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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 8 months

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if i fell through the floor i would keep falling ; suguru geto

synopsis; geto knocks at your front door one morning ten years after leaving everything he knew behind, fully expecting to be met with a middle finger or a hand to the throat. when you invite him in, instead, he can’t help but feel somewhat perplexed.

word count; 7.5k

contents; suguru geto/reader (platonic or romantic, up to u!!), gn!reader, geto-typical angst with lots of yearning, open-ended, geto’s pov, reader is a softie, mutual pining kinda, geto is terminally bitter and terminally lonely and also kind of a bitch but we love him

a/n; i’m extremely normal abt suguru geto and the debilitating loneliness he must’ve felt during the ten years after he left <33

”it’s been a while.”

the smile on his face must be sweet, he thinks, illuminated by the blurry light of the morning sun. as charming as it’s always been. coated in a thin layer of lighthearted deceit, a cruelly projected sense of normalcy.

with a hand raised up in cheerful greeting, geto gazes down at you.

— admittedly, he’s a little underwhelmed by your reaction.

astonishment or bafflement was maybe a little too much to ask for. you don’t look very surprised to see him at all; almost as if you were expecting him to show up in front of your apartment at the break of dawn.

and, really, maybe you were. after all, satoru must have told you already. why wouldn’t he let you in on their touching reunion, the promise of war that spilled so easily from his lips?

of course you would have heard of it by now.

still, geto can’t deny that it’s just a little bit disappointing. he would’ve liked to see your wide eyes, would’ve liked to hear you stammer a bit. the expression you’re currently sporting is something else entirely.

you look sad.

there’s a fondness in your eyes, though, unmistakable. a spark of it, entirely impossible to ignore, that catches him off guard. and there’s a softness in the way you raise your head to look up at him, a familiarity that flickers in the depths of your irises.

geto is just a little bit put off by it.

it looks the same as always. you look the same as always. and geto’s heart constricts, where it rests, tucked away deep within the confines of his ribcage.

a moment passes. the sun peeks out from beneath the curtain of the horizon, the violet and indigo of the morning sky melting into that familiar burst of ochre. and geto is content, to silently admire the way that you glow in its light.

he waits, patiently, for your expression to shift. to melt into one of anger, or repulsion, or any other kind of bitter hue.

it never does.

a sigh flows from your parted lips, instead. a soft little breath. in the bitter cold of a morning such as this, it turns into vapour as it drifts through the air. you blink, tiredly, eyelashes fluttering with something akin to exasperation.

”you’re a cruel guy, you know that?”

geto blinks. a fickle moment passes.

then, he smiles.

you’re admonishing him, but you’re doing so almost gently — with an easygoing kind of disapproval. as if you’re still in high school, huffing over the teasing bout of laughter he lets slip when you trip over air.

geto’s lips curl up, smoothly, an action he’s grown awfully used to over the years. smiles are a form of currency, he has come to realize — smiles of deceit, of fondness, of barely contained disgust. all kinds of smiles, whether plastered on or genuine. a means to meet an end.

a single tug of his lips, encompassing an immeasurable number of unspoken words.

the smile that geto graces you with is an amused one. it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s friendly enough. ”so i’ve been told.”

for a minute, you do nothing but observe him. there’s a turmoil behind your eyes that seeps out in the way you look at him, the way you shift from foot to foot and gnaw at your bottom lip anxiously. geto doesn’t interrupt, observing you in turn. waiting for one of you to move the first piece of this little morning game of chess.

in the light, he can almost delude himself into thinking that your eyes change colour, different shades and hues dancing around your dilated pupils. as you gaze over the contours of his face, a certain kind of affection blooms within them, one that geto expected to have faded over the years.

but it’s still there. and it’s the same. a little more blurry, maybe, a little faded at the edges — more matured. but still the same, despite that.

(a memory comes to him. one of you, and him; sharing a bag of chips on the school’s rooftop when neither of you could sleep.

bathed in the light of the moon, your eyes glimmered with that very same affection, like a shooting star breaking out across the night sky.)

one long, careful, tender moment passes by.

the intense contemplation on your features is almost enough to coax a chuckle from the depths of his throat. an urge to tease you creeps up on him, slowly, but before he can open his mouth you seem to come to a kind of conclusion.

and so, you step to the side — allowing him to see inside your apartment, catch a brief glimpse of the interior. you look oddly comfortable, at peace, having made your move; the next piece is his to place.

what a surprising move, though. geto can’t help it if his eyes widen just a smidge, if he blinks in a way that could almost be interpreted as briefly confused. out of all the possible scenarios he’s played out in his mind over the years, this wasn’t the one he expected to merge with reality.

”wanna come in?” you ask, tentative. your voice is inviting. a little clumsy, although he supposes that could just be because of fatigue. it is early, after all.

geto takes a moment to think.

as far as he can tell — and he always can, in one way or another — there is no deceit hidden in your expression. no signs of bloodlust, no spark of violence, no quiet resentment bubbling beneath the surface. earnest. that’s all it is. a little awkward, but candid. pure, in a way.

you aren’t trying to trick him. you’re genuinely, seriously, honest-to-god inviting him inside your apartment.

the next move is his to make.

and geto knows exactly what he should do. he should decline, politely, excuse himself with feigned remorse and a jovial invitation to his own personal hell.

(surely, you already know. the others have almost certainly told you by now. geto just wanted to personally invite you, himself. face to face.)

right. that’s what he should do. that’s the winning move.

and yet, he finds himself moving.

lips curling up on their own, without his approval, geto moves forward. one step is all it takes for him to cross the threshold of your home; a boundary he didn’t expect you to offer up so callously, truth be told, but who is he to deny the wishes of a dear old friend?

”why, thank you,” he smiles, voice pleasant, smooth like silk.

(for just a little while, he supposes he can indulge himself in the opportunity you’ve so graciously given him. just for a bit.)

geto doesn’t bother taking off his footwear, and he knows you couldn’t care less either way. allowing him to pass you by as he waltzes into your very own space, you close the door behind him. he half-expects to hear the click of the lock, but it never comes.

a particular scent envelops him, as he stands by the coat rack, unmoving — he has no intention of taking off his robes, heavy with his carefully nurtured devotion. a symbol of his choice.

the scent is familiar, but also unlike anything he can recall within the borders of his memory; a soothing blend between fresh laundry, and sunlight, and cat fur, and something rather sweet.

there’s more to it than that, though. a certain scent geto could only ever describe as you.

(his heart aches with longing.)

as he ponders the intricacies of the fragrance, geto is acutely aware of the stare burning into his back. how careless of him, to leave it facing you, unguarded and vulnerable.

what a perfect opportunity he’s presented you with; the great curse user suguru geto, forever exiled and wanted dead, now merely a fly at the mercy of the web you’ve created. trapped in your apartment with his back turned to you, a mere lamb to the slaughter.

how easy it would be, for you to plunge a knife into his flesh. to curve your way along his spine.

you do nothing of the sort, though. and for some reason, the realization that you aren’t going to irks him, even though deep down he knew that would be the case. still, it crawls its way under his skin, along the arteries of his forearm, an itch he yearns to claw away.

how foolish. how very like you.

(what a cruel thing change can be, when no one else seems to succumb to it.)

unable to do anything but accept it, however, geto turns towards you once more. you stiffen, as if burned by his gaze, and a part of him delights in it.

”how have you been?” he asks, bright and courteous. there’s a genuinity to the question that geto can’t deny. something about this situation sends a spark of fondness running through his veins.

at the sound of his voice, your eyes soften again. it’s a subtle shift, but he doesn’t miss it. doesn’t think he ever really could, because even though the light inside your eyes makes him uncomfortable, down to the very marrow of his bones, he can do nothing but bask in it. in your attention, in that heavy gaze.

a single word could never hope to faithfully describe the emotion smouldering inside it — but if forced to, geto would humbly settle on resignation.

it’s almost as if you still haven’t fully accepted it, ten years down the line, that you’re only just beginning to. like even now, you’re convinced that it’s nothing more than one big joke; that he’s about to reveal a hidden camera, and gleefully tell you that it was all a prank to get back at satoru.

naive, naive, naive. but geto can’t deny that it tastes sweet, on his tongue — to imagine that you might still have some faith in him, after all this time.

a sigh leaves your lips. you sound a little bit exhausted. it sends a pang of ache to the very center of his heart, and a part of him yearns to soothe you. another part relishes in the pain he must have brought you over the years.

the rest of him smoothly tucks those stray thoughts away, as he brushes non-existent dust off from his robes.

then, your eyes take on a more tender hue. you ignore his question entirely, and speak in a low voice. raspy and sincere, and maybe just a tad bitter, given everything.

”those robes don’t suit you, suguru.”

— a shiver travels down his spine.

suguru.

(the way your lips form around the syllables is still so lovely.)

you’re full of surprises, as always. at least to a certain extent, he was expecting you to settle on geto, to draw a firm line in the sand between him and you. the ocean and the land, always meant to be separated by that thin line, kept apart in each other’s best interest.

but geto is beginning to accept that you’re going to do this your way — sincerely.

the statement is a veil, obscuring a million unspoken thoughts, double meanings that aren’t particularly hard to discern. a silent rejection, a quiet disapproval. there’s a grief to it that sits heavy on your tongue.

taking a moment to collect himself, geto meets your gaze, and all its weight. his lips curl up into a sad smile, a little fatigued. he wonders if you can hear it, in his voice.

(maybe it was stupid of him, to think he could keep this meeting professional.)

”… is that so?”

you continue to look at him, as if waiting for something else. but geto doesn’t give you what you want, that touch of tender honesty he’s sure you’re hoping for.

”i think they suit me just fine,” he playfully disagrees, instead, tone bordering on something childishly stubborn.

you wait just a single moment more, still clinging to that hope for something sincere, anything.

then you huff. it sounds vaguely amused.

”you look like a con artist,” you deadpan, eyes flitting down to examine the outfit again. geto would be offended by your rudeness if you didn’t also happen to be right.

”how sweet of you,” he purrs, shooting you a smug smile. the words are lighthearted, mildly teasing. “that’s exactly what i’m going for.”

you give him an unimpressed look, that he mirrors with a perfect smile — and then you give in to another amused exhale, paired with a soft shake of your head.

there it is again, geto thinks. that sense of déjà vu. it’s equal parts eerie as it is comforting.

silence lingers in the air around you, as hazy sunlight flits in through the gap between your curtains and cascades across the floorboards. until you clear your throat endearingly, and walk past him.

”well, make yourself at home,” you murmur in passing.

considering the circumstances, the words are spoken fairly naturally, and geto has to resist the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this is. inviting a wanted criminal into your home, a literal mass murderer, and treating him with the same politeness you’d show to any other guest.

what would the elders think, he wonders, if they knew? would they brand you an accomplice, question your motives? put your head on the chopping block right next to his? he wouldn’t put it past them, the pieces of shit.

but despite his amusement, geto doesn’t laugh. he only watches as you make your way to the kitchen counter, a firefly catching his eye in the summer night.

(except you aren’t a firefly, and it’s not summer. it’s winter, and you’re someone geto wishes he didn’t still care for.)

”i was thinking of making tea,” you hum, voice soft but still easy for him to discern from his spot in the living room. ”do you want some?”

geto’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile. his voice is teasing, as it flows out from his lips.

”how generous,” he chirps, still idly watching the way you move around the open space, your hair changing colour in the flickering light of the sun. ”satoru could learn a thing or two from you.”

he expects you to flinch. a suitable reaction, to how casually he brings up his reunion with his best friend, like it’s nothing. like it means nothing. like nothing’s wrong.

geto knows it’s cruel, which is exactly why he does it.

but you don’t flinch. you don’t even stiffen. and he senses no anger in your body language, in the silence that settles in the space between his words and yours. all you do is exhale sharply, a little exasperated.

”you shouldn’t be so cruel to him.” a beat. your voice sounds just a little smaller when you continue. ”he’s missed you, you know.”

the reply is nearly instantaneous, and it’s bare. honest. you sound like you’re scolding him, but it’s more protective than angry. and it’s gentle, like you’re patching him up after a mission, reprimanding him for not being more careful.

at this point, geto can tell you have no intention of playing along. how annoying. he wishes you would — that earnest sadness and regret of yours is almost unbearable, and the gentle bluntness you present him with cuts much deeper than his casual cruelty ever could.

you aren’t going to play along, aren’t going to pretend you don’t care. geto wonders why you won’t, why you’re the only one who still refuses to.

satoru certainly has no issue with it. playing along, putting up a front. attempting to treat him coldly, as an enemy. but geto knows him, knows his soul like the back of his hand, and he could tell it was trembling when their eyes met. from underneath those bandages of his, the thin layer of cowardice that shields those precious eyes from the rest of the world. from geto.

and shoko is just as unbothered as ever. always playing it cool, never caught off guard or shaken to her core. geto can’t even tell if it’s an act or not, anymore. but he knows that she was angry, when they spoke that day, ten years in the past. knows she wanted to tell him off, but chose not to.

both her and satoru are like that. always have been. closed off, accustomed to bearing an unbearable weight, resigned to the ache that it brings them. acting distant in a desperate attempt to mend it.

you, though?

you were always a little too sincere for your own good, a little too true to yourself. it must hurt you, he thinks. it must hurt you even just to look at him. yet you continue to do so, unflinchingly.

that’s simply how you are.

you’ve always enjoyed dipping your toes into the grief of it all, leaning into the pain. always the first to take that step into the abyss. content to tear yourself open for everyone to see, even if no one follows suit.

never averting your eyes. never taking the easy way out.

(unlike him.)

geto hums, smiling a little at the sickening irony of it all.

the gentle clinking of ceramic resounds throughout the kitchen, and geto’s ears perk up. his gaze follows your hands, as they move to grab two cups from the wall cabinet. floral designs, he dully notes. blue bells on one, red camellias on the other. a porcelain teapot rests on the kitchen table, but no flowers adorn it.

without your expressions to keep him entertained, geto decides to wallow in the fleeting peace and quiet. aside from your soft breathing and the occasional clinking of teacups, there are no sounds to be heard.

a moment that seems to exist outside of time and space, where time passes backwards and your shuffling in the kitchen is his only concern.

eager to satiate the mellow boredom in his chest, geto’s eyes begin to flit across the space of your apartment. greedily drinking in every detail he can see, as if he’s trying to memorize it all. maybe he is.

everything he can see is a piece of your existence, in one way or another. every inch of the apartment is littered with your fingerprints, your choices and fickle tastes.

like the rich yellow of the curtains you’ve picked out to frame the glass of the windows, bright and stark and blending smoothly in with the cream colour of the wallpaper surrounding it. or the forgotten cup on the table in front of the tv, a faded green. he vaguely remembers seeing you drink out of it back when things were still good, when you both thought of the school as your home.

a book rests on the duvet pillows of your couch, but he sees no bookmark peeking out from between the pages. geto wonders if you still dog-ear your books, and thinks to himself that a crime of that calibre would warrant your own exile if the world was only fair. alas, it isn’t. war of the foxes, he reads from the cover. ironic.

along the windowsills are potted plants, stacked up next to each other, green and flourishing despite the snowy wonderland of the outside world. their leaves differ in shape and size, some accompanied by blooming flowers. he imagines you watering them, dutifully, nurturing them with gentle hands and sleepy smiles.

there are many things to look at, more and more little fragments sprouting up the longer geto continues to do so. a knitted sweater thrown over the wooden armrest of a chair. colourful candy wrappers littering the table. an old radio tucked away in a corner of the room.

geto drinks it all in — a home you’ve painstakingly created, that you’ve allowed him into. he examines it thoroughly, the way an art dealer judges a painting on display. turning the image over inside his mind, twisting it, burning it into his retinas. soaking in every little detail he manages to find.

your home.

(it’s so like you that it hurts.)

finally, geto thinks he’s had his fill of the living room. so he ventures into the kitchen, only a couple long strides away.

the scent that greets him this time is comforting, homey. the aroma of coffee grounds, a touch of leftover curry, a strong fragrance of blooming hyacinths and dried lavender sitting contentedly by the windowsill. through the translucent glass, geto sees layers upon layers of snow on the rooftops, and the gradual rise of the glittering sun.

the quiet buzzing of the electric kettle is the only sound he hears, along with the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall, as his eyes wander along the kitchen.

the shelves are stacked with a variety of different spices, and glass jars of honey and jam. along the counters rest a wide array of kitchen appliances, from blenders to rice cookers to french presses. mugs with silly designs are stuffed into an opened wall cabinet, and geto recognizes some of them, to his silent delight.

there are colourful post-it notes stuck to the fridge, messy scribbles of recipes and reminders. meetings, birthdays, grocery lists. even just little doodles, smiley faces and napping cats that make his lips quirk up. and polaroids — he tries not to let his gaze linger on the picture of satoru sleeping in the most uncomfortable, inhumane position he’s ever witnessed, nor the blurry image of shoko smoking by a balcony railing, sleeves cuffed and expression forlorn. he can’t imagine either of them noticed you snapping the photos.

(no polaroids of him. of course not. why would there be?)

geto tries not to look over at the fridge again, examining the floor and furniture instead. over in the corner stands a bowl of cat food, seemingly untouched. the kitchen table is covered with a checkered cloth, kept down by a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

your kitchen is fairly small, but it’s cozy. rays of fresh sunlight envelop it in a giddy, ruminating glow. like something out of a dream.

when geto enters the space, your eyes flit over to him briefly, and he shoots you a friendly smile. your eyes do that thing, again, where they crumble a little at the corners and get a tad softer. like you’re looking at an old friend.

(he supposes you are.)

you clear your throat before speaking, as he takes in all the sights.

”what kind of tea do you want? i’ve got, uh…”

with gentle movements, you open a wall cabinet, eyes swiftly scanning over the different labels of the many boxes, jars and sachets of tea inside. dutifully, you list off the ones you can see.

”earl grey, chamomile… oolong, rooibos…” you continue, seemingly never running out of options, fingers tapping at the handle. ”ah, this one’s kinda weird. it’s supposed to be, like, cherry flavoured? don’t ask, satoru picked it out — but it tastes more like laundry detergent.”

a pause.

”it’s pretty good, though.”

geto can’t help it. the comment coaxes a chuckle from out his chest, and he’s surprised at how genuine it sounds when it spills from his lips.

you seem to notice it, too, seeing as you perk up where you stand by the counter. out of the corner of his eye, geto thinks he almost catches the fleeting glimmer of a tiny smile on your lips.

and for a moment, everything feels familiar. eerie and comforting, in equal measure. a sense of nostalgia drifts throughout the kitchen, mingling with the scent of tea leaves and sunshine and freshly baked cookies.

this is the opportunity you’ve given him — a slice of normalcy. as close to normalcy as one can come to in a situation such as this. a soft bout of laughter, shared between estranged childhood friends, one of which is a mass murderer. it’s really not normal at all.

normalcy is no more than a fever dream. that much has always been the case, but —

there’s a comfort in it, in this. the familiarity of it all. the way you settle into old roles, share knowing looks and cycle through old memories he knows you’re both haunted by.

it’s soothing.

he’s changed, and you’ve changed, but there’s still a sense of belonging between the two of you. in this moment, this sole flicker of nostalgia. in this kitchen.

and for a moment, geto almost forgets why he’s there. almost forgets the unforgettable, the inevitability of a choice he made long ago. it stings, and he wonders how you can bear it; this thin line between longing and awareness.

”so? what’ll it be?”

your voice rings out across the open space, face angled towards the table to meet his stare.

geto hums, absentmindedly, and takes a step closer.

the narrow distance between you two lies heavy, as he shuffles up right next to you, haphazardly sweeping his eyes over the wide assortment in front of him. he can almost, almost hear your breath hitch when the fabric of his clothing grazes your shoulder.

he wonders if the tea is just an excuse, to be able to come so close. to bask in your warmth.

you don’t move away.

”oolong,” he firmly decides. he doesn’t really need to think about it.

then he swiftly turns on his heel, and takes a seat by the kitchen table. confident and graceful — as if this isn’t your kitchen, but his. unconcerned over table manners, his elbows resting on the wooden board, as his jaw meets the heel of his palm. he bites into one of the chocolate chip cookies, the sweetness crumbling on his tongue.

this time, you finally do stiffen — though geto doesn’t see it. he does, however, feel your lingering stare, and when he tilts his head in your direction he catches a glint of sorrow passing through the depths of your irises.

geto blinks. he tilts his head questioningly, a cue for you to follow.

and finally, finally, you stammer. barely, but it’s there. that nervous shiver of your voice.

”ah — sorry,” you mumble, gaze falling down to the floorboards. you seem almost flustered. ”it’s just…”

there’s something raw in your voice, something that wavers.

”back then, you’d always choose earl grey.”

a long moment of silence passes.

there are a million unspoken words in that sentence, geto knows. words you’ll never say, words you’ve always yearned to say. though he has no intention of digging them out.

the sentiment is more than enough.

a bitter taste settles on his tongue, but he smiles, careful to keep his voice light.

”well,” he hums. ”some things change, i suppose.”

to that, you huff out a breath of amusement, turning around to face the counter once more. but not before eyeing his robes again, expression rich with humour.

”yeah,” you hum, lighthearted. something close to a chuckle. ”i suppose they do.”

geto grins softly, in tandem, from his spot by the table. like you’re still teenagers, sharing a look over an inside joke no one else is privy to.

after that, he simply watches you work, chewing at the treat while he waits for the tea to be done. the light of the electric kettle flickers off, and your hands curl around the handle, bringing it to rest next to the teapot on the tablecloth. he watches, expression mildly bored, as you grab the ceramic cups and the silken sachet bag of dried tea leaves.

a strong scent of oolong tea wafts through the air, when you flick your fingers to pour some of the leaves into the teapot. there’s a certain elegance in the way you pour the boiling water, slowly, in a smooth circular pattern. geto follows the movement, the rise and fall of the leaves as water fills the strainer.

you’re unhurried, methodical. there is care in the motion of your hands, the intense gaze you bear as you perform it. every slight twitch of your knuckles, the soft exhale you emit when the teapot has been filled.

geto can do nothing but watch, in silent admiration.

you put the porcelain lid back on, blocking the steam rising up in a flurry of warmth. while the tea simmers, soaking up the flavour of the leaves, you busy yourself with readying two teaspoons.

”how do you take it, these days?” you ask him, as you languidly pour hot tea into the cups. ”any sweetener? milk?”

”one cube of sugar. no milk.”

at that, your eyes flit up, recognition blooming in them as you hear the familiar sentence. but geto keeps his gaze glued to the hyacinths on the windowsill, never meeting yours.

truthfully, he says it mostly to appease you. he figures he can give you this one thing, at least — this one hope that maybe everything hasn’t changed, after all. that he hasn’t changed, in his entirety, that there’s still some remnant left of who he used to be. even if all that’s left of him is just one single cube of sugar.

it’s kind of funny. but geto doesn’t laugh.

you place a cup in front of him. the one adorned by red camellias. geto racks his brain, flitting through past conversations with florists and paragraphs memorized from non-fiction books on botany. what was it, again?

eternal love. long-lasting devotion.

the petals and the calyx of a camellia always fall together.

geto bites back a laugh. some part of him wonders if you’re making fun of him, if this is how you’re planning to release your pent-up anger — in such a petty, roundabout manner. but deep down he knows it was no more than an absentminded choice, on your part.

(you always hurt him most when it’s not your intention to do so.)

as you take a seat on the opposite side of the table, he gingerly touches the rim of the cup. soft steam rises from the liquid, its colour marigold-esque, and geto breathes it in deeply before bringing the ceramic to his lips.

you watch, in anticipation. intensely enough that he can feel it even when his eyes flutter shut, your gaze prickling his skin as he sips from the cup.

the warmth of the tea is comforting, a distinctly floral taste spreading along his tongue. there’s a slight nuttiness to the taste, a rich sweetness. as it runs down his throat, geto hears himself hum softly. a satisfied smile slips into the curve of his lips. inside the depths of his chest, a light nostalgia swirls, pleasant and tingly.

he remembers moonlit nights, whispered secrets you could only ever tell each other, the glimmer of aluminium and rush of caffeine as you gulped down the too-sweet coffee that the vending machines had to offer.

he remembers sunny mornings, muffled laughter shared in the solitude of the kitchen, basking in the floral scent of chamomile and lavender and everything in between as the world woke up around you.

with a clink, geto sets his cup down on the table, pinkie raised lightly. smile a tad bittersweet.

”this is good tea.”

a moment passes. you break out into a genuine smile, nearly beaming, delighted by his approval.

”isn’t it?” you chirp, fingers curling around your own cup, the little painted flowers adorning it. blue bells. geto recalls that old wives’ tale — how wearing a wreath of blue bells compels one to tell the truth. ”nanami got this one for me, actually.”

he smiles, perking up ever so slightly. a little more animated. ”oh?” he takes another sip. ”he always was a snob, wasn’t he.”

that makes your own smile grow, lips twitching upwards, and an amused exhale flows from your lips. a gentle breath. you always were very fond of your grumpy underclassman. ”yeah.”

there’s something familiar about this, geto can’t help but think. eerily so. an acute sense of déjà vu, the same one that’s been plaguing him all morning.

the way you’re treating him isn’t how one would treat an enemy, nor a stranger — it’s how one would treat an old friend. that, and nothing more.

(geto wishes he could say it didn’t soothe his heart so terribly.)

he allows himself to sink deeper into the rotten sweetness of it all. indulges in this one fleeting moment, before everything crashes and burns.

the world outside your kitchen is a cold one, he knows, blanketed by snow and frost that has yet to be stained red. the pure white is a warning, not a consolation — a reminder that there are still things to be lost.

the world of curses is an empty promise, the promise of suffering being rewarded. the idea that the sun will melt the frost around your legs if you wade through enough snow.

(but geto knows better.)

outside your kitchen, only one path exists for him. it isn’t a kind one, nor is it particularly comforting. but, unlike those empty promises, that path has a truth to it. an end point, that isn’t just wait and see what happens, maybe the sun will rise if you’re lucky.

he isn’t a fool. the world is as cruel as it is beautiful, which is a false simile because cruelty is only ever beautiful when you aren’t a part of it. another one of those empty promises. geto has no idea how they kept him going for so long.

but here, in this moment — the world feels rather kind. kind in the sense of being just enough, the kind of brief solace that used to give him enough hope to get through the day.

for now, this aching gap of yet-to-be-ruined is enough. it’s all that he cares about, all that exists.

— but all good things must eventually come to an end.

geto knows it better than anyone, so he isn’t particularly surprised when he looks up to see your face set into hard lines.

you meet his eyes with a certain flickering determination, a conviction — and geto knows you’re about to cross the comfortable line he was hoping you could both maintain for just a little longer.

”suguru.”

he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. a smile is enough. so his lips curl up, silently.

”can i ask you something?”

every move geto makes is calculated, a performance, as your words sink into his subconscious. dragging the silence out, as if trying to waltz around the inevitable end of this sickeningly sweet game of morning chess.

the slow circling of his spoon, creating a vortex for the oolong tea to follow, as it catches the light falling from the window. the way he leans back, to make himself comfortable, letting his jaw rest on the heel of his palm as he dissects your expression from across the table.

there is something almost taunting in his eyes.

but he smiles. courteous, bright. ”go ahead.”

for just a second, he sees you falter. just a smidge, but the way your nails dig into the skin of your palm is telling, just like the way your eyes choose to linger on the tablecloth a second longer than they need to.

then you meet his eyes once more, and begin to speak. geto hangs on to your words, as if they even matter.

”i’m not expecting you to be honest with me,” you state, bluntly. he’s glad to know you’re on the same page for once. ”but i’d appreciate it if you could. just this one time. i won’t ask for anything else.”

another long and tactful sip of his tea. he wasn’t lying, before — it really is very nice. the flavour is strong and thick on his tongue, sweet and bitter all in one. expensive. the pads of his fingers tap along the ceramic of his cup, right over the red flowers that seem to taunt him so.

here it comes. your lips part, but no sound comes out, and geto knows you’re thinking of how best to phrase your inquiry. it doesn’t take you long to decide, a firmness blossoming in the scope of your iris. a sense of finality.

”are you happy?”

despite everything, his breath hitches in his throat. the movement of his fingers halts.

your question comes out clear, candid, sincere. the look in your eyes makes him feel a little like he’s being devoured. vaguely aware of how his smile wavers, for just a split second, geto can only hope you don’t notice it — but he doubts you do, because you only continue to speak, unperturbed.

”i’m sure you’ve changed a lot, these past ten years. and i’m sure you’ve had more than enough time to convince yourself that you’re happy, even if you aren’t.” you bite your lip. ”i should’ve asked you this a long time ago. but now — i’m asking.”

geto’s eyes never leave your face.

”are you happy? are you genuinely satisfied with your life? are you happy with your choice?”

there’s something desperate in your eyes, now. something geto can’t look away from, despite himself. all he can do is touch the ceramic beneath his fingers, hot enough to burn, and listen to you speak.

”if… if you are, then —”

you take a deep breath, a sharp inhale that geto would mimic if he wasn’t dead set on maintaining his composure.

”— then i won’t get in the way. i’ll let you live your life the way you want to. just as long as that’s true.”

geto looks at you, smile nowhere to be seen. time itself seems to halt, in the space of your kitchen. the current center of the world.

he doesn’t dare to even breathe.

”… but,” your voice trembles. you stare intently at your own cup, surely beginning to grow lukewarm at this point. what a waste of good tea. ”if you aren’t happy, then —”

a pause. no one says a thing.

”then what?” geto spits. his voice comes out sounding just a tad sharp, cold like the frost outside your apartment. more so than he meant it to.

your pupils waver, before you lift your head to look at him. the resolution in your eyes makes his breath hitch. an unflinching kindness, one he can’t remember you ever not having.

”— then i’ll do whatever it takes to change that. no matter what.” a beat. “even if it makes you hate me.”

such immense honesty.

geto wonders why he came here, in the first place.

to declare war. was that his genuine desire, though? or was it just another excuse?

with satoru, he can pretend. with shoko, he can pretend. with himself, he can certainly pretend.

but with you?

his fingers leave the ceramic, eyes burning with a decision mirroring yours.

geto’s burned many bridges, in his life. but this particular bridge is one he’ll miss. the cinders that follow won’t keep him warm, that much he knows.

but in the face of such honesty — such genuine kindness — he couldn’t bear not to give you a serious answer.

(it’s the least he could do for you.)

”i am.”

a moment passes. the center of the world shifts.

”i’m happy with my choice.”

it was the only one worth making.

as they fall from his lips, the words taste heavy, absolute. in the light of a morning still yet to be broken by the passage of time, your eyes shift. for a moment geto wonders if you’ll close them. if you’ll give yourself that one relief.

you don’t.

instead, you bite your lip, eyes stubbornly never leaving his own. now you look a little angry, a little frustrated. he’s glad to see that flicker of fury directed at him, at last.

”but are you happy?” you persist, frustrated in a way that buzzes with kindness and concern. a way that makes him feel rather lost.

geto hears himself speak before he has a chance to think about his answer. the voice that comes out of his throat sounds oddly soft.

”that doesn’t matter.”

”it should.”

your reply is equally instantaneous. and geto feels a tremor run through his heart.

”are you happy, suguru?” you try again, pleading. that hope of yours is back, the hope that he’ll be honest just this once. sincere, even just for a syllable or two.

the clock on the wall ticks, hands moving methodically and cruelly, second by second. another moment of time burned to cinders. geto knows what must be done.

this mindless self-indulgence was nice, for a while. but geto has more bridges to burn. more wars to brew.

one final touch. that’s what he’ll give you, in return for your generosity. one final touch of tender honesty, even if it burns his tongue.

”i will be,” he exhales, breathless. ”once all this is over.”

then he gets up from his chair, the squeaking of wood against the floorboards signaling a parting. your eyes never leave his face, as he dusts off his robes absentmindedly, glancing at the half-finished cup on the table.

then geto smiles at you. there’s a fondness to it, one he’d only ever show you. his eyes crinkle, just barely, and the dark brown of his iris shifts into a mellow amber as sunlight cascades down the contours of his face. a genuine smile.

”thank you for the tea.”

there it is. your eyes soften, again, helplessly.

you aren’t satisfied. geto doubts you ever will be.

but you’ve always been the only one to tear yourself open, the only one to step into the abyss. geto has always admired it, just as much as he’s always found it foolish. not once has he ever followed suit.

things like honesty and tenderness don’t suit him. he doesn’t think they suit any sorcerer, except maybe for you.

at last, that grieving resignation finds its way to your eyes again. it doesn’t hurt him as much this time, perhaps because he was waiting for it.

”… you’re welcome,” you breathe. a sad little breath.

geto allows himself to look at you for just a moment more.

then he turns on his heel.

”well, this was nice,” he hums. ”but i really must be going now.”

pleasant and jovial. a voice unsuited for a situation like this. geto wonders if it hurts you as much as it hurts him.

rubbing salt into wounds is all he seems to do these days, anyhow. so he smiles. ”i’ll see you on the battlefield, i hope —”

”suguru.”

…

deep down, geto knows that there’s no going back from this. that the moment he moves his feet, the moment he leaves your apartment — the moment he steps over the threshold in front of him — he can never return.

your kitchen was never his to walk into, in the first place. he was never meant to set foot into your home. that was your choice. geto can’t help but think that it’s every bit as cruel as the one he made ten years ago.

your voice is the same as always. sad and fond. familiar, in how it twists and tugs at his heart in a way nothing else can anymore.

geto waits. he’ll let you have the final word. the final piece moved into place. checkmate.

he’ll let you be the one to devour that aching gap.

curse me, he whispers to the confines of his mind. resent me. i’ve caused you so much pain.

curse me yourself, so i can hate you properly.

”if you ever want another cup, i’ll be here.”

silence falls upon the kitchen.

geto stands still, feet rooted in the spot by the threshold separating the kitchen from the living room. the ticking of the clock is the only sound he hears.

there isn’t a trace of resentment in your voice.

(he wishes you would play along, even just once.)

a low hum buzzes in his throat. the seconds stretch on; more hands moved, more time burned into nothing. the silence is deafening, thick and heavy. an intense moment of contemplation, as geto tries not to shiver under the warmth of your constant gaze, burning into his back.

the center of the world shifts, once more. the gaze of fate falls upon the two of you, bathed in the rays of the rising sun, in a kitchen where normalcy is a little more than just a fever dream.

it doesn’t mean anything, anything at all.

geto knows it. he knows it better than anyone. but maybe he can allow this mindless self-indulgence to carry on, for just a little longer. if only to give him the excuse he needs to see you again, to stand in your kitchen like this, like the view of the rising sun is something he’s allowed to behold.

how greedy. how callous. hasn’t he always been, though?

just for a little bit longer.

”… you know,”

geto takes a step forward, robes fluttering with the movement, heavy and pious. he crosses the threshold, words just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear.

(in the space between the words, laced together with the silence, lies the ghost of a smile.)

”it’s been a while since i had earl grey.”

#something something geto being represented by a setting sun vs reader being represented by a rising sun…. u get the vibes.#this was supposed to be completely angsty but i got attached to the final line LOL. so now its just a tiiiiny bit hopeful #i mean hes still probably dying lets be honest but theres some room for interpretation if ur delulu like me #tbh the idea of geto continuing his genocidal agenda while casually having tea parties w/ reader on sundays is just.. INSANELY funny to me #every girlboss needs her selfcare day <3 #suguru geto #suguru geto x reader #geto angst #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader

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willowser · 5 months

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now i wake up by your side—

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 2.8k+

tags: u.a. college au, canon-compliant, reader has a telekinesis/telepathic quirk, references (and potential spoilers) for the current arc in the manga, angst, a lot of secret hidden feelies

tysm to @alrightberries for giving me the opportunity to bring this lil thought of yours to life 🥺 your patience and understanding during the time it took me to write this is so appreciated it, and tbh you're the reason i'm even still here right now LOL you're so sweet, and i hold your kindness so close to my heart. i wish i could convey how much it means to me. i hope i did this even a lil justice !! happy birthday dear !!!! 🥺🩷✨️

Sero dreams of watching the sunrise on top of the Roppongi Observatory.

It’s a beautiful sight, one you’ve never seen with your own eyes, but you soak in the warmth flushing across his cheeks and the anticipated break of morning through the clouds. When he takes in a hefty breath, you feel the spring chill sting inside his chest, crisp and clear, like it’s you breathing instead of him, and it’s almost comforting enough to lull you to sleep, too.

But a clay pot shattering against a nearby bench has your eyes springing open, ripped from the haven you’d been lost to.

You have to blink several times in order to fight through the exhaustion wearing you thin, but the evening returns to you in small, bleary doses. It’s the middle of the night—or at least it was when you’d first wandered out to the training field, and you can’t be sure how many hours have passed since then. Across the yard, you’ve successfully managed to carry four pots from the garden plot near the entrance all the way to your feet with your Quirk— but number five sits in pieces in the grass.

You’ll have to clean that up by morning or Eraser will make you run laps until you puke. Again.

Kirishima flits through your mind in a suit and tie: not as a Hero, but a spy of some kind, chasing down men with masks covering their faces and wielding a gun that looks odd in his hands, even in his own dream. Despite being back in the dorms, stories up and near the end of the hall, you can see it—hear him yelling out at the criminal to stop, feel the thud of the ground under his feet. His own determination blares through you like a freight train, as strong and damning as he is, and you fight to force yourself back inside your own shoes as you try to carry another pot.

Recovery Girl used to tell you that you did this to yourself: all your worry about losing sleep psyching yourself out of it completely, chasing it away before it even had the chance. When everyone is getting ready for bed, heading out of the common room and hitting the showers, you can feel that suspense building; what will come across tonight while everyone dreams? Fantasies? Or nightmares?

During the day it’s easier to drown out the foot-traffic of everyone’s thoughts—you do it without trying, now—but your brain needs rest, too. Letting go of control for even a second, just to get some shut eye is—

Something frightening is outlined in your peripheral vision, the dash of a pale shape you aren’t able to discern before it’s gone. The air turns metallic and stale and you can hear water sloshing, though you’re nowhere near the pools. All your blood rushes in your ears and your fingers curl, like you’re gripping your seat—gripping the edge of the couch in the common room, where you’d been sitting beside Mina when Kaminari put on that horror movie. The one with the—

“The hell are you doin’?”

Your eyes snap open for the hundredth time that night—show over, credits rolling—and it’s Bakugou. Standing only feet away from the new set of clay shards of your failure, tangible and real and staring at you with an intensity not even your dreams could mimic.

You blink, eyes stinging and heavy. You must look insane. “Oh, hey,” the voice that comes out of you is far-away, chartered off to distant lands, and he notices immediately, focus razor-sharp despite how late it is. “What did you say?”

Bakugou wrinkles his nose, like he’s offended at having to repeat himself. “I said, what the hell are you doin’? It’s nearly 2 in the morning and you’re out here throwin’ shit around in your fuckin’ pajamas.”

Almost on cue, the breeze brushes past your legs, chilly enough to have you shivering, and you peek down at them as if you don’t know what they look like. The sweater you’re wearing is from second year and the U.A. logo is half-worn off, but it’s the comfiest thing you own and if you’re going to be plagued all night by the forced intimacy of your classmates’ dreams—you at least want to be cozy.

When you look back up at him, Bakugou is pointedly looking away, taking interest in something other than your wimpy state of dress.

It dawns on you then that he’s out here, too, in sweats and a simple back sweatshirt, hair a messy, golden halo in the pale, buzzing field lights. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think his face was a little rosy, but—maybe you’re seeing things.

Still. Being out and away from everyone, alone with Bakugou, makes your stomach tighten horribly. Like you’ve done too many sit-ups.

You try to brush off your sudden bout of shyness, because you know he’ll clock that in no time, too. “Well, I could ask you the same thing.” At the raise of your eyebrows, he only tchs, and casts you a filthy look. “But I think maybe I’ll just mind my own business.”

The face he makes is so awful and hot-blooded that you laugh, truly and earnestly, enough that a headache pulses to life. You wince, and the stream of pain that shoots down the middle of your skull brings back that image of Kirishima’s action-thriller: blood and knives, the sound of skin on skin, a fist against cheekbones, the ugly snap of breaking—

“Oi.”

Bakugou is closer than before, when you’re grounded back inside yourself. At least no pots have been broken this time. Less to clean up.

“Sorry,” you shoot him an apologetic smile that you know he must hate. “It’s just so—” your hand feels like it’s made of lead, but you drag it up to massage slow circles into your temple, trying not to grit your teeth and worsen the pounding in your head. “So loud sometimes.”

He’s silent until the pain ebbs out, and when you can blink without flinching, you peek up to catch how intently he’s watching your face. In the night like this, his eyelashes seem darker, longer, a kind of haunting beauty you would dream about, if you could get some sleep.

Again, you think of Kaminari’s horror movie, legs pressed against Mina’s under the heavy comforter she’d brought down from her room. It’s warm, the kind of pink, fluffy thing you’d imagine a girl like her to have—but it didn’t stop you from shivering every time you chanced a glance at Bakugou and found him already staring back.

The heat in your cheeks spreads to the back of your neck, so immediate that you think you might start sweating. “Dreams and stuff,” you murmur, by way of an explanation, “nightmares, sometimes.”

Bakugou's frown deepens, the muscle in his jaw tightening once as he grits his teeth. “What, you can just…hear that shit all night?”

“Usually,” you shrug, “It just comes in, you know? And I—” you steal another glance at him, aware, then, of just how intrusive you might sound. The veil of privacy is thin between you and others, and they don't often like being reminded of that. “Not for you, though. I don't—I don't get anything from you.”

And it's true, frustratingly enough. Not that you are ever intentionally peeking into anyone's head, but things slip through, occasionally—sudden reactions, wild, loose trains of thought.

Bakugou's face twists, regardless, and you're reminded of all the times you've been forced to spar together, at Eraser's behest. One of the smartest in your class, quick on his feet and never without a plan; every time you've managed to get a hand on Bakugou, there's been nothing but a sea-shore calm.

It's hard to do and, at this point in your life, you've seen a thousand people try it—but he's the only one that's ever succeeded in keeping you at bay.

Nothing in his expression changes, but all your nerves spread to your voice until it shakes. “You're—I don't look in there, of course, but it's—you've always been…” Bakugou is terrible at taking compliments, you know that, almost as bad as you are at giving them. “Pretty, I guess.”

Awful, at giving them.

Embarrassment floods him, suddenly stained pink as he curls into himself. “Piss off,” he barks, and though he’s scowling at you in what must be disgust—you can’t help but to smile at how aggressively bashful he is.

You almost get the guts to make matters worse, just because you can. Admit how handsome you’ve come to find him, after the last few years, until his face is steaming in the sweet nighttime chill; the kind of intimacy you wouldn’t mind dreaming about again and again.

The absence of his thoughts are a comfort for your tired mind, has all the harsh edges of night fading into something a little easier to swallow, to breathe in. You know he does it on purpose as a strictly defensive move, but you almost want to thank him. For the quiet.

You don’t know if it’s from you or him, but when you reach a hand up to hover near his temple, the air buzzes between you, gently. Charged with that same thing that had you unable to look away from him in the common room only days ago. “In here, I mean,” you murmur, and the smile you pull on feels lame, but it’s as genuine as ever. “I don’t know, I don’t know how you do it. But it’s…nice.”

You’ve seen him die a thousand times.

Mostly in Midoriya’s dreams, sometimes in Eraser’s when he nods off during last period, but that horror—like many others, from that day—stains you all. When dinner is put away and showers are finished and the lights go out and the flood gates open, someone almost always relives the ugliness of it all; you’re more familiar with that moment than you are with any of your own.

Here and now, you close your eyes and see Jirou staring back at you, face beautiful and full of hope. You see Kirishima’s torn suit jacket and the blood on his cheek and the empty gun in his hand, the most dedicated secret agent. Aoyama is dreaming of his mother, something warm that makes you feel like you’re dazzling, too.

And yet—Bakugou is silent. Even right in front of you. Even after everything.

If anyone deserves the peace and quiet, you suppose it ought to be him.

“When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

You blink until his blurry figure is clear, and it’s like you can physically feel whatever energy you had left seeping from your body at the mere mention of sleep. “Maybe a morning or two ago,” you tell him truthfully, “I usually pass out after a few rounds of ‘throwin’ shit around’.”

Bakugou only stares at you as he digests the words, and once he’s gotten them down, he shakes his head before looking out over the mess you’ve made of the training field. With his head turned like this, you can take in the full weight of his scar—the one that’s wide and still baby-pink across his cheek.

You almost get the guts to tell him he’s handsome. Almost.

Frustration is evident on his face when he looks back at you, but his voice comes out softer than you expect, like he's struggling to get out any words at all. “Can’t keep doin’ this,” he chastises. “Can’t be a Hero if you’re half asleep all the time. Gotta figure this shit out.”

“I am,” you give a lazy wave to your pots, “What’s wrong with this solution?”

“It's ass.”

“Alright, you have any better ideas, pretty boy?”

He bristles, visibly enough to have you snickering, and—you’re not sure what you expect of him; to continue his griping or leave you to your own devices, building his walls up high as he always does. Ever the fighter, ever the protector; maybe it’s a good thing, you tell yourself, because you’re weak like this and one of you needs to be thinking straight.

Despite his flush, there’s a playfulness to his grouchy expression, his raspy tone—and it has you leaning too far into things you don’t know how to name.

You never know what to expect of him.

There’s the slightest brush of skin against the back of your hand, and when you drop your eyes to the slowly-dwindling space between you—the rough pads of his fingers are touching you, gently. Softly enough to be the breeze, if it weren’t so warm.

You’re afraid to look at him, suddenly, like it will break whatever spell the night is casting over both of you; instead you press your lips together to stop their wobbling and the smile fighting to give you away. You’re waiting for that sea-shore calm, that quiet comfort, whatever it is he’s trying to offer you, strangely enough, in this moment. When you turn your hand over to catch his, the air buzzes again and the blood rushes in your ears.

You focus and—all you can see is your own face staring back at you. In a flash, like he’s cycling through his cards in a hurry, trying to find the best one.

You, across the arena during the entrance exam. You, in the locker room before the Sport's Festival. You, sitting in the common room during Christmas. You, ruined with tears and your own blood and covered in grime, on the darkest day of your life.

You, now. On the field in the stale light, prettier than you think you must look, for being so exhausted, the lines of your smile deep as you grin up at him.

—And then there's nothing.

The absence of noise is louder than anything. A stark, white silence that cuts through; a different world trickling away. A single touch and a little focus is all it takes to take root inside someone’s head and that’s always felt like a weapon, but now it feels like coming inside from a snowstorm, relief shuddering down your spine. Everyone else's fears and nerves and heartaches dissolve until they’re only a bitter taste at the back of your throat. Something far, far behind you

There’s just Bakugou. A strong silence that feels impenetrable, invulnerable to the outside. The steady beat of his heart is comforting in a way you didn’t realize it would be, has that bloody, dead-eyed image of him shifting into something else: another moment in Midoriya’s memories, of his silhouette standing in the sun, tall and fierce and alive.

Returned. Here and now with you, after numerous, unforeseen turns of events. You wonder if the ease surrounding you is his own, something else he’s sharing—or if this is just how it feels to be with him after so long. Maybe in the past it was different—you know it was; during the entrance exam, during the Sport’s Festival—but now you feel more relaxed than you ever have. A reminder that, no matter how dark the nights get, the sun is only just beyond the horizon.

Returned, comforting and quiet.

(You won't know this until much later, but your hand will go slack in Katsuki's and his fingers will tighten around your own because he's not ready to let go yet. When your knees buckle, he'll already be there, awkwardly holding you up against his shoulder as his face flames and his eyes dart around the empty field, checking for any shitty snoops.

Ears is always up damn late, too, and there's a decent chance he'd get caught trying to haul you back to your room on the third fuckin’ floor, so there's really no better option than to gently lower you both to the grass. After a couple of minutes with no movement, the field lights will shut off and only the distant glow of the stars will remain.)

(You won't know this until much later, but Katsuki will arrange the both of you so that your head isn't slumped on the hard ground, but resting on the plush of his bicep, an arm around your shoulders so that the warmth can be shared between you both. His heart will pound hard enough in his chest to be worrisome, and every time you shuffle and scoot closer to him and nudge your nose into his sweater—Katsuki will fight to stay open and true, only honest with you in this wordless way.)

(You won't know this until the sun rises high behind your lids and your bones ache and he’s shown you things he could never say, but it's the best sleep you think you've ever gotten. With him, under the stars, surrounded by his calm and his constant.)

(You won't remember this but in your dream—your real dream, born from with solace Katsuki offers you—the morning will rise and settle in and he'll walk you back to your room despite the stares and in the elevator when you're alone, his lips will touch yours and you'll feel his heart in your chest and his nerves in your stomach and his fear and relief all in one.)

(And right away, when you wake up, you'll finally have a name for this thing that's been blooming between you both for as long as you can remember—and he will, too.)

#i was so nervous about getting the quirk right kahfkahf #and then i was so nervous about it being fluffy enough bc the first draft of this was too angsty ??#SO I REWROTE IT LOL #i hope this is okay !! 🥺#i love the idea of bakugou being able to express how he feels in emotion only #that the fear he doesn't know how to name or how to explain or understand is conveyed to you somehow #whenever he touches you #🥺#tysm for giving me the chance to write it !!!#literally no but seriously you're the only reason i haven't privated this blog again LMAOOO tysm 🥺#✿ willow writes #✿ one shot: bakugou

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unganseylike · 2 months

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“Love Like Ghosts" // The Raven Cycle

When your true love is destined to die, is already dead, or will always be leaving. And other moments of ghostliness.

#finally this post that has been in the working for so long is up. Not perfect but its up #yes we have now escalated to full songs #a song about ghosts for which i have used no quotes about the canon ghosts #overall goal here was a section for each relationship #which made me realize blue has had a canonical thing with everyone but ronan lol #ignore the fact that i could only get good angsty pynch quotes from greywaren i was struggling to find what i wanted in trc #last part is intentional repetition of different versions of blue kiss me like we have the vision of the first hurt me baby and the actual #obviously huge bias here toward bluesey but thats bc. Well. its all for them <3 #overall happy with this because i feel like it actually encapsulates song and vice versa in terms of the love and ghost metaphor #anyway bluesey car scene said absent presence #lordhuroncycle #perhaps my last lordhuroncycle unless they release new song or i get inspired lol #long post #web weaving

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redcallisto · 5 months

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Danstelle week 2023 Day 1 - Soulmates | Reunion

#hsr #honkai star rail #danstelle #dan heng #stelle #imbibitor lunae #dan heng IL #dan heng imbibitor lunae #this scene was so angsty #after they see his high elder vidyadhara form for the first time #samudrartha playing in the bg. stelle standing farthest away from everyone staring off into the sea. saying nothing when dh approaches her #and in his pov “nothing can get her to open up”#TB assigned hella abandonment issues by the canon #i almost forgot to post this here lol

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hayaku14 · 4 months

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WAKE UP KAITOU KID NATION WE'RE GETTING ANGST ‼️‼️‼️

(x)

#kaitou kid #kuroba kaito #dcmk #detective conan #WE'RE GETTING SOME TOICHI RELATED ANGST LETS FUCKING GOOOOOO #SAD BOI KAITO HOURS ARE OPEN YALL #get yall angsty amvs ready a new sad kaitou kid just dropped 😌#(but also my brain is rotten so all im thinking of is kaishin LOL or kidco in this case ig)#also conan yelling “why are you doing this?” to kid & kid softly saying “i want to know...exactly what was the treasure he was aiming for..”#OHHH THIA NEW TRAILER GOT ME HYPEEEEEE #ALSO FUELING MY BRAINROT AAAHHH #i simply cannot wait #dc prattles

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kikker-oma · 7 months

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#i saw a tag that said #'Wild whumpers get your soup'#and now thats in my brain forever #after all #i LOVE soup #anyways #can you tell ive given up on angsty tags?#lol #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu fanart #lu wild #whumptober 2023 #whumptober #blood #its not self harm #but i can see where people might think it is so #self harm

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shower-phantom-ideas · 7 months

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Another DPXDC post for the first time

Yall remember winged danny? Yea me too the good ol days lads

But imagine Danny in Gothem cause hes either on the run from his family or the GIW you decide boys on the run and probably alone.

He gets picked up by the Waynes at some point and eventually he goes to have the “im not normal talk” but they all know. He is a meta or something. They have been waiting for him to be ready to tell them, if ever. They would accept him no matter what.

Except the time comes and he just “I have wings” and like everyone is shocked™️ Danny gets the idea hes about to be rejected and starts to fold in on himself and someone better snap out of it before the kid cries. Alfred is the one to speak first probably.

Just everyone so shocked but I mean it’s more a shock that they missed this instead of that Danny has wings. After that they fully accept him and apologise. Someone says the “we thought you were about to tell us about your powers!” Danny just has his own little moment before shouting “YOU GUYS KNOW I HAVE GHOST POWERS!?!?!!!?”

Anyway they move on and Danny hardly brings the wings up again but he does get seen around with them every once in a while. But eventually they find out hes not taking care of them as he should. It’s probably Duke who sees Danny with his messy wings and offers to help him.

Let Danny get help with self care ok. The Bats would all go nuts learning how to take care of Danny if he ever asks.

Now imagine the reverse of this and they all know he has wings but not that hes the High Ghost King Phantom.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dpxdc #winged!danny #idk what the au was called tbh I wasn’t jn the phandom much in my high school years #I just wanna see them helping danny preen on #like hes a teen he aint takin care of himself at all and yall now it #he probably gets captured in a cage at some point and the whole bat clan in on a rampage #till they find Danny and hes gone ghost and best the baddies up #that or hes all chains and angsty and hurt and traumatised because this is why he hid his wings #I like that one better cause hurt the child #hahahaha danny becomes cagey after this for a while xD see u get it cause hes jn a cage lol #me and the joker would get along so well but would also be trying ti kill one another out of winning #wanna know how I got these scars? I was tryin to show that joker how a real man gets a scar #anyway I gotta get ready for bed cause it’s 644am lmao

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bl00doodle · 1 year

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DOODELS

#my art #tryignt o do sm shit help i wanma draw and finish things so baddd #the brown sketches r me crying @ the phrase 'to be loved is to be changed' i wanna make a sad emo angsty comic abt shadows loss and pain an #still endong up with a happy life bc. 🧍‍♂️ fuck i want that for myself too #THE 2NDD... MY SKY PIRATE GRANDMA MARIA AU 🫶🫶🫶🫶 basically shes super inspired by dola from castle in thsky lol #shes putting makeup on shad bc hes going on his first date ever....#in his 50yr immortal ish ageless life hes going on a date and maria will damn sure make sure hes gonna have a nice one #ehehehe guess whos hes going on a date w....👁👁(obvious)#uhhhh the cat is just older blaze leik burnin blaze inspired by her concept art #one of her hair styles is like fire and im like. thats fuckin cool!!#sHE GETS STRIPED AND GETS FWUFFY WHEN SHES OLDER bc i think its kyut 🫶#makes her related to big the cat ehehehe alt dimension shit or smhtn idk im not thinking anymore #oh fuck i forgot to tag the charas #sonic the hedgehog #maria robotnik #eggman #shadow the hedgehog #blaze the cat #amy rose #sonic chao #uhhh it uink thqts it #sowowiwjekwo #sowwy its a mess

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tennessoui · 2 months

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wip wednesday (early cause im offline tmrw)

When the dust settles, Obi-Wan is surprised to find himself still standing.

It takes all of him, he thinks, the end of the war. It takes everything he has.

He used to wonder, in a distant, nebulous way, what it would feel like in the aftermath. How his life would return to the routines he held before Geonosis, if the cadence of Temple life would feel strange and unfamiliar to him after so long spent in the trenches. If he would miss the sound of his men behind and around him, the steady stream of words and laughter and presence of others, at all times, surrounding him.

It’s only when the dust settles, when the first grains of sand whip through the arid desert air to sting his eyes, that he realizes that every time he ever allowed himself to think about the end of the war, he’d always assumed that they would win. He had never truly thought they would be defeated. That the Jedi Order, the Temple itself, so strongly entrenched in the galaxy and in Coruscant and in Obi-Wan’s world view, were capable of falling.

He had cautioned others against the same assumptions the moment he heard them. He had warned his own padawan to not look too far into the future, to not plan too much for the war’s end. He had told many people—clones, civilians, holonet reporters, other Jedi—that it was dangerous to think of the war as something they would inevitably win. Nothing was inevitable, especially not victory.

But he realizes now, only now, only as he traverses the desert on the back of a stolen eopie, wearing robes still smelling so strongly of volcanic sulfur that his eyes are stinging with reactionary tears, that he’d thought. He’d always thought.

He’d never really considered…this.

This aftermath, where he is still standing on shaking legs and everything that he has ever cared for in the world has become ash, has become the dust settling around him.

Everything he has ever known and loved and fought for has slipped through his fingers. When the dust settles, when he looks down at his hands, he expects to find them empty.

Instead, there is a baby in his arms.

And he knows—he knows intimately how much damage these hands are capable of. What hurt these hands can inflict even on those he loves. Loved.

He knows, as the homestead rises up in the fading light of the two suns, that these hands should not cradle this baby. Not the son of the man he has murdered. Not his brother’s son. Not his padawan’s. Not Anakin’s.

He knows the babe is safest here on this farm in the care of this couple. He knows he must leave the child with them, to raise and love a thousand times better than he is capable of. He has tried before. He has failed one Skywalker already.

He knows.

And he can’t. He cannot let him go.

While the Galactic empire rises on one side of the galaxy, the dust settles on the other and Obi-Wan Kenobi looks down at the babe in his hands and realizes that he cannot let him go.

Not another Skywalker.

#omg i went to tag this obikin and then realized that it's like #only obikin implied #it's finally a canon compliant until the last scene of rots fic from me :0 #anyway #obikin #fuck it it felt weird lol it's the fic where obi-wan decides to raise luke #and talks to him to keep from going insane in the first few months after the war ends #because he's a baby so he wont be able to repeat or remember anything #so obi-wan can just get a whole lot off of his chest #and then luke sort of vaguely remembers that obi-wan is in love with his dad later #not because he ever said it but because he felt all that love in the force as a baby #the last angsty thing i write for february!!

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caelanglang · 2 years

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Dazai and Chuuya’s relationship across alternate universes (part 2)

once more it’s me doing style and coloring exploration with soukoku as my muses once more, thank yall for the kind words from part one they gave me a lot of strength and motivation for part two <3

In an alternate universe they are…

Powerful cultivators from the Port Mafia sect: the Young Master, Dazai Osamu, and his right hand man Gravity Cultivator, Nakahara Chuuya. But after Nakahara’s sudden disappearance, and Dazai turning into the first ever demonic cultivator, the whole sect fell into chaos. Banished from the realm of martial arts, the grandmaster of demonic cultivation and his demonic familiar now wander across the five realms as cultivation partners known as Double Black. (Danmei cultivator setting level of angst and adventure)

“You can’t… you can’t be with me, the demonic energy around me is too much for a human body… you can’t stay with me, Dazai.”

“Chuuya, we both know that I’m way too inhuman to be affected by your energy.”

“Dammit, Dazai! Thanks to the cursed blood running in my veins— I am now at the brink of awakening into a mindless demon, and you’re still here prattling about your nonsense! Your body is just as fragile as a mortal one— no cultivator has ever withstood a demonic awakening!”

“Then I’ll just have to be the first one.” The bandaged man grinned smugly, as if he were talking about being the victor of a competition. “I’ll be the first ever demonic cultivator of the realm and turn you into my dog familiar!”

“You’ll get yourself banished, young master.” The fiery-haired man spat out the last words like venom in his mouth. They both know the weight of those words. “The whole realm will turn against you.”

“I’ll get us banished, and the whole realm will turn against me and my dog.” Dazai corrected. “Which is perfect to me because annoying you will always be better than dealing with the responsibilities those self-righteous cultivators always throw at me.”

They both looked at each other for a moment; a tense silence hung in the air that was only broken by a defeated sigh. “I’m never getting rid of you now, am I…”

The bandaged face cracks into a sincere smile. “Never.”

In another,

They were once roommates and academic rivals in law school. Bringing such enmity to their careers as professional lawyers, their court sessions would always shake the entire courthouse. Everyone knows how much Prosecutor Nakahara Chuuya, the guard dog of justice, hates Defense Attorney Dazai Osamu, the demon prodigy who would do anything to get a not guilty verdict. But only Chuuya knows that after the death of Dazai’s friend, Detective Oda Sakunosuke, during the Mimic Case he was handling, something about Dazai had changed. He no longer took up clients who were guilty; no longer forged evidence or bribed officials. Instead, he took up innocent clients that seemed too impossible to defend; he took the side that truly saves people. And deep down they both knew that they were partners in the pursuit of the truth with every case they took. (Whoooop it’s the ace attorney au for me)

“Chuuuuyyyaaaaaa~”

“What do you want from me, you bandage-waste-of-space?”

“I want you to take up the Weretiger Case.” A pause. “It has to be you.” A whisper.

The teasing atmosphere took a serious turn. “What about this case? You’re gonna be defending Nakajima Atsushi?! You idiot, all the evidence and testimonies point to him!”

“That’s the point, slug.” The man in a blue suit says as he lightly pokes at the shorter man’s forehead, earning a slap directed at his hand, which he quickly dodged. “Atsushi-kun is innocent, but all the evidence and testimonies say he’s guilty.”

Which is why I need you to be the prosecutor of this case, was left unsaid but understood by the other.

The prosecutor scrunched up his nose, unsatisfied by the explanation. “There are other prosecutors skilled enough to investigate this on a deeper level. Stop putting more work on my plate. I’ve been going overtime more often these days, just so you know.”

“Aw~ come on, you always go overtime, Chuuya.” Dazai grins, but something clouds over his eyes as he continues. “The headmaster of Atsushi-kun’s orphanage was the one who filed the case. Funny enough, he’s also the very same man who ‘went out for drinks’ with multiple people involved in this case.” His voice lowered, “At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the actual culprit behind the crime he’s filed against my client.”

Chuuya’s eyes widened. Back then, before Dazai changed for the better, he would always hurl the insult of ‘going out for a drink’ at Dazai for his dirty ways. They both know the meaning behind those words. He hates to admit it, but knowing the man in front of him for nearly a decade, he knows just how important this request is for Dazai to use that term.

“…… Fine, I’ll take that case.” He grumbles, trying to ignore the twisting feeling inside his chest as he sees the taller man beam at him. “If you don’t get that not-guilty verdict, I’m whacking your head with all the court records I’ll be gathering from my investigation!”

“Gotcha~ my dearest prosecutor!” Dazai winks. Smiling at his rival in court; his partner in pursuing the truth.

In yet another,

They were children who would never reach adulthood, and perhaps it was better that way. Despite being born into different eras, having lived different lives and dying different deaths, they had one thing in common: their fate to roam the land of the living as lost souls, barred from passing through the gates to the afterlife. But that’s alright; they didn’t mind being ghosts. To watch different kinds of sunsets as they fly through the sky; to pull different kinds of pranks on the living; to watch the changes of the world like how the living does with the changes of seasons—for the rest of eternity…... as long as they have each other to annoy and look out for nothing else seems to matter… (Summer Ghost and Harry Styles’ Two Ghost inspired I’m sorry not sorry)

“Oi, Dazai… I wanna ask you something, but I dunno if it’ll remind you of the time when you were still alive…”

The boy wrapped in bandages hums in response, letting the wind envelope his thin frame—a tiny speck in contrast to the clouds around him.

“Don’t you ever get tired of watching sunsets? I mean, I get that they’re all beautiful and unique but… we’ve been watching them for hundreds of years…” Everyday for the past centuries since they’ve known each other, Dazai would, without fail, drag him to the sky just to watch the setting sun. Chuuya always looked forward to it, but today his curiosity finally got the better of him.

Dazai glances over to his companion; something inside him itches to lie his way out of this. But after being together for centuries, wandering as lost souls around the world, Chuuya had long mastered the art of recognizing his lies. He smiles softly as he drifts closer to the other. “Chuuya will you ever get tired of me?”

The answer was as natural and as definitive as the sun’s movements. “No. But that’s not the answer to my question.” The ginger haired boy rolls his eyes, “Look, if you don’t want to tell me, it’s fine.”

“I’m dead and have been so for centuries, Chuuya; nothing really matters at this point.” Dazai chuckles, “Just like how you’ll never get tired of me. I’ll never get tired of sunsets.”

A pair of bandaged arms gestures to the sky. “Look, when the sky is azure, they are like your eyes. When the sun starts to set, it goes pink like your cheeks, then goes orange like your hair, then goes red like your lips.” Brown eyes twinkle as he speaks, “then it goes purple and blue, like the bruises you hide under your sleeves; and then when night falls it the sky becomes decorated with stars like how freckles decorate your cheeks.

“Yes, sunsets are always beautiful and always unique; one could argue that many things in nature are like that. But, we’ve both seen how forests can burn down, and seas can dry up; mountains can collapse, and glaciers can melt.” Dazai turns to look at the other boy gaping at him, his own voice laced with fondness. “But sunsets are a constant in this world. And you know what else is constant in my world that the setting sun reminds me of?”

They both know the answer to that.

Chuuya stares back at the chocolate-haired boy. A feeling started growing inside his chest; he wasn’t sure what word could describe its movement. Twisting? Aching? Blooming? Beating? Oh, it’s beating. “... Y’know… if I were still alive, I’m sure my heart would be beating real fast at your words.”

“Whoa, Chuuya still remembers what a beating heart feels like?” Dazai marvels, a childlike wonder spreads across his face. “You died waaaay earlier than me, but you remember it better than me. Unfair~”

“Tch, just you wait, idiot Dazai! I’ll make sure that you remember how it feels like to have a heartbeat.” Chuuya huffed, the sunset light dyeing his cheeks pink. “So that you’ll experience what I felt when you said all that to me!”

Laughter like the sound of tiny bells echo across the clouds. They’re just two ghosts… trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat.

In a mundane one,

They were teenagers with a passion for music. Spending all the time they had messing around with instruments and lyrical word plays, they were later on scouted by big companies who recognized their talents. Debuting with a hit single and a record breaking album, they became known as the musical duo “Double Black”. They’ve always been known for their catchy songs about life and reasons to live, about corruption and sorrow, about the world and humans… And so it was a shock for the whole industry to witness them dropping an album with over thirty different love songs dedicated to ‘the love of their lives’ which they never once mentioned. (They only realized they were in love when they started writing about love, and it’s hilarious because they’ve been each other’s muse after all this time without realizing it)

“This is actually a really good love song.” It was rare for Chuuya to give an honest and straightforward compliment to Dazai; they both always prefer to stab each other with criticism after all. “Who did you write it for?”

Dazai stares blankly at the shorter boy in front of him. Brown eyes blinking slowly at him. “Who do you think I wrote it for?” He answers with a question.

Ginger curls frame a frowning face. “Dunno. I’m not the scheming bastard between the two of us, mackerel.”

“Well…… The title is ‘Sunset Man’... Who do you think is this sunset man, Chuuya?” Each word leaves Dazai’s mouth slowly and carefully, like he’s taming a wild beast approaching him.

Perhaps Chuuya lost his patience, or maybe he’s just too tired today to bother with this. He gives up his pursuit, muttering as he turns away from the other boy. “Whatever. Keep your muse to yourself. I just asked since you never wrote a love song before. But do bring that piece when we meet with our manager next time.”

He misses the frustrated face Dazai makes from the couch as he starts busying himself with dinner preparations. Ignoring the bugging feeling he gets for not knowing who inspired that Dazai to write something so sickeningly sweet and romantic. “A love song is a good change of pace though,” he forces out, trying to distract himself from his feelings. “We better start brainstorming concepts for our next album, maybe we can include that one if we get approval.”

Chuuya’s words were followed by a loud thud on the floor.

“Oi, what’s wrong?” He turned back to see Dazai on the floor, groaning miserably, covering his face with both hands. “I swear if you hit your head and get even dumber than you are now, I’m kicking you out of this place.” Is what he says as he hurries over to the fallen mackerel, just to double-check if the fall was serious or not.

“Chuuya!” Dazai sits up all of a sudden, with a face that’s slightly flushed. “I’m gonna write another love song!”

“???” Chuuya was startled. “Okay?? Go ahead?? Whatever makes you happy??”

“The title…” Dazai looks at him directly in the eyes, wearing an extremely serious expression that further puzzles Chuuya. “is called ‘Idiots to Lovers, Slow-burn at the speed of 220k words’ what do you think?”

Chuuya smacks Dazai’s head at this, forgetting the latter’s fall from the couch just moments ago. “I knew it, you dramatic idiot! You were reading those cringey fanfics about us on the internet again, weren’t you! Stop rotting in fanfictions and start writing songs already!”

“But they serve as good inspiration for me~” The brown-haired musician whines. “Do you think someone who’s too busy babying a chibi dog has the chance to experience something romantic enough to write a song like ‘Sunset Man’?”

“Who’s babying who you whiny bastard!?” The other musician retorts, once more ignoring the feeling of relief that washes over him knowing that Dazai was using cringe works of fiction as inspiration for his love song instead of an actual muse—no, he is definitely not relieved by this piece of information, nor did he feel any better with the fact that said works of fictions are about them written in the twisted perspectives and assumptions of their fanbase about his professional relationship with Dazai. He definitely is not—

“Chuuya~” Dazai cuts his thoughts with a teasing voice, “wanna see who writes a better love song between the two of us?”

Mischief and signs of scheming flash in his brown eyes, Chuuya’s heart skips a beat at the challenge.

“Bring it on, mackerel. I’m gonna compose love songs that are so sickeningly romantic that they’d make yours look like a cheesy pile of lyrics and notes.”

“The game is on, my chibi.” My muse.

In which two musicians decided to write love songs as a competition. Only to realize how easily it comes for them to do so, only to realize that they had a muse to always write about and associate love songs with, only to realize that somewhere along the lines of music that they’ve been in love with each other since a long time ago.

And in one other universe…and galaxy,

They grew up and trained together as space rangers, but time had warped their relationship into something as astronomical and as twisted and as dense as the celestial bodies in the galaxy. After years of turmoil, they’re finally reunited under the blaring emergency lights of a spacecraft—not as space rangers, but one as the emperor of the galaxy and the other as the general commander of the galactic fleet. (did y’all know that Dazai’s voice actor also voiced for Reinhard from The Legend of the Galactic Heroes, and guess what else do they have in common?? thEY BOTH LOVE THEIR RED HEAD RIGHT HAND MAN)

“Dazai. You have to leave. Now.”

“Now, now, Chuuya, that’s a really rude way to greet someone you haven’t met in years.”

“You idiot! Reinforcements are coming, at this rate, you’ll really get assassinated—”

“And get the peaceful death I longed to have? I sure could wait for it—”

“This isn’t the time to be joking, Dazai!” Glaring emergency lights dye the room bloody red, as the general’s grip on the emperor’s collars tighten. “You have to leave before someone else other than me finds you!”

“Chuuya, do you know of the legend about the stars?” Was the calm response to the angry voice. Dazai Osamu was talking as if he wasn’t standing inside a spacecraft that might as well be his coffin. “They say that each star represents a timeline similar to ours. If science were advanced enough, we might be able to get into a different timeline by flying directly into the core of the star.”

“What nonsense are you spouting right now?” Chuuya could hear his own voice shake with emotions he chose to label as anger. They both know that this isn’t the right time for idle talk. But they were once space rangers— fighters who were used to waltzing with death, a duo as unstoppable as a storm, before duties and responsibilities chained them down. This isn’t the first time they have had such moments while at the doors of death.

“I’m sorry I ruined our dream of becoming space cowboys.” The emperor of the galaxy whispered. It was a soft and quiet voice, but to Chuuya it was enough to silence all the blaring noises around them.

“You had promises to keep. I had responsibilities to carry out.” The general commander whispered back. “We both couldn’t let go. Space cowboys and bounty hunts be damned.”

A sad smile twisted its way onto the bandaged face. “And this time, the whole galaxy and duties be damned.”

Sparks of explosions waltz around the spaceship as a small spacecraft escapes into the empty void of space.

Dazai Osamu’s final lie. Nakahara Chuuya’s last promise

“In the next life, or perhaps a universe parallel to ours, let’s be the most legendary space cowboys the galaxy will ever see.”

Somewhere in the galaxy, the core of a star dies—collapsing from the force of gravity, giving birth to a black hole.

In another universe,

Human experiment test subject A5158 did not know if he was an artificial being or if there were really mermaids out there in the vast wild waters. No one bothered to tell him. Until the newest recruit, a young science prodigy, told him that mermaids did exist deep down the oceans. He thought that he was already content with having that knowledge— knowing that he wasn’t a lonely existence in this world. But that sense of contentment was immediately shattered when that very same young scientist, a boy, really, asked him: “Would you like to escape with me and see it for yourself?” (late mermay thingz aksjdhglasg)

A year after their grand escape, in a local town by the sea, sits the humble shack of a young fisherman. The townsfolk who passed by would always sigh and say “What a waste it is for a brilliant mind like him to spend the rest of his days throwing nets over the sea!”

Yet whenever they tried to encourage him to reach for greater heights in the world, the young brunette would simply chuckle and say, “A bird who flies into the skies will never reach the fish that swims into the seas.”

“Oh young man,” they would reply, “but the city is ever changing, and ever growing. Once you see it, surely you won’t miss the boring waters of this lowly town.”

“It’s not the waters that keep me by the sea.” The former scientist replies, “It’s my anchor, that has reached deep under these waters, that keeps me here.” A gentle smile lingers on his lips.

And later that night, he visits the town to distribute his ‘catch’—a variety of fish, many that could only be caught at the heart of the sea. “No way, Dazai-san! These are all extremely hard to catch, how could you just give it to us for free?”

“Don’t sweat on it.” He grins, “They aren’t that hard to catch for me.”

“Now that you say it, I actually haven’t seen you set up your boat to fish for the day. Yet you managed to get so much harvest today?” The townsfolk wondered.

“Well, there are some trade secrets I’d like to keep to myself~” He waves it off as he returns to his cozy shack and is welcomed by a salty splash to the face.

“You went out to get credited for my catch again, you sly mackerel.” A brilliant red tail lazily swims through a passage of water, one that Dazai had built into the shack so that the merman could enter anytime he wished.

“Chuuya~ they loved it! I wanted to make sure that me being a fisherman here would greatly benefit them so that they’d stop trying to convince me to leave for the city and what other nonsense, you should praise me for being smart!”

The merman rolled his eyes as he sighs. “They’re not wrong, though.” He ignores the betrayed gasp the man makes, “Try to live for yourself for once, Dazai.”

“Chuuya, I am living for myself! Can’t you see it? I’m shellfish-ly keeping this wonderful mermaid all to myself~”

“You’re impossible.” Another sigh, this time exasperated with fondness. “Like a damned barnacle sticking to me for the rest of my life.”

Hazel eyes that were once bandaged now shine as a pair as plans for the rest of their lives flash through them like a whirlwind of ideas. “For the rest of our lives.” He agrees.

…📖✍️… (part 1, part 2)

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd fanart #bsd skk #soukoku #double black #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #alternate universe #art study #bsd dazai osamu #bsd nakahara chuuya #i had fun making these hope you had fun going through them too :3 #their dynamic will always be something special to me 😭#they are partners your honor #part three in coming soon maybe #okay but soukoku in space concepts unlocked something emotional to me idk how to explain #i wanted to make these all angsty but for some reason they all ended up not so angsty???#if you get all the references for these aus you get a cake from me lol #people in part one were reblogging about reading fics about the aus so i tried my best *key word: tried* to write bite size dialogues #please forgive my rustyass writing ;-;#if yall wanna expand on any of these feel free to reblog bc i’s read the heck out of it!!!!!#let me know in the tags which ones are your favs too! owo #my art

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