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Words cannot describe how much I love this, it's actual perfection! I've reread it at least 10 times now and am attempting to inject it into my bloodstream atp

A Caller rated explicit After awakening as a Demon Lord, Rimuru was hesitant to leave the village for any reason, let alone a mission that could take prolonged time away from his people. Conveniently, a new subordinate is all too eager to please. Rimuru should have known there'd be a price to pay for a demons unwavering devotion, but he never would have guessed it would have come to this.

Having a demon for a secretary was proving to be more of a challenge than Rimuru initially suspected. Though Diablo’s entrance to the group felt a little unceremonious to him, the demon seemed nothing but joyous whenever asked to perform.

The problem lies in his efficiency- Diablo was by far the easiest solution to many of the problems and he was so eager to please, it was easiest to send him on the demanding missions gnawing away at him far from home. Benimaru is strong but not the most reliable, and Souei is reliable but leans towards being understated. 

Diablo, though wild in his own ways, was so devoutly loyal that Rimuru couldn’t help but rely on him. In hindsight, he may have overdone it a little. Kneeling before him, head hung low, the demon looked so remorseful that it stabbed like a knife into Rimuru’s chest. 

“What do you mean?” 

He’s bewildered- beyond that even and yet he feels so responsible for the hurt shining in the eyes that finally look up to him. 

“My lord,” Diablo all but whines. He seems hesitant, but Rimuru can’t guess what it could be about. “Please, I beg you to enlighten me on my misdeeds. I’ve repented heavily and despair in my state; won’t you please state your verdict?” 

Yeah, Rimuru’s no closer to figuring out what on earth brought him groveling at his heel and now he just feels bad. 

Notice- it appears the demon Diablo is seeking praise

“Diablo?” He settled on calling, though his voice was thicker than normal and betrayed his nerves. He did not respond, though he did preen in tragic pleasure. Frowning, Rimuru tried to find a way to make this as organic as possible. 

He stood, needing only a half step to reach the knelt figure. This was probably the only time it would be close enough, so Rimuru took full advantage and patted his new puppy on the head. “Thank you for all your hard work.” 

He looks confused, hesitantly hopeful and delirious from the contact. “You mean-?”

Carefully threading his fingers into the strands of hair, he tried to make this as abundantly clear as possible: “I am nothing but proud of you, Diablo.”

He cries out- something high pitched and keening, and it does something to Rimuru that it probably shouldn’t. With plenty of practice on Ranga under his belt, he moved his deft fingers down the back of his head and passed his cheek with gentle caresses before grabbing hold of his jaw loosely. 

The whole time Diablo sat fluidly leaning into the contact, eyes shut and lips tightly pulled down. “Please,” he shudders when the fingers make solid hold of him. 

Looking down at him, Rimuru felt nothing but despair for how he’d treated him so far. He’d never had a demonic subordinate before and must’ve been abusing his authority without knowing. No matter what it was, he’d make it up to him. 

“Please what?” He uses his free hand to push his bangs back and lightly trace his cheekbone with his thumb. The whine he earned from it left him warm and confused. “What can I do for you?” Rimuru feels like he’s the one begging right now, but he can’t help until he understands.

Diablo is biting his lip so hard it must hurt, and the fang peaking out matches beautifully with the dusting of blush on his cheeks. “Call for me,” he says breathly. 

Now he’s really confused. “You want to go on more missions?” He asks, and Diablo looks so increasingly hurt. 

“My lord, please- call my name once more.” His eyes are watering and Rimuru’s quick to wipe them away. 

“Diablo.” He says simply, and that alone is enough to have the demon’s knees falling apart, sinking him lower to the ground. “Diablo,” he addresses more this time, patting his head for emphasis. “Diablo,” he says with a bright smile, getting a rumbling from deep within the mans chest that sounds almost like a purr. “Diablo,” he calls, almost teasingly, and his eyes contract into thin, focused slits. 

“Diabl- oh!” He was trying for a breathless tone but was knocked back as his second secretary tackled him back onto the chaise in his office. 

“My lord,” Diablo whined and rubbed his face on his torso, “forgive me, forgive me,” but he continued to make contact with every inch of the front of Rimuru’s torso with his face pinched and legs shaking. 

“Diablo?” He called, voice questioning, but that only seemed to encourage him.

Rimuru barely had a moment to process what had just happened before Diablo’s trembling form pressed closer, the demon clutching at him with a desperation that seemed to radiate from his very core. It wasn’t aggression—no, there was no hostility in the way Diablo nestled into him, only an overwhelming need.

“Diablo, calm down,” Rimuru said softly, trying to keep his voice steady despite the odd warmth pooling in his chest. His hand instinctively settled on Diablo’s shoulder, but the contact only made the demon shiver more violently.

“I-I cannot,” Diablo stammered, his usual eloquence lost to raw emotion. He lifted his head just enough to meet Rimuru’s gaze, his crimson eyes wide and vulnerable. “You… you say my name so sweetly, my lord, yet I feel I have not earned such affection. Please, if I have wronged you, let me suffer for it properly—punish me as you see fit. Do not let me remain in this torment!”

Rimuru blinked, stunned. “Punish you? Diablo, what are you even talking about?”

The demon flinched, as if the gentle confusion in Rimuru’s voice cut deeper than any reprimand. “You’ve sent me away so often,” he said, his voice breaking. “While others bask in your praise and presence, I am cast aside like an afterthought or worse a nuisance. I thought—” He hesitated, his hands trembling as they clenched the fabric of Rimuru’s coat. “I thought perhaps you were displeased with me, that my devotion wasn’t enough.”

Realization dawned on Rimuru like a slap to the face. His own efficiency-focused mindset had blinded him to how Diablo might perceive his actions. “Oh, Diablo…” he murmured, threading his fingers through the demon’s silky hair again. “You’ve got it all wrong. I trust you more than anyone—that’s why I send you on those missions. I need someone I can count on, someone I know will handle things perfectly.”

Diablo’s lips parted in a soft gasp, his crimson eyes searching Rimuru’s for any hint of deception. “You… you mean that?”

“Of course I mean it,” Rimuru said firmly, “You are my favorite representation of Tempest when I’m away.” He cupped Diablo’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the faint trace of moisture there. “I’m sorry if I made you feel unimportant. You’re one of my most precious subordinates, Diablo. I’d be lost without you.”

The admission seemed to shatter something in Diablo. A sound escaped him—half sob, half moan—and he collapsed fully against Rimuru, his body trembling with a mix of relief and lingering tension. “My lord,” he whispered, his voice reverent, “you honor me beyond what I deserve.”

Rimuru sighed, letting the demon cling to him like a lifeline. “You deserve more than I’ve been giving you. So tell me—what can I do to make things right?”

For a moment, Diablo said nothing, his head buried against Rimuru’s chest. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and reverent, but there was an edge of need that sent a shiver down Rimuru’s spine. “Let me serve you,” he whispered. “Not with missions or tasks, but here, now. Let me prove my devotion in a way only I can.”

Rimuru’s breath hitched. “Serve me how?”

Diablo lifted his head, his expression one of raw, unrestrained worship. “Let me worship you, my lord. Let me show you how much you mean to me. I will bring you nothing but pleasure—I swear it.”

Heat rose unbidden to Rimuru’s face, but there was no denying the sincerity in Diablo’s gaze, nor the ache in his voice. His heart raced as he searched for the right response, unsure if he was ready for whatever line Diablo was willing to cross. But one thing was clear: the demon wasn’t asking out of selfishness. This was an extension of his loyalty, his love, his very essence.

And Rimuru… couldn’t bring himself to deny him.

Rimuru’s mind raced as Diablo’s words sank in. Worship him? Bring him pleasure? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen hints of Diablo’s overzealous devotion before, but this… this was something else entirely. Something intense, raw, and surprisingly vulnerable.

“Diablo…” he began, his voice soft, though his heart was thundering in his chest. “You’ve already proven your devotion a hundred times over. You don’t need to—”

“I must, ” Diablo interrupted, his voice trembling with emotion. “Please, my lord. I exist for you, and yet I’ve been deprived of even the smallest chance to express my adoration properly. Every moment I’ve spent away, every day without hearing your voice… it has been agony.”

Rimuru felt a pang of guilt twist in his ches t. He hadn’t meant to make Diablo feel this way, but the demon’s emotions were spilling out like a dam that had finally burst. And despite the awkwardness of the situation, there was something deeply moving about being the object of such devotion.

“If it’s that important to you…” Rimuru said hesitantly, searching Diablo’s face. “Then tell me what you need. How can I help you feel better?”

Diablo’s eyes glistened, his expression shifting into something both relieved and desperate. “Allow me to touch you, my lord,” he said softly. “To offer you the reverence you deserve. I want nothing more than to bask in your presence, to feel the warmth of your being, to ensure your happiness.”

Rimuru hesitated, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. The sincerity in Diablo’s voice was impossible to ignore, and despite the strange intimacy of the request, he couldn’t bring himself to deny the demon this. “Alright,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s what you need… I’ll allow it.”

The change in Diablo was immediate. His crimson eyes sparkled with unrestrained joy, and his trembling hands moved reverently, as if afraid to overstep. Slowly, he reached out and cupped Rimuru’s hands in his own, bowing his head as though in prayer.

“My lord,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You honor me beyond words.”

Diablo’s touch was featherlight at first, his hands brushing over Rimuru’s arms and shoulders as though committing every detail to memory. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as if handling something sacred. Rimuru’s breath caught as the demon’s fingers skimmed down to his sides, the tender touches sending unexpected shivers through him.

“You’re so warm,” Diablo whispered, his tone full of awe. He leaned closer, his head resting against Rimuru’s chest, and inhaled deeply, as if trying to absorb every ounce of his presence.

“Diablo, you’re…” Rimuru started, but his words faltered as the demon’s hands slid to his waist, pulling him closer.

“Let me adore you,” Diablo murmured, his lips brushing against the fabric of Rimuru’s clothes as if in silent worship. “Let me show you how deeply I cherish you, my lord. This is all I ask—just this moment to give you all that I am.”

Rimuru swallowed hard, his usual composure crumbling under the weight of Diablo’s overwhelming devotion. His hands found their way to Diablo’s shoulders, gripping them lightly as he tried to steady himself.

“I… trust you,” he said softly, his voice wavering but sincere. “Do what you need to, Diablo.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Diablo’s hands tightened, his movements growing bolder as he sank lower, pressing his forehead to Rimuru’s stomach. His voice, trembling with fervor, was barely audible.

“Thank you, my lord. Thank you…”

Diablo’s gratitude was palpable, his reverence spilling over into every trembling movement. His hands, still gentle despite their strength, slid down to rest on Rimuru’s hips as his forehead remained pressed against him. His breath was hot, his voice a quiet, adoring murmur.

“You are everything to me, my lord. My light, my purpose… my very existence belongs to you,” Diablo whispered, his words heavy with emotion.

Rimuru felt a mix of embarrassment and warmth at the demon’s intense devotion. He wasn’t used to being the object of such open worship—it was far beyond what even Shion’s adoration entailed. Yet, as strange as it was, he couldn’t deny that Diablo’s sincerity touched something deep within him.

“You don’t have to go this far, you know,” Rimuru said softly, his hands moving to gently pat Diablo’s head. “I’m already happy just knowing you’re loyal to me.”

Diablo looked up at him then, his crimson eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But I must, my lord. You’ve given me everything—a name, a purpose, a place by your side. I can never repay you for the gifts you’ve bestowed upon me, but… please, allow me to try.”

The intensity in his gaze left Rimuru breathless. Before he could respond, Diablo’s hands slid lower, wrapping gently around his thighs. The demon pressed his lips lightly against Rimuru’s stomach, even through the fabric of his clothes, the action more reverent than anything else.

“My lord,” Diablo murmured against him, his voice trembling with devotion. “You are perfection. I exist only to serve you.”

Rimuru’s cheeks burned, the intimate nature of Diablo’s words and actions stirring something unfamiliar within him. “Diablo, I…”

Before he could finish, Diablo tilted his head, pressing a soft kiss just above Rimuru’s waistband. The act sent a shiver coursing through Rimuru’s form, and he instinctively reached out to steady himself, his fingers threading into Diablo’s hair.

“You’re incredible,” Diablo whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with such reverence that Rimuru’s chest tightened. “So kind, so wise, so perfect… I want to give you everything.”

“Diablo,” Rimuru said, his voice cracking slightly as he gently tugged on the demon’s hair to make him look up. “You don’t have to prove yourself like this. You’re already enough—more than enough.”

Diablo’s expression softened, but his hands remained steady, his touch grounding. 

Rimuru barely had time to process Diablo’s radiant smile before the demon leaned in again, his movements painstakingly slow, deliberate, and filled with an almost holy reverence. Diablo’s hands were steady as they framed Rimuru’s hips, his touch featherlight, as if even the idea of handling his lord too roughly was unthinkable.

The first press of Diablo’s lips against Rimuru’s abdomen—barely a whisper of contact—sent an unexpected jolt through him. The way the demon kissed, s oft and lingering, felt more like worship than anything Rimuru had ever experienced. Each kiss was accompanied by a quiet, reverent murmur: a whispered "My lord," or a soft "You honor me."

“Diablo,” Rimuru murmured, his voice catching slightly as he shifted uncomfortably on the chaise. “You… you really don’t have to go this far, you know.”

“But I want to,” Diablo replied, his voice deep and velvety, tinged with an undercurrent of devotion that made Rimuru’s heart skip a beat. “This is not a task, my lord. This is my privilege. My joy.”

Diablo’s lips moved lower, trailing kisses down Rimuru’s torso, the intensity of his reverence never wavering. His hands slid upward, ghosting over Rimuru’s sides, his fingers tracing the curve of his waist with a tenderness that left Rimuru momentarily breathless. The contrast between Diablo’s strength and the gentleness of his touch was striking, a testament to the depth of his control and care.

“You are glorious,” Diablo whispered against Rimuru’s skin, his voice trembling with emotion. “Every part of you, every breath, every word… I exist to serve you, my lord, and nothing brings me greater pleasure than seeing you at ease.”

His words were intoxicating, laced with a kind of raw, unfiltered adoration that Rimuru had never encountered before. It was overwhelming in a way he hadn’t expected, and he felt himself growing warm under the intensity of Diablo’s gaze.

The demon’s hands moved again, sliding to rest on Rimuru’s thighs. His grip was firm but careful, and his crimson eyes lifted to meet Rimuru’s, a silent request for permission shining in their depths.

Rimuru nodded faintly, unsure of what else to do. The motion seemed to embolden Diablo, who let out a soft, contented sigh before pressing another kiss to Rimuru’s stomach. His lips lingered, and he inhaled deeply, as though committing Rimuru’s scent to memory.

“You are everything to me,” Diablo murmured, his voice low and reverent. “Every moment spent in your presence is a blessing, my lord.”

Rimuru shivered, his fingers instinctively tightening in Diablo’s hair. The demon made a low, pleased sound at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut as if savoring the sensation.

Diablo’s movements grew slower, more deliberate, as if he wanted to stretch the moment into eternity. He nuzzled against Rimuru’s torso, his breath warm and steady, and every action seemed designed to express his unwavering devotion.

For Diablo, this wasn’t just an act of service—it was a profound and deeply personal expression of his loyalty and love. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word brought him pleasure, not because of what he received, but because of what he could give. Serving Rimuru in this way, bringing him comfort and ease, was the highest form of fulfillment he could imagine.

And as Rimuru watched him, his own heart racing, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever truly understood just how deeply Diablo’s devotion ran.

Diablo’s worship grew bolder, his movements deliberate and unhurried as if savoring every second of this intimate moment. His lips trailed a slow, reverent path along Rimuru’s skin, each kiss an unspoken prayer, each touch igniting a spark that burned hotter with every passing moment.

Rimuru’s breath quickened, his hands reflexively tightening in Diablo’s hair, the silken strands slipping through his fingers. The faint tug drew a low, rumbling sound from the demon’s chest, something between a growl and a purr, and the sheer intensity of it sent a shiver down Rimuru’s spine.

“Diablo…” Rimuru whispered, his voice barely audible, thick with something he couldn’t quite name.

“Yes, my lord?” Diablo’s gaze flicked upward, his crimson eyes glowing with a mix of adoration and something far more primal. His lips parted, and he exhaled softly, his breath warm against Rimuru’s skin. “Do you wish for me to stop?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and charged. Rimuru hesitated, his thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty and rising tension. “I…” he began, but the words caught in his throat as Diablo’s hands slid up his thighs, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to make Rimuru acutely aware of their strength.

“Forgive me,” Diablo murmured, his voice a low, velvety hum. “But I cannot help myself. To be this close to you, to touch you, to feel you—it is more than I ever dreamed possible.”

Rimuru’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, his usual composure slipping away entirely. “You’re, uh… really intense, you know that?”

Diablo’s lips curved into a soft, almost mischievous smile. “Intense?” he repeated, his tone teasing yet still laced with that same unwavering devotion. “Forgive me, my lord, but how could I not be, when the object of my every thought and desire sits before me?”

The words struck a chord deep within Rimuru, leaving him simultaneously flustered and inexplicably drawn to the raw sincerity in Diablo’s voice. Before he could formulate a response, the demon leaned in once more, his lips brushing against Rimuru’s side, just above his waistband, with a tenderness that made Rimuru’s breath hitch.

Diablo’s hands moved again, sliding up to Rimuru’s waist and then to his back, pulling him closer with a reverence that bordered on desperation. His head rested against Rimuru’s stomach for a moment, and he let out a shuddering breath, as though grounding himself in the presence of his beloved master.

“My lord,” Diablo whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “You are… divine. Perfection incarnate. To serve you like this, to bring you even a fraction of the pleasure you bring me simply by existing… it is all I desire.”

Rimuru’s chest tightened, his heart pounding as the tension between them built, palpable and almost overwhelming. Diablo’s devotion was like a fire, fierce and consuming, and Rimuru could feel himself being drawn into its heat despite the confusion swirling in his mind.

“Diablo, I…” he started, his voice wavering. But the demon didn’t let him finish.

“Shh, my lord,” Diablo murmured, his hands steadying Rimuru as he pressed another kiss to his stomach, slower and more lingering this time. “You don’t need to say anything. Just allow me this… allow me to show you how deeply I adore you.”

The words were a plea, a promise, and a confession all at once, and Rimuru found himself unable to deny Diablo’s request. The tension between them crackled like a storm, and as Diablo’s touch grew bolder, Rimuru could feel the heat rising, the moment teetering on the edge of something profound and uncharted.

As Diablo's lips continued to trail along Rimuru's skin, he slowly began to remove the demon lord's clothing. Each article of fabric fell to the floor with a gentle rustle, revealing more of Rimuru's pale, smooth flesh. Diablo paused briefly to admire each newly-exposed inch, his eyes burning with a mixture of hunger and reverence.

 He kissed Rimuru's collarbone, his tongue darting out to trace the curve of his neck, sending goosebumps rippling across Rimuru's body. As he pulled away, he gazed up at Rimuru with such fervor that Rimuru felt his knees weaken slightly. 

"Your skin," Diablo breathed, his voice thick with awe. "It's like moonlight on water." And with that, he lowered his mouth to Rimuru's chest, tracing lazy circles around one nipple before moving to the other. Rimuru gasped, his entire body tensing with pleasure as Diablo's tongue flicked over his sensitive peaks. 

With every stroke, Diablo seemed to become more frenzied, more consumed by his devotion. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes blazed with an almost feral intensity. "Allow me, my lord," he said, his hand trailing down Rimuru's torso until he cupped one hip. "Let me taste the rest of your beauty." 

And without waiting for permission, Diablo buried his face in Rimuru's groin, moaning contentedly as he explored every inch of Rimuru's clothed shaft with his tongue. Rimuru closed his eyes, his whole body wracked with sensation. It had been so long since anyone had touched him like this - with such reverence, such care. Diablo's lips moved up and down his length, wet and eager. 

For a fleeting moment, Rimuru forgot everything else - forget about the war outside these walls or the secrets hidden beneath his own skin. All he knew was the way Diablo's hands gripped his hips tightly, the warmth of the demon's body pressed intimately against his own. In that moment, nothing else mattered except for the way Diablo's passion was consuming him utterly. 

As Diablo's hands reached for Rimuru's waistband, he froze. He glanced up at Rimuru, his expression uncertain. "Are... Are you sure?" Diablo asked tentatively, his voice breaking the spell they'd both fallen under. Rimuru blinked, feeling suddenly self-conscious. 

He wasn't used to being vulnerable, to allowing someone to see all of him laid bare. But there was no denying the depth of Diablo's devotion - the way his eyes gleamed with pure, unadulterated desire. Without hesitation, Rimuru nodded. 

"Go ahead," he said softly. And with that, Diablo pulled Rimuru's pants off completely, exposing him fully to the room's dim light. Diablo's hands roamed over Rimuru's hips and inner thighs, exploring every crevice with a reverential touch.

Rimuru watched, transfixed, as Diablo knelt before him, eyes fixed intently upon Rimuru's member. And then, with a single, decisive motion, Diablo took Rimuru into his mouth. 

Rimuru cried out, his body arching upwards as Diablo's tongue swirled around him, sending waves of ecstasy throughout his frame. Diablo sucked hungrily, seeming to draw all of the pleasure into himself with an almost supernatural force. 

He pulled his head back to swirl around the tip, tongue dipping in to gather the salty pre-cum.

Rimuru's hands grasped at empty air, desperate to hold onto something solid amidst the dizzying sensations coursing through his veins. And then, with a final suckling noise, Diablo released him, his eyes shining brightly in the dark. 

"That's it," he breathed. "Now, allow yourself to surrender completely to me, my lord." Rimuru's breath came in ragged gasps as Diablo guided him sideways, where Rimuru sank gracefully and let his legs fall apart. As Diablo rose beside him, his eyes glittering with desire, Rimuru closed his eyes and allowed himself to be enveloped by the darkness.

Diablo approached Rimuru's quivering form with a sense of intense focus. His fingers traced delicately over Rimuru's stomach, causing shivers to ripple through the slime god's body. Then, without warning, Diablo pushed Rimuru back onto the cushions, spreading his legs wide apart. 

The demon's gaze never left Rimuru's face as he leaned forward and ran his tongue from Rimuru's perineum up to his anus. Rimuru let out a soft whimper, his muscles clenched involuntarily at the intimate contac t. 

Diablo licked again, circling Rimuru's opening with his tongue, teasing him mercilessly. Finally, with another low growl, Diablo inserted two fingers into Rimuru's ass. 

Rimuru moaned loudly, his head falling backward as Diablo worked his digits deep within him. He could feel Diablo's thumb rubbing gently against his prostate, sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body. 

Diablo removed his fingers, leaving Rimuru panting and wanting more. Rimuru opened his eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of Diablo's leering smile as the demon positioned himself between Rimuru's spread legs. 

Rimuru felt a sudden weight press heavily against his entrance, and he winced slightly, bracing himself for the pain. However, instead of pushing in roughly, Diablo eased himself inside Rimuru bit by bit, taking his time to ensure maximum pleasure for both parties involved. 

Once fully embedded, Diablo started pumping into Rimuru with slow, deliberate strokes. Their bodies were slick with sweat as their movements grew faster and harder. Diablo's grip tightened around Rimuru's hips as he fucked him relentlessly. 

“Please,” he cried out, and Diablo looked at him wide-eyed.

“My lord?” 

He's writhing on the bed, desperately bucking his hips  and ignoring his leaking cock. “Please!”

Diablo understood the meaning behind Rimuru's plea, and he picked up the pace of his thrusts even further. The sound of flesh slapping together filled the room as they moved in perfect sync. Sweat dripped down their faces as their breathing became labored.

Diablo’s pistoning his hips into the demon lord, wincing at the gummy walls sucking him in. It’s almost too much, but he also expected no less from his lord. 

With one last hard push, Diablo buried himself deeply inside Rimuru, holding still as the waves of pleasure washed over them both. They collapsed onto each other, Rimuru shaking as the hot pump of demon seed spread inside him.

Less than a second passes before Diablo’s rocking back into him, hand snaking behind Rimuru’s neck to hold him steady. 

When the whines and gasps fall from Rimuru’s mouth right beside the demon's ear he groans something deep and promising, and Diablo surges forward to leave teeth marks all around his neck.

“Ngh- God,” Rimuru’s crying, sobbing while clutching onto the back of Diablo's hair and jacket. His wish to touch the other man's skin was so potent the fabric dissolved beneath his fingertips as he finally made contact. “More,” he pleads.

It’s enough to have Diablo desperately hitting against his master's prostate, biting his tongue harshly to keep his control after nearly piercing his lord's skin. 

“My lord,” He purrs, pressing the slimes knees upwards to bend him in half, relishing in how deep he sinks within the new angle. 

He’s rewarded with a scream and harsh squeeze from within his glorious lord. “So perfect,” he whimpers, feeling warmth in his hand as he begins to stroke his master's dick which lays pulsing between them. 

He’s coating Diablo in his release, leaving it dripping from his lips and jaw, and the delicious taste that hits his tongue is salvation- the warmth sucking in his bursting sperm a satisfied judgment day.

For long moments afterward, they lay entangled in each other's arms, lost in the afterglow. Eventually, Rimuru lifted his head and gazed into Diablo's eyes. There was a newfound tenderness there, mixed with the raw desire that had consumed them both earlier.

"Thank you," Rimuru whispered, his tone heavy with emotion.

Diablo smiled softly, tracing gentle circles across Rimuru's chest. "You have no need to thank me, my lord. This is what I want, and I will always do whatever it takes to please you."

Rimuru closed his eyes once more, basking in the warmth of Diablo's words and actions. “Such a good boy,” he breaths out, letting his fingers trace his hard chest.

They remained like that for some time longer, reveling in the quiet intimacy of the moment. 

“Please,” Diablo carefully breaks the delicate silence in the room, “call for me again.”

ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴅɪᴀʙʟᴏ | 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕋𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕀 𝔾𝕠𝕥 ℝ𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝔸𝕤 𝔸 𝕊𝕚𝕞𝕖 Head Canons

We all gotta love us some good chaotic butler demon. He’s just so— precious SKSKSK literally love his over dramatic ass in the manga so much y’all oh my god

» » Admin Ko

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Chaotic to a fault, Diablo is the type who will most definitely find any sort of excuse to get close to the person he’s interested in. Be it a false summoning, or even forcing his over-dramatic ass into the physical world for a small chance to at least be near them.

When he’s finally summoned by Rimuru in his evolution, he’s practically gushing with emotions. Not only was he able to see the birth of a True Demon Lord, but to be able to physically stay and be near the person who he’s grown attached to. 

Definitely the most dramatic when the person he likes brushes him off or shoes him off if they have a mission or a duty to attend to, and will undoubtedly ask– beg Rimuru to accompany them for at least a majority of their duties. 

In all honesty, their relationship doesn’t officially start until after they almost die and they have to literally hold the demon back from literally decimating the entire continent they were in. 

To say the least, he’s ecstatic to finally have the person of his affections in his gloved hand. 

Keep reading

He treats her as he serves the goddess🙇‍♂️❤️🧝‍♀️

The Woman *Thomas Shelby x reader

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x reader

Summary: The woman is all he can think about, and he's sure she'll make him go mad one day.

Warnings: Smoking, Mild suggestive themes

Word count: ~1k

A/N: I really love the dynamics in this one, hope you enjoy it as well.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated as always.

----

It’s one of those beautiful autumn mornings; a cool breeze blows through the balcony door, causing the curtain to dance. It will start raining in a few minutes, considering the clouds that are making the sky blue disappear like there is a blanket pulled over it. 

She can feel his breath in the crook of her neck and the heat radiating off his body, making the cool breeze desirable. She slowly smiles and starts caressing his head, careful enough not to wake him up. She wants to hold onto this moment for dear life, but it feels like it’s slipping away through her fingers like sand.

He slowly shifts in her arms, breathing in her scent. She looks at him as he opens his eyes. He tiredly blinks and starts looking at the sky. After a moment, he looks up at her, but no word is exchanged between them. He sees the smile that creeps on her face. She looks like a dream, but he doesn’t dare say that out loud; he’s afraid she will disappear, and let the nightmares haunt him again. 

He closes his eyes for a second, he’s sure that when he opens them, she won’t be here anymore, but then again, he feels her touch on his own body. He opens his eyes and sees her looking at the sky. He knows it’s her favourite time of the year, and he knows that she loves overcast days like today. 

“I think it’ll start raining in a few minutes.” She says lowly, and he just hums in answer. Her voice sounds angelic, and he doesn’t want to forget the sound of it. Even after being married for three months and knowing her well and long enough, her whole presence remains a mystery to him. ‘What did I do to deserve her?’ It was a question he asked himself too often.

He nuzzles his head further into her neck and kisses her softly. He wants to fade in this moment. She holds his head right where it is and caresses his hair. He continues the trail of kisses up until her left cheek, her temples, and her right cheek. At this moment, he has managed to get on top of her. 

She puts her hands on the sides of his head, holding his face. She’s too impatient to wait, she needs him right now, so she does what has to be done and pulls him in for a fierce kiss. He loses his mind when she shows him how much she wants him. She smiles as he kisses her as hard as he can; she feels like the happiest person in the world, blessed to have Tommy all to herself. ‘What did I do to deserve him?’ It was a question she asked herself too often.

“You have no idea of the effect you have, do you?” He whispers against her ear, like a secret only she has to hear. 

“It’s making Thomas Shelby smile, so I must be doing well.” She looks directly into his eyes, her playful smile still on her face. This woman would make him go mad one day. 

He kisses her neck again, and she starts giggling. “You’ll be late, Polly’s expecting you today.” She adds in between her giggles, still holding his head in her hands. He doesn’t pay any attention, and he has started to leave marks on her neck now, making sure everyone notices them. He likes showing off way too much.

She pulls his head up, making him look at her. “Tommy. You’ll be late.” She says more seriously, but her smile betrays her. He nods as he kisses her cheek one last time and gets out of their bed. She looks at him as he washes his face and smiles. She gets out of bed and throws her silk robe around herself, going towards the balcony. The rain has started as she thought it would. She takes her hand out, feeling the cold raindrops on her skin. She closes her eyes and breathes in, smiling pleasantly. He is getting dressed, almost ready to leave. She watches him as he does so, and when he’s done, he steps onto the balcony, right in front of her.

“Aren’t you coming to the betting shop today?” He asks, confused.

She reaches into his coat, taking out his pack of cigarettes and lighter, takes a cigarette out, and places it between her lips.

“I’ll be there in a few. You’ll manage an hour without me.” She says, winking, with the cigarette between her smirking lips as she lights it up. She doesn’t smoke often, but it is a sight for his sore eyes when she does. After taking a puff of the cigarette, she takes the pack and the lighter and puts them back in his coat’s inner pocket, and her hands find their way to his shoulder right after.

“So only an hour? Don’t be late then.” He looks at her, but his eyebrows raise in surprise, and he smiles as she starts giggling.

“Or what? You’re going to fire me?” She answers back, still giggling.

“You’re impossible.” He says with his arms around her waist, a smile still on his face. He adores this woman like she’s a goddess, only for him to worship.

She pulls him in for another kiss, her cigarette in her other hand. He savours the moment like it’s their last kiss.

“I won’t be late.” She reassures him, and he nods while caressing her face. He finally steps back into their bedroom, taking a last glance at her before he leaves.

“I love you.” He says, his hand on the doorknob.

“I love you, too.” She watches as he leaves the room and closes the door behind him. 

She continues smoking the cigarette absentmindedly, smiling as she thinks about her husband, now that the only trace left of him in the room is the lingering scent of his cologne. 

I have an idea for a headcanon: how would the boys react to their partner having a dangerous profession, like a firefighter or police?

Ooooo, this is a good one. Answers below the cut. 🚨👮‍♀️🚔👩‍🚒🚒🚨

Cillian: Would ultimately be supportive if that’s what you really want to do, but he secretly doesn’t like it, and he’d always be worried about you whenever you’re working. Stays up every night until you get home.

Emmett: Wouldn’t want you to do it and would often be saying things like, “I heard they’re looking to hire a new receptionist at the school,” trying to get you to change jobs. Also stays up every night until you get home.

Leonard: Will only allow you to do it if you agree to keep a tracking device in your pocket and also let him track you on his phone so he knows you’re safe. He also does extensive background checks on all your colleagues and taps into the call system to know what calls you get assigned to.

Neil: Is worried about you whenever you’re working, of course, but ultimately, he thinks it’s cool and also hot that that’s your job. Asks if you’ll wear your uniform and if you two can use your handcuffs in the bedroom.

Robert: Does everything he can to try and convince you to no longer do it, and even though he knows you don’t do it for the money and that it’s the work you enjoy, he’s insisting that you don’t have to work at all, since he makes more than enough money. Constantly worries about you and asks you to text him throughout your shift so he knows you’re safe.

Tommy: Doesn’t allow it. Period.

Raymond: Doesn’t like it, as he secretly is always worried about you. Does everything in his power to get himself assigned as your partner so that he can always keep an eye on you. If he can’t be your partner, then he makes sure he can at least control what calls you go on, and he’s always checking where you are.

Jonathan: Doesn’t want you to do it, but he knows you’ll be very upset if he interferes, so he secretly uses his ability to intimidate people to get you taken off any actual calls and have your boss assign you to a desk job instead. Makes sure everyone knows they’ll be in huge trouble if you ever find out what he did.

Jackson: Also doesn’t allow it. Period. But he refuses to admit that it’s because he doesn’t want anything to happen to you. He bluffs and tells you it’s because he wants you at home doing his laundry and cooking his meals.

@ennui-whimsy-and-me @breakthestereo @newbarrel

How would the boys react if they got a taste of their own personality from someone else? Like another person who's just like them. Would they react differently if it was a man or a woman?

Hey there,

I’m guessing, when it comes to a woman, you mean in terms of a potential romantic partner. So, that’s how I approached the answers. Check them out below the cut.

Cillian: Would be very happy to encounter a woman who is similar to himself: laidback, low-maintenance, humble, and who likes to joke around a bit. He would find it amusing and endearing if you can go back and forth with jokes and conversation, and if you have a playful side to you while also being intelligent and passionate about things.

If it was another guy who’s similar to him, he’d likely quickly be befriending that guy and grabbing a beer with him.

Emmett: Same answer as Cillian, actually. Except, despite being genuinely friendly towards the guy, Emmett would still subtly try to display that he’s physically stronger or more knowledgeable about stuff, subconsciously trying to seem extra manly in order to assert himself. “Actually, you wanna wait to flip those burgers until the patties slightly dip in the center,” or “Oh, you hired someone to do that? I built our deck myself.” 😂

Leonard: Would find some sassiness/cockiness that matches his cockiness appealing, as he likes a confident woman, but he wouldn’t like it if you’re as cocky and confident as him, as he still always wants to feel like “the big man” and that he has the upper hand and calls the final shots.

He’d be extremely annoyed and threatened by another man similar to him, however. He wouldn’t want any other guy challenging him or showing him up, and he’d be passive aggressively and condescendingly insulting the guy on a frequent basis.

Neil: Would absolutely love a woman who’s very similar to him as far as kind-hearted, fun-loving, and casual, and who always offers care and support. He would constantly want to be around you and would find you absolutely adorable.

Ironically, though, he would probably think another guy who’s similar to him is a dweeb or a pussy, and that he’s whipped by his woman. 😆

Robert: Would be put off by a woman who’s similar to him in the sense that he doesn’t want her to be emotionally distant, a workaholic, or have a heavy focus on money and power. He wants/needs the opposite of all that from a partner and secretly craves someone soft and sweet who doesn’t care about that stuff.

If he met a man who was similar to him, though, he’d be threatened and aggravated and would make sure he himself was still seen by others as the “top dog” wherever business, wealth, or status is concerned.

Tommy/Modern Tommy: Would be extremely amused and turned on by a woman who is just as self-assured, intimidating, powerful, and smart-mouthed as he is. Is very drawn to you because a woman like you is so rare and can challenge him.

Another man just like him? No way. We all know he’d have that guy knocked down and gotten rid of before he could ever threaten Tommy’s position. There’s only room for one at the top.

Raymond: Would find a woman like himself aggravating and frustrating, as he’s used to being the arrogant, confident, and sarcastic ass who’s in charge and never challenged. But secretly, in spite of himself, he’d also find your confidence and badass attitude extremely attractive and sexy, although he won’t admit it.

As for another man like him? Same answer as Tommy.

Jonathan: Would not be too inclined for a woman similar to himself and would avoid dealing with a woman like that. Yes, he’d want her to be intelligent like himself, but doesn’t want many similarities beyond that. He wants someone who’s pliable, vulnerable, sweet, and harmless, not someone who’s overly confident or cold like himself.

If he met a man similar to himself, he’d be incredibly threatened and would constantly be looking for ways to make him look foolish or to outdo him.

Jackson: Same answers as Raymond. He both hates and loves that you’re just like him. He’s not sure who he’s angrier with about that, though — you or himself.

@ennui-whimsy-and-me @breakthestereo @newbarrel

something about tommy doing voices with his siblings when they were younger and then doing it years later to cheer up john when he's 25... the shelby family is dear to me

tommy + gun holster

The relationship between Vera and William in The Edge of Love is honestly one of the most frustrating things to watch. This is my second watch of the film and William is out here, doing his best to love and support Vera, and what does he get in return? A whole lot of instability in one of hardest times of his life. It’s honestly exhausting.

Excessive yap and spoilers as I break down my views on the film under read more..

Small disclaimer: Yeah, yeah—I get that The Edge of Love isn’t supposed to be a feel-good romance. It’s meant to be messy, raw, and full of flawed people making flawed choices. That’s kind of the point. And why I keep watching it. I love these types of emotional conflicts and it helps me become a better writer. But still—just because it’s intentional doesn’t make it any less infuriating to watch these people fumble around with each other's hearts like it’s a game. Messy art is great. Emotional whiplash with zero accountability? Not so much.

Vera is so wrapped up in her own self-pity and drama that she can barely see past her own nose. She strings William along with all her highs and lows, and she just expects him to drop everything for her. Meanwhile, poor William is constantly proven to be the stable, steady force she needs (at least before his posting in Italy..)—while she’s out here, tossing him aside whenever Dylan comes around...

I’m not saying William's perfect. He’s flawed, sure. He persuaded her to marry him when she wasn’t ready and disregarded the fact that she openly said “what if I can’t love you” so I can see the conflict there (that scene made me raise an eyebrow..). But the man is trying, and the least Vera could do is appreciate him, instead of playing these games. But no, she keeps yanking him back in, using his devotion as a safety net. It’s like she’s so caught up in her own mess that she can’t even see what she’s doing to the one guy who actually wants to be there for her. If anyone’s taking the emotional beating here, it’s William.

It’s not that Vera doesn’t care about William—it’s that she cares in the most convoluted, self-serving way possible that irks me so bad.

Now, I get it. Vera's drawn to Dylan because he’s familiar, magnetic, and lets her romanticize the past. When William is off to war and the letters stop, she spirals—loneliness sets in, and suddenly Dylan feels like the only person who remembers who she used to be. That kind of emotional isolation is real. But let’s not confuse understanding her motives with excusing them. Because yeah, William stopped replying to her letters—he’s at war!! That doesn’t give Vera a free pass to hop in bed with Dylan just because she’s feeling sad and abandoned.

At some point, you've got to take responsibility for the damage you cause, even when you're hurting. William deserved honesty. He deserved loyalty. Instead, he got sidelined. And honestly? He should’ve walked...

The parallels between Caitlin and William are striking, especially when they both utter those heartbreaking words: "I have nothing left." They are a reflection of each other’s despair. William, broken by Vera’s betrayal and the disillusionment of war, feels like everything—love, trust, even himself—has been stripped away. Caitlin, on the other hand, says it from a place of emptiness, like she’s losing whatever hope she had left for the life she once imagined. Both of them are grasping at what little remains of their dignity and sense of self. The beauty of it is that they’re both at their emotional lowest, yet there’s still this thread of humanity that keeps them moving forward, even if they don’t fully understand what they’re holding onto. It’s a masterful way to show the human condition—how, when we feel we’ve got nothing left, we still carry pieces of ourselves.

And can we talk about how Vera was out here spending William’s money on Caitlin and Dylan’s freeloading? While he’s literally dodging death—it’s just another layer of the chaos.

But all that emotional wreckage leads us right to the film’s sharpest point: William, back from war, unable to even trust that the baby she’s carrying is his. That tension, that heartbreak—it builds and builds until it snaps in that quiet, devastating climax. It's brutal. But it’s also brilliant storytelling. All the betrayal and disillusionment finally crash into something raw and real.

Vera’s declaration that she couldn’t live without William to Dylan during the trial is just the peak of her hypocrisy and self-serving manipulation. It’s almost laughable when you think about it. She spent so much time emotionally and physically distancing herself from William, finding comfort in Dylan and Caitlin—only to pull this “I can’t live without him” line when it’s convenient for her.

Honestly, it’s infuriating because it’s the exact opposite of how she treated him. If she couldn’t live without him, she sure didn’t act like it when it mattered most. When she tells Dylan that William is her “world” that she has “no room for anyone else”, it reeks of self-preservation more than anything like real love. She’s not choosing William because she loves him more. She’s choosing him because he’s the only real option she has left. It’s another layer of her selfishness—this time cloaked in desperation and romantic language, but still all about Vera doing what’s best for Vera.

Because really, staying with William means stability. It’s the more forgiving path and a future that—while rocky—still offers some grounding. Dylan, on the other hand, represents chaos. He’s exciting but ultimately untenable. She knows that.

And we haven’t even touched on the poems. The way they thread through the film, carrying all that unspoken emotion, regret, longing—it’s a whole layer of storytelling that deserves its own deep dive. Same with Caitlin and Vera’s relationship—volatile, intimate, competitive, sometimes tender, sometimes cruel. There's so much happening between those two that it’s an entirely separate discussion.

In the end, Vera’s selfishness is undeniable—her actions hurt everyone around her, especially William. But for all the damage, she and William do get their version of a happy ending. It’s quiet, understated, maybe not what everyone hoped for, but it’s there. Still, I would’ve loved a bit more—some real reconciliation, some earned tenderness between them. After everything, it felt like they needed a moment to truly see each other again… and we didn’t quite get that.

🎧 Love Never Wanted Me, But I Took It Anyway.

Tommy Shelby x Reader.

[Part of Daisy's Lyric Drabbles]

She had soft eyes and a softer heart, two things Tommy Shelby had never deserved.

He knew it, even as he stood in the hallway of her home with blood drying beneath his fingernails and guilt soaking through his bones. She shouldn’t have let him in. She shouldn’t have kissed him that night on Watery Lane. She shouldn’t have stayed, night after night, knowing full well that men like him were built for war, not warmth.

But she had.

And he, the selfish bastard that he was, had let her.

Tommy wasn’t a man built for love. Not the kind she gave so freely. His love came loaded with silence, with shadows, with names carved into marble. His love came with a cost, and she, a beautiful, impossible woman, had paid it in full.

But even when she bled for him, cried for him, pleaded with him to stop chasing death in every deal he made, he couldn’t let go.

Hands trembling, he dropped to the edge of her bed as she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in one of his shirts, unaware of the war inside him. She smiled. Soft. Warm. Forgiving.

He didn’t deserve her.

But Tommy Shelby had never let that stop him.

HEADCANNON REQUEST! How would the boys try to make amends (if at all) after a petty argument that has you giving them the cold shoulder?

Cillian: Would find it amusing that you’re acting like that and would just continue to talk to you like nothing was out of the ordinary. He’d intentionally say stuff that he knows would rile you up or that you disagree with until you finally cave and start talking to him again. Once you’re talking once more, you’re apologizing to each other, sharing a sweet hug and kiss.

Emmett: He tries to make amends by doing little things for you like making dinner, taking your car to the gas station and filling up your tank, and letting you choose what you watch on TV that night. While you’re sitting on the couch, he’s reaching for your hand or wrapping his arm around you, and you two are eventually snuggling and apologizing to each other.

Leonard: He buys you flowers and is bringing home takeout from your favorite restaurant for dinner. As you’re unpacking the food, he comes up to you at the counter, hugging you from behind as he apologizes for being an ass. Once you agree and teasingly call him a few more names, you’re giggling as he tickles you as punishment, then you two are making up with a kiss.

Neil: He follows you around everywhere and keeps making sad, apologetic faces at you, even leaning over or moving around in order to get you to meet his eyes and see the pouty faces he’s making. Doesn’t stop until he finally gets you to crack a smile or laugh, and when you do, he’s then dramatically apologizing, pretending he’s gonna die unless you forgive him.

Robert: Creates a romantic night for you at home with an exquisitely set table in front of the fireplace, candles and flowers included. You walk into the condo to find him attempting to cook your favorite dinner, wearing an apron over his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and the kitchen an absolute mess. As soon as you see him, any lingering annoyance you had is gone. All you can do is kiss him.

Tommy: Comes up behind you and holds you against him, apologizing with his lips pressed to your temple as he tells you that he knows he’s a cranky, stubborn, demanding, unbearable jackass. Says that he has no idea how or why you continue to put up with him, but that he knows he’s the luckiest man on Earth because you do. Allows you to playfully smack the back of his head before he kisses you.

Raymond: Doesn’t mind that you’re giving him the cold shoulder at first, because he’s so stubborn and as equally as frustrated as you, even if he was the one in the wrong. However, when his ego finally relents a bit, he’s trying to make amends, but without words, because he still hates the idea of admitting he’s at fault. Instead, when he gets in bed that night, he’s wrapping his arms around you from behind and holding you close, silently spooning you as you two fall asleep.

Jonathan: Actually, he behaves the same way as you, giving you the silent treatment. When you two argue/disagree, he gets as stubborn and prideful as you, and dare we say a little petty? This lasts for a day or two until neither of you want to keep it up anymore. Finally, when the two of you are in his office, you’re silently walking past him when he reaches out and firmly yet gently pulls you down into the chair with him. As you sit in his lap, you two are apologizing to each other as you stroke the back of his neck and he’s massaging your thighs.

Jackson: “You’re giving me the cold shoulder/silent treatment? You mean I don’t have to hear you bitching and nagging at me anymore? It’s a dream come true!”

@ennui-whimsy-and-me @breakthestereo @newbarrel

more jonathan crane content pretty please♡

Excellent timing, babes.

I just finished some headcanons I had about Jonathan being sent to Arkham.

Jonathan Crane x Reader Headcanons

When Jonathan gets locked up in Arkham, he fully believes that you’ll abandon him. Not because he believes that you’re unloyal, but because in his mind, “Why would you stay?”. Why would you put yourself at risk of danger and ridicule, for him? Because he is insecure and cynical, and he refuses to believe that someone would care that much for him. He’s not angry, but he does feel a strong bitterness for his predicament.

So, when he is brought into a visitation room to see who he expects to be a lawyer or a detective, he is surprised to see you.

He’ll sit there, not saying anything, as he studies you. The look of worry and relief that is written plainly across your face confuses him. However, he’s not about to get his hopes up, so he gives you a smirk and asks if you’ve come to say your final goodbyes to him.

He arches a brow when he’s met with a simple, “Don’t be ridiculous, Jonathan”. When you start your questions of “Are you alright? How are they treating you? Is there anyone I can call? Can I bring you anything? What can I do?” is when his walls crumble.

Because no one has ever shown him such concern or care. Not his neighbors when his grandparents abused him. Not his teachers when he was viciously bullied. But you do. You are sitting in front of him, fretting over him.

He won’t verbalize or outwardly express the relief he feels that you aren’t abandoning him. Except how he looks at you. The way he watches you during the remainder of your visit can only be described as pure adoration and affection.

When the visiting hour ends and he’s forced away from you, you hastily wrap your arms around him before the guards can tell you off. He melts. Still locked in his straitjacket, all he can do is lean into you and soak up your warmth. When your fingers tangle into his hair, he almost whines groans. All too soon he is dragged out and his mood quickly sours.

Two things happen that night. First, Jonathan finalizes his plans for escaping Arkham. Second, he decides on the kind of ring he’s going to get you.

My Friendly Neighborhood Tag : @lau219

You know, I was rewatching The Wind That Shakes the Barley (again) and like...

No wonder Damien wanted to be a doctor. In his few doctory scenes he was so good at it. And it was beyond knowing the anatomy or the science. It was knowing people. The scene in the prison? (The first one, not the one with just him and Teddy.) People were freaking out, sure they couldn't handle what Teddy was going through. Damien quickly came in telling them soothingly to be strong and then when someone started singing he quickly joined in and encouraged the others to do the same. When they brought Teddy back he immediately knew what to do and comforted Teddy while doing it. When they brought Damien to tend to a sick child he was gentle and sweet.

Can you imagine him if he'd been able to live a completely different life? Can you imagine him as a doctor, perhaps with Sinéad as his wife? Letting people vent their anger at him when he couldn't save a patient then accepting their apologies? Listening patiently as a patient with poor memory told him the same story he'd heard just a moment before? Smiling at a young child rattling off random and obvious facts about the day, such as the puffiness of clouds or that the sky is blue? Going home and admitting to Sinéad that it bothered him he couldn't save everyone? Letting her reassure him he tried his best?

And this would be a world where he and Teddy wouldn't have had the same tragedies they did in the movie. One where Teddy could boast about his brother's accomplishments and Damien could lovingly talk about how stubborn Teddy was and they could laugh together as they talked about their childhood.

And some people might say it's just a movie, but that's not entirely true. The movie was founded in history, in real events. Damien and Teddy may be fictional characters, but there were countless Damiens and Teddys — people who felt they couldn't ignore what was going on and sacrificed their own chances for lives that would have been altogether less tragic and bloody. It reminds me of what Teddy said in the jail, when he asked Damien to go home to Sinéad and raise children who were kind and gentle. How many people in that time were refused those kind and gentle lives because of that history, just like Damien and Teddy?

I made myself sad.

guys we have to take peaky blinders from the straight cis men i’m not even fucking around. i have like five more weeks of school left but after that i’m about to go strong with this agenda bc tommy shelby can’t be understood by them they way he needs to be understood. he’s trapped! they’re thinking his toxic masculinity is a good thing! they watched him try to kill himself sixty times between the years 1924 to 1934 and they thought ‘we need more men like that.’ they don’t know anything about his white horse and the purity of childhood he’s been chasing his entire adult life. they don’t understand the injustice of it all. it doesn’t make them sick to their stomachs!!!

#he’s done

𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝒶𝓂 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝑒𝒹𝒾𝓉

Peaky Blinders Season 3 | Episode 2

don’t mean to be nsfw but i know he is the sort of man who believes in real love (is a staunch supporter of eating a woman out; enjoys having sex during the day and in the light because he likes to seeing you; would go back to war if it meant he could be in that place where he buries himself to the hilt inside of you and you look at him like you’ve discovered the garden of eden together; does that pretty thing where he lights two cigarettes at once in his mouth, and then passes one to you, or when you ask him for a light, he grips your chin, smiling, and lights yours with the end of his; big fan of shared baths and casual nudity; never lets go of your hand in a crowd; can, but prefers not to, distinct between love and worship; kisses you on the mouth when you laugh at something he says in bed because he loves, loves, loves you; kinda gets possessive in a way he understands as irrational and senseless and manifests mostly in fucking you tenderly and telling you, softly, that your his but not in that odd misogynistic way — more like: god made him just to find you, and your his because he can’t fathom it being anyone else. because there is no one else).

Thomas Shelby - Peaky Blinders - S2E6

Tommy Shelby x Reader: By Order of Blood

Summary: Tommy Shelby thought sending you away would keep you safe, until the carriage was intercepted. Now, as he cradles your trembling, broken body, he swears two things: he will never let you go again… and the men who touched you won’t live to see another sunrise.

Word count: 8.5k

Warnings: angst, violence, injury descriptions (mentions of blood, torture, SA), PTSD, nightmares, and panic attacks, emotional distress, and revenge-driven violence (also includes lots of hurt / comfort).

A/N: Lost all motivation to write my normal stuff recently, but currently rewatching peaky blinders and feeling all sorts of ways about my boyyy tommy shelby.

"Tommy, please. Don't do this." Your voice was barely above a whisper as the weight of the moment pressed down on your chest like a stone.

You reached for him, fingers trembling as they grazed the fabric of his coat. 

But he didn’t budge. He stood rigid, back straight, his jaw locked so tight you could practically see the muscle ticking underneath his skin. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, a thin wisp of smoke curling in the dim light.

His face was unreadable, a mask of cold detachment. It was the same one he wore when giving orders that decided life or death. 

"You’re leaving tonight," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

You shook your head before he was even finished speaking, your breath catching. "No– no, I don’t want to leave."

Tommy exhaled slowly, as if he was gearing up for a fight. "This is not about what you want."

Your throat tightened. "Tommy, please–"

"You’ll be safer away from me."

You let out a dry, hollow laugh. "Safer?" The word tasted bitter on your tongue. "Tommy, I’m safe when I’m with you. The further away you are, the less safe I’ll feel."

For a second, you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes. Hesitation. Regret. Maybe even doubt. But then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Buried beneath layers of steel.

His shoulders stiffened, his fingers tightening around the cigarette. "You’ll have guards."

"I don’t want guards." Your voice wavered. "I want you. What if something happens, Tommy? What then?"

His breath hitched, but he remained stoic. "It won’t," he said firmly.

You searched his face, desperate for something, anything, that would tell you he wasn’t as sure about this as he was pretending to be. That this was tearing him apart, too. But all you saw was cold resolve. Complete certainty. 

A hollow feeling spread through your stomach as the truth settled in your bones. He had already made up his mind. And there was nothing you could say to make him change it.

Panic pressed against your ribs. You wanted to tell him that being away from him would be worse than any danger that lurked in Birmingham. But you couldn’t find the words.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, Tommy took one last drag from his cigarette before putting it out with slow, deliberate movements. When he finally looked at you, his blue eyes were unreadable.

"The carriage is waiting."

The words hit you like a blow, stealing whatever fight you had left.

You felt yourself nod, but you didn’t say anything. There was nothing left to say. Without another word, you turned and walked away, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the silence.

And Thomas Shelby let you go. 

…

The wooden seat beneath you felt cold and unforgiving. But not nearly as cold as the hollow feeling in your chest.

You sat stiffly, arms folded across your body. Your stomach churned– a mixture between fear, anger, and grief. Each emotion fought for dominance, and yet all you could do was stare blankly at the road stretching endlessly ahead of you, your surroundings blurring past the window.

You tried to rationalize his actions and remind yourself why he made the choices he did. But this didn’t feel like protection anymore. 

It felt like a punishment. 

The hours dragged. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and the occasional creak of the carriage were the only sounds filling the silence. You hadn’t spoken a word to the driver or to the men Tommy had sent to guard you. You refused. Who cared if they thought you were some entitled brat?

But then, suddenly, something in the air shifted.

You weren’t sure what it was at first. Maybe it was just a feeling, an unease that coiled in your stomach like a vice. But then you noticed the hooves come to a gradual stop. One of the guards riding ahead straightened in his saddle, glancing toward the dense trees lining the road.

Your pulse quickened, but before you could even part your lips to ask what was wrong, you heard the gunshot.

A sickening crack followed by shouting. One of the men slumped forward on his horse before crashing onto the dirt road in a heap. The horses screamed, rearing violently. The carriage lurched, sending you slamming into the side with a sharp gasp.

Another shot. Another thud. 

The second guard fell before he could even draw his gun. Then the driver let out a strangled yell, yanking hard on the reins. 

But it was too late.

Figures emerged from the darkness of the trees, their boots pounding against the dirt, moving fast. Panic seized you. Without thinking, you scrambled toward the door, heart hammering, fumbling for the latch. You could still get out, still run, still–

But when you threw your weight against it, the door didn’t budge.

The impact from the gunfire, the carriage rocking on the uneven road– it had bent the frame inward. The wood creaked, but the metal hinges were jammed tight.

"No, no, no–” you pleaded. You pushed harder, shoulders slamming against the door.

Then, the other door was yanked open violently, nearly ripping off its hinges. You barely had time to turn before rough, gloved hands grabbed you, wrenching you forward. You thrashed against them, kicking, clawing, screaming for them to let go. 

"Shut her up!" A voice snapped. 

And just like that, the back end of a gun slammed into your gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your vision blurred as your body doubled over. Fingers fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so hard your scalp burned.

One of the men leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek.

"I guess Shelby should’ve sent more men."

Your heart pounded violently in your chest as the other men chuckled darkly.

Your hands shook as you tried to fight, but there were too many of them, too many voices, too many shadows closing in around you. You screamed again. 

Then, a final, crushing blow to the side of your head sent the world tilting. Your knees buckled. 

And then– total darkness.

…

The office smelled of whiskey and smoke as the low glow of candlelight flickered against the walls. Tommy sat behind his desk, fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t yet touched.

Across from him, Arthur was talking. Something about business, numbers, men needing paying, but Tommy wasn’t listening. He had been distracted all night.

His mind kept circling back to you. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself he made the right choice– that sending you away had been for your own good, that it was the only way to keep you safe. That image of you, eyes wide, pleading, your fingers brushing against his coat before he had forced himself to turn away remained at the forefront of his mind.

"Tommy, please," you had begged. 

He had ignored the way it made his chest ache, forcing himself to shut down the part of him that wanted to keep you close.

Because this was the only way.

Right?

But if it was the right choice, then why the fuck did it feel like such a fucking mistake?

"Tom?" Arthur’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Tommy blinked, setting the untouched glass down with slow, deliberate movements. His fingers tapped against the wood, a restless habit. "What?"

Arthur frowned, watching him closely. "You haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said, have you?"

A muscle in Tommy’s jaw twitched. 

Arthur exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Jesus, Tommy. Forget about it. You did the right thing, yeah? She’s safer out of Birmingham. You said so yourself."

Tommy leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. He shook his head, reaching for the cigarette pack on his desk, desperate for something to quiet his mind. But just as he struck the match, the door burst open.

Tommy’s head snapped up.

John stood in the doorway, breathless and pale.

"Tommy–" he panted, eyes wide with urgency. "The carriage– we just got word– it was intercepted–"

For a moment, the words didn’t register. A slow, heavy silence fell over the room. Tommy just stared at him, cigarette burning between his fingers, unmoving. Then, a sharp, cold wave of panic slammed into his chest.

His chair scraped against the floor as he shot to his feet. "What?" His voice was dangerously quiet.

John swallowed hard. "One of the scouts came back. The men– the guards you sent– they’re dead. Driver too."

The room tilted. A deafening ringing filled Tommy’s ears, drowning out everything else.

No, no, no. No. 

"Where?" Tommy demanded, his voice now urgent, raw, trembling with barely contained terror.

"We don’t know yet–"

Tommy’s chest heaved, his breath coming sharp and ragged. "Find out," he snapped, grabbing his coat. His hands were shaking. "Find out right fucking now."

Arthur was already up, grabbing his gun. "We’re going after her, Tommy."

Tommy ran a hand through his hair, pacing, trying to think, trying to breathe, trying not to fucking lose it.

He had sent you away.

He had sent you away.

His heart pounded violently, his throat tight with a kind of fear he had never felt before.

Not anger. Not fury. Not vengeance.

Fear.

Because if they had taken you…

If they had hurt you…

Tommy couldn’t finish the thought.

Because the moment he did, he wouldn’t be able to fucking breathe.

…

When you woke up, the first thing you registered was the pain. 

The deep, aching throb in your skull. The metallic taste of blood coated your tongue, thick and suffocating.

Your body felt heavy, your limbs sluggish as you tried to move, only to realize that you couldn’t.

Panic slid into your chest, sharp and immediate as you became aware of the restraints, of the rough, biting feel of rope digging into your wrists, binding them behind the back of a chair. Your breath hitched, vision swimming in the overwhelming darkness that surrounded you.

You struggled against the restraints, muscles screaming in protest, but the chair barely creaked beneath your weight. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rotting wood and stale sweat. Somewhere in the distance, you heard the faint melodic drop of water.

A basement. Maybe a warehouse. Somewhere completely forgotten.

A door creaked open and your breath stilled. There were footsteps– slow and leisurely. 

A shadow loomed at the edge of the room, then a man stepped forward, boots scraping against the concrete floor. The dim light of a lantern illuminated his features, dark eyes full of amusement, a smirk twisting his thin lips.

"Well, well," he drawled, tilting his head. "Look who's awake."

Your stomach coiled in disgust as he came closer, circling you like a predator playing with its prey. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stay still, to keep your expression blank.

The man stopped just beside you, tapping a finger against his chin, mockingly thoughtful. "You’re prettier up close," he mused. "Is that why Shelby keeps you so close? Well… not this time I guess."

A beat of silence. Then, his voice dropped into something colder, sharper. "Where’s he keeping his next shipment?"

You didn’t answer but his smirk only widened. "Playing the silent game, are we?"

He moved closer to you, and before you could react, a sharp, stinging slap cracked across your cheek.

Your head snapped to the side, your vision blurring with the impact.

"You’ll want to answer me," he said menacingly. "Or this is going to get a hell of a lot worse for you."

You clenched your teeth, forcing your breath to stay even. 

He let out a disappointed sigh. "Stubborn little thing, aren’t you? Brave, even?" He stepped closer, gripping the arms of your chair, leaning in until his breath was hot against your ear. "But tell me, sweetheart… how brave do you think you’ll be when we’re through with you?"

You refused to let him see your fear. But inside, terror clawed at your ribs, sinking in deep.  

The man stepped back, studying you. His smirk hadn't faltered, but you could see the frustration flicker in his dark eyes.

"Not talking, eh?" He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if this were some inconvenience, some tedious task he had to complete before moving on with his night.

Then, without warning, his fist slammed into your stomach.

Your body jerked violently against the ropes, a strangled gasp ripping from your throat as the air was stolen from your lungs. White, hot agony flared in your gut, the chair beneath you rocking from the force of it. You coughed, your body instinctively trying to double over, but the ropes held you upright, forcing you to endure it.

Still, you said nothing.

The man let out a humorless chuckle. "Tough girl, huh?"

Another blow. To your face again. You bit the inside of your cheek, swallowing the cry that threatened to escape.

"Tell me," he continued casually, shaking out his fist, "where the Peaky Blinders keep their weapons."

You lifted your head slowly, breathing heavily through your nose. Then, you spat blood onto the floor at his feet.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. And then, his hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so sharply you let out a strangled gasp.

"I was hoping you’d be difficult," he murmured, tilting his head. "It makes this so much more fun for me."

Deep fear curled around your bones like ice. Because you knew exactly what men like him were capable of. He let go of your hair abruptly, your head snapping forward from the force of it, pain splintering through your already throbbing skull.The next blow came before you could brace yourself. It was a heavy, brutal punch to your nose. Pain exploded behind your eyes, your body lurching sideways, nearly toppling the chair. Your ears rang, the room spinning wildly.

Your nose was dripping. It took you a second to realize it was blood, warm and thick as it trailed down your lips. Still, you didn’t speak. 

He let out a long, slow breath, tilting his head as he studied you. "I can do this all night," he said lightly, as if he weren’t already beating you bloody. Then, something darker crossed his expression. 

"But maybe," he continued, voice lower, silkier, more dangerous, "I could find other ways to make you talk."

Your stomach churned at the sight of his gaze, predatorial. Every muscle in your body seized as he took a step forward, one hand reaching for his pocket. Then, metal glinted under the dim light.

A knife. Not small, not discreet, but long, sharp, wicked.

He flicked it open with an almost lazy motion, rolling it between his fingers like a coin, as if the weapon was nothing more than a casual accessory to him. "You know," he mused, tilting his head, his eyes dragging over your bound, broken form with something close to amusement, "I've always wondered how many pieces a person can be cut into before they bleed out."

He crouched beside you, the blade dancing along his fingers, before slowly pressing the cold steel under your chin.

"Tell me what I want to know," he murmured, his voice almost gentle, like a whisper of silk against your skin. 

More silence. 

He smirked. A devilish grin spread across his face. “Maybe I'll start with the fingers."

Your heart pounded violently, every nerve in your body screaming at you to run, fight, do something– 

But what were you supposed to do? The ropes bit into your wrists, your limbs too weak, too battered, your breath too shallow.

"Think I'm bluffing?" he asked, watching your reaction. "Think I won’t carve you up, nice and slow?"

The knife dragged downward, grazing lightly along the column of your throat, just enough to prickle your skin, to remind you how easily he could cut deeper.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Because I will, sweetheart," he whispered, almost fondly. "And when I'm done, I’ll send the pieces back to Shelby. One by one."

“I don’t know where the weapons are,” The words spilled out before you could even think, desperate, shaky, but holding just enough bite to make them believable. “Tommy doesn’t tell me those things– says it’s not a woman’s business to know– that we’d break too easily if we got questioned.”

Your breath hitched, your pulse roaring in your ears as you held his gaze, willing yourself to look small, weak, unimportant.

He laughed. Low, dark, amused. He leaned in again, the overwhelming stench of sweat and smoke rolling off him in waves.

"You think I believe that?" His voice was smooth as he tilted his head, watching you with something cruel, calculating. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts, your hands twisting uselessly behind your back, fingers numb from the ropes cutting into your skin.

You didn’t answer. Because you knew better. Men like him didn’t want the truth. They wanted excuses to hurt you.

He sighed, feigning disappointment. "See, sweetheart, here’s the problem with your little lie." He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper, something smudged with dirt and blood.

"One of your guards had this tucked in his coat. An order from Mr. Shelby himself," he said, unfolding it with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Says to keep you safe. Says not to let you out of their sight."

The bastard grinned as he tossed the paper onto your lap. "Now, why would Thomas Shelby go through all that trouble for someone who doesn’t know anything?"

You felt cold all over. He knew. No amount of lying was going to save you now.

"Yeah," he murmured, standing upright. "That’s what I thought."

His hand shot out suddenly, gripping your jaw, forcing your head back. You winced, but didn’t look away. A cruel smile spread across his face. "That’s good," he murmured. "I like when they look at me."

Then, cold steel pressed against your cheek. You flinched violently, your breath stuttering, but he only grinned wider, his grip tightening, holding you in place. 

"You’ll tell me what I want to know," he promised, his fingers digging into your bruised skin. "Sooner or later."

The blade slid downward, slow, deliberate, tracing the delicate line of your jaw.

Then, it pressed in. A sharp, searing pain bloomed beneath your skin, and you gasped, body jerking instinctively, but the ropes held you tight, trapped.

A thin line of warm blood trickled down your cheek. He hummed in satisfaction. His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, slow, taunting. "Maybe I’ll give you some time to think about it," he mused, releasing you with a sharp shove.

…

Tommy paced the office like a caged animal, fingers tugging through his hair, his mind racing faster than his body could keep up.

The room was too small, too fucking suffocating, and the longer it took to get information, the more his chest tightened, the more his hands shook.

"Where the fuck is she?"

No one had an answer.

Tommy turned on John. "Who told you? Who gave you the fucking word?"

John swallowed, shifting on his feet. "A scout, one of our boys in Small Heath– he saw the wreckage. The guards, the driver… all dead, Tommy."

His stomach dropped.

Bodies.

But no mention of her.

He felt sick. Cold. A new kind of fear he hadn’t felt since the war clawed its way up his throat like bile. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. If they had taken you alive, that meant they wanted something from you.

He had to find you. Now. A sharp knock on the door cut through the tense silence. Isaiah stepped in, breathless, eyes wide.

"We’ve got something."

Tommy’s head snapped up so fast his vision blurred.

"Where?"

Isaiah wiped a hand down his face, shaking his head. "We don’t know for sure, but one of the lads caught wind of a group setting up shop in an old distillery just outside the city– on the outskirts near the river."

"Who?" Tommy’s voice was deadly calm, but the way his hands shook slightly at his sides betrayed him.

Isaiah hesitated. "You’re not gonna like the answer, Tom."

Tommy’s chest tightened. "Say it," he demanded.

Isaiah exhaled. "Sabini’s men."

The room went deathly quiet.

Arthur swore, kicking the leg of a chair so hard it splintered.

Sabini.

That filthy fucking bastard had been waiting for an opportunity to strike, and Tommy had handed it to him on a silver fucking platter when he sent you away. Tommy felt his pulse roar in his ears, drowning out every other sound in the room.

He turned to Arthur. "Get everyone. We move now."

His brother didn’t hesitate. As Arthur stormed out, barking orders to the rest of the men, Tommy grabbed his coat, his revolver already in his hand.

He didn’t just want to kill them.

He wanted to wipe them from existence.

Because they had taken you.

And Thomas Shelby was going to burn the fucking city down to get you back.

…

Your wrists were raw from the ropes, skin rubbed red and torn from how hard you had fought– fought for nothing, fought for no one to come, fought just to survive another minute, another second.

You were too weak to fight anymore. Your entire body was screaming in agony, every nerve burning, every muscle aching with exhaustion.

Your stomach throbbed violently, a deep, searing pain radiating from one of the larger gashes that had been carved into your skin. You could still feel the sting of the blade as it sank into your flesh, the warm trickle of blood spilling down your ribs, soaking into the shredded remains of your clothes.

What was left of them, anyway.

Your dress had been ripped apart, torn from your body in jagged, humiliating shreds, exposing bruised, violated skin.

The men had touched you, their hands roaming, gripping, forcing you still, their laughter ringing in your ears as they stripped you down like you were nothing more than something to be used.

You had fought, God, you had fought, thrashing, kicking, but their hands had been stronger, crueler, unyielding.

Now, you could feel the cool air biting at your skin, the exposed places where they had left their marks– dark bruises, bloody scratches, shame carved into your very bones. Your arms shook, the fabric clinging to what was left of you, offering little protection, little dignity.

You felt disgusting.

Ruined.

And even though they had been interrupted before they could take it any further, the damage was already done.

The way they had laughed. Cruel, mocking, like your pain was amusing, like your struggle meant nothing.

"Shelby won’t want you now."

The words had sliced deeper than the knife, burrowing into your chest, your ribs, your bones.

"Damaged goods."

"Bet he won’t even look at you when we’re done."

It was all still there, burned into your mind, bleeding into your skin like an invisible brand you would never escape.

And your ribs– God, your ribs. Every inhale was a battle, every breath felt like knives digging into your sides, sharp and relentless. You didn’t know if they were bruised or broken, but the deep, throbbing ache that rattled through your chest made you certain that something was damaged beyond repair.

Even the slightest movement sent sharp, unbearable pain lancing through you, making your vision blur, making bile rise in your throat.

Your face was swollen, beaten, the metallic taste of blood thick on your tongue.

Your body flinched violently as hands roamed over you, rough fingers gripping, bruising, tearing fabric, exposing too much. A cruel chuckle ghosted over your ear.

"Not so tough now, are you?"

The words barely registered through the haze, but the hot breath against your skin did, the weight of a body pressing against you. Suffocating.

You turned your head, gasping sharply, choking on a sob as your body tried to shrink away, but the ropes held you firm, like an animal waiting for slaughter.

Another pair of hands gripped your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to disappear inside yourself, trying to will yourself into a place where this wasn’t happening, wasn’t real.

Then– footsteps, shouting.

Not inside the room, but outside.

The hands stilled.

More voices now, low, urgent, laced with something that sounded close to alarm.

"Go check it out," one of the men shouted.

A few of them grumbled, hesitating, as if reluctant to leave, but then another loud thud echoed from beyond the door, followed by the distant clatter of metal hitting the floor.

The man above you cursed, pushing off of you abruptly, leaving behind a nauseating heat where his body had been pressing against yours.

"Fucking deal with her," he ordered the one who stayed behind before storming toward the door.

You heard them shuffle out, their boots heavy against the floor, the door creaking as it was pulled shut behind them. One remained. 

Then– Gunfire. A sharp, brutal crack shook the walls. The man froze. Another shot. Then another. Shouts of panic cried outside the door, the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the ground. And then the door burst open.

The man barely had time to turn, barely had time to lift his knife, barely had time to do anything, before a bullet tore through his skull, the shot echoing like thunder.

His body crumpled to the floor.

More boots pounded into the room. Your swollen, half-lidded eyes struggled to focus, your mind fading in and out, but you knew– you knew those voices. Someone dropped to their knees beside you.

"Fuck– It’s her." The voice was urgent, but familiar. "She’s alive. Love, it’s me– it’s John. Can ya hear me?"

He moved to untie you, but you let out a small, broken noise. Weakly, you tried to turn away, as if you could somehow hide your exposed body from him– hide from what had been done to you.

"Shit– someone get her a coat, something!" John hollered. 

More hurried voices. More boots scuffing against the ground.

Then a voice rang out. "Get out of the fucking way!"

The tone was raw, shaking with rage, sharp enough to cut through the chaos like a knife. Everyone moved aside instantly.

Tommy’s blue eyes locked onto you, widening as he took in the bruises, the gash on your stomach leaking blood, the torn fabric barely covering your body.

Then, under his breath, so low it was barely a whisper, he muttered, "Jesus Christ.” 

His coat was off his shoulders in an instant. He crouched down and carefully draped it over you, covering as much of your exposed skin as he could. The weight of it should’ve been comforting, should’ve felt like protection, but you flinched. The sudden movement sent a fresh wave of pain coursing through your body, making your breath hitch sharply in your throat. Tommy’s jaw tightened. His hands hovered, like he was unsure if touching you would only make things worse.

John knelt beside him, fingers moving to quickly undo the ropes. 

Your body swayed forward as the last rope fell away, your muscles too weak to hold you upright, but Tommy’s hands shot out instantly, catching you before you could collapse completely. He felt the way you tensed. The way your body tried to shrink away, as if you weren’t sure whether his hands were safe ones or not. 

“Can you walk?” His voice was low, controlled, but his heart was fucking pounding.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t even manage to look up at him– like you didn’t even register his question.

Your head hung limply forward, resting weakly against his shoulder. Your breath came in shallow bursts as the weight of exhaustion and pain dragged you down.

That was all the answer he needed. Without hesitation, he scooped you up into his arms. The moment he lifted you, a sharp, strangled cry tore from your throat as the wound on your stomach pinched.

“I got you,” The sound of your pain sent a violent shudder through Tommy’s body, his grip instinctively tightening. “I know, love. I know.”

Your head lolled against his chest, another small whimper escaping your lips as his arms adjusted their hold, careful but unrelenting. His breath was uneven as he stood, keeping you pressed tightly against him, shielding you as much as he could.

Your pain was his pain now.

Your suffering was his burden to bear.

And he was going to make every last one of those bastards suffer for what they had done to you.

The night air was cold, but Tommy barely felt it. His grip on you didn’t waver, his arms locking you against his chest, shielding you from the world as he carried you through the bloodstained corridors of the warehouse.

Every step he took was controlled, deliberate, but inside he was barely holding it together. You were too still, your body too limp in his arms. 

“Almost there," he murmured, his voice softer than he’d ever let it be, barely audible beneath the pounding of his own heart.

You didn’t respond. But when his arms shifted slightly, having to adjust his hold as he stepped over a body on the ground, you let out a small whimper of pain. His grip tightened instinctively.

"Shh," he soothed, his lips brushing against your temple, voice raw. "I’ve got you."

The car was waiting outside, its headlights cutting through the darkness, and the backseat door already open. Arthur was barking orders to the men, his voice clipped and deadly, but the moment Tommy stepped outside, all movement stopped. The others watched as he carried you– silent, grim, waiting.

They had seen Tommy Shelby furious before.

But this was something else entirely.

Without a word, Tommy laid you down in the backseat, before climbing in himself. He adjusted his coat so that it covered you again before guiding your head to rest more comfortably on his lap. 

The door slammed shut and the engine roared to life. The moment the car jolted forward, you let out another soft whimper, your fingers weakly reaching for him. 

"It’s alright," he murmured, as his hand brushed through your matted hair. "You’re alright."

You heard his words, but they felt far away… like a voice carried through water, muffled, distant. Your head shifted slightly against his lap as you forced your swollen eyes open. 

And then you saw it.

Blood.

Deep red, seeping through the white fabric of his shirt, thick and dark, staining the material all the way down to his waist. Your breath hitched. For a second, you didn’t understand. Your dazed mind struggled to catch up, struggled to process how he might’ve gotten hurt. 

Then it clicked. It wasn’t his blood.

It was yours.

Your fingers twitched weakly, brushing against the soaked fabric.

"Tommy–"

The word came out slurred, almost inaudible.

His hands tensed around you instantly. "I’m here, love," he said quickly, his voice sharper now, urgent. "I’m right here."

Your vision blurred. The world was tilting again. The blood, so much blood– 

"Tommy, am I dying?"

His arms tightened around you, his grip firm, protective, as if holding you together was enough to keep you here. 

"No," he said immediately, but there was something frantic beneath his voice now, something breaking. "No, you’re not dying. You’re alright."

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion dragging you down. 

Tommy turned his head sharply.

"Drive faster," he snapped, his voice thick with something close to desperation.

Arthur was already pushing the car to its limit, the tires kicking up dirt and gravel as they sped toward home. Tommy’s hand cradled your cheek, his thumb stroking gently along your skin, even as his grip shook.

"You’re alright. But you have to stay awake," he said, almost pleadingly. 

You tried. And really, you wanted to. 

But the last thing you felt before the darkness pulled you under was the way his fingers trembled against your skin.

…

You felt the car lurch to a stop, the tires skidding against the dirt, but the world around you was hazy, your body heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and pain.

You jolted further awake when Tommy shifted, pulling you onto his lap before he pushed the door open.

Then, a rush of cold air. Sharp as it bit at your skin. Tommy stepped out, his grip on you unwavering, unrelenting. There were voices, then footsteps. The sound of boots pounding against the ground. 

Polly’s familiar voice. "Oh, my girl," she gasped. “What have they done to her?”

You tried to lift your head, to focus, but your vision swam, the world tilting in and out of darkness. 

Polly was moving fast, her skirt rustling as she rushed toward you, her hands reaching for you before you even realized what was happening.

"Get her inside," she ordered, her tone sharp, controlled, but beneath it there was fear.

Tommy didn’t hesitate. You felt the urgency in his body, the tension coiling tight in his arms as he carried you up the steps, past the doorway, into the dim warmth of the house.

Everything was spinning. 

When he set you down, the wound in your stomach pinched and a warm rush of liquid poured from it. You clutched at it– felt the blood pooling between your fingers. 

"Tommy, put some pressure on that!" Polly’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding.

Your breath hitched, your body already trembling from exhaustion, from blood loss, from the deep, horrible throbbing wrapping around your ribs like a vice.

Tommy moved instantly, his hands already reaching for you. You felt him brush your hands away before pressing a towel firmly against the open wound on your stomach. 

The moment the pressure hit, white-hot pain exploded through you.

You screamed.

 Your body arched off the mattress, hands flying to his wrist, gripping hard, your nails digging into his skin, trying to push him away.

"I know," Tommy rasped without budging, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he might break his teeth.

You tried to twist away, but his hands didn’t move, didn’t falter, didn’t let up.

Your vision swam, a high-pitched ringing buzzing in your ears, agony coiling through your body like fire, licking up your ribs, burning through your spine.

Polly was moving fast, grabbing bandages, ripping fabric, preparing whatever she needed, but all you could focus on was the pressure, the unbearable weight of Tommy’s hands pressing against your stomach.

"Fuck," Tommy cursed under his breath. "Pol, do something. Help her–"

"I need supplies, Tommy," Polly snapped. "I need you to go get them."

You saw Tommy hesitate.

"Tom," Polly’s voice was firmer now, demanding. "Go. Now."

A beat. Then, the pressure on your stomach lifted as he moved away. The moment Tommy’s hands left your body, you felt the loss like a cruel snap of cold air.

Your breath hitched, your body instinctively tensing, but Polly’s hands were already there, replacing his. 

She pressed tightly against the wound, and fresh agony ripped through you, another strangled cry spilling from your lips.

"Shh, darling," Polly murmured, her voice softer now, gentler than before, but still edged with urgency. "I know, I know. We’re going to get you all fixed up."

You let out a soft, weak noise as Tommy moved, as if your body somehow knew it was losing its only source of warmth, of safety.

"I’ll be right back," Tommy’s voice was hoarse, raw, full of something broken.

And then, the door swung shut. 

Your fingers clutched weakly at the sheets, your body writhing slightly, trying to escape the searing pain, but Polly held firm. "Easy," she murmured, one hand moving up to smooth your hair back from your face, her touch gentle despite the blood coating her fingers. "Just breathe."

You tried. But every inhale sent sharp daggers through your ribs, every second felt like your body was tearing itself apart.

"That’s it," Polly encouraged, even as her hands remained firm, even as she continued pressing into the wound. "Just keep breathing, sweetheart."

Footsteps. A door swinging open.

Then, his voice.

"Here," Tommy said, sounding breathless as he stormed back into the room. His hands were full of supplies.

Polly barely glanced up. "Put them on the table."

He did, his movements fast and urgent. But the moment he turned back to you, his face fell.

His blue eyes flickered to the blood pooling around Polly’s hands, to the torn fabric soaked with red, and then, to your face.

Your body was trembling, your breath coming shaky and weak, your skin far too pale.

Tommy’s hands curled into fists. Polly looked at him before releasing the pressure on your wound.

"It’s not clotting," she said, flat, grim. Polly exhaled sharply, grabbing the needle and thread. "We’ll have to stitch it up."

His jaw clenched, his throat working around words he couldn’t say, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides. Without a word, he took his place back beside you, his hands finding your shoulders, his grip steady, firm, unyielding.

Polly met his gaze. "Hold her down."

And with agony in his eyes, he did.

A sharp, searing sensation that tore through your body like fire, ripping you from the darkness and into the cruel reality of the moment. Your eyes flew open, your breath catching instantly as a white-hot, unbearable sting shot through your stomach.

A scream tore from your throat before you even knew what was happening.

"Keep her from moving!" Polly’s voice was urgent, firm, cutting through the haze of pain and confusion as she clutched the bottle of alcohol she was using to clean your wounds.

Then, strong hands gripped your shoulders.

"Shh, love, I know, I know."

Tommy pinned you down, his weight pressing against you just enough to keep you still, but not enough to hurt you.

You fought against it anyway, your body thrashing violently, panic and agony blurring together as Polly’s hands worked quickly, pressing something sharp against your skin. Another wave of pain crashed through you, and you sobbed, gasping, your body twisting uselessly beneath Tommy’s grip. 

"Please–" Your voice cracked, weak and frantic, as the burning sensation only grew worse. “Please, stop–”

Tommy’s grip tightened, his breath harsh against your ear as he whispered, "I know,” he repeated. “You have to let her do this."

You couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear the pain, the sting, the relentless wave of agony pressing down on every nerve in your body.

But Tommy wasn’t letting go. His hands stayed firm, keeping you still as Polly continued, her voice clipped, professional– but you could hear the pain in it too.

"It’ll be over soon," she murmured, but it barely reached you over the sound of your own ragged sobs.

Another sharp pain seared through your ribs, and your body arched violently, another broken cry ripping from your throat. Your fingers latched onto Tommy’s arm, gripping him so tightly your nails dug into his skin.

He didn’t flinch.

His voice was hoarse, desperate, like this was hurting him just as much as it was hurting you. "I got you," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple. "I’m right here, love. Just hold on. Just hold on."

But you couldn’t.

You felt yourself slipping away, the pain too much, too unbearable.

Your sobs grew softer, weaker, until the darkness swallowed you whole.

…

Sleep clung to you like a heavy shroud, pulling you under, keeping you trapped beneath the surface.

But then… voices.

Low, hushed, urgent.

You weren’t awake, not really. But the words drifted through the haze, barely reaching you, like an echo through water.

"I don’t know what happened in that room," Polly said, soft but grave, laced with something heavy, unspoken. "But our girl was hurt beyond what the eye can see."

There was silence– so suffocating that you could feel it settle over the room like a funeral shroud.

Then, Tommy’s voice, low, rough, dangerous in a way you had never heard before.

"What are you saying, Pol?"

A pause.

"You saw the bruises on her thighs, Tommy. The way her clothes were torn."

The words barely registered before a deep, unbearable shame clawed its way up your throat.

You wanted to pull the blanket tighter around you– to disappear, vanish, sink back into the darkness where none of this was real.

But your body wouldn’t listen. Your fingers twitched, barely moving against the sheets. Another silence. Longer this time. Heavier.

Then, Tommy’s voice, but it was different now. Not sharp, not angry. Shaken.

“Jesus Christ."

Another pause.

Then, a sound you never thought you’d hear from Tommy Shelby. A shaky exhale, almost like a breath that had been trapped in his chest for too long, forced out in a way that wasn’t entirely controlled.

You wanted to open your eyes.

Wanted to reach for him, for Polly, for something that made you feel whole again.

But your body was too broken, and your mind was too tired.

…

The room was quiet when you woke up.

Not the kind of peaceful quiet that brought comfort, but the kind that felt hollow, empty, like something had been ripped away. Your body felt heavy, every inch of you aching, wrapped in a deep, throbbing pain that radiated from your ribs, your face, your legs.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deeply.

Just listened.

The soft crackling of the fireplace. The distant murmurs of voices downstairs. The faint scent of whiskey, tobacco, and something familiar lingering in the air.

Then, movement

Your eyes shifted, and that’s when you saw him.

Tommy.

He was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his head bowed, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together like he had been praying but never finished the prayer.

His hair was disheveled, his coat abandoned somewhere, his sleeves rolled up. He looked worn down.  Like he had been carrying too much weight for far too long.

Your throat felt tight. When you shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache in your body, the mattress creaked softly beneath you.

Tommy’s head snapped up instantly. His blue eyes locked onto you, and for a brief second they widened, raw and unguarded, before he jolted forward, hurrying to your side.

"Hey–" His voice was rough, low with exhaustion, relief, and something deeper, something broken. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m here. I’m right here.” 

You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Your throat tightened painfully, your lips parting as if to form words, but all that came was silence. Then– tears. Hot, silent tears spilled over your cheeks, streaking down your skin before you could stop them.

Tommy’s breath hitched, his face contorting slightly, as if the sight of you like this physically hurt him.

"Hey," he repeated, his hands reaching up, cupping your face carefully, his thumbs wiping away the tears as fast as they fell. "It’s alright. You’re alright."

But you weren’t. And you both knew it.

More tears spilled, your body trembling despite the warmth of the blankets, despite the fact that Tommy’s hands were steady, firm, and safe. You let out a weak, shaky exhale, your breath stuttering.

Tommy’s jaw tensed, the pad of his thumb still brushing along your cheek.

"You’re safe now," he whispered, his forehead nearly pressing against yours. "You hear me?"

You closed your eyes and nodded weakly, but the tears kept falling. They wouldn’t stop– wouldn’t slow, no matter how hard you tried to breathe through it, to swallow it down, to push it away like it wasn’t happening.

His hands never left your face, gentle, steady, as if he thought you might shatter completely if he let go.

He watched you closely, his expression tight, unreadable, but his eyes gave him away. They were soft. Without a word, Tommy shifted, slowly, carefully, and sat on the edge of the bed. His weight made the mattress dip. And then, he reached for you. Not all at once. Not suddenly. Just gently. One of his arms slid behind your back, the other under your legs, his movements slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t.  So, when he finally pulled you into him, when he gathered you against his chest, you just let him. Because the desire to be held so gently by him outweighed the pain in your stomach. 

A soft, shuddering sob broke from your throat the second your face pressed into his shoulder. His arms tightened and his chest rose and fell beneath you.

"I’ve got you," he said.

You just cried harder. Cried into his shirt, into his chest, into the only thing that felt remotely safe.

And Tommy just held you.

Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

… 

The hands were everywhere. Gripping, clawing, pressing against your skin.

Hot breath ghosted over your ear, cruel laughter filling the darkness as rough fingers bruised their way over your body.

"Not so tough now, are you?" 

You thrashed, but you were trapped, bound, helpless. No matter how hard you fought, kicked, screamed, you couldn’t get away.

"Shelby won’t want you now."

"Damaged goods."

"Bet he won’t even look at you when we’re done."

No. No, please.

You screamed.

You jerked awake violently, gasping, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in your chest like it was trying to escape. The room was dark, shadows stretching across the walls, but the nightmare was still there, lingering, suffocating.

A figure moved beside you, reaching for you–  Too close. Too fast.

"Don’t fucking touch me!" The words ripped from your throat before you even registered them, your voice sharp, frantic, trembling with terror. 

"Hey, hey, hey. It’s me. It’s just me."

You sucked in a sharp breath, your pulse roaring in your ears as the terror began to splinter, reality bleeding through the nightmare. Your eyes darted to his face.

Not them.

Tommy.

A shuddering sob broke from your lips as you reached forward. Tommy caught you immediately, his arms wrapping around you, holding you firmly but carefully.

"Shh, you’re alright," he murmured against your hair. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

His warmth grounded you, but the nightmare still clung to you like poison, lingering in your skin, in your bones. You inhaled, your cheek resting against the curve between his shoulder and neck. His scent wrapped around you, familiar and safe. He smelled of whiskey, tobacco, gunpowder, something darker, something uniquely him.

The fabric of his shirt was soft, worn, and beneath it, you could feel the subtle heat of his skin, along with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was faster than usual, uneven, like he wasn’t as composed as he wanted to be.

The silence stretched between you for a long time, a heavy, fragile thing hanging in the air.

Then, Tommy’s voice finally broke it. "What did they do to you?"

You stiffened. Every muscle in your body locked up, panic flaring hot in your chest. Your breath shook, your fingers twisting into his shirt as your mind raced, panicked, hesitated. 

If he knew, would he still want you?

"Shelby won’t want you now."

"Damaged goods."

"Bet he won’t even look at you when we’re done." 

The cruel messages from the men lingered in the forefront of your mind. You were damaged. Used. Broken. What if he’d see you differently now? What if he never touched you the same again? What if he’d– 

"Please,” he cut in. “I have to know." 

Slowly, you swallowed, your throat tight, aching, before you finally forced the words past your lips. "They–" your voice was barely a whisper. "They touched me, Tommy."

The air in the room shifted as Tommy stiffened. Then his jaw clenched, his breath sharp and ragged through his nose. Before you could process it, he was moving. Standing up and turning toward the door. For a second, your brain didn’t register it– or understand.

Then, it hit you. 

He was leaving… Heading straight for the door. Panic slammed into your chest, raw and frantic.

"Tommy–" Your voice broke, but he didn’t stop.

No, no, no– 

"I’m sorry, I– I tried," you choked out, your throat burning, your hands reaching for him but too weak to move from the bed. "I swear, I fought. I– I should’ve fought harder, I–"

Tommy froze in place.

You didn’t realize you were crying again, but the words kept spilling out, rushed and broken, desperate to keep him here, to explain how hard you fought. "I’m sorry," you gasped, barely able to breathe. "Please– please, don’t go– don’t leave me– I’m so sorry–"

Tommy turned sharply, crossing the room in two strides, and then, his hands were on your face, cradling you, forcing you to look at him.

"No." His voice was firm, steady, but his eyes… His eyes were shining, raw, and shattered. "This is not your fault."

Your breath hitched, but he didn’t let go.

"I should’ve been there," he whispered, voice thick with agony, regret, fury… at himself, at the men who did this, at everything. "You hear me? I should’ve been there. And I should never have sent you away. I was wrong. And I’m so fucking sorry."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Tommy wiped it away with his thumb, his touch careful.

“I thought–” you stammered. “I thought you were going to leave.”

"Christ, I’m not leaving you love," he murmured, his voice so quiet, so broken it nearly undid you completely. "I just–" he swallowed thickly, his jaw tightening. "I want to go back there and kill every last one of those bastards for what they did to you."

You closed your eyes, your body shaking, exhausted, drained. But when you leaned forward, Tommy caught you instantly, pulling you into him, holding you tightly against his chest.

"Please stay," you whispered, your voice thin, fragile, desperate. "Please, Tommy– don’t go."

His hands tensed against your face, thumbs still brushing against your cheekbones, his blue eyes searching yours, reading every ounce of fear buried beneath the words.

"I’m not going anywhere, love," he murmured, his voice low, rough with emotion, as if saying the words out loud solidified them in stone.

A quiet, broken noise escaped your throat– not quite a sob, not quite relief, but something in between.

His hands slipped down, his arms gathering you close. Your forehead pressed against his chest, his warmth grounding you.

He dipped his head, his lips brushing against your temple, barely a whisper of contact, but the weight of it was enough.

"I never should’ve sent you away," he murmured, his voice softer now, but still laced with the guilt he would never forgive himself for. "And I promise you, love, I won’t make that mistake again."

Your fingers weakly clung to his shirt, your body melting against him as the last of your strength gave out. 

And Tommy held you together.

better left unsaid - dallas winston x reader

it's valentine's day, and reader finds something she shouldn't have in dally's room.

wc: 959

warnings: none just fluff <3

it's not like you had any crazy expectations for what dallas winston had in mind for valentine's day. sure, you spent all your time with each other. you'd gotten real close, in every sense of that word. but he would avoid that commitment conversation like the plague, so you weren't exactly expecting a declaration of love or a bouquet of roses.

but flat out acting like the holiday didn't exist? that was just too far.

the two of you had just left buck's after you'd spent the afternoon doing homework on his bed while he sat around bothering you. like every friday night, dally had stolen the thunderbird to take you to the nightly double. but this was just a routine occurrence, of course. not like he would ever believe in such a mushy holiday.

still, you'd hoped for something - a box of chocolate, some grocery store flowers, maybe a card. you try to take your mind off it as dally puts his foot on the gas, fiddling with his pockets haphazardly.

suddenly, his face scrunches up in frustration and he grumbles, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he cuts the gas. 

"hey. do me a favor, will ya? grab my smokes from my desk. top drawer on the left." 

you roll your eyes but go back anyway. his room is the usual mess - clothes draped over the chair, a couple beer bottles on the windowsill, your textbooks and notes spread out on the bed. you yank the drawer open, already expecting to have to dig past god-knows-what to find the cigarettes.

instead, you find a stack of papers shoved carelessly to the side.

you don't mean to snoop, but something about them seems out of the ordinary. it's not like he's the type to be keeping a diary, but these aren't just receipts or homework. as you take a closer look, you see they're notebook pages crumpled at the edges, ripped out hastily, the ink a bit smudged and messy. 

then you see the date at the top of the first one. an entry from over a year ago. you hesitate for a moment, knowing this must be personal. a flicker of guilt runs through you, but you can't help paging through the headers on the first couple of slips. you swear you can make out your name somewhere between the lines, and against your better judgment, you start reading.

november 5th, 1963

she fell asleep on my shoulder at the drive-in today. she really needs to stop doing that. swear i almost decked steve in his face for laughing at it, but i knew she'd hate if i did it. it's funny, she fucking mumbles in her sleep. i swear she said my name a couple times under her breath. i acted like i didn't hear it but i can't stop thinking about it.

january 17th, 1964

she had to babysit pony today and she dragged me along to keep her company. i was supposed to do a run for buck, but i'll have to figure that out later. it's funny, she was real apologetic about it, like i'm ever gonna be mad that i have to spend time with her.

april 28th, 1964

we were watching some stupid rerun in her living room and i guess i must've been exhausted. she started running her fingers through my hair all sweet like she always does, messing it up. didn't have the energy to tell her to knock it off. next thing i know i wake up laying down on her side. she says i knocked out. whatever.

august 12th, 1964

buck decided to go sticking his nose where he doesn't belong last night… asking me about her. why i won't make it official? make what official? i come to her window every damn night. she lays on my shoulder and tells me all her secrets. not like i let anyone else make me act that way. that's official enough for me, far as i'm concerned.

november 1st, 1964

i swear she did something different with her hair today, or maybe her makeup or something, or her outfit. whatever it was. i just couldn't stop staring at her. she's so pretty it makes me forget what i'm thinking when i look at her…christ, i'm sounding like a fucking sap. if buck ever found this, i would have to kill him.

december 9th, 1964

i found her crying today when i walked in. i wanted to hug her or something, kiss her on the forehead and make everything better. i didn't. just sat there smoking by her side until she stopped, let her get everything off her chest. then she had the nerve to say 'thank you dal,' like i did anything special. i have no idea what the hell she sees in me.

january 28th, 1965

glory, she's got the worst taste in music. i told her that today and she threw a fucking pillow at me. truth is i would listen to the beatles for the rest of my goddamn life if it meant she let me lay in her bed and listen to her sing along. it's cute.

february 3rd, 1965

if she finds these i'm gonna have to tell her it's for an english assignment or something. no, never mind. even she wouldn't believe that. man, i'm fucked.

you reach the last entry in the pile, this one laid out nicely with neater handwriting, on a fresh sheet of paper:

february 14th, 1965

if you find this, happy valentine's day. figured there's no point in keeping these a secret. i'm sorry i'm not better at saying it. you should know i'm not much for words. but i mean everything i wrote, doll, swear.

a.n. writing this made my heart all warm and fuzzy haha happy (late) valentine's day guys!!! hope you like it!

@zvoiderror000 @sipping-wxterfalls @obsessingoverl This is the full fic that goes with the out of context snippet you all seemed excited about

***************

Darry hadn’t been sure it was even worth putting together the funeral. After all, few folks had loved Johnny Cade, and even fewer had loved Dallas Winston, and most of them were the five who remained, all but three of whom were unemployed. He’d managed to scrape together money for headstones, albeit cheap ones, but a funeral- even a joint one- so soon after mom and dad was more of a strain on the budget than Darry could realistically handle, even with Soda and Steve offering to pitch in.

Then the parents of all those little kids Johnny and Pony saved had contacted him out of the blue, offering to help cover expenses and for all his pride Darry didn’t have it in himself to turn them down. Johnny and Dal deserved a proper burial any way he could manage to make it happen, and if that involved taking a bit of charity, well, for once so be it. It sure as hell wasn’t like Mr and Mrs Cade were going to pay to make sure Johnny was properly laid to rest.

So he’d taken the money and made the same terrible phone calls he’d made eight months ago, contacted the same vendors, and booked the same small room at the same small funeral home, feeling sick to his stomach the whole time. Pony had helped, more than he had eight months ago, had chosen Johnny’s casket from the few they could afford and written a eulogy he refused to show to anyone until the service itself. Darry didn’t begrudge him, trying to tamp down the guilt that came with the relief that cut through him every time he looked at his baby brother. It felt wrong, planning the funeral of two of his best friends, knowing that if the universe had offered him any sort of choice, he'd have still chosen Ponyboy and doomed them both anyway, every time. It’s a hard truth, a horrible one, but Darry has grown used to confronting such horrible things as of late, even if he can only ever confront them in his own head. 

After a few weeks of planning, the day of the funeral seems almost underwhelming. Soda and Ponyboy are once again dressed in the outfits they wore to mom and dad’s funeral, Ponyboy somehow looking twice as lost as he did then for all he’s grown almost half a foot taller. Soda is a shadow of his usual self, drawn in behind the careful mask he dons when he doesn’t want anyone to see what he’s really thinking, but the cigarette in his hand is enough to give Darry a good idea of his tenuous mental state.

Pony climbs the steps of the funeral home in the same dreamlike manner he’s adopted since the night of the rumble, the same cloak of oblivion he’d shrouded himself in for months after mom and dad passed, the one he’d only just started to lift off himself before Darry ruined it all with his temper and that slap. Sometimes he thinks he will never truly be able to undo the damage he caused that night, all the consequences of one despicable rash action.

Soda loiters near the stairs, Steve a supportive, grim faced pillar beside him, their shoulders pressed together and pinky fingers linked in a way they probably think is subtle. Darry wants to tell them they’re too close, warn them yet again about being in public and what people might think, but today he doesn’t have the energy. Besides, it’s not like there's anyone coming. All of them, from Two-bit to Ponyboy, know the only folks this funeral is for is them, the gang. If anyone else shows at all it’ll be a miracle. So he leaves Soda and Steve and the obvious, secret love that could kill them both by the door, and goes inside to check on Ponyboy.

His younger brother hasn’t stepped into the small chapel yet, instead he’s sitting with his back against the wall and his legs sprawled out, half hidden behind a small side table. The picture of Johnny that is supposed to be beside the guest book is clutched in his hands, and silent tears are running down his face, his tiny form shaking violently with suppressed sobs. 

Shit. The sight of it chips another shard off of Darry’s thrice broken heart. This poor kid. This sweet, sweet kid, who’s been through more in the past year than most people go through in a lifetime. Darry can’t help but wonder if his baby brother is ever again going to know a life without pain. 

“Hey little buddy,” Darry’s knees crack as he kneels down beside him, tossing an arm around his brother's shoulders, “how’re ya doin’?

It’s a stupid question, and they both know it, but it startles a choked off, surprised laugh out of Ponyboy, and it feels like a bigger win than winning the state football championship back in high school.

“M’alright,” Pony glances around as if making sure they’re alone before snuggling into Darry’s side a bit. He’s been awful cuddly since he got back home, but fourteen and a greaser is still fourteen and a greaser, and Darry knows Pony would die before he let anyone outside the gang find out about his newfound clinginess. 

“You sure?” Darry tightens his grip on Pony and drops a kiss on his gelled hair. Today is gonna be a hard day for all of them, but things like this always hit Pony worse, and he’s worried about him. He’s still so young, only fourteen. Darry himself had seen some rough stuff by the time he was fourteen- you couldn’t grow up in their neighbourhood and not see some stuff you wished you hadn’t- but back then he’d had dad to talk things through with and mom to lie to him and promise everything would be okay. Compared to that, Pony has nothing, just two brothers who love him but can’t protect him, and now a dead best friend to mourn on top of his parents.

“No,” Pony shakes his head, letting out another watery laugh, this one verging on hysterical, “no, I’m not okay. Sometimes I think I’m never gonna be ok again.”

“Baby…” Darry doesn’t know what to do. He isn’t cut out for this, isn’t meant to be a guardian or a parent or whatever he’s become, and he’s never been good with emotions anyway. It’s always been Soda’s job, since their parents passed, to deal with the feelings while he deals with the bills, but Soda is his little brother too, has decided not to feel today so that he can cope, so Darry is once again all Pony has. He wishes he could be enough, or at the very least think of something to say, but he isn’t and he can’t. Instead, all he can do is rock Ponyboy as he cries and wish the world wasn’t so horrifically cruel. At the very least he wishes he could reassure him…but Darry doesn’t like to lie, and the truth is that lately he isn’t sure Pony will be ok. Lately, his brother seems uniquely broken in a way Darry isn’t sure he can fix. 

Johnny would have known what to do. He and Pony would have gone for a smoke on the porch and talked in low voices, and somehow whatever he’d said would have brought Ponyboy back to himself. But Johnny is gone, isn’t coming back, and Pony might just stay this empty shell because of it. The thought makes something dark and cold creep into his chest, but Darry is a realist and learned a long time ago that ignoring uncomfortable things does not simply make them go away, as much as he might wish they would. Johnny is gone, and Pony is different, and things will never be the same as they were. That’s that.

“I just…” Pony manages once he’s cried himself out, “he- he was the only person who completely knew me without me havin’ to tell him. I’m never gonna find anyone like that again in my whole life I don't think, and that…that’s terrifyin’.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Pony nods fervently, almost begging him to understand, and fuck it, Darry is trying because he isn’t Johnny and he isn’t Soda but he’s still trying his best, “I miss Dal too, of course I do, but losin’ Johnny is just- different. He dug me and I dug him and I just-I’m really gonna miss him. “

“Sometimes,” Pony’s voice breaks, but he soldiers on, “sometimes I wish I coulda died in his place. Or Dal’s. That way we’d at least be together.”

“Don’t say that!” Fear so cold it burns flashes through Darry, and he squeezes Pony tighter, as if the mere thought is a blow he could shield him from, “Please baby, don't ever say that, I couldn’t survive without you. Soda would go clean crazy I-”

“Cool it Dar,” Pony shakes him off, “I know that. I ain’t stupid and I don’t got a death wish either. I just miss him and I…wonder, sometimes. That’s all.”

“Well quit your wonderin’,” Darry scolds. He can hear himself getting harsh, the way he always gets when he’s worried, and tries to even out his tone, “that sort of wonderin’ does more harm than good. I wouldn’t trade you bein’ here for the world and I know for a fact Johnny and Dal wouldn’t neither. Savvy?”

Pony looks at him for a moment, and there’s such fear in those eyes, such grief, and yet so much trust it makes Darry’s heart ache in a completely different way.

“I savvy.” he says at last, and Darry internally sighs in relief. This conversation isn’t over, and Ponyboy has never been one to let things go, but at least, for the moment, he is safe.

The door opens then and Soda and Steve reappear, flanked by Two-bit with his mom and sister. Darry climbs to his feet, pulling Pony up beside him and they take a deep breath and all enter the chapel together.

For a second he stands there frozen, completely caught off guard, heart swelling with an odd mixture of gratitude and something else that isn’t quite grief, but has the same bittersweet tinge. 

There are more people inside than Darry expected, which is to say, there’s people there at all. He’d fully believed the only ones who’d bother coming to Johnny and Dal’s funeral would be the gang and Two’s family, but Tim Shepard and a few of his guys are clustered near the back door, looking uncomfortable, and Sylvia Devares is as cold eyed and sour faced as ever, but present nevertheless, sitting in the second row of chairs, glaring at Dally’s casket as if she expected him to sit up and start cussing her out any second. There’s no sign of Mr or Mrs Cade, but there’s a dark haired girl probably a year or two younger than Ponyboy sitting next to a tired looking man in his forties that Darry remembers Johnny staying with sometimes when he was really little, before Mrs.Cade cut her family out of her life for good. It’s strange, Darry thinks, seeing the love people don’t express until it’s too late. It has to have been nearly a decade since Johnny last saw his uncle and baby cousin, yet here they are, waiting to say their goodbyes.

Darry speaks quietly with the funeral director and the service begins, some local pastor kicking things off with a short sermon. Darry knows Dally probably would not have chosen a clergyman to speak at his funeral, but he also probably would have told them to have a beer in his honour and chuck him in the ground; and knowing how much Johnny had liked going to church with Pony, the sermon seemed appropriate. If he’s being quite honest with himself, Darry isn’t at all sure heaven or hell exists, but he also isn’t willing to gamble when it comes to Johnny and Dally’s souls. If a qualified preacher putting in a good word with the big man could get them a chance at eternal happiness, Darry would gladly sit here for fifteen minutes listening to him talk. If Darry’s being honest, if Dally’s gonna get into heaven, his soul needs all the help it can get.

It’s after they’ve all said a final amen, but before Pony has managed to start the eulogies, that the door creaks open and one final mourner slips inside. She’s clearly trying to be inconspicuous, but the timing of her arrival and the fact she clearly isn’t from around here make it so every eye in the room turns directly on her the second she gets through the doorway.

The first thing Darry notices is how skinny she is. He’s known a lot of folks in his time that are somewhat underfed, but this woman is better described as emaciated. The second thing he notices is how sick she looks, with her pale face, puffy eyes, and hunched posture; and the third is her white blond hair and pointed ears, two features he’s only ever seen on one other person.

“Who’s the junkie?” Tim Shepard sidles over and murmurs in Darry’s ear as the woman takes a seat in the second row of chairs, and Ponyboy clears his throat and starts Dally’s’ eulogy.

“Hell if I know.” Darry murmurs back, and it’s true. Dallas never mentioned anything or anyone from his past, and the gang had always respected that. He has no idea who the girl might have been to Dallas, just figures there must be some sort of familial relation.

“Well damn. Mighta been useful to know he had family who like smack,” Tim shrugs, “coulda got her a decent price at least.”

Darry glanced at the girl’s slumped posture and the way she kept scratching at her arms, and winced. Drugs are an aspect of the east side he’d always found particularly unsavoury, simply based on how visibly they could destroy someone. There were slower poisons, yes, like booze and gambling and hate, but drugs were simply more obvious. There were plenty of addicts that bummed around the train tracks or out near Brumly territory, and much as Darry hated to admit it, Tim’s assessment of the blonde was spot on. She was clearly hooked on smack, and from the looks of it, had been for a while.

Pony finishes the eulogies, voice shaky but more composed than Darry would have expected, but he barely hears him. All he can see is the back of the girl's blonde hair and the points of her ears. For some reason it had been easier to grieve Dallas when he felt like one of the only people who could mourn him properly; but this girl has clearly travelled who knows how far to attend this cobbled together funeral, and now some part of Darry feels like maybe he should have publicized it wider, spent some time really looking for Dallas’ next of kin. Not that he would have known where to look, but maybe it was selfish to just assume their ragtag pieced together family was truly the only family Dallas had. After all, everyone comes from somewhere, right? Maybe he should have tried to learn more about Dallas’ somewhere. 

A voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Dallas himself tells him not to be stupid, that Dallas was a kid who’d left where he came from and never looked back once, a kid who had died after losing the only person he couldn’t stand to lose. This girl may be here now, the voice says, but whoever she was clearly meant nothing to the person Dallas was when he died. It still does little to assuage the guilt slowly curdling in Darry’s heart.

The funeral director smoothly wraps up the ceremony without Darry having to do anything, mentioning the refreshments in the other room and reminding everyone to say their final goodbyes as they’d be closing the caskets in half an hour before moving to the graveyard. There’s a part of Darry that’s grateful that making the announcement didn’t fall on him, and a larger part that dreads the next half hour but dreads the minutes after it even more fervently. 

A line at the caskets forms quickly, the scant mourners each taking a turn to say their own goodbyes, and it would be almost sweet if it wasn’t so grim. 

Mrs. Mathews and Susie go first. Neither one of them glances at Dally for long, but Darry can’t really blame them for that, considering they hardly knew him. Both women linger longer next to Johnny, and Susie drops a tootsie roll into the casket with a sniffle. Those two were buddies, Darry knows. Johnny used to crash at the Mathews’ place almost as much as he crashed at their house, and Johnny and Susie’s matching gentle souls had bonded them quickly.

Tim and his guys go next, and they linger longer beside Dallas. None of them say much really, but there’s a tightness in Tim’s jaw that speaks more to regret than anger when he finally mutters an ‘asshole’ under his breath and stalks away, his gang following behind. Darry doubts he’ll show up to the cemetery, but can’t exactly begrudge him for it. It was good of Tim to come at all, mostly because if the roles were reversed and it was Tim lying there instead, Darry isn’t at all sure Dally would have done the same. 

Sylvia goes next, and her glare doesn’t waver, but whatever rant she’s murmuring to Dallas seems heartfelt for all of its rage. She doesn’t even glance at Johnny on her way out, and it should make Darry’s blood boil, but it doesn’t, not really, because everyone knows Sylvia Devares doesn’t care about anyone but herself, so if Dally meant enough for her to show up at all then she really must have cared as much as she could. Those two were a dumpster fire even at their best, and nothing about them ever gave the impression they were in love, but Darry knows better than anyone that you don’t need to be in love to love somebody in a way that could destroy you. 

Johnny’s uncle and cousin step up the small dais, and the old man says something in the language Johnny’s mom stopped letting him speak the same year she stopped speaking to her family, the one Johnny tried teaching to Ponyboy just to spite her. Whatever he says, it’s a blessing meant only for Johnny, but Darry can feel the weight of it, the love, the regret, the pain, just from the man’s tone. Johnny’s cousin glances once more over her shoulder as they leave, black eyes twinkling just the same as Johnny’s used to, and for a second it’s hard for Darry to breathe.

Now it’s the hard part. Ponyboy, for all his evocative words and stubborn strength, has not looked at Johnny’s body since he stepped into the room, and the second he does he lets out a horrible sound, something between a choked off whimper and and a sob, before darting from the room like something is chasing him. Maybe something is. Darry knows all about how memories can be specters. 

“I’ll go,” Soda stops him from following after Pony with a hand on his shoulder, “you say your goodbyes.”

Dary almost protests, almost tells him to say his own goodbyes while he still can, but there’s shadows in Soda’s eyes, and a strickenness to his face. Suddenly, Darry remembers the way Soda had panicked back when they closed the caskets on mom and dad, how his face had turned white as harsh breaths forced their way through clenched teeth, and he realizes that maybe this is Soda trying to save himself; so he nods and offers him the closest thing he can manage to a smile before Soda turns and follows Pony out the door, leaving Darry with Steve and Two-bit.

Two-bit is blubbering where he stands in front of Dally, and Steve is misty eyed beside him with a hand on his shoulder. Darry knows he should comfort them, play big brother to the brothers who are still his, just not by blood, but there’s something about watching the other people who cared say goodbye that is healing a piece of him, and he can’t bring himself to move. Not yet.

Eventually, Two-bit’s sobs give way to hushed murmurs and begging, Steve’s solemn facade cracking a bit as a single tear finally traces down his cheek. Darry swallows against the lump in his throat, wishing there was a way to make this easier for them and knowing there isn’t. This is one of those things they’re just going to have to feel.

“We’ll see you out there, Superman,” Steve claps Darry on the shoulder as he guides Two-bit out to the parking lot, the redhead already in the process of lighting a cigarette. Not for the first time, Darry is inordinately grateful for Steve Randle and his unmatched ability to be supportive without ever being overbearing.

He steps up the dais, steps muffled by the cheap carpet of the funeral home, but seeming to echo nonetheless. Johnny and Dally are arranged side by side, cleaner and more put together than they ever were in life. Darry hadn’t had any nice clothes to send for them to be buried in, but they wouldn’t have wanted them anyway. They’re both in jeans, Dally in a black t-shirt, and Johnny in a blue one, his jeans jacket pressed and arranged neatly around his small frame. There’s the same uncanny wrongness in their corpses that there was in mom and dad’s that make it impossible for Darry to be able to pretend they’re sleeping or any other such platitude people try to lie to themselves with. Dally’s skin, while pale in life, is now so white it’s waxy, seeming even more stark against the contrast of his shirt. Johnny’s unnatural stillness is so unlike his constant fidgeting it’s almost startling, and his face so peaceful is eerie. Jumpy, gentle, fierce Johnny Cade never looked so calm in life as he does in death, and the realization is a whole new kind of sickening.

A presence at his shoulder is the only thing that keeps a tear or two leaking out. When Darry looks over, the blonde girl from earlier is standing quietly a half pace behind him, her sunken eyes fixed on Dally with such sorrow it’s hard for him to look at. 

“You knew him.” Darry says. It isn’t a question.

“I did,” The girl agrees, “or at least I used to.”

When he was alive, even after years in Oklahoma, Dally’s voice always kept a burr of the yankee accent but this girl is full Brooklyn, and the oddness of it to his country bred ears almost has Darry laughing, despite the seriousness of the situation. Luckily, the girl doesn’t seem to notice, her eyes still locked on Dallas, for all she’s conversing with him.

“How?” Darry wonders. “How did you know him, I mean?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” Not anymore, at least. Not that it had mattered before, but he’d always been curious about Dallas, the only one of their gang whose background was a true mystery.

Silence reigns for a minute. Darry watches a wasp buzz around the flowers on top of Dally’s casket. 

“He’s- he was- my brother,” the girl admits, voice breaking, and Darry can’t keep the shock off his face. He’d thought, based on the resemblance, that she might be a cousin or something, but a sister? 

“My baby brother,” the girl repeats, almost to herself, and Darry’s heart clenches. It isn’t just the bone deep anguish comprised in those three words, it’s the way they force Soda and Pony to the forefront of his mind. Sure, Dally wasn’t anything like either of his hard headed, stupid, secretly sweet brothers, and it’s clear whatever relationship Dally had with his sister isn’t anything like how Darry’s own is with his, but this girl has still lost her baby brother. Darry had got a taste of what it was like to lose Ponyboy for a week, and it nearly killed him. He’d been lucky enough to get Pony back. Dally’s sister will never get him back.

“I..I’m sorry,” Darry chokes, “I didn't know. I would’ve tried to invite you or let you plan stuff, I-”

“Don’t.” She cuts him off, and for a second its Dallas glaring at him. Then he blinks and her glare has faded, and he can breathe again, “You did the right thing. There’s a reason he left New York. He wouldn’t have wanted me anywhere near the planning of this.”

She doesn’t say he wouldn’t have wanted her there. Darry figures it might be implied anyway.

They lapse into silence again. The air in the chapel smells like incense and cleaning chemicals, a stiff, heavy, artificial mixture that seems like a strangely fitting smog over the day.

“He wasn’t always like that, y’know?” Dally’s sister bursts out, like she’d been trying desperately not to say it and been unable to keep silent anyway.

“Like what?”

“Like..he wasn’t always the way he was when he left. The way he was when he found you guys. He didn’t always hate everything.” 

Darry tries to picture it, a Dallas Winston who wasn’t jaded and callous to the point of cruelty sometimes, a Dallas who lived instead of just surviving. Try as he might, he can’t quite manage it.

“What was he like? Before?”

“Quiet,” The barest trace of a smile tugs at her chapped lips. “Smart. Kind, before he forgot how to be.”

“He didn’t forget,” Darry tells her, thinking of the million and one ways Dally had helped out the gang, refusing any and all thanks for it, “he just wished he could have. But he was still kind. In his own way.”

“Well that’s something, I guess,” the half smile fades and she sighs, gazing down at Dally’s still face with so much regret Darry could drown in it. “He deserved better.”

“They both did.”

“Before he left I mean. He deserved a chance, and I…I couldn’t give it to him. Not since that first hit.”

“Oh,” For a second Darry thinks she means an actual physical hit- then he realizes, “oh.”

He’s never been good with words, and right now is no exception. He doesn’t have a clue what to say. Luckily, she just gives him a sardonic grin and keeps talking.

“I was ten when Dally was born. His mom left when he was like, two, and our dad is a fucking asshole, so I kind of raised him. I had to. But I was ten. I didn’t know what I was doing, and he always wanted to know.”

She shakes her head ruefully. 

“‘Raya,’ he asked me once, ‘how come everyone else has a mom and I don’t?’ I didn’t know what to tell him. Then it was ‘Raya, how come Joey’s dad never hurts him like dad hurts us?’ and ‘Raya, what’s in dad’s cigs that make them worse than yours?’ and on and on until he stopped asking because I never had a good answer. Then he started going out by himself, and getting mixed up with the wrong people and then it was too late. He was, what, seven? maybe? the first time he got jumped, and he wasn’t even the littlest kid in our neighborhood it happened to. He never really had a chance. And then I went to that party, and-and I-I couldn’t…and he left. And he never came back.”

“Sorry,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes, “I didn’t mean- I just- I think you were good for him. Better than I was. You and your friends. I saw the pictures of you in the paper, after the fire and the shooting and everything, and there was one…he was in it, with this one,” she nods to Johnny, “and the other little one, and he was smiling. He didn’t smile much, even when he was real little. I figure anyone who could get him to smile and who bothered to plan a funeral must have been good for him.”

“Sounds to me like you did the best you could,” Darry tells her, because hell, he does the best he can and fucks it up, and so does Tim Shepard, and so does every older sibling who has ever had to be a parent when they themselves were still a child, “I think you were good for him as much as you could be.”

“Maybe,” Raya says, “maybe not. It doesn’t matter now anyway.” 

“It matters,” Darry says, because he’s seen too little love to not know how important even the imperfect kind can be, “you loved him, so it still matters.”

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. Her lips purse, causing her sharp cheekbones to stick out even further.

“I need a smoke,” is all she says, casting one last look at Dally’s still face before turning on her heel and stalking out the door without looking back.

Darry doesn’t follow her, even though it feels like maybe he should. He’ll see her when they end up at the graveyard and if he doesn’t, well, he’ll have known she’d said her piece. 

He turns back to the caskets, taking in one unloved boy and a boy who wasn’t loved enough. Boys he’d loved like his own family. Boys he’d let down, no matter how hard he tried not to.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it isn’t enough and it never will be but what else is there to say? “I tried.”

He stays there until the funeral director comes, shutting the coffin lids, locking two more of Darry’s family away from the world that never treated them right.

He squares his shoulders. Takes a deep breath. This day isn’t over, and his surviving family still needs him. 

Darry Curtis goes back to trying his best.

What I think the Ikevamp mansion boys would do for MC’s birthday:

Comte would take MC out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—only the best restaurants and cafes in Paris—sprinkled between shopping for clothes, furniture, and trinkets for MC’s room. Really any excuse to spend the wealth he’s accumulated over the many many centuries for one of his top three favorite residents.

Leonardo would sketch MC with all the other residents gathered in the dining room, having a wonderful time at her celebratory dinner—eating, drinking, laughing—causing Theo to go off on one of his begging sprees for Leo to get back into painting.

Theo would purchase a painting that reminds him of MC. He would also consider buying a very large painting of a dog and leaving it in front of her room just for the joke.

Vincent, catching MC taking a nap in the garden, would paint an ethereal portrait of her laying among the flowers.

Arthur would a write a collection of short stories featuring a smart heroine, remarkably familiar to the mansion’s own favorite caretaker, who outwits Holmes on every case. He’d also slip in a coupon he made on a scrap of paper that’d say: “One free night with a sexy mystery writer.”

Dazai would write poetry and recite it to MC while on an outing to their favorite spot—the collection of hydrangeas—and some home-cooked Japanese food made by Sebastian. He’d even narrate some folktales as if she was one of the children in the park.

Mozart would compose a piece and then transcribe a whole other copy of sheet music for MC when she inevitably asks for it as a prized possession from a very special occasion.

After a late-night conversation one time about traditional Japanese attire, Jean would think to craft some type of kanzashi to the best of his limited knowledge while at work in town.

Isaac would design a watch for MC so she’ll have one token from both the past and the future; it’s adorned with mini constellation patterns they talked about that very first time they stargazed together.

With perhaps the most knowledge of cooking out of all the vampires in the mansion, Napoleon would bake macarons at Jean’s suggestion.

Sebastian would force MC to take the week leading up to her birthday off so that he can get ready to plan and prepare her birthday dinner while the other residents can present their gifts. He’d make sure to cook all of her favorite meals that entire week.

The Darkness of Love 

Vincent Van Gogh as Your Lover

The below headcanons were inspired by the following:  Lyrics Inspiration:  In the Arms of An Angel - Sarah McLachlan

Main song inspiration (read while listening to this): To Build a Home - The Cinematic Orchestra.

Warning: NSFW content, implied anxiety and depression. 

This sunflower boy would be starved to know every single thing about you. He wants to see the world through your eyes, know every fleeting thought that crosses your mind and feel everything that you do.

His curiosity about you is unquenchable, thus, there is a never dull moment with him. With that angelic smile of his, he would coax you to speak to him, the words an endless stream that never ceases to feed his ever-growing love for you.

Painting that smile on your face, being the reason for it… that’s all he ever wanted. It made him feel complete and his heart would soar at the sound of your resonating laughter or their glimmer in your eyes when your gaze locked upon his. He was graced the ability to finally accept himself, slowly allowing the idea that he was good enough for you to sink in.

Attached wouldn’t begin to describe how your presence was an essential part of his life. Without you, it was so hard to breathe. Literally.

Constant displays of affection, in public and behind closed doors, were necessary and were often initiated by him. Whenever anyone was around you, you would always find him suddenly by your side, with his arm around your waist and his face buried in the crook of your neck (if he was feeling a bit clingy) or bear-hugged from behind with him towering over you and his chin resting on your crown (which he kissed first, of course).

When he wanted affection from you? It would mostly happen as follows: looking up to you with that beautiful visage, giving you puppy dog eyes that you didn’t even know he had, his requests were made with uncanny boldness and undeniable sweetness.

Leaning and giving you his cheek for a small kiss. Unabashedly inching closer to your face, your warm breath mingling as your nose would brush against his, Vincent muttering your name in a sweet chant was all you would need to mold your lips with his. Stroking your knuckles with feather-light touches to entwine your fingers with his.

If you thought Vincent was the incarnation of peace, his heart and his mind were the epitome of chaos, a storm that would never calm unless you were near. You were his equilibrium. Even Theo wouldn’t even know how to begin to calm him down, even as he continued to reassure him of your whereabouts. Only you could calm the raging sea of his soul.

Out of breath, his heart clenching painfully in his heaving chest, he would chase every trace of you whenever he spent too much time away from you. If you left the mansion for too long, he would rush to you and hold you tightly in his arms, mumbling so softly, his gentle voice would barely register in your ear, his hands gripping you tightly and shaking from the intensity of his frazzled state.

“I’m so glad you’re home, my love… Where have you been? You’ve been out for so long… I’ve missed you.”

The first time he ever reacted that way, you would giggle and lay a hand on him and rub his back softly, reassure him and state that you were away only for a few hours. Stepping back to look into the face of the man that your heart sang for, you had offered him these words as a mere display of comfort to balance the heap of emotions wafting from him.

His countenance was as serene as it always seemed yet his eyes held the sadness of a child that had been shunned. His hands that cradled your face as he pressed his lips to your forehead, hovered away from you as the tone of his voice faltered, a whispered “ sorry” lost in the air that you shared.

Your heart had crumbled to pieces instantly. He always told you that you taught him how to feel and express his emotions… and he felt rejected.

Were your eyes blinded by the happiness of the love that you shared? Did you not understand the extent of your lover’s pain… his insecurities?

The acceptance that he never had from his family, the validation, the love… Nowhere was home to him. Until he found you. And if you weren’t there, everything would come crashing down on him, leaving him to dwell in the gloom of darkest corners of his mind.

Deep down, Vincent was afraid that once you knew who he truly was, there would be a possibility that you would leave him. Not be able to stand him, be with him, speak to him after his true colours would slowly start to show as the days went by.

He was haunted and scarred by distant memories of the past, hidden and locked in the depth of his mind but would eventually emerge. Unlike what others thought, Vincent didn’t forget what happened, he chose to forget but the memories were still there. He didn’t face them then but he would come to face them. And you make sure you would always be by his side.

He couldn’t let you see his tears knowing that it would only entice your own to trickle down your cheeks. He couldn’t bear the thought of causing you any pain, when he was already riddled by what seemed to be the indecipherable looming weight that would not lift from his chest.

“Please, Y/N… Hold me… Tighter… Tighter… More…”

His heart, his soul was breaking… his body was aching. Laying behind him on your shared bed, you would envelop him in your comforting embrace, pepper his name and his shoulders with soft kisses, your soft murmurs lulling him away from the abyss of his thoughts, your warmth would slowly but surely let the coldness of his fears dissipate.

“Y/N… You’ll always stay by my side, won’t you? You won’t ever leave me… right?”

‘’Is there something wrong with me? How can you still love me… when I am this weak… I am this broken?”

“I love you too much to ever let you go, Y/N. My life won’t have any meaning if you’re not in it. I know what I need the most… You. Never let me go.”

Angel boy felt like he was the luckiest man to have found you, but Theodorus also thought the same. Even as Vincent’s pains resurfaced, his brother knew that it would be for the best to explore them and soon enough… recover and step out from the shadows cast by his childhood.

As much as Vincent is devoted to his art, the moment you became his lover, you unlocked something different, enlightening and inspiring within him. As cliché as it sounds, he finally became a man, became human after knowing you. His desires, his whims, his aspirations and his needs were no longer only about his art… But he finally began to think about his life.

Whenever he reached an art block, you were there to help him through it. You proved to him that you would be his backbone, for better and for worse. 

Intimacy was an essential part of your relationship and not only revolves around sex. It might have started as so but then turned into something more… just like everything else with Vincent always does.

To him, your body is a masterpiece in itself, a canvas that would only be painted in his colours… and his alone. You were the one thing in the world that he couldn’t afford to lose.

If he ever felt like there was something holding him back from painting, you had your own therapeutic ritual.

As your body unravelled countless times as Vincent thoroughly graced your body with love, he would marvel at your beauty as you laid on your back or on your stomach completely nude. A beautiful sight that was for his eyes only.

His paint brushes were apparitions of Vincent’s touch; his lips, his tongue, his hands delicately tracing the curves, the valleys and mounds of your beauty that he worshipped.

Lazy hums of joy and slumber tumbled from your lips as your lover would make an art piece out of your body. You would take the opportunity to allow your lover to express himself, recounting what was on his mind and what weighed on his heart, while he focused the fragmented brushstrokes that he was famous for.

Vincent is very fond of the touch of your bare skin against his and relishes in the feeling when he nestles you in his longing embrace, your bodies flush as your back presses against his chest and he nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck.

And sometimes before going to bed, his fingers would work dormant wonders on you as he gently presses on your bundle of nerves, helping you relax. A tingling sensation courses through you as he eases into you and moans in pure delight and relief as he slowly stretches you, feeling you clenching down on him as you accept his fullness, before the soothing warmth of your joint bodies lures you both into blissful slumber.

You had come across this necklace, curious by the intricate design until it opened up, with a locket inside with the engraving “You are my sunshine”. If this wasn’t Vincent, what else could be? You loved him so much… Even as you both found yourselves consumed by your desires, by your struggles and your insecurities, nothing could change the fact that he was the only man that you could ever love, adore and devote yourself to.

Upon seeing the sunflower necklace that adorned your neck, a wistful smile that appeared on his angelic face was both heart wrenching and utterly striking, overtaken by a flurry of emotions that ranged from adoration to obscured gloom.

In truth, you were the sunshine to his sunflower. You were the light that he followed and illuminated the darkness within him, lit his path to a life where happiness could be found.

You were not only his muse… you were the light beyond the horizons that he ached to reach, catch and lock in the depth of his heart.

Little did you know, you were the angel that saved him from the sadness that encumbered his pure soul.

He found in you the home he never had, the home he always wanted, the home he always needed.

Taglist: @kisara-16​ @sweetlittlemouse  @nafeary @ikefool  @nad-zeta  @shhhlikeme​ AND @marie-quentin (since I know you love Vincent, I thought I’d tag you but please don’t hate me)  To read Le Comte de Saint Germain’s HCs, click here.  

Hope you enjoyed this 💜 Please feel free to leave comments/feedback! Masterlist

Le Comte de Saint-Germain as Your Lover 

These headcanons were inspired by a few songs and if and only if I’m to turn this into a series, it will be called: The Darkness of Love. 

Lyrics/songs that inspired this:

“Is there anything I could do, just to get some attention from you? In the waves, I’ve lost every trace of you. Where are you?” - I Love You (Quintet Version) by Woodkid “The curves on your body become waves and swallow me up, I keep sinking, Your body temperature keeps me live, I’m trapped in your arms like this, let me hide. Feels like I’m surfing in your heart, Feels like I’m falling into the waves, Into you I wanna dive, In your heart, I wanna hide”- Dive by Jooyoung

Warning: fluff, possessiveness, suggestive and mild NSFW content, a bit of angst.

You are Comte’s treasure and he is prepared to do everything possible to ensure that you know it, feel it, see it and believe it.

Pampering you with lavish gifts , even if you don’t even ask for them, even if you didn’t want them, he would always want to let you know that he can and absolutely will go the extra mile for you. Travel the entire world for you if he has to. Give you the world on a plate made of gold.

This might make you think that he is extreme in his affections and to be completely honest, you’re not really wrong to perceive things in that manner. This would manifest not only in your domestic life but also behind closed doors, in your intimate relationship.

Comte was no poet. Or, that’s what everyone thought.

Alexandrines whispered in your ear, sonnets murmur against your skin as he peeled each and every single layer that would dare separate him from you.

Shakespeare, Honoré de Balzac (I bring him up a lot because his love letters are some of the most beautiful creations), Baudelaire and many more held nothing against this man.

The words that spilled from his lips would make you tremble, heat building in your core and sending shivers over your skin, the words he would write to you and for you would be enough to make men and women all over the world weep, yearning for a lover like him. Yet, you were the lucky one that was chosen by him, the one his heart has chosen and he was fortunate enough to be chosen by you.

Comte wanted to surround you with his love in your every waking moment, even in your dreams. Every time you close your eyes, every time you take a breath or at every beat of your heart, he wanted to be there. A part of you… just like you were a part of him. 

Your blood was not only his sustenance but one of the reasons he was alive and well.

You owned him and had him caught under your spell. Once a broken man, he was now even more breakable than ever before. You could do anything to him… but as long as he had you in his life, in any shape or form, he would be happy.

Louis Aragon had said: “by the time we learn to live it’s already too late”. Comte had an eternity to live… but you didn’t. Whether he turned you into a vampire or you remained human, you would still be vulnerable and a victim of the human condition… as ironic as that sounds.

The happiness that he held onto so tightly, was as ephemeral and fleeting as the life of cherry blossoms. One day, you would be taken away from him… whether he liked it or not. Deep down, he has hidden those dark thoughts, stored them away… far from your reach so you wouldn’t be affected by the vileness of despair.

Comte would treat you like a Goddess and worship you, every single day of his life, as if it were his last day on Earth, despite him being a pureblood.

Your body is his temple, your heart is his shrine and your heart is his most prized treasure.

As Pablo Neruda said, Comte wanted to do to you what the spring does with the cherry trees. Comte would be selfless in the abandon of pleasure that he gave you but his intentions were always not necessarily so.

Splayed before him on the bed that you shared, his lips would worship you with tender kisses, tasting and caressing every inch of your skin. The gentle touch of his hands as he explored the depth of your love for him, coaxing you to show him how much you truly loved him. Your cries, your moans, your whimpers, they were what he wanted but they were still not enough. 

They would never be enough to calm the raging storm in his heart and his soul. Comte would be selfish, the only thought spurring him on was to have you only think of him, his name the only prayer that falls from your bitten lips and tears trickling down your heated cheeks.

As he would ravage you for hours, long nights where you would bathe in nothing but the moonlight that kissed your skin and Comte. He did this quite often, without even taking you. Making love to you with his words, tearing you apart until you saw stars with his lips… his tongue… his teeth and heaven was where he was, whenever he touched you with feather-light caresses. Claim you as his, over and over again until you would eventually succumb to sleep.

You would not dare look into his topaz orbs, in fear of being consumed by the desperate yearning that they exuded. But you couldn’t… wouldn’t miss feeling yourself… drown in the sea of love that he was. You were not allowed to look away from him. He would never say it but everything about his wanton, vulnerable yet dominant demeanour expressed it.

Beneath the strong and graceful man that everyone knew, he was a man starved for your touch, your love and your affection and just a look in his eyes would make your chest tighten with pain, knowing how much this man is devoted to you.

He yearned for your warmth, to feel you writhing under his touch, the heat of your skin teasing his lips, the delicate sound of your heart beating loud in your chest and the invigorating rush of blood running through your veins… all signs that you were alive… and his. He would watch and take in every breath you took, every move you made, every step you took, he wanted all of you… all for himself. No one else.

He would seek your attention, all of it. Endlessly, relentlessly. He would be constantly chased by the thought of losing you, just like he has lost lovers before you. He is, was and always will be damned and cursed with immortality yet blessed to live a long life knowing that he was bestowed with pure bliss by having loved you and being loved by you.

He knows the day will come where he will lose you, where you will no longer be by his side and the void inside him that you had filled would be empty again. Under the veil of poise and utter grace that he wore would linger an abysmal apparition of what is left of a man.

Completely crazed and lost without you.

If he could, he would want to be the centre of your life… world…  your universe. If he could, he would keep you all to himself, away from everyone and everything in the world but he knew that it wouldn’t be possible.

It was eccentric behaviour that was not befitting of a man of his stature nor would it be right by you. Would you be happy isolated in a life where you only had him? 

Your life was already too short compared to his, so he could never do that to you, even if it was his strongest desire to do so.

You would be his princess that he pampered and spoiled. 

You would be the queen that reigned over his immortal heart. 

You would be the only Comtesse he always dreamed of.

You were his precious.

And he will make sure with every ounce of his being that you will be so, until the day where the fates forcefully bring your days to an end. 

Taglist: @kisara-16 @shhhlikeme @sweetlittlemouse @nafeary @ikefool Hope you enjoyed this 💜 Please feel free to leave comments/feedback! Masterlist Literary references, if you are interested: Pablo Neruda - Every Day You Play; Louis Aragon - There Is No Happy Love; Honoré de Balzac - Lettres à Madame Hanska

When They Are Self Aware [IkeVamp Edition]

(After reading many tumblr posts about sagau and sahsrau, I pondered...)

Warnings: Long, somewhat ooc (some of these are based of my own impression towards them after looking through posts related to them), 4th-wall destroyed, grammars

What happens when the suitors of Ikemen Vampire become self aware that they are game characters?

That question can lead to two possible answers: it's either chaos or wonder.

For now, it's wonder.

Think about it. They are characters based off of existing historical figures from different eras, right? Obviously, this kind of "technology" will baffle them slightly. Because this kind of thing wasn't even really a thing in their prime. The Protagonist serves as your eyes to see everyone. The residents also take notice of this. You can't really share your message across through MC's mouth. But your words did come across through the wind.

Jean may be wary about this, pondering "is this some sort of witchcraft? Or have God decided to come and punish me by filling my mind with madness and uncertainty?". Because, there's someone out there?? Outside this world observing him?? Some being he didn't know?? And they care for him too (judging from how he sometimes heard your quiet sobbing and desperate pleas, telling him to be aware that despite everything, there are people who care for him) ???? But why? He wondered, why? He don't know who or what is this being that is watching him. Certainly, it wasn't God.

But soon, everyone followed. Jean is no longer the only one who become aware of the presence of this being. One by one, the residents of the mansion followed suit.

×××

Sometimes, whenever Vincent paint sunflowers, everything feels much brighter. He felt some sort of giddiness whenever he draw beautiful scenes. He felt like someone is watching him painting. But this feeling... it didn't frighten him. Rather, he was content. It almost felt like he's a child drawing something while a relative or a parent watching with fond eyes. Sometimes, he swore he heard "I wonder what kind of painting he's making" or "I'm sure his painting is beautiful like the real deal. Too bad they don't show a picture of his paintings".

It's nice that whoever or whatever says this compliments his painting. But real deal? Does this mean someone has painted what he painted before? If so, who? Vincent cannot help but wanting to meet whoever this person is and told them that he wanted to give them credit for the original (poor guy doesn't even know the person you're talking about is the real life counter part of himself).

×××

Theo often hears soothing whispers in his dreams. Though he sometimes had a nightmare about how his brother died in his arms, these days they are followed by someone (or something) comforting him. Telling him that he's already good enough of a brother. And Vincent will still and always love him. But of course he prefer not to tell anyone about this, including Vincent. He didn't think it was necessary.

But, Theo often felt the same presence around Vincent. Whenever he accompanied him to buy art supplies or helping him with the next exhibition, he felt someone or something watching both of them with benevolence. Like a guardian angel, perhaps. Pair of eyes looking at them with fondness whenever they are together in any occasion. Perhaps there is indeed someone out there that care for them both.

×××

Let's face it, Arthur may or may not put up some theories on the wall of his room at first.

He began to note down these weird feeling of being watched. He will be intrigued. No matter where he looked at, this presence were nowhere near him. Or at least, not physically. But how come their presence lingers despite having no physical appearance? Did they use some sort of invisibility cloak? Or maybe this being is like a fairy, like the ones he believes in?

He may or may not use this as an inspiration for his next story

Though whenever he writes his next manuscript, the presence comes off even stronger. A pair of eyes ogling on him. Arthur felt like he was back in those days where he's working on his assignment as a student while being supervised by one of his professors. But it's different. There's a bit of pity in these invisible pair of eyes. But why did this being pity him for writing? What part of him is pitiable?

×××

Comte knew.

Nobody need to tell him about it. He already sensed this presence–your presence–that watches him and the residents. He have seen many unusual things, especially for someone who have lived for centuries.

Those nights he spent by looking at the sky, his golden lances glances specifically at the moon. Thinking that perhaps the celestial object in the sky could serve as your other pair of eyes aside from the woman who came through the door that was supposed to serve as your "vessel".

He longed for this presence. He longed for you. He felt all of your emotions whenever and wherever he is. Sometimes he felt happiness, bashfulness and sorrow. Like Arthur, he wondered what part of him that you pity. But he's content nonetheless. After all, he knows that there is someone out there who think of him.

×××

Isaac will be curious.

He never stops being curious, despite being awkward and socially shy. He's a scientist, a physician. Scientists ought to be curious of their surroundings.

While your (invisible) presence slightly scares him at first, he wondered where you are. If you're not here, then how are you watching him? From where are you watching him? Could it be that there's another world out there beyond his reach? Beyond the boundaries of this world he currently settles in? Was the theory of the existence of parallel universe gain its fame from now on?

He'll never know unless he finally got to meet you. Science has no boundaries, right?

×××

When Sebastian realized this for the first time, he is... unsure how to feel. Considering that he came from the year where advanced technology is still in research and work in progress overall. Could this be the so called simulated world? Like the ones in those fictional stories? But that's too advanced! No way a human can replicate this kind of experience on such a device! Even if they did, what kind of device is it?

Sometimes he heard your adoring whispers of how he is such a big history geek. It kind of caught him off guard. Getting praised by the residents is more than enough to give him a heart attack but when you did it? He might as well lay down on a sofa for a while to process this newfound sense of content.

×××

Like Comte, Vlad is also aware of this.

To think that there is a world out there, and you living on it. Vlad would definitely be content whenever you log in to the game. To the point he will frequently appear in your check-in screen. Saying things of how he is so happy to see you and your presence always made his day.

He also felt your eyes looking at him whenever he goes on to his usual routine. And you wouldn't believe how giddy it made him feel. He felt like a kid again.

Vlad will also look at the moon whenever he think of you. Once again, like Comte, he believed that the moon in the world he lives in serves as your other pair of eyes to see what's going on in this world. If you were out there watching him, the world you lived in must be a peaceful one. Since he sometimes heard your soft giggles in his dream.

This time, he will find a way to see you. Maybe he could borrow Comte's door for a while.

Or maybe he can... find a way to tinker with the game's mechanics to communicate with you.

×××

Napoleon doesn't really think much about the existence of other worlds. Until now.

He once said that he didn't really care of what people think of him. Or how the books described him. He's just a man right in front of you. In front of your screen, that is. Because that's what he told you. But when he came to realized that the world he's living in is a game, a dimension among the binaries simply with a purpose to satisfy those who seek the thrill and adventures of romance, he is shocked.

What do you mean that there are other people out there who played his route? The only presence he felt was yours. He didn't feel anyone else. Is this some sort of fate? Another destiny given to him?

Sometimes, Napoleon heard your whispers in the wind. One time, when he was teaching the children, he heard your faint whisper of praise. Telling him that he's a good teacher. It made him blanked out for a moment until a child have to tug his hand to get him back on track. Despite contemplating whether to tell Isaac about this or not, he did it anyways. And surprisingly, Isaac told him that sometimes he experiences the same thing.

The former Emperor may look calm on the outside. Meanwhile, he began to bury his face on the pillow as he recalled that day.

×××

When Dazai blanked out in the rain, he swore he heard an echo of you calling his name. His eyes blinked as more raindrops falling to his skin. Soaking every inch of his clothing wet. His eyes looked around, wondering where your voice came from before looking back to the cloudy sky once again.

When the sound of rain masked any other noises in his surroundings, your voice went through to him. Your voice sound so sad. He thought, Why do you sound so sad? Who are you feeling sad for?

Yet he yearned for your voice. He sometimes wished it will be raining the next day. Or the next month. All because he felt like your voice is much clearer when it's raining. Sometimes he sits so close to the window when it's raining, eyes looking into the distance, and face looking solemn.

×××

The thought of lovers limited by otherworldly boundaries is such an interesting concept for Shakespeare. It's like Romeo and Juliet but... much better? And with a bit of magic?? No one is dying except that they are now pining for eternity without resolution??

Better be prepared of extra letters you will receive. Sometimes it came from your in-game mailbox. You might want to read it, because it's mostly collection of poem dedicated for you, his so-called otherworldly muse. So many metaphors and shakespearean terms, you might need an expert to help you translate them. Unless you have an experience in arts of theatrics.

Shakespeare will not hesitate to write this down as his new play. About a man who fell in love with a woman who lives far away. And the only thing that could keep them connected was the whispers in the wind. As for how the tale will end, he might need to think about it later. He knew that many of his fans will be a little surprised in this sudden turn of his style. But, hey, he's eager to see you beyond the screen as you watch him directing his play.

×××

Giddy is an understatement. Charles is truly ecstatic. It doesn't matter if he's just a game character. There's someone out there who care for him and loves him? Well, mark him down as happy. He's ready to smother all of his love for you. All he needs to do left is to find a way to get the message across.

What should he send you? An extra diamond? extra drop rate for his card gacha? A bonus secret letter that only you can access? And where should he send his presents? The mailbox? Or just outright on the check-in screen? Charles have so many options yet so indecisive. Because he wants do all of it.

Charles would do anything for you. ANYTHING. He will go through the seven seas and seven land even if it meant that he could finally see you. He's ready to break the game as long as he can talk to you. He's quite lonely, you know?

×××

Faust chuckled in amusement. The scientist have become the observed guinea pig, huh? What an interesting turn of events.

He wondered if you enjoyed watching him. Now that you see him through the eyes of the female protagonist that became your eyes. He wondered if he looked deeper into her eyes, he will saw you. Right there, beyond the screen. Perhaps giggling or just smiling. Or just having neutral expression.

×××

Overall, once they have realized that they are just game characters and they can "see" you, expect for sudden extra diamonds sitting in your mailbox or their greeting become much much livelier than usual.

Natiii hiii

If your requests are open, is it alright if I request a part 2 of the platonic sibling headcanons for your favourite Ikevamp boys? Where they find out that reader, their precious beloved little sibling, is actually in love with/dating Dazai. I think it would be hilarious xD

Take your time, and remember to put your own health first! ❤

Hi hoooo, Silveeeer! (if you don’t get it, you don’t get it; and it means I’m really old)

Platonic relationships are so cute! Half of them would die if the reader dated anyone, to be honest, HAISUEHSAUIEHSAUIEA. But oooohhh, it was fun to imagine my dearest Isaac! 🤍

I'm sorry it took so long and I hope you liked it! 🤍

gn!reader with a sibling-like relationship with them starts to date Dazai | Isaac, Mozart, Jean, Arthur, Theo and Vincent, and Napoleon

Tags: minor spoilers for Dazai’s route; platonic relationships; sibling-like bond; teeny-tiny suggestive parts for Mozart, Jean, and Theo and Vincent (but still sfw, don’t worry!)

Notes: kind of a part 2 of this post, where gn!reader has a sibling-like relationship with them. 

Isaac

“I’m dating Dazai.” — Do you hate him? He feels like you do now.

He was never overprotective or one to pry into your business, but he felt like he should tell you something about it. You are his dearest younger sibling, after all.

He won’t try to separate you not exactly. He just wants to make sure you’re okay — stop glaring at him!

He will ask for Napoleon’s help to have a talk with Dazai. Napoleon is there just giving moral support because he has nothing against the writer. Isaac is in such distress after this talk, he probably got some gray hair. Dazai teased him, and Napoleon didn’t help.

He will tell you about this and every other time Dazai teased him or pulled some kind of prank on him. Might he remind you it was Dazai who gave him wine and said it was juice at the last banquet?

He can finally have a proper talk with Dazai — without being embarrassed or teased — a few weeks later. He can see now that Dazai really cares for you, and his teasing has lessened (but didn’t stop; it never stops).

Just remember your brother is a contrarian, okay? He’ll complain and grimace when he sees you two kissing, but he’ll help you out if Dazai ever tries to avoid you again. He really hopes you two stay together forever; he wants to see you happy.

Now stop bringing him apples every day with the excuse that you’re taking care of your family, Dazai!

No, Dazai, he doesn’t need someone too! Stop trying to set him up with random people!

Mozart

“Dazai asked me out and I said yes.” — “Pfff, no, you didn’t.”

And it’s not because it’s Dazai. It’s because you’re dating. That’s it.

Overprotective brother activated successfully. Every breath you take, every step you take, he’ll be watching you.

Seriously, he’s watching you two like a hawk. You thought Theo had brother issues? Pff! He won’t leave you alone. Or he’ll try to not leave you alone, but Dazai is too cunning and he always finds a way to evade Mozart and take you with him. Your brother might be fuming by now.

He doesn’t even try to talk with Dazai; he just knows he’s not worthy of you. No one is.

You end up having ‘the talk’ with Mozart. Does he remember when he was having a composer’s block, and Dazai helped? That’s how you start your list of “why Dazai is the safest vampire you could date”. You end the list playfully asking if he’d prefer if you dated any of the other writers, like Arthur, and you swear his eyes twitch with only the thought of it.

He tries to keep his pettiness in check for you. Keyword: try. Spoiler alert: he’s not good at it.

He never sees bite marks on your neck, so he thinks everything is okay and still… decent. He freaks out when Arthur points out that Dazai might be biting you on other parts of your body that don’t show when you’re fully dressed. You want to kill Arthur, while Dazai is just giving that closed-eyes smile of his.

Congrats, overprotective brother is back again at full force.

Jean

“I’m dating Dazai.” — “Alright.”

Chill brother ftw!

Sweet, clueless, and innocent brother doesn’t see anything wrong with your relationship.

He’ll just make sure this is what you want and that you’re really happy. He doesn’t need much assurance. He trusts you, and he knows you never lie to him.

He doesn’t have a problem with Dazai, so why should he be worried? 

However, he will miss spending more time with you in the beginning of your relationship. So Dazai makes sure to include him in your plans sometimes. He might even help you teach Jean how to write and read. (This is too wholesome to imagine)

Jean doesn’t even know what ‘the talk’ is. The roles are reversed: Dazai ends up having it with him, and you’re freaking out. It ends well though; it seems your new boyfriend didn’t say anything weird. This time.

His only problem might be if he sees you two leaving the same room in the morning. He won’t think much of it until Arthur makes some comment about it. And now Jean thinks you two need to get married. Congrats and thank you, Arthur.

Arthur

“Dazai asked me to date him.” — “Oh, hell no!” — “Oh, hell yes!”

Anyone but him! Seriously! If you don’t want any of the other residents, he can introduce you to someone! He has some acquaintances downtown... That’s when you hit his arm and glare at him. Okay, message received.

He won’t have ‘the talk’ with Dazai, he can’t stand the idea of having this conversation with Dazai. 

Again, are you sure you don’t want someone else? If you want a writer, even Shakespeare could be acceptable… You hit him again. Fine! Shakespeare wasn’t acceptable either anyway; he was just desperate.

Dazai doesn’t tease Arthur, so your brother will bring up the times Dazai teased you, like that time you two got stuck downtown because of the rain.

And you bring up the times Dazai helped you, or when he tried to cheer you up. You even list all the times he tried to help him, and Arthur was rude to him.

Touché.

Canonly, he wants to see you breaking Dazai’s masks. So he might accept your relationship just so he can see it and finally be able to read him. Spoiler alert: he still can’t read Dazai, and it drives the sore loser him crazy sometimes.

But you can, so he has to shut his mouth and support you. He’ll be happy for you, eventually.

Theo and Vincent

“I’m dating Dazai.” — “You’ve got the worst taste in men.” — “Oh, congrats! Can we all have lunch together sometime?”

Guess who said what.

Vincent is really happy for you! He already knows Dazai, so he doesn’t need to make sure he is a nice person for you. 

Theo is not happy for the exact same reason: he knows Dazai.

He protects you like he protects Vincent and sometimes even more because you are younger. Did you know Dazai goes to the casino? What else does he do downtown? Do you know? Do you seriously trust him?

You have to throw back at Theo that he goes to the pub with Arthur all the time. What does he do there? Why does he only come back in the morning? … Okay, he got it.

Theo promises that he’ll try to contain his brother issues if you’re too upset with him. He doesn’t promise he’ll succeed. Vincent is gladly there to scold him every time.

Vincent will ask if two can pose together for a new painting, while Theo will glare and curse a lot. It’s a lovely painting that you hang in your bedroom.

They’ll both be mad if you shed a single tear because of the writer. Dazai better run, and he better run fast because an angry Vincent is even worse than an angry Theo.

“Sleeping with Dazai is one step removed from sleeping with Arthur.” (he actually says it in Dazai’s route) WAIT. You haven’t slept together yet, have you? HAVE YOU? Vincent had to drag him out of the dining room because Dazai gave that signature smile of his and said, “Oh my, I can’t remember.”

(Imagine Theo lashing out, and Vincent just goes, “Calm down, they just slept together! What’s wrong with sleeping?”)

Theo will try to find a way to have ‘the talk’ with Dazai without you and Vincent knowing. It’ll turn out surprisingly fine, and he starts to trust Dazai a little more. A little.

Arthur is talking about the bite marks not being visible when you’re fully dressed again, just so he can see his best friend losing his mind. Vincent doesn’t understand what’s the problem; he thinks it’s in your arms or some innocent place. God bless this angel.

Theo is back at glaring and cursing.

Napoleon

“Dazai asked me out.” — “Alright, have fun.”

Chill brother ftw! #2 

He knows Dazai and he has nothing against him.

He trusts you and your decisions, so he won’t pry or be an overprotective brother mode.

He taught you self-defense and he knows you’ll come to him if you need something anyway.

He will talk to Dazai, but it won’t be exactly ‘the talk’. He just wants to make sure he’s not just killing time with you, even though that’s not something he believes the writer would do… But he’s gotta make sure. It was nice, like friends chatting to catch up on their lives, y’know?

If Dazai runs away from you like he does on his route before you start dating, he will not be pleased. But he will try to help you out, if you ask.

If a single tear is seen in your eyes, you bet he throws the chill-brother-state-of-mind out of the highest window of the mansion along with Dazai.

Seriously, he won’t freak out about your relationship, and he won’t do anything unless you ask him to. He really just wants you to be happy.

He’ll try to read Dazai’s books. Gotta support family.

(Can we imagine him ruffling your hair and then ruffling Dazai’s hair? Okay, sorry…)

Masterlists

😂😂😂

He's so freaking competitive on whoever can spoil MC the most