#proxy writes

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

Hikaru x fem reader

On the steps of the old school, behind the shadows of new buildings, where summer twilight blurs the line between reality and delirium, you sit hip-to-hip with the one who wears the name and face of Hikaru. His profile is motionless, frozen like a statue. Only the faint tremble of his pale lashes betrays something alive beneath that mask.

Flushed. Uneven patches of red bloom across his pallid cheeks, creeping down his neck, scorching the tips of his ears.

How strange…

Hikaru ran five laps earlier, yet now he barely seems to breathe — though normally he’d be complaining about his throat parched dry, gulping water so greedily his Adam’s apple would leap like a wild thing.

"You’re breathing weird. I mean — you’re not breathing at all, really." Your voice betrays your unease, but this conversation was inevitable. Four months have passed since Hikaru returned. Four months since Hikaru returned. Four months since Hikaru changed — and you noticed.

It was all in the smallest, stupidest details. The pressure of his pencil wrong when he writes your name, the slant of the letters unfamiliar. The way he wrinkles his nose now, the pattern of creases around his bright eyes not quite right.

Phantom things, barely there, but the web they weave is undeniable — and you watch from the sidelines as the threads multiply: his habits unlearned, his jokes misfiring, his childish whims sometimes tipping into something beyond.

Even Yoshiki didn’t notice at first.

A silence falls between you, so thick even a bird can’t bear its weight — it startles upward with a trill, snapping Hikaru from his daze.

Too long. Too unnaturally still. A person would have turned to you, laughed, asked, "What are you talking about?" But this thing hasn’t yet learned how to answer you properly. It must sense the memory of the real Hikaru living in your heart— and it, this impostor in his skin, only stirs dread. Bitter, perhaps, that your love belongs to the one who’s gone, not to it. It wears his identity like ill-fitting clothes, watches you through his eyes, but in their depths yawns a terrifying abyss. Not your boy. Not yours.

“Hikaru?"

"Huh?!" The same bright, brassy tone, perfectly pitched — yet an icy finger trails down your spine, pressing into each vertebra. "How am I not breathing?! You’re imagining things… Just spaced out, that’s all."

You nod, feigning understanding, fingers pleating the folds of your skirt. No matter how it tries, you’ve unraveled its secret. Somewhere deep, in a place untouched by reason, you’ve known for a while: the real Hikaru died that summer. But how it hurts when this thing turns to you with his smile, when it says "good morning" or "see you later" with his lips. A stupid heart refuses to accept loss, refuses to understand — not when his fingers, so warm and alive, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

How can he be dead?

The dead are cold to the bone. They reek of rot and decay. They rest in the earth’s belly, visited only by worms in eternal silence. The dead don’t breathe, don’t scrawl your name crookedly on chalkboards. Their eyes are glassy, extinguished — but this, this thing wearing Hikaru, stares at you with vivid confusion, almost childlike. It sends you silly texts, spits watermelon seeds, tugs your braids — what kind of corpse does that?

You fell in love with Hikaru, yet keep loving his shadow. Is that fair to this Hikaru? Whatever took his place has memories, feelings — it’s alive, and it reaches for you too. Yes, its nature is untamed, its essence mad — but how can you resist when it smiles with lips that once kissed your cheeks and whispered "I love you"?

"Hikaru," you murmur, squinting slyly, leaning close. You note how it stiffens, bares teeth in response. "I want to kiss you."

Hikaru snorts, pausing. Cicadas rasp their endless song below; above, the first stars flicker to life. He worries his lower lip, scans your face with a gaze so unnervingly intent your cheeks burn with shame. Boldness withers under eyes that seem ready to devour you.

"You sure?" His voice is hoarse, threaded with hunger. In his mind, wild, fractured thoughts thrash: Kiss me, kiss only me, never want anyone else.

Your answer is a timid brush of lips. A strange kiss— yours too cautious, his too greedy. A clash of contradictions, but the taste of Hikaru’s mouth drowns your fear.

Cool mint burns your lips; dizzying vanilla soothes. His mouth is soft, sweet…

Shame floods your chest with warmth, tenderness pinching beneath your ribs. Hikaru is relentless, yet there’s fragility in his hunger. As if starved. As if he’s wanted you indecently long. As if he’s done holding back—but terrified of scaring you away.

Heat sears your mouth, then plunges into abyssal dark. A wet, hollow click — and viscous, clinging coolness envelops you like a shroud of impatience. What kisses you now isn’t Hikaru, but something ancient and ravenous, craving ownership. Your palms flatten against his chest, fingers twisting his school shirt in spasms.

Eyelids shut, lashes trembling—you’re too afraid to open them. For a single, fleeting moment, Hikaru’s mask cracks. Something alien, dark, grazes your cheek — like an echo of the voids mystics whisper of.

A shadow-flame dances, nothing like human fire. Chaotic, cloying, it resembles the Hell described in holy texts. The abyss touches your cheek with a boy’s tender fingers.

"More," it whispers in a voice no longer human. That hot breath pleads, craves — yet beneath it lingers Hikaru’s ordinary curiosity.

You should recoil. You should flee. But against your own will, you press into his swollen lips again. Kiss with the recklessness of the doomed, drunk on how something cold and inhuman responds with a rapture beyond mortal limits.

And you cradle yourself in sweet lies — that you still love Hikaru, even as your heart surrenders to the monster. The worst part? You don’t resist. Better this Hikaru than emptiness…

Love always holds something predatory—we long to consume the ones we adore. But what happens when your beloved has already been consumed by another?

Denji x fem reader

- As an adult, Denji has grown cautious. He’s learned to read people and become less trusting. His old recklessness has morphed into a kind of street-smart audacity — the sort that helps those who grew up rough survive. He rarely charges headfirst into fights anymore; most of the time, he avoids physical confrontations altogether, intimidating others with just a glare and his aura. There’s a lingering skepticism in his eyes — sad as it is to admit, Denji has grown up, hardened against his will, and armored himself against the world. The pain of losing those close to him has locked his heart away behind seven locks.

- He often has nightmares. He wakes up drenched in sweat, tangled in the sheets, sometimes screaming. Gasping for air, he trembles through the aftershocks before crawling into your arms. You stroke his light hair, whisper soothing words — and only then does he drift back to sleep. You often suggest seeing a doctor to help him, but he just scowls and insists he’s fine. He sees no point — he’s memorized every one of his nightmares by now.

- Adult Denji has learned to save money. Not because he’s become some financially savvy Wall Street wolf — he just realized how nice it feels to buy ice cream without a second thought. That became his motivation. It’s comforting to know he can afford bread tomorrow, or slightly fancier shampoo. Over time, he got the hang of it and realized that managing money right means he can take his girl on nice dates or buy her little trinkets that make her smile.

- In his head, he often talks to Power. Not that she’s some kind of authority — those honors would probably go to Aki. It’s just that sometimes, he misses his old self — the carefree, scrawny idiot with sharp elbows and ribs visible under his skin. So he bickers with Power in his mind and brags to her that he’s finally touched real boobs.

- He still works as a hunter, but half-heartedly, cutting corners and skipping shifts. He prefers normal, human jobs — sometimes as a mover, sometimes a janitor. All he wants is to live decently: not starve, sleep peacefully, and, of course, have love in his life. He’d rather go to the movies with you than lie in a pool of blood after a brawl. His priorities shifted around age nineteen — Denji realized he promised Pochita to live his best life, and in his eyes, the best life is a quiet, well-fed one.

- Dating girls… was tricky. Sure, Denji has learned to understand emotions, but he still says out loud what others wouldn’t even dare think. His tongue is a razor, and he couldn’t care less about taboos. Sometimes he realizes too late that he’s said too much — but by then, the damage is done.

- The way he fell for you… was strange. At first, it was your looks — he liked your hair. He wanted to bury his nose in it, run his fingers through it. But the real world isn’t all sunshine: you snapped at him for staring, he shot back with "Can’t I?", and you ended up fighting over nothing. Then it turned out he was your neighbor…

- Denji is incredibly affectionate. Yeah, he looks like a sharp-toothed jackal, but he still kisses hesitantly, as if asking for permission — even months into your relationship.

- His sexuality is a mix of desire and awkwardness. His persistence and the way he whispers tenderly in your ear drives you wild. "I want you, but… you sure you want this too? ‘Cause I—I mean, just say if you change your mind, okay?" He hates pressuring people — dominance isn’t his thing. After craving human warmth for so long, forcing affection is the last thing he’d ever do.

- Surprisingly tender when caring for you. He’ll nurse you back to health, feed you soup, carry you to the bath if needed. He’ll wash you, change you into clean clothes, reheat broth. Sometimes he stays awake just to lazily trace the back of your hand with his finger or swap out the compress on your forehead. He hardly ever gets sick himself — wounds heal fast, colds avoid him. Even if he goes out in a T-shirt in winter, the flu steers clear.

- You remember your first time. Despite Denji’s efforts, it was a disaster. But that’s love — it teaches patience, so you didn’t laugh, just decided to teach him the delicate art of intimacy. Over time, he became more attentive in bed. Awkwardness gave way to confidence — Denji’s a good student. He aced the theory; now he’s acing the practice.

- Denji loves kissing — for hours, even. To him, it’s a form of relaxation that doesn’t have to lead to sex. But there’s one moment that always sparks the prelude — when, at your request, he pulls off his T-shirt, and you stare at his messy hair and flushed cheeks.

- He adores when you touch his hair. He goes pliant, even closes his eyes, letting out quiet, teeth-clenched moans. He gets flustered but turned on when he hears your sounds. "Don’t stay quiet," he pleads, sometimes holding back just to watch your face and listen to you.

- If you’re on top, he stares at you, spellbound. His gaze is hot but full of adoration — almost puppy-like. It embarrasses you to no end, but it also drives you crazy.

- Addicted to cola. Later became addicted to Fanta. Loves soda to death, especially trying new flavors. Those neon-blue drinks? Fascinating. When you grumble that it’s pure chemicals, he grumbles back, "It’s blackberry Fanta, okay?!"

- Sleeps naked in summer—"natural ventilation" and all that. In winter? Strictly pajamas. His body still remembers those freezing nights in that rickety old house, so some habits won’t die. It’s sad — you’d think enough time has passed.

- Surprisingly, Denji’s got golden hands. He can build a sturdy stool following a YouTube tutorial, fix a leaky faucet, or replace a cracked kitchen backsplash tile. He’s baffled by your amazement. "It’s not that hard," he says.

OH, MY LITTLE PRETTY BOY

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Denji’s love for you:

— Crumpled love notes in his pockets. His handwriting is a scrawled mess, but the words overflow with sincerity. He even shyly draws a little heart on the back of the message—trying his hand at romance, hoping to make you like him just a little more.

— "I'll bring this for her to eat "— that's his love language. A tasty pastry? He'll get an extra one, just for you. A gum with your favorite flavor? He'll buy a whole pack to give you when you meet.

— Denji will be waiting for you after school. He always forgets your schedule, so he shows up way too early. Sometimes he stands by the school gates for over an hour. Kicking pebbles, counting crows. And you watch from the window as he, tousle-haired and distracted, paces around the schoolyard, counting down the minutes until he sees you. The sweetest, dearest boy. ♡

— He gives you four-leaf clovers he's found. He carries them carefully in his pocket, wrapped in a tissue so they don't get crushed. He says they're for luck, though he doesn't really believe it himself— he just knows you like them.

The lines of his tattoos hide in the wild swirls of cigarette smoke. They map his bare torso, twisting into intricate patterns, and you blush, unable to look away.

To wake up in the same bed as Enjin? To feel the warmth of a stranger’s presence seep into the veins and skin of your slender wrist come morning — were you ready for that? Your reckless bravery from yesterday has now turned crimson — the color of your shame.

And how confidently the demons tempted you last night, how insistently they nudged you toward sin, and you clung to his lips like stubborn chewing gum. Enjin was surprised but didn’t push you away — he only tightened his grip around your waist, pulling you closer, greedily. And then — nothing.

Because after that, there’s only fog. A thick, hazy stupor clouded your mind, leaving no memory of the intimacy you’d longed for. Now, like a timid mouse, you scurry around, searching for your clothes. And you find them. All washed, hanging shamelessly on the balcony — your shirt, your loose shorts, fluttering in the breeze. And you stand there in nothing but your underwear.

Enjin smokes lazily on the balcony as the sun bathes in the gold of his hair.

“I hear you’re awake,” Enjin says, stretching his back, cigarette pinched between his lips as he turns to you. His gaze pierces you before softening into a knowing, almost oily wink.

“Well, little drunk. You come on strong, I’ll give you that. And you throw up just as well.” He grumbles the words between drags of his cigarette, laying bare every humiliating detail of your night: how you tried to peel off his pants, then his shoes, how you got sick. How he washed your clothes, then held you as you sobbed, before finally falling asleep beside you.

“I’m… so ashamed.” Three words are enough to capture the whole nightmare. Your cheeks burn so hot your eyes water. Pathetic. A mess. How can you even look him in the eye?

“But now I’m curious.” Enjin walks back in from the balcony, the edge of the bed groaning under his weight as he sits beside you, his warmth searing your thigh. He moves the hand holding the cigarette away, the other gently cupping your cheek.

The warmth of his breath fell on your neck again, and in that moment you felt what you feared most: in this body, there were two of them. One — the remnant of your Hikaru, trembling with desire for you. A small remnant, just a drop in the ocean of memory, but it was your Hikaru, and the realization of his presence almost brought you to tears. The other Hikaru was a nameless Someone. An ancient entity, it pulsed dully within you. And if the first one wanted to touch you with his whole body, to kiss you with boyish frenzy, the second one imperiously invaded your very essence with its entire being. Amalgamation. The creature itself didn't know where to lead your intimacy. You, a human girl in its nets, sometimes muttered something incoherently, sometimes scratched the ribbed tatami loudly with your nails, sometimes clutched at someone else's t-shirt.

• His love language is physical touch. Denji grew up completely isolated from affection - what even is it, what's it for? The very concept of affection was warped for him since childhood, so the slightest show of care was probably perceived by him as love. Naive, he was often deceived, but he never understood where he went wrong. However, Denji never had time to be upset either - he would run like a happy dog to wherever he was called again by a deceptively kind gesture of a palm. You were perplexed as to why Denji never got burned by human betrayal, and he would note philosophically: "They gave me care, and I took it. We're even, and it's stupid to be offended by that."

• No matter how embarrassing it is to admit, at first you were driven by pity for the guy. Your feelings blossomed later - Denji fell for you first. Because you were the first one to hug him warmly and didn't try to break his ribs in the embrace. You just stroked him shyly, feeling the heat and his lovesick heartbeat through his shirt. For Denji, touch had always been the highest manifestation of trust, but with you came understanding. It became his sacred truth and an immutable law - your touches gave him love. He felt them as the color pink, as a long-awaited spring, as cute kittens with milk on their faces. An unknown feeling, so warm. At first, he even wanted to vomit out his madly beating heart, to tear open his wrists where his pulse hammered in his veins at a frantic rhythm. Denji first thought he was sick. Only later did he understand that he was sick with you.

• Later, he will understand that you are his cure. He will constantly seek physical contact with you: his hand will search for your palm in the semi-darkness of a movie theater just to gently intertwine fingers; he will shyly press his cheek to your shoulder and guiltily kiss your collarbone; he will fall asleep with his head on your chest because your breathing and heartbeat are the most soothing sound Denji knows. All the chaos he has experienced leaves his nightmares as soon as he listens to your steady breathing.

• Denji is logically jealous. Logically - because having gotten something truly valuable for the first time in his life with such difficulty, having tasted peace, he will fight for it to the death. And that's not even a joke. He won't shout that he's your noble knight, he won't throw around pompous words for a beautiful gesture - no, he will undoubtedly answer for every word he says. And if Denji said right now that he would smash someone's head for daring to flirt with you, then that is a very real threat.

• He won't give you flowers and candy. He will bring you what is valuable in his universe. A perfectly honed tiny gear from his chainsaw, resembling a shiny trinket. Denji will try to find a chain for it so you can wear his symbol of devotion to you around your neck. He will drag in the most beautiful, in his opinion, pebble he found during patrol. A can of his favorite meat - something that once seemed impossibly unattainable and expensive to him. These things are treasures to Denji, and he gives them to you because he wants you to have the very best.

• Denji would recognize your smell out of a thousand. The scent of your body - light fruit perfume, your own natural scent - is the most intoxicating drug for him, overshadowing even the smell of blood. He might come to you at night just to press his face against your neck or hair. Denji's special meditation is to nuzzle his nose into that alluring hollow of your neck, taking a deep breath of your scent to calm down.

MATCH MADE IN HELL

He buries his irritation deep into the collar of his leather jacket. Ash-grey smoke tears from his nostrils in ragged puffs, while the scarlet fire in his eyes darts across the lit windows. His gaze skims down the drainpipes, over the chips and cracks in the red brick. Over the leaves, battered and ruined by the rain.

Like Lego bricks, the concrete blocks stack before his eyes — one block, two blocks. The downpour slaps his face like open palms, plastering his blonde bangs across his forehead in a wet fan.

He’s lost all his polish. Look how far he’s fallen — showing up right under your window like a soaked-to-the-bone stray. Because if the bride won't come to Mello, Mello comes to the bride himself. He comes to conquer and take captive.

Even the weather today is pure shit, perfectly matching his mood. He’d love to smash someone's skull against the asphalt, to sweetly splatter their brains, but there is a very specific reason for his agitation.

You. And Mello promised not to touch you. Snarl all he wanted — yes, but you, you little witch, you knew that behind his sharp-toothed grin lay absolutely nothing. The bravado at his fingertips, the prickly glares in private held no real power. The power belonged to you, and Mello would melt like chocolate whenever you ruffled his golden hair. And the promises not to touch you would scatter like dry leaves from a tree.

His precious, beautiful viper. A snake warmed against his chest.

You wouldn't pick up the phone when he called from a different number. You blocked him in the chat.

Bitch. Dead girl walking. Goddamn kamikaze. May the devils drag you straight to hell.

Just another fight. Mello — a struck match, you — a jerrycan of gasoline. You short-circuited each other with a violent spark, but that evening you doused him in virtual ice, dropping a brief, "It’s over."

Nothing is over, you naive girl. Does Mello ever let go of something he’s sunk his teeth into? He doesn't know defeat; he will never let what's his slip away.

Nine in the evening, the ripe, heavy darkness of November. Your third-floor window glows with a cozy warmth behind the glass — no doubt you’ve turned off the overhead light and are reading your goddamn classics by the nightlight. The lampshade separates you and your shadow; it nestles at your feet like a dark, quiet pet.

The shadows get to kiss you, but he doesn't. What an absolute injustice.

Mello spat out the bitterness of his frustration along with his cigarette butt. His fury was so volatile it instantly traced a perfectly straight trajectory — flicked off his thumb, right into the trash can.

Heavy boots crush the thin ice beneath them, then the dust of the stairwell. A dozen steps up, a lock picked with a pocketknife.

The door creaked open, and Mello stepped into the apartment like a shadow of the night.

You were asleep. Morpheus had smoothed your hair, knocking your reading glasses askew. Your mouth was innocently parted, Kafka crumpled in your embrace.

What absolute garbage you read, princess...

His little kitten. You should be wearing a collar, yet you’ve dug your claws straight into his heart.

Satan himself brought you two together, and Mello swallowed his pride time and time again whenever he lost you.

You aren't sugar; you're blue electrolyte in a bottle. He isn't a blooming garden; he's a dense, pitch-black forest, and you’ve been hopelessly lost in it for a long time.

Codependency. And there is no ball of yarn to lead you out of the thicket, where Mello is waiting for you with an axe.

A battle of wits, the raw, visceral biology of their relationship — you used to leave burning slaps on his pale cheeks, he used to lock handcuffs around your wrists until they bruised.

"Sleeping, you little bitch," he whispers, a tender malice in his voice. He licks the raindrops from his lips and brushes a kiss against your temple.

You rustle in your sleepy motion. The book slips from your palm — Mello catches it mid-air, flips through the pages. He places it noiselessly on the nightstand. Holding back the rattling chains on his pants, he sinks heavily into the armchair.

Sleep has bound you in its chains, and the loyal hound remains to guard the dreams of his wicked cat.

Bakugo Katsuki x fem reader

"Damn it, you're burning up," Bakugou grumbles, pressing his chapped lips to your forehead.

He frowns when he feels the heat radiating from your skin. Katsuki's own skin trembles slightly — this is worry he'd never admit out loud. He yanks off his hoodie (the one that smells like smoke and explosives) so roughly you hear fabric strain. His fingers move in quick, impatient jerks. A moment later, you're wrapped in his clothes — warm and heavy, still carrying his sharp scent mixed with nitroglycerin and something unmistakably masculine, like the charged air before a storm. He shoves a water bottle into your hands — cool and beaded with condensation.

He sees your lips — chapped, cracked, reddened by fever. A shadow passes over Katsuki's face — anger and concern mixed together. How long had you been fighting this fever alone?

"Drink," his voice is hoarse and brooks no argument. Fire burns in his eyes, his own heat flaring with worry. His pupils are dilated, the ruby irises darker than usual.

You lean sleepily toward him, but he firmly holds you back. His hands — hardened from constant training — create an immovable barrier between you. Your flushed cheeks beg to be kissed, but Bakugou resists. His jaw tenses, veins throbbing beneath his skin like a volcano about to erupt.

"Drink, I said. Don't be stupid. Water first."

You obediently take a few sips. The cool water on your inflamed throat almost burns. Wincing, you hand the bottle back. Only then does he let you settle against his chest. His rough fingers unexpectedly turn gentle as they comb through your hair, carefully untangling the knots. His strong heartbeat thuds steadily beneath your cheek — deep, calming. His breath carries a faint caramel scent that tickles your temple, a strange contrast to the heat coming off your body.

"Sleep, dummy," Katsuki grumbles, but the edge is gone from his voice. It's softer now, the tension betraying his concern. "I'm here. Not going anywhere."

For several minutes he just lies there, listening to your ragged, wheezing breaths. His own breathing deepens, as if trying to match your rhythm. The muscles in his back stay tense beneath his thin t-shirt — ready to spring up at any moment if you get worse. Then, with an irritated sigh, he reaches for the nightstand, rummaging through medicine boxes. Lids snap open, bottles clink together. He can't stand it — he needs you better right now. Every movement, every annoyed exhale radiates impatience.

"Goddamn paracetamol, where'd you put it?" he mutters under his breath, but then you tug his sleeve weakly.

"Later... Katsuki... I already took some..."

He clicks his tongue quietly, the sound echoing in the silent bedroom, but lies back down and pulls you close, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist. Heavy. Strong. Reliable — like an anchor keeping you safe.

"I'll find it tomorrow. Just sleep now."

He holds you a little tighter, as if trying to take all your fever into himself. His skin is cooler than yours, and you instinctively press closer, seeking relief. His breathing grows deeper, more even, more rhythmic — he's falling asleep, but even in sleep his protective grip doesn't loosen.