#ene replies

✧ “I’ve been bothering you as your annoying partner for long enough. Will you do me the honors of letting me be your annoying spouse instead?”

98% fluff and 2% freak, or something like that.

I hope you like it, just a silly fic.

I wrote the first few paragraphs on my way to work a few days ago, and the rest in a moment of madness (no, I’m not procrastinating editing eyh 8, hey, not at all, not in the slightest—there’s nothing to see in this parenthesis).

I’ll probably post it on ao3, but not today.

When their lips met, his mouth tasted like ashes.

Chuuya cupped his cheek, guiding the kiss. The pressure of his gloved palm against his damp skin kept him grounded. Even so, his mind drifted—restless, frantic—and his thoughts raced too fast, too tangled to catch before they unraveled.

He clutched at his partner’s waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and Chuuya groaned in response.

But when they pulled apart for air—before Dazai could slip into something lighter, something safer, a teasing smirk or a mock pout—Chuuya frowned. His blue eyes narrowed, sharp with concern.

Shit.

His hand slid down to cradle the side Dazai’s neck. Dazai leaned into the touch, eyes falling shut and a shaky breath escaping him. His heart pounded wildly against his ribs, threatening to break free, and fear locked his limbs in place. He barely heard the soft, “What’s wrong, Mackerel?” his stupid dog murmured.

But he did hear it—and the words coiled low in his stomach, tightening the knot already twisting in his gut. He didn’t open his eyes. He wasn’t ready to face the storm brewing in Chuuya’s gaze, the raging ocean he would dive into without hesitation.

I can’t do this.

His lips cracked into a small, uneven smile—half apology, half deflection—and a quiet, strained laugh scraped its way up his throat. It was too much. The bandages felt too tight, cutting off his circulation, his skin itched, his clothes clung wrong. Even the cool harbor breeze was unbearable against him.

Run. Run. Run.

The weight of the matchbox in his coat pocket stopped him.

He could still joke, he still had time to turn this into something harmless. Chuuya would let him. The worry in his eyes would fade, like a flame choking on damp wood.

“Talk to me, idiot,” Chuuya said, stepping closer, rising onto his toes and tugging him down until their foreheads touched. “I’ve got you.”

Dazai gasped.

Chuuya felt feverish, heat coiling low in his belly as Dazai’s mouth traced a wet path from his sternum down to his navel—so close, and yet still too far from where he wanted him most.

His toes curled, hips shifting restlessly in search of friction—more, so much more.

He swallowed a curse when Dazai parted his legs and nipped at the inside of his thigh, sending sharp, electric shocks racing through his body. Without thinking, he tangled a hand in his brown hair and yanked him upward.

A choked cry tore from his chest. Dazai smiled, a row of fangs flashing into view. His eyes, no longer that molten caramel gold, were bloodshot, and his face, all those beautiful angles Chuuya could redraw with his eyes closed, had twisted into something feral.

There was a starving beast between his legs.

Dazai leaned in, brushing his disheveled curls away from his face—a graze of claws that sent shivers skittering down his spine.

His breath ghosted over his lips.

“Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

Chuuya shuddered.

“Tell me to despise me, and I will stop. You just have to say it, love.”

Both of them are incredibly clingy… but it took them a while to admit it. Back when they were in the mafia, Dazai would just throw himself on top of Chuuya, pinning him down. The redhead would yell, pinch him or jab him with an elbow, demanding he get off, something like “you weigh like a corpse” and Dazai would either stay there doing nothing or start whining dramatically.

But in the present, they’re softer, you know? Sometimes they curl up together on the couch. Dazai wraps his arms around Chuuya and rests his chin on top of his head, while Chuuya closes his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of Dazai’s heartbeat. “My slug is so clingy,” Dazai says, but there’s no bite to his voice.

Still, when they sleep together, Chuuya’s the big spoon. Dazai can’t fall asleep unless he’s wrapped up in the warmth Chuuya gives off.

here's my word 'cherish'

“I cherish you,” Dazai murmured, tracing a lazy path down from Chuuya’s chest to his navel.

Chuuya sucked in a breath and threaded his fingers through Dazai’s brown hair. He didn’t pull him closer or push him away; he simply toyed with the soft strands, and Dazai smiled against his skin.

“You’re an idiot,” Chuuya muttered, nervous, his voice rough with sleep. Not because of the desire coiling in his lower belly and stirring the ocean of blue in his eyes, still slightly hazy with sleep.

Dazai pouted and curled closer, resting his head against Chuuya’s flat stomach while his fingers traced careless patterns along his hip.

It was early. The curtains did little to keep out the pale morning sunlight slipping through the cracks, but neither of them had anywhere to be. For once, the world wasn’t on the verge of collapse. For once, they could pretend they weren’t standing on opposite sides of the board. That there wasn’t a crimson scarf draped over the back of a chair, and no wanted notice hanging over Dazai’s head.

Just for a little while.

“Osamu?”

Dazai answered with a soft hum. Suddenly, staying awake felt like too much effort; the warmth radiating from Chuuya was dangerously comforting.

When Chuuya didn’t continue, Dazai wrinkled his nose and pushed himself up onto one elbow.

The breath caught in his throat.

The calm before the storm. A constellation of stars and tongues of flame.

Chuuya was devastating.

“You know I love you, right?”

His heart stuttered.

“Looks like Chibi’s gone soft with age.”

The redhead narrowed his eyes and made an attempt to kick him, but he couldn’t hide the blush blooming across his cheeks any more than Dazai could hide the love tightening in his chest.

They’d both gone soft over the years.

And really, could anyone blame them?

today's word for you is 'splendid' which fits u imo ( 〃▽〃)

The chain swayed between his fingers, and the ring hanging from it caught a splendid glint of light.

He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his chest. It was his shield—a familiar weight hidden beneath layers of bandages and gauze over his heart. Unnoticeable, an intrinsic part of him, until he had to take it off, and then he became a puppet with its strings severed.

His lips pressed into a thin line, and the tangled mess of emotions he refused to examine too closely tightened the knot in his stomach until it made him feel sick.

He forced a smile. His mouth stretched upward in something almost comical as he clung to that careless attitude, the one he had worn like a second skin for so long he no longer knew who he was without it, and turned just before the door cracked open.

Ranpo looked at him with one brow arched, no trace of amusement on his face, and gestured with the lollipop in his hand.

“Are you ready?”

“For the show?” he joked, but the words came out strangled. He twisted his mouth and tried to recover, another quip already forming on the tip of his tongue—something about obedient, sleeping dolls—but the detective cut him off by holding out his hand, palm up.

Dazai fell silent.

“You want to hold hands?”

It sounded pathetic, even to his own ears. Yet, for some reason, Ranpo didn’t laugh.

“Give it to me.”

The seriousness in his voice irritated him. It was childish, playing dumb when the clock was running against them and Fyodor was pulling strings from behind the curtain.

But the weight of the chain between his fingers made him reckless. He was eighteen again, his chest swollen with indescribable feelings, with fire, stars, and the ocean cradled in his arms.

“Dazai,” Ranpo warned, and Dazai wanted to lash out, to turn defensive. “It was your plan.”

Dazai deflated like a balloon leaking air.

Ranpo’s expression softened.

“I’ll take care of it for you.”

And who will take care of its owner?

Dazai tightened his grip on the chain and nodded, bittersweetness coating his tongue. He handed over the chain, the ring flashing once before the flip phone followed after it.

“Mr. Fancy Hat will snatch it.”

They weren’t talking about that, but neither of them had needed to say the words until now.

Dazai looked away and blinked hard, trying to chase off tears he had long since forgotten how to shed.

“You’re giving that shorty way too much credit.”

“Sir.”

The hesitation in his voice should have set off all his alarms, but the blood made everything reek of death.

He was tired—not physically. He could endure the numbness, the stabbing pain that ran through every muscle in his body. He was used to that.

It was a mental exhaustion. At some point in the night, everything had stopped mattering. His men were dying, and the god inside him demanded destruction.

Opening his Gate, becoming a black hole—it was starting to sound like an appealing option.

“Sir,” his subordinate tried again, and this time, the note of panic, pure terror, didn’t escape him. “I don’t know how it happened. I promise we’ll fix it. Black Lizard will—”

A low growl reverberated in his chest.

“Cut to the chase.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with tension and a hundred possible outcomes.

He glanced at the skirmish, and suddenly, nothing made sense.

Why attack a place like this, knowing the chances of victory were zero? Why—?

“It’s your omega, sir.”

Dazai hated being reduced to that. The possessive, even if insignificant. Dazai had rooted himself in his core and set fire to his veins but he wasn’t his. However, Chuuya was in a way that should have terrified him, yet made he feel powerful.

Dazai wasn’t his, but Chuuya would move the world for him if the brunet asked.

Dazai wasn’t his, but the omega had given him the map of his body.

Dazai wasn’t his, but Chuuya had promised to him he’d be safe—and Chuuya, foolishly, had dragged him into the world the brunet had fled as a child.

“They’ve taken him hostage. We think it was the Rat and—”

Dazai wasn’t his. It wasn’t about that.

Dazai—

“I’ll handle it.”

Dazai wasn’t his, but if he allowed it, he would give him everything he longed for.

The faint light filtering through the curtains washed the room in pale hues, accentuating his almost ethereal features.

He was beautiful.

The knife rolled between Chuuya’s fingers, catching a glint of light. Operation Gambit had been a success. The King of Assassins would be proud of him. Not only had he earned the mafia boss’s trust, he had killed him in his own bed.

From the bath doorway, Chuuya watched Dazai’s sleeping silhouette. Gone was the terrifying man who gave orders from the highest tower. The one resting beneath the sheets was only Osamu.

Slowly, he closed the distance between them. One knee sank into the mattress as he leaned over him.

Every second mattered.

Every heartbeat marked the difference.

The knife felt heavy in his hand, nerves coiling tight in his lower stomach. A bead of sweat slipped down the back of his neck.

His smile.

Why was his smile the only thing Chuuya could think about now?

The warmth of his body beneath him.

Those golden eyes shining with something dangerously close to wonder, as though Chuuya were something worthy of admiration instead of a weapon forged to bring empires to ruin.

Every second mattered.

When Chuuya blinked, Dazai was already staring up at him, unreadable, one brow slightly raised.

“Well?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the sheet slipping low enough to reveal the map of scars across his skin. Chuuya could give him one more—beautiful and fatal.

“Is Chuuya coming back to bed,” Dazai murmured, “or is Chuuya leaving tonight?”

Chuuya swallowed. His grip weakened.

Gambit had been a success. He was at the top now: the right hand, the attack dog, his—

Dazai reached out, not to disarm him. Just one touch of his fingers would be enough.

His partner.

Maybe.

epiphany is the word for the word drabble 🥰

It wasn’t immediate.

Blood stained his parted lips and trickled down his chin, dripping into the sink.

It wasn’t then, either.

His bare hands gripped the porcelain so tightly it cracked, his self-control undeniable—or perhaps it was the loss of the god within him—and his auburn hair fell in a cascade over his face. Yet even so, Dazai caught a flash of desperation in his crimson eyes.

It was neither before, nor after, nor now. Dazai dragged his broken leg and leaned with difficulty against the doorframe. He made no effort to be subtle, nor did he intend to be, but Chuuya—who wasn’t exactly Chuuya but could be nothing else to him—didn’t seem to notice his presence.

Can something be called an epiphany if it was already etched into your bones?

Perhaps. He wasn’t sure.

It didn’t happen at that moment, when he reached out as if he could grasp his partner from there, nor afterward, when they shared a room—Dazai against the headboard, Chuuya by the window, one leg dangling into the void, a cigarette between his lips.

It simply happened. The revelation.

It gripped his chest, an awkward flutter that shook every foundation that had kept him whole for twenty-three years, and it clenched tighter and tighter until he couldn’t breathe.

Until all he saw was fire and stars. Chuuya. Only Chuuya.

The vampire shivered as Dazai leaned into him, resting his chin on his shoulder. He was cold, and it felt strange—but he would get used to it.

He wrapped his arms around Chuuya’s waist clumsily, holding him close.

“Dazai,” Chuuya warned in a gasp.

“Chuuya, Chibi, Slug.”

Chuuya huffed, and when their eyes met in the mirror, Dazai smiled.