of waves that crash against a rocky shoreline.
âi said, no.â
aki thought heâd already been firm enough with you the first time, but evidently not. even so, no matter how much you pout and whineâ he is not letting you take a drag from his cigarette.
normally, he wouldnât care. itâs not like heâs never shared one beforeâ he used to steal drags from himeno all the time, until you expressed your disdain and he stopped immediately. itâs not that he doesnât find your jealousy cuteâ quite the opposite, in fact. he just doesnât want you getting any stupid ideas.
youâre certainly not making it easy for him, though.
âcome on aki, please?â itâs not uncommon for you to plead like that. since youâve started dating, aki, or rather, you, have found that the best way to melt his strength of will is to beg.
aki likes taking care of you. itâs in his nature; whatever spirit of a big brother that was left in him after he lost his family gradually nurtured and bloomed in your relationship, especially with someone as⌠irresponsible as you.
as such, itâs his (self appointed, youâd argue) job to make sure youâre in good health. and heâs very quickly picked up on the fact that learning to say no to you is the one and only lifeline keeping this relationship from drifting off into an irreversible spiral of spoiling you to no end.
in this particular instance, you approached him one morning with a poorly hidden agenda; the balcony door slid open as warmth from the apartment mingled with the chilly early morning breeze. aki was immersed in his newspaper and halfway through a cigarette when youâd spoken up, with the request to âhave a tasteâ. heâd immediately said no and left you looking like a sad wet cat on the porch to make breakfast.
heâs regretting that decision thoroughly, now. you wonât stop bugging him, and even though he finds comfort in the sound of your voice, itâs the last thing he wants to hear right now. not because youâre annoying, but that he knows if you say his name in that tone a few more times heâll fold.
âwhy not? you do it all the time! i just want to give it a try.â you sighed softly, tilting your head to the side as you lean against the cold marble of the kitchen counter, watching him wash dirty carrots. the vivid green leaves bob up and down beneath the pressure of the sink water as he scrubs them clean, before looking down at you.
âit rots your bones.â
âyour bones are fine!â
âi already told you iâm not going to let you. just give it up, love.â he murmurs, turning his attention back to the vegetables in his hands. âcutting board, please.â
you oblige and lean over the counter, grabbing the wooden board from where it leans against the counter wall and hand it over to him. his hands are wet, so you donât let go until youâre sure he has a firm grip on the board. he uses his other hand to turn the faucet off, droplets clinging to the reflective metal.
âaww, donât be like that. whatâs the harm in just one hit?â you protested, hauling yourself onto the countertop, legs dangling over the edge as your heels hit the cupboards. aki rolls his sleeves up again, revealing the pale bandages on his arms as he shakes the water clinging to his fingers off and grabs a knife and begins to cut into the carrots, dicing them up.
âdonât be stupid.â he scoffs, not looking at you. you watch his arm move up and down with each motion, the thud of the knife hitting the dull cutting board. "i always am." you grumbled under your breath, but he just ignores you.
âyou know thatâs not how it works. how do you even think people get addicted in the first place, [name]?â he murmurs, holding the carrots in place with two fingers on the leaves.
âit starts with one hit. just one cigarette. and then it turns into one pack, and then some.â he knows the process all too well.
you sigh forlornly, propping your elbows up on your knees and supporting your chin in your hands, kicking your feet in the air as you study the cozy kitchen. the potted plant youâve been taking care of sits in the corner, tear-shaped leaves drooping beneath the shade of the cupboards. akiâs mug of cold coffee sits on the counter next to the sink, half full and calling your name. itâs the only thing heâs allowed you to be addicted to. and him, of course.
âyouâre such a hypocrite.â you grumbled half-heartedly, rolling your eyes before letting your gaze drift to his profile again, studying the slight purse in his lips as he rests one palm over the blunt edge of the knife and cuts with the other one. youâve always liked watching him cook; heâs good at it, and thereâs something grounding in watching him sprinkle pepper and salt over a simmering pot of homecooked stew on a lazy weekend off.
he finally spares you a glance, peering at you through his dark lashes. his silvery blue eyes reflect a soft shine under the glow of the warm kitchen lights.
âiâm not.â he replies, nose wrinkling slightly as you grin in return and raise an eyebrow.
âsure. why donât you prove it then, aki?â you challenged, leaning forward to stare down at him. even though youâre perched atop the counter, youâre still barely taller than him. not that you mind, though. you both know all of him belongs to you.
aki frowns, before shaking his head. âi donât need to prove myself to you.â he mutters under his breath, giving you a resigned sigh. his topknot is messier than usual today; probably because you insisted on doing it for him.
he doesnât even need to look at you to see the pout weighing on your lips; it shows through your voice when you speak again, as he dumps the carrot chunks into a plastic bowl and cleans his knife off on his apron.
âyouâre no fun.â you complained, letting your hands fall to the edge of the marble as your fingers curl around the countertop. the sound of the city drifts in through the crack in the balcony door; the sound of trains whizzing by and the bustle of workers on their morning commute filters in through the breeze, a soundtrack to your morning. aki just bites his tongue and sighs.
youâre so lost in your thoughts that you donât even notice him step away from the cutting board, dumping the carrot bits into a plastic container and leaving the knife behind on the wood to stand in front of you. your knees graze his middle as he reaches behind you, looking for something on the kitchen counter and your breath catches for a moment when he leans inâ
until he pulls back again, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. one end of the box is torn, a hole where he taps his finger on the other end and a cigarette slides out, a bundle of drug and addiction. you're about to be excited when you notice the brand label on the blue cardboardâ wild raven, the same one himeno smokes. you know it's petty to be upset over such a thing, but that doesn't stop you from pouting like a petulant child (again), crossing your arms over your chest and nudging his shin with your foot.
aki is observant; it's not like he doesn't notice this. he just ignores it in favor of searching for his lighter, leaning over you to reach the elevated shelf of the counter where he last left the lighter you gave him, decked with worn stickers that rubbed off and left papery residue over time. the material is cold against his hands as he rubs his thumb over the cap; the feeling is familiar.
he clears his throat and your attention snaps back to him, like a moth drawn to a lamp. his expression is unreadable, but you try your best to decipher it anyway. you're only able to catch a hint of uncertainty in the slight frown on his lips before he speaks again and you're distracted by his smooth voice.
"i'll make a compromise. come here," he murmurs, tapping his index finger against the film and coaxing a stick out. it slips from the box and he catches it between his fingers, tipping the lid off and thumbing the spark wheel absentmindedly. not enough to strike a flame by any meansâ but it's enough for fireworks to go off in your gut as you look up at him again and scoot closer on the counter.
"what are you going to do?" you asked curiously, eyeing the cancer stick as he rolls it between his fingers. it slides down his knuckles and he catches it between his middle and index finger, lighting the tip with one swift flick of the lighter.
"you'll see." he answers simply, tearing his gaze off the cigarette to look back at you again as he slots it between his lips. suddenly you're mesmerized; the only thing you can focus on is the curve of his lips and the way the cig balances between them. you hear him breathe in as he leans a little closer to you, standing between your knees as he slowly inhales.
you're mesmerized. there's always been this draw when it comes to akiâ something you can't place but that you recognize to be alluring; right now, the only thoughts running through your mind aren't about the cigarette so tantalizing close within your reach like a forbidden apple, or the wet carrot chunks left unattended in the plastic strainer. the only thing on your mind is how close he is, and what he'd taste like if you kissed him right now.
unfortunately for you, there's a stick of paper and drugs blocking your path.
fortunately for you, aki seems to have read your mind.
in one swift motion, he takes his cigarette out his mouth and leans forward, using his free hand to tilt your chin up. he notices the way your lips part like it's muscle memory whenever his own lips are closeâ it makes him smile; a minuscule, amused twitch of his lips as he exhales the smoke into your mouth. it curls in mini storm clouds like some sort of deathly mouth to mouth, and aki's fingers gently press into your chin to make sure the smoke settles in nicely, trapped between two lovers in a haze.
and before you can even process what just happened, the sensation of his lips pushing hungrily against yours floods your brain, sending a jolt of tingling electricity down your spine as the blaring alarms going off in your brain from the unfamiliar sensation of the smoke are silenced.
a fire spreads through your veins like molten lead as he kisses you, a veil of smoke drifting into the air, curling and snaking about like an oriental dragon made of vapor. it's as if you've been burned by the cherry itself; your cheeks feel hot and you can feel aki's fingers tremble slightly as they find your face, his thumb barely brushing over your cheek gingerly it's as if the slightest hint of pressure might make you vanish into thin air. he tastes like rich coffee and sweet smoke, and something bitter.
you're acutely aware of the way his other arm snakes around your waist, trapping you against the cold marble counter as your teeth graze his bottom lip and his fingers curl into your side. it's something straight out of your wildest dreams until the smoke clogs your throat like cobwebs and you rapidly pull away, coughing as your eyes burn and you cover your mouth. a rare laugh escapes aki's lips, and you shoot him a glare, to which he only ignores, letting it burn away.
it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts as you stare up at his face, pleasantly dusted strawberry red under the glow of the kitchen lights, the tips of his ears pink with a crude mix of want and embarrassment.
"you could've given me a warning next time." is the only thing you're able to get out, the rest of your words dying on your tongue as you cough again to soothe the itch in your throat, rubbing your eyes as you sulk.
it's such a childish thing to do, and yet aki can't help but find it endearing. he's in over his head, and he knows it's far too late to turn back now.
he grabs the ashtray he keeps on the cluttered kitchen counter, smushing the glowing red cherry of the cigarette into the ashtray, extinguishing the life from the ash as it fizzles out, and your hopes go with it.
"waitâ you're not gonna do it again?" he glances down at you, blue eyes sharp with a sour expression on his pretty face. it's like you squeezed lemon juice onto his tongue.
"no. like hell i'm letting you get away with more," he says firmly, shaking his head as he steps away from you again. he has a sixth sense for when you're about to complain, so he puts a hand over your mouth to stop the noise from escaping before you can start.
even with the way you're glaring daggers at him, just the fact that you can stand to look at him after he violated your personal space like that makes his chest constrict. it's as if his heart is trying to burrow out of his chest and find its way into your palm. he looks away again to hide the flush on his face.
even then, it was a mistake to keep his fingers over your mouth, because he can feel the very instant your lips curve into a soft, doting smile that only worsens this touchy predicament he's found himself in.
"pleeeeease, aki?" even though your voice is barely audible, it's too much, and you can tell. before he can even blink, he finds himself staring up at you with his chin on your chest and your fingers tangled in his hair, newly loose with his hairtie around your wrist. it would've been cute if not for the shit-eating grin on your smug face.
aki groans and hides his face in your shirt, reluctantly letting you pull him closer. as much as he'd like to ignore the effect you have on him and continue preparing a warm lunch for the two of you, his willpower has melted away like the wax on a candle, no fight left in him to protest as you press a kiss to the top of his head.
"you're too much." he grumbles irritably, voice muffled.
you only smile, and although he can't see it, he can hear it when you speak, and it makes his heart pound wildly between his rotting lungs.
"you love me." and he hates how you don't even realize just how right you are.
aki doesn't consider himself a hopeless romantic. but if there's one thing to ever be addicted to, you're it.
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Gogol the Clown
A member of the decay of angels, one of the few characters in the story we have seen follow Fyodor willingly rather than being mind controlled or a sycophant, an immediately loud and attention grabbing character. Nikolai Gogol has an incredible impact on the plot, despite only being around for a short time. There is a lot of deeper themes and philosophy to unravel in this engimatic character. So letâs answer Gogolâs question, just who is he?Â
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DEVOUR ME â˘
INFO: 1741 words, itoshi rin x gn! reader
SYNOPSIS: Rin had never known how to love, and what wouldn't serve him any purpose, he needed to devour - but how was he to devour a concept? Conversely, love may devour him.
WARNINGS: uh kissing (LMAO), suggestion of alcohol consumption (reader literally holds a bottle of beer in her hand tf), gorey language and metaphors
AUTHOR'S NOTE: uh yeah this is a product of 2(.5) insomniac nights and some delusions pls don't make fun of the emo monologue at the end I swear I tried. edit: rereading this I realised that the ending does not match the vibe of the start of the fic AT ALL but i'm too lazy to change it so good luck have fun be nice pls (likes and reblogs are so appreciated i will love u forever)
Love was a concept that eluded Rinâs realm of understanding. He never understood it, and likely never would. Heâd seen it â the mimesis of it â all around him, but there was no telling the scorn that lay underneath each smile, each furtive glance, each word of affirmation that fluttered about aimlessly.Â
Rin Itoshi is a cynic. He doesnât believe, he never believes. He simply knows. He didnât believe in love, not when it had betrayed him before, and he was a man that learned from his mistakes. He had no time to be wasted on salvaging the wreckage of his relationship with his brother, he knew that it was beyond his power. What had failed him, he would destroy â the world had no need for something as tepid and fallible as this â but how was he to destroy a concept? Intangible, yet looming and defiant, echoing throughout the world, entangling itself with rationality, parasitic in its own Sisyphean way.
Rin Itoshi wanted to devour love as he had the other obstacles obstructing his vengeful path. Yet unlike his conquests in vanquishing pests that shrouded his success, devouring love did not move him. It did not grant him the same satisfaction it did when he crushed his opponents and rivals, it would not crumble beneath him and succumb to his superiority.Â
There was no way to best love, yet he found himself wanting to devour it more than he knew. The genius knew that it wasnât within the realm of possibility, and yet he never thought that heâd wind up as the one love would feast upon.Â
He wouldâve never understood love if it werenât for you.Â
You, an impenetrable wall of reason and rationality to his egotistical mindset that simply wanted to take and take and take. He prided himself on his restraint and reason, yet when it came to you, he became a madman.Â
Hence, you became his paradox. The being of all reason, yet the sole catalyst of his undoing. Your voice became the sirenâs echo of his dreams, your whispering touch became the blessed curse that he wished upon himself.Â
âRin!â He barely had time to register your presence before you tackled him into a hug, smothering him in your arms. Your scent was hypnotic â clinging to your hair, your clothes â as he breathed you in, turning liquid in your hands. He shouldnât be this malleable by anyone. This was his moment of weakness â you were his weakness, but he didnât find himself objecting to this as he enveloped you with his arms in return.Â
âIâm so proud of you.â And there it was, that swelling in his chest, that odd warmth flooding his senses. âYou did so well.â
âI know that.â he deadpans. You should back off here, you should retreat, frown, ask him whatâs wrong â but you donât. This was his big game, after all, and if it wasnât obvious enough, youâd follow him even over hot coals.Â
You laugh, taking his face in your hands. âI love you, Rin.â
There it is. That word, love. The first time you used it â because it wouldâve always been you to use it first, never him â he frowned. It was late December in Japan, his hometown, while you sat huddled beside him for warmth, the landscape of the sun setting over the sea golden as the paintings of rebirth.Â
âWhy?âÂ
âWhy?â your turn to frown, as he met your eyes in question. âWhat do you mean?â
âWhy use the word âloveâ?â It was already fatal that he allowed you to stay for this long, that he even kept you with him spoke volumes of his heartâs wishes. His icy facade seemed to falter at your hands, and you wanted to melt it away completely. A smile breaks across your face, and he finds himself wanting to drown in it forever. To drown in the depths of your mirth like a rich man and never face worries again.Â
âBecause I love you, stupid.â
âHuh.â but before he can question further, you press a kiss to his lips, and all his questions die on the tip of his tongue, his rationality surrendering to you. His undoing.
It took him even longer to understand love, even after youâd said it the first time on that cliffside, overlooking the vast, infinite ocean. The light had shone on the water like ambers â opalescent and gleaming â he felt as if he could pluck the light from the ocean and string it into a necklace for you, ordinarily divine. The second time you said it, it was âjust becauseâ. You lay against his chest, curled up on the couch. If you listened hard enough, youâd be able to hear his heart racing.Â
âI love you.â
Instead of inquiring, this time, he simply planted a kiss to the crown of your head, watching the woman on the TV sob, dark tears streaming down her face like ink. Onyx. Rivulets of Onyx. He thought youâd look far better with your mascara running down your cheeks than this second rate, lukewarm actor.Â
The third time, it was new yearâs eve. The snow fell in a light sheen across the balcony of the apartment â one of his team mates was hosting a party. He wouldn't have gone if it weren't for your insistence, and so he stood with you, leaning on the railing in favour of the pandemonium behind. The view was a quiet, dark sort of beautiful. Not the majesty of a sunrise or the tragic beauty of rain, rather quiet, sequestered. The park below was still, yet the escapism from the sounds of the party made the air all the more intimate.Â
âAny new yearâs resolutions?â youâd asked, a half finished bottle of beer hanging loosely from your grip.Â
âBecome the best in the world.â
You smiled. âNever change.â
âWhat about you?â
You shrugged, gaze distant. If he looked closely, he could see the dim moonlight reflected in your eyes. He inched closer.Â
âI donât know.â
He scoffed at your answer. So indefinitive, so irrational. The moonlight reflected in your eyes like tiny stars. If he dared, he would claim them for his own. But you claimed his before he could even try.Â
Your gaze was heavy. A blanket of heat to combat the penetrating cold, the film of snow that dusted your hair, catching in your lashes.Â
âYou have snow on your eyelashes.â You reach out, brushing your cold fingers gently across his eyes. Almost absentmindedly, you mutter âI hate that about you.â
âWhat?â The word comes as a thin breath, and he hardly registers anything but your touch, your gaze, your breath warming his skin.Â
âYou're absurdly pretty.â you murmur, almost to yourself. Shaking your head in disbelief, a clamour rises from indoors, where the cacophony of the new years celebration presses on, into the intimate night.Â
âShut up.â and he brings his lips to yours, closing the centimetres of space left between you. You let his arms wrap around your waist, reaching up to place your hands on his face, entangling your fingers into his hair, lightly tugging at it as you pull away.Â
âHappy new year, Rin.â
âFucking shut up and kiss me.â he moves to press his lips to yours, but you evade his movement by a hairâs breadth.Â
âI love you.â you whisper against his mouth. The words are swallowed in the kiss, and he doesnât question your love, anymore. Because if anyone would love him against all odds, it would be you, wouldnât it? Because of course, you knew what love was, and you would teach him. You wanted to teach him the meaning of love, show him its meaning through precarious action, allow love to finally become a constant in the churning sea of his person.Â
Yet you knew that for Rin Itoshi, love was another paradox.Â
To love was to be devoured.Â
To be consumed from the inside out, to desperately hold in the guts that threatened to spill out, to drown in the metallic sweetness of your own blood, to hear the sickly beating of your heart as a siren through your mind, and to allow â enable â this grotesque discordance to rip at your disposition. Itâs ruthless in its ruination, it tears out flesh and admires the way the blood gleams like rubies on its severed, screaming surface. Like fruits of its own endeavour, the masochistic, self wrought destruction of sense admires lovers such as him. It admires the victims to its siren wails, the eradicating, breathless declarations of devotion that pale in the grand scheme of loveâs insatiable appetite.Â
To love was to be devoured. Love was the devourer, and lovers their prey. Love was rich in tragedy, all consuming and death defiant. Love was deceptively gentle, practising the art of elusion with a loverâs seduction, the maestro of sadism.Â
To love was to be devoured wholly â from the thick rivulets of blood dripping down the maw of the beast, the drying, flaking stains of it crusting the mouth and the torn flesh lodged in the beastâs throat.Â
If to love was to be devoured, you would be next. Foolishly naive, eyes on the stars instead of which beasts lay behind.Â
If to love was to be devoured, you gladly asked it to devour you. You surrendered yourself to the beast, allowing your heart â still beating â to be ripped out of your chest and be feast upon. You let love take your lips in a sirenâs kiss and drain your body dry of supplement, leaving a husk of what remained, and yet you still have more to give. Youâd let love reduce you to nothing â impoverished, emaciated and forlorn â for a glimpse of the glories that were of legend. To follow him to the true end, the one promised by fabled lips.
If love was to be devoured, Rin decided that he would let it take, because what was love, if not devotion? Love was devotion, and you were devout. Pious, devout and reverent in the pursuit of sating it's abysmal appetite.Â
You devoted yourself to love â loving him. You let yourself be devoured, let yourself be reduced to ashes in the blaze of loveâs fury, just to experience the sweet nothing of its aftermath. Hollow, void, fruitless.Â
So Rin takes the dagger, and points it to his own heart. The fruit of love is still ripe within him, and the beast means to be fed.Â
written by @delat1ne, published 25th of December 2023
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ę° 18+ đđđđ ! ęą
you work hard to be the perfect girlfriend for satoru and the perfect person for yourself, but sometimes it's too much.
âš f!reader âšno curses, slice of life au âš domestic fluff. angst-ish. fluff. est rel âš satoru is a good boyfriend. reader is an implied perfectionist n kind of a serial nuturer fr. reader n satoru have dogs bc i have dogs lmao âš 2.1k. âš footnote. this is more than self-indulgent. itâs self-narration. i wrote this for me in the last two hours with tears in my eyes. it donât even got a header, but this is for all my fellow perfectionists who get the burnout and it feels more like crippling shame. iâm proud of you. itâs not my best writing wise, but it helped me feel better so we ball.
everything, everywhere, all at once â thatâs the state of your mind as it stands.
every time you close your eyes, chaos unfurls. little voices whisper in overlaps of every action you need to complete. itâs an endless cyclone wreaking havoc on your mental state, but right now, you canât even get out of bed.
i need to catch up on my work; iâm fifteen notes behind. the rest of the laundry has been waiting to be put up for days. itâs six pm; take the dogs out and feed them. satoru will be home soon; start thinking of what to make for dinner. i canât let him go without dinner three nights in a row. fuck, i have to do the dishes; theyâre piling. all this clutter on the counters i desperately need to tidy. he canât find anything and neither can i. oh my god, arenât my plants dying, too? when was the last time i watered them? can it wait one more day? when is the last time i washed my hair? fuck, i forgot to buy more milk. i havenât eaten at all today. when is the last time i had water? my head hurts. my head hurts. my fucking head hurts. did i take ibuprofen? i canât remember.
thereâs a dull throbbing in the left side of your head in the space right behind your eyes. every time you blink, you can feel it pulsing like a heartbeat. itâs been hours and you need to get up and get moving, but you canât bring yourself to. the dissonance between what you need to do and what your body will physically participate in is growing stronger. you have to get up, need to. satoru hasnât said anything yet about the steady decline of your productivity, hasnât made any claims of noticing that he hasnât had breakfast made for him in days, hasnât had a cup of coffee waiting to be brewed, hasnât had a clean cup he didnât have to wash himself to even do it.
admittedly, you take care of him, fill in all the empty spaces of his days. you donât have to, but you do. youâre habituated to it now, waking before him and the day to set up his routine with ease. you keep a coffee pod ready to brew, a clean and empty mug waiting to gather all it can to fuel him. you make him breakfast; the scent is typically what wakes him, but your gentle nudges at 8:30 am each morning are a secondary alarm.
you take care of everything in the house, from keeping it clean to keeping it stocked with all of his favorite treats. you provide him with all of his meals. you press, fold, and hang his laundry. you made a home for his keys to return to because if not, satoru will toss them to the wind with little regard. in so many ways, you think ahead of him. you think for him. you eliminate every stress he could have, every worry.
and you love taking care of satoru.
he appreciates it and you feel it in the way he treats you. he only holds you lovingly. he only dotes on your name. he touches you softly and kisses you the same. you see it in all his tenderness that he reserves completely for you. you feel it in the press of his lips against your forehead as he murmurs a grateful platitude and sings your praises.
you donât mind being the one to do it all, but itâs a lot.
because on top of caring for him, thereâs also you, and you do your best to never neglect yourself, but sometimes you fail. how else can you show up for him so efficiently if you let your own needs collect dust and wither? youâre still responsible for your work, your results with school, taking care of the animals because youâre the one with the most free time spent at home, but none of your time is free.
itâs all reserved for one nurturing or another.
truthfully, youâre stretching yourself thin. itâs showing visibly on your face, in your body language, and the slowly piling mountain of tasks you keep putting off to wade around in the depths of your own exhaustion, muttering apologies when satoru asks where things are and filling up with shame when you realize heâs never had to ask before.
lately, your shoulders sag. the swollen little bulbs under your eyes are from stress crying. your appetite is in the pits. itâs been days since you got out of bed before him and he says nothing at all. like he doesnât even notice. now your mind is laden with fear as you mull over all the ways he could be internalizing your lack of completion and cultivation negatively.
what if heâs silently taking this as your feelings fading?
you groan, your face stuffed into your pillow as tears prick the corner of your eyes. you need to get up but fuck, you just canât. your heart sinks when you hear the creak of the front door opening and the soft thud of it closing shortly after.
you hear the dogs take off running outside the cave youâre hiding in and your legs curl up into your chest, a fragile fetal position, and you clutch your pillow closer as you anticipate his oncoming disappointment when he finds you laying in bed, surrounding by all the clothes you dumped out in a failed attempt to make yourself do something.
âbaby, mâhome!â satoru calls.
your tears fall as you realize that he hasnât said anything, but heâs going to soon. thereâs no excuses to rely on, no reasoning other than you just donât have it in you right now.
no reasoning other than youâre just so miserably tired.
you hear his heavy steps ascending up the stairs as another, much lighter call comes. âbaby?â
tighter. you hug your pillow tighter, hiding your face and your tears and your shame in egyptian cotton with the hope that maybe he wonât come in if you donât answer, but the bedroom door opening breaks your hope that perhaps he wonât perceive the extent of your failure and the subsequent crumbling of your emotions.
the room is dark. the sun gave you a chance but as afternoon slipped into evening, you forfeited it and surrendered as it set. you didnât bother to flip the light switch on to replace the loss of light.
âoh, babyâs sleeping.â
he whispers it to himself, and the adoration in his voice pierces straight through to your heart. your eyes well, stinging and heavy as salty streaks continue to spill one after the other and an involuntary sniffle befalls you, filling up the silence in the room.
âwait, what?â
his confusion is soft but you feel the presence of his body coming closer and your lip trembles, unsure of how to offer an apology that he would even accept.
âhey,â he murmurs, no question as he lays himself beside you, curving himself to shape around you, his arms falling over you protectively. âwhatâs going on? why is my baby crying like this, hm?â
another sniffle. âmâsorry,â
his grip tightens. âwhat? why are you sorry for crying? no, baby. donât be sorry. just talk to me, okay? mâright here for you.â
âi-iâm not sorryâŚfor cryingâŚâ you tell him between strong sniffles and hiccups. âiâm sorry that nothing is done! iâm sorry, okay?!â
when it spills out of you, your quiet cry becomes a monstrous sob that you pour into the pillow.
âwhat?â satoru asks with a following sigh. âi was worried you were going to feel like this.â
âi know i havenât been any good lately. i know. iâm trying. i just donât have any energy.â once it starts, the dam dissolves, and all of it comes flooding out of you. âthereâs no coffee and all the dishes are dirty. i keep saying iâll finish putting the rest of the laundry up but i havenât! youâve been eating ramen for dinner for days because i havenât cooked. iâm behind on work. my grades show that i was behind all semester. i donât have any energy left to do anything. and i feel fucking awful about it! i feel like youâre disappointed in me, like youâre going to get angry and check me, like you might leave me if i canât be consistent with taking care of you.â
the air is dead quiet then, satoru doesnât respond verbally, but you feel him scoot his body closer to you, his face burying into the space of your neck, his arm clutching you as tightly as you are your pillow. the shame is weighted and feels like itâs causing your chest to cave in. you expected him to break down and admit heâs upset with you, disappointed in you for your perceivable shortcomings and reprimand you for not meeting your own expectations ( and his, by proxy ).
but no, instead, he holds you as tightly as he can and inquires softly. âdo you think youâre just here to take care of me? do you think i see you as my caretaker?â
âsatoru, i ââ
he cuts you off, his voice still tender but sullen. âbecause youâre not. youâre here to be loved by me. and thatâs it. you know weâre in this together, right? you know i love you, not what you do, yeah? i appreciate everything you do and how hard you work to keep the house running, but you know itâs not just your responsibility, right? this is our house. our laundry. our dinners. our dishes.â
âyou donât have to act like itâs not bothering you that everything is disgusting and you havenât had a fresh meal in days.â
while you appreciate the sentiment and you appreciate him trying to go easy on you, you know he canât be enjoying living like this when youâve intentionally made sure heâs well-acquainted to the lifestyle of ease you created for him.
âwell, yes, i do miss your cooking and the house is messy, but you know what else? iâm a grown man and i can clean up, but iâm tired when i come home and i told myself iâd just do it on the weekend. i can make my own food, baby. i chose to make ramen for dinner and eat cake for breakfast.â
your teary eyes widen as you stare ahead incredulously. âyou ate cake for breakfast? satoru, what? you literally just went to the dentist. you have cavities!â
he completely ignores your concern to continue his statement.
âwhen the house is a mess, iâm not blaming you. i just make a mental note to find the time to clean up. when you donât cook, i assume itâs because you donât have time to or donât feel like it and i feed myself. trust me. i love when the house is clean. i love eating your freshly cooked meals, but thatâs a luxury and privilege that iâm not entitled to. i just appreciate it and do everything i can to let you know your efforts to overachieve at loving me well arenât wasted. i feel very loved. and i want you to feel just as loved. so, is it okay that i still feel the same pride in you right now when nothing is up to your precious and slightly impractical standards as i do when you have your well-oiled machine running? because i do. iâm so proud of you. you may not like your grades, but you passed. despite not feeling like you could manage it all, you did your best. and i love you so much. the laundry can stay on the bed forever and iâd still want to lay in it with you for just as long.â
âsatoruâŚâ now the tears filling your eyes are loving and spurred on by relief.
âpick your head up, baby. stop expecting perfection at all times, especially when youâre running on e. youâre burnt out. youâre tired. so letâs rest, yeah? letâs relax and let the house be messy for a few more days. let me deal with it this weekend. iâll put the laundry up, too, but right now? mâso tired, baby and so are you. letâs order very unhealthy take-out after we take a nap right next to the laundry pile. when we wake up, youâre officially bed-ridden. i mean it. if i catch you trying to do a single thing, iâm handcuffing you to this bed.â
âdonât be dramatic.â you giggle, a loving sniffle. âthank you, toru.â
satoru settles in, prepared to be unmoved and entangled for the next however long. his lips press against the nape of your neck onceâŚtwiceâŚthrice for good measure. âof course. now turn over because you owe me several hello kisses and i want every single one.â
Š 2023 elusivemoon. all rights reserved.
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Hello, first I wanted to say I think you're the person who writes the best Dazai characterization on Tumblr, your writing is phenomenal. Secondly, I saw your asks were open and you wanted Dazai requests so I came as your savior I came to humbly request a crumb of Dazai. Just no more angst please, there's only so much I can take ಼â âżâ ಼ maybe one that Dazai actively pursues the reader? Maybe the reader gave up and Dazai is jealous hehe :3. Even if you don't write this request, thanks for sharing your stories (â  â ââ âżâ ââ  â )â âĄ
HI ANON !! thank you for this request :)))) i really really tried to make this less angsty so i hope you enjoy it ! i love you and i hope youâre happy and well !
Mistletoe
â in which kissing under the mistletoe isnât compulsory.
Dazai is no stranger to desire.
He has lived his life interlinked with his wants, achieving them but never truly retaining them.
Heâs apathetic at best, and he prefers it as such. Cradling his emotions in clammy hands, tucked deeply inside the stoney walls of his stoicism which he then hides under charming smiles and sweet, sweet words.
And yet.
Dazai is a stranger to the desire to preserve his wants.
And so, when he finds himself, pacing absentmindedly, waiting for you to return from your mission, his hands in his pocket and an imitation of a smile creasing the skin on his forehead, he pauses.
The agency was bright, the light from the windows reflecting only the chartreuse glow from the falling snow. Empty, as lunch breaks were declared and acted upon.
Someone had left the window slightly open again. The familiar, though unwelcome, cool breeze invites itself in, and when itâs cool presence went unnoticed it seemed to rattle the blinds decorating the window frame, as if calling to be acknowledged.
Dazai suspected it had been Kenji, recalling how Kunikida had previously scolded the boy for forgetting to close the window before, glasses slipping down the sharp line of his nose as he chastised;
âIf you must have them open, please try to shut them again so we donât all freeze to death by the morning.â
âBut back in my village everyone loved the cold Mr Kunikida sir, feeling the breeze on your skin was a pleasure!â
âYes, but we arenât in your village Kenji- And itâs Winter for Gods Sakes.â
You had laughed, Dazai remembers, from across the room.
You had walked over to ruffle Kenjiâs hair, a grin stretching your lips and revealing your teeth, before saying;
âLeave him be Kunikida, âkid just misses home.â
Your kind, foolishly so.
By your own nature, trustfulness becomes a sin, begging to be repented amidst the cruelty the world in which Dazai knows.
There's a moth on your desk.
It sits idly, occasionally moving its wings, Dazai watches it out of the corner of his eye, boredom encroaching his posture and he slumps over ever so slightly.
He didnât know Moths could even sustain the cold of December.
The agency door clicks open, and heâs instantly elevated to his full height, a smile poisoning his sour face.
âWell, well, well, youâre back late.â He hums, sticking a tounge between his teeth, eyes scanning over your body as you close the door behind you.
Thereâs snow on your shoulders, you shiver.
You donât jump at his voice, expecting him to be waiting.
Heâs always waiting for you after a mission.
You nod, chuckling at his expression, and heâs walking to you at once.
âBetter late than never.â You reply, humouring him. âBlizzard made me late.â
He laughs, his hands dramatically dancing in the air as he gestures towards you.
âAnd you look radiant if I may.â He leans down to look at you, his head tilted as he watches your face, âMission went well I suppose?â
Your head tilts to match his, you frown, âYou were worried?â
He winks, reaching out to tap the tip of your cold nose.
âNot in the slightest.â
And Dazai means it, to the fullest its meaning.
He was not worried.
You sigh, shaking off the remains of winter from your clothes, hand moving up to bat away at his own.
âHow charming.â You chastise, your eyes leaving his face to stare at the wooden floor of the agency.
Thereâs a crack on one of the floor boards, someone should really fix that.
Dazai circles you, pulling your sleeve towards the door, gently tugging on the fabric.
âCome, time for a break!â He declares, attempting to whisk you away.
âWha- Dazai I just got back?â
He pouts, turning a childish face back to you indignantly.
âBut Iâve worked so hard this morning.â Dramatically, his shoulders slump, still trying to drag you beside him.
You glance at his empty desk and raise an eyebrow.
Pausing, Dazai joins you in your assessment before huffing.
âWell my dear, you could certainly use a break.â
You look at him, a cheeky question plucks at your tounge and heâs interrupting you before you can even begin.
âYour exhausted! And for a gentleman like myself, I cannot let you go on like this!â He nods, head raising, âNo, no! I cannot allow it! Think of your rights as a human being!â
Youâre laughing now, a smile breaking your pretence and Dazai cannot help but watch, his tongue clamped between his teeth.
Dazaiâs eyes look brighter, thatâs for certain, but when you stare, really stare, you see a flicker of determination in them, burning his usually icy allusively.
âAlright, alright, Iâm coming.â
And Dazai would vehemently deny the widening of his smile as anything other than a polite acknowledgment to your decision, as much as you would blatantly refuse to comment on the validity of his emotions.
In the daylight, the city wears a muted elegance under a quilt of freshly fallen snow. You speak softly to Dazai as you both walk, bundled against the chill, treading through seemingly silent streets.
âItâs strange.â You mumble, picking at the skin of your nail.
âHm?â He replies, eyes glancing over your features.
âCrime stops nearer Christmas.â You tilt your head back, eyes following the path of robin.
The sun filtered through the overcast sky, bathing the building in a soft, melancholic glow, revealing the intricate patterns of ice crystals on branches, Dazai listens to the melody of his footsteps against the snow, as you openly ponder.
âI suppose Christmas spirit trumps even the most cardinal of human desires.â Dazai muses, steering you towards an alley.
You nod, squinting your eyes to process his words.
âI guess?â You reply, picking the nail of your thumb.
He gestures his hand towards a side street, âCâmon, this way.â
You watch the back of his head as he leads the way, resisting the urge to run your hand through his hair and catch all the snowflakes littering his locks.
You clench your hand instead, chastising yourself for your affection.
The pair of you walk, further away from the crowded streets of Yokohama. Dazai walks in-front, and you follow, like an obedient dog.
Heâs thinking.
You can tell by his chosen silence, you wonder if youâre walking towards a trap, and silently mock at your inability to turn and walk away, simply enjoying the feeling of being near him.
Dazai stops suddenly, and you let out a quite yelp, almost crashing into his back, head lifting to look at him, mouth parting to question.
You freeze as you meet his inarticulate gaze.
You look beautiful, in the muted sun, he thinks.
Your eyes water slightly from the cold, and your hands are shaking undoubtedly and yet you make no effort to rush him inside.
Dazai breathes.
"Mistletoe." He says, his voice is reserved, almost silent as he gestures to the arch above the pair of you, his coat sleeve falling down his arm in his movement.
Your hands are numb.
You glance up your eyes wide, staring at the green embers embedded with small white petals.
It sways blissfully in the breeze, seeming to smile down at you, almost mocking your hesitance.
Slowly, as if approaching a timid animal, he takes your hands in his.
Dazai traces the lines on your palms, as if he was a blind man, searching for answers within your flesh, uncertain yet desperate.
Bandaged fingers tap against your cool skin, calling for your attention and you look back towards the silent man.
Your breath materialises in-front of you, floating towards his face before dissipating in the chilly air.
"It's notâŚâ You breathe.
"Not?" Dazai questions, pushing you to answer your trailed off statement.
"It's not compulsory.â You offer, giving him a way out, a pathetic diversion to your inane desires which are obvious in your inability to look away.
You think youâre sweating, itâs far too cold to sweat.
Dazai smiles, a hand reaching up to pinch your cheek, his head tilted as he prolongs his stare, soft and unwavering. "And if I say I walked us here for the sole purpose of compulsion?" He speaks in rhymes, they slip off the very tip of his tongue and melt in the weak beam of the sunlight barely separating you.
You blink, looking up at him.
"I wouldn't understand..â You whisper.
There's a moment.
A moment when your surroundings becoming objects of your realisation, in which snow reflects off of the shine of the windows on buildings, and children pull away from their Mothers hand to dash into the gentle blizzard.
And Dazai leans closer to you.
Your oblivion to his feelings is expected, heâs aware of his own hesitance to reveal the true curvature of his pensively rounded motives.
Yet, he looks at you as if he were begging you to believe his honesty, to truly understand his care.
âAnd for someone like me,â Dazai hums, a finger tracing the curve of your jaw, âThatâs both infuriating and strangely beautiful."
His nose brushes yours and you feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, you push back the desire to draw back and question his usually allusive antics.
Biting your tongue just to savour the taste of the moment.
You think he does the same, his finger tracing the shell of your ear, once, then twice.
And then he tilts your chin towards him and proposes the gentlest kiss on the plush of your lips.
Dazai pulls away then, your chin still resting in his hand as he observes you.
Observes how you only appear to follow him, trying to chase the feeling of his lips against yours, eyebrows furrowed in the cruelty of his tease.
He chuckles, and then he moves back to you, his lips parting your own as he kisses you once more.
Your arms trail up the lapel of his coat, clinging to him as you respond.
His lips are cold and so you bite them, chasing your own anguish through shared exhalation. Breathing him in as he breathes you out. You feel him smile against your teeth.
Dazaiâs thumb lazily moves in the area just below your eye, if you concentrate you would feel him trace tiny circles to ground you.
Itâs snowing and youâre kissing him and youâre confused but not enough to pull away and ask.
When he does pull away, he keeps ahold of your face, youâre breathing hard and he leans closer, towards you ear.
âYouâre ok.â He whispers, kissing just under your ear.
And you are.
âNow, come, our lunch hour is nearly over and you havenât ate yet no?â
âWha-â Youâre still taken aback, still stunned by the kiss.
âFood Y/N, weâre going to get you food.â Dazai chuckles, pulling your hand with him again.
You walk beside him, keeping up with his pace.
Dazai pulls you ever so slightly closer, and you smile, choosing not to mention it.
masterlist <3
(A/N): merry christmas !- well early chirstmas PHAHA i wanted to write something to celebrate and i ended up with this THANK U ANON FOR THE REQUEST BTW youâre so so lovely :)) - i cannot lie iâm not sure about this :,) maybe iâll grow to like what iâve written but for now i hope this is ok <3
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you drink your coffee black and we are afraid of each other ; shoko ieiri
synopsis; shoko makes you a morning cup of coffee; turns out sheâs not very good at that, but itâs the thought that counts.
word count; 4.2k
contents; shoko ieiri/reader, gn!reader (but written w a fem!reader in mind), fluff fluff fluff!!, just normal morning shenanigans at the ieiri household, implied stsg (my brand), shoko can be a girlfailure. as a treat, reader is absolutely whipped (and so am i)
a/n; been writing too much gojo n geto lately. neglecting my wife :((((((( let it be known that i am a shoko stan first human second. this one is for my wlws pls eat up!!!!
you wake up to the sound of your girlfriendâs voice.
melodic and soft, low and saccharine; almost like sheâs coaxing you out of hiding. a sound so lovely you wish you could drown in it, laced together with a distinctly raspy tilt, one you can only attribute to the copious amounts of cigarettes she smoked back in high school. one that gets you a little bit weak in the knees.
a leftover residue, bittersweet memories ghosting her lips. in the mornings, itâs particularly prominent. a little intoxicating. manifesting itself as a shiver down your spine, a jolt of your heartbeat, a flush on your skin for every word that she speaks. itâs enough to have you slipping from sleepâs embrace, carried back into the cradle of reality.
why you notice her voice first, and not the smell of something burning â or the sound of insistent beeping â is honestly beyond you.Â
it doesnât take long for your sleepy brain to react, however, a pang of anxiety rushing through your slumbering veins. hurriedly stirring you awake. abrupting your dreamlike, drowsy state, tangled up in silken sheets with your neck smudged by lipstick marks; an alluring red, one shoko typically favors when sheâs going out for a drink. coming home just a tiny bit tipsy, affectionate and giggly.
and when your eyelids finally flutter open, your mind melting into the motion of the waking world, you shoot up in a sudden bout of panic.
because fuck, you belatedly, groggily realize â thatâs the fucking fire alarm.
and shoko is spewing curses, from afar, loud enough that you can hear it even through the fog of fatigue that clouds your brain. a raspy string of words that you donât quite catch, but theyâre enough to have you scrambling out of bed, nearly bumping into the doorframe as you kick the blanket off your legs.
âwhat happened?â you croak out, chest heaving a little, having stumbled into the smoke-filled kitchen. disgruntled, reeling with the aftermath of your deep slumber, cold air nipping at your bare skin. the balcony door is open, and the smell of rain invades your apartment.
when you look out the window, all you see is a gray sky, blanketed by a thick coating of wool. smothered by clouds, not a single ray of sunlight slipping through the cracks. the world smells dewy and sweet, asphalt and flowers melting into a nostalgic fragrance, one that reminds you a bit of high school smoke breaks â huddling under the slide at the nearest playground, watching a pretty girl wrap her lips around a cigarette, exhaling smoke just for it to melt into the pouring rain.
one that reminds you a bit of the woman right in front of you, balancing on a chair and stretching her goosebump-ridden arms towards the ceiling, wearing nothing but a lacey bra and a pair of unbuttoned jeans. messy hair that cascades down her back, brows furrowed, eyes simmering with irritation â before flitting over to meet your own.
shoko blinks. then sighs. âyou woke up?â she mutters, and you try not to shiver when the tremor of her voice deepens, morning-fatigue seeping into the syllables. âfuck. sorry, i ââ
she stumbles a little, shifting her weight from one foot to another, and you take a step forward. on instinct, as if getting ready to cushion her fall. ready to be of service, in any way you can.
âdonât worry,â she fumbles with the fire alarm, clicking her tongue. nails scraping against plastic. âitâs fine, i just need to â there we go.âÂ
finally, the beeping stops. and your shoulders relax, immediately, the tight little ball inside your chest untangling. with a deep inhale, the fragrance of espresso and smoke fills your nostrils, and a sense of calm washes over you. rooting your feet to the floor.Â
shoko settles down, too, seating herself on the wooden chair. a huff slipping from her lips. theyâre smudged, a blurry red she still hasnât found the energy to wipe away.Â
bringing a hand up to card through her hair, lithe fingers in between her messy auburn locks, she exhales. a blend between fatigue and relief.
âgod. i need a cig.â
a moment passes. she raises her head, and sees the sleepy little pout playing at your lips â her eyes softening. blooming with something fond. giving you a smile, tired, small. but reassuring.Â
âiâm just kidding, love,â she chuckles. ârelax.â
âdonât joke about that,â you frown, rubbing the sleep from your weary eyes. stifling a tiny yawn. â.. took me so long to get you to quit.â
(sometimes you can still see the smoke leave her lungs when she exhales.)
shoko keeps smiling, but doesnât say anything else. the pitter patter of rain against your balcony railing fills the silence of the kitchen, still brimming with a light layer of smoke, slowly dwindling. cold air drawing it out. clad only in one of suguruâs old t-shirts, you shiver, and shoko seems to notice.
âgood morning,â she coaxes, opening her arms slightly â and you move forward, a moth to a flame. without thinking. âsorry for waking you.â
she wraps her arms around your waist, attaching her jaw to the curve of your shoulder, and you melt into the embrace. leaning close, to tuck yourself into her neck. she smells like lavender shampoo. ââs fine,â you mumble, a yawn muffled into her collarbone. âwhat happened? are you okay?â
when her plump lips press against the sensitive skin of your neck, right next to one of the kiss marks she left there last night, you canât help but shiver again. she must feel it, because you can hear the smile sheâs trying to bite back in her voice when she answers.
âmm,â she hums, a gravelly noise that makes your throat clog up a little. âjust burned something, itâs fine. donât worry.â
tentatively, you take a step back. just to see her. gazing down at her, into her hazel eyes, the fading crescents beneath them. not as dark as they used to be, not as heavy with lost sleep.
shoko is gorgeous. always, every single day, but you think sheâs particularly breathtaking like this. when itâs early, and sheâs groggy and a little disheveled, eyes weary and lipstick smudged â bra strap close to slipping off her shoulder, black lace against pale skin, moles littering her forearms and chest like star clusters. oversized jeans that expose the curve of her waist, the fat of her hips, and you donât notice how intently youâre staring until shokoâs raspy voice reaches your burning ears.
âeyes up here, baby.â
you do as youâre told, and she stifles a chuckle. eyes rich with amusement. you try not to blush.
âsorry.â you chew at the inside of your cheek. eyes trailing to the houseplants by the windowsill. â.. youâre just so pretty.â
shoko tilts her head, an exasperated little breath rolling off her tongue. almost a coo. sheâs incapable of blushing; but if she wasnât, youâre sure she'd blush.Â
âthanks.â her touch is light, fingertips trailing down the expanse of your arm. âyou are, too. red is a good colour on you.â
you blink. shokoâs eyes are crinkled at the edges, soft lines of crowsâ feet, and you huff when you realize sheâs talking about the marks on your neck. suddenly a little self-conscious, you bring a hand up to rub at the skin â as if hoping to wipe them away. you doubt it works. shoko just breathes out an airy chuckle, getting up from her seat.
she looks tired, still. stretching her limbs out, sleepily, blinking drowsily.
and itâs odd, you think. that she got up this early, that she didnât cling to you and make you stay with her in bed like she usually does. you donât know anyone who loves sleeping in more than shoko does. especially after a night out.
so itâs strange. very strange.
âhey, sho.â
âhm?â
you tilt your head. âwhy are you up this early, anyway?â
she blinks, and then glances at the clock on the wall. ticking idly, counting down. when she looks back at you, sheâs got a single eyebrow raised. âitâs not really early.â
âfor you it is,â you quip, something resembling a grin tugging at your lips. and she rolls her eyes, smiling, before linking her arm with yours. bringing you to the stove.
âi was, uh ââ a pause. she does a little cough under her breath, clearing her throat. âtrying to make coffee.â
silently, you look at the mess in front of you; what used to be your squeaky-clean stovetop, now stained with a muddy, rusty residue. an unassuming coffee pot sits to the side, having seemingly boiled over, smoke still drifting up into the air.
shoko cringes, a little. before a wry smile makes its way to her lips. âit wasâŚâ she clicks her tongue. sighing softly. âan attempt.â
â⌠wait.â you turn to look at her, dubiously, and she avoids your gaze. âthatâs what you burned? coffee?â still no answer. a tiny smile tugs at your lips, and you canât help it if your voice comes out sounding a little teasing. âhow is that even possible?â
âlook,â shoko exhales, heavy. âi donât know, okay? i think it was the coffee grounds, or something. i look away for one second, and itâs just ââ
a little giggle slips from your lips, and shoko shoots you a glare. mostly harmless, but she untangles her arm from your own. âsorry, itâs just ââ you apologize, failing to hide your amusement. âwhy didnât you just use the espresso machine, honey?â
she bites her lip, and you think she might be just a little embarrassed. averting her gaze, briefly flitting towards the machine in question. â⌠i didnât know how to use it,â she mutters. âiâve seen you do it, obviously, but i never paid attention to the steps.â
a smile graces your lips. consoling. âitâs not that complicated once you know how it works,â you nudge her arm with your elbow. âit just looks that way.â
she hums. a click of her tongue, as she adjusts her bra strap. âwell, anyway. i tried. so.â
âright.â you try to stifle a grin, to no avail. âso⌠you burned your coffee.â
âand woke you up.â she grins, herself, just a tiny bit self-deprecating. but pretty, always, hair falling over her eyes when she tilts her head. âa mess, arenât i?â
ânot at all.â
shoko looks at you, and your eyes meet hers. unflinchingly. tired irises falling into the gentle hue of your own, trickling down to the curve of your lips. thereâs an honesty to your voice that sheâs never quite been able to deal with.Â
(love, she thinks. a kind of love she finds somewhat hard to stomach. a sea of acceptance that she fears sheâll eventually drown in.)
before she can properly fall into a morning spiral, you stretch your neck a bit, idly, and she gets a good look at the red marks littering your skin. the way your pulse beats at the base of your throat. tender, slight, a mantra sheâs grown just a little bit addicted to.Â
âwhy, though?â you hum, and shoko blinks. snapped out of her thoughts, and back into reality. back into you, the faux pout on your lips. playful, but a little confused. âi thought i was the coffee brewer of this relationshipâŚâÂ
and itâs true. youâve been making shokoâs morning cups of coffee for a while, now, even before you moved in together. she likes it black, sometimes with a drop of cream, sometimes with a cube of sugar. never both. you think itâs very like her, to tiptoe that line between bitter and sweet â never entirely giving in to one or the other. thereâs a balance to shoko, something stable. something for you to hold on to, a bitter tinge or syrupy taste that always leaves you yearning for more.
truthfully, your coffee brewing skills arenât anything special. but it makes shoko happy, to wake up and stumble into the kitchen, being able to hug your back. being handed a cup of fresh coffee. sipping from it in silence, muttering out a groggy good morning that makes your heart flutter.
(to you, itâs precious. that lilt of her voice, that bittersweet tinge. the dearest thing in the world.)
plump bottom lip trapped between her teeth, shoko furrows her brows. ever so slightly. nails tapping at the edge of the kitchen counter, a series of satisfying clicks against the marble. â⌠well.âÂ
she clears her throat, but doesnât say anything else. a moment passes. you try to find the answer in the curve of her lips, the crease of her brow, in the depths of her eyes â but you donât succeed.
something discomforting settles in the bottom of your throat. almost uncertain, maybe a bit anxious. sheepish, as your tired mind spins in circles. parting your lips. hesitant.
âdo you⌠not like the way i make it?â thereâs a dejected tilt to your voice when it spills out, one that makes you feel a little silly. so you smile, or try to, eyes trailing towards the windows; you note that the rain has grown heavier. âi can change how ââ
âwhat?â shoko cuts you off. âno. no, of course not â your coffeeâs perfect. honestly.â
again, your eyes meet. and again, shoko seems to be struggling with finding the right words. or maybe sheâs struggling to voice them.
âi just⌠haah.â she brings a hand up to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose. you just watch, silent, hungry to hear the thoughts sheâs not letting you in on.
a beat. again, the sound of the rain against steel railings, the scent of honeydew and concrete. espresso-flavored smoke, almost entirely faded, leaving only cold air to nip at your thighs.Â
and again, as always, inevitably, your eyes are fixed on shoko â a moth to her flame. helpless to the cinders that ghost at your skin whenever she looks at you. a certain contemplation swims inside her eyes, simmering beneath the surface, as she chews gently at the plush of her lips. before turning to face you.
you can only blink. but shoko finally speaks, clearing her throat in a way that strikes you as rather sheepish.
âwell â youâre always the one doing all the work. arenât you?â her voice trickles out into the air, low and saccharine, a blanket pulled over your shoulders. so soft you hold your breath and strain your ears, just to make sure you hear it. âi guess i figured⌠i donât know.â
shoko pauses, again, and you can almost delude yourself into thinking thereâs a cherry red tint to the tips of her ears. when she parts her lips, that usually carefree voice of hers sounds almost meek. almost, but not quite. more like unsure. embarrassed?
another moment passes, entirely silent. shoko swallows her pride.
â.. satoru always brags about suguru making him those fucked up sugary drinks he likes,â she mumbles. turning around, to rest her back against the counter, looking out at the downpour. âsays it makes him feel so loved. or whatnot. so i just ââÂ
she waves her hand, haphazardly.Â
âyou know.â
a beat. then another. you can physically feel your lips part, a kind of surprise weaving itself into the contours of your face.Â
and when you finally speak, your voice comes out a little garbled, scrambling for the right words. not sure if you should feel deeply amused, or just a tiny bit horrified. âwait. youâre saying youâŚâ a moment passes. silent, slow, and all you can do is blink owlishly. in disbelief.
â⌠got inspired by suguru?â
shoko groans, deep and gravelly, almost comically agonized. covering her face with her pretty hands. âdonât say it,â she pleads, âyouâre making it sound as dumb as it is.â
a little giggle slips from your lips. accidental, but she still shoots you a displeased look, huffing under her breath. crossing her arms just to tap at her forearm with her nimble fingers. frowning.
âdonât laugh at me.â
âsorry,â you search for her gaze, but she keeps looking ahead. so stubborn. âi donât mean to, âs just â not very like you, yâknow?â
shoko exhales. nearly a huff, but not quite. and you think she must be embarrassed, gnawing at her lip like that, fingers eagerly searching for something to fidget with. it makes you soften, impeccably, the blood inside your veins warming up beneath your skin. stirring you, coaxing you into soothing her. your very own heartbeat seems to be a little enamored with shoko ieiri.
âi appreciate the thought,â you smile. a tender tone, sincere. lingering with amusement. âreally. but letâs not base our entire relationship around satoru and suguru of all people, alright?â
and again, she sighs. brittle, a little fatigued. brows scrunching together. âlook, i ââ
a pause. she gnaws at her plump bottom lip, eyelashes fluttering like a battered heartbeat. her voice comes out sounding soft, all duvet pillows and fresh lavender, a lilt that anchors you to earth. sweet words. so honest it makes your breath hitch.
âi want to take care of you.â
and this time, youâre the flustered one. burning under her gaze, feeling a heat blossom on your skin. feeling the fervent pitter patter of your heartbeat, as her pretty eyes look into yours. a nice mocha brown.Â
but even with the fresh embarrassment trickling through your veins, you find it in you to speak. desperate, maybe, to cross the distance between you â even when it borders on non-existent. desperate to feel your heartbeats synchronize, figuratively or literally. to stitch them together.
âi want to take care of you, too,â you echo, looking down at the floor. and then back at your girlfriend. hesitant, a tad shy. but sincere.
a sincerity so palpable it makes shoko feel a little jealous.Â
(sometimes, she finds herself wanting to put a hand inside your chest. dig around your organs, run her fingertips down every single one, until she finds what she's looking for. that miraculous something that makes you stick around, that makes you so frighteningly easy to love. that makes her want to safeguard you so terribly.)
âthen letâs take care of each other,â she breathes, a small smile slipping into the curve of her lips. reaching out to brush against your knuckle, weave your fingers together. delicate.Â
she clears her throat. â⌠i guess.âÂ
and you canât help but smile. somewhat cheeky, a little teasing. âah,â your eyes crinkle, and you stifle a coo. âdid that embarrass you?â
a sharp little scoff. shoko gives you a lazy grin, paired with a soft roll of her eyes. brushing her thumb across your knuckles, even still. âoh, shut up.â
the world seems to still, ever so slightly, as you look into each otherâs eyes. like everything else is just background noise, from the pitter patter of the rain to the fading smell of coffee all around you. shoko looks at you like sheâs trying to see inside your brain, see what makes you tick, see you for what you are.
and when she eventually leans in for a kiss, youâre pliant. expectant. her lips against yours, breathing you in, as soft as ever. like sheâs afraid of getting too greedy. she tastes like nectar and cosmetics.
âgive me some time,â she says, after pulling back. hands on your waist, squeezing softly. âiâll make you another cup right now.â
âsure you donât want me to do it?â you ask. âi donât mind.â
another little scoff. offended. âlook, iâm not incompetent, okay? iâm just not used to it.â she untangles herself from you, warmth slipping away. you will yourself not to chase it. âjust stand there and look pretty for me.â
and she smiles, when those words make you giggle, infected by your sleepy joy. something soft and silky blooms inside her ribcage, mirrored by the glimmer in your eyes when you intertwine your hands again. fingertips brushing against each other, delicate, a love thatâs handled with care.
â.. i like making you coffee,â you whisper after a beat. smiling. under your breath, like youâre telling her a secret. âit makes me happy.â
a moment passes. something in shokoâs bones still, for a second, enough for you to notice. and her eyes fill with a kind of hesitance. doubt, maybe. or fear.
when shoko opens up to you, itâs always like this. sleepy, rainy days, or tipsy afternoons. in no more than a whisper, a fragile breath, the ghost of a confession. when you can feel her heartbeat, one finger on her wrist, listening to the rhythm of her pulse. intimate. a little clumsy, butâŚ
âi just donât want you to spend too much of yourself on me.â
the words are spoken in passing, almost casually, a lighthearted kind of resignation. a hungry ghost. one that follows her, follows you. suguru and satoru, too. thereâs a lump in her throat, you can tell, something that makes it a little harder to say what she means. an intimacy that frightens her in a way nothing else can; frightened to hold it in her palms, to keep it close without having it break apart.
(not just her â you all are. all four of you. thatâs why you've always been together, you think, why you always will be. four hedgehogs huddling together in the cold of night, too desperate for warmth to stay away from each other's spines.)
carefully, almost cautiously, you bring her hand to your lips. as if youâre handling a flimsy sheet of glass. featherlight, a touch so tender you hope she knows what youâre about to say before the words leave your throat.
âyouâre worth it,â is whispered against her skin, your lips against her knuckles. shoko softens, but you think the sigh that slips from her lips sounds just a little shaky. âalways.â
and finally, you know you aren't deluding yourself. itâs there, visible, the cherry red of her ears; a red that matches the lipstick on your skin. a flush that never travels down to her face. but itâs enough.
she clears her throat. voice beginning to change shape, slowly but surely, morning fatigue peeled off with the ticking of the clock. thereâs still a raspy residue, leftover smoke thatâll never quite leave her lungs, but itâs silkier now. trickling like honey from her parted lips.
and itâs terribly soft, her tongue twisting around the vowels, a low lilt that drips with tenderness. she wills herself to smile. tired, but fond. âjust let me make you one cup, then.â
so you do.
you let her, after briefly pointing out the functions of the far too expensive espresso machine that satoru bought you when you first moved in, and she listens intently. those pretty eyes, the intelligence behind them, her lips pursed in focus. shokoâs a genius, youâve always thought â so effortlessly good at memorization, at figuring out how things work. what ties everything together.Â
you think itâs a little comical that she struggled so much with making coffee, of all things, but you choose to attribute it to her slight hangover. Â
because sheâs focused, when she begins to fiddle with the machine. attentive. as if sheâs dissecting it. a satisfaction in the way she moves, the way everything clicks into place as she works. everything serves a purpose, every single part in the machinery, every tube or pump of caffeine. she compares it to the human body, a glint in her eyes, and you canât disagree.
all you can do is watch her. silently, entirely mesmerized. sitting on the kitchen counter, bare thighs against the marble, swinging your legs. telling her about the dream you had, while she listens. always.
a fresh, thick aroma of espresso and rainwater begins to waft through the apartment. one you drink in, greedy, steam filling your lungs. as you admire how the tiny droplets bounce off the hyacinths blooming on your balcony.
and when sheâs finished, producing one cup of espresso, tailored to your liking, you canât still the beating of your heart. unsure if you should blame it on the caffeine yet to enter your veins, or the proud smile that lingers on your girlfriendâs lips. maybe the way her fingers curl around the handle, the way a soft here, baby, spills from her smudged lips. all of the above, probably.
sheâs gorgeous. breathtaking. sometimes you want to give her everything, more than you could live without. your heart, your lungs, your eyes. anything she asks for.
but she would never. all sheâll ever need is for you to keep sticking around, keep telling her about your silly dreams, keep letting her feel the beat of your pulse at the base of your throat. a mantra sheâs fallen a little bit in love with.
and when you put your lips against the ceramic, and a bittersweet scent fills your lungs, you think you can taste it. that care, a love soft enough to mend all the jagged edges of your heart.
shoko smiles. smoothing a stray eyelash from your skin, thumb against your cheekbone. âhow is it?â
(you swear itâs the best cup of coffee youâve ever had.)
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I just got this idea and Iâm so excited to share it, can you do dazai with a seductive & intelligent reader who acts cheerful to deceive others with her âinnocenceâ? How would she and dazai act, would they have intellectual talks and debate with each other on controversial matters, would they plan, observe or strategize together? Would dazai attempt to fluster her? + spice headcannons please :)
dazai with a "charming" reader
1.1k words. fem! reader
[unestablished relationship; reader is lowkey manipulative; sadly no spice bc i can't write them :') ]
⼠thank you for sharing nonnie i love the idea so much!! fingers crossed i'm going in the right direction with this.
You're no one important; a new secretary freshly accepted into the Armed Detective Agency, not any less nice and compassionate than Miss Haruno or Cafe Uzumaki's lovely waitress.
â
You're such a sweet thing. You even looked genuinely concerned when our local suicidal man threw a suicide offer! A perfect package: You embody a charming person who is compassionate and caring to her colleagues; very devoted to her job; topped with a benevolent personality. It shows through the good-natured "How are you," the cups of coffee you fetch for everyone to start the day, and the generous offers of paperwork assistance (which Dazai failed to accept before Kunikida starts berating you for being 'too nice').
â
You're so kindhearted that your actions seem to revolve around everyone else. But Dazai is smart enough to see how in truth, it was the other way around.
â
You're not in the office? Everyone notices and is worried about your absence. Atsushi second-guessing himself? You're so agreeable and encouraging; so much so that he came to trust you more than he trusts himself. Is Ranpo being reluctant in a case? "Ranpo-san," you tilt your head, "This case is definitely too trivial to be handled by a detective of your caliber. But I trust The Greatest Detective more than anyone else." It didn't need Ranpo more sweet briberies to get him on and going to the crime scene.
"I stand with Kyouka, President," It was a fine afternoon in the agency. Your sentence rings firm as you make your stance beside the kimono-clad young lady.
"Surely, every person in this city has the right to amend themselves." you continueâwith the usual undying conviction and hope in your irises.
Fukuzawa's expression resembles something of sharpened surprise-then wariness. Though it quickly melts away to subdued neutrality when he sees it was youâa mere kindhearted secretaryâwho spoke such a merciful sentence. Kyouka is accepted into the agency without anyone else necessary to speak up for her.
Naturally, defending a scared, lost, and misguided childânot innocent, but a childâwas the most empathetic, compassionate thing someone can do. And yet,
"You're such a horrible person, (Name)."
Dazai Osamu's sweet smile plays a contrast against his cutting words. Several hours have passed since your little persuasion. Now you find yourselves sharing a table with the agency's ladies' man in the quiet cafe.
You shot a brief glance to the counter; it isn't hard to know Dazai had chosen an hour when even the cafe owner is momentarily absent.
"I am?" your gaze returns to his. And his brown eyes crinkle in astute amusement.
"You never really trusted Kyouka, didn't you?"
Your silence doesn't serve much of denial, so Dazai continued.
"That's smart. You speak in her favor because 'enemies' will work harder to gain 'our' trust. You don't trust her yet, but you put her in a spot where she will be more inclined to prove herself as a loyal ally."
"And maybe even more loyal than you, don't you say, (Name)?"
What's this? A question of loyalty? His implication is dangerous. But you fold your hands unabashed, resting your chin on them.
"Go on."
Dazai raises a brow. You return it with a sweet, closed-eye smile.
"You're just like a dream, Dazai," the syllables of his name pleasantly roll on your tongue. "Being understood this wellâit's like a dream come true."
Your eyes lock his, undaunted. "Don't you think so too?"
Another silence, so thick and suffocating Dazai's now sharp gaze might cut through it.
"No?" a light titter escapes your throat. With shoulders not at all taut nor your gait on edge, you stare at afternoon's last rays from the quaint window of the cafe.
"That's too bad. To think I considered that suicide offer thing you mentioned when we first met. It seems I was mistaken about you."
Something about your tone isn't genuine. But what is not genuine is not always untrue.
The day Kyouka joined the agency marked the day two individuals somewhat similar, but starkly different acknowledged each other. Trust will be something more complicated to share, but that will be a problem solved by the march of time.
â â
Everyone notices how Dazai acts more amicably and clingy the day after. The attempts of flirting and flustering come back tenfold, in which you all but respond with an indulgent laugh or occasional witty words that won't get Kunikida too pressed. Perhaps Dazai has gotten more comfortable after knowing your true nature, or he rather keep you at an arm's length to keep a better eye on you. That will be a question only the man himself can answer.
â
"You know, I've always been curious," you murmur to your flute, golden champagne swirling under the setting sun.
But the mutual understanding is present. God knows how untrusting and secretive Dazai can be with his plans. The moments you get to work together are represented by the knowing glances and silent nods during dire times when quick understandings are needed. Your relationship is delicate. There is now a degree of trust. But the two of you still tiptoe around each other, second-guessing what the other might have up their sleeves.
"About what?" Dazai, clad in a formal suit hums to his own glass, gaze still fixed on the same sunset you have in your eyes.
The three-way conflict with the Guild and the virus incident almost cost you Yokohama. One would think colleagues who worked through hell and back to save their city would have fully trusted each other by now. You got his back and he got yours; he saved your life and you saved his. But you aren't a fool. Dazai doesn't truly trust you. Dazai doesn't truly trust anyone.
"What are you looking for, Dazai? What are you looking for in this life?"
You look at his side profile. Dazai Osamu is an enigma, one you've spent so much time figuring out.
"You're looking for something. Something more than you expect. But someone must've told you the truth already; you'll find nothing. So why still persevere?"
This time, it's his silence that serves as neither a denial nor an answer.
The distant noise of the victory banquet calls; its joyous tone unfit for the heavy atmosphere you and Dazai shared. You let out a defeated exhale.
"Are you still looking for a beautiful woman to have suicide with?"
You'll let him open up when he's ready, you think. It isn't fair for both of you.
"Are you changing your mind?" He beams. "Could it be? Have you finally fallen in love with me?!"
S.S. Zelda sways gently on the still waters. Dazai's expression is coated with his usual playful facade. You hold his gaze as soon as it falls to yours. Just subtly, it slowly shifts to something more solemn.
"Who knows?" you close your eyes, lips dancing in a vixen smile.
It's tiring, but sure. You'll play this game just a little bit longer. After all, all the good things come to those who are patient.
i just realized these sound more like scenarios than hcs. welp.
⥠@ashthemadwriter
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âwake up.â
you jolt out of bed immediately, your head spinning into disorientation as you struggle to gather your bearings. that was the most unnatural way to wake up, with your adrenaline pumping and your heart racing. itâs like one of those dreams where youâre falling and you wake up scared out of your mind, or during those stormy nights when youâre suddenly awoken by a deafening round of thunder.
but you only notice inumaki when you begin to calm down. heâs standing at the foot of your bed, laughing as he zips his high collar back up.
âthatâs not funny!â you shriek, sending a pillow in his direction. your aim misses the top of his head by a small margin that it only brushes a few of his strands back.
Continuar lendo
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your attention on me, please!
summary: despite a spotless academic career, your poor athleticism makes the upcoming school sports day a nightmare. but when you spot the school slacker, nagi seishiro, pull off a crazy feat of flexibility, you think you've found your ticket to success. The one thing you didn't account for, though, is the way nagi wrecks everything you thought you understood.
notes: 7.5k words, fic, author's notes (read for some cultural context too), no blue lock au, fluff, romcom vibes, soccer is called football, this starts before nagi meets reo but covers a canon divergent vers of their meeting
Everything in the world can be categorized.Â
This is something youâve come to learn in all your years of living on the planet; itâs something youâve come to expect, even. That there are certain patterns to interactions, that people can be dissected into simple pieces, and the world moves neatly along set routes you can predict. Youâve mapped out a path to success with your knowledge: graduate at the top of your class as student representative, test into a prestigious university, and work for a successful company.Â
But there are some people who, despite your best efforts, wreck your neat understanding of the world, strange outliers who are more like aliens rather than fellow residents of the same planet. Nagi Seishiro, a classmate youâve never paid particular attention to before, is one such example of an alien. Because despite your best efforts, you canât help but find him incomprehensible.Â
Your first meeting with Nagi Seishiro is less of a meeting, and more of a chance encounter. The roof, which is often forbidden to students, is easily accessible once you pick the lock. And because of that, itâs also the one place you can go to relax outside of the view of your classmates.
At least, you used to be the only one who knew the roof was accessible. Because on a balmy day during your second year of high school, you find someone lounging on the flat tiles, a phone raised in front of their face.
You pause, squinting at the intruder. It takes you a few seconds, but eventually you recognize who it is: your classmate, Nagi Seishiro, whoâs perpetually napping in class, or pretending to read while he plays video games.Â
But he doesnât look up once from his phone, so you carefully skirt to the opposite corner of where he lies, taking your textbooks out of your bag to study. The next few hours pass in silence, and itâs only when the roof door bangs open that you look up to see Nagi disappearing down the stairs.Â
Easy. Simple. Uncomplicated. You two orbit each other for the next few weeks, sharing space on the roof without talking. Maybe itâs because the rooftop has made you aware of his existence, but you start seeing him around school, too. Dawdling in the classroom after school as everyone flies past him, getting reprimanded for overdue library books, or buying bread from the cafeteria long after everyone else has already stolen the best pieces.
Nagi lives in a world of his own and moves along at his own pace, and makes absolutely no effort in anything at all. Your paths will never intersect, because the way he lives is an antithesis to everything you believe in.
But that all changes a few weeks before the school sports meet. Exercise is the one thing you canât seem to improve in; unlike your grades or your sociability, you simply canât practice enough to overcome your lack of coordination. But simply giving up isnât an option; you canât accept anything less than first place after embarrassing yourself last year.Â
On the opposite side of the roof from Nagi Seishiro, where youâre accustomed to studying now, you happen to glance up at the exact moment he trips over his own untied shoelaces and drops his phone⌠before he sweeps his free foot to catch the falling object and twists his arm to use his hand to push himself back into a standing position, all in the span of a few seconds.Â
âThat was dangerous,â he mumbles, kicking his phone back into his grasp, but your heart is pounding. You might have found a solution to your sports day problem.
âNagi Seishiro,â you say, flying across the roof to plant yourself in front of him before he can move back to his usual lounging spot.Â
He blinks at you sleepily, as if trying to place your face in his memories. âWhoâre you?â
âYour classmate. I saw that stunt just now,â you continue. âYou⌠youâre really athletic.â
âI guess?â
âHelp me become a better athlete.â you raise one hand. âI donât expect you to do it for free, though! I promise I can help you raise your grades in return. The teacher chews you out a lot in class for not paying attention, right? Itâd be a good deal!â
His reply is immediate. âDonât want to.â
âWhy not? I mean, if you donât like the terms of our deal, I could come with something thatâs more favorable to youââ
âI donât care about all of that,â he says bluntly. âIt sounds like a lot of work.â
Huh. Huh? You try to maintain a smile, but you feel as if he just threw cold water on your face. âWhat do you mean, itâs a lot of work?â
âIt just sounds like a pain. I donât want to do it,â he says. He glances down at his phone screen. âAh. I died. Guess Iâll need to restart that level.â
âWait!â you say before he can move around you. âIt wonât be a lot of work. I just need to know how you pulled off that stuntâ I mean, didnât you practice to get that good?â
âNot really? I just sorta did it. Itâs likeâŚâ He waves one arm vaguely. âYou sorta go fwoosh. And then fwaah.â
â... What?â Was he just naturally gifted, then? You donât think youâve seen any of your friends on sports teams act as flexibly as he did.
âIf you donât get it, I canât explain it,â he says. âWhy are you trying so hard? Canât you ask someone else?â
He didnât mean it negatively, not with the spacey expression in his eyes and the lack of malice in his tone. Still, a jolt of anger runs down your spine as you grab onto the lapels of his jacket, wrenching him to look down at you. âNo. It has to be you. Donât run away from me, Nagi Seishiro,â you say furiously. âI canât pull off anything you just did, but I want to get better anyways. So youâre going to help me, because you donât have a choice. I wonât let you go.â
â... What a pain,â Nagi mumbles. âBut itâd be more of a pain to refuse, huhâŚâ
You frown. âWhat was that?â
âNothing, boss. But Iâm ranking in an event right now, so can we wait untilââ
âIâll help you rank,â you say immediately. âSo no more excuses.â
Nagi puts up his hands in surrender. âOkay.â
After your (one-sided) agreement, Nagi starts to stick to you like a burr. Or it might be more accurate to say that you refuse to let him out of your sight, because the second you stop paying him an ounce of attention, he goes back to dozing, gaming or lying around doing nothing.
Sure, your deal was only limited to sports training, but seeing the state of him, you couldnât just let him be. Seriously, how on earth has he survived until now? He has all the energy and drive of a sloth.
âYou need to brush your hair more,â you snap, running a comb through his soft hair as Nagi dozes at his desk. âItâll get tangled otherwise.â
âToo much work.â
âEverythingâs too much work with you. But you know, you only create more work for yourself in the future if you neglect doing basic routines like this now,â you emphasize.
âIs that why you always work so hard?â he says.
âWell, yes. I want to do my best at everything, because I want to be successful. Thatâs the best path to happiness, you know. Doing your best and achieving great results because of it.â
âHuh.â Nagi takes out a smushed piece of melon bread from his pocket. âYouâre weird.â
âYouâre the weird one,â you grumble. âIs that the only thing you brought to eat?â
âYeah.â
You put down the comb, and, rummaging around in your bag, pull out your lunchbox. You slam it down on Nagiâs desk. âEat half of this. You canât survive off of just bread.â
âOkay.â
After school, though, is when you hustle Nagi to the nearby park in your gym clothes, ready to start training. Nagi is an unmotivated teacher, but from his limited and vague explanations, youâve managed to at least work out that you need to be more observant of your limbs, and the space around you.Â
At the park, you force him to run laps with you, and go through a few exercise routines youâve looked up online. By the end of it, youâre panting and sweating, but Nagi looks as unruffled as ever.
âWater,â Nagi says, tapping the side of your head with a water bottle.Â
âThanks,â you mumble, but heâs already messing with his phone again.
âLog on,â he says. âI want to rank again.â
âWhat? Letâs go for a few more rounds,â you protest.
âBut you promised to help me.â
You groan, fishing your phone out of your bag. You werenât particularly interested in games, but after realizing it incentivized Nagi more than any of your pleading, youâd brushed up on your skills, watched tutorials and practiced strategies, and soon found yourself battling side by side with Nagi in a virtual world during most of your evenings.Â
â... Youâre good,â Nagi mumbles as your fingers tap across the screen, clearing a row of enemies.Â
âThatâs because I practice. Okay, done!â You bounce up, stretching your arms. âA few more laps, Nagi. Come on!â
Nagi groans but lethargically raises himself up, and you run around the park until night falls.
You donât know what to think of your classmate, to be honest. Heâs a genius at sports, but he never practices or utilizes his talent. How can he just let it go to waste? Taking the easy route is a foreign concept, and you still canât quite fit the pieces of Nagi Seishiro into a coherent design. Spacey, unmotivated, lackadaisical⌠youâd even start keeping spare supplies in your bag because Nagi is always forgetting his notebook at home, or needs to borrow a towel. But despite how pushy you act, he never acts bothered by it. Nor does he mind listening to you, or doing what you say, or following you around, though you thought he would have long thrown in the towel by now.
Youâre friends, and youâre fond of him. The idea surprises you when you realize it, but itâs not an unpleasant thought.
The next few weeks fly by in a routine of school, training and home until the day of the anticipated sports meet. Youâve signed up for the relay race, and you jump up and down to keep your energy up. You chatter away with your classmates until the appointed time, all your friends teasing you and trying to pat you on the head.Â
Mikage Reo is no such exception, and your oldest friend finds you in the crowd while fighting back a gaggle of fawning admirers.Â
Youâve been friends with Reo since middle school.Â
Maybe you naturally gravitated towards each other because youâre both always surrounded by people, or because your grades are neck and neck, or because his philosophy in life is similar to yours. The only difference between the two of you is that Mikage Reo is a corporate heir, and you earned a scholarship to attend school. The worst part about being his friend, though, is that youâve heard whispers of people around school calling the two of you âthe schoolâs flowers,â a nickname you hope never, ever catches on.
âGood luck,â Reo says, flicking your nose. âDonât trip out there.â
You pat Reo on the shoulder. âBe amazed, Reo. Iâm a new and improved athlete.â
He snorts. âYeah? Iâve heard you dragged some kid into being your personal trainer. You never let up, do you?â
âThatâs the only way to succeed, Reo! I have to keep my eyes on the prize!âÂ
You make your way down to the starting line of the track, but a familiar head of fluffy white hair catches your gaze. You run behind Nagi and poke him in the sides.
âOof,â he says, but he doesnât look surprised to see you. âYouâre going to run now?â
âYes. And Iâm going to bring us to victory!â You raise your arms. âIâve practiced hard for this moment, so keep your eyes on me, Nagi.â
A gaggle of boys in red jerseys passing by snicker at your declaration. From the class across from yours, you recall distantly. âLoser,â one of them calls. âWho gets worked up over a school event?â
For once, you see a spark of anger in Nagiâs eyes, an emotion youâve never seen cross his face before. He frowns, opening his mouth, but you place a hand on his elbow. He relaxes at your touch, glancing lopsidedly at you.Â
âDonât pay them any attention,â you say firmly. âItâs not worth it.â
â... Okay.â But Nagiâs eyes remain narrowed at their retreating backs.
âItâs nice of you to worry, though. Thanks.â His concern is a warmth you carry in your chest all through the race; so he does have emotions other than apathy and faint annoyance. Yet another puzzle piece to the mystery of Nagi Seishiro.Â
You get into position, the whistle blows, and the first runners of the race set off. Youâre running the last leg of the relay, and your class is already behind when your classmate dashes up to you, slapping the baton in your hands. You sprint, all those weeks of dragging Nagi out to train working their magic as you pass one person⌠then another⌠but youâre still too far from the finish line with one person just ahead of you. Your legs pump. Your lungs burn. The wind whips past your face. You wonât make it like this. Reo cheers your name in the distance. And thereâs a shock of white hair out of the corner of your eye, and you know heâs watching, the slacker, and he probably doesnât see what the big deal is if you come in second⌠Keep going. Keep going⌠and, in a burst of speed, you strain your legs to the limit as you dash past your last competitor, your foot touching the finish line as your classmates erupt into cheers.
You can hardly process what happens next, your blood still pumping from the race, but you slow to a jog as your classmates swarm you, shouting praise.Â
âGreat job!â Reo says, and you high five him.Â
But your eyes are already searching for Nagi, who sticks out of the crowd like a sore thumb, towering over the majority of your classmates.
âDid you see that?â you ask Nagi as you dash up to him.
âYeah. You won. Congrats,â he says simply. âAll your work paid off.â
âDo you have a different opinion on working hard now, Nagi?â you say, elbowing him in the side.Â
âDunno. Still seems like a lot. But⌠you looked like you were shining,â he says seriously. âI couldnât stop watching you.âÂ
You pretend to cough into your elbow, hiding your warming cheeks. âThanks. Anyways! Youâre up next, right? What did you sign up for? Ping-pong?â
âI asked someone to switch with me,â he says. âIâm playing football now.â
âFoot⌠ball? Are you sure you can pick up on all the rules in a short amount of time?â you say, surprised. âWhy would you do that?â
âJust because.â But the way Nagi avoids your gaze makes you wonder if heâs hiding something. Still, it wouldnât be fair of you to pry, and the victory is still racing through your blood.Â
âAll right. Iâll go cheer you on, then.âÂ
The two of you make your way to the football field, where the rest of the team is warming up. Someone throws Nagi a blue jersey, and you turn to size up the opposing team. Theyâre wearing red jerseys⌠and theyâre the same boys who had made fun of you, just a few moments ago. You glance at Nagi, but heâs lazily stretching one leg.Â
âGood luck,â you say to Nagi.
âHm. Wonât need it.â For once, you canât tell if itâs confidence or lethargy in his voice.
The ensuing football game isnât a game at all. Itâs a one-sided slaughter, with Nagi leading the charge. You donât think youâve ever seen Nagi move so fast or fluidly. The ball never leaves his side, and the other team canât even touch him. One goal. Then another. And when itâs clear they canât do anything to stop him, the enemy team starts frantically swarming Nagi, breaking formation. But not even a pile-up can save them from their fate, because Nagi simply dodges and kicks the ball into the goal in a series of complicated maneuvers that you can barely track with your eyes.Â
The timer runs out, and no one can say a word. You start clapping, and like theyâve woken from a daze, your classmates start cheering, a roar so loud you can hear it reverberate in your heart.
âDid you see that? I didnât realize Nagi could move like that,â one of your classmates murmurs.Â
âI know! Where has he been hiding that talent? Itâs so unfair!â
On the distant field, you see Nagi talk to one of opposing team members, who turns an ugly color at his words. You make your way down to the swarm of your excited classmates, but Nagi is already scanning the crowd, lazily waving off compliments from the people around him, and his droopy eyes perk up when you approach.Â
âWhat did you say to that boy?â you whisper, and Nagi leans down so you can cup your hand around his ear. âHe looked upset.â
âJust told him he shouldnât be calling other people losers when he doesnât even know how to play the game right,â Nagi says. âThatâs all.â
âDid youâŚâ The sudden thought feels ridiculous and self-centered. And yet, Nagi Seishiro, the guy who hates activity, who hates effort, who never seems to have particularly strong feelings⌠âDid you do that because of what he said to me?â
Nagi shrugs. âYou worked hard for your goal. He shouldn't have said that.â
Thereâs a strange fluttering in your chest, and you clamp down on it with all your might. You arenât going to go there. Because itâs absurd, and impossible, and simply doesnât make any sense. It would ruin your perfectly aligned plans and wreck your understanding of the world. Youâre barely even friends with Nagi; why would he go through all of that trouble for you?
Instead, you elbow him, more roughly than you intend to. âThanks, but I told you it was okay. People say stupid things all the time.â
âBut I didnât like it,â he says firmly. âYou shouldnât have to put up with that.â
Who is this guy? Did an alien abduct the real Nagi Seishiro and replace him mid-game? Itâs hard to look at him, all of a sudden, so you glance down at your shoes instead, trying to calm the pounding of your heart.
The next day, Nagi Seishiro is the talk of the school. His one-sided destruction during sports day gets passed around in whispers and rumors, and a few of your classmates now tell him good morning when he walks through the door. Still, his attitude and manner is enough to put most of them off⌠all but your friend, Mikage Reo.
âPlay football with me!âÂ
Itâs a declaration made when you and Nagi are walking through the halls after school, Reo skirting to a stop just in front of you. He strides up to Nagi, his eyes shining in the golden afternoon sunlight.
âDonât wanna,â Nagi says immediately.
âWhy not? You have the talent, the genius⌠we could take the world by storm. You⌠could become the best player in Japan⌠no, the best player in the world! Be my football partner!â Reo says effusively.
Nagi glances at you. âI already have a partner.â
The term âpartnerâ trills down your spine, but you hold up your hands at Reoâs crestfallen look. âOur deal was only for the sports meet. Weâre not really partners anymore.âÂ
Did Nagi look disappointed, or was it just a trick of the light? Either way, he shoves his hands in his pockets. âI still donât want to.â
âWhy not?â Reo demands.
âIt sounds boring.â
âHe thinks everything is too much work,â you say, and Reo throws you a stare that screams âhow did you even convince him to work with you?â You grimace in response.
âCome on, Nagi Seishiro. Iâll show you a whole new world. It wonât be boring for even a second. Play football with me!â Reo tries again, but Nagi only stares at him silently.Â
Nagi glances at you again (why does he keep looking at you?) and Reo, ever observant, throws his pleading in your direction.Â
âPlease convince Nagi for me,â Reo begs. âHeâll listen to you.â
âWhatâ I donâtââ
âWeâre friends,â Reo wheedles. âCome on.â
Well. It wasnât as if you wanted Nagi to go back to his old slacker ways, and maybe spending time with Reo would open up Nagiâs narrow world, just a bit more. âNagi, why donât you try it? You did really well at the sports meet. Itâd be a waste to do nothing with your talent.â
â... Is football fun?â Nagi asks.
âReally fun!â Reo replies.
âAnd⌠itâs something that people have to try hard at?â
âMost people! You might be able to skate by without even practicing, though, since youâre a genius,â Reo says. âNot that Iâm going to let you slack on the field, or off it.â
âHuh⌠no wonder the two of you get alongâŚâ he mutters, before turning the full force of his attention on you. âIs working hard, and doing your best at something⌠is it really that fun?â
âHuh? Well, yeah! I want to be the best I can be, and winning the relay race felt really good,â you say. âDidnât you feel anything when you won the football match?â
âDunno, but⌠hmâŚâ You can see the rusty gears turning in his head. âIâll go with you,â Nagi says finally to Reo. âIâll try joining your team⌠butâŚâ He points at you. âThey have to come with me.âÂ
âHuh? Iâm not even good at sports,â you say defensively. âI have too much on my plate toââ
âDeal!â Reo interjects. âThey can come to all our practices and games, even if they donât join the team! Donât go back on your word, Nagi Seishiro.â
And to your utter bafflement, you find yourself attending Nagi and Reoâs football games. Nagi, whose attitude youâre just starting to crack, suddenly turns back to an utter alien. Why did you have to attend their practices? Nagi seems content just to have you there, and Reo calls you a âlucky charm,â because apparently Nagi is more motivated when youâre around.Â
Sure, you pick up on enough of the terminology and mechanics of the game to bounce strategies with Reo, but you doubt you really need to be there when they have a seasoned coach. Why had Nagi really accepted Reoâs offer, too? So many mysteries surrounded him.
When you ask, Nagi only says vaguely that he accepted Reoâs offer because âhe wants to learn what it means to try his bestâ and you have to be here because âhe needs you around.â And then he failed to elaborate when you pressed him.
Truly, Nagiâs behavior doesnât fit with anyone youâve ever met before. How can you start to untangle the threads of his random whims? Itâs impossible⌠which is why it leads to odd moments, like during the latest football game Reo organized.
âNagi, what are you doing?â
Reo's exasperated voice rings out across the field. And, with the screen flashing a score of 5-0 overhead, and curious audience members staring at you and Nagi at the bench below, you can't help but find yourself echoing his sentiments. The star of your school's most recent football match is standing right in front of you, bent at a 90 degree angle so he's looking straight at the ground, his fluffy hair shoved right in front of your face.
âNagi, what are you doing?â you say, hands still clasped together mid-clap.
âI won the game,â he says matter-of-factly.
âYou did! Congratulations!â
But Nagi still doesn't move. In the distance, Reo raises his eyebrows at you, and you shrug your shoulders helplessly. Nagi, with his alien tendencies, is incomprehensible at this moment. As soon as Nagi had scored the winning shot and the timer counted to zero, he dodged all his cheering teammates and made a beeline straight to where you were sitting, bending into a strange position. And heâs been like this for the past three minutes, without any explanation.Â
âI won the game,â he repeats.
âI know. I was watching.â
âSo you should compliment me,â Nagi says patiently, as if he were explaining a math equation to a small child.
âHuh? But I did,â you protest. âI congratulated you.â
âYou should compliment me,â he says again.
This conversation could run around in circles all day. Your eyes drift to Nagi's hair, white strands sticking up in all directions. It's always messy because the only time a comb touched his head was when you were the one using it to brush his hair. Then it hits you out of the blue. No way. Did he want you toâŚ? Thereâs only one way to find out.
Your hand sinks into his hair as you pat him on the head. It's just as soft as it looks, if not a bit sweaty from exercise. One pat, two pats, and then you quickly extract your hand before you lose yourself in the addicting feeling of stroking his hair. âYou did a good job, Nagi. I'm proud of you.â
Nagi finally looks up, satisfied, even if the expression on his face doesn't change a bit. He tilts his head when he sees you shaking your hand slightly. âWhat are you doing?â
"You're sweaty," you inform him. "Next time, you only get head pats if you take a shower first."
A frown grows across Nagi's face before he drops his chin on the top of your head, arms wrapping around you and draping himself over you as if he had no strength left in his body. You shriek at the sudden, sweaty contact, nose crushed right against his jersey.
âNagi! Cut it out!â
âDon't wanna. Too much work.â
âAnd it's not too much work to lean on me like this?â you ask, voice muffled from being pressed against his body.
His arms tighten around you. âNope.â
"Nagi, you're suffocating them," Reo says, his voice startling close. He must have moved across the field while you were caught up with Nagi.
âThey're okay,â Nagi says.
âNo, he's right. I canât breathe right now,â you say dryly.
Nagi loosens his grip around you, but his chin still rests on your head.
âNagi, we need to talk about our next game,â Reo says expectantly.
âDon't wanna.â
Reo shoots you a pleading glance from around Nagiâs back. âNagi, go with Reo to talk about your next game,â you order.
âDo I have to?â Nagi shuffles back just enough for you to see his unhappy expression, your head finally freed from his touch.
âYes,â you and Reo both say at the same time.
âFine,â he replies. Reo, triumphant, grabs Nagi's arm before he can make a sudden dash, and mouths a thank you before hauling Nagi away. Nagi, for his part, throws you forlorn glances as Reo drags him away, but you only wave at him, smiling.
When the two of them are gone and most of the audience has dispersed, only you and the chilly autumn sunshine remain. The wind, which hadn't been quite so cold before, is strong enough to make you pull your coat tighter around yourself.
Nagi Seishiro is the human equivalent to one of the worldâs unsolvable math equations. Though the formula looks simple in theory, thereâs simply no way of understanding itâ or understanding him. His lackadaisical method of communication doesnât make it any easier, either. You canât tell if heâs genuinely obtuse, or if he doesnât notice that other people canât track his thought process without communicationâ or maybe he thinks itâs too much of a bother to try.
But youâre used to his strangeness, thoughâ or at least, you thought you were used to it, until your classmates approached you with wide eyes and giggly whispers one day, asking if the rumors were true.Â
âYouâre dating Nagi?â theyâd asked. âThe guy whoâs winning all our schoolâs football games?â
âWhat?â you hissed. âWho told you that?â
âNagi himself,â one of the girls said excitedly. âI heard someone ask him why heâs been hanging out with you so much, and he said that was because heâs your partner! Is it true? Are you two dating?â
âItâs not,â you said firmly. âIt really isnât!â you added when the girls looked at you doubtfully. Your heart sank, because if these girls were approaching you, then thatâd meant the rumors had spread around the entire school already. If thereâs one thing your classmates liked to do, it was gossip.
Thatâs how you end up dragging Nagi to the roof after school, running up the empty staircase and through streaks of lazy sunshine until youâre back where it all started, the space you onced shared like two planets orbiting the same sun, never interacting.
Now, standing across from the culprit of all the rumors, you tilt your head at Nagi, who tilts his head in the same direction as a response. His sleepy eyes bore into your own, tracking your movements like a puppy.
âNagi, have you been telling people Iâm your partner?â
âYeah.â
âWhy are you doing that?â
âBecause itâs true,â he says.Â
âButâŚ! People have been saying weâre dating!â
Nagi tilts his head. âOh. It was too much of a pain to correct them. I said we were partners, and then they started giggling, saying stuff like âI knew it! Theyâre dating!â and left before I could say anything else. Is it bad that they think weâre dating?â
âIt is! Because itâs not true at all!â Â
âWe study together and game together ,â he says. âAnd help each other out. And spend all our time together. So arenât we partners?â
âWell⌠this and that are two different things⌠Being someoneâs romantic partner and being someoneâs platonic partner are⌠theyâre not the same. Iâm just saying, you only date someone you like romantically!â
âOh. Well, I like you,â he says simply. âSo then itâs okay for us to date.â
You feel like someone has just shot you into outer space without a map, and youâre floating around, trying to get your bearings without gravity for the first time. âHuh?â
âI like you,â he repeats. âSo, then itâs okay for people to think weâre dating, right? Oh. We could start dating for real, and then that would also clear up the rumors.â
Dating⌠Dating Nagi? He looks satisfied, nodding to himself as if heâs figured out a particularly complicated equation, but youâre more lost than ever. Romance? Love? Those thoughts have never even crossed your mind. You figured youâd get to them eventually, but the most important thing in your life was success. You werenât ready yet! You donât have a plan prepared! Besides, why would he like you? When did feelings have time to grow? If anything, shouldnât Nagi be annoyed with you for interrupting his peaceful lifestyle?
You canât map this situation at all. You have no previous references to draw back on other than the girls and boys who asked Reo out throughout the years. Romance should be simple, youâd thought as Reo chased his admirers off. Romance should be simple, and easy, something you can chart and track and understand. There should be a formula to it, just like everything else in life.
âI donât have time to date,â you say. âI have to focus on my priorities, like⌠like getting into a good university.â
Nagi shrugs. âOh. We can date when weâre in university, then.â
âButâŚ!â
âDo you not like me?â he asks seriously.
You open your mouth, but you canât think of any of a proper rebuttal. You should just say no, but⌠did you really not like Nagi? Not at all? Not when he went along with your plans, defended you during sports day, wanted you at all his games, and told you he liked you, no games, no pretense, no calculations?
â... I canât answer that,â you say lamely.Â
âThen take your time,â he says.
âButâŚâ
âI like you,â he says. âBut if you donât like me or you donât want to date, then Iâm okay with just being by your side.â
Why couldnât such a simple answer ever come so easily to you, like it does to Nagi? âItâs weird,â you say quietly, looking down at your feet, âItâs weird not understanding my feelings. I want to understand everything. I wish it were easy.â
âBut isnât it tiring thinking so hard all the time? Sometimes, you canât think through something. You just have to deal with it,â Nagi says slowly. âBut⌠I like the part of you that tries hard and wants to do everything you can.â
Maybe itâs the sunlight, or the bright blue sky behind him, but Nagi is so brilliant your eyes are drawn to him. Is this what he meant, back during sports day, about shining so brightly he couldnât look away?
âStop telling people weâre dating, though,â you grumble.
âYes, boss.â
â
Mikage Reo, someone you once thought was your friend, is laughing at you. Heâs laughing at you, and everytime you think heâs stopped, he takes one look at you and bursts out laughing again. Mercifully, at least, thereâs no one in the classroom to witness your humiliation.
âYou really think you could make a plan for your love life, like how you plan for classes?â he snickers. âYou know, relationships are a lot more complicated than you give them credit for.â
âHey! In most cases, there is a set pattern to romance.â
âA pattern? Set by who?â Reo asks, raising his eyebrows.Â
âWell⌠in the books Iâve read⌠and video games Iâve played⌠I think thereâs a commonââ
âFrom stories! Not from real people? Do you know real life is different from books?â Reo cuts in. âEmotions donât operate on a cut and dry principle.â
âBut there is rationality behind emotions,â you argue. âThe way people react to certain situations, according to their personality and environment, andââ
âYouâre a nerd,â Reo says bluntly. âYou canât predict everything, you know.â
âI can try,â you say blithely, but Reo rolls his eyes.Â
âPoor Nagi,â Reo says with a sigh. âThis is what happens when he actually tries hard at something!â
âPoor me. I canât believe he started telling people we were dating without asking me first,â you grumble, and Reo starts laughing again.Â
âThe two of you are hilarious,â he says, wiping away the tears forming in his eyes. âI havenât laughed so hard in ages.â
âAt least someone is enjoying this.â
 Reo pats you on the back. âBut donât you think youâre underestimating Nagi?â
âWhat do you mean?âÂ
âYou keep trying to quantify him, but are you really listening to what heâs saying?â Reo asks. âCanât you just accept that there are some things you wonât understand?â
âButââ
âDo you really not know how you feel about him?â Reo presses. âDonât string him along. Reject him, or go out with him, but you canât make him wait to sort out your feelings forever.â
âI know! I know that. ButâŚâ You scuff at the floor with your shoe. Reo is right, as loath as you are to admit it. Itâs not fair to Nagi to make him wait. And⌠maybe Nagi isnât the alien here. Maybe you are, because youâve tried so hard to turn everything into precise data points so you can understand the human beings around you and the planet you inhabit. Maybe thatâs your only option to stave off the fear and the vulnerability the complete randomness of the universe creates.
âIâm not trying to be a jerk to you,â Reo says, placing a hand on your shoulder. âI donât want you to get hurt either, you know. But you canât keep running forever.â
âIâm not running,â you say.
Reo hums, but then nods to himself, as if coming to a decision. âDo you know why Nagi joined the football team?â
âBecause we pestered him into joining?â you grumble.
âNo. He told me itâs because he wanted to be more like you.â
âLike meâŚ?â
âHe admires you for having goals,â Reo says simply. âFor always trying your best. And he wants to understand what itâs like to care so much about something. He wants to learn how to understand you, which is amazing, donât you think? He doesnât really seem like the guy whoâs ever put much effort into anything before.â
He joined because he admired you? You feel a strange heat in your chest. Nagi, whoâs trying to understand something. And you, who has to stop trying to understand everything. What a strange pair you make.
Reo smiles slightly, but you canât help but find it unbearably smug, the meddler. Why did he have to say the right words to send your thoughts spiraling? âWhy donât you try looking at this from a different angle? What sort of guys do you like?â Reo says abruptly.
âSuccessful and rich guys,â you say automatically.
âYou like successful and rich guys?â Nagi says, and both you and Reo whirl around at the sudden intrusion into your classroom. How much has he heard? Youâre panicking as Nagi raises a hand in greeting, but he suddenly frowns. Oh no. Oh noâ but he promptly marches over and snatches Reoâs hand off your shoulder, patting off imaginary specks of dust.
âPettyâŚâ Reo mutters, but neither of you acknowledge him.
âWhat are you doing here?â you say.
âI wanted to see you,â Nagi replies.
You kick Reoâs leg just as he starts shooting you self-satisfied glances. Reo winces, then lightly jabs you in the ribs with his elbow.
âDonât hit them,â Nagi says to Reo.
âHuh? But they kicked me first!â
Nagi shrugs. âThatâs okay.âÂ
âI donât like this double standard. Youâre ganging up on me,â Reo accuses.
âThatâs your problem,â you tell Reo loftily.
Nagi calls your name softly. âAre you free on the weekend?â
âYes. Oh, did you want to study for the history test together?â you ask, grateful for a change in subject.
âTest?âÂ
â... Iâll be there on Sunday afternoon.â
âOkay, boss,â Nagi says.
With nothing left to discuss, you all start your separate paths home. Reo flashes you one last thumbs up before the three of you part. âGood luck!â he calls.Â
âThanks,â you say. Because like it or not, this weekend is going to be the first time youâre alone with Nagi after his confession.Â
â
On the weekend, you take the subway to Nagiâs house. The ride is only twenty minutes, but you spend the entire time leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the window, scenery flashing by in a muted blur. Whatâs going to happen? You havenât even responded to Nagiâs confession yet, and your heart drums nervously in your chest.Â
But Nagiâs house, you discover, is surprisingly ordinary. When you ring the doorbell, it takes a few seconds for him to amble down, wrinkled clothes and sloppy hair revealing that he just crawled out of bed.
âWelcome,â he says, and leans over as you run your fingers through his hair, causing the strands to spike up. Soft and silky, despite the fact he puts zero effort into its maintenance.Â
âDo you even know what Iâm here for?â
â... To game?â
âTo study!â you correct, shooing him back inside. You take off your shoes at the entryway, changing into house slippers, and the two of you settle down in the living room. Thereâs only a couch, a low table and a rug, and a television set in the corner. Itâs sparse but clean, so itâs possible Nagi has to hire someone to clean his house, because you doubt he does it on his own.
You pile your textbooks on the table, folding your legs underneath yourself as you flip through your notes. âSo⌠did you study for the test next week?â
âWe have a test?â Nagi says, picking up your pencil case.
You slap his hand. âYes! In history. Did you forget already? I just told you last Friday!â
âYou were going to come over, so⌠I was too excited. I forgot.â
âAm I just supposed to remember everything for you? You need to take initiative,â you say, exasperated, ignoring the fluttering in your chest. So heâd been excited to see you? No, those sorts of thoughts were irrelevant. âLook through the textbook. I marked everything I thought might be on the test.â You slide the book to Nagi, who dutifully picks it up before immediately lying on his side.
âSit up. Youâll get a headache,â you say, and Nagi slides back into a cross-legged position, resting the book on his lap.
Itâs quiet except for the scratching of your pencil and the rustle of pages. When you glance at Nagi to check his process, heâs diligently looking through the textbook, absorbed into reading each section you carefully marked. Heâs oblivious to the emotional turmoil that youâre experiencing just by sitting across a table from him; how had you been able to act so casually before? Now, youâre hyper-aware of his presence, his soft sighs, his loose posture, the eyelashes shading across his cheeks.
Out of the blue, Nagi speaks. âYou said I can ask you if I have any questions, right?â
You hum, tracing your finger down the text you highlighted. âYes. Got a question about a passage?â
âNo.â
âThen what is it?â
âCan I tell you that youâre cute?â
âThatâs⌠thatâs not related to studying,â you try to scold, but your voice is weak even to your own ears.
âSorry. But I didnât know if I was allowed to tell you or not,â Nagi says.
âIâŚâ You try to stand, try to find an excuse to leave the room for a second, but your legs have fallen asleep from being in the same cramped position for so long. You stumble, and Nagi, moving faster than youâve ever seen him, is by your side in a heartbeat.
âAre you okay?â he says, and his concerned face is hovering inches from your own. Somehow, you ended up sliding on the floor, Nagiâs arms caging you in on both sides. Your face is on fire, and somehow, you still have a tight grip on your notes. You nod, but he doesnât move away. Instead, his eyes linger on your lips.
âIs it okay if I kiss you?â Nagi says. He leans in closer, and you squeak, raising your notes to block his lips. His eyes are earnest, gaze fixed solely on you, like youâre the only person in his world.
âWell⌠thatâs notâŚâ
âI can wait for you,â he says quietly, âBut you told me not to run away from you. So donât run away from me, either.âÂ
Your cheeks are burning. Thereâs no more excuses left. You had already run out of them, long ago. âYou can. But Iâve never kissed anyone before,â you murmur. âReo is the one with all the experienceââ
âCall me by my first name,â Nagi interrupts.
âWhat?â
âYou call Reo by his first name,â he says. âCall me by mine, too. Itâs not fair, otherwise.â
âThatâs so childish!â
âIâm not moving until you do,â Nagi says stubbornly.
âFine.â You take a breath. âS⌠Seishiro. Is that better?â
âYeah.â His hands grip your wrists gently, the touch sending shockwaves through your entire nervous system.
The notebook flutters to the floor as Nagi leans in to kiss you. Like everything he does seriously, it brims with an intensity that steals your breath away. He tastes sweet, like the candy he snacks on, and you cup his face, pulling him closer.Â
When you break apart, Nagi rests his forehead against yours. âItâs a lot of work,â he says, âbut Iâm thinking of playing football professionally.â
âReally? Wow! You have the talent to pull it off,â you say. âReo finally convinced you to go pro?â
âYou said you liked successful guys,â Nagi says simply. âSo I have to work hard to be successful.â
âI did! But SeishiroâŚâ You kiss him again, because heâs just so cute, and murmur against his lips, âForget about my type. The only guy I like is you.â
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why are you doing this to me. literally. why
(i love you, i love you (kill me in the morning) ; bonus part)
kenjaku rests on a tatami mat, admiring the ephemeral glow of the starry sky.
itâs a sight to behold, truly: the infinity within it, blooming endlessly across the milky way, before his very eyes. that swirling of indigo and pure white. endless possibilities, just out of reach â so close he can almost reach out and touch them, feel them glide across the skin of his fingertips.
slowly and sweetly, savouring the cold air, he ponders. legs crossed, hair swaying gently in the summer breeze; about this, and about that. about a plan thatâs been resting in the back of his mind for thousands of years.
he wonders if there is any way you could be of use to him.Â
without too much contemplation needed, he decides that there isnât. that nothing about you could benefit his goal, that thereâs nothing your presence could possibly accomplish. that you have no place, in the world he resides in, no place in the narrative of the story he is crafting. no place in the clash between curses and sorcerers and everything in between.
(and kenjaku understands, without needing to peek into his hostâs memories, that perhaps that is exactly why suguru geto loved you.)
he goes to visit you, anyway. just for the fun of it, just to satisfy the ingrained urge his body has to do so. and itâs fascinating, it truly is â the fondness that sprouts in the confines of his chest when his eyes meet yours. a childhood muscle memory, one this body could never fully rid itself of.Â
it is nothing short of horrified, the expression on your face; you look like you could pass out any second, and kenjaku finds it just a little bit amusing.Â
but he bites back a laugh, and his lips curl up into a smile. not the smile of a people-pleaser, nor the smile of a liar, but the smile of something rather monstrous.
kenjaku does not think you will figure him out. he does not think it possible. how could you possibly? with such miniscule cursed energy, without any concept of the soul?Â
and yet you do.
you tell him that he isnât suguru geto, and youâre absolutely right. and now, kenjaku is maybe just the slightest bit intrigued.
(how strange. how amusing.
is there really no limit to what love can accomplish?)
eyes shining with barely contained, gleeful curiosity, he takes a step forward, and you call out for a dead man. a ghost. kenjaku does not expect anything to happen, because how could it?
â a hand comes up to squeeze at his throat.
it is a firm grip, with strangulation as its intended purpose. a lethal kind of ferocity. almost desperate, primal, like a mother wolf protecting her cub; the pads of his lithe fingers press into the sides of his own esophagus, and prevent any air from entering his lungs. those chipped nails dig into his pale skin, vicious and ruthless, hard enough to draw blood.
it is violent, it is gritty, it is devoted. an instinct of the body, as natural as the beating of a heart.
kenjaku canât help it â he chokes on a laugh, as suguruâs hand curls around his throat. within the vice grip lies an old promise, molded into the very fabric of his being. a promise that transcends death.
heâll protect you forever.Â
kenjaku smiles, all teeth. drool dribbling down his chin, neck bruised and bloodied. pondering; about this, and about that. about two children by a dusty summer creek.
(no matter what, huh?
â such a fool.)
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i am sobbing so much i think i will be dehydrated. i have no words to assemble how heartbroken i am right now. so beautiful. wow.
i love you, i love you (kill me in the morning) ; suguru geto
synopsis; everyone has a weakness. some are harder to get rid of.
(or, alternatively; suguru geto befriends a non-sorcerer as a child.)
word count; 10.0k
contents; suguru geto/reader (not explicitly romantic but the subtext is there), gn!reader, geto-typical angst, childhood friends to [redacted], mild gore, suguru getoâs defection but with added angst, twisted depictions of love, depictions of stalking, depictions of death/murder, general bloodlust (geto wants to kill u soo bad but also not really), unresolved yearning, hurt/no comfort, curse user geto is his own warning tbh
a/n; ok so. this is kind of a mess. just my own take on getoâs childhood and defection + how i think heâd deal with a non-sorcerer reader after defectingâŚâŚ. so it turned out kinda. Dark. itâs entirely sfw to be clear!!! just sorta twisted. in conclusion i love my cult leader wife who wants me dead <3 (pls listen to âkill meâ by indigo de souza it is SO geto)
suguru geto meets you in the afterglow of sunset, by a dusty summer creek.
itâs his special place, hidden in the outskirts of your tiny town; a place where the water glimmers with silver-hued fish, and all the biggest cicadas reside, singing softly and waiting to be caught.
a place where he can be himself. alone, with no one to curse him.
â except, this time, he isnât alone.
your crying face is the first thing he sees. big, wet tears, cascading down your scrunched-up face, accompanied by little sniffles as you sit there. curled up into a ball, knees against your heaving chest.
the next thing he sees is the bruise on your leg. a scrape on your knee, gritty and a little bloody, but itâs not so awful. he can tell that it hurts, though â you bite your lip to stop yourself from trembling, like youâre trying to be brave. but you look pained.Â
and it sends a tremor running through his very soul.
suguru was born with a bleeding heart, an empathy unusually developed for his age. always pushing him forward, coaxing him into taking action; this nagging desire to protect, to nurture. born with an inability to avert his gaze from the suffering of others.
so when the two of you lock eyes, he manages a smile. warm and soothing, even though deep down heâs alarmed. but he masks it, slathers over it with something kind, something comforting â and he can tell that it works, from the way your teary eyes seem to soften in the buttery hue of the afternoon glow.
youâre crying. and suguru finds himself wanting to wipe those tears away, more than anything. you look small, and youâre in pain.
(protect the weak, urges some voice in the back of his mind. insatiable. protect those who canât protect themselves.)
he asks for your name, all while cleaning your wound. the wince that slips from your lips when the cold water of the creek licks at your knee makes his heart clench.
but you tell him. you tell him your name, as the sun sets in the horizon, and he tells you his.Â
suguru. a sweet kid who sees you fall and patches you up. a cool kid who teases you a little for being so clumsy. who holds your hand tightly in his own, to make sure you wonât fall again.
the sun melts away beyond the cluster of trees that surround you, its burning glow breaking through the gaps between the branches and dyeing the summer creek a deep red. illuminating your blurry silhouettes, as you walk back home. hand in hand.
and thatâs how it begins.
the two of you grow closer, in the same way flowers who share a stem learn to lean on each other, grow in the same direction, a mess of mingled roots. a natural connection, blooming out of nothing more than a sweet coincidence â that kind of blissful, innocent childhood friendship. the kind you never have to question.
you learn very quickly that suguru isnât like the rest. that when compared to all the other kids you know, heâs mature, almost mystical, like he knows something they donât.
you learn that thereâs a gentleness to him, one he could never fully hide. one that shines through when he looks at you, when you play and laugh to fill the silence of the hills overlooking the small town you both live in.
you also learn that he can see ghosts.
curses, youâll both come to learn, but thatâs later. for a child in a remote town, isolated and alone, the familiarity of the ghost stories that adults tell you is the only kind of comfort suguru has to cling to. something lighthearted, to explain the predicament that haunts him â the flickers of black in his vision, that lingering taste of charcoal on his tongue.
suguru is different, you realize, different from the rest. and you eventually learn, from him, that you are far from alone in that belief.
in the town you both had the misfortune of being born into, suguru is the black sheep. his parents think thereâs something wrong with him. the other kids think thereâs something wrong with him. he isnât right in the head, they whisper, he sees things that arenât there.
(itâs a debilitating isolation that never truly leaves him.)
so suguru learns to stay silent, learns to keep his pretty little mouth shut, learns to lie. itâs easier that way. easier to survive, in the remoteness of your tiny town, with all the adults who scorn him and look at him like he doesnât belong anywhere at all.
and suguru learns to be content, in that solitude. that heaven-granted isolation. a lone white chrysanthemum, in a sea of red and lavender; blossoming alone.
but then suguru meets you.
and, contrary to everyone else, you donât think thereâs anything wrong with him. when you tell him that heâs different from the rest, you mean it in the best possible way. you say it with starlight in your eyes, gleeful, giddy. like heâs special, not broken. like youâre also tired of those other kids, those sneering adults, the silence of a town so isolated it could crush a childâs heart.
like you have something in common. like youâre the same.
and you stay by his side. throughout the most difficult years of his early life, when heâs still growing accustomed to the duty heâll have to bear for the rest of his life, youâre there. every single day. to smile at him, to speak to him like youâre both just normal kids â even though suguru is well aware that heâs anything but normal.
(when heâs with you, he feels like it, though. feels like heâs just a normal boy, like there isnât something glued down wrong inside his brain. something twisted, something that needs to be plucked out.)
suguru finds comfort in you. in your presence, in the notes you pass him when classes get boring, in the way you cling to his sleeve while exploring the woods during recess. in the way you grin so brightly after managing to catch a firefly in the darkness of the summer night, all proud and toothy, a childlike innocence he wishes he still had.
youâre sweet, and understanding, and suguru thinks you might be the coolest person he knows. youâre his friend, his very best friend, his one and only.
and when he tells you whatâs wrong with him â when he tells you what he can see â you ask him something that will forever rest in his subconscious. a flicker of precious, fleeting, genuine acceptance, one he wonât ever feel again. not until he meets a certain boy with blue eyes, but that comes later.
(a memory heâll return to, over and over again. even after all the evil in the world has already descended upon him like a crackling hurricane.)
what do they look like?
there is no judgement in your voice, in the way the question slips from your lips. no mocking laughter, no silent rejection or whisper of crazy, evil, wrong. thereâs only you, the way youâve always been, curious and understanding and wise beyond your years.
suguru decides, right then and there, that heâll protect you forever. no matter what.
you canât see curses. you arenât like him, in that regard, and he learns that quickly. and as suguru grows up, grows a little taller, a little wiser, he is glad that itâs true. heâs glad, because he already knows what kind of road lies ahead of him.
he already knows what kind of world you both live in, how unforgiving it can be. how many people die every day, every second, because of monsters only a select few can even see. he already knows that curses arenât the eccentric, silly ghosts you were hoping for when you were kids â but pure, unadulterated evil.
(he already knows what they taste like.)
and suguru takes careful measures, day by day, to keep you away from it. as much as he can without lying outright. youâre curious, by nature, almost fascinated by curses and sorcery and everything you do not understand. an endearing trait, though it exasperates him to no end.
someone like you has no business sticking their nose into that kind of cruelty, he thinks, that kind of bloodshed.
and youâve always been clumsy, a little scatterbrained. enough to make him worry instinctively when youâre out of his sight. like when you tripped and scraped your knee, by that tiny summer creek, all because you wanted to catch a dragonfly.
so he tries his best to keep you away from it, all of it, away from a darkness he knows would swallow you whole. away from the small, weak curses that sometimes litter the woods or the schoolyard; away from his cursed technique, the disgust of a power he never once asked for.Â
(he never lets you see him swallow those things, never lets you witness the way he throws them right back up again before it happens so many times that he grows used to the disgust. youâre sharp, though, and he canât hide the grimace that always lingers on his features.
you donât ask â you only give him a packet of gum, to chew away the taste with, and suguru thinks to himself that heâll love you forever.)
time passes by, slowly but surely, and the two of you stick together.
and as he grows into his teenage years, so much weight already resting on his tiny shoulders, suguru has already developed some sense of it all. of his ability, of the world of sorcerers. heâs already spoken to people like him, has already been made well aware of his potential.Â
heâs already been given a choice, a choice that was never really a choice at all, but he decides that it doesnât matter.
suguru decides to become a sorcerer. to train his abilities, to hone his skills. to eventually move away, from the stifling silence of that town, the silence that was only ever filled by you.
and suguru thinks to himself that heâs doing this for you. that in doing this, in being this, heâll fulfill his promise to protect you.
(forever. no matter what. he echoes the words in his mind like a prayer.)
suguru wants to protect those who cannot protect themselves. those who are weak, those who are alone, people he has the power to help.
but more than anything, above all else, suguru wants to protect you.Â
you are the most precious thing in his life. and if he can turn the world a little brighter for you, just a little bit kinder, then isnât that enough? isnât there enough meaning in that to give him the strength he needs?
there is. suguru decides that there is.
so when he tells you about his plans, under a pleasant, ephemeral starry sky, he does so with conviction. he knows that you will understand, because he knows you. youâre his best friend.
and heâs right. you do understand. youâre proud of him, and heâs your best friend, too.
iâll support you, no matter what.Â
the instantaneous answer makes suguru smile. not the kind of smile he plasters on to appease the adults around him, nor the smile he wears when he needs to lie convincingly. a full, genuine smile, that reaches his eyes and blossoms like a flower in the light of the moon; a warm, gentle smile, one youâll always, always associate with him.Â
(forever and ever. no matter what.)
and when suguru eventually has to leave, for a high school heâll spend the next few years of his life living at, he carries that conviction with him. his choice is steadfast, unyielding, inevitable. the only one that matters.
the whistling of the wind breaches his ears, as you both stand on the platform and wait for his train to arrive. a spring breeze caresses your skin, and suguruâs bangs flutter in the wind. sunlight scatters across the train tracks and seagulls cry out in the distance, and the acute sensation of a parting lies heavy in the air.
itâs embarrassing. itâs childish. suguru wants to claim that he isnât a child, anymore; that he wouldnât give in to hesitation, at the sight of your meek expression. that he wouldnât cry, at the thought of moving away from his best friend.
but the slight puffiness under his eyes is evidence enough. evidence of the tears he shed last night, when the reality of the situation finally dawned on him.Â
suguru doesnât want to part from you. heâs nervous, too â leaving you alone in that town, all by yourself, with no one around to protect you properly.
it's stupid. because deep down, he knows that youâll escape too. that youâll come after him, no matter how long it takes, that'll you'll both end up in tokyo. that you'll end up together, despite his duty as a sorcerer â eating soft serve ice cream cones, playing shooting games at the arcade, strolling around the big city aimlessly. doing all those things you always talked about doing.
because the two of you will always, always find your way back to each other. just like how he found you with that bruise on your leg, all those years ago, a fated encounter as natural as the glow of sunset. two lone dragonflies, who always meet somewhere in the middle of a dusty summer creek.
still, suguru canât help but feel sad. a little lost. he can only hope you donât notice the soft frown on his face, the faint redness of his eyes.Â
(then again, when have you ever not noticed something he was trying to hide?)
there's no need to worry about it, suguru knows. heâs never had to worry about you judging him, looking down on him. never you.
and when his gaze falls on your face, after the train heâs supposed to board screeches to a halt behind him, your own tears are enough to make him realize how silly heâs being.
he laughs, from the bottom of his stomach, when you tackle him into a hug and tell him with teary eyes that youâll come visit. he squeezes you especially tight, in a boyish fashion he can never quite hide from you, and murmurs into your ear that heâll be waiting.
he asks you not to forget him. you laugh through your tears, and tell him that you never could.
before he has to let go and step into the train, you tell him that you love him, and his grin blooms with honeyed affection. he ruffles your hair, always gentle, always teasing, always the same suguru.
he tells you that he loves you, too.
â then heâs gone.
(youâll forever regret not convincing him to stay.)
the two of you stay in contact, all throughout his first year. texting, calling â making sure neither of you get the chance to forget the other. suguru tells you about his life, his missions, his classmates, leaving out all the gritty details. and you listen; attentive, curious.
at one point, you even visit him. his friends tease him relentlessly, but all he does is roll his eyes and flick their foreheads, biting back a smile. that makes you laugh, and heâs relieved that the sound hasnât changed in the slightest.
and suguru stays the same, throughout that one first year. he is steadfast, unyielding, decisive. he has a conviction heâll never let go of, and people he's vowed to protect. people he needs to protect.Â
(non-sorcerers, is what he tells satoru, and he means it. but suguru chooses to omit the fact that he specifically wants to protect one single non-sorcerer, above all else.)
and suguru is happy, with his choice. thoroughly and wholly. the road ahead of him will be long, full of obstacles and thorns, but he always knew that would be the case. and he knows that itâll hurt, that itâll be tough, but he also knows that this is what he sincerely wants to do. what he was meant to do. the only choice worth making.
suguru is content. suguru will not falter.
â then, his second year descends upon him.
riko amanai dies. toji fushiguro dies.
satoru gojo becomes the strongest sorcerer of the modern era.
(and suguru geto is left behind.)
it is a slow, sinking realization. one whole year to lose sight of his goal, lose sight of the conviction he held onto so tightly. one whole year to feel it slip through the gaps between his fingers, helpless to stop its course. everything grows muddled, molding, rotting before he has a chance to root it out â and all he can do is wait, as it festers like bile in the bottom of his gut.
suguru geto falters.
(he doesnât quite know who he is, anymore.)
words heâs swallowed down like curses all his life keep flooding his subconscious, building up inside the back of his throat, spinning and spinning and spinning inside his brain until he feels sick enough to throw up. evil. crazy. protection. responsibility.
duty, duty, duty â
(what does that word even mean?)
suguru doesnât remember. he canât recall what made him step onto that train with such conviction, how he was able to smile so assuredly. how he was able to laugh, from the very bottom of his gut, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. he just can't remember.
who is he doing this for? what meaning lies in all this pain?Â
suguru keeps watching, hoping for an answer thatâll save him just enough. waiting and watching. heâs always just watching, isnât he? never changing anything. always too late, too weak, too fucking useless to stop even a single person from dying.Â
he watches helplessly as a little girl gets shot in the head, for the crime of having been born different, for the sake of simple currency. watches helplessly as satoru carries her lifeless body in his arms, across a room full of people so vile that some deep, rotten, intrinsic part of suguru just wants to â
but there would be no meaning to it.
(does there really need to be one?)
suguru honestly doesnât know, anymore.
riko dies.
(curses spring up like flies. he devours and devours.)
then haibara dies, too.Â
(in the distance, he thinks he hears the sound of clapping.)
sorcerers. non-sorcerers. curses.
the words begin to rot inside his mouth, like wilted flowers, syrupy sweet and nauseating. crumbling on his tongue, numbing his senses until itâs all he can taste. a mouthful of honey, sticking to the walls of his throat, too sweet to stomach.
this is wrong, he thinks. everything is all wrong.
everything is wrong and i donât know how to fix it.
â and then thereâs you.
during your third year, both of you are busier than usual, but still find the time to talk when you can. the normalcy of your little stories is a comfort, to suguru â but also makes him burn with something he fears may be close to envy.
you tell him about your new school, your new town, your new beginning; bright and dazzling. one that suits you just fine.
the two of you are different, he realizes, all at once. some part of him always knew. you were born to be happy, kept away from the bloodshed, hands unsullied by the deep red that always dries beneath his fingernails. there was never a place for you in the world of curses. and heâs glad, that itâs true, he always has been, but â
(resentment festers in his gut. he canât tell how long itâs been there, and heâs afraid to know the answer.)
these days, suguru takes a little longer to answer your texts. his voice comes out sounding a little more fatigued when heâs speaking to you through the phone, and he doesnât talk as much as he used to. your voice soothes him, though, he thinks. just a tiny bit. but itâs enough.
(heâs doing this for you, too. he canât forget that.)
and when you come to visit him, during his third year, suguru is surprised. surprised to see you, standing outside of his dorm, bags full of his favorite snacks in hand. smiling.
you look the same as always.
(heâs the only one whoâs changed.)
itâs a pleasant surprise, though, despite everything. he really did miss you. in his life, your presence alone has been nothing but a comfort, for as long as he can remember. even now, when everything feels so blurry and uncertain, you appear to him as a flicker of starlight; shining through the darkness thatâs been plaguing him for the past year.
so he tries to smile, tries to sound the same as always, but he knows you donât buy it. you know because you know him, despite everything.
suguru wonders what you would think of him, if you could hear the thoughts heâs been having these past few weeks. he wonders what he looks like, reflected in your eyes. he wonders how much heâs changed since you last saw him.
(he hasnât felt like himself in months.)
your presence is like a balm, to his soul, but it also seeks to hurt him further. because youâre still the same. still so understanding and wise and patient. you can tell that heâs fading, and he can tell that you can tell. but he doesnât want to tell you why. he refuses to open up to you, because what would that accomplish? how could you possibly understand?
how could you understand his hatred, his resentment, towards the very people heâs supposed to protect? he told you that, himself. he decided to protect them, on his own accord. thatâs his duty â steadfast, unyielding, inevitable. thatâs all it was ever meant to be.
protect the weak. protect the ugly. protect everyone except his comrades, until all of them lie dead in a pile of maggots and tangly limbs and buzzing flies.
a bitter, heavy kind of vomit settles inside his chest, his throat. and somewhere deep inside suguruâs mind, in the very bottom of a drawer he vowed never to open, the image of non-sorcerers shifts, distorts, flickers on and off under the light.
protect those monkeys until his very last breath.
(what a fucking joke.)
you couldnât understand. he doesnât want you to. he promised himself that he would keep you away from that kind of darkness, no matter what, and â
and youâre the only good thing he has left.
not only that â youâre a non-sorcerer, too. and suguru knows what that means. if what his brain is telling him is true, if thatâs really how it is, then you are no exception. then youâre just like the rest, something lesser, nothing but a â
(he thinks he might throw up.)
suguru does not tell you anything. despite everything, despite your pleading expression, despite the heavy bile at the bottom of his gut. he does not tell you what is truly wrong. he does not open up to you.Â
and that is suguruâs first act of betrayal, to you. before he even betrays the jujutsu world.
(it is perhaps the only betrayal heâll ever feel any kind of remorse over.)
you try, though. persistent in your affection. he loathes how little youâve changed, how brightly you still shine when reflected in his eyes. you sit right next to him, under a pleasant, ephemeral starry sky, stars blurred by the light pollution, and tell him what you always have.
iâll support you, no matter what.Â
âŚ
suddenly, all he can hear is the whooshing of the sea. as if he's been pulled underwater, a heavy weight tugging at his limbs, lungs gasping for air that doesn't exist. pure static, in his ears, a sharp crack of something. like a rib, or a train of thought. all he can taste is saltwater.
the dam begins to break. it cracks at the edges, like two giddy children poking a stick into a puddle layered with ice, giggling at their scattered reflections. memories resurfacing, images flashing in his subconscious. suguru looks at you like heâs lost. something inside of him breaks, disintegrates into a pile of despair.Â
because you donât understand what youâre telling him. you donât understand what he thinks about doing, sometimes, when the nights are especially long and the school is especially empty and the taste of curses lies especially thick on his tongue.
you donât understand. you never will.Â
but youâre smiling at him, so very gentle. so accepting, so all-encompassing of everything thatâs good, everything worth cherishing. just like always.Â
suguru recalls your teary face; when you scraped your knee, when he left that town behind. he recalls all the ways youâve soothed him, saved him, in all the years youâve known him.
iâll definitely come visit. i love you.
iâll support you, no matter what.
what do they look like?
â suguru falters. these days, thatâs all he ever seems to do.
how could he hate non-sorcerers, when youâre among them? how could he hate a world that has you in it?
(he canât, he canât, he canât. he canât hate you. not you.)
the words that spill so very easily from your lips break him. he canât tell if youâve mended the damage, or only worsened it. he canât tell where the jagged hole inside his chest ends and begins. he can only tell that itâs extending, extending, extending.
suguru wants to fall apart. he wants to fall apart, for only you to see, because youâve always been the only one who could ever understand. the only one who wouldnât turn your eyes away from him, even back then. the only, only one. the only other white chrysanthemum.
he wants so desperately to be honest with you, to let every dark thought heâs ever had flow out from his lips. for you to hear, for you to scorn or to accept at your leisure, doom him or bless him, a bleeding dog at your feet. to get rid of the tangled mess of thoughts inside his muddled mind â to just let go of everything, even if itâs only for a minute or two. just a second would be fine.
suguru wants to drag you down with him. drag you down into the depths, into the abyss, to share the weight of his suffering. so that you can be together, just like you always have; through thick and thin. always and forever.
but he doesnât.
(and what a betrayal that is.)
suguru keeps his pretty little mouth shut, and he gives you a smile. a smile that doesnât reach his eyes, the kind he always wears when he needs to lie convincingly.
he could tell you so many things. could ruin you completely, take you down with him. hand in hand, staining your unsullied skin with the blood on his own. into the gaping maw.
but at the end of the day, he chooses not to.
suguru chooses your peace of mind over his, just like he always has, and feeds you a vague half-truth. not quite a lie, but something that ignores the underlying question of your statement, a silent plea for sincerity. something deep and true, but almost sorrowful.
i know, he says.
i know you will.
the moment does not save him. but suguru does feel just a little more hopeful, a little less like heâs slowly rotting from the inside out. a little less like heâs completely and utterly alone, isolated in his agony.
you are the same as always. and what a relief that is.Â
(for you, he can wade through the hell for just a little longer.)
when itâs time to say your goodbyes, suguru can tell you arenât satisfied. that you wish you could do more. but he also knows that you wonât push it, because youâve always respected him in a way no one else ever cares enough to do.Â
before you leave, you tell him that you love him. in a quiet voice, a whisper, as if trying to squeeze some sincerity from his chest â a last-ditch attempt at reaching him. he squeezes your hand, instead, and doesnât say it back.
suguru just smiles, flimsy, a smile that doesnât reach his eyes.
you look like you want to say something, but you donât.
and he watches you go, with forlorn eyes, until the dot that is you gets too small to distinguish from the darkness of the night. until he can almost delude himself into thinking that youâve turned into a star. he watches you go as if trying to burn the sight into his memory, as if this is the last time heâll ever see you.
(the curse of i love you rots in his mouth, unspoken, unvoiced.)
two weeks later, suguru stands in front of a cage, covered in blood.
the girls in front of him, skinny, frail, crying â beaten and exhausted â look at him like heâs a god. him, pale, smiling, with blood staining his white uniform, bathed in moonlight â
like some kind of angel of death.
suguru soaks up the metallic scent of the room, basks in that sickeningly sweet feeling of release. he soothes the girls, as best he can. he leads them away, careful not to let them see the bodies.Â
(there isnât much left of them, anyhow.)
suguru geto makes his choice. the only choice that matters.Â
he will twist himself into a curse. he will devour his ideal, until itâs all thatâs left of him. he will embody it, become it, through and through. itâs fine if he dies in the process, itâs fine if everyone dies â just as long as it means something.
that is the conviction he will carry with him. the decision to only ever see the line between ends and means, the bright light at the end of a never-ending tunnel.
the blood of an entire village is on his hands.
(a part of him wants to throw up. another grins with ecstasy. every part agrees that it was inevitable.)
their screams werenât beautiful. they were aggravating, revolting, the wretched buzzing of bugs ringing like static in his ears. but it felt good. it felt just. something in his bones settling into its rightful place, a spark of affirmation.
and suguru doesnât stop there. as if desperate for the cup to finally run over, to make sure that there truly is no going back, his feet take him to a place he always hoped heâd never have to see again.
when suguru returns to that stiflingly silent town, to kill his parents, you are no longer there.
itâs not a surprise. he knows you escaped, long ago, just like him â just like you always said you would. not quite to tokyo, to your grave disappointment, but you managed to find some other town to live in. bigger, better. the new beginning he always hoped youâd get.
suguru does not want to think of you. he doesn't want to remember your face, the sound of your laughter, the way your eyes shone in the light. he wants to erase every single trace of your existence from his memory, if only to protect you from the person he will soon become. or perhaps only to spare himself the heartache of it all.
but when he passes by that one summer creek, forgetting you becomes an impossibility.Â
his eyes gaze at the silver-hued fish, sparkling beneath the moonlight, the big cicadas singing sadly under the shadows of the trees. he closes his eyes, and breathes in the solitude, and recalls a child with teary eyes.
suguru knows what school you go to. he knows what your town is called, what your street looks like.
and it is far, far away from the town heâs in. far from tokyo, too.Â
â and suguru is relieved.
(it gives him an excuse not to hunt you down just yet.)
the sight of his childhood home stirs no fondness in his heart. it is empty, it is silent, it is the same as always. and now it doesnât even have you in it, anymore.
so it doesnât matter.
suguru moves on with conviction, with bloodstains scattered across his clothes, seeping into the fabric. the screams of his parents donât mean anything â they blur together with old echoes of evil, crazy, wrong.Â
(there is something wrong with that child.)
their blood sticks to the soles of his shoes and he is repulsed by their fragility. their blood stains his shirt and he is elated by the irony of it all. all he sees is a blur of red.Â
the road before him becomes clear.
finally, there truly is no turning back. that one sliver of good still left in him, crushed beneath the heel of his boot. at last. homicide, patricide â the more he adds, the easier itâll be. easier to distance himself, easier to convince himself that his choice matters. that the blood of mere animals is a small price to pay for the future he envisions.
that he is right. that he is just.
(self-affirmation. what a holy thing it is.)
there is still much left for him to do. so suguru leaves the town behind.
he leaves that tiny summer creek behind.
it is a premature death; a resignation of identity. he isnât an adult, not yet, but he has long since stopped being a child. he stopped being a child the moment he saw a bullet go through the skull of an innocent girl, the moment he saw haibaraâs ghostly pale skin. no sorcerers stay children for very long.
none of it matters, anymore.
time passes with a speed thatâs almost frightening.Â
suguru disappears, almost entirely faded, leaving only geto in his wake. a new person, an entirely different human being â ten years of living in an echo chamber, ten years of forming his personality in the shape of something twisted.
(something almost divine.)
and geto is right. just. geto has conviction, and thatâs all he needs. everything goes according to plan; geto has a goal, and a family to pursue that goal with, to pursue that goal for. everything finally feels just right. breathing feels a lot easier. living feels a lot easier.Â
but everyone has a weakness.
and there is one thing, only one thing, that still acts as a thorn in his side. something that holds him back, a stain yet to be wiped away, a piece of gum stuck to the sole of his shoe. a tattered memory, clinging to his subconscious as if haunting him.
(iâll support you, no matter what.)
if only you could see him now.
when geto left his old life behind, he did not contact you. he did not say goodbye. he threw away his phone, deleted every single thing that someone could use to locate him with, and left. he hasnât heard from you in years, hasnât spoken to you.Â
but he has seen you.
geto knows where your town is. what your apartment looks like. he knows what university you go to, where your go-to cafĂŠ is located.Â
so resisting the temptation eventually becomes impossible.Â
he tries not to think of you, he really does. he tries to act like you are nothing, to him, because you arenât. you are proof of weakness and a fragility that geto loathes, proof of his own foolishness, his young naivety. you are everything he hates and everything rotten and everything heâs vowed to cleanse from the earth.
but, despite that undeniable truth, geto cannot help but seek you out.
he tells himself that it means nothing. that heâs only doing it to make sure he knows where heâs got you, like a predator watching over their prey, preparing to lunge out of hiding when the moment is right. because geto knows that your death, at his hands, is inevitable. what you are is a weakness, a connection that lingers on his skin like a mold, one he still has to the creatures that disgust him so.
so itâs inevitable.
in reality, he should have killed you first. before his parents, before the village â he should have killed you, because that would have solidified his devotion in a way nothing else ever could. but he didnât.Â
geto likes to think of it as a symbol, of sorts. that heâll save you for last. the same way children eat every last part of the cake, greedily, before gulping down the strawberry. every single non-sorcerer will be dead by the time he gets to you. youâll be the one remaining obstacle, the one final stain to rinse away before his dream becomes reality, the one thing still standing between him and the divinity he seeks.Â
it is an honour, geto thinks, an honour he would not bestow to anyone but you.
but until that time comes, all he can do is watch over you. silently, so you donât notice. always from afar, sometimes through the eyes of the curses heâs bound to. just to make sure that youâre still alive. that you havenât tripped over your shoelaces and gotten yourself into a car accident, or gulped down a mouthful of food too fast and choked to death, or anything similarly pathetic. he wouldnât put it past you. really, he has no idea how youâve survived this long without him.
weak, fragile, clumsy. soft enough to sink his teeth into. you are everything that geto hates. you are nothing, nothing at all.
(and you are the same as always, despite everything. what an aggravation thatâs become.)
he watches you, anyway; like a god finding amusement in his creations, an omniscient overseer watching you stumble day to day. he watches as you live your life, as you talk to other people with that familiar smile on your face. it hasnât changed in the slightest.
he watches you laugh, watches you grab a cr��pe from a street vendor, watches you cry when you think nobody is there to see.
(the sight sends a tremor running through his soul, one he desperately wants to pretend not to feel.)
on melancholic summer days, when the sun paints the sky pink and golden, he watches you clutch onto his old sweater. one you always said you were going to return, but never did â never got the chance to. you used to tell him it was too comfortable not to steal. that it smelled like him, that it made you feel less lonely. geto so tenderly wishes he could have forgotten those words, by now.
but he watches you, in the solitude of your apartment, as you bury your face in the wool and inhale the fading tinge of his old cologne. then you cry and cry, like a child, until the moon rises in the sky; until youâre breathing softly, lulled to sleep by his scent.
(geto thinks to himself that you are a fool, to still miss him after all these years.)
itâs not an everyday occasion. most days, he does not think of you. there are many other monkeys to kill, many things to discuss. thereâs money to be made, plans to be forged, wars to be brewed. geto is a busy man. a family man, no less.
but when boredom is all he can feel, he still finds himself seeking you out. just to make sure no one has gotten to you before him. just a god enjoying the struggles of a lesser being.
thatâs all it is, geto tells himself. thatâs all itâll ever be, from now on.
no one needs to know if he spends the occasional morning checking up on you, curious if you did well on that exam you were studying for. no one needs to know if he absorbs the curses that sometimes cling to your fragile skin, gulping them down before they cause too much damage. no one needs to know if anyone who gives you a little too much trouble suddenly disappears off the face of the earth.Â
no one needs to know if he reminisces, every once in a while, when the summer nostalgia is too much to bear. about your childhood, about that question you asked him â a million years ago, back when the center of his universe was a single summer creek.Â
(no one needs to know if he finds comfort in your presence, even now.)
on days when the moon hangs low in the sky, and geto canât choke back the longing in his chest, he sits by your bed and watches you sleep. a forlorn expression on his face, lips stuck in a tight line. itâs risky, careless, but heâs helpless to the temptation.Â
most nights, you lie perfectly still. so still he can almost delude himself into thinking that itâs over, that youâve passed on, that he wonât have to kill you after all. sometimes you twist and turn, mumble something unintelligible under your breath that he doesnât catch.
he wonders what you dream about. he wonders if you ever have nightmares, if theyâre ever about him. he wonders why he even cares at all.
geto resents you. resents you for existing, for smiling every day, for being a bridge between him and lesser creatures. he resents you, resents you, resents you.
(self-affirmation. what a holy thing, indeed.)
â he could kill you so easily.Â
he wouldnât even need a curse to do it. a flick of his pinkie would be more than enough. thatâs how fragile you are; asleep, right in front of him, breathing softly while he watches you like how the fox watches the lamb.
(he could end all of this, right now, in the silence of the night. in your most vulnerable state.)
and yet, geto allows the opportunity to pass him by.
he canât get too greedy. thatâs what he tells himself, as he slips out of your window in the dead of night, leaving your sleeping figure behind him. itâs not the right time. he can let you sleep, for just a little while longer. the bags under your eyes have looked especially heavy, recently.
(he tries not to remember the sleepover you had as kids, when he stayed perfectly still as you dozed off on his shoulder. doing his best not to wake you, watching you fondly until the sun began to rise. back when all he wanted was to protect you.)
geto knows that you know heâs not dead. he knows because heâs almost certain that satoru spoke to you, back then, even if he probably didnât let you in on any details. because he knows that youâre sharp, sharp enough to know that heâs alive.
and even if that were not the case, geto knows because heâs sent you gifts. letters. absentminded, almost taunting, cruel in their joviality â always anonymous, always mysterious and vague and impossible to trace back to him. but he knows that you know who theyâre from.
a little dance, if you will. geto haunts you like a ghost. he never lets you see him, but he lets you know that heâs there, sometimes. just out of frame.
he can only hope itâll eventually haunt you to death.
(if it ends up as a comfort to you, instead, then, well â it is what it is.)
all of it is a safety measure in disguise. a way to satisfy the yearning inside his chest, without coming too close. that doesnât mean he never falters, though.
every once in a while, he feels strangely compelled to talk to you. to waltz into your home, in a lighthearted fashion, to soak up your shocked expression. to ask how youâve been, casually, and watch you stammer, stumble over your words â he can imagine the face youâd make, the way the lilt of your voice would tremble. would you cry? he canât help but wonder, sometimes.
yet he always resists the temptation. careful, cautious, with every move he makes. like a shadow. he deliberately leaves no traces of himself behind, no breadcrumbs for you to follow like the curious creature you are. geto lets you know that heâs there, but he doesnât let you see him, because if he talks to you he knows that heâll kill you. and he canât have that, not just yet.Â
eventually, heâll do it. heâll do it, and heâll watch as your blood stains the silk of his robes like the inevitability it is. but not yet.
youâll be the last one, the last one heâll kill. the final proof of his devotion.
until then, he can have this. this sickeningly sweet scrutiny of your life, your life without him. the sound of your laughter, the reflection of untainted light in your iris.
(you are the same as always, and you are a weakness that geto is learning to live with.)
he canât rest, wonât rest until it finally ends. until the curtain calls on your bloodied body, until he feels the cold skin of your palm against his lips.
only then will he finally know if it was all worth it. only then will he be free of this yearning. only then will he be able to say that the last remnants of suguru have been well and truly cleansed from his soul, that there is nothing left of the person he was.
only then will geto be able to call himself wholly divine.Â
but until that time comes, he can do nothing but watch you. when the temptation begins to crawl under his skin again, when he needs to remind himself of what heâs fighting for. that one thing, at least, never once changed; suguru geto has always fought for you. for your protection, for your survival, for your demise.
for your happiness, in life or in death.
(geto hates you, loathes you, resents you for being what you are; but suguru will always, always love you. forever and ever. no matter what.Â
and that will be their undoing.)
suguru geto dies without saying goodbye to you.Â
if there are any regrets to speak of, any at all, then maybe thatâd be it. he never got to see that shock on your face, never got to hear you stammer in the way you always used to when you were nervous.
in the golden hue of sunset, the last of his resentment finally fades away. the curse known as geto disappears, and what remains is no more than a ghost â the ghost of suguru, the person he was, the person he never quite stopped being.
and when geto disappears, when the last of his resentment fades away, suguru finally allows himself to think of you. fully, without interruption, without unspilled blood festering beneath his tongue. just one single touch of sincerity, one last indulgence before it all ends. he thinks of you, you as a person, not you as a non-sorcerer. he gives your memory the respect it deserves. something worth cherishing.
he wonders what youâre doing, right now. he wonders if you studied enough for that exam next week, if you found a good gift for your friendâs birthday party. he wonders if you still miss him, even though he'll never be deserving of it.
satoru stands in front of him, genuine, sincere. and suguru thinks that he is a fool, just like you; to still have any kind of affection left for someone like him. after he left you both behind, that summer.
satoru doesnât curse him. suguru wishes he would.
a soft bout of laughter falls from his lips, as the sun sets behind him, and he knows you would have found the sight breathtaking. you always did love sunsets, didn't you? the sun was setting when he found you with that bruise on your leg, he recalls â such a miniscule detail. he wonders why he remembers only now.
suguru chokes back his tears, still smiling. itâs a smile of love. a smile of regret. he thinks of satoru.Â
at least curse me a little at the very end.
those should be his final words. he should avert his gaze, follow the script, tear his eyes away from the only other person besides you who ever truly knew him â
but he doesnât. he canât. suguru looks straight at him, at satoru, into his eyes, so blue they seem to gleam in the orange hue of the melting sun. sparkling like little galaxies, like the crinkling of soda pops, like crystallized summer skies. he looks beautiful, as beautiful as he always was.
(i wish i had told you, suguru thinks. i wish i had told you everything.)
in a voice so small he barely hears it, so tender that geto wouldâve felt disgusted to his very core, suguru asks his best friend for one last favour. heâs not sure why, not sure why it matters â
but maybe, just this once, itâs fine if itâs meaningless.
satoru listens, intently. he looks at his best friend with eyes so soft it makes suguru want to laugh and cry and go back to a time when they were all happy. but they canât, that choice was lost ten years ago â he threw it away. smothered it beneath his boot heel. there was never any going back, from the very beginning.Â
satoru answers his plea. one final favour, one best friend to another.Â
of course.
a shaky breath. he canât tell who it came from.
of course i will.
suguru smiles. a full, genuine smile, that reaches his eyes and blossoms like a flower in the light of the sun. itâs the last time anyone will see it.
satoru clenches his jaw. he crouches down, and presses his fingers against his best friendâs battered body, right over his bleeding heart. he will never, ever forgive himself for what he's about to do.
(suguru already has.)
and the moment before the last flicker of light leaves his eyes, suguru chooses to think of you.
he thinks of your smile, the way your lips curled up at even the smallest things. he thinks of your curiosity, how it always lead him back to you. he thinks of what could have been.
he thinks of that question you asked him, all those years ago â how accepted it made him feel. that sensation of being understood. suguru thinks you saved his life, that day.
(he never got to thank you for it.)
you were his childhood friend. his nearest, dearest, oldest one.Â
suguru doesn't believe the world he lives in is kind enough to allow him a second chance. and he doesn't think he really deserves one, either way.
but if there is a next life, if heâs lucky enough to be reborn â
then suguru hopes heâll be born as a dragonfly, so he can find his way back to you.
heâll meet you, again; in the afterglow of sunset, by that dusty, forgotten, tiny summer creek. framed by silver-hued fish and cicadas, and the silence of a town that glimmered while you were both in it.
he wonât be able to wipe your tears away, wonât be able to clean the bruise on your knee â but he can be with you. and maybe, in your next lives, thatâll be enough.
(what a lovely thought.)
suguru smiles, and lets a final breath of air course through his burning lungs.
â it tastes like summer.
there is a silent understanding, between the two of you.
itâs been ten years since you last spoke to satoru gojo. it wasnât a very pleasant conversation, and somehow, you doubt this will be an exception. an acute awareness lies heavy in the air â and deep down, some part of you knows what heâs about to tell you.
(as if it was an inevitability.)
gojo doesnât smile. his voice has no masked amusement to it, no sense of joviality. if you strain your ears, you think it may even be wavering, slightly, so faint itâs hard to tell for sure. just that one low shiver of his lips, saying more than words ever could.
he doesnât beat around the bush. and you see that for the kindness that it is, despite the ice cold chill that creeps into your veins when his words spill out into the air, a full body shiver traveling down your spine.
he tells you that suguru is dead, and you donât flinch. you donât even cry. that comes later.
in the moment, all you can do is nod, a little pitiful, teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip to stop it from wobbling. like youâre trying to be brave.Â
truthfully, you had a feeling that was the case.
sometimes, it was as if you could feel him. just barely out of reach, a certain cologne lingering on your windowsill, a box of cookies youâve liked since you were little delivered to your doorstep. a sudden feeling of being watched. a note wishing you luck on whatever exam or driverâs test or job interview you had the next day, accompanied by a silly smiley face so distinctly suguru it made you want to cry.
â how cruel of him.
but you couldnât help but feel comforted by it, all the same. it made you feel like he was still with you, somehow, like he still cared. even though he disappeared from your life without saying anything. even though gojo told you explicitly all those years ago to stay away, if you ever saw him, as if he was suddenly dangerous â
but you could never be afraid of him. you donât think you have it in you.Â
to you, suguru will always just be the boy who helped you up when you scraped your knee, all those years ago. a sweet, cool kid, who held your hand firmly and gently wiped the blood off your skin.
(heâll always be your nearest, dearest, oldest friend. even if you arenât his.)
but lately, thereâs been nothing. you haven't felt any traces of him at all, no lingering gazes boring into your back. so you knew. deep down, maybe you always kind of knew.
gojo looks at you with compassion, understanding. and without him having to say it, you know he loved suguru too. you know because his breathing is shaky, because his eyes look puffy from hours of crying; you know because grief is like a stench, thick and heavy, overwhelming, one that clings to your skin and haunts your very being. just like love.
and you can smell it on the both of you.
(you both loved the boy who died for his ideals, the man who was so moral it killed him.)
the news will sink in, later. you are sure that you will crumble, and you are sure that you will cry. youâre sure that the road ahead will be a long one, full of obstacles and thorns. but thatâs fine. youâll deal with it when the time comes. suguru was always a little mystical, a little too good to be true.
maybe you always sort of assumed things would end like this; that heâd walk ahead without you, with all his whispered secrets and gentle lies.Â
(asshole.
he could have given you a call, at least. even just once.)
for now, all you can do is try to keep your trembling skin intact. and you assume that gojo will leave, now that you know, that this was all he came here for. just a messenger of death, coated in a grief so strong you doubt heâll ever be rid of it.
but gojo doesnât leave.Â
he hands you something, instead.
a polaroid, you quickly realize. a photograph, of three kids â one with white hair, one with brown hair, and one with black hair. the black haired boy is trying hard not to smile, you can tell. the other two have got their arms around him, squeezing his body tightly with matching grins, throwing up peace signs. he looks at them with exasperation in his eyes, but you can tell that thereâs a love there. you can tell, you know, because despite everything, you still know him.
a lump forms in your throat.
itâs not the original copy, is what gojo tells you, apologetic. youâre almost certain that he kept it for himself, and you donât blame him. iâm sorry. but i wanted to⌠you know.
(he wanted to give you something to hold onto.)
the gesture is a little bit awkward, just a tad clumsy. but itâs a genuine concern, a sincere kindness. you arenât really surprised that suguru spent his last moments with this man instead of you.
gojo continues to speak, and you continue to listen, attentive â hungry for anything to mend the hole in your heart. but your eyes never once stray from the photograph.
(suguru looks so, so happy.)
he tells you that suguru talked about you a lot, back then. and without him having to say it, you know what he really means is he loved you a lot. the words of consolation ring like static, in your ears. it hurts. the hole in your heart just keeps extending, extending, extending.
gojo notices. so he gets to the point, the final point, the only one that matters. this is his duty, too â granting suguruâs last request. the only one he ever asked of him in words.
(itâs the least he could do, for the man he loved so dearly, the one who left him behind in the shadow of summer.)
he tells you that thereâs one more thing. that suguru asked him to tell you something, that it was the last thing he ever said. words that he wanted you to hear, more than anything.
gojoâs voice does not waver. it is not his place.
you listen. you listen as if it will bring him back. you listen as if it is the last thing you will ever do.
and gojo speaks.
the words mean everything, and also nothing at all. how very like him. they bounce off the walls of your apartment, spilling into the suffocating air, echoing inside your mind. cutting into your bloodstream, rooting themselves in a particularly soft spot deep within your ribcage, chrysanthemums blooming from your flesh. petals filling up your stomach until you can scarcely breathe.
the final words of your childhood friend. your nearest, dearest, oldest one; suguru geto, who you will always love, in the same way the sun loves the moon, as naturally as breathing.
the dam breaks. the sky shatters. the sob you choke on tastes salty, and gojo looks remorseful, his figure blurred by your tears. everything comes crashing down around you â an inevitability you were hoping to put off, in the same way suguru put off talking to you all those years.
and now, finally, he tells you his honest feelings. when itâs already far too late. how very, very like him.
(tell them iâm sorry. and that i hope their exam goes well.)
â honestly. what a fucking asshole.
not once did you ask for an apology. you never wanted one, never thought to even wish for it. you didnât need one.
all you wanted was for him to come back to you. to find you, again, the way he always did.
tears cascade down your scrunched-up face, big and childlike, but no oneâs there to wipe them away anymore. you cradle the photograph in your hands, savouring every single memory you have of him. all the love your heart can muster.
the tears never seem to end. they continue to run down your cheeks, until all you can smell is sea salt, until the sun has set in the horizon, until the moon has hanged itself in the sky. a silent comfort, but itâs not enough. it never will be.
a sniffle pushes past your lips, and you hear yourself laugh â bitter, raspy, gentle all the same. what a moron, you whisper, a soft lull of your tongue. didnât he know?
(you forgave him long ago.)
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The Day I Picked Up Dazai - Side B (Final)
Links to Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Final
This is the translation of the last part (from page 48 to 63) of Side B of the Dazai novel which was given out as free bonus for those who come to the cinema to watch the BEAST live action movie in Japan.
I HIGHLY recommend you to read Side A first before moving on to this one more context, better understanding, and easier comparison between the two sides. You can find the link to the tag with all Side A translations I have done in my pinned post.
Please also carefully read the notes below before progressing.
- This post contains spoilers. If you plan to read the novel later yourself and think this would ruin your expectation, please stop here.
¡ I tried to keep the translation as accurate as possible, but as I donât speak English or Japanese as my native language, I may make some mistakes or use weird words etc. This translation might not be final. I may come back and fix it later if I find any mistakes.
¡ This is a moviegoers-only benefit, so please be extra careful when discussing it about on Twitter. Use a #spoilers tag on your tweets or your fanarts. You can share the links to this post but donât take many screenshots.
¡ Donât retranslate it. [UPDATE MAY 9, 2023] You can retranslate it but please keep in mind that my translation is not perfect and some meanings will be lost through re-translation. If you are not sure about the meaning at any part, please let me know! Donât repost this translation anywhere else out of Tumblr.
¡ DONâT GO TO THE AUTHORSâ OR OFFICIAL TWITTERS TO COMMENT ABOUT THE CONTENTS OF IT.
Iâm sorry if thatâs too much but honestly all I want is for everyone to have a good experience, for those who wants to read the novels to be able to read the novels, and for those who donât want to be spoiled, to be safe from it as much as possible.
If you have read and are okay with all the above, please continue to move forward and enjoy the novel. Have a good day!
...
I killed that wealthy man, simply because it was a mission. I didnât know why I was killing him, nor what kind of person he was. I just aimed for his head and pulled the trigger. That was it.
It seemed that the client who ordered the assassination was targeting that painting. I did not find out about it until much later. My job was only to kill the man. Carrying the painting out and cleaning up the aftermath was another professionalâs job. They did their job. I did my job. And on my way back after the mission, I casually had my eye on a novel on the desk, so I took it and left the house.
It always starts with the little things.
That novel triggered a lot of things, and I eventually stopped killing. I have not killed a single person since then.
One day about two years after that day, I suddenly came up with an idea that I should go back and return that novel. There was no big reason for it. It was not out of sense of morality or guilt. It was simply because I thought if I did that, I would be able to face that novel directly. I already had another copy of the book that I bought by myself.
In the mansion that was once owed by the wealthy man lived a son of his. He was seventeen years old. I later heard that he was not his real son, but a boy who had lost his parents in an underworld conflict, that the man took in. An orphan.
I must have been out of my mind at that time. To think I would go and meet that son of his. I could have just sneaked into the house, put the book there and left, and it would have been as easy as bending a finger for me. But anyway, I ended up standing in front of the son and introducing myself. As âthe person who killed your father.â
There was no word that could describe how angry the son was. He had all the rights to be angry. His family was killed by the underworld, twice. He was hitting me, throwing stuff at me, and attacking me with all sorts of insults. I could easily dodge all of his attacks, but there was no way to avoid the insults.
When he became exhausted from all the rampage and finally sat down, I explained to him about the killing. After that, he demanded a compensation. For his fatherâs life, and for the rental fee of that book I took without permission.
Bring that painting back, he said.
There was no reason for me to accept that request. First, I didnât know where the painting was then. It must have been bought by yet another wealthy person far across the sea. I could find some clues if I looked, but that would mean a long, tedious and unprofitable job on top of that.
If it had not been for the book, I would not have accepted it.
As it turned out, my guess was correct. It was a long, tedious and unprofitable job. To add to that, it was a dangerous job. I had to get into a private military company (PMC) of nearly one hundred and fifty armed soldiers and carry the painting out under a rain of bullets, without killing anyone. If I were asked to do it again, I would absolutely refuse. Most of the troubles in my life were brought upon me by myself.
Standing in front of the painting that I brought back, the son of the wealthy man just looked at it in silence. After about thirty minutes, he started talking, little by little. About the reason he wanted the painting back. And how that painting was the object of a bet.
His father wanted his son to become a businessman that would surpass himself. So, he made a promise that if the son could make ten million yen by the time he turned eighteen, he would give him that painting.
âStupid parentsâ, he said. In the first place, it was a dirty painting that had been obtained through illegal means. Did he really think that the son would try that hard to get his hand on such a thing?
But the son did try very hard. He managed to earn almost 80% of that ten million by himself. He did not try that hard because he wanted the painting, he said.
There was one year left till the promised eighteen.
That young man asked me to keep that painting for him until then.
The painting had a setup. It had been written on, by a special type of paint that would become visible when exposed to ultraviolet rays. The text covered an aera of about a quarter of the painting. And it said,
âYou are my pride.â
If all the art lovers over the world saw that, they would just faint in anger. This kind of graffiti just blew away the whole five million yen worth of the painting. The man caused troubles even after his death. But perhaps, that wealthy man did it exactly because it was trouble.
He probably wanted to say that he wouldnât care even if the paintingâs value was to be reduced to zero, because his son was worth all that much. Or maybe that was why he went through the trouble of buying that painting illegally. Of course, the truth stayed unknown until now.
Because I killed the father.
I kept the painting as requested. I put it in a storage box and stored it in a dark, cool and windy place.
It is under the floor of my house, near the foot of my bed.
It is a painting that no longer has any artistic value. There is no point in preserving it with care.However, it has value to that young man. The son whose father was killed. That painting is the memento of his father, the will of his father, and in a sense, his father himself.
I am still protecting it now.
It is not to atone for my sin. I am not that kind of an admirable person. It is just because a lot of things piled up, that I decided to do so.
âAnd once I have made up my mind, I am not going to change it, no matter who asks me to.â I say as I walk toward the cop. âGot it? Bandaged man?â
âWhat?â
Before the cop can react, I quickly snatch the gun from his hand. The cop, whose arms have been injured and cannot even stand up, do not have the strength to steal it back. I bring the gun close to my face and say.
âThis is not a gun.â I say. âThis is a listening device. You are listening to us over there, right? You have anticipated this and created a situation for me to tell where the painting is, and tried to eavesdrop through this gun.â
âThis gun ⌠listening device?â The cop was stunned. So he did not know either.
âI found it odd from the beginning. That this was an automatic gun.â I say as I observe the gun. âWhen they stormed into my house, they were carrying the revolvers used by the city police. This is a different kind. Perhaps, this automatic pistol was the one you used when you threatened this guy? One more thing, if you want to threaten me, basically, you will have to come to me directly. But all I can see here are injured people. So, this is what I came up with: you, in order to find out where the painting is without showing up here, have created a situation for this cop to threaten me. If that is the case, then there must be a listening device somewhere.â
Of course, the gun does not answer me. It is just there, cold, heavy and quiet. But just by being there, that gun is radiating its unique presence to the surroundings. I continue to talk to the gun.
âThis is loaded. But I guess it is just a blank, right?â I point the gun at the ceiling and fire a single shot. It makes an explosive sound and a flash of light cut through the darkness. But that is it. There is no bullet hole on the ceiling.
âThat was quite a performance. Did you calculate everything up to this point, and collapse in front of my house on purpose? If so, that was impressive. Now, I have told you everything about the painting. Break the siege as you promised. Or you can let everyone in here and we can have a fun killing party. I am fine either way.â
As I am speaking, I check the gun more closely. Originally, it is my tool of trade. I know the balance of the weight like I know my fingers. The grip is a little heavy. I press the button to release the magazine, it drops into my hand. In the area near the grip screw, the polymer plastic material on the side of the magazine has been removed and a black rectangle part was embedded in it. That is the listening device.
I hold up the magazine like a microphone, and talk into the device. âWithin ten seconds, you will make three blasts. After that, you will disappear immediately. If you donât, I will consider that our negotiation has failed and I will come get you from here.â
I throw away the device and count to ten inside my head. Between eight and nine, a series of shocks shake up the underground basement. Exactly three times. The blasts sound like thunders from afar, and then the sound suddenly stops as if it has been chopped off. All that is left is silence. A silence that makes my ears ache.
âIt is over.â I take a breath and walk away. âI will call the cops once I get out. The real ones, you know. All of you will be arrested, but at least you will be treated a little better. Compared to the Mafia.â
âWa⌠wait a minute.â The cop says with a hard voice. âYouâŚ. Why? You said yourself that you alone could get away with this. You even knew that the gun I pointed at you couldnât be used? Could it be that⌠you⌠you saved me? For what?â
The answer to that question is simple. But I donât want to answer him. What is the point of answering anyway? I feel empty. I am tired, wounded, betrayed by people, and betraying people.â
âI am thirsty.â I say to myself. âIâm going home.â
The guy says something but I donât hear it. I keep walking out of that place.
***
The light from the gas lamp illuminates the profiles of people walking through the ticket gate.
The blue stars of the city, of which there are only a few, are scattered in the night sky like a film.
The station is surrounded by the night sky, the night scenery, and a group of people walking home in silence. There is no explosion, no gun shot, no bargaining for your life here. It is the plain scene of the closing of a day like every day, which starts mechanically and ends mechanically.
Dazai Osamu and Oda Sakunosuke are there at that same station. In different places.
Oda is exhausted. Covering his aching back, he walks among the crowd rushing out of that station.
Dazai stands in the darkness, away from the street lights of the station front, watching Oda as he becomes one with the night.
Oda walks along the station platform, out of the ticket gate, and stesp into the night of the city. After getting out of the underground bunker, he crossed the mountain and walked over to a nearby village. He negotiated with the farmers there for them to give him a ride. He then got on buses and trains one after another, back to the nearest station to his home. When he arrives, it has become completely dark.
Oda rubs his own shoulders, and walks home with an exhausted face as he cracks his neck. His clothes are wrinkled and covered in mud. Sometimes, people passing by Oda look at him as if they are looking at a strange, foreign creature. But no one calls out to him. People in the city just donât do that.
Oda gets through the ticket gate and walks under the street lights, as he takes out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. Then he starts searching for something in his jacket. He is looking for a fire.
âHere you go.â
Suddenly, a voice comes from behind him. Oda turns around. In front of his eyes, there is a light from a match. And a hand holding it.
Oda is caught by surprise for a second, but he immediately places the cigarette in his mouth on that. He closes his eyes, breathes in the smoke, and breathes it out into the dark night. Then he looks at the person.
âHi. What a look youâve got there. Are you okay?â
That is Dazai.
Dazai, who has half melted into the dark, is standing there silently, smiling a smile that does not look like one.
âNothing.â Oda says so as he looks at the other person through the smoke. âI just tripped.â
âThis matchbox is yours, isnât? I saw you drop it at the ticket gate.â
Oda looks at the matchbox Dazai is holding. It is black on the sides, white on top, and has a logo of a bar in front. It is clearly the one that Oda always carry with him.
âYes.â Oda says, looking at the matchbox.
Then he observes the man. He stays silent for a few seconds before asking with a blank expression.
âHave I met you anywhere?â
Dazai smiles a smile of no personality. âNo. This is the first time we met.â
The bandages that have covered most of Dazaiâs face the whole time are no longer there. He is wearing a flat cap to cover his eyes, and a black inverness coat to hide his shape and his wounds. As for the voice, Oda has not heard Dazai speak even once.
âIs that so?â Oda says as he takes the matchbox from Dazai and turns his back on him. âThanks for the match. Good night then.â
Oda is just taking a few steps when Dazai calls out to him from behind.
âLooks like you got into quite a bit of trouble.â
Oda stops and slowly turns around. âWhat?â
âJust⌠You seem so worn out. Your face looks so bad⌠Also, that thing on your hand and clothes, I canât see very well in the dark, but itâs not just dirt. There is blood too, right?â
Oda looks at his own hands. It is true that there is still some blood from when he tried to help the injured cop on his wrists.
âWell, there was a bit of a situation.â Oda says, checking the smell on his hands. âIt is not my blood. But itâs true that I got into some trouble. I got something important taken from me. Something I have always protected.â
âIf it has been takenâ, Dazai smiles helplessly, âthen at least you donât have to worry about it being taken anymore.â
Oda looks at the other for a while. As if he is trying to look for an answer there.
âProbably.â Oda says. âI canât forgive the guy who took it, though.â
Dazai slowly nods. Trying to hide his expression.
Oda watches his expression for a moment but he finally turns away. âThanks for the match. That was a big help. Bye then.â
Dazai looks at the back walking away from him and speaks quickly. âIf you ever get into trouble in the futureâŚâ
Oda turns around, âHuh?â
âYou can turn to The Armed Detective Agency in Yokohama for help. They will take on even the troublesome stuff. And they will get the job done without fail. I was helped by them in the past, too.â
âI see.â Oda says after he gives it a moment of thought. âIâll do so then. That is very kind of you. You are a good guy.â
Dazaiâs expression becomes distorted.
He opens his mouth, and closes it again, as if he can no longer breathe.
If he tells him everything now, maybe things will go back to how they were. The two of them will go to the bar together and have a toast. Just like that night.
âOdasaâŚâ
Just as Dazai is about to say that name, a train passes by. The express train passing through that station cuts through the silence of the night, right next to where Dazai and Oda is.
The darkness and the light alternatively hit the road, and the roar of the steel blows away the silence of the whole surrounding. Oda narrows his eyes.
The train is long, and the sound it makes sounds like an extended sorrow. Dazai looks down so that no one can see him, his face twisted in grief. It is as if that long roar is promising him six long years of heartlessness to come.
The train finally passes through.
Oda looks around, trying to get what the other was saying again.
There is nobody there anymore.
Oda blinks his eyes, feeling confused. He looks around. Then he shakes his head as if to shake off all the thoughts, and walks away with a resigned expression.
Only the cold and quiet night breeze is left blowing through the space where no one remains, trying to fill up the emptiness.
Nobody says a word.
The painting is kept by the Port Mafia for a year, before it is returned to its owner, the son of the wealthy man.
The son keeps it for a few years, and later donates it to a museum anonymously.
That way, Dazai has achieved his goal. Getting Oda to tell him where the painting is without facing him, nor having his face remembered. And by doing that, Oda will never be targeted by a criminal organization again. That is Dazaiâs goal.
He has another goal.
To make Oda despise the Port Mafia. So that he will not join the Port Mafia, thus avoiding his coming death.
That goal is accomplished. Oda becomes involved with not the Port Mafia but the Armed Detective Agency, and joins the Agency two years later.
And then two years after that, Oda meets Dazai again one more time.
At the bar counter, in the sad melody of a parting song.
That is where Oda points his gun at Dazai, and Dazai says the last goodbye.
The last goodbye of his life.
The Day I Picked Up Dazai â Side Beast <The END>
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