Elysian

The morning sun is an intruder in the dimness of the apartment, slicing through the gaps in the heavy curtains to illuminate the dust motes dancing over your bed.

You are already awake, your frame stretched out across the mattress. Your hair is a chaotic halo of sleep-mussed layers against the white pillowcase.

Beside you, buried under a mountain of beige blankets and tangled limbs, is the Agency’s most brilliant and most difficult problem.

Osamu Dazai is currently a dead weight, his breathing deep and rhythmic, his face smoothed into an expression of complete peace that he only ever shows you.

You sigh, your eyes blinking slowly as you prop yourself up on one elbow. Your silhouette casts a long shadow over him. You reach out, your fingers tracing his face gently before shaking his shoulder. "Osamu. Wake up. Kunikida has already called my phone three times."

A muffled groan vibrates from beneath the duvet. He doesn't move, instead burrowing deeper into the warmth, his hand blindly reaching out until he finds your waist, pulling you back down toward him.

"Nooo... the world is ending, Y/N," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep and raspier than usual. "I’ve decided to retire. My new occupation is being a professional blanket warm-holder. It’s a very prestigious position."

"It’s 10:00 AM," you counter, trailing your fingers through his messy brown hair. "You have three reports due, and Ranpo-san already ate your hidden stash of high-grade crab because you weren't there to defend it."

That gets a flinch, but his eyes stay shut. He shifts, rolling onto his back and pulling you over him so you’re draped across his chest. His hands settle comfortably on the small of your back, appreciating you even in his semi-conscious state. He finally cracks one eye open, staring up at you with a mixture of adoration and dramatic suffering.

"Let him have the crab," Dazai sighs, his gaze wandering over your mesmerizing eyes. "Why would I care about food when I have a goddess pinning me to my bed? You’re so beautiful, Y/NNNNN... it’s actually a crime. I should arrest you. Or we should go commit a double suicide together right now, before the caffeine kicks in."

"You say that every morning," you whisper, leaning down until your nose brushes his. "And every morning, I tell you that I’m not dying until you at least finish your paperwork. Get up, you lazy brat."

"Heartless! My own girlfriend is a slave-driver!"

He suddenly bolts upright, though he keeps his arms wrapped tightly around you, forcing you to sit in his lap. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. "Just five more minutes. If you give me a proper 'good morning,' I might consider moving a toe."

"A proper one?" you ask, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips.

"A kiss. A long one," he bargains, pulling back just enough to look at you, his chocolate-brown eyes bright with mischief. "One that makes me forget that Kunikida-kun even exists. Otherwise, I’m staying in this bed forever."

You can't help it. You lean in, closing the distance. The kiss is slow and deep, tasting of shared secrets and the quiet intimacy of the morning. His hands slide up your back, his fingers tangling in the messy ends of your hair. When you finally pull away, his expression is dazed, his pupils blown wide.

"There," you say, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Now, get up."

Dazai lets out a long, theatrical whine, falling backward onto the pillows and dragging you with him for one last squeeze. "Fine, fine! But if Kunikida-kun yells at me, I’m hiding behind you. You’re much prettier to look at than his angry face."

"Get up, Osamu," you laugh, though you lean down to press one last kiss to his forehead.

"I'm going, I'm going..." he mutters, though he doesn't move for another five minutes, simply staring at you with that dizzy, lovestruck look that reminds you exactly why you’re the only person in Yokohama who can handle him.

The morning air in the Armed Detective Agency is unusually soft, scented with the aroma of tea and the faint, earthy smell of old books.

You sit at your desk, your hair falling over your shoulders in artful disarray. Despite your reputation for being a lethal whirlwind on the battlefield, your movements in the office are slow and deliberate.

A soft mew erupts from the bag resting on your lap. Out pops a tiny, silver-furred kitten with eyes that mimic your own.

"Is he... allowed to be here?" A quiet, monotone voice drifts from your side.

You look down to see Kyouka standing there, her eyes wider than usual, fixed intensely on the tiny creature. You offer her a warm, patient smile that makes your eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Of course, Kyouka-chan. He wanted to meet you," you say, your voice like velvet. You reach into your bag and pull out a small container. "And I brought the extra-firm tofu from that shop you like. We can share."

Kyouka’s face lights up with a rare, microscopic spark of joy. Within seconds, she is settled on the floor at your feet, the kitten pouncing on her kimono sleeves while she delicately eats a cube of tofu.

Watching her, your heart melts. She’s had such a hard life, and you’ve made it your personal mission to be the older sister she deserves.

"He is very soft, Y/N-san," Kyouka whispers, letting the kitten lick her thumb. "Like a tiny cloud."

"He likes you," you murmur, leaning back. "He knows a good soul when he sees one."

The peaceful atmosphere is abruptly punctured by a theatrical sigh. Dazai, who had been "working" (staring at the ceiling), suddenly lunges forward.

He doesn't go for the cat, and he certainly doesn't go for the tofu. Instead, he drops to his knees beside your chair, leaning his head against your arm.

"Y/N-chaaaannn! This is blatant discrimination!" Dazai wails, pouting so hard it’s a wonder his face doesn't stay that way. "You give the kitten pats! You give Kyouka-chan tofu! But what about me? I am suffering! I am dying of neglect!"

You chuckle. "Dazai, calm down. You aren't dying."

"I am!" He insists, and then, to your utter shock, he begins lightly headbutting your shoulder like a persistent cat. Thump. Thump. Thump. "I require healing! I require the touch of my Belladonna! Pat me, Y/N! Pat my head or I shall simply wither away!"

"Dazai, stop," you say, though your tone lacks any real bite. You're far too patient for your own good. "You're going to give yourself a concussion."

"A concussion caused by Y/N-chan? What a poetic way to go!" Thump. "Pat me! Pat! Me!"

Kyouka looks up from the floor, holding the kitten. "Dazai-san is being loud. Should I use Demon Snow?"

"No, no, it's fine," you sigh, finally giving in.

You reach out with a slender hand and place it atop his messy brown curls. The moment your palm makes contact, Dazai freezes, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss washing over his face.

You ruffle his hair gently, the way you would a stray kitten. "There. Are you happy now, you menace?"

Dazai lets out a long, dramatic purr. "Exceedingly happy. I might never move again. In fact, I'm retiring right here—"

"DAZAAAAAIIIIIIII!"

The door slams open with such force the hinges groan. Kunikida stands there, a fountain pen snapped in his hand, his face a terrifying shade of magenta. He looks at Kyouka on the floor with a cat, then at Dazai practically vibrating under your hand.

"YOU WASTE OF BANDAGES! WE HAVE THREE CODES TO DECRYPT, AND YOU ARE ACTING LIKE A HOUSE PET!" Kunikida screams, stomping toward your desk. "AND YOU Y/N! DON'T ENCOURAGE HIM! YOUR PATIENCE IS A WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION IN THIS OFFICE!"

Dazai looks up at Kunikida, his hand still holding onto your sleeve. "Can't you see I'm busy being cherished, Kunikida-kun? Go away, you're ruining the aesthetic we have going on."

"STOP WASTING TIME AND GET TO WORK!"

Dazai ignores him entirely, reaching up to twirl a lock of your hair around his finger. "He’s so loud, isn't he? It’s bad for my ears, and it’s certainly bad for your radiant complexion. You're so patient to put up with his constant screaming. Don't you think he'd be much more peaceful if he just stopped breathing for a few minutes? Just as an experiment?"

"Dazai, don't suggest murder-suicides in front of the child," you say softly, though a small, amused smile plays on your lips.

You reach down to scratch the kitten behind the ears as it wanders over from Kyouka’s lap.

"I'M NOT SCREAMING!" Kunikida yells, slamming his Ideals notebook onto the desk. "I am articulating the necessity of productivity!"

"See?" Dazai whispers loudly to you, shielding his mouth with one hand while the other rests on your arm. "He’s obsessed with his little book. It’s a sickness, Y/N-chan. A tragedy! He doesn't understand the fine art of doing absolutely nothing while looking into the eyes of a beautiful woman. He has no soul. No romance. Just schedules and pens."

Kyouka looks up from the floor, her expression as deadpan as ever. "Kunikida-san’s pen is leaking."

Kunikida looks down at his hand, sees the blue ink staining his palm, and lets out a sound that is half-strangled sob, half-war cry. "I... I have a spare! This was calculated! Dazai, if you don't get off Y/N in the next three seconds, I will schedule your funeral for 3:15 PM!"

"Make it 3:30," Dazai chirps, finally sitting up but refusing to move away from you. "I want to finish sharing this tofu with Y/N-chan first. And maybe another head pat? For my trauma?"

You sigh, the sound gentle and melodic, and give Kunikida a sympathetic look. "I'll make sure he looks at the files, Kunikida-kun. Just... give him a moment to settle down."

"You're an angel, Y/N-chan!" Dazai beams, sticking his tongue out at Kunikida behind your back. "Hear that? She said I need a moment. Go organize some paperclips or something."

As Kunikida begins to vibrate with a fury that threatens to level the building, you calmly pick up a piece of tofu with your chopsticks and offer it to the pouting detective.

He takes it with a look of pure victory, while Kyouka quietly moves the kitten away from the blast zone of Kunikida's inevitable explosion.

"Can you keep it down? I'm trying to get some beauty sleep."

"How's about I knock your lights out instead?"

Pressing his head against the window, Dazai sighed. "Why are you even here? Couldn't you have flown home by yourself?" His lips pursed into a pout. "Or is someone too tired?"

"Oh, please. The boss ordered me to keep an eye on you. Not like you can move much with that leg of yours. That's karma, I'll say."

Dazai slumped back in his seat. "Didn't have much of a choice."

God—he needed to go home. Wash the sterile prison smell off of him. It'd be nice to be somewhere that wasn't scrubbed down every day. Somewhere lived, not occupied. That was the only place he'd find peace.

He had never wanted peace like this before. Another version of him—younger, the meaning of life out of his reach—would've jumped at the opportunity to engage with someone like Fyodor. To be challenged in every possible manner, with every pawn primed for sacrifice. Every loss would've been worth it if it meant victory—a younger him would say. But things had changed. He had changed.

The moment the aircraft landed, he'd crawl hand and knee to be home. Nothing else mattered. He could imagine your face too, eyes wide as you rushed to help him clamber up the stairs, bringing him into your apartment, harshly scolding him with gentle hands.

If only Oda were here. He'd think his friend would smile.

That was the effect you had on him. What were you doing right now? You were probably as exhausted as the rest of your co-workers, forced to dart around Yokohama to evade capture.

A thought clawed out from the recesses of his mind. Worse than the turbulent helicopter. Dizzying.

What if you were hurt?

Not from fighting or fatigue. Targeted. Left in the malicious hand of the Demon of the North. Dazai played the board with precision, weighing his options with calculation over emotion.

No matter how important the piece was to him.

He lurched from his seat, leg pulsating, as the helicopter jolted, landing exhausted from the journey abroad. Chuuya darted from his seat like a lion escaping a cage.

"You're just gonna leave without me?" Dazai whined. "And here I thought you were supposed to take care of me."

Cursing under his breath, the mafioso hoisted the lankier man upright, forcing him to lean against his shoulder as they exited the aircraft.

Ango stood on the helipad outside, flanked by dozens of agents.

"You haven't slept in a while," Dazai said, not as a tease, but rather an observation.

The man in question scoffed. He looked worse than usual—heavy eye bags and messy hair. Probably hadn't left this building in days.

"Osamu Dazai. On behalf of your cooperation with the Special Division, your sentence has been revoked." His face softened. "Congratulations."

Dazai didn't feel any better, not that he thought he would. His crimes would never truly be erased. A part of him would always be the mafia's youngest executive, and he'd accepted that fact.

"So, I'm free to go?"

A muted, knowing smile broke through the mask on Ango's face.

"Not yet." He signaled the weary agents around him to disperse, which they did without protest. "There's someone here to see you."

A blur rushed past the agent, knocking the breath from his lungs.

It took him a moment to register, thoughts buffering until a trembling voice broke through the fog.

“You’re okay,” you said, breathing the air around him like it was the last time you would. His arms hung uselessly at your sides, resolve shattering when your fingers trailed the brush the waves of his hair. You were warm to the touch, filling a hole in him left empty, and he prayed you wouldn’t notice how tight he held you.

How close he was to losing you.

“Hello, you.” His lips grazed your temple. He shuddered at the touch, but you didn’t comment, holding him closer with each breath. “It’s been a minute. Hasn’t it?”

“18 days.”

He laughed.

Somehow, it had felt longer.

You pulled away to his displeasure, shutting up his protests as you took his face in your hands. Delicate fingers traced over every wrinkle, steady against the slope of his jaw, while featherlight around the crinkle of his eyes, before inevitably brushing the stubborn mark at the center of his forehead.

Your eyes narrowed with unspoken questions, and he took your distraction as a means to observe. He noted every mark of your hand—blistered knuckles, roughened palm. Scrapes and bruises lined every inch of your flesh, but did little to hinder your movements.

Breathing. Alive. His peace personified.

He pressed his lips to your knuckles with reverence.

“I’m fine. No need to worry.”

“I’ll worry as much as I want to, Osamu.”

He scoffed lowly, voice spinning in an amused hum. “Using my first name? I’m in the dog house now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your unconscious, smiling scoff lured him closer. He couldn’t help himself, leaning in to share your breath, kissing your sweet lips like a phantom brought to life.

A cough broke the moment.

You laughed, flustered. “Thank you, Chuuya. I’ll take him from here.”

To the mafioso’s credit, he had stood uncharacteristically quiet the entire time. He sighed, shaking his head as he padded to the building’s edge.

“He’s your problem now,” he said, diving off the building.

“Chuuya is so dramatic,” Dazai mumbled.

You struck him with a pointed look. “Do I even want to know what you did?”

He gasped. “What could you possibly mean? I’d never do anything untoward. He’s the one who needs to be muzzled. Especially with those fangs.”

“Fangs?”

“Will you need any help getting home?” Ango’s fatigued exasperation melted into his words.

“No, we’ll be fine.” You smiled. “Thank you.”

The staircase was tricky, requiring the few brain cells you had left to hobble down without falling. Heaven greeted you in the form of an elevator, which you slumped into without pretense. It moved tauntingly slowly—another prison cell preventing your journey home. You stood out in the reflection from the spotless walls, both puneish under the fluorescent lights.

His hands were cold as you intertwined them with yours. Thousands of terrible thoughts started to resurface. Every moment of rest within the conflict was dedicated to thinking about him. The whys and what-ifs. Surviving was your only distraction from the fact that your partner was hundreds of miles away and out of reach.

“You look like you’re about to crawl into my skin,” Dazai said, though his voice lacked its normal, humorous inflections.

“To make sure you don’t wander off again?” you muttered. “I might have to.”

His knees wobbled, and he was unable to tell if it was from his injuries or your words. A hand curled around your waist, tight, a heavy head nestled into the crook of your shoulder. This elevator wasn’t a prison, but a moment alone before the world rushed in again. The kiss pressed against your neck burned with unspoken need, only bound by paper-thin restraint. Accompanied by words that filled his mouth but refused to spill, not safe until within the walls of your apartment, kept guarded in his heart so the devil couldn’t hear them.

The elevator doors spilled out into a bustling lobby. Hardened government officials cracked, relief breaking professionalism as co-workers were brought into hugs, tears promised in the eyes of many.

A nearby sniffle straightened his spine.

“Sweetheart,” he cooed, wiping a tear with his thumb.

“I’m a sympathy crier,” you said, voice wobbling.

He chuckled. “Of course.”

The world from the ground was bright as you stepped out of the building, like the grayscale of the past few weeks had been dappled with a fresh palette of color. The monotony—the dread—was blown away with the wind.

“You need a shower.”

He gasped. “You wound me!”

You snickered, practically dragging him down the sidewalk as the blossoms of a new chapter lined your way home.

i'm hoping to make this post the first in a small series for valentine's day! depending on my schedule, they might not be finished before the holiday passes, but i thought it'd be fun writing practice! i hope you enjoyed

“It’s only been ten minutes.” You didn’t even bother to look up, preoccupied with piercing the needle through a particularly tough patch of fabric. “And this is your coat. I could just not fix it at all.”

“Then I’d be practically naked!”

“That’s what I thought.”

Dazai’s eyes slitted like an ill-tempered cat, the distance between you unable to muffle the amusement in your tone. He was certain you were smiling, a crescent-shape drawn across your lips as you perched in the chair, pleased with yourself.

“Such a cruel woman!” he cried, hobbling like a midday drunkard across the room. “Can’t you have pity on a poor man’s heart?”

He tumbled into the chair, the motion accidentally forcing the needle into the tip of your thumb. Hissing, you snatched your hand, eyeing the bead of blood that blossomed from your fingertip. Your frown only deepened as a drop glided down your finger, claiming a piece of coat fabric for itself.

“Great. Now I’ve got blood on it.”

“It’ll come out.”

Your glare dried out any words that tried to come out of his mouth, flopping your unfinished handiwork down onto your lap.

“I’m the one who’ll have to clean it.”

“We certainly can’t have that, can we?” Your pissed-off face only egged on his shit-eating grin. “How will you be able to manage with such an injury?”

Uncareful hands rustled your shirt like they were attempting to placate a stray animal, the same uncareful man prancing off toward your bathroom.

“This is your fault, you know!”

He either didn’t hear you or completely ignored you—only he would know, but you could guess—the cliff-edge of a tune on his lips as he rummaged through your bathroom cabinet in the dark. Not that he needed to turn on the light to find it, hands meeting the cool plastic of a medical kit before he’d even finished the first verse. He returned, and you were in the same state he left you in, unamused and wilted.

He almost felt bad. Okay—he did feel bad. For you getting hurt, that is.

Not for messing with you. Much. It wasn’t his fault! You were so absolutely darling when enraged.

“Excuse me,” he sang, plopping onto the stool with the kit in his lap, nudging your feet with his hip as he reached for your hand. “Alright. Let me see it.”

It remained firmly held in your other. “You don’t have to go through all this trouble, you know. It’s just a prick.”

“No, no, no.” Despite his teasing, he was careful not to irritate you or your wound further, easing the hand into his lap. “You just sit there and relax. Doctor’s orders.”

That determined look on his face made it clear there was no arguing with him, so you didn’t. Submitting with a huff, you allowed your hand to be examined, now careful fingers tracing up the ridge of your thumb. Still, you couldn’t help your suspicion.

“Why do I feel like this was all just an elaborate scheme to make me pay attention to you?”

“They didn’t call me the demon prodigy for nothing.”

You swallowed the retort in your throat, suddenly exhausted by the idea of an endless back-and-forth. Your firm mask of anger did not take long to crumble to your feet, eyes fluttering as the sun tempted them to close. It had been an overwhelming day, and Dazai was more than happy to provide a momentary respite, nimble fingers massaging the tense muscles of your palm as you unwound.

He popped the kit open, reaching for one of the small bandages, only to halt at the sight of one of his wraps. If he was going to take care of you, why not draw it out for as long as he possibly could? He was sure you wouldn’t mind.

Unwinding a section of the wrap, he slowly spindled it around your thumb, careful not to wind it too tight. Your hand was so warm—unbearably so. Like you’d soaked up the sun itself. It would’ve been no surprise to him if you were its reincarnation, though he’d wonder what he had ever done to deserve sunshine in his hands.

The faint rhythm of a rickety fan guided his fingers, encasing your palm in the protective fabric. His thumb brushed past an old scar from a year he couldn’t name, and he made sure to document it in his mind with the reverence of a scholar.

“Uh, don’t you think this is a bit overboard?”

You were right, he knew, but he refused to answer, pressing his lips to the bandaged tip of your thumb. “Is there a problem with me wanting to take care of my beautiful girlfriend?”

A small noise from your lips—maybe in disbelief, maybe in something far more remarkable—shattered the remains of his soft intentions, his heated mouth drawing a line between the constellation of beauty marks on your hand. Scars, freckles, moles—anything he could see.

The medical kit landed with a thunk as he snatched you by the waist, dragging you onto his lap as he journeyed from wrist to arm. You flushed underneath his touch, taut like a spring pulled back on the verge of release.

“What is going on with you?” Your breath hitched, head craning back as he nipped at the sensitive patch of skin found in the juncture of your neck.

“What?” he asked, unrelenting. “Is something wrong?”

You didn’t know how to reply. Found yourself not wanting to, biting back a noise as he marked delicate, binding kisses up the curve of your neck.

“Truth is—” His breath prickled your skin. “I’d wrap you up entirely if it meant keeping you all to myself. I’m greedy like that.”

He met his destination at the curve of your jaw, darting his heated touch from the crinkle of your eyes to the wrinkle of your brow, ending at the corner of your lips to sit on the tempting edge of an actual kiss.

He pulled back, and despite the smirk on his face, the softness of his eyes had you melting.

“You okay, pretty girl?”

The heat left you dazed, replying with a simple, “Mhm.”

He hummed, caramel eyes flickering from your own to your lips. You were truly the most breathtaking creature to ever exist—you could feign indifference all you liked, but the best part of his day would always be watching you unravel the moment he had you in his arms. How could he not fall in love with such simple beauty?

“You'll have to forgive me, then.” His touch, despite his words, was gentle as he whispered against you. “I’m a weak man.”

You grabbed at his collar as your lips collided, sighs spilling into the kiss as your last drop of restraint dissolved. The coat bunched between you joined the kit on the floor, his hand circling your hip, chest pressed flush against his own. Could you feel his heart beat from this close? He certainly could feel yours.

“God—” he breathed. “Can’t believe you’re all mine. So beautiful.”

You laughed against his lips, eyes shining like he’d brought you back from the dead.

“You know this isn’t gonna get you out of cleaning, right?”

He snorted, knowing nothing could be more perfect than the realization that you had both been positively made for one another.

✦ — 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

It had been a long day for the Port Mafia executive.

Not because of missions or paperwork—he would’ve preferred either to the assortment of mundane duties he’d been forced to attend. Fights were supposed to be fun. Exhilarating, even—at least that’s how he saw it. A clash of power and will, pushed to the brink to see which would win. He’d always admired foes that met him with that understanding.

Which is why he wasn’t too pleased by the string of cowards lined up for him to capture.

The latest had been a group that had attempted to breach one of the mafia’s largest depots. He had been looking forward to it for days, only to be met with disappointment as its members turned tail and ran the second they spotted him.

They were dumb enough to mess with the mafia, but not enough to even try to fight him?

What a serious buzzkill.

His shoulder creaked as he rolled them, like an old metal pipe, the elevator to the mafia’s private garage thankfully opening without delay. He wished for nothing more than to return home. Malaise crept in the shadows of his footsteps, halting with him as he spotted someone in the distance, messing with the top box of his motorcycle. His feet found flight like a second wind, rushing toward them.

“Hey!” His hands itched to tear them a new one—verbally or physically, he hadn’t decided yet—only for the wind to hit back at him as he met the familiar eyes of the woman he was dying to see. “Babe? What the hell are you doing here?”

You smiled, barely bothering to register how suspicious you looked as you closed the lid of the box, inching your way towards him.

“Hey, hun. How was your day?”

His eyes narrowed, flickering between you and whatever you were hiding.

“Fine. What’s going on?”

You were planning something—those eyes couldn’t hide mischief for long. He struggled to maintain a stoic facade as his annoying heart thrummed beneath his chest. You always managed to do that—he loathed it. One look, and he felt like a teenager all over again.

“I actually wanted to ask—can you drive us somewhere?”

His hard stare weathered. “I mean, of course I can. Where do you need to go?”

“It’s a surprise!”

And just like that, the stare returned. Chuuya had rarely experienced a nice surprise. They’d either been terrible on their own or followed by something worse, like the reaper kept a debt he couldn’t estimate. Even the word surprise left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Doll,” he sighed. “You know how I feel about surprises.”

“I know, I know,” you replied, confidence waning. “It’s a nice one, though, I swear. Very laid-back.”

He knew you had good intentions—he really did. His mind feared the pattern outlined in his footsteps, but he knew, truthfully, he couldn’t say no to you. Chuuya Nakahara was a man who’d rather experience a brief moment of happiness over a lifetime of wondering what-if.

He was a whipped man. If anyone else saw him like this, they’d never believe he was a member of the mafia, much less an executive.

With a browbeaten look, he surrendered. “Alright.”

It took some time to reach your destination, the bike a speeding bullet as it weaved through noisy, rush-hour traffic, escaping into the outer stretches of the city. He’d rarely been in the countryside, completely disoriented as the road shifted from concrete to rock, forced to rely on your directions alone as the path took multiple winding turns. You finally stopped, sat within an unremarkable patch of trees.

“Okay, I’m lost,” Chuuya said, removing the helmet you’d insisted he wear. “Where the hell are we?”

“You’ll see,” you sang, hopping off the bike and removing your own gear before snatching his hand as he dismounted. “Follow me.”

The trees were thick and dense, so he hadn’t expected the intense block of light that pierced through the leaves, forcing him to squint as he blocked it with his other hand. His eyes adjusted, he blinked, and the sight before him stole his breath.

“Damn.”

The hills of Yokohama quietly offered the best view he had ever seen, capturing the skyscrapers and the setting sun in a single scene. None of the hustle and bustle of city life could be heard from here, muted by the wind as it mixed with the flustering leaves and grass around it.

“I used to come here a lot when I was younger.” His eyes strayed from the city, breath ceasing entirely as it became restrained in the tranquil image of your face. “I thought you’d like it.”

There was a time, when you first started seeing each other, when he questioned if you could be any more beautiful. He thought it impossible, but it seemed his past self was a fool. Here, you were in your element, face cradled by a warm sun, the sky a frame around the canvas of your figure.

You were fucking ethereal.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” you said, dipping back behind the trees.

He was a weak man; he knew—had to be, if just your absence alone put such a monumental strain on his heart.

You returned, carrying what he assumed to be the items you’d not-so-sneakily placed in the top box.

“We have this—” In one hand, you raised a bottle of one of his favorite Bordeaux wines. “To ourselves for the next few hours. I’ve got a ride scheduled and everything, just in case we indulge ourselves a bit too much.”

He scoffed, too charmed by the proud look on your face.

“How’d ya manage that?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Flopping onto the ground, you set the basket from your other hand down, prying it open to dish out an impressive number of finger foods. You almost forgot he was even there, stomach growling as you snatched a pastry from its container. It was only halfway through a bite that you’d realized he hadn’t joined you in the grass yet, eyes darting between him and the dessert, patting the space next to you since your mouth was occupied.

He tried not to crumble at the sight of sugar smudged across your lips.

“Sweetheart,” he said, settling on the ground at your side. “You’ve got a little something on your face.”

Your hand swiped across your lip, only managing to wipe a small portion of the mess, brow furrowed in the most endearing act of concentration he had ever witnessed. If he fell over now, dead from the sight, he would be okay with that.

You blinked, looking at him expectantly. “Did I get it?”

He allowed himself to drink everything in for a moment longer, a thought rolling around in his head. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip, only working to smear the mess further.

“Oh! Thank—”

His restraint snapped, diving in for a bite. Jam mixed with the taste of your lips in an exquisite blend, satiating a vacancy he once thought could never be filled—one that had burned since the day he gained consciousness. He drove you into the soft grass, hands moving with their own goal, stealing the noise from your throat as he took in each tempered breath like it was his last meal.

“What did I possibly do to earn you?” he groaned, fingers varnishing your lashes as watercolor eyes blessed him once more.

He sank back in, shivering at the way you breathed his name.

“I thank the gods you’re mine every morning.” The words escaped his throat like a man in prayer as he parted your lips with his tongue. “Couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else getting to have this.”

Your hands cupped his face, and he knew he was forever changed by the unrivaled fondness of your eyes, looking at him the same way he looked at you.

“You deserve it. Even when you don’t think so. Especially then.”

He let the air circle around you both as passion waned into contemplation. You knew trouble when you saw it, especially when it circled the blues of his eyes, reflecting a trouble not yet justified by the alcohol forgotten at your feet.

“We’ve got a couple hours to kill, right?” One of those traitorous hands toyed with the trim of your shirt. “I think I’d like to taste something else.”

✦ — 𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐄𝐕𝐒𝐊𝐘

Tears poured from the sky in a symphony of thunder and lightning, crackling against the earth without care for rhythm or melody. Pious men claimed it to be God, maddened at the ill-deeds of a forgotten, immortal son. The son—a demon—knew it was just a reminder. That there will always be two sides to a coin, whether that be sun and rain, good and evil. He was simply there to ensure balance between both.

The damp, underground labyrinth that served as Fyodor’s temporary hideout did little to soothe his stiffened joints. It was not the best place for someone of his fragile constitution, but he’d lived in far worse conditions with far worse company.

Not that his subordinates counted as such.

They nodded or waved as he passed, and whether it was from respect or fear, he didn’t care; many slipped by as their work concluded for the evening. None of them would serve any use if they didn’t receive rest, after all. He didn’t need them sharp. He needed them capable. This brought a thought to his mind, stopping a man before he slinked by.

“Where is she this evening?”

It didn’t matter whether he said a name or not—anyone with a brain could decipher who the Demon referred to.

“She’s in your office, boss,” the man replied, trying to hide his nerves to no avail.

“My office?” Fyodor raised a brow before waving the man off with a nod. “No matter. Thank you.”

The familiar path to his office echoed as people cleared from the halls, his footsteps racketing against an unforgiving metal that announced his presence. A rumble returned the unspoken greeting in kind, the clicking of keys crescendoing from the illuminated figure inside.

He squinted as he crossed the threshold, eyes adjusting to the bright screens in front of him.

“Welcome back.”

The smooth timbre of your voice was a balm to the cold, like a false, warm summer heat; the perfect antithesis to the storm outside.

“Good evening, my dear,” he replied, stripping himself of his hat and coat before settling them onto a nearby rack. You didn’t stop typing, another hand leading the mouse across the screen as it expertly sorted through multiple operations.

He waited, and then struck.

“I’m quite surprised to see you out of your normal hiding spot. Is your office not to your standards anymore? I’m certain I can find a solution to whatever it is you’re lacking.”

The mouse stilled. Caught in the trap.

“You’ve got more screens than I do.”

The statement was weak. At best.

“It’s helped me get more work done.”

He hummed, a smirk etched into the wintery paleness of his cheeks. “Is that right?”

You’d never admit you were here solely because you missed him—you both knew that well. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t relish the thrill, stringing you through a maze of his own design, enthralled at the possibility that he would one day hear the truth from your lips.

“The mission went well, I assume?” you asked, changing the subject. “I know it was supposed to start raining. Hope you didn’t get caught up in it.”

“It was barely a drizzle when I arrived. The mission itself went just according to plan.” He trapsed across the room, equally too stubborn to admit he had longed to see your face after a week’s absence. “All thanks to you, of course.”

Mellow eyes met his against the vibrant light.

Your shoulders rested, a smile perched on your lips. “What a flatterer you are, lyubimyy.”

It took more willpower than he’d ever, ever admit to another living creature to suppress the quiver that ruptured from the vacant cavity in his chest.

But it was the sight of you that almost destroyed him entirely, swaddled up in his spare coat, legs tucked to your chest as you huddled beneath the makeshift blanket. The gap between the coat and your body exposed the indecent slip you wore underneath. He would’ve commented on the lack of proper attire, around your subordinates specifically, if the mere sight hadn’t utterly entranced him.

What a cruel strike to the heart was the sight, seeing you tucked away and content in the small world he’d crafted. Safe from the storm outside. That was his purpose, too, he supposed. To keep balance meant to protect the sacred. And if the divine took mortal form, would it not be you?

But he was still a demon, wickedness in his blood. A tempting thought came to mind.

“Now that you’ve mentioned it,” he mused. “You look quite cold yourself.”

You shifted from content to confused, eyes flickering down to the coat.

“I guess a little bit.”

You yelped as frigid hands hoisted you from the seat. Fyodor planted himself down, taking his rightful place, before spreading you across his lap as if it were yours. He drank in your wide eyes and parted lips, stealing your warmth as his fingers glided across the underside of your jaw.

“Oh, dear,” he said, voice a mockery of concern. “You still look cold.”

Your eyes scrambled, looking anywhere but him. “I-I’m fine.”

But, like a shepherd, he guided you back.

“Don’t lie to me.” You knew you were doomed, ensnared by the squall of his stare. “You never have been able to. It’s alright.”

It released you for a moment, turning downward, but the breath you took was another trap.

“I know just the way to warm you up.”

He pressed his lips to yours—gentle, at first. Like someone knocking at a door, waiting to be let in. But it wasn’t long before the door was barged down, rendering your mind useless in a tremor of curses and sighs, uncaring as he methodically pried you apart. He wanted everything you gave. The warmth of your body burned, and he played your spine like a taut string, trembling beneath an expert touch before calloused fingers smoothed at the nape of your neck.

Still cold, it seemed. That wouldn’t do.

Your arms snaked around his neck like vines of ivy, and part of him—the man that remained despite the years that weathered away at him—wondered what it would feel like if they squeezed tighter.

“Fedya,” you pleaded, and he knew you were both damned.

You didn’t know what you wanted. Only knew that he’d be the only person you ever wanted to give it to you.

“Shh, milaya.” His hand returned, firm against your back, pressing you closer as his other hand plucked at the thin fabric pooled atop your thighs. “I’m not finished yet.”

Your breath surged as his touch sparked earthquakes across your skin, chest heaving, arms shaking. You couldn’t find the strength to look him in the eyes, tucking your face into the exposed skin of his neck as you attempted to calm the pounding drum of your heart.

“Are you warm now?”

If you didn’t love him so unbearably much, you’d have punched him at the first chime of that insufferable, cocky tone. You took another moment, strategically, an eye of the storm, before grabbing his face. You searched for something amongst those deep, ocean-like eyes, widened ever-so-slightly, pushing him down once you found what you were looking for.

“Not yet.”

part one of bungo stray dogs has finally concluded! how was the chapter? this was queued prior to its drop, so i can only imagine (in horror) the events of the current update.

i also had a funny realization while making this piece. it's been over a year since i've written anything for fyodor. feels like i've returned home after a long journey away. hope you enjoyed!

dazai osamu doesn't know you. not personally, at least. and not as much as he would like professionally either.

it's been a good few years since he joined the detective agency yet you remain a mystery even now. like a rock who just doesn't want to crack open to reveal its core which would help him determine information about you.

it pokes at him at nights where he lays idly, for, sleep doesn't visit him often, and disturbs him greatly. why can't he seem to get through to you despite you being so seemingly transparent?

you don't get why he wants to know you since it's not like you work with the other members regularly. it's a rare occurrence as usually your work is related to smoothing out relations with the government, different police stations, lawyers and so on and on. you are the spokesperson, in a sense.

it can't be because of mere colleague curiosity and that scares you sometimes.

you had first met dazai a month after he began working in the agency and your reaction to his immediate double suicide proposal was one many would have — a concerned smile plastered on your lips while your eyes frantically searched for kunikida to help you get out of this . . . situation.

“isn't it exciting?” dazai asks, finding the narrow gap of silence between your busy shared schedule as the perfect attempt to make small talk and possibly disarm you of your guard, “we are on our first mission together and it ends up being a success. if i may say so myself, i think it's because you are my lucky charm —”

“we have worked together before too, dazai-kun.” you stop his dramatic rambling before he could get too into the role of the fool he plays. you cast him a questioning glance, “you didn't forget that, right?”

to this, he sighs deeply while shaking his head, “such a practical woman that you can't even see my obvious romance attempts — ah, but nevermind. a beauty like you could stab a knife through my throat and i would forgive you for that too.”

“i . . see.” you mumble, taking a tiny step away from him which he notices but doesn't comment on. obviously he has weirded you out and the fact would've weighed heavily on his mind if he didn't see your chin trembling as you try to contain your laughter.

perhaps this is why he wants to know you better? you often look at him as if he has two heads instead of one but your stares aren't filled with judgement, rather, the familiar amusement one would have at something they see everyday yet still find entertaining or amusing.

he hears footsteps first then sees ango step inside the room where you and him are waiting in ; calling it a room is being too generous considering it's just a small square shaped space with a metallic table in the middle and two three legged stools on one side and one on the other, a small bulb hangs low from the ceiling and this could be an interrogation room but it lacks surveillance so you aren't sure.

you and dazai both had decided to lean on the wall and not waste time by sitting on these pathetically cold looking stools. they look uncomfortable.

you straighten up as ango calls your name as a greeting before doing the same to dazai. yet unlike the capable detective who tilts his head in a dismissive fashion, you nod in greeting.

“you didn't have to come here, you know? i could've taken care of it from here on out.” ango mentions again, feeling the need to express his desires of wanting to lessen the burden of the agency.

smiling, you shake your head while you see dazai pay more attention to the interior of the hallway from the corner of your eye, “thank you so much, ango-kun, but you know i would've to come sooner or later. the government really doesn't tolerate even the slightest gap or vagueness in records, do they?”

the shared exhausted sigh you and ango release catches dazai's sigh, are they sharing the pain and burdens of being a slave for the government? i wanna join in too, dammit.

ango stops infront of a door whose walls aren't opaquley white like the rest of the hallway but replaced by glass on the top half. through this glass, you see the sight inside of the room — which looks dark despite having more lights then the one you were in ; there, seated on the bed is the figure of the man which makes your eyes sparkle in delight while you take in how his ankles are bound to chains, hands cuffed and yet it isn't enough, judging by the blindfold covering his eyes and some sort of noise cancelling headphones are covering his ears.

something akin to slight fear crosses the surface of dazai's heart.

“how did you people manage to get him in all those?" you curiously look at ango who pales a bit, shaking his head as he mutters something about not wanting to talk about it.

“i will leave you guys alone but i am afraid the higher ups won't allow for more then seven minutes.”

“those are more than enough.” dazai finally decides to speak in a suave tone, easily taking the identity card from ango (whose protests aren't responded to) and scans it against the scanner which is below the doorknob.

“goodluck then.” ango nods at you as he snatches his identity card back, walking back in the direction you three came from.

“i was wondering what felt different today about you but i think i finally caught it.” dazai hums as he speaks but you feel a shiver travel down your spine as his eyes remain serious and do not match the easy going smile on his face.

“what is different?” you can't help but ask idiotically.

“it's subtle but there's a sort of excitement around you which stands out a lot considering your usual laid back attitudes during jobs. almost as if . . .” he trails off purposely to smirk as he side eyes you, “you were waiting to meet our dearest guest inside?”

he doesn't like thinking about it, hates speaking it out loud even more but the truth will remain the truth no matter if he likes it or not. the next question in his mind is why do you want to meet fyodor?

a gasp catches itself in your throat and you forcefully swallow it down, chuckling to ease your nerves, “i forgot how spookily observant you are but yes, your assumptions are correct.”

whistling low, dazai pushes the door open and offers you his arm — just in case if fyodor decides to do something using his lethal ability.

you wrap your arms around his offered one, quietly marveling at how good it feels to do so because on first glance you thought his arms would be skinny and frail. his arm has a subtle strength to it, you can feel it in the way his muscles tighten.

the reason behind this is one he will bury in his consciousness. the moment you placed your arm on top of his, dazai felt nervous which is comical considering how intimately he has touched people. but an innocent one like this seems to affect him more than some of the most erotic ones he had felt in the past.

“i was awaiting your arrival. it's a pleasant surprise for me to see you have come with dazai-kun.” the voice of the man speaks as soon as you step inside and you resist the urge to stiffen. how did he know you two stepped inside and your identities?

“is this why you got caught, dostoy?”

dazai notes the nickname second and your soft voice filled with familiarity first. curiosity and a greater need to squash it like one would with a bug fills dazai.

“i wonder. wouldn't it be better for us both to assume this to be the case?”

a horrible realization occurs and this makes dazai feel hot in a violent way, like he needs to get out of here or he would suffocate inside his own skin ; you know fyodor dostoyevsky. must have shared some past considering the obvious familiarity. you talk with him with less nervousness then what he would expect a normal person to which means you two worked together. how horrible. truly and utterly horrible.

“fyodor-kun,” dazai calls in a serious tone and the mentioned man hums, “wasn't being my rival in chess enough? why are you my love rival too now?"

at this, fyodor smirks before uttering what you would deem as bullshit spoken between fools. he must've realized dazai's emotional state and can't help but be petty and poke at it.

“234 #, how amusing. ! веселье.” fyodor says.

dazai replies with, “ملاك, @!, crying emoji, 98? cowboy scene from minute seven, ¥£. besides, do you enjoy being tied up?”

“flower wilting emoji, 67 < 65.”

dazai sticks his tongue out in response.

he knows fyodor can't see him, right? or do they see each other telepathically? you decide to zone out to ignore their conversation which you don't get anyway.

but somewhere along it, dazai hums and rests his head on top of your's. you are sure this is some sort of territorial claim but you don't really mind it so you let him do what he wants — dazai likes this. unlike kunikida or anyone else, you are quick to go with him and his antics, not questioning or finding them annoying.

then realization occurs again — you are fine with his antics because you are used to fyodor doing the same on a smaller scale, ew. truly horrible.

five minutes later, you wave as you bid farewell. your obvious gloomy nature doesn't escape either of them but fyodor only smiles knowingly and dazai doesn't comment on it. he had established your connection to fyodor as soon as he entered the room anyway so it isn't surprising but it does suck alot.

as you two step out of the room and watch the scanner turn red to indicate the room is locked, you turn towards dazai, feeling as if you owe your partner some explanation.

“i used to work with him.”

“i know.” he pouts in annoyance. the fear, he understands now, came because he didn't want to fall out of your orbit or share it with another star (like fyodor).

“as a record keeper of sorts. same as my job here.”

“i know.” his pout increases as if he is asking you to pay attention, go along with his antics and console him.

“i used to have a tiny crush on him. i like smart men.”

here it is, the blow. but he knows it, sees the way you hang at every word he or ranpo, or even the president and kunikida says. mostly, however, the attention you show him is a tad bit more intimate then the others. so to see fyodor being regarded with a similar sort of glint in your eyes doesn't sit right with him.

it's his stare. the one you look at him with. only him, no one else.

“i know. it's a very unfortunate fact but one i had to come to terms with in due time, anyway.” he sighs loudly.

you offer a small, helpless smile. yeah, there's no way you could ever predict this guy and his reactions. he surprises you everytime.

as you begin to lead him to the room you two were in at the beginning, you part your lips, “i know you already know this but dostoy isn't your average criminal. if he got caught, it's because he wanted to. please be careful.”

“can i let my naive heart think this is you speaking out of concern for me? how i waited for this day!” dazai gasps, dramatically clutching his chest as he leans his head against your's, “to have a woman as pretty as yourself warn me of danger and wish me to stay safe out of worry which dwelled in her heart because of me — oh, i am so happy, i can almost die. command me to my death, ‘donna, and i will eagerly follow it.”

“ah, then why don't you help me with my paperwork regarding dostoy?” you ask with hope, noticing how dazai had gone stiff.

looking at him, you can almost see his soul leaving his eyes as he stands frozen in his place.

you blink.

a minute passes.

“i was joking, dazai-kun. dazai-kun?” you blink at the unresponsive man, leaning closer to his face to inspect him. he isn't blinking or breathing either so it makes you wonder, what if this is one of fyodor's tricks and he had some sort of ability user who doesn't need to touch his target to freeze them in place?

this nearly makes your blood circulation stop.

as soon as you lean in, dazai seizes the moment by quickly planting a peck against the tip of your nose as it is the nearest to him. he is selfish, he isn't a saint to not use these sort of tricks to make sure you let only him rotate around you in your orbit.

“stay by my side as my good luck charm, okay? if you do so, i am confident i can defeat fyodor.” he whispers in a serious tone and you aren't sure why your mind doesn't try to make you think he is joking. it's as if it believes his words.

blood rushes up your neck as you move back, flustered, and nod.

“ango-kun must be waiting.” you whisper, hurrying ahead first before you stop a few steps ahead of him.

looking over your shoulder with a soft smile, you say, “but you know, dostoy may be the smartest man i ever meet and my first crush, but it's not like i like him more then yo — as much as i first did.”

“…okay,” you reluctantly agree, not wanting to worry him any more than you already have. he smiles, gently squeezing your shoulder before standing up.

“is a mandarin okay?” you nod in response, flipping down on your side of the couch you both were sitting on. he hums in acknowledgment of your response, walking to the kitchen to grab a plate and the fruit. you lazily lay on the couch, unamused and uninterested in whatever was happening outside your window.

“get up for a second, love,” kunikida returns, sitting down beside you as you sit back up. he gestures for you to lay back down, so you do. your head lays on his lap, to the side so you can watch as he peels your mandarin for you. piece by piece, the skin gets dropped onto the side of the plate. then, you watch as he pulls the little white parts off of each individual piece. just the way you like it.

“you know, you didn’t have to do all that…” you whisper, reaching out to hold his wrist. he merely smiles, placing the mandarin on the plate and shifting his hand to hold yours.

“i know. i just want the best for my darling.”

a/n ; flufftober 2024 again . love kuni