This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
I love me some Columbina!reader x Tamsy but this Bina!reader was the one who I envisioned before her lore release.
There’s a long stretch of silence. Then a gust of wind.
Tamsy halted, feeling the shift on the air gets heavier, then colder, and then warm again that it seethed on his skin. He swings his hand holding the distaff as he looks around; it's dark — maybe because this place has already been abandoned, but he was sure it's well taken care of despite having no presence around at all.
He reaches over the rope of his distaff, revealing a blue, round almost crescent-shaped catalyst that glows and glimmers in the dark. The feathers decorating on both sides was familiar — too familiar to not realize it's the same wings that hold much more of authority than Angels — than him. The vital instrument shines like stars and constellations, then there's the shape of Watchman Series beaded in white in the middle.
Same yet different. Was the Watchman Series tainted? Were this vital instrument the root of them all? This looks like it belongs to a God. Moon. It makes sense that the owner of it was nowhere to be found.
But Tamsy’s lips quirked. I can feel you here.
Somewhere in the middle of No Man Island, Tamsy and his usual cloak drapes on his body as he put his distaff back under the cloak as he held the catalyst with both palm. He breath through the mask, let the vital instrument lead him in the darkness. There’s so much anima dripping over the catalyst — like the owner were still yearning for it, still yearning for the power and authority that was stripped off.
Tamsy revealed his wings, halfway covered by his cloak, he maneuvers around, then there's an echo trails of blue and white that follows through like a guiding light. His wings shuffle before he stops on his track.
There's a mystical click-clack on the ground almost as if the gravity was stolen. The sound of heels that felt as if they're walking on water.
“Who’s there?”
The wind blows suddenly, a gush of wind that made his wings flutter and made him stumbles on his feet. His hands slipped away from the catalyst as he tumbles on the ground, but only the vital instrument stays upright — floating mindlessly where he thought he dropped it.
It glows heavily now until it almost light up the whole hallway that he could make see of the place where he is; somewhere with walls too dark and ceiling too high — but he feels suffocated.
“Don’t you have to knock first before asking ‘who’s there’?”
He shivers at the voice; melodic, yet nonchalance and devoid of any curiosity contradictory, there’s the coldness and shrill but no maleficence behind — but that was certainly a God.
Only a God would made an impression like this over anyone.
“How blasphemous. Considering that wings were granted from me a long time ago.”
Tamsy’s lips quiver, yet there’s a mischief smile forming on his lips. He didn't know what to feel but all he knew right now is fear.
You need to get out. He can't move.
Run for it. You're not gonna make it. He can't feel his legs.
When the God steps out of the shadows, every fibre on his body disappeared.
The word otherworldly is an understatement. There’s that sudden shift in the wind again, cold then warm but this time, it doesn't seethe his skin — it's kind of warm that he would feel on the Sphere, the kind of warm that soothe his nerves, trying to soothe his nerves.
Angels were always and have to fear the Gods.
But why do this God had that look in their eyes?
The longing and distant emotion that a God shouldn't feel right now was written all over their face. Were this God been forgotten for that long? Considering that there's no moon nor sun here on the Ground —
“It seems to me that the creator of the Sphere was left over behind,” He speaks, how dare he, but his uncouth mouth can't stop, “Was it because of betrayal or stupidity?”
There’s a silence and a pin drop temperature that he felt, spreading goosebumps all over on his skin. The God’s face never changes, but the catalyst separating them glows luminously, flickering from light to dim.
So Gods do have feelings. Like humans. Like everybody else.
“How blasphemous. Were you here out of curiosity or ignorance?” The God’s voice were melodically, brimming with unknown kindness. When Tamsy can finally feel his nerves, he set himself up back to his feet, dusting his cloak and never leaving his eyes to the God.
“Should you answer a question with another one, Your Grace?” He tauts like a man he is, and the God’s head tilted just a bit. Really blasphemous, on how he would call this God adorable. Because blame it on these perfect beings to be this beautiful but this lonely, lonelu he could pity them. But Tamsy won't say that out loud.
Because what is an Angel to of a God?
The God tilted their head just a bit to match his eyes — and the waves of desire to ravish and bite and — “I am no God of Wisdom. I am all but a God now.”
The God steps forward to hover over the vital instrument floating in the middle as though it was their stopping line. Delicate hands graze over the crescents and crevices and it glows from light to dim, like the God's touch made it calm and tamed.
“No one should be here on this deserted place. No one deserves to stay here forever, that's why I created the Sphere. You can see the kingdom I built there, don't you? A kingdom for all... A kingdom with moon,” Tamsy eyed the God, then a sudden clear crescented shape that mimics the half moon appears and the God sits over, the catalyst appearing behind the God’s head like a halo, then the God’s eyes open. “But I was forgotten. Because no one will praise the moon anymore. No one would wish to wish on the constellations. No one dares to worship a God that a belief doesn't exists on the Ground anymore. I have lost the authority,”
When the God's eyes flickers to him through his mask, a wave of familiarity washes over him.
The God. The Gods granted wings to those they chose to. But there's this one Angel being chosen directly of authority of wings by a God.
Tamsy was the Angel. And this was the God.
“Now, Angel. Why do you wish to look for me after all this time?”
“I may have forgotten...” Tamsy trails off of his words, then he swallowed.
Forgotten. But the wings remained. So was the desire to meet the God personally.
You've met the God, then what?
Tamsy's lips quirked up in a smirk, eyes raking to the God in front of him; all impassive and relaxed because what can an Angel do to a God?
I'll keep running this Bina!reader agenda to Tamsy because Bina's character fits with Tamsy's personality quite well. BUT FUCK THERE'S NO MOON ON THE GROUND
I love me some Columbina!reader x Tamsy but this Bina!reader was the one who I envisioned before her lore release.
There’s a long stretch of silence. Then a gust of wind.
Tamsy halted, feeling the shift on the air gets heavier, then colder, and then warm again that it seethed on his skin. He swings his hand holding the distaff as he looks around; it's dark — maybe because this place has already been abandoned, but he was sure it's well taken care of despite having no presence around at all.
He reaches over the rope of his distaff, revealing a blue, round almost crescent-shaped catalyst that glows and glimmers in the dark. The feathers decorating on both sides was familiar — too familiar to not realize it's the same wings that hold much more of authority than Angels — than him. The vital instrument shines like stars and constellations, then there's the shape of Watchman Series beaded in white in the middle.
Same yet different. Was the Watchman Series tainted? Were this vital instrument the root of them all? This looks like it belongs to a God. Moon. It makes sense that the owner of it was nowhere to be found.
But Tamsy’s lips quirked. I can feel you here.
Somewhere in the middle of No Man Island, Tamsy and his usual cloak drapes on his body as he put his distaff back under the cloak as he held the catalyst with both palm. He breath through the mask, let the vital instrument lead him in the darkness. There’s so much anima dripping over the catalyst — like the owner were still yearning for it, still yearning for the power and authority that was stripped off.
Tamsy revealed his wings, halfway covered by his cloak, he maneuvers around, then there's an echo trails of blue and white that follows through like a guiding light. His wings shuffle before he stops on his track.
There's a mystical click-clack on the ground almost as if the gravity was stolen. The sound of heels that felt as if they're walking on water.
“Who’s there?”
The wind blows suddenly, a gush of wind that made his wings flutter and made him stumbles on his feet. His hands slipped away from the catalyst as he tumbles on the ground, but only the vital instrument stays upright — floating mindlessly where he thought he dropped it.
It glows heavily now until it almost light up the whole hallway that he could make see of the place where he is; somewhere with walls too dark and ceiling too high — but he feels suffocated.
“Don’t you have to knock first before asking ‘who’s there’?”
He shivers at the voice; melodic, yet nonchalance and devoid of any curiosity contradictory, there’s the coldness and shrill but no maleficence behind — but that was certainly a God.
Only a God would made an impression like this over anyone.
“How blasphemous. Considering that wings were granted from me a long time ago.”
Tamsy’s lips quiver, yet there’s a mischief smile forming on his lips. He didn't know what to feel but all he knew right now is fear.
You need to get out. He can't move.
Run for it. You're not gonna make it. He can't feel his legs.
When the God steps out of the shadows, every fibre on his body disappeared.
The word otherworldly is an understatement. There’s that sudden shift in the wind again, cold then warm but this time, it doesn't seethe his skin — it's kind of warm that he would feel on the Sphere, the kind of warm that soothe his nerves, trying to soothe his nerves.
Angels were always and have to fear the Gods.
But why do this God had that look in their eyes?
The longing and distant emotion that a God shouldn't feel right now was written all over their face. Were this God been forgotten for that long? Considering that there's no moon nor sun here on the Ground —
“It seems to me that the creator of the Sphere was left over behind,” He speaks, how dare he, but his uncouth mouth can't stop, “Was it because of betrayal or stupidity?”
There’s a silence and a pin drop temperature that he felt, spreading goosebumps all over on his skin. The God’s face never changes, but the catalyst separating them glows luminously, flickering from light to dim.
So Gods do have feelings. Like humans. Like everybody else.
“How blasphemous. Were you here out of curiosity or ignorance?” The God’s voice were melodically, brimming with unknown kindness. When Tamsy can finally feel his nerves, he set himself up back to his feet, dusting his cloak and never leaving his eyes to the God.
“Should you answer a question with another one, Your Grace?” He tauts like a man he is, and the God’s head tilted just a bit. Really blasphemous, on how he would call this God adorable. Because blame it on these perfect beings to be this beautiful but this lonely, lonelu he could pity them. But Tamsy won't say that out loud.
Because what is an Angel to of a God?
The God tilted their head just a bit to match his eyes — and the waves of desire to ravish and bite and — “I am no God of Wisdom. I am all but a God now.”
The God steps forward to hover over the vital instrument floating in the middle as though it was their stopping line. Delicate hands graze over the crescents and crevices and it glows from light to dim, like the God's touch made it calm and tamed.
“No one should be here on this deserted place. No one deserves to stay here forever, that's why I created the Sphere. You can see the kingdom I built there, don't you? A kingdom for all... A kingdom with moon,” Tamsy eyed the God, then a sudden clear crescented shape that mimics the half moon appears and the God sits over, the catalyst appearing behind the God’s head like a halo, then the God’s eyes open. “But I was forgotten. Because no one will praise the moon anymore. No one would wish to wish on the constellations. No one dares to worship a God that a belief doesn't exists on the Ground anymore. I have lost the authority,”
When the God's eyes flickers to him through his mask, a wave of familiarity washes over him.
The God. The Gods granted wings to those they chose to. But there's this one Angel being chosen directly of authority of wings by a God.
Tamsy was the Angel. And this was the God.
“Now, Angel. Why do you wish to look for me after all this time?”
“I may have forgotten...” Tamsy trails off of his words, then he swallowed.
Forgotten. But the wings remained. So was the desire to meet the God personally.
You've met the God, then what?
Tamsy's lips quirked up in a smirk, eyes raking to the God in front of him; all impassive and relaxed because what can an Angel do to a God?
it’s honestly wild how some of yall tumblr writers write nsfw for jjk characters. its just horny slop atp. like, i get that thirsting is fun and all, but at some point you have to actually consider who the character is.
most of the time its two characters fucking and then their names and appearances are thrown in with very little characterization outside of boning
i open this app in hopes to read worthy pwp, angst, & fluff fics but then im faced with the most unimaginative, generic and eye-roll worthy slop. be so for real
don’t even get me started on the writers who use ai. u guys aren’t that slick lmfao
You know, those writers who wrote like, a 100k words fic doesn't really get that much attention here other than in A03. You can't give details to a character in just little to no words at all. Telling a character they're "sweet" then, what of it now? Most of the angst and fluff fics doesn't really get that much of an attention that's why most of them aren't really here on tumblr.
Hellooo idk if request are open but if they are and you can, Could you write about an scenario (and headcanons) of Dazai reaction after discovering that reader used to work for Fyodor and kinda liked him? (Dazai realices that when during a mission with reader Fyodor appears and reader just frozes)
TWO OF A KIND
Dazai Osamu & Fyodor Dostoevsky.
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄... hello, thank you for requesting! I apologize if this was not the vision you wanted to happened but I tried to be more canon compliant and shifting it in a dark romance (failed, lol). I hope you enjoy! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒... identity crisis, lol
GENERAL MASTERLIST.
The rain fell in thin silver lines that blurred the edges of Yokohama into something ghostlike; clouds pressed low against the skyline, heavy and unmoving, swallowing what little warmth the city might have offered. Neon lights smeared across puddles like bleeding color, flickering whenever thunder rolled somewhere far beyond the harbor. The air smelled of rust and wet concrete — sharp enough to sting your lungs when you breathed too deeply. You stood beneath a cracked awning outside an empty café, arms folded loosely as droplets tapped against the fabric of your coat. Your reflection trembled in a shallow puddle at your feet — distorted, fractured by every ripple of rain. For a moment you wondered if that warped version looked more honest than the real one.
Footsteps approached behind you, slowly, but not enough to startle you. The sound of shoes hitting the pavement was familiar.
“Ah… I was right,” Dazai’s voice chimed softly, warm and playful in a way that felt strangely distant tonight.
“You really are here.” You didn’t turn immediately. You could picture him without looking — tall, wrapped in his beige coat, bandages peeking from beneath loose sleeves, messy dark brown hair damp from the rain and falling into his amber eyes. Those eyes were always bright, always calculating — but lately, they had begun to linger on you longer than usual.
“Were you looking for me?” You asked.
He stepped beside you, hands tucked into his pockets. The rain caught in his hair, darkening the strands until they clung lightly to his cheekbones, almost looking like a wet dog wandering in the lost city — but this one knew his way around — he always does, appearing whenever you are, watching whatever you’ll do.
“I’m always looking for you,” he said lightly. “That’s what partners do.”
The word felt heavier than it should have, like he’s mocking you, although his dark eyes show nothing mischievous, only antecedently. You glanced at him, his lips curved lazily across his face, but his eyes were sharper than the stormlight reflected in the pavement.
“You’ve been silent,” He added, halting when he’s now standing in front of you an inch away, towering over you. You can see the blackness of his eyes this close, the droplets of water on his dark hair as it trickled near your cheek.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby.” He murmured.
A pause stretched between you, filled only by the steady hiss of rain as his gaze drifted downward to your hands, to the faint tremor you didn’t realize you carried; you were shaking — maybe because of the rain, or maybe because of someone. His expression softened then hardened again.
“…Did you see him again?” Dazai asked quietly.
Your heartbeat stuttered, there's a beat of silence before you held your breath and a shaky sigh escaped your lips. Dazai watches you intently with eyes that flickering down to your lips and back to your eyes as though he's searching for an answer. He already knew. You didn’t need to ask who he meant — Fyodor Dostoevsky’s presence lingered in your mind like a melody that refused to fade.
You exhaled slowly. “No.”
Not yet.
But the memory came anyway.
The church had been colder than you expected.
Moonlight filtered through shattered stained glass, painting fractured colors across the wooden floor. Dust floated in the air like slow-falling ash. Every step echoed too loudly, making you feel like an intruder in a forgotten place. He sat at the piano with his back to you — pale fingers resting lightly on the keys, unmoving. Fyodor’s dark hair fell in soft strands across his face, catching the faint light. His posture was relaxed, almost delicate as though the world moved too harshly for him to bother matching its pace.
“I wondered when you would arrive.” he said without turning.
His voice was low and soft enough that you almost leaned closer just to hear it clearly.
“You were expecting me.” you said.
A faint smile touched his lips as he turned. His eyes were a deep violet — unsettlingly calm, like still water that hid something immeasurable beneath. The rich color matched his innuendoes, a spark of unknown danger that seems to calm you like —
“Dazai, I was expecting him,” he said. “But he always sends someone far more interesting.”
Your fingers twitched at the mention of his name. Dazai. Your partner. Why were you here again? You came here without your partner's knowledge nor his approval. Now, your instincts told you to leave. Everything about him felt wrong — too composed and aware but you stayed.
The piano keys moved beneath his fingers, releasing a slow, haunting melody that echoed through the empty church. Each note lingered too long in the air, wrapping around your thoughts like silk threads. It makes your head ache but it also makes your rationality sway.
“You’re cautious,” Fyodor observed, watching you carefully. “Yet you didn’t bring a weapon to your hand.”
“I don’t need one,” You replied.
His smile deepened slightly. “Confidence or denial?”
You didn’t answer, instead, you asked what you came to ask — about the trap, the mission, the information he had stolen from the Agency. He responded calmly, never raising his voice, never stepping closer than necessary. And somehow that distance felt more intimate than if he had reached for you. You feel too exposed in his eyes like he'd seen everything you have to offer — but you offer none other than lingering feelings that shouldn't be there in the first place.
That’s the reason why you escaped.
The also reason why he let you go.
He knew this would happen; after all, every broken soul would always find their way into Dazai’s care — and you were so lost with the way you feel about this man that you seek your way out to stay by Dazai’s side.
“Tell me,” he murmured after a while, “why do you stay beside Dazai Osamu?”
You hesitated, “He’s my partner.”
Fyodor’s gaze softened with quiet amusement. “That is not an answer. That is a role you're obligated to fill so that he can allow you to stay,”
The melody shifted, slower now and almost mournful.
“You watch him,” Fyodor continued gently, “As though you are waiting for him to disappear.”
“You don’t know anything about us,” You said sharply.
“Perhaps,” He replied. “But I know loneliness when I see it.”
The words slipped beneath your defenses with frightening ease and for reasons you couldn’t explain why you stayed longer than you should have.
Back under the awning, the rain intensified drumming against metal and pavement, Dazai studied your face carefully. “You’re remembering him,” He said quietly.
You flinched and his amber eyes darkened, the usual humor fading into something raw and unfiltered. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing important.” You snapped.
Dazai laughed softly, but it sounded hollow. “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“…Like you’ve seen something beautiful and terrifying at the same time.”
The accuracy of his words unsettled you. You bit your bottom lip — caught without a trap, trapped without a cage. You turned away. “You’re overthinking.”
“I’m always overthinking,” He said lightly. “It’s the only thing keeping me alive.”
Thunder rolled overhead and for a moment, the sky flashed white, illuminating the sharp lines of his face — the tiredness beneath his eyes, the faint crease between his brows, and the soft curve of his lips.
“…Stay away from him,” Dazai said at last, the softness on his voice made the request feel heavier than an order, than telling a partner to stay away from a mission.
“I can’t promise that,” You admitted with a solemn look, and his face falters; something flickered across his expression, not anger, but fear — and that frightened you more than anything.
Days passed in a blur of missions and silence. Dazai lingered near you more often than usual. He leaned against your desk, watched you from across rooms, cracked jokes that felt forced rather than spontaneous. His smile never quite reached his eyes.
One evening, as the sky turned gray with approaching rain, he cornered you in a narrow hallway.
“Are you meeting him tonight?” he asked.
You didn’t answer, then his gaze dropped briefly, lashes casting faint shadows across his cheeks, whisking the amber shade of his eyes like a beautiful wisp of willow — pretty and unraveling.
“…Take me with you,” he said quietly.
“No.” The refusal came so quickly that his eyes snapped back to yours, something sharp and wounded flashing through them.
“Why not?”
“Because this isn’t about you,” You said.
He laughed softly, “Everything involving Fyodor is about me.”
Before you could reply, your phone vibrated, the screen lit up on your face; The church is open again. Come alone. Your chest tightened and Dazai’s eyes flicked to the screen before you could hide it.
“…You’re going,” He said, almost a statement and sounded in disbelief. You didn’t deny it nor you could even look at his eyes right now when the hallway lights flickered, reflecting off the bandages around his neck. For a moment he looked painfully human — less like the untouchable genius everyone believed him to be.
“Then I suppose,” He murmured, “I’ll follow anyway.”
The church felt different the second time, storm clouds smothered the moonlight, leaving only candle flames to illuminate the room. Shadows stretched long and distorted along the walls as Fyodor stood near the altar, hair partially covering one eye. He looked up as you entered, a faint smile touching his pale lips.
“You returned.” He said softly.
“I had questions.”
“Or perhaps,” He murmured, “You were curious whether I would still be here.”
His gaze lingered on you surprisingly steady, gentle, and unnervingly warm as a quiet clap echoed behind you.
“Well,” Dazai drawled from the doorway, water dripping from the ends of his hair. “This is cozy.”
Fyodor’s violet eyes brightened faintly. “Dazai. You arrived sooner than expected.”
“I hate being predictable,” Dazai replied, stepping forward. His expression was calm, but his eyes were razor-sharp.
The air between them felt electric — two minds moving faster than words.
“You’ve changed them,” Dazai said quietly.
Fyodor tilted his head. “I have merely listened.”
“You call that listening?” Dazai scoffed.
“I call it honesty.”
Your pulse pounded as their attention shifted toward you. “You both talk like I’m not here,” You said. There's not even an anger behind your voice, just the nerve wracking feeling of being alone with these men that felt like your past and present, and the future is still unknown.
Fyodor’s gaze was on you instantly. “Forgive me.”
Dazai’s hand brushes your wrist light and hesitant as though he's grounding himself. You didn't flinch at his touch despite the coldness of the pads of his fingers — the wet patch on the end of his sleeves and the irritating feeling of the edge of his bandages. You stood your ground — because staying near Dazai had always been a comfort for you, but that just means staying away from Fyodor doesn't make you less anxious.
“What do you want?” Fyodor asked gently, the question felt heavier than any threat.
“…Truth,” you whispered.
He smiled faintly.
“Then stay.”
The candles flickered as thunder shook the windows.
Fyodor spoke quietly, his voice weaving through the darkness like a lullaby. He asked about your fears, your doubts, the things you never admitted aloud. Each question peeled back another layer you didn’t realize you carried. You had witnessed too much of Dazai's darkness to believe in his permanence; he joked about death too easily, vanished without warning, and reappeared with that same hollow smile that never quite reached his amber eyes.
Somewhere along the line, you stopped looking at him as a partner and started looking at him as a countdown — memorizing the tilt of his head, the messy strands of dark hair falling into his face, the brief softness he showed when he thought no one was looking. It was because of this that Fyodor noticed it; the day he would decide to intentionally disappear. It seemed to Fyodor that you were already mourning someone who was still standing next to you, and he recognized that silent terror immediately. Perhaps that's why you stared at Dazai for so long—not because you wanted him to go away, but rather because you thought he would eventually, and you were attempting to comprehend him before the stillness he appeared to carry within him finally engulfed him.
“You’re enjoying this.” Dazai murmured at one point.
“…Maybe,” You admitted. The word hit him harder than any insult. Fyodor watched the exchange with quiet fascination.
“He fears losing you.” He observed.
“I don’t own them,” Dazai snapped.
“No,” Fyodor agreed. “But you wish you did.”
The room fell silent. The horror of the moment wasn’t the danger — it was the realization that both of them saw parts of you you had tried to ignore. “I’m not a prize,” You replied with a frown.
Fyodor’s smile softened. “I know.”
Dazai’s hand tightens around yours, now warm despite the cold air, his fingertips cradle your palm like he's searching for something until it arrives at your pulse, slowly and surely feeling the steady heartbeat.
“And I’m not a pawn,” You added.
“Then choose.” Fyodor whispered.
The candles flickered out, then gunfire shattered the silence as chaos erupted.
Bullets tore through the pews as shadows moved beyond the windows. Dazai pulled you down behind a pillar, his body shielding yours. Rain began to pour through broken glass, soaking your clothes instantly. Fyodor stood in the center of the storm, pale hair clinging to his face, eyes calm despite the danger.
“You see?” He murmured. “The world forces decisions.”
Dazai’s breath brushed your ear as he whispered, “Stay with me.”
But your gaze drifted to Fyodor unafraid, unwavering, watching you with quiet understanding.
Then as gunfire stopped abruptly, silence returned heavy and suffocating — and in that silence, you realized the true trap wasn’t the ambush —
It was the choice growing inside you.
Weeks passed, but nothing felt stable anymore; Dazai grew quieter, Fyodor’s messages appeared like whispers in the dark and the rain seemed to follow you everywhere. One evening, you stood on the Agency rooftop as clouds rolled across the sky while the wind tugged at your hair carrying the distant scent of the sea, and the closeness of death — Dazai approached slowly.
“…You still like him,” he said.
That wasn’t a question.
You hesitated. “…Maybe.”
He laughed, eyes tired but warm. “I figured.”
His hand found yours again, slipping through the slopes and shape of your fingers, mapping your skin and feeling the constant contractions of the muscles. He huffs slowly as if it calms him, as it became his habit over the time you've spent together.
“I don’t want to lose you,” He whispered. The confession made your chest ache, but you also want to say the same.
“You won’t,” You said. But even you didn’t believe it.
Because somewhere in the back of your mind, Fyodor’s voice lingered in your head.
“This ends tonight,” He said quietly.
Fyodor’s gaze softened as it met yours. “Have you discovered your answer?”
You stepped forward slowly with heart racing. You breathe in slowly before sighing. “I won’t belong to either of you,” You firmly said, then silence fell.
Fyodor smiled, not disappointed but almost proud. Dazai exhaled shakily.
“But you both changed me,” You added. “And I can’t pretend otherwise.”
The storm roared outside, the thunder shaking the walls. For a moment, the three of you simply stood there bound by something darker than affection and something deeper than rivalry.
Fyodor turned first, disappearing into the shadows with a soft laugh as you watched his figure disappear. Dazai remained beside you as dawn began to creep across the river.
“…You’re terrifying,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
“Because you walked into both of our worlds and didn’t break.” He brushed a strand of damp hair from your face, amber eyes softer than you had ever seen them. The moonlight casts over his eyes, then rain began to fall again, more lighter now and almost gentle.
And as you walked away from the warehouse together, you realized the horror wasn’t in choosing darkness or light; it was in understanding that you carried both within you — reflected in violet eyes that saw too deeply and amber eyes that refused to look away, and for the first time, that realization didn’t feel like a trap.
It felt like freedom.
Dazai was more afraid of your feelings than he ever acknowledged out loud because he perceived them as a fissure that was gradually developing rather than anything straightforward or romantic. He perceived your interest in Fyodor as acknowledgment rather than mere curiosity. Dazai saw the subtle changes whenever your eyes grew softer at Fyodor's modest comments or you remained still after reading one of his notes. For example, your shoulders relaxed in a manner that was uncommon when you were with other people, and you became thoughtfully motionless instead of being cautious as you usually were.
He knew just why Fyodor attracted you; Fyodor talked to the darker aspects of you that Dazai himself refrained from addressing, and he listened without giggling or hiding behind comedy.
Dazai was more perplexed than anything else, though, because he sensed that you hadn't turned away from him either. He noticed evidence that you still chose him in ways you probably weren't aware of, such as when you stood near to him during missions, when your eyes automatically looked for him in busy spaces, and when your voice just slightly softened when you called his name.
Standing between two mirrors that reflected different versions of oneself seemed to Dazai like this; with Fyodor, you leaned toward comprehending your shadows; with him, you clung to something cozier, more human despite the pain.
For this reason, he never explicitly challenged you about your decision. He believed that pressuring you would just make you more hostile toward Fyodor. Instead, his amber eyes followed every little detail, such as your hesitation in responding to Fyodor's messages or the way your countenance softened when he taunted you, while he watched silently, grinning as if nothing had disturbed him. He believed you were looking for him, not betraying him, and that alarmed him since he knew Fyodor provided clarity while he merely provided confusion.
Deep down, Dazai thought you were divided not because you loved one more than the other, but rather because each of them stood for a reality you couldn't completely deny; Fyodor saw the parts of you that felt detached and analytical, while Dazai mirrored the part of you that, in spite of everything, still craved connection. The most agonizing revelation for Dazai was that you weren't drifting away from Fyodor; rather, you were heading toward something inside of yourself that he wasn't sure he could follow without completely losing you.
Ultimately, you came to understand why Dazai's serene amber eyes and Fyodor's violet stare seemed so unbearably heavy to bear simultaneously: they were reflections of the same abyss with distinct grins. Between them, you started to see the shape of your own loneliness; one person recognized your darkness without asking you to hide it; the other remained by your side even when you thought he would vanish like smoke in the wind.
You realized what Fyodor had meant when he called you as you stood beneath a sky that would not go clear, rain running down your hair and turning the city into silver shadows is what Dazai never said out loud when he observed you too intently: you were attracted to those who had experienced the brink of disaster because you had also experienced it. Two thoughts circling the same darkness from opposite sides, two hearts acting as though they are unaware of each other's wounds — not identical, not bound, but cut from the same frail rebellion against a world that never quite understood you.
You felt the silent, unnerving reality sink into your chest as their footsteps faded in opposite directions; that no matter which path you took, you would always be two of the same kind because all three of you knew what it meant to stand at the edge and keep going, not because you were part of either of them anyway.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DUDE, I JUST SAW YOUR PREVIOUS POST AND I WAS SHATTERED. You have to write the script for me to be more shattered👍🫶
THE DELIVERY MAN.
Dazai Osamu.
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄... I know this took too long, I'm so sorry. 😭 I've been editing this but tumblr is not saving it on drafts.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒... same old canonverse compliant, suicide, Dazai having wife and kids.
PART 1.
There was peace on the city for once. Although the wind blows north, cold and harsh — an impending sign of winter and rain at once, the silence was heavy, like it was mourning the dead pleading for the living. Oda stepped on the puddle of water, dark clouds forming on the sky as he walked towards a lone house hidden away from the sun.
He knocked once and twice with unsure heart as his other hand formed fist inside his coat pocket, crumpling the paper in between on process. His mind couldn’t comprehend that... that man has a family of his own — a wife and a children. The feared boss of the Port Mafia; a rival to his agency and against his moral compass — but he knew too well.
He’s not saint, either way. But he’s got chastity and chastised himself to even grant the dead man his wish for him to visit his family, that he said, in a way, to remember him in a form of his family.
Oda heave a sigh heavy from his heart. He grab the door and twist the knob, surprisingly, it opens unlocked and unguarded. But he knew well enough that when he opened the door, there’s a knife going to be greeted by the blindness of dark. He dodge, and then a rather small but firm hand grab his arm to pull him back to the wall and his reflex kicked in, hands finding purchase on the dark now that the door was slammed close again, trapping him inside the house as he heard a click.
There’s a shattering sound that echoes through the wall. Another hand... maybe now there’s two of them and another footsteps approaching on the front. Oda uses his strength to whirl the two smaller frame grabbing his hands as he lifted with willpower, dragging both on his arms and lifting them on their shoulders. The footsteps approaching halted and Oda finds purchase to the wall where he flickered on the lights.
“Mama!” The other one cried. There’s a teeth that sinked in his coat passed the first layer of his skin.
“Are you one of them?”
Oda’s fingers faltered for a moment as he took a better look to his surroundings; surrounded by two little boys whose not even half of his height — he examine the same dark hair and wide, brown eyes looking directly at him with a mix of innocence and weariness; a sense of familiarity washed over him.
(don’t be surprised if you see my boys, they looked just like me.)
They looked just like you.
“I can be what you want me to be. I'm here to deliver a letter,” He spoke, low and quiet, like he’s wary of scaring the broken family.
(my wife is a bit feisty, but I'm sure she’s gonna come around. you’re good at handling people, right?)
The boys were quick to scramble off of him as they run towards their mother with soft cries and a silent cooing. There’s armoire of memory that flashes in his mind — or maybe it was the image of what Dazai had wrote for him.
(She agreed to commit double suicide with me. Romantic, right? My only regret was when I survived and opened my eyes. That was actually after you died, Odasaku. I was actually hoping that you two could meet the same day you died. But I guess, I wasn't that lucky. The only luck I have was that I'm unfortunate when it comes to death.)
Oda stepped closer forward before he stopped on the kitchen counter a few meters away from them. He reaches over the counter top with the letter on his hand, on top of the letter lies a gun.
Her eyes held a somberness when it landed over the revolver. There’s a short laugh followed by a heavy sigh from the heart. “I figured it was a gun. Classic Osamu.”
“You knew him well.” The words died in his tongue as her eyes flickered over him — you knew him well too — he wanted to say out loud, but her eyes held his like she knew what he would say. Then, she smiled.
“So did you.”
(So, I wanted you to deliver this letter and a gun to them. Please, Odasaku, send them over to me next.)
“There’s three bullets here,” She spoke with knowledge, there’s still that smile plastered on her lips, and Oda stared like a hawk — realizing what those last words on Dazai’s letter meant. The letter, the gun, and a request of his wife dreaded him in spiral — he's here to deliver a letter.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: getting arrange to marry Hoshina was you who don’t like the man or you hate everything he does but eventually falling on in a routine that he offers for you as his wife.
SERIES MASTERLIST.
THE CITY STILL SMELLED OF ASH.
You stood by the cracked window of the 4th Division office, sunlight cutting through the dust like a blade. From where Soshiro waited by the door, he could see the outline of your shoulders—too straight, too controlled, as if holding that posture might stop the grief from spilling out.
He didn’t speak. He’d learned not to, not unless you gave him a reason.
Koma’s disappearance had rearranged the divisions overnight. Search teams had been dispatched under Mina’s orders, but the longer the reports came back empty, the more the silence between you grew. You buried yourself in schedules and debriefings; he followed orders and pretended not to notice how the circles beneath your eyes darkened each morning.
“Vice-Captain Hoshina,” you said finally, not looking at him. The title landed like a wall between you. “Report from the 3rd Division patrol.”
He stepped forward, the movement automatic. “No new traces. Mina thinks the Kaiju might’ve—” He stopped himself when you turned, expression unreadable. “We’ll keep searching,” he finished softly.
Your gaze slid past him toward the stacks of reports on the desk. “Good. Have your team coordinate with the 4th’s recon squad.”
“Yes, Captain.”
He almost said *yes, you*. The word caught in his throat like a swallowed spark.
When you dismissed him, he didn’t leave right away. The silence pressed against his ribs until he bowed lightly, the way subordinates did. Then he left, boots echoing down the corridor—each step rehearsed, each breath kept even.
By the time he reached Mina’s office, the act had settled in again. Mina gave him a glance that said more than any question could. They all knew—knew about the marriage that now looked like a rumor, knew about the distance that had replaced what little warmth you’d once shared.
“She’s holding together?” Mina asked quietly.
Soshiro nodded. “The Captain’s fine.”
It was easier to lie when he used your title.
The missions didn’t stop. Kaiju sightings cropped up along the coast, and between deployments he caught glimpses of you—issuing commands through comms, walking the hangars with that clipped efficiency that used to draw him in. You never faltered, not once. The soldiers beneath you respected that. Soshiro envied it.
When the teams regrouped one evening, he found you in the weapons bay, gloves still on, rechecking a rifle that didn’t need checking. He hesitated at the doorway.
“You should rest,” he said.
You didn’t look up. “So should you.”
“I’ll rest when Mina orders me to.”
“That makes two of us.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—half amusement, half ache. This was how you spoke now: sharp, efficient, each word tucked behind the safety of rank. The air between you used to be louder, warmer. Now it was regulation-quiet.
He took a step closer, close enough to smell the faint metallic tang of gun oil. “You’ll wear yourself out.”
“Better me than my squad.”
There wasn’t a right answer to that, so he simply nodded. He wanted to reach out—to touch your wrist, your shoulder, anything—but your posture warned him off. Instead, he picked up the extra rifle case from the bench and set it back on the rack, because doing *something* always felt safer than saying what he meant.
“You don’t have to clean up after me, Vice-Captain.”
“I wasn’t,” he lied easily. “Just keeping the place in order.”
Your eyes met him then, briefly. Just long enough for him to see the exhaustion under the steel. It twisted something low in his chest.
When the alarms sounded from the comms tower, you were already moving, and he followed without a word. The routine took over—the rapid assessments, the clipped commands, the hum of engines starting. In battle, you were impossible not to follow; every order you gave made sense, every movement was precise. And maybe that was why he stayed quiet afterward, why he didn’t question the new distance. Because in the chaos, following you felt like safety.
Hours later, when the base finally settled again, he passed by your office and saw the light still on. The others had gone to sleep. He almost knocked, hand hovering near the doorframe, but stopped. Through the frosted glass, your silhouette was still and focused, pen moving over paper.
You didn’t need a husband at that moment. You needed another officer who knew when to leave you be.
So he did.
Outside, the wind carried the faint hum of the search drones still combing the eastern district. Soshiro leaned against the railing and looked up at the dim stars, wondering when exactly the title of husband had started feeling heavier than his sword.
He told himself it didn’t matter. Tomorrow there will be another briefing, another mission, another chance to stand near you and pretend he was part of your world again.
Tomorrow he would answer to Vice-Captain without flinching.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: getting arrange to marry Hoshina was you who don’t like the man or you hate everything he does but eventually falling on in a routine that he offers for you as his wife.
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: just a quick update before midterm exams eat me.
MASTERLIST | CHAPTER VIII
THE BASE FELT DIFFERENT AFTER THE FIELD mission. Even though Koma was stable and contained, a quiet tension lingered in the air, subtle but unrelenting. You could see it in the faces of your squad, in the tight way the medics moved, in the way Soshiro carried himself beside you. The world had shifted slightly, and you felt every inch of it pressing against your chest.
Koma rested in its reinforced pod, humming softly—a gentle pulse that reminded you why you had risked everything. Every glance at it makes your heart clench and soften at the same time. You were still Captain of the Fourth Division, still a soldier, still bound by duty. But now, something deeper had taken root, and Soshiro’s presence amplified it.
He followed you through the lab corridor, hands tucked into his pockets, casual but watchful. “Ya really gonna stare at that thing all day, Captain?” His voice carried a teasing lilt, though his dark eyes betrayed concern.
“I’m… making sure it’s stable,” you replied, voice quieter than intended.
“Yeah, but yer hands been hovering like yer ready to grab it and run off.” He smirked. “Thinkin’ about takin’ it home?”
You scowled lightly, brushing past him. “You know I wouldn’t.”
“Sure… sure.” His grin lingered, sharp and teasing. “Then why the stare? Ya been mumblin’ to it like a mother hen. Not that it’s a bad thing.”
You froze mid-step. “I—”
“You do know what I’m sayin’, don’t ya?” He stepped closer, hand brushing against yours as he adjusted a strap on Koma’s containment pod. “It ain’t just numbers to ya. It’s… alive. And yer protectin’ it like…” His voice softened. “…like it’s somethin’ more than a mission.”
You exhaled, staring at the glowing creature. “…Yes. Like it’s mine.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, warm, tethering the two of you together in a way battlefields and ranks had never managed. Soshiro’s hand hovered briefly near yours, not touching, but steady.
Then, in that rare quiet moment, he murmured, “I get it now. The way ya look at it… I see how deep yer heart goes.”
Your chest tightened, and for a heartbeat you allowed yourself to imagine… him, you, a future that wasn’t defined by orders, but by choice.
Later, at lunch, Ichikawa and Hibino cornered the two of you in the mess hall. The air smelled of reheated rations and burnt coffee, but somehow it didn’t matter.
“Captain,” Ichikawa started, eyes wide with mischievous curiosity. “Vice-Captain. Care to explain the… uh… closeness on the southern field yesterday?”
Soshiro stiffened. “…Closeness?”
“The pod. The hug. The whispering.” Hibino leaned forward, grinning. “And the part where he didn’t let you go, Captain Mom. C’mon, you two are practically holding hands in the open now!”
Your face flamed, and Soshiro’s jaw tightened. “…It wasn’t like that.”
Ichikawa snorted. “Not like what? I saw it! Cameras too, ya know. You two are getting all… affectionate. And the entire crew saw it.”
You groaned, covering your face. “Stop… stop it. We’re… just…”
“Focus on the food, will ya?” Soshiro muttered, voice low, trying to shield you from further teasing. He leaned slightly toward you, hand brushing yours accidentally—or not—while reaching for his tray.
Hibino whispered loud enough for the table to hear, “When do you two get… even more touchy? Just curious.”
Soshiro’s eyes widened, face warming. He muttered, “Yer kiddin’ me… A hundred push-ups for ya’ again, Kafka.”
You buried your head in your hands, laughter escaping despite your embarrassment and somewhere in the room, you heard Kafka groaned. “Oh no…”
Even as the teasing went on, you realized something had shifted—not just between you and Soshiro, but between you and the others. Your squad treated you differently now: softer, more protective, yet still respectful.
Koma had shown them a glimpse of the bond you shared with life beyond orders, and they responded with quiet admiration. You felt… lighter, like the weight of command was shared, if only a little, across the people who looked up to you.
After lunch, the calm didn’t last long. Mina’s voice cut over the comms again:
“Captain, Vice-Captain, Koma’s energy patterns are fluctuating. Field sensors detect abnormal resonance near the containment facility. All units remain on high alert.”
You froze, hand tightening on the tablet. “Already?”
Soshiro grabbed your shoulder gently, grounding you. “Calm yer self, Captain. We’ll handle it—together.”
The two of you ran toward the containment area, Koma’s pod humming faster with each step. As you arrived, the pod’s glow pulsed like a heartbeat, larger and brighter than before. Tiny cracks appeared in the protective barrier. You felt the energy rising, tense and urgent.
“It’s growing again,” you whispered, fear clawing at your chest.
Soshiro’s hand found yours, fingers curling around yours briefly. “Then we stabilize it. Together. Yer strong, Captain. But I ain’t lettin’ ya risk everythin’ alone, hear me?”
“Yes,” you said, breathing hard. “…Together.”
The two of you worked in tandem: you guided Koma’s energy, whispering soothing murmurs, adjusting containment fields, while Soshiro deflected minor surges, recalibrated equipment, and kept your back safe. Every movement was a conversation of trust and care.
“You’re incredible,” he said quietly, Kansai drawl softened. “Ya see a creature like it… treat it like yer own. Makes me… want somethin’ like that someday. With us.”
You felt your chest tighten. “…With us?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, eyes darkening with emotion. “Someday… a life where we can protect somethin’ without havin’ the world try to take it away.”
Koma’s hum surged, synchronized with your pulse. It was like a bridge between your hearts, fragile yet undeniable.
Hours later, the surge stabilized, and Koma calmed down again. You slumped against Soshiro, exhausted. “We… did it,” you whispered.
“Yeah…” he said, brushing ash and sweat from your cheek. “Ya never stop amazin’ me.”
You chuckled weakly. “Vice-Captain, I think you’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“Can’t help it,” he muttered, grinning despite exhaustion. “Yer stubborn, brave… and mine to keep safe. Don’t make me repeat it, Captain.”
You laughed, resting your forehead against his shoulder. Koma hummed softly between you, a gentle reminder of everything you’d risked and everything you were building together.
And as the lab lights flickered over the three of you—Captain, Vice-Captain, and the little creature—you realized the storm wasn’t truly over. Duty and love, command and care, laughter and fear—all of it hung in fragile balance. And tomorrow, the choices would become even harder.
The sky above the southern field had turned an angry shade of crimson, streaked with violent arcs of energy. Every sensor in the base screamed, warning of an imminent catastrophe, but no alarm could convey the magnitude of what was coming.
Koma’s containment pod glowed intensely, energy pulsing wildly in response to the fallout from the unstable kaiju surge. You held it tightly, whispering frantic reassurances. “It’s going to be okay… please… stay with me…”
But deep down, you knew. The readings, the tremors in its energy field, the trembling hum—it was beyond anything you could stabilize.
Soshiro’s hands found yours, strong and grounding. “Captain… listen to me. Yer heart’s with it, I see that. But sometimes… love ain’t enough to keep the world from hurtin’ itself.”
“I can’t let it die!” you cried, voice breaking. “I won’t! I—”
“You can’t control it all,” he said, voice low, Kansai accent thick but strained with emotion. “Koma… it’s… it’s giving itself to protect everyone else. It’s a choice no one else can make for it.”
Your hands trembled over the pod. “No… it can’t… I can’t… I won’t let it go!”
Soshiro stepped closer, pressing a hand to your cheek. His gaze locked on yours, fierce and unyielding. “Listen to me, Captain. Ya think I’m standin’ here just ‘cause I’m Vice-Captain, just ‘cause I have to protect you? I’m standin’ here ‘cause I… I love ya. And sometimes… the hardest thing to do for love… is let go.”
Your breath caught. His words, heavy and raw, pierced through the chaos and fear. You shook your head, hot tears streaking your face. “I… I can’t… I can’t—”
He held you tighter, forehead pressed against yours. “Ya can. Yer strong enough. Stronger than anyone I know. And I’ll be here, always. But Koma… it’s choosing to save the rest. To protect what it loves… just like you.”
The pod’s hum intensified, pulses radiating outward like a heartbeat trying to reach for life. Koma’s small eyes flickered toward you, almost pleading, almost understanding. You could feel the weight of the decision pressing into your chest—fight for your own heart, or let it act for the greater good.
“I… I understand,” you whispered, choked with grief. “I understand, Koma… I… I love you too.”
The energy surged one final time, the containment field flashing, illuminating your tear-streaked face and Soshiro’s tense expression. Koma’s hum became a resonant, vibrating pulse, filling the world around you as though it were saying goodbye.
Then… silence.
The pod was empty. The glow is gone. The energy had dissipated into the sky, leaving a hushed, terrifying void. You staggered, gripping the empty pod, trembling. “No… no… Koma…”
Soshiro wrapped his arms around you, holding you as your body shook with sobs. “Shh… it’s okay. It… it made its choice. We… we have to honor that.”
You buried your face in his chest, letting the tears fall freely. “I failed it… I should’ve—”
“You didn’t fail anyone,” he said firmly, voice cracking slightly. “Koma… it saved the world, Captain. And it trusted us to survive. That’s not failure. That’s… love. And courage. Just like yours.”
You shivered against him, grief pressing into your chest like a physical weight. Soshiro’s hand stroked your hair, firm, protective, grounding you in the storm of loss. For the first time, he spoke of more than duty, more than protocol, more than the roles of Captain and Vice-Captain.
“I… I love ya, Captain,” he murmured, voice low and raw. “Not because I have to protect ya. Not because you’re my wife. But… because you’re you. And I’ll always… always keep ya safe, whatever it takes.”
You lifted your tear-streaked face to his, voice trembling. “I… I love you too.”
He cupped your cheek, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips—longer, more desperate than anything before. It was a kiss that held grief, relief, and the promise of protection, of love that went beyond the battlefield or rank.
The two of you stood there, holding each other, the emptiness of Koma’s absence heavy between you. But the warmth of your shared hearts, the bond forged in crisis and sacrifice, was unbreakable.
Outside, the wind carried the faint echo of Koma’s last hum across the scorched field. You let the memory sink into you—the small, bright creature that had given everything to protect life and trust. And though sorrow pressed into your chest, there was a quiet, enduring strength in knowing it had acted out of love, just as you and Soshiro had acted out of love for it, and for each other.
For the first time, you allowed yourself to imagine a future—not just filled with missions and duty, but with life, with love, with someone to protect and cherish beyond the chaos. And Soshiro’s arms around you, steady and unwavering, promised that you would never face it alone.
Together, you left the field, hand in hand, carrying the memory of Koma in your hearts. The storm had passed. The loss was immense. But the bond between you and Soshiro—between two people who had survived, loved, and sacrificed—was absolute, unshakable. And though, Koma was gone, its courage, its trust, and its love would remain forever in your hearts, guiding the steps you would take together.
The horizon was quiet now, scarred and fragile, but the two of you walked forward into it, stronger for having loved, stronger for having let go.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A minute of walking after you just finished shopping groceries and other few things for wants, without your hands full, you realized you were missing something very important for you to halt in your steps — your husband, Katsuki, was quick to notice the little pout on your mouth and he huffs.
He stared down, hands full of shopping bags and takeout as he looks back at you, still pouting and not meeting his eyes halfway, “You’re not holding my hand.” You muttered.
He let out an exhilarating sigh with a tight-lipped smile that makes you think that he will never give in to your little antics now. But, instead, in between the bags he carried, he poked his pinky out, “You’re so dramatic, here, damn. Hold this one.”
You skips happily towards him as you wrapped your hand on his pinky. He lets out a tch but the way his ears flush red tells you otherwise that he's enjoying this as much as you do.
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄... It's almost Christmas but I still have finals week, ARGHGGGGGGHHHHHH. I CAN'T REWATCH MHA IN PEACE
Your daughter, a three year old carbon copy of her dad, cannot distinguished the fact that him as Dynamight and him as her dad are just as the same.
Don't get it wrong, she loves him as Dynamight. From her favourite Dynamight onesies downs to her plushies and got the Dynamight himself in her own home, as her playmate, and as someone she always sees the first thing she wakes up in the morning.
So, when she wakes up in her power nap late at night, greeted by the sounds of Katsuki’s gauntlets clattering on the floor, you were awoken by the sound of her cries.
“What the he — what's wrong? Why're you crying, baby?” His usual voice were now gruff and a little bit intimidating — considering the fact that he towers over the little girl and even you, who just got up from the bed, made the little girl cries even more.
You sighs as you stepped in the situation, hoisting the girl up as you fixed the wilderness of her hair away from her eyes and face, you wipe her tears away as you coo and Katsuki watched you work with her emotions with fondness in his eyes. Tired, yet he tried to reach for his girls, but the little one swats away from his hold.
“What the hell is going on?” He asks ones again, putting his hand on his hip as he feels the exhaustion creeping up to him all day. “She’s not this cranky whenever she wakes up.”
You took a good look at your husband with your eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed. Yeah, even you would cry with him coming home like this. He’s got dried blood across his face, scratches among the planes of his neck and his gauntlets looks fucked up and deranged — and you couldn't process properly when you realized you've been crying with your daughter too.
“Wha — ah...” Katsuki’s voice stammers. “Look, it's not even that bad. Can you both calm do — oi!”
“Why would you come home looking like this, Kats! Of course, she’s going to cry!” You finally spoke, your daughter’s cries overpowering your voice and he heaves an exhilarating sigh, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn't even know if you're really talking about your daughter or you, in all once. But, he relax himself, pulling you gently in the living room as he guides you to sit on the couch with your daughter still in your arms, sobbing and burying her face on your chest.
“Hey, baby, look at me —” He puts a hand on your daughter’s back and the girl’s sobs died down just a bit, “It’s daddy, okay? Can you look at me for a second?” You hoist the girl up to face her dad, whose currently kneeling in front of you. Your eyes flickered on his figure and you bite back a sob; your husband never comes home this wounded — or this tired, even. So, seeing him back to his work like this made you worry and paranoid. His blonde hair’s messier than usual, he smells like smokes and gunpowder; almost like he just came back after war, and he looks tired.
The girl in your arms must've sensed your emotions and she cries once again, but this time, it was softer and sadder that made your heart ache.
“You... you’re Dynamight...” Your daughter mumbled, “You’re not my papa...”
And that's where it hit you.
This should've been funny in some ways; how your little girl can't recognize her father with all these suit and uniforms and the way he fights on the news — you figured she literally sees him as a hero, as the man who saves the day with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. She sees Dynamight the way you see him too. You looked at your husband behind the screen with so much worry and extreme anxiousness that every time he goes off work, you grew quiet and agitated — and after he goes home without a scratch, your mood will lightened and there's a certain fondness held in your eyes whenever you look at your husband.
She must've sensed your worries and it rubbed off to her too.
“But, he is your papa, baby,” You said, and the girl glances at you with those big eyes same shade at yours — and the rest looks just like her dad. “Look, remember when I told you papa’s at work and we would watch him live on tv? Doesn't he look the same as him?” You pointed to the now pouting man in front of you, lips puckered and cheeks puffed with a huff. Your daughter sobs for a moment and shook her head.
“But, papa tells me he not get hurt ever. He tells me he's stwong and catch bad guys!”
You sighed before pulling your husband to sit besides you on the couch. “Okay, baby. What if we do this instead, huh? Let's clean papa up, so he's not hurt anymore, okay?”
After a few seconds of silence and waiting for her to agrees, the girl nodded while biting her lip. “Do you want to stay with papa or you’re coming to help me get things to make papa feel better, huh?”
The girl glances to her dad with the same pout on her lips. She spread her arms to Katsuki and your husband smiles, “Stay.” She mumbled and you obliged, putting her down on his lap. Your daughter was hesitant to touch him, yet her little hands begins to creep on his hair as she grabs and tugs not hardly, but just to make sure. The same texture of her papa's hair, check. Then her fingers grasp over the planes of his jaw and the little stubble forming on his chin, check. She then presses her ear to his chest the same way how he cradles her to sleep, and when the girl hears the heartbeat — check.
When you came back, your daughter was already fast asleep in her daddy’s arms. Katsuki’s rocking her gently while lowly humming through his throat. He looks at you as you kneel between his thighs.
“I'm sorry,” You start as you gently wipe his face with a clean, damp towel and he visibly relax at your touch. “I feel like this was my fault why she seems to be a bit distant and wary of you these days.”
He leans in your touch, bringing his body forward a bit as he arch a brow. He knew you were always dead worried and that makes you feel withdrawal from him. But he understands. He does now. As much as he hates how his two girls were like this because of him, he can't help the relief he feels now — that someone, two of them, his girls, are worried back when he's got home.
“‘S okay, baby,” He pecks at your lips, “I'm sorry for not reassuring you enough, both of you. But I can't fathom how she knew me as Dynamight and not her dad.”
You giggled but abruptly stopped when your daughter shifts in her father’s arms before falling deep on the dreamland again. “Maybe, you should start waiting for a while for her to wake up so she could see you wearing your suit.”
He grumbles under his breath as he sneaks another kiss from your lips, “Mhm, let's see.”
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄... I was studying/reviewing for my midterms in developmental psychology, chapter 5 to 8 is what this reminds me of this; Piaget's cognitive approach in early childhood wherein the child can't distinguished appearance from reality and conservation. I'd like to think this was cute, but at the same time, the parents' emotions could affect a child perceptions of things even their other parent and could lead to scenarios like this. I made this drabble just to remember and apply my learnings in scenarios, sorry for the rambling, lol.
