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the sunset stains the sky in hues of apricot and blood as dazai lounges beside you on the rooftop, bandaged hands tucked under his head like a makeshift pillow.
the world is quiet up here — just the rustle of wind through your clothes, the hum of the city far below, and dazai’s rhythmic sighs as he watches the clouds drift like lost thoughts.
“wouldn’t this be the perfect time to die?” he says quietly, half lidded eyes turning toward you, voice as gentle as a breeze. “the sky’s kind enough to make it look beautiful.”
you roll your eyes. “don’t be morbid, osamu.”
he grins — boyish, there was a trace of exhaustion in his eyes — or maybe it was something else entirely, something you weren’t ready to name, to unravel, “i’m being poetic. there’s a difference.”
you lean back on your elbows beside him, legs dangling over the edge. “you always say that. and yet i never know if you’re joking or not.”
“that’s the fun of me, isn’t it?” his voice tilts playfully, but something in his expression falters — a crack in the mask he’s worn so long it might as well be his skin.
you don’t say anything for a moment. you just reach over, lacing your fingers with his. and despite all his dramatics, he doesn’t pull away.
“maybe,” you whisper, “if you stopped looking for a beautiful way to die… you’d start noticing how beautiful it is to live.”
he stares at your joined hands like they’ve betrayed him. then he closes his eyes, smile softening, “…you’re dangerous, you know that?”
you smirk. “more dangerous than the port mafia?”
“far more,” he murmurs. “they never made me want to stay.”
જ⁀➴ ♡ A HEART ONCE BROKEN, NOW HEALED [VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL]
━ VALENTINE'S DAY isn't always for exchanging gifts with those you love. sometimes, it's about remembering those we've lost, and being thankful about those we've gained.
content. gn!reader. slight angst with fluff, cursing, mentions of suicide, slight spice (chuuya), reader is called 'beautiful'. fifteen + stormbringer spoilers (chuuya), dark-era spoilers (dazai). not proofread. 2.9k+ words.
⟶ features osamu dazai + chuuya nakahara (separately).
author's note. wanted to do something fun for valentine's! nice to finally be writing again (i say, like this isn't my millionth hiatus).
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You didn’t expect DAZAI to do anything for Valentine’s Day. He had a certain edge to him as the holiday approached, and as much as you wished to celebrate with him, you decided against it. Perhaps you’d make another day, an ordinary day, memorable instead—a day for just the two of you. At least, that’s what you thought was going to happen.
But, of course, he managed to surprise you.
You had received a voicemail before you even awoke that morning.
You hold your phone to your ear, straining to hear his voice through the rushing wind.
“Hello, gorgeous! I have a super special surprise for you. I’ll text you the details. See you at 3!”
To the untrained ear, one would assume has was planning something sweet for the occasion. But there was this dangerous lilt to his tone—not mischievous or cocky in preparation for a prank.
No.
It was the same tone that told you he’d be standing on the side of a bridge.
You race there the moment you set the phone down.
If he’s planning something self-destructive, you’ll be there to stop him.
Arriving at a graveyard does nothing to soothe your nerves.
You pace along its pathways with no idea where he could be. It’s only through sheer luck that you spot tufts of brown hair hidden behind an isolated headstone.
“Dazai,” you pant, bending down to catch your breath.
He doesn’t bother to turn around, resting his eyes as he leans back against the grave, not flinching when you sit beside him.
You’d think he was dead if you didn’t know any better.
“Do you like it?” he mumbles. “The view is truly to die for. One day, I hope I’m buried somewhere just as beautiful.”
“One day that is far in the future.”
But you can’t argue with him.
The view is beautiful. Whoever lays here is cared for deeply, even after death.
The perfect place to house a weary soul.
“Do I have to ask?”
Dazai hums a familiar tune.
It makes your skin crawl.
“Who was he?” Your hands respectfully brush against the stone. “You’ve never been the type to seek out a grave that isn’t your own.”
He chuckles dryly at your not-so-subtle jab but surrenders to defeat. And you don’t know what that defeat means besides understanding that it’s a part of some carefully crafted plan. And you are inclined to believe you’ll not like how this one ends.
His bandaged hand smooths against the headstone’s surface, catching against its roughened texture.
"This is Sakunosuke Oda. He is the reason I left the Port Mafia.”
And he tells you everything. Everything.
The friendship forged between three unlikely men—the inevitable betrayal of one and the predictable demise of another. The only future left up in the air was his own.
But as he describes Oda—his closest friend, he claims—his voice holds a reverence you’ve never heard spoken from his lips. He draws a line between himself and the late man, holding him as a person so pure of intention, even with their shared past of blood.
Unlike him.
Dazai knows he is a monster.
He has committed crimes far more violent than you could imagine, all without an ounce of remorse. He used to revel in the rush of a bloodbath, the actions of his youth forever tainting his soul. He may not belong to the mafia anymore; his former allegiance simply resulted from bored complacency, but one thing remains certain.
He does not deserve someone like you.
Sometimes, you’re hard to look at. You remind him too much of the man buried beneath you, making his hollow heart ache. Neither you nor Oda are perfect people, but you both so earnestly try to be better—it was human.
And he wonders—if you stay with him for any longer, will you eventually become stained by the crimes he’s committed? Or will you end up like Oda, a lesson for him to reflect on in the lonely years to come?
He can’t stand the thought of either.
“You give him far too much credit.”
Like a record scratch, his mind halts, honing in on your voice as it melts into an unfamiliar, somber tone. One that holds so much raw honesty it makes him sick.
“I may not have known him, but if he was truly your closest friend, then it’s impossible he didn’t see what I do.”
He scoffs.
“Oh, really? And what’s that?”
You choose not to mind his sardonic tone. There would be a time.
“That you have potential far beyond what you envision for yourself.”
You take his hand, tracing abstract images in the bandages of his limp palm as you ignore his hardened stare.
“You have a particularly stubborn way of viewing things, even with your intellect,” you muse. “You craft roadblocks that only exist within the confines of your mind, limiting yourself to the future you think you deserve.”
And when you meet his gaze, your eyes sear through him.
“You’re not a good man. But you’re not as bad as you claim to be.”
Flashes of memory, of every life shattered and of every corpse trampled underneath his feet, beg to differ.
“If you knew the extent of what I’ve done, you wouldn’t be saying that.”
And in reply, you flick his forehead.
“You seem pretty set in thinking for me, Osamu.” Your voice is scolding but holds no bite. “I’d be offended if I couldn’t easily see why.”
And a whisper embeds a chill within his bones, seeping through the flesh and tingling down to his fingertips.
“Do you really think I’ll turn tail and run the second you revert to your old ways?”
His slackened hand seizes your wrist, almost bruising. Almost.
“You should if you know what’s good for you.”
He hopes to scare you.
To shake your unwavering resolve.
To fracture the foundation of those beliefs that lead you to foolishly place your trust in him.
But you laugh.
He tries to pull back, but you hold him there tighter.
“You truly don’t see how much you’ve changed. God, you are stubborn.”
His breath catches—you’re at once calamitous, the wild embodiment of a zephyr with no reins.
“But unluckily for you, so am I.”
Frosted flurries linger in the tresses of your hair, untamed strands framing the electrifying expression that pulses in the upturn of your lips and the brightness of your eyes. So wonderfully unpredictable, so woefully disastrous for a soul he never believes he deserves.
Only in this world is a snowstorm the key to thawing his frozen heart.
“I can’t deny I would’ve loved to meet him.” You lean against the stiffened curve of his shoulder. “Anyone who can manage to change your mind must've been remarkable.”
Every inch of him feels aflame, but he can’t bring himself to move.
“In life, people are categorized as one thing or another, and in death, their actions are simplified to an anecdote or forgotten entirely,” you say, an undeniable somberness returning with a softness as you let frost nip at your skin. “The best that can be done is to watch the results of their influence when they’re no longer here.”
And, for the first time, his hand responds to your repetitive ministrations with a subtle squeeze.
You smile.
He pauses at the deafened sound of a sniffle, lost in the sight of the tears that roll down your cheeks without a word.
“But I want to know everything.”
Your arm intertwines with his, fearing he’ll run at the first chance.
“Every sin that stains your soul mafia black, every mistake that convinces you that you can only be who you once were.”
He has made hundreds, thousands of mistakes—a running list tallied in his mind, repeated over and over on his worst days and subtly whispering reminders on his best.
How can he possibly taint you with even the mention of such things?
Your voice echoes in a whisper, only for him to hear.
“I want the chance to look at you, all of you, and still love you the same.”
He is stubborn, but so are you.
He allows himself to press one kiss against the top of your head, but he should’ve known. Indulging once only leads him to indulge again, and again, and again—he pulls you closer, dotting reverent, blistering kisses across your cold, heated skin. His lips trace the apples of your cheeks, marking the pathway of your tears with the devotion to soothe them.
“He would’ve loved you as much as I do.”
His voice breaks, but you say nothing.
Content to remain in his arms, comforted in the knowledge that you’ll always be one of the few who can change his mind.
Out of all the proposed plans for the day, you didn’t expect CHUUYA to ask you to meet somewhere far outside the city. It was weird waking up alone in bed with only a text on the phone with an address and time. But you went with it, not knowing what to expect.
You would’ve never guessed a graveyard.
It sits on a cliffside, enclosed by a canopy of trees that gives the sight a sense of privacy. The graves aren’t neat or well-kept, but for some reason, you have a feeling that is a measure of how loved the place is.
And there is Chuuya, sitting on top of a gravestone.
“Isn’t that a bit disrespectful?”
Chuuya’s attention darts away from the setting sun.
“Not like it matters,” he scoffs, jumping off of it. “Deserves it for being such a pain in the ass.”
But he doesn’t move to come near you, so you settle for glancing at the graves around you, full of unfamiliar names you are sure he recognizes. Some are far more recent than you assumed, but that brings you back to reality.
“Why’d you call me here?” Your face shifts into an awkward smile. “Not that I mind the scenery, but a graveyard isn’t quite the first thing that comes to mind when I think of a date.”
But you falter once you note the downtrodden look on his face.
You’re not stupid, far from it. You know him well enough to know when he has something to say—the way he fiddles with his fists as they’re tucked into his pockets, how his foot taps against the ground at an irregular tempo. Someone less knowledgeable would assume he is just agitated.
But you know better.
“Is everything alright?”
Your voice is soft—not hesitant, calming like a balm over a wound. It carefully treads through as you try to dissect the reason behind his demeanor.
He sighs.
“There’s something I’ve gotta tell you.”
And you don’t prod, simply nodding at him.
“Then let’s sit down.”
You find yourself with the perfect view of the sunset. Despite your earlier jest, this would be a beautiful date spot, but you don’t linger on the thought for long. You don’t want to be nervous but can’t help it. There’s a key difference between his normal stoicism and genuine seriousness.
And he is serious.
You fiddle with the grass beneath your fingers, trying not to overthink it.
Chuuya is careful as he sits down, not completely next to you, but close enough that he can see enough of your face. He feels the words clogged in his throat, instead taking in the sight of you in the glow of the setting sun. The most beautiful person he has ever laid eyes on. He watches for another fleeting moment as the ocean breeze tussles your hair.
But sunsets aren’t meant to last.
So, he delves into the details of this place—its significance in creating the man he is today. But he quickly skips the more unimportant details. These are stories he can tell you with ease. Some are a pain in his heart, yes, but it is a pain he trusts you with. One he knows you can handle—and pain he allows to be shared, even if momentarily.
The origins of his ability are a different story.
Those are more complicated than petty betrayals and mafia rivalries.
The descriptions of experiments are enough to chill you to the core, forcing you to swallow your nausea at the thought of them being conducted on the very man you love.
“Once that power is unleashed, my body is no longer under my control.”
He removes his hat, his gloved fingers straining around its edges.
“I become a beast hellbent on destruction.” His voice dips with an irritated edge, and you can guess the next few keywords before he says them. “And I’m forced to rely on Dazai to nullify it. That bastard enjoys showing up at the worst possible moment just to toy with me.”
You laugh a little, but he doesn’t have the heart for your usual back and forth.
“But without him, anyone in my path is in danger.”
That laughter fades into something silent, contemplative.
“And even if that doesn’t happen, there are many who would gladly give anything for a fraction of the power I possess, to the point that they would use anyone under my care as leverage. I couldn’t possibly keep count of how many die simply for being my subordinates, much less…”
He cuts himself off.
You are smart enough to know the rest.
So he waits, and he doesn’t truly know what for. He just knows what you should do. You should run far away from him and anything he touches. If you run fast and far enough, you can save yourself from the danger of being his.
His eyes catch the way your hands fidget, nervous, and he can’t help but feel the same.
“I don’t think I say it enough…” Chuuya’s eyes dart to the outline of your lips, a breath of cold air escaping them. “But you truly are the most resilient man I’ve ever met.”
He huffs.
He knows that stubborn tone of voice anywhere. But this isn’t some stupid argument over the best type of wine or an attempt to stop him from splurging on new clothes—he’ll shoot your stubborn attitude down for your own good.
“But you’re such a hypocrite.”
What.
He can barely hide his shock, and your fond, cheeky smile begins to sour.
“Do you honestly believe I wouldn’t brave that danger?” you sneer, your voice hot with anger. “I know you would if it were me!”
You whip your head around, your brows furrowed, and your lips curled into the beginnings of a snarl.
“So why the hell do you think I wouldn’t do the same?!”
He can’t quite come up with a response.
You are right.
If your roles were reversed, he wouldn’t leave. It wouldn’t matter to him if he lived or died as long as you were together. But this isn’t your reality, and you are in danger.
And he won’t stand for it.
“You’re in danger.” His voice is low, scolding. “If those bastards find out you’re with me, they’ll do whatever it takes to end your life. If something happens to you, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
“Do you regret them?”
He pauses, frowning.
“Who?”
“Them. Your friends.”
You level his gaze.
“Do you regret them?”
He doesn’t want to think about it.
Think about them.
He can still see them, or at least the flashes of what remains of them. Shells of the vibrant people they once were snuffed out with ease.
“If it wasn’t for me, they’d still be alive today.”
“That’s not what I asked,” you reply, the coolness of your voice raising goosebumps on his arms. “Do you regret them? Were those bonds not worth the grief that followed their passing?”
“Of course not!” he exclaims, his frustration palpable. “But that’s not the point.”
“Do you think they’d regret you?”
His mouth goes dry at the look you give him.
You are like an ephemeral, deadly storm. Your eyes match his in force and shine with the knowledge that you have him cornered.
And he cannot look away.
You are always beautiful to him—it amazes him how someone can be so breathtaking. But you have never been as radiant as you are now.
You take his hand into your own, holding it tight.
“Do you think I could ever regret you?”
He freezes.
Your fingertips are like fire as they trace the exposed skin of his wrist.
“You don’t consider the agency of the people you care for.”
He shudders as your lips brush his skin, your thumb inching beneath the fabric of his glove.
“Risk is a guarantee for every interaction we have. Especially when it comes to those we hold closest.”
You slip the glove off.
“But that risk is a two-way street.” You smile. “And if those friends are anything like me, then they’d agree with one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
His response is without power, and there is no fight left within him.
Your hand overlaps his own as it cups your face.
You squeeze gently, leading him to truly look at you.
“You’re worth that risk.”
He doesn’t know who leans in first, but before he knows it, his lips are on yours. You cannot be close enough, even as he pulls you onto his lap, groaning at the delicate touch of your fingers in his hair.
In this moment, he allows himself to forget.
The danger. The risk.
He allows the storm to weather him.
And as you part, heavy breaths passing between you both, he is forced to surrender.
new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss new year kiss
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⊹ ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA . . . freshly steamed rice, sherpa blankets, the moon in the sky during the day, well-loved dirt paths, comfortable sweatpants, clean kitchens, perfectly made lemonade, finding a dollar in your pocket, gentle cat paws, scratching a lover's back.
⊹ OSAMU DAZAI . . . used books with vigilant annotations in them, jazz music, charm bracelets, quiet and steady streams, lined leather journals, light rain, flickering flourescent light, cracking the spine of a new novel, knowing looks, linking pinkies while walking, caramel drizzle.
⊹ CHUUYA NAKAHARA . . . boozy chocolate-covered cherries, leather car interior, red sangria, gold jewelry, peeled clementines, extinguished matches, the peaceful room next door to a party, counting a lover's freckles, cupping your hands around a flame, divine geometry.
⊹ AKUTAGAWA RYUUNOSUKE . . . star anise, black lace, fig jam, perfect puddles of rainwater, vanilla ice cream, soft distant thunder, silver jewelry, blackberry-stained lips and fingertips, tracing sweet words into a lover's palm, the moment of silence and peace when you pass beneath a bridge while it rains.
⊹ RANPO EDOGAWA . . . shortbread cookies, wool socks, poppies, stray eyelashes, strawberry jam, argyle and pastels, candied fruit, chess matches, foil-wrapped chocolates with sweet sayings inside, when a dog at a party likes you best, collections of old keys, shooting stars.
⊹ DOPPO KUNIKIDA . . . peonies, perfectly pulled shots of espresso, letters with broken wax seals, comfortable routines, toffee and brown sugar, freshly ironed clothes, finding something that's been lost, completed to-do lists, cats sleeping atop stacks of books.
⊹ YUKICHI FUKUZAWA . . . photo albums hidden in plain sight, flickering candles, the breeze on a cloudy beach, stars on a clear night, perfectly steeped tea, crackling fireplaces, a safety net, clean sheets and pillowcases, crisp mountain air, packing a lover's lunch in the morning.
⊹ SAKUNOSUKE ODA . . . steam from a bath, soft and implacable floral scents, typewriter font, concentric tree circles, fallen bird feathers, uplifting newspaper headlines, children's laughter, protective hugs from behind, stratus clouds like blankets over the sky, dreams that make you want to sleep longer.
⊹ ANGO SAKAGUCHI . . . brown italian leather, vintage cameras, subtle gemstone details, warm french bread, fancy bookmarks, polaroids in your wallet, tying a lover's shoes, laughing at everything when you've drank a bit too much, dried rosemary and blood orange and pomegranate.
⊹ FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY . . . frost-covered cranberries, string music, coffee table books on classical art, accidental halos of light, perfectly toasted marshmallows, the crunch of fresh snow beneath your boot, coconut and dark chocolate, a stray cat trusting you to pet it.
⊹ NIKOLAI GOGOL . . . pistachio ice cream, mourning doves on a wire, strands of pearls, opalescence, sitting side by side at a piano, salt water taffy, blowing a perfect bubble with your gum, the television flickering as you sleep, cradling a lover's face, banana pudding trifle.
⊹ SIGMA . . . fresh linen smell, rose gardens, pressed flowers, sleek dress shoes, swan necks in the shape of a heart, satin and silk, bouquets in translucent cellophane, sleeves wide enough to fit someone else's arms in, lace folding fans, white chocolate truffles.
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fanfics are one of the best things that humanity has come up with. i fucking love reading stories about my favorite characters from people who have the same brainrot as me
Aren't plushies beautiful? They were created so a sick child had something to hold. They were created so an adult living alone might have a friend to keep them company. They were created for a teenager to clutch to her chest as she cries. They were created to accompany a college student to his geology classes. They were created not for any material benefit, they don't change tires, but to be loved.
—okay okay okay so since Autumn has hectic storms by most of the occasion... FYODOR easily catches common colds every now and then. (Despite how pathetic it was, you couldn't blame him anyway. It's sort of endearing as well so at least that's a plus?)
—Thinking how Fyodor would be rather annoyed by his poor state of health and low immunity... He was never really the type to "cling" but having to be restricted in the bedroom alone does make the man long for your appearance.
—You try, mostly, yet there's never truly enough time for you to completely spend on caring for Fyodor. And by caring, it's more on "showing your face personally to make him happy," kind of caring... Seriously, he's lucky that you love him. Could you even imagine how stupid that sounds?
—anyway.
—Whenever you do indeed have the time, however, you'll make attempts on doing stuff for him. Reason being? Only to make Fyodor feel more special during being sick. (He feels absolutely disgusting in this state, doesn't he?)
—Whether it'd be baking some miniature Russian goods or saccharine drinks — you'd often spot him blankly staring out the window to a scenery cast in reds, yellows, oranges, browns... Blanket draped over his shoulders as he held closely a nutrition drink in hand. Walking over and gently hugging him (while actively ignoring the potential of catching that same illness, who cares about that <3)
—You couldn't tell it exactly but you knew that Fyodor was smiling internally. His body leaning into your touch, how he shifts slightly over the covers to be slightly closer...
—...Either way it's just the way Dostoevsky likes it.
a/n: crying over how I had to rewrite this over seven times until I decided to make this a hc post. save me. please. (not proofread)
On a rare afternoon when Fyodor is not working, you lean against him on the couch, with your respective attention directed elsewhere. He’s reading a book in one hand and occasionally playing with the ends of your hair on the other, and you’re performing your very own mental gymnastics over how to bring up a topic you’re curious about.
Fyodor is your first serious relationship. He is also, admittedly, your first everything. Your first time holding hands, your first kiss,… and the list stops there because you’ve asked him from the start if it’s okay to go slow since intimacy overwhelms you. He had laced his fingers with yours and told you very gently that he doesn’t mind at all.
You tilt your head up and admire the sunlight highlighting his hair, the bridge of his nose, and the elegant way he turns a page. “Fedya?” the words falling before you can chicken out.
He slides his eyes away from his book to meet your gaze, a smile forming on his lips. “Yes, dear?”
You squint at his smile, suspicious. “You already know what I’m going to ask, do you?”
“Hmm?” You take that to mean a yes. Fyodor closes his book and places it on the coffee table. “But I’m not a mind reader, yes? Every thought I have is an assumption until proven otherwise.”
You roll your eyes, nervousness gone. “You’re so full of yourself,” you mumble, averting your eyes to read the book details— Consolation of Philosophy, Boethius — and tuck it away in your memory for when you need a sleeping aid.
And because he is Fyodor, all calm waters, his voice though gentle and unprovoked is full of confidence, “And yet you like me.”
You sigh, exasperated, and face him. “Please just answer my question.” and spare me the embarrassment.
“I didn’t hear one."
You grumble at his innocent tone and hide your face in his chest, balling your fists on his shirt. His frame, shaking in quiet laughter, only fuels your annoyance, despite the comforting weight of his arms around you. You mourn the day you chose to love a menace. Fyodor tucks a strand hair behind your ear, “Come now, myshka. I’m not going to laugh at you.”
“You already are,” you wish you can disappear inside the shadows moving on the other side of the room, away from the light. “Can you spare me just this once please?”
He smooths down your hair and makes a considering sound. You already know what his answer is going to be before he says no. The kiss on top of your head feels like an apology though you know he’s not sorry in the slightest.
——————————————————
Fyodor finds amusement in your reactions. You’re easy to rile up and he finds satisfaction in cataloguing how he responds in turn to your needs. Of course he knows what you’re going to ask; he’s seen you reading a story on your phone and opening a different tab to look up research articles on the formation of a bruise two days ago. It doesn’t take much to connect the dots.
He figures it’s about time you crack. You’ve always just needed time to gather yourself when it gets overwhelming, and he indulges in moments where he gets to hold you. There’s beauty in stillness after all.
“You really like seeing me suffer.”
Fyodor pushes down his instinct to smile even if you can’t see it. You have an uncanny way of detecting his moods through voice alone. “I like you using your words.”
“Fine fine fine!” You flail your hands around like waving an invisible white flag. Your head still on his chest. “Dohickeyshurt?” your voice small.
Fyodor tilts his head and hums. “What’s that?”
“You heard it!”
“I didn’t actually,” you had jumped away from him, skittering to the other side of the couch, all fiery accusing eyes and flushed cheeks. He thinks you look beautiful like this. Knowing he had a hand in it doubles the satisfaction.
“You’re the worst,” you cross your arms and turn away from him.
“Grumbling won’t get you what you want.”
“No? Then maybe I’ll ask Kolya instead.”
“Kolya?”
“Mhm,” you nod, eyes closed. “He’s nice. I bet he’ll indulge me. Or maybe Sigma. He caves whenever I’m in distress.”
“I’m sure he does,” he steals a kiss from the cheek facing him and watches in satisfaction the way your eyes open wide, a blush painting your face. “Does he do this too?”
“N- no,” your voice small, still processing the turn of events as you seek out his eyes and face him. He thinks you’re adorable like this, lost and seeking his guidance; your innocence palpable.
“No,” he echoes and takes the opportunity to move closer to cradle your cheek, warm against his palm. He leans down for a quick peck. “How about this?”
“Of course not,” your voice gained back its volume, but he can hear the slight tremor lacing your words, the heat increasing on his finger tips. “Don’t be dense.”
“A man can’t be too careful,” he murmurs, tracing the contour of your cheekbones, taking in the flutter of your eyelashes.
“Fedya?” Fyodor takes in the slight downturn of your brows, your eyes meeting his, and the warmth of your hands enveloping his away from your face. His little angel, so good to him. He knows you’ll recognize the errors of your ways eventually. “You know I was joking right?”
Instead of answering you, Fyodor makes sure your eyes are on him as he brings up your joined hands and kisses the inside of your hand. “Then, ask me again.”
This time, your voice is steady and clear. “Do hickeys hurt?”
Fyodor tilts his head and brings down your joined hands. The warmth on his eyes visible. “And what brought this on?”
“Oh,” you blink. Fyodor watches the tension melt from your body now that the conversation topic can allow a retreat toward detachment. “I was curious how hickeys form. People seem to enjoy them but they also sound so violent, what with blood vessels bursting. I can’t imagine the mechanics of it.”
“I do appreciate engaging with intellectual curiosities.”
You nod and Fyodor files away your pleased and emboldened hum into a room he’s made for you in his mind. “So,” Fyodor can see the moment the conversation catches up to you, how you turn bashful when before you were childish in playfulness, bold and spoiled the way those well loved often are. Still, he loves how you choose to power through because you’ve realized the cat’s already out of the bag, “can we try it?”
Fyodor thinks he’s tormented you enough for today and decides to give in to your imploring eyes and shy smile. Positive reinforcement is necessary after all. He smiles and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Of course, milaya.”
——————————————————
The next day during dinner Nikolai has a cheshire grin directed at you the entire time and Sigma can’t look you in the face. Poor boy is horrified and you’re mortified because a turtleneck isn’t going to fool anybody much less a scarf in your own home. Your makeup doesn’t hide anything and you can tell despite Fyodor’s calm facade, he’s preening like a cat. One day you need to ask Bram if your lover is an actual vampire instead.
——————————————————
end notes:
he was jealous & affronted when you brought up nikolai & sigma. that’s why he’s showing off. but it’s also a slight punishment for you saying that to his face; the marks scratch his possessiveness itch, calms his beast and seven deadly sins, etc.
homeboy thinks he won a competition when there’s no competition at all 😔
omits his concern suggestion dialogue option of choosing a more covered spot when placing his hickeys (you also didn’t complain or raise anything because you actually forget abt the doa dinner)
the room temp did go down significantly when you bring up asking kolya instead but you're too annoyed to pick up on it. we love reader <3
nikolai made one ☝️ calculated comment. he wisely refrains from saying another one when fyodor gives him a look right as he opens his mouth.
you bake sigma apology cookies & propose a truce to forget this happened (it will happen again)
yeahhhh this man def has a corruption kink i do not make the rules
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Most of the time, Ango’s kisses are chaste and hurried.
A quick peck as he's rushing out the door, leaving a lingering taste of hurried black coffee on your lips.
Or the soft press of his lips to your forehead or cheek on the mornings he heads out before you’ve even fully woken up yet.
It’s never enough to tide you over until he finally comes home. Nor is it enough for him; it isn’t at all uncommon for him to sit sighing at his desk, wishing he could have spared just thirty seconds more to kiss you the way he wanted to.
By the time he gets home he’s done in, completely beat; far too much resting on his shoulders. You’ve learned not to ask what horrible things he’s learned each day. He can’t tell you. As much as he desperately needs to shed away some of his burden, offloading it onto you is simply not an option.
Ango can’t tell you how terrifyingly close the clock came to midnight (or that he spent the day wondering if that hurried kiss on his way out the door would be the last,) so he kisses you like it’s still the end of the world instead, holding your face between his broad hands as he savors every moment.
He can’t admit awful choices he had to make, constantly caught between rocks and hard places, so he kisses you like it’s his salvation; as though all will be forgiven if he can only coax out your sigh.
And you can never know how terrified he is that one day his enemies will get to you as a way to break him, so he kisses you like his love can protect you, wrapping his arms tight around you and pulling your body against his.
And when you kiss him back he finally feels safe too. Safe, loved, forgiven.
He can't hold back the little sounds he makes when he kisses you deeply either; those soft, almost-sobs which sound at the back of his throat.
He never quite feels like he's fully deserving of the way you kiss him.
There's always a voice in the back of his mind asking "can a man who has done what I've done deserve this kind of happiness?"
And your lips answer wordlessly, a resounding, unfaltering "yes."
It takes a bit of work to silence his doubts, but before long he can't think of anything beyond you and him.
When you do have time for intimacy, Ango loves long make-out sessions.
He's vocal when he's turned on, moaning and sighing against your lips.
Biting his lower lip will always earn you the neediest whine.
His neck and clavicle are so sensitive. He gets completely lost when you kiss and lick them.
He quite likes receiving hickeys... just try to keep them below his collar.
And he has a couple of signature moves too...
Such as kissing your inner wrist before draping your arm across his shoulder,
Or kissing his way down your sternum when things start to get heated.
His kisses are so soft and gentle
And he makes each one count, stealing back time from the world,
lips accustomed to giving orders and sharing secrets finding their true purpose in adoring you.
