My requests are open- feel free to hit me with your ideas, I have a full time job so it might take a little. Something about me: my friends know I’m probably the nicest person on this planet and I’m a ppl pleaser soooo you never bother me guys and I want my blog to be your safe space where you can relax and fall into my pink world. Also if you want to ask questions, chat, rant, feel free to hit me xx
about me: Hi, I'm Julie, your internet smut bestie, I love Zeke sm like he is the best character, but I also love Ango Sakaguchi, Fydor Dostoyevsky, Dazai, Geto Suguru, Nanami and Nerd Gojo. My top 3 are for sure Zeke, Geto and Ango/Fyodor (jury is still deciding lol) You can find stories abt other characters too but my main focus is on these guys.
𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮
𝓙𝓾𝓵𝓲𝓮 𝔁𝔁
ps you can buy me a coffee or matcha
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
🩷- aot
🧡- stray dogs
💙- jjk
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
Stories
Vanilla Coke- Zeke Yeager x reader
Summary: modern collage au, long story about cheer capitan reader and baseball capitan Zeke
Nerds don’t fall in love
Summary: nerd Gojo x popular reader, what happens when you mix two different worlds
Malishka- Fyodor Dostoyevsky x reader
AN: for updates please check bsd Fyodor malishka tag, here is a link to malishka on wattpad
Tonic espresso- Zeke Yeager x reader
Summary: modern au, you fall for your best friend’s older brother
Goverment Hooker- Ango Sakaguchi x reader
Summary: canon au, ADA reader relationship with Government Ango
Thorns under silk - stalker! fem reader x Jean Kirsten
Good little soldier- Zeke Yeager x reader
Summary: canon au, you love to make your war chief proud even when it gets filthy
Switch- Zeke Yeager x reader x Eren Yeager
Summary: your boyfriend wants his twisted desires to come true
In the plain sight
Summary: secret relationship with Zeke Yeager
Spark- Geto Suguru x reader
Summary: collage au, smut
Nerd Gojo x reader
Summary: you have a crush on your nerdy classmate, collage au, smut
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
One shots
Zeke Yeager
Escapism- Zeke Yeager x reader
Summary: modern au, one shot, everyone need a little escape from reality
Baseball Zeke x not baseball fan reader
Baseball Zeke x his nr 1 fan
The devil you know - Zeke Yeager x fem reader
Summary: Halloween smut
After hours- Zeke Yeager x reader
Summary: you can’t focus on your work when your boss is constantly in your mind
Santa’s baby- Zeke Yeager x reader
Best for dessert- Zeke Yeager x black reader
Summary: just one shot smut
Curves apparition- Zeke Yeager x black reade
Heads up- Zeke Yeager x reader
Masks off- Zeke Yeager x black reader
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
Working late- Osamu Dazai x reader
Summary: canon au, smut, one shot, you stayed late in ADA
Gentelman- Chuuya Nakahara x reader
Guys my age - Fukuzawa x reader
Miss smarty pants Dazai x reader
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
Hatred- Jean Krischten x reader
Summary: line between love and hate is really thin, modern au
Seven minutes in heaven- Jean Kristen x reader
Summary: like the title
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
Bad faith- Geto Suguru x reader
Summary: you have project with Geto, smut
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
Headcanons
• perfect girl for canon Zeke
• how they fuck you- aot man (including Jean, Erwin, Zeke, Reiner, Porco)
• husband Zeke
• What would you and your aot bf wear for halloween?-hcs
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
• What would you and your jjk bf wear for halloween?-hcs
Summary: you decided to stalk your crush from your art class. But maybe he isn’t exactly who you think he is.
AN: modern au, reader is a stalker and her behaviour is questionable, Jean is manipulative, definitely slow burn, English is not my first language
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
The first time you notice Jean Kirstein, it’s because everyone else already has.
It’s the third week of the semester. Long enough for cliques to form. Long enough for reputations to settle. Long enough for people to decide who matters.
Jean matters.
He sits by the window in your shared art history class like it’s assigned to him personally. Like the universe angled the sun just right so it hits his cheekbones and catches in his hair. The light outlines him in gold, softens the sharpness of his jaw, makes the charcoal dust on his fingers look almost intentional.
He always has charcoal on his fingers.
Even on days when the class doesn’t require it.
You notice that.
You notice the way he taps his pencil twice against his sketchbook before committing to a line. The way his brows pull together when he concentrates. The way he exhales slowly through his nose when something doesn’t look right.
You notice that he never slouches. He leans forward instead. Engaged. Intent. Like the world deserves his attention.
You notice everything.
The professor calls on him one afternoon.
“Kirstein, would you like to explain your compositional balance here?”
There’s a ripple through the room — subtle, but there. People look up. Some girls straighten. Someone whispers, “Of course.”
Jean stands.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble.
He brushes his hair back with charcoal-stained fingers, leaving the faintest gray smudge near his temple, and begins explaining his piece.
You don’t look at the painting projected on the screen.
You look at him.
His voice is low but steady. Confident without trying to dominate the room. He talks about contrast like it’s emotional. Like light and shadow are in conversation with each other. Like negative space isn’t empty — it’s intentional absence.
You don’t remember the terminology he uses.
You remember the way his sleeves are rolled to his forearms.
You remember the vein that shifts when he gestures.
You remember that he doesn’t look nervous.
He belongs here.
When he sits down, the professor nods approvingly. A few people murmur. A girl two rows ahead of you smiles at him when he passes back his sketchbook.
Jean smiles back.
It’s easy.
Too easy.
He’s good. That’s the worst part.
His work gets pinned to the department wall more often than anyone else’s. Not in an arrogant way. Just… naturally. Like talent follows him without effort. His lines are confident. His proportions sharp. Even his unfinished sketches look deliberate.
People gravitate toward him.
He laughs easily in the hallway. Leans casually against lockers. Flirts without commitment — just enough eye contact, just enough smirk, just enough warmth to make someone feel chosen for a second.
He never chooses you.
He’s never looked at you longer than necessary.
At first, you tell yourself that’s fine.
You don’t want to be one of them — the girls who whisper when he walks past. The ones who “accidentally” drop their pencils near his desk. The ones who ask to borrow erasers they don’t need.
You don’t giggle when he talks.
You don’t stare openly.
You don’t reposition yourself for attention.
You just… observe.
You sit quietly.
And you learn him.
You learn that he arrives exactly six minutes before class begins. Not five. Not seven.
Six.
You test it once.
You arrive seven minutes early.
He’s not there.
You arrive six minutes early the next class.
He walks in thirty seconds later, headphones around his neck, coffee in hand.
Routine.
You learn that on Tuesdays he buys an iced vanilla latte from the campus café — no whipped cream. On Thursdays, he orders nothing. On Mondays, he hesitates before choosing.
You learn that when he’s stressed, he switches to black coffee. No sugar.
You learn this because you start paying attention to the trash cans near the art building.
You tell yourself it’s observational practice. Artists notice details. Artists study behavior.
You’re just being thorough.
You once caught a glimpse of his phone wallpaper when he checked the time — a blurry sunset. Orange bleeding into purple. Probably something he took himself.
You spent twenty minutes that night trying to find the exact spot on campus where the sky looks like that.
You don’t find it.
You start sketching more.
Not him — not directly.
You sketch hands.
Long fingers dusted in shadow.
You sketch the slope of a nose in profile.
You sketch forearms with faint smudges near the wrist.
You never label the pages.
You don’t have to.
You memorize everything.
The cadence of his steps in the hallway.
The way he stretches his neck before starting a drawing.
The fact that he never checks his phone during critiques.
You tell yourself it’s harmless.
It’s admiration.
It’s inspiration.
It’s nothing.
But sometimes, when the classroom empties and he lingers by the window packing his bag, sunlight catching in his hair, you feel something tight in your chest.
Not jealousy.
Not yet.
Just a quiet, growing certainty.
If you keep watching long enough…
He’ll have to notice you eventually.
And when he does —
You’ll be ready.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
You dropped your bag on the cafeteria floor and plopped into the plastic chair like gravity personally offended you.
“There she is,” Hitch grinned, already halfway through her iced coffee. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah, sorry. Professor was giving us assignments,” you rolled your eyes, pulling your hair back. “Annie’s not here?”
“I’m always here.”
The voice came from behind you — flat, unimpressed.
You jumped slightly as Annie Leonhart slid into the seat beside you like she had been silently observing the entire time.
“And how was it?” you asked, leaning your chin on your palm.
“Same as always,” she shrugged, reaching for your fries without asking.
“Kicking asses and stuff?” Hitch teased.
“You are yelling, Hitch,” another soft voice chimed in.
You didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.
“Pickiee,” you smiled.
Pieck Finger lowered herself into the chair beside Annie, movements gentle, almost lazy. She always looked slightly sleepy — like she had just woken up from a dream and wasn’t entirely convinced this world was worth the energy.
“Hi, Pieck…” you greeted sweetly.
“And of course your uglier half is here,” Hitch added.
“Always this chatty in the morning, Hitch?” Porco smirked.
You glanced up at Porco Galliard, who stood behind Pieck’s chair, arms crossed, expression permanently caught between annoyance and amusement.
“Relax,” he continued. “I’m just delivering my beautiful girl to her questionable besties.”
“Hey,” you protested with a smile.
“You are manageable,” he corrected, smirking.
He leaned down and kissed Pieck’s cheek softly. She tilted her head just enough to meet him halfway, smiling in that quiet way she does — small, but real.
“See you around,” he murmured before heading off.
Hitch waited until he was out of earshot.
“If my boyfriend called you manageable, I’d commit a felony.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend,” Annie pointed out.
“By choice.”
“Sure,” Annie deadpanned.
You laughed, finally relaxing into your seat as the four of you fell into your usual rhythm.
And then—
The cafeteria doors swung open.
Your body reacted before your brain did.
You saw him immediately.
Jean walked in like he didn’t know how visible he was.
He was laughing — head slightly tilted back — and beside him walked a shorter guy with short gray hair, sharp eyes, and an expression that looked permanently unimpressed.
They were mid-conversation.
“…I’m telling you, that critique was personal,” the gray-haired guy said.
“It wasn’t personal,” Jean replied, grinning. “You just can’t draw hands.”
“I can draw hands.”
“You draw claws.”
You memorized the sound of his laugh.
The way his shoulders moved with it.
The way he pushed open the door with his foot because his hands were full of sketchbooks.
He scanned the room casually.
You lowered your gaze half a second too late.
“Hey, you listening?” Hitch waved a hand in front of your face.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I know that look,” Annie muttered.
“Boy code,” Hitch grinned wickedly.
You shot her a warning glance.
“Relax,” she continued. “You look like that every time he walks in.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” Annie confirmed.
Pieck tilted her head slightly. “Your posture changes.”
“My posture does not change.”
Hitch leaned back, studying you. “You go very still. Like a cat spotting a bird.”
You forced a laugh. “You’re dramatic.”
Across the cafeteria, Jean and his friend joined a table near the windows.
Of course.
He always gravitates toward natural light.
The gray-haired guy — you think his name is Armin? No. Marco. That’s it. — continued talking animatedly.
Jean leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over it, listening.
You could see his profile from here.
You catalogued it automatically.
Distance from your table: approximately twelve meters.
Line of sight: partially obstructed by two students.
Visibility: acceptable.
“You’re doing it again,” Annie said flatly.
“Doing what?”
“Calculating.”
“I’m not calculating.”
Hitch smirked. “You are absolutely calculating.”
You finally turned to look at them fully, offended — but smiling.
“I’m just… observing.”
“Observing what?” Hitch challenged.
You hesitated half a second too long.
Pieck’s eyes softened.
Annie’s narrowed.
Hitch grinned wider.
“Uh-huh.”
You forced yourself to engage in the conversation again, nodding in the right places, laughing when appropriate.
But you were aware of him.
Always.
You noticed he eats slowly.
You noticed he listens more than he talks in groups.
You noticed that when someone across from him speaks, he maintains eye contact fully — attentive, focused.
You wondered what that would feel like.
To have his full attention.
Just once.
“Earth to you,” Hitch sang.
You blinked.
Jean stood up.
Your heart skipped.
But your eyes followed him anyway.
He disappeared through the cafeteria doors, still smiling faintly from whatever joke they’d shared.
And something inside you shifted.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
You didn’t want to be twelve meters away anymore.
You didn’t want partial visibility.
You didn’t want to observe from the edges.
You wanted to exist inside his line of sight.
On purpose.
No rushing.
But today—
Today you started thinking about proximity.
And how easy it would be to shorten twelve meters.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
The hum of fluorescent lights replaces the chaos outside. The mirror stretches long across the wall, reflecting the four of you like a strange, synchronized unit.
Annie hops up onto the wide windowsill immediately, arms folded loosely over her chest, one leg bent, the other dangling. She always claims she hates “girl bathroom rituals,” but she never leaves.
Hitch claims the center of the mirror like it’s her constitutional right.
You step beside her.
Pieck leans gently against the tiled wall, hands folded behind her back, watching the rest of you like you’re mildly fascinating wildlife.
You adjust your bag on the counter.
Hitch uncaps her lip gloss.
“I don’t get it,” she says, carefully tracing her lower lip. “You are pretty. Hot. Smart. Why don’t you just talk to him?”
You pretend to focus on smoothing your hair.
“Yeah,” Pieck nods softly. “You’re charming.”
You tilt your head slightly, checking your eyeliner.
“It’s not that simple,” you mutter, adjusting a strand that doesn’t need adjusting. “I want him to notice me. Not to make him notice me.”
There’s a pause.
Hitch blinks at you through the mirror.
Annie rolls her eyes from the windowsill. “Dramatic.”
You exhale quietly.
“It’s just…” You hesitate. The fluorescent light catches your reflection — composed, polished. Controlled. “I’m nervous around him.”
You glare lightly at your reflection like it betrayed you.
“I don’t get nervous.”
Annie snorts. “You don’t even blink during presentations.”
“Exactly.”
“So what’s the difference?” Hitch presses.
You swallow.
Because he’s different.
Because when he looks at you — even briefly — it feels like your skin is too tight. Because you’ve memorized the cadence of his footsteps but freeze when he says “hi.” Because observing is easy.
Participating is not.
“You don’t even know him and you’re already down bad,” Annie mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Give her a break,” Hitch gasps dramatically. “Our girl has a little crush, that’s it.”
You shoot her a warning look at the nickname.
“Exactly. Thanks, Hitchy.”
Pieck’s eyes narrow slightly — not suspicious. Just thoughtful.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asks gently.
You uncap your own lip gloss.
You smooth it carefully.
You don’t rush.
You don’t rush anything.
“Don’t know yet,” you say lightly.
Hitch makes a noise of disbelief. “Oh, come on. You already have a plan.”
You glance at her in the mirror.
And you smile.
Small. Controlled.
“Of course I have.”
Annie sighs. “Here we go.”
“But,” you continue sweetly, pressing your lips together to blend the gloss, “a magician doesn’t talk about her tricks.”
Hitch bursts into laughter. “That’s my girl.”
Pieck studies you.
“You’re not going to do anything weird, right?” she asks softly.
You tilt your head.
“Weird how?”
“Like… rearranging your entire life schedule weird.”
You blink once.
You already did that.
“Relax,” you say gently. “I’m not insane.”
Annie gives you a look that says debatable.
You ignore it.
Instead, you step back slightly, examining your reflection.
You look good.
Not overly done. Not trying too hard.
Effortless.
That’s the key.
Effortless.
“I just want him to look at me,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.
“He has,” Hitch counters.
“Not like that.”
The bathroom falls quiet again.
Because they know what you mean.
Not a passing glance.
Not recognition.
Not “you’re in my class, right?”
You want weight.
Intention.
You want him to choose to look.
Annie hops down from the windowsill.
“Well,” she says bluntly, adjusting her jacket, “if you’re going to play this game, don’t embarrass yourself.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that now.”
Hitch loops her arm through yours. “Ignore her. This is fun. I support romantic chaos.”
Pieck smiles faintly. “Just don’t lose yourself in it.”
You meet her eyes in the mirror.
There’s something perceptive there. Soft but aware.
You give her a reassuring smile.
“I won’t.”
But when you say it—
You don’t fully mean it.
Because you already feel it shifting.
The way your thoughts orbit him.
The way your day adjusts around his routine.
The way your pulse spikes when he enters a room.
This isn’t just a crush.
But you don’t say that.
Instead, you pick up your bag.
“Come on,” you say lightly. “Let’s go back before Hitch starts fixing her lip gloss again.”
“I heard that.”
The four of you step back into the hallway together.
And as the cafeteria noise grows louder again—
You already know what you’re going to do next.
You just won’t tell them.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
By the time your last class ends, the sky is already beginning to soften.
Late afternoon sunlight stretches long across campus walkways, warm and golden, like everything is dipped in honey. Students scatter in lazy clusters. Someone laughs too loud near the stairs. A bike whizzes past.
You walk home alone.
You like walking alone.
It gives you time to think.
Your apartment greets you with silence.
Small. Cozy. Familiar.
You love the way the sunset paints your room — orange and pink bleeding across the walls, sliding over your desk, catching the edges of your mirror. It makes everything look cinematic. Softer. Almost unreal.
You drop your bag by the door.
Kick off your shoes.
Exhale.
Your phone buzzes on your bed.
Hot messes (4)
Hitch: “If I fail statistics I’m blaming capitalism.”
Annie:
Pieck: “Does anyone want ramen later?”
Hitch: “Yniee?? Still alive?”
You smile faintly.
You don’t open it.
Not yet.
Instead, you sit at your desk.
Open your laptop.
The screen glows in the dimming light.
You rest your chin on your hand.
“Let’s see what you’re up to,” you murmur softly.
You type his name.
Jean Kirstein.
His profile pops up instantly.
And for a second you genuinely forget how to breathe.
There he is.
Profile picture: him mid-laugh, head slightly tilted, gym lighting casting soft shadows across his jaw.
You click.
Scroll.
Photos of his art first. Sketches. Charcoal portraits. Studies of hands. Buildings drawn in sharp perspective. One unfinished painting of a city skyline at dusk.
Of course he’d choose dusk.
There are gym photos too. Nothing overly showy. Just mirrors. Progress. Casual captions like “back day” or “don’t skip legs.”
You zoom in slightly on one.
Not obviously.
Just enough.
Then aesthetic photos — buildings, staircases, streetlights glowing at night. Blurry motion shots of traffic.
You notice his grid has balance.
Three art posts.
One personal.
Two aesthetic.
Pattern.
Intentional.
And then
There it is.
A group photo.
Bingo.
Jean standing with a few guys outside what looks like a late-night diner. Arm slung lazily around the shoulders of the shorter silver-haired guy from earlier.
You click the tag.
Connie Springer.
So that's his name.
His profile is chaos.
Memes. Screenshots. Random blurry selfies. Gym clips with loud music captions. Food photos that look half-eaten before the picture was taken.
And Jean.
A lot of Jean.
Jean mid-workout.
Jean asleep on a couch with a marker mustache drawn on his face.
Jean arguing with someone off-camera.
Jean laughing.
You smile slowly.
God.
He looks different here.
Relaxed.
Unfiltered.
Happy.
Not the composed, classroom version.
You scroll deeper.
Then you see it.
Your stomach tightens.
Jean and a girl laughing.
She’s on his back. Arms around his shoulders. He’s gripping her legs to keep her steady. Both of them mid-laugh, blurred slightly from movement.
The intimacy is casual.
Comfortable.
Your chest feels tight.
You check the tag.
Sasha Blouse.
You click immediately.
Her profile loads.
You exhale.
Relief slides through you before you can stop it.
She has multiple photos with her boyfriend — a blond guy with soft features and an apron in half the pictures.
You click one.
Caption: “Date night with my favorite chef ❤️”
You check his tag.
Niccolo.
You scroll briefly.
Food. Cooking videos. Restaurant shifts. Sasha grinning in the background, holding plates, stealing bites.
“So she’s your best friend…” you murmur quietly to the empty room.
Cute.
You continue analyzing.
Sasha loves food. Obviously.
Connie loves memes and gym.
Jean has a consistent gym buddy tagged repeatedly.
You click again.
Marco.
Freckles. Calm smile. The type that looks like he’d hold doors open without being asked.
A few gym videos show Jean spotting him.
They look comfortable together.
Routine.
Stable.
You lean back in your chair.
The sunset has deepened now — darker orange bleeding into purple shadows. The light hits your face as you stare at your screen.
You start piecing it together.
Friend group structure:
Jean.
Connie.
Marco.
Sasha.
Niccolo (external but included).
You scroll back to Jean’s profile.
Look at the timestamps.
He posts irregularly.
But he’s tagged more often than he posts.
Interesting.
That means his friends are more active than he is.
Which means…
More access points.
You click back to Connie’s page.
Scroll.
Pause.
Zoom slightly.
Your lips curl into a slow smile.
Connie posts stories daily.
Gym times.
Locations.
Diner nights.
Study sessions.
If Jean is with him often—
Then Connie’s account is practically a schedule preview.
You rest your chin on your knuckles.
“It’s starting to get interesting,” you sigh softly.
You’re just… gathering context.
Understanding his ecosystem.
You want to approach him naturally.
Naturally requires knowledge.
Jean posted three days ago.
A charcoal sketch of a hand reaching toward light.
Caption: “Still learning.”
You stare at it longer than necessary.
You want to be something he’s still learning.
You close your laptop slowly.
The room is darker now.
Only the faint afterglow of sunset remains.
Your phone buzzes again.
Hitch: “Yniee where are youuuu”
Pieck: “She’s ignoring us.”
Annie: “Obviously.”
You finally pick it up.
You type one message.
You: “Relax. I’m just studying.”
It’s not a lie.
You lie back on your bed.
Stare at the ceiling.
And for the first time
You don’t just feel like an observer.
You feel prepared.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
Your room is dark now.
The sunset has long faded, replaced by the faint glow of streetlights bleeding through your curtains. Shadows stretch across the ceiling. The world outside hums softly — distant traffic, muffled laughter from somewhere down the street.
You’re lying on your back.
Staring at nothing.
Sleep won’t come.
You turn onto your side.
Then your other side.
The sheets feel too warm. Your thoughts too loud.
It’s not fair.
The words slip into your head uninvited.
It’s not fair.
You are beautiful.
You know that.
You see the way people look at you. The double takes. The compliments. The subtle jealousy from girls who pretend not to compete.
You are smart.
Professors praise your work. You speak confidently. You carry yourself well.
You are sweet.
You listen. You care. You remember birthdays. You show up.
So why
Why isn’t he noticing you?
You squeeze your eyes shut.
You replay every interaction.
The one “hey.”
The casual “you’re in my art history class, right?”
The way he said you’re always drawing.
That’s it.
That’s all you have.
Meanwhile he laughs with other girls like it’s effortless. Lets them touch his arm. Smile too long.
Your jaw tightens slightly.
You turn over again.
This time you grab your phone.
The screen lights up your face in pale blue.
You scroll mindlessly at first.
Stories. Random reels. Outfit posts. Gym videos. Memes from Connie that you now recognize instantly.
You don’t even realize how much you’ve adjusted your algorithm around him.
Then
A familiar name appears.
Your professor.
You pause.
Click.
A new post.
A sleek graphic announcing an upcoming art exhibition.
“I’m happy to announce a new exhibition this Friday at the East Gallery. Proud of my students and excited to showcase emerging talent.”
You sit up slightly.
Your pulse picks up.
You check the likes.
Scroll.
Scroll.
There.
Jean Kirstein liked this.
Your breath slows.
You click the event details.
Open attendance list.
Your eyes skim down the names
And there it is.
Jean Kirstein – Going.
Your lips part slowly.
More importantly
He checked that he will be there.
Publicly.
Which means he plans to stay.
Which means
Your eyes flick to the date.
Friday.
Two days.
Perfect.
You stare at the screen, calculating.
It’s formal enough to dress well.
Casual enough to mingle.
Art-focused — which means conversation is expected.
Which means proximity won’t look strange.
Your thumb hovers for half a second.
Then you click.
Going.
You lean back against your pillows.
Two days.
Two days to prepare.
Two days to choose the right outfit. The right tone. The right timing.
You don’t need to force anything.
You’ll just… exist in the same space.
Under gallery lights.
Where he can see you clearly.
Where you belong.
You imagine it already:
He arrives.
He scans the room.
He notices you.
Not as “the girl from class.”
But as something else.
Something intentional.
You smile faintly in the dark.
“See you there, Jean,” you whisper softly to yourself.
AN: hi guys! I decided to write something shorter and 'lighter' (than my main ff on wattpad) about my beloved Zeke. Something without drama because our boy deserves it!! English is not my first language! Also not every chapter is smut!
Summary: In this modern AU, Y/N is best friends with Eren Yeager and determined to keep her distance from his older brother, Zeke—a cocky, charismatic baseball captain with a reputation she wants nothing to do with. But avoiding him proves harder than she thought. What begins as playful banter and secret late-night conversations turns into something much more complicated
TW: explicit sexual content (NSFW, detailed smut) dom/sub dynamics (possessiveness, degradation, praise kink, humiliation kink) age gap relationship (23 Y/N × 29 Zeke) smoking & alcohol use (Zeke smokes, occasional drinking) jealousy/possessive behavior (dark possessive themes, mild toxicity at times) emotional vulnerability (themes of insecurity, self-doubt, fear of being hurt)
The Yeager house always smelled faintly of fresh paint and dust, like no one really lived there. Eren liked to call it “the summer place,” though their dad had disappeared on vacation months ago, leaving the house in the brothers’ hands. For YN, it had become another hangout spot—bigger, quieter, with a backyard perfect for late-night chaos with her friends.
Inside, the group had already made themselves comfortable. Mikasa curled up on the couch beside Eren, the two speaking in low voices. Connie and Sasha argued over pizza toppings, Armin sat with his laptop open like the designated responsible adult, and Jean made snide comments no one asked for. It was the usual rhythm, and YN fit into it easily.
She didn’t expect anyone else to be there.
When the door creaked open behind her, YN turned, expecting a delivery box or maybe a neighbor. Instead, a tall man walked in, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, ball cap tucked low over messy blond hair. He set the bag down with a sigh, then glanced up.
Zeke Yeager.
Eren’s brother. The baseball player.
“Great,” Eren muttered under his breath from the couch. “Speak of the devil.”
“Don’t sound too excited to see me, little brother,” Zeke replied, tone lazy, smug. He slipped off the cap and shook his hair out like he’d just stepped out of an ad instead of someone’s doorway. His gaze swept the room, lingering when it landed on YN.
“This one’s new,” he said, chin tilting toward her.
Eren’s expression sharpened. “She’s not new. She’s my best friend. Off-limits.”
The words weren’t sharp, exactly, but they carried weight, making YN raise her brows. Off-limits? Odd to say when his brother had barely walked in.
Zeke smirked. “Relax, Eren. I was just saying hello.”
YN shifted, forcing a polite smile. “YN,” she offered, giving her name because Eren clearly wouldn’t.
“Zeke,” he returned smoothly, though everyone in the room already knew who he was.
The introductions moved on quickly, the group falling back into their usual chaos. Later, when YN reached up to grab a glass from the high kitchen cabinet, she realized the shelf was just out of reach. On tiptoe, fingers brushing the rim—
A hand, larger than hers, slipped past and plucked the glass down effortlessly.
“Here,” Zeke said, brushing it into her hand.
Thanks,” YN muttered, trying not to sound flustered.
He didn’t move away immediately, leaning against the counter, eyes sliding toward her. “You always let him talk for you like that?”
Her brows knit. “What do you mean?”
“Eren,” he said casually, half-interested. “Calling you ‘off-limits.’ You let him put up fences around you?”
It was teasing, not cruel, but a spark of challenge in his tone left her tongue-tied. She shot him a glare, which only deepened his smirk.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, pushing off the counter. With that, he walked away, leaving her standing there with the glass and her pulse hammering far too fast for such a small exchange.
She told herself it was nothing. Just one smug remark, just one too-close encounter.
The living room buzzed again—Connie had put on music too loud, Sasha was yelling about breadsticks, Jean was singing off-key to annoy Eren. Mikasa sat calmly, unfazed. Normally, YN loved the chaos, but tonight it felt heavier. She slipped quietly toward the back door.
The night air hit her with relief, cool and sharp compared to the warmth inside. The patio lights glowed softly, moths hovering around the bulbs. She closed her eyes for a second.
“Running away already?”
Her eyes snapped open. Zeke was there, sitting back in a lawn chair, long legs stretched out, cigarette glowing between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily, catching the light. He looked completely at home, like he owned the night.
“I’m not running,” she said, folding her arms. “It’s loud in there.”
He exhaled slowly, mouth tugging into a half-smile. “Fair enough.” He tapped the chair next to him. “Have a seat.”
It wasn’t a request. Just casual, like the idea of her sitting there was natural. She hesitated, then lowered herself into the chair, careful to leave distance.
For a while, he didn’t speak, just smoked, watching the dark line of trees at the yard’s edge. YN stared at her hands in her lap, waiting.
Finally, he broke the silence. “You know, I’ve known all those idiots in there for years. Bought them cheap wine when they were too young, drove their drunk asses home more times than I care to remember.” His voice carried that lazy drawl. Then his gaze slid toward her, sharp despite the casual tone. “But we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting. So. Tell me something about yourself.”
The directness startled her, but she shrugged. “Like what?”
“Anything.” He flicked the ash into the tray. “Who’s Eren’s mysterious best friend?”
YN let out a breath. “I’m not that mysterious. College student, literature major, best friend-slash-babysitter to your little brother.”
He chuckled, low and rough. “Literature major, huh? Let me guess—you actually enjoy the old stuff.”
She glanced at him, curious. “You say that like it’s bad.”
“Not at all.” His eyes narrowed slightly, measuring her. “I like it too. Dostoevsky, Hemingway, all the depressing guys.”
Her lips tugged into a small smile. “You don’t seem like the type.”
He smirked. “And what type do I seem like?”
“The cocky baseball player who only reads his name in the news.”
That earned a laugh from him, smoke escaping with it. “Fair enough. But you’re wrong.”
They let the silence settle, but this time it felt lighter. YN found herself relaxing, surprised at how easy it was to talk to him.
“Okay, your turn,” she said. “Tell me something.”
“Something,” he repeated. “All right. I prefer sweet white wine over red. But don’t tell anyone, ruins the image.”
She blinked, then laughed. “Wait—you too? Everyone makes fun of me for that.”
“Well, now they can make fun of both of us.” He looked amused, pleased with the tiny discovery.
The back door opened. Eren stepped onto the patio, eyes flicking immediately to where she sat beside Zeke. His mouth pulled into a grin, words sharp even under the casual delivery.
“Told you she’s off-limits,” he said, pointing his beer at Zeke like a joke.
YN stiffened. Zeke didn’t flinch, leaning back further, arm draped over the chair. “Relax,” he drawled. “I’ve known those idiots forever. No wonder I want to know the new one.”
His eyes met hers just long enough to make her pulse skip. Eren shook his head, muttering, and went back inside.
YN shifted, crossing a leg. “He loves to act like he’s my babysitter,” she said, tipping her head toward the house where Eren’s laughter carried through the door. “Even though I’m clearly the one making sure that idiot doesn’t hurt himself.”
Zeke’s mouth curved, smoke curling from his lips as he gave her a sidelong glance. “That does sound like him. Full of big talk, not half as invincible as he thinks.”
“Exactly,” YN agreed, leaning back. “He can barely go a week without me dragging him out of some mess.”
“Then maybe you are the babysitter,” Zeke said, amused. “He should be paying you.”
YN laughed, the sound slipping out freely. She caught herself watching him when quiet—the way his posture was loose but his eyes sharp, like he didn’t miss anything.
“What about you?” she asked. “Besides baseball and smoking on patios, what do you actually do?”
He hummed, tapping ash from his cigarette. “Travel too much. Sleep too little. Pretend I like interviews. Read when I get the chance. And lately,” his gaze flicked toward her, a glimmer of humor sparking, “apparently answer questions from strangers my brother drags into the house.”
She smirked. “You wanted me to tell you something about myself. Fair’s fair.”
“Touché.” He leaned back, arm draped over the chair. “All right, ask away. I’ll play along.”
YN considered, lips pursed. “What’s your favorite book?”
“Too easy. Crime and Punishment.”
Her brows rose. “Predictable.”
“Predictable?” He tilted his head. “You’re a lit major. You can’t tell me you didn’t fall for Raskolnikov at least a little.”
“I didn’t,” she said quickly, then smirked. “Okay, maybe just once.”
His grin widened. “Knew it.”
Her turn. “Do you actually like baseball, or is it just a paycheck?”
That caught him. He studied her before answering, smoke burning down in the filter. “Both,” he admitted. “It’s… complicated. But yeah, I like it. Most days.”
The honesty surprised her, making her want to push further, but the conversation drifted naturally—favorite movies, food, music, dumb stories. The longer they spoke, the easier it felt—like the noise inside belonged to another world.
She mentioned Eren again, rolling her eyes with a playful groan. “He loves to protect me from boys, like I can’t handle myself.”
“Does he now?” Zeke’s tone was dry, almost mocking, but not unkind.
“He does,” she confirmed, smirking. “And yeah, he’s happy with Mikasa, so it’s not jealousy. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m a magnet for boys. Especially frat boys and other idiots. Drives me insane.”
Zeke’s gaze slid over her, slow and deliberate. “Makes sense,” he said casually. “College guys get stupid over pretty girls like you.”
Her breath caught. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She managed a shaky laugh. He didn’t press—just leaned back, taking another drag.
“Since Eren’s protecting you,” he said, flicking ash, “I’m guessing you don’t have a boyfriend?”
“I don’t,” she answered smoothly, though her pulse was uneven. “And since he’s protective around you, I’m assuming you’re not dating anyone either?”
Zeke’s mouth curved into that infuriating smirk. “Not my thing lately.”
“Lately?” she echoed.
He only shrugged, the picture of nonchalance.
Their conversation drifted after that—back to casual topics. YN laughed more than expected, relaxing as minutes slipped by unnoticed. It wasn’t special. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a conversation on a patio, a stranger with a cigarette, and the hum of summer air.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
They had drifted back into the living room, the chaos resuming as if nothing had happened. YN found herself talking with Mikasa about makeup, comparing favorite products and sharing quick beauty hacks, but she could feel Zeke’s gaze on her. Every now and then, she caught the corner of his eye watching, leaning back casually against the wall as if he owned the room.
Time slipped by faster than she realized. Around two in the morning, YN straightened and stretched. “Okay, guys… I think I’ll take a cab,” she announced lightly.
Eren, Zeke, and Jean all raised their brows almost in perfect synchrony.
“Are you crazy?” Jean said. “You know how late it is.”
“Yeah, and I don’t want to read about you in the news first thing in the morning,” Eren added, frowning. Just stay for the night,”
“Thanks, Eren, but you know I have my evening routine,” she said, attempting nonchalance. “I’d rather die than sleep with my makeup on. I’m fine.”
“I’ll drive you,” Zeke said, shrugging, like he was offering water instead of a private ride. “Like Eren said, we don’t want anything bad happening to you.”
YN hesitated, heart thumping in a way she hoped wasn’t obvious. “If you insist,” she said, trying to act casual, loving the idea of one-on-one time with Zeke more than she cared to admit.
“Any of you kids need a ride?” Zeke asked, scanning the group.
“Nah, we always stay,” Connie said half-interested, scrolling on his phone.
“Yeah, I know,” Zeke replied, smirking at YN. “Five more pains in the ass in this house, don’t have to remind me.”
YN grinned, shaking her head. “Ready?” she asked, giving her friends a quick wave before stepping outside.
Of course, Zeke had to hold the door for her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He led her to his black BMW X5, opening the passenger door with a casual flourish.
“You don’t strike me as a gentleman,” she teased, trying to sound confident as he started the engine.
“Some people are worth acting like one,” he said, winking.
Oh. My. God.
YN fought to play it cool. “So… I’m worth it?” Her voice sounded casual even to her own ears, though her chest betrayed her.
“Smart girl with a love for classic literature?” he teased. “Please. You probably read too much Tolstoy to even look at a guy who doesn’t act like a gentleman.”
“I just don’t like idiots,” she shot back, smirking. “I have standards, simple as that.” Then, almost under her breath, she added, “Maybe that’s why I’m into older guys.”
Immediately, her stomach lurched. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Don’t say that out loud.
“Older, huh?” Zeke said smoothly, smirk spreading. “Good to know.”
YN froze, cheeks flaming, and stayed quiet, hoping he wouldn’t comment. He didn’t—at least, not yet.
“Well, here we are. Princess safely delivered to her castle,” he said, leaning back, smirk playful.
“Thanks. You didn’t have to,” she said, offering her sweetest smile.
“I wouldn’t forgive myself if I let you take a cab,” he replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He got out to open her door.
“Show-off,” she muttered under her breath, unable to hide the smile tugging at her lips.
“Princess,” he corrected with a laugh. “As a show-off, you know I have to walk you to your apartment?”
“Of course you do,” she said, rolling her eyes but secretly enjoying it.
By the time they arrived, the quiet between them felt natural. She turned to him, offering a genuine smile. “Thanks for the ride… and the walk.”
“Anytime, little one,” he smirked. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving YN standing at her apartment door, heart still racing, cheeks still warm, and mind already replaying every little smirk and teasing comment.
The sun hung low over the stadium, painting the metal bleachers in streaks of gold and orange as the crowd roared around you. You hadn’t planned on spending your vacation at a baseball game, but boredom had won out and you found yourself wedged between strangers, sipping an overpriced soda while the crack of bats echoed across the field. Your eyes drifted to the diamond and landed on number 24—Zeke Yeager, the team captain. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair catching the light under his cap, he moved with an easy swagger that made the other players look like background noise.
You swore he glanced your way more than once. A quick flick of blue eyes up into the stands, a half-smirk that felt aimed directly at you. You told yourself it was coincidence, but heat crept up your neck anyway.
After the final out the stadium emptied in a rush of chatter and footsteps. You lingered in the parking lot, scrolling your phone, when a low, smooth voice cut through the evening air.
“Are you waiting for someone, doll?”
You looked up. Zeke stood a few feet away, still in his uniform pants and a fitted undershirt that clung to sweat-damp muscle. The cocky tilt of his mouth said he already knew the answer.
“Why?” you challenged, lifting an eyebrow.
He chuckled, the sound rich and unhurried. “Because if not, I can take you home.”
You rolled your eyes. “Ahh, men these days.”
His smirk deepened. “So you’re that type of girl, huh?”
“The type that respects herself? Yeah, I am.”
He studied you for a long moment, gaze traveling from your eyes down to the way your sundress hugged your hips, then back up. Something appreciative flickered across his face. “So… dinner?”
You surprised yourself by smiling. “Sounds nice.”
He drove a sleek black car that smelled like leather and his cologne—something woodsy and expensive. Conversation flowed easily on the way to the restaurant. Zeke was every bit the cocky charmer he’d seemed on the field, tossing out teasing remarks that never crossed into disrespect. He opened doors, pulled out your chair, ordered the wine after asking your preference. Over candlelight and plates of seared steak and buttered asparagus, he told stories about road trips with the team, about the ridiculous superstitions players kept, and you found yourself laughing more than you expected.
By dessert his hand had found yours across the table, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. “You’re different,” he said quietly. “Most girls would’ve jumped at the parking-lot offer. You made me work for it.”
You shrugged, but your pulse jumped. “I like a man who can handle a little challenge.”
His eyes darkened. “Then let’s see how much more you can handle.”
The hotel was only a few blocks away—his team’s usual spot when they played in town. The elevator ride up was thick with tension. Zeke stood close, one hand resting lightly at the small of your back, the other holding the key card. When the doors opened he led you down the quiet hallway, unlocked the door, and ushered you inside.
The room was spacious, king bed already turned down, city lights glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows. He tossed his cap onto the dresser and turned to you, voice low. “Still good with this?”
You nodded, stepping closer until your chest brushed his. “Very good.”
Zeke’s mouth met yours in a kiss that started slow and quickly turned hungry. His tongue slid against yours, tasting of wine and mint. Large hands spanned your waist, then slid down to cup your ass, squeezing firmly as he walked you backward toward the bed. You felt the hard line of his cock pressing against your stomach through his pants and couldn’t help the small sound that escaped you.
He broke the kiss only to peel your sundress up and over your head, leaving you in a simple black bra and matching panties. His gaze raked over you like he was memorizing every inch. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”
You reached for his shirt, tugging it off to reveal the defined planes of his chest and the faint trail of hair leading down into his waistband. Your fingers traced the ridges of muscle while he unclasped your bra and let it fall. He bent, mouth closing around one nipple, sucking and flicking with his tongue until it peaked hard. You arched into him, fingers threading through his hair.
Zeke sank to his knees, hooking his thumbs into your panties and dragging them down your legs. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another higher, until his breath ghosted over your pussy. “Already wet for me,” he murmured, almost to himself. His tongue dragged a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, circling the sensitive bud before sucking it between his lips.
Your knees nearly buckled. You gripped his shoulders for balance as he licked and sucked with focused intensity, two thick fingers sliding inside you and curling just right. The wet sounds of his mouth on you filled the room, mixing with your soft moans. He worked you steadily, tongue flicking faster, fingers pumping until your thighs trembled and you came with a sharp cry, pussy clenching around his fingers.
He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes gleaming. “That’s one.”
You pushed at his pants, impatient now. He helped, kicking them and his boxers off in one motion. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, the head already glistening. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit. Zeke groaned, hips twitching into your grip.
You sank to your knees and took him into your mouth. The weight of him on your tongue was intoxicating. You hollowed your cheeks, bobbing your head, taking him deeper each time until he hit the back of your throat. Zeke’s hand rested gently on your head, not pushing, just guiding. “That’s it, doll… fuck, your mouth feels incredible.”
After a few minutes he pulled you up, spun you around, and bent you over the edge of the bed. He lined up and pushed inside in one smooth thrust, stretching you deliciously. You gasped at the fullness, fingers clutching the sheets. Zeke set a steady rhythm, hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet room. One hand gripped your hip; the other reached around to rub your clit in tight circles.
“Harder,” you breathed, and he obliged, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes that made your vision blur. Your second orgasm built fast, crashing over you while he kept fucking you through it. Only when your legs shook did he slow, pulling out and flipping you onto your back.
He climbed over you, sliding back in and capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper. Zeke’s pace grew erratic, thrusts turning short and desperate. “Gonna cum,” he warned. You clenched around him, and he buried himself to the hilt with a low groan, pulsing hot inside you.
For a long moment the only sounds were your mingled breathing. Zeke eased out carefully, disappearing into the bathroom and returning with a warm cloth. He cleaned you gently, then himself, before climbing into bed and tugging you against his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare shoulder.
“Stay the night?” he asked, voice softer now.
You smiled against his skin. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
Later, when the city lights had dimmed and the room was quiet, you woke to his mouth between your legs again—slow, worshipful licks that had you gasping his name into the dark. He took his time bringing you over the edge once more before sliding into you from behind, spooning you, one arm banded across your chest while he rocked into you with deep, unhurried strokes until you both came again, tangled and breathless.
Morning found you still wrapped in his arms, sunlight filtering through the curtains. Zeke pressed a kiss to your temple. “Best vacation decision you ever made?”
You laughed softly. “Ask me again after breakfast.”
He grinned, already reaching for his phone to order room service, and you knew the day—and probably the rest of your trip—was going to be anything but boring.
Girlll!!! I love your works and you're one of the few that writes for Zeke. I just have one problem: my link for your wattpad doesn't work😭😭😭😭😭 Please please tell me how to reach your masterpieces!!!
P.s. love you and your writing 💕💕
Hi sweetie thank you sooo much 🥰 it really means a lot 🩷
My usarname is angeltheycallme
https://www.wattpad.com/user/angeltheycallme
I actually archived one story abt Zeke but maybe I will post it again 🥰
AN: hi guys it’s my new Zeke x fem reader story, you know I’m a busy girl that’s why I decided to post whole story only on wattpad (here is the link)
Music pulsed through the walls, bass heavy enough to rattle the floorboards. Laughter and drunken shouts spilled down the crowded hallway, the kind of chaos that always followed frat parties. You'd been holding onto Colt's hand all night, mostly so he didn't stumble face-first into the beer pong table. But somewhere between shots and his friends dragging him into a drinking game, he slipped away — too drunk to notice you weren't following.
Now you were weaving through the haze of bodies and spilled liquor, pushing open random doors in search of him. The third door creaked open, and instead of Colt, you found Zeke.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to his ear, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. His voice was low, amused, like he was half-bored with whoever he was talking to. The second his eyes landed on you, though, everything changed. His smirk curved slow, deliberate, and he hung up without a word of explanation.
"Well, well." He leaned back on his elbows, smoke curling lazily above him. "Look what the cat dragged in."
You froze in the doorway, heart stuttering against your ribs. The last person you wanted to run into tonight. The last person you couldn't stop thinking about anyway.
"I'm looking for Colt," you muttered, refusing to step inside.
"Colt," Zeke repeated, as if tasting the word for the first time. "Right. The upgrade." His eyes dragged over you, sharp and knowing. "He's not here. Unless you count the floor in the bathroom downstairs."
"Funny," you said, arms crossing over your chest. "You always know where people are when you shouldn't."
"That's because I pay attention," he shot back easily, flicking ash into the tray beside him. "Unlike your boy. Left you wandering around like some lost little lamb."
Your jaw tightened. "Don't start."
He chuckled, low and rich, pushing himself up from the bed. In two slow steps, he closed the distance, and suddenly the room felt too small, too suffocating. His cologne and smoke wrapped around you like a trap.
"I'm not starting anything," he murmured, eyes locking onto yours with that same dangerous warmth you hated yourself for missing. "Just saying... I would've never let you out of my sight."
Your breath caught, but you forced yourself to scoff. "Yeah, right. You let me slip away plenty of times, remember?"
That wiped the smirk off his face for a fraction of a second. Then it returned, sharper. He tilted his head, studying you like he was peeling you apart.
"And yet..." His voice dropped, softer now, almost tender. "You still come looking for me."
You swallowed hard. You should've turned around, should've slammed the door shut and walked away. But your feet wouldn't move, and Zeke knew it. He always knew.
Your pulse spiked, but you forced a scoff, arms tightening across your chest. "Don't flatter yourself, Yeager. I wasn't looking for you."
He let out a low laugh, the kind that slid under your skin and stayed there. "Then why are you still standing here?"
"I told you—I'm looking for Colt."
"Mm." He took another drag, exhaling the smoke between you slowly, deliberately. "Colt. Right. You really traded me in for him?" His eyes narrowed, sharp and mocking. "Safe, predictable, can't-hold-his-liquor Colt."
"He treats me better than you ever did."
That landed for a second, you saw it in the way his jaw twitched, the way his fingers tightened around the cigarette. But Zeke recovered fast, smirk sliding back into place as he leaned in closer.
"Maybe. But he doesn't know you like I do." His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Does he know you hate vodka but drink it anyway to prove a point? That you pretend you're fine when you're not, because you don't want anyone to worry?"
Your throat tightened, words stuck behind your teeth.
Zeke chuckled softly, stepping forward until your back brushed the wall. His hand came up, not touching, just hovering by your shoulder as he boxed you in.
"Thought so."
"Move," you whispered, hating how unsteady it sounded.
He tilted his head, studying your face like it was a puzzle only he could solve. "Tell me you don't still think about me," he said quietly, the smirk gone now, replaced with something raw, almost desperate. "Say it, and I'll let you walk out that door."
The silence stretched, suffocating. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
Zeke's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. He leaned down, close enough that his breath ghosted against your ear.
"Didn't think so, bunny."
"I'm not your bunny anymore, Zeke." Your voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.
His hand moved before you could flinch away, tilting your chin up with the kind of gentleness that hurt more than cruelty ever could. His thumb brushed just beneath your jaw, light, careful.
"You'll always be my bunny," he murmured, gaze steady, unflinching. "You know that."
Your eyes burned, glassy, and before you could stop it, a single tear slipped down your cheek. You hated that he saw it. Hated how his eyes softened when he did.
"Zeke... don't, please," you managed, your chest tight, words trembling.
"I don't want you to be hurt," he said, voice low, stripped of the arrogance and smirks. That honesty—rare, raw, the kind you always recognized instantly—cut deeper than anything else.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to break the spell. "Too bad you hurt me."
Your palms pushed against his chest, sharp enough to make him let go. The space between you was suffocating and cold all at once as you slipped past him and out the door.
The living room is just as chaotic as before.
Music, laughter, shouting—
But this time, it feels distant.
Muted.
"There you are."
Colt's voice cuts through everything.
Warm.
Relieved.
You look up, and there he is—standing with Porco and Reiner, your girls nearby. His face lights up the second he sees you.
Something in your chest softens.
Of course it does.
He crosses the space quickly, slipping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I started getting worried."
You smile.
And this one—
This one is real.
"Yeah, sorry," you murmur. "Just needed some air."
"You look pale."
Annie.
Of course.
You glance at her, already stepping closer, her sharp eyes scanning your face like she's trying to peel something back.
You shrug lightly. "Guess it's this new foundation."
A beat.
Then Hitch laughs, dramatic as always, pulling you out of Colt's arms and into hers.
"Told yaaa," she grins, squeezing you tight. "It's cute but not in this lighting."
You laugh.
Actually laugh.
The sound surprises even you.
For a moment—
You feel normal.
Like nothing happened.
Like everything is fine.
And then—
You see him.
Zeke.
Standing in the corner.
Talking to Onyankopon, one hand casually in his pocket, posture relaxed.
Like he doesn't care.
Like he wasn't just—
Your breath catches.
Because his eyes—
His eyes are on you.
Not even subtle.
Not even trying to hide it.
Just watching.
Like he's waiting.
Like he already knows.
You swallow.
Hard.
And force yourself to look away.
Shake it off.
"What did I miss?" you ask, turning back to Colt with a smile that feels just a little too practiced.
"Oh," he brightens instantly, "we're about to play beer pong. You in, babe?"
You laugh softly. "Aren't you already drunk?"
"Hey," Porco cuts in, grinning, "don't kill the vibe."
Pieck shoots him a look.
"I mean—" Porco raises his hands, backtracking immediately, "we will take things slow."
"Simp," Annie mutters flatly.
The group bursts into laughter.
You roll your eyes. "I'm good. I'll probably just cheer."
Colt leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before heading toward the table.
And for a second—
You just watch him.
Easy smile. Relaxed shoulders. No tension.
No weight.
No chaos.
Just... good.
"Funny. We used to rule beer pong"
The whisper is right behind you.
Your entire body goes rigid.
"Not here," you mutter through your teeth. "Shut up."
You don't even turn around.
You don't have to.
Colt's voice cuts in, oblivious, cheerful.
"Zeke! You in, man?"
You close your eyes for a split second.
Of course.
Of course this is happening.
Zeke laughs—light, easy, like nothing ever happened.
"Oh, you know I can't say no to beer pong."
And just like that—
He steps in.
Takes his place on the opposite team.
Like he belongs there.
Like he belongs here.
Like he didn't just wreck you ten minutes ago.
⸻
You sit on the couch.
Hands folded in your lap.
Trying to breathe normally.
Trying to act like everything is fine.
Trying not to look at him.
But it's impossible.
Because every time you glance up—
He's already looking.
That same infuriating smirk playing on his lips.
Like this is a game.
Like you're part of it.
"Come on, Colt!" you call out, forcing your voice to sound bright.
He grins at you, tossing the ball.
Misses.
Groans dramatically.
You laugh.
Clap lightly.
"Focus!" you tease.
But your eyes—
Your eyes drift.
Back to Zeke.
Always back to Zeke.
Beer drips from the edge of his cup, catching in his beard. He wipes it lazily, laughing at something Onyankopon says.
God.
He looks—
Unfair.
Unfairly familiar.
Unfairly comfortable.
Unfairly him.
And it does something to you.
Something you don't want to name.
You tear your gaze away.
Focus on Colt.
On the way he smiles at you.
On the way he tries.
On the way he wants to be enough.
You want him to win.
The thought hits you suddenly.
Strong.
Desperate.
Like it matters.
Like this stupid game means something more.
You cringe internally.
What is wrong with you?
This isn't a competition.
This isn't—
But it feels like one.
Good versus bad.
Safe versus chaos.
Future versus past.
And you—
You don't know which one you're choosing.
Before you can think too much about it, you stand.
Walk straight to Colt.
And kiss him.
Hard.
Sweet.
Deliberate.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, like you're trying to prove something.
To yourself.
To Zeke.
To anyone watching.
Colt freezes for half a second—then melts into it, surprised but happy.
When you pull away, you smile at him.
"Win for me, okay?"
He blushes instantly.
"Yeah—yeah, of course."
Porco snorts. "Who's the simp now?"
Laughter erupts again.
But you—
You're not looking at them.
You're looking at Zeke.
Your gaze sharp.
Challenging.
See what you lost.
For once—
He doesn't say anything.
But you see it.
Just for a second.
That flicker.
That small, almost invisible crack.
And it feels like—
A win.
A tiny one.
But still.
⸻
Later, Zeke's team wins.
Of course they do.
They always did.
You clap lightly, forcing a smile, pressing yourself closer to Colt as he groans in defeat.
"It's fine," you murmur. "You did good."
But your mind—
Your mind drifts.
Back.
To nights just like this.
You and Zeke against everyone else.
Laughing. Cheating. Playing like your lives depended on it.
And when you won—
He'd lift you off the ground.
Spin you.
Kiss you like nothing else existed.
Like you were the prize.
Like you were everything.
Your chest tightens painfully.
Too much.
It's too much.
"I think I'm gonna call it a night," you say suddenly.
Colt looks at you, concern flickering. "Yeah?"
You nod, forcing a small smile. "Let's get home, shall we?"
He doesn't hesitate.
"Yeah, of course."
⸻
The cab ride is quiet.
Comfortable.
Colt's hand resting over yours.
Thumb brushing gently against your skin.
"It was fun," he says, smiling at you.
You nod.
"Yeah," you echo softly. "It was."
You don't say anything else.
Because you don't trust your voice.
⸻
Inside his apartment, everything feels calmer.
Quieter.
Safe.
Colt pulls you close, kissing you softly this time—slow, careful, like he always is.
No rush.
No pressure.
Just warmth.
Your hands rest on his chest.
You try to sink into it.
You really do.
Your phone buzzes.
The sound cuts through everything.
You freeze.
Just for a second.
Then you pull it out.
One message.
From him.
Actress.
Your stomach drops.
Of course.
Of course he saw right through you.
Of course he always does.
You stare at the screen for a moment longer than you should.
AN: Oh my here we are, final chapter, sorry you had to wait so long I couldn't bring myself to finish this story, im tearing up as im writing this
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEING PART OF THIS JOURNEY (I have one additional chapter, one year after the ending so expect it soon)
as always
with love
Julie xx
The sky above the airport burned in shades of gray and dying gold.
Smoke curled into the air like something alive, something suffocating. The ground trembled beneath your feet—not from a single impact, but from everything. From war. From chaos. From the unraveling of a world that had once pretended to be stable.
Days had blurred together.
Fighting. Running. Pretending.
Standing beside them.
Lying to them.
You moved in sync with Atsushi Nakajima, your movements sharp, precise, calculated. Kyouka Izumi was at your side, silent and deadly, while Kenji Miyazawa held the front line with unwavering strength.
And yet—
You felt nothing.
Only the distant echo of something that used to be you.
Steel clashed. Orders were shouted. The Armed Detective Agency fought like their lives depended on it.
Because they did.
And then—
You saw it.
A shadow cutting through the sky.
A helicopter.
Your breath caught.
No—
Not just a helicopter.
Him.
Your heart didn’t just skip.
It stopped.
Time slowed to a crawl as the machine descended, wind tearing through the battlefield, sending dust and debris spiraling into the air.
And there he was.
Fyodor Dostoevsky.
Dressed in a pilot’s uniform, composed as ever, untouched by the chaos he himself had orchestrated.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Yours.
“Don’t let her go near him!” Ranpo Edogawa shouted, his voice cutting through everything, sharp with certainty.
Too late.
You moved before anyone could react.
Faster than thought.
Faster than loyalty.
You shoved Atsushi aside.
Ran.
Every step felt inevitable.
Like gravity.
Like fate.
And then—
You crashed into him.
Your arms wrapped around him, gripping tightly, as if confirming he was real.
Warm.
Solid.
Alive.
“Fedya…” you whispered.
His arms came around you without hesitation.
“Malishka,” he murmured, amusement threading through his voice. “Glad to see you alive.”
Everything else disappeared.
The battlefield.
The Agency.
The war.
Gone.
For a moment, it was just the two of you.
And then reality shattered back in.
Silence fell—not peaceful, but stunned.
They were watching.
All of them.
“You made quite a show,” he said softly near your ear, his breath steady, controlled. “And for my final act…”
He pulled back just enough to look at everyone else, violet eyes gleaming.
“…I introduce you to the Queen of Rats.”
The title settled over you like a crown.
Heavy.
Earned.
Irreversible.
“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO US?!” Atsushi’s voice broke.
You turned your head slowly.
Looked at him.
And laughed.
Not hysterically.
Not cruelly.
Just… honestly.
“And how could you do this?” you gestured around you—the destruction, the bodies, the burning sky.
“To all those people?”
Silence.
“Stop,” Kyouka said, her voice tight.
You tilted your head.
“And you?” you continued, gaze locking onto her. “How many people died because of Demon Snow?”
She froze.
That was answer enough.
“Perfect, malishka,” Fyodor murmured, pleased.
You looked back at them—really looked this time.
At what you used to belong to.
“If you leave now,” you said calmly, “I won’t kill you.”
A pause.
“My final act of mercy.”
They didn’t move.
Of course they didn’t.
They never knew when to walk away.
You exhaled softly.
Then turned your back on them.
That was the moment it ended.
⸻
Everything that followed felt… inevitable.
Yukichi Fukuzawa charged forward, fury burning through him.
Fyodor didn’t even flinch.
Words were exchanged—truths twisted, revealed, dismantled. The illusion of peace, of control, shattered piece by piece.
Then—
“Attack.”
Ame-no-Gozen moved.
And the world broke.
The explosion swallowed the airport whole.
Steel twisted.
Concrete collapsed.
Screams vanished under the roar.
You didn’t move.
You just stood beside him.
Exactly where you belonged.
Even when Bram Stoker tried to strike—
Even when power shifted, bodies fell, and the impossible became reality—
You stayed.
Watching.
Choosing.
Again and again.
Until there was nothing left to choose.
⸻
And then—
The Order.
One Order rested in his hand like something divine.
World-altering.
Absolute.
He activated it.
And just like that—
Everything changed.
Chaos spread like wildfire.
Vampires.
Control.
Fear.
Obedience.
A new world, written in an instant.
He turned to you.
Almost as if remembering something small.
Something personal.
“I almost forgot.”
The Order lifted again.
“Make her immortal.”
Your breath caught.
Something—something impossible—wrapped around you.
Invisible.
Cold.
Endless.
“Ty moya, malishka.”
His lips met yours.
Soft.
Certain.
Claiming.
The world burned around you.
And still—
That was the moment that mattered.
Darkness pulled at the edges of your vision.
Your body felt… different.
Too light.
Too heavy.
Too everything.
The last thing you felt—
Was him.
Holding you.
Not letting you fall.
Then you fainted.
⸻
When you woke—
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
The soft hum of an engine.
The golden glow of sunset bleeding through the windows.
A plane.
He was there.
Of course he was.
Sitting beside you, composed, one hand resting near yours like he never left.
“You’re awake, malishka,” he said softly.
You tried to sit up.
“Where…?”
“It’s over,” he replied simply.
You looked at him.
At the calm in his expression.
At the absence of doubt.
“The world is finally free from sin.”
He glanced out the window.
“I wonder if this is how God feels.”
Watching.
Judging.
Above it all.
Your throat felt dry.
“Are they… dead?”
A pause.
“They are free.”
Not the same answer.
Not meant to be.
“Where are we going?” you asked quietly.
He smiled.
That same, familiar smile.
“I promised you,” he said, taking your hand, fingers threading through yours. “If you chose me… we would go to Russia.”
Your chest tightened.
Something fragile flickered inside you.
“Fedya…”
“When the world calms,” he continued, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, “we’ll visit your father. I took the liberty of contacting him.”
Your heart skipped.
“He was worried.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Is he…?”
“Not angry,” Fyodor interrupted smoothly. “People see us as heroes.”
Of course they did.
The Page.
The Order.
Reality itself had been rewritten.
You leaned back slightly.
Processing.
Or maybe not processing at all.
“Prepare yourself,” he murmured, leaning closer, his voice dropping.
Weeks dissolved into something softer, heavier — something that clung to your skin like fog and refused to let go.
You stopped counting.
Stopped trying.
Because no matter how much time passed…
He was still there.
In every thought.
In every silence.
In the way your fingers lingered too long on objects he once touched. In the way your breath hitched when something felt like him — cold, precise, controlled.
Fyodor Dostoevsky.
Even miles away.
Even locked away.
He was everywhere.
⸻
It started with the music.
It always did.
The gramophone sat in the corner of the room — quiet, unassuming, almost antique in its elegance. Anyone else would have seen it as decoration.
But you knew better.
He programmed it.
Refined it.
Turned it into something far more dangerous than a weapon.
A language.
His language.
At first, it was subtle. A song here, a melody there — fragments of meaning woven into lyrics only you would understand.
A code made not of logic.
But emotion.
And then one night—
You woke up.
No reason.
No sound—
No.
There it was.
Soft.
Faint.
Music.
Your body reacted before your mind did. You sat up immediately, heart racing, eyes sharp in the darkness.
For a moment—
Fear.
Raw and instinctive.
And then—
“Wise men say…”
You froze.
Your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
“Only fools rush in…”
The tension snapped.
Replaced with something else.
Something warmer.
Softer.
Dangerous in a completely different way.
“But I can’t help falling in love with you…”
Your heart skipped.
Once.
Hard.
And just like that—
You relaxed.
A quiet laugh slipped past your lips as you pushed the blanket away and stood.
“Fedya,” you murmured under your breath, voice soft, almost fond.
“You helpless romantic.”
⸻
You crossed the room slowly, like approaching something sacred.
The gramophone spun gently, the needle gliding across the record with perfect precision.
Of course he chose this.
Of course he did.
Control, manipulation, chaos—
And then this.
You reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the machine as if grounding yourself.
Then you changed the record.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
A response.
Because this was a conversation.
“Take my whole life, too…”
The music filled the room again.
“For I can’t help falling in love with you…”
You leaned against the table, arms loosely crossed, eyes half-lidded as the melody wrapped around you.
That was your answer.
Not words.
Never words.
Something deeper.
Something only he would truly understand.
⸻
He didn’t respond.
No second song.
No immediate reply.
But you knew.
You knew.
Somewhere—
Far away—
He smiled.
Just slightly.
The kind of smile no one else ever saw.
You could almost picture it.
The subtle shift in his expression.
The way his fingers would adjust his cuffs — a small, controlled movement to ground himself.
To hide it.
But not from you.
Never from you.
⸻
Time passed.
Again.
Unmeasured.
Unimportant.
Until—
Your phone rang.
You didn’t even need to look to know who it was.
Still, you picked it up.
“Y/N—!”
The voice was frantic.
Shaking.
Atsushi Nakajima.
“Agency… Fyodor… Kunikida— it’s—”
“Okay, Atsushi,” you cut in gently, voice calm, steady — perfectly measured.
“Slow down. What’s going on?”
Silence.
A breath.
Then—
“It’s Kyouka. We need you, miss Y/N. It’s really bad in Yokohama. People think we are terrorists—”
“Terrorists?” you echoed, letting just enough disbelief seep into your tone.
Inside—
You almost smiled.
Nikolai did a really good job.
“Fukuzawa-sensei asked us to contact you,” Atsushi continued quickly. “We know you’re in Russia, but—”
“It’s okay,” you said softly.
A pause.
“Agency is like a family to me.”
The words came out effortlessly.
Warm.
Convincing.
A perfect lie wrapped in just enough truth to make it believable.
“I heard rumors from Russian gifted…” you added, letting your voice falter slightly before steadying again. “But I thought…”
A quiet exhale.
“I can be in Yokohama tomorrow.”
Relief flooded through the line.
“It would be great,” Atsushi said, calmer now. “Dazai is in Meursault, and Kunikida… we still don’t know. He’s probably dead.”
Your grip on the phone tightened slightly.
Yes, you thought.
Because I killed him.
“Wait for me at the airport,” you said.
“What flight will you take?” Kyouka Izumi asked.
“Private.”
A beat.
“…Makes sense,” Atsushi murmured.
And just like that—
You reconnected.
⸻
The irony was almost amusing.
Because you were never in Russia.
Not really.
Not anymore.
You stood now in the quiet of the forest, just a few kilometers from Yokohama.
Hidden.
Protected.
Inside his base.
On his side.
Always.
⸻
The reunion was seamless.
Perfectly executed.
You slipped back into the Agency like you never left — stepping into your role with practiced ease.
You fought beside them.
Protected them.
Led them.
You became what they needed.
Hope.
Stability.
Something familiar in the chaos.
And they accepted you.
Without hesitation.
Without doubt.
⸻
It made you sick.
Not immediately.
Not obviously.
But slowly.
Quietly.
Like poison.
Every smile.
Every word.
Every thank you.
It crawled under your skin.
Because they didn’t know.
They didn’t see.
How painfully oblivious they were.
Their morals—
So rigid.
So fragile.
So… shallow.
You watched them cling to ideals that meant nothing in the face of real power.
Real control.
It was almost pathetic.
⸻
But there was one person who knew.
Of course there was.
Ranpo Edogawa.
He didn’t say it.
Didn’t expose you.
Didn’t even look at you differently when others were around.
But you saw it.
In the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.
In the tension behind his laziness.
He knew.
And more importantly—
He understood the consequences.
If the Agency found out—
It would destroy them.
Not physically.
Not immediately.
But mentally.
Emotionally.
They would stop focusing on the real enemy.
On Fyodor.
On the war.
And instead—
They would focus on you.
Trying to save you.
Convince you.
Fight you.
Break you.
It would fracture them from within.
And Ranpo knew that.
That’s why he stayed silent.
⸻
One night—
During patrol—
He sat beside you.
No warning.
No greeting.
Just… presence.
“Please don’t kill them,” he said.
Not looking at you.
Your expression didn’t change.
“I won’t,” you replied calmly.
A pause.
“It’s a promise.”
That made him glance at you.
“Why?” he asked.
You tilted your head slightly.
“You know.”
Silence.
Then—
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “I know.”
You studied him for a moment.
“Do you understand me?”
He hesitated.
Just slightly.
And that was enough.
“That’s what I thought.”
⸻
He looked away, jaw tightening.
“You’re useful,” he said quietly, “even when you’re on his side.”
You stood, stretching slowly, as if the conversation meant nothing.
Looped back on itself until seconds felt like hours and days dissolved into something shapeless.
The Infinite Dice Room was designed that way.
A perfect prison for minds that refused to break.
Fyodor Dostoevsky stood inside his “bubble,” hands loosely clasped behind his back, gaze lifted toward the endless geometric void surrounding him. The space shifted subtly, patterns reforming like a puzzle that never truly solved itself.
Beautiful.
Pointless.
Predictable.
Across from him, separated by distance but never truly out of reach, stood Osamu Dazai.
Leaning.
Slouching.
Existing like boredom itself had taken human form.
“I’m boooored,” Dazai sighed theatrically, dragging the word out as if he could stretch it into something entertaining.
Fyodor exhaled softly.
“I have to admit,” he said, almost thoughtfully, “it is taking longer than expected.”
Dazai tilted his head slightly, watching him.
That was already interesting.
Fyodor being… impatient?
Rare.
Then—
A soft clap echoed through the space.
Sharp.
Deliberate.
“Time for happy group council hour,” Fyodor announced.
Dazai groaned immediately.
“Again,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “You’re really committed to making this place worse than it already is.”
Fyodor’s lips curved faintly.
“Oh, this time it will be worth it,” he said, voice light with something dangerous. “Trust me.”
Dazai rolled his eyes.
“If you say so.”
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then Fyodor tilted his head slightly.
“Tell me,” he said, almost casually, “didn’t you notice that one of your precious members is gone?”
Dazai didn’t react immediately.
Of course he didn’t.
“I know you killed Kunikida,” he said finally, voice sharper now — still controlled, but no longer bored.
Fyodor smiled faintly.
“And Tanizaki,” he added, almost proudly. “But I don’t mean them.”
A pause.
A very small one.
But Fyodor saw it.
Dazai’s breath hitched — barely.
“Y/N,” he said.
There it was.
Recognition.
Confirmation.
“There you go,” Fyodor smirked. “But I prefer to call her malishka.”
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Dazai didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t deflect.
“What is it, Dazai?” Fyodor continued, voice almost amused. “You didn’t know?”
Nothing.
“Ahh…” Fyodor let out a quiet chuckle, eyes gleaming. “I see.”
He stepped forward slightly within his space, as if closing a distance that didn’t physically exist.
“You didn’t want to admit it to yourself.”
Dazai’s gaze hardened.
“She is our spy,” he said carefully.
Fyodor’s smile deepened.
“Is she now?”
A pause.
“Then let me tell you something,” he added softly.
His voice dropped just enough to make it personal.
“She is also an excellent actress.”
Dazai’s expression didn’t change.
But something behind his eyes did.
“The way she speaks,” Fyodor continued, almost lazily, “the way she adapts, the way she understands exactly what people want to hear…”
A small tilt of his head.
“It’s impressive.”
“Enough,” Dazai cut in sharply.
Fyodor’s smile widened just slightly.
“Told you it would be entertaining.”
He clasped his hands again, as if satisfied.
“Now answer my question,” he continued. “When did you find out?”
Dazai exhaled slowly.
“I suspected it during the funeral,” he said. “After Kunikida went missing… I was sure.”
Fyodor hummed.
“Took you long enough.”
That earned him a look.
“So what’s your plan, Fyodor?” Dazai asked, tone shifting again — colder now. Focused. “You’ll kill her after everything?”
Fyodor laughed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But genuinely.
“Kill her?” he repeated. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dazai.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You’ve seen her. Her ability. You know what she’s capable of.”
A pause.
“And that,” he added softly, “is precisely why you’re so irritated right now.”
Dazai didn’t respond.
“You didn’t know how to shape her,” Fyodor continued. “How to guide her. How to make her useful.”
His smile returned — colder now.
“I did.”
A beat.
“And now,” he finished, “I have a very powerful ally.”
Dazai’s gaze dropped slightly.
Thinking.
Calculating.
“When the Agency finds out,” he said quietly.
Fyodor cut him off immediately.
“Then what?”
The words were sharp.
Direct.
“What will they do?” he continued. “The same thing you did?”
A pause.
“Which is nothing?”
Dazai’s eyes flicked back up.
“Or will they try to talk to her?” Fyodor added, voice almost mocking now. “Reason with her. Appeal to emotion.”
A soft chuckle.
“I’m quite certain they won’t act.”
Silence.
Tension.
A game balanced on a knife’s edge.
And then—
Fyodor disappeared.
No warning.
No buildup.
Just gone.
Dazai’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second.
Then—
He vanished too.
⸻
The space reformed.
Solid.
Real.
A room.
Waiting inside were two familiar figures.
Nikolai Gogol stood with open arms, expression bright, almost manic with excitement.
“Fyodor!” he exclaimed. “My dear friend! So good to see you!”
Beside him, quieter but no less tense, stood Sigma.
Watching.
Always watching.
Fyodor stepped forward calmly, as if he had simply walked through a door.
“Took you long enough,” he said with a faint smirk.
Nikolai laughed, delighted.
“Oh, but good things take time!”
Dazai appeared a moment later, already assessing the room, the positions, the exits — even when there were none.
Everything was in motion now.
Every piece exactly where it needed to be.
Fyodor’s gaze flickered briefly — not to Nikolai, not to Sigma, not even to Dazai.
