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hi! this blog is HEAVILY inspired by @nakathara's stuff, go check it out! been wanting to do something like this for a while but didn't because it was "cringe."

posting headcanons and x reader requests for BSD! send me asks plsssss

The first thing you notice is the quiet.

Not the empty kind—you’re used to that—but a softer quiet, filled with the faint rustle of fabric and the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.

Your eyes blink open slowly.

You’re not in your own bed.

For a moment, your brain lags behind, caught somewhere between sleep and memory. Then it clicks—last night. The awkward planning, the hesitant agreement, the way he had insisted it “wasn’t necessary,” only to show up anyway.

Ryuunosuke.

You shift slightly, and that’s when you feel it—warmth at your side. Solid. Close.

Very close.

Your breath catches as you turn your head.

He’s there. Of course he is. But seeing him like this… it’s different.

Ryuunosuke Akutagawa is not someone people associate with softness. He’s sharp edges and colder stares, a presence that makes rooms tense. But right now, asleep beside you, he looks… quiet. Younger, almost. His dark hair is slightly tousled, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

And he’s close enough that you can feel the faint warmth of his breath against your wrist.

Your heart does something embarrassing.

You try not to move. You really do.

But then he shifts.

It’s subtle—just a small adjustment—but suddenly his arm brushes yours, and your entire body goes rigid. His brow furrows slightly, like he’s reacting even in sleep, and then—

He settles closer.

You stop breathing.

Your mind is doing its absolute best to stay normal about this. It is failing spectacularly.

Because now you’re very aware of everything.

The warmth of him. The weight of shared blankets. The way your legs are almost—almost—touching.

And worse… the slow, creeping realization that your body is not exactly calm about any of this.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, as if that’ll fix it. It doesn’t.

Great. Perfect. Fantastic.

First sleepover, and you wake up like this.

You’re debating whether you can carefully roll away without waking him when his breathing changes.

Your eyes snap open.

“…You’re awake.”

His voice is low, rough with sleep, and way too close.

You freeze.

“I—uh.”

Brilliant. Truly articulate.

Slowly, cautiously, you turn your head again.

His eyes are open now. Dark, steady, and fixed entirely on you.

There’s a pause.

A long one.

And then his gaze flickers—just briefly—downward.

Oh no.

Oh no, he’s noticed.

Your entire face burns instantly, and you try to shift away, but the movement only makes things worse. You let out a quiet, mortified noise, attempting to salvage whatever dignity you have left.

“Don’t—don’t look,” you mumble.

There’s another pause.

“…Why?”

You stare at him.

“Why?!” you whisper harshly. “You know why.”

His expression doesn’t change much, but there’s something faintly curious in it now. Like he’s studying you.

Then, unexpectedly, he exhales softly.

Not a sigh. Not annoyance.

Something quieter.

“…You’re strange,” he murmurs.

“Wow. Thanks.”

But your voice lacks bite. Mostly because you’re still acutely aware of everything and would like to disappear into the mattress.

You try to scoot back again, and this time he lets you—barely. His arm withdraws just enough, though the space between you still feels… small.

Too small.

“…You’re avoiding me,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling. “I’m preserving my sanity.”

“That seems inefficient.”

You huff under your breath. “You’re not helping.”

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Not tense. Not exactly comfortable either.

Just… charged.

You risk a glance at him.

He’s still watching you.

And then—very deliberately—he shifts.

Your breath catches as he moves closer again, closing the small gap you’d created.

“Ryuu—”

His hand brushes yours.

It’s light. Careful. Like he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing.

That alone is enough to make your chest tighten.

“…Is this… unpleasant?” he asks quietly.

The question throws you.

You blink at him, startled. “What? No—I mean—no, it’s not that.”

“Then why withdraw?”

You hesitate.

Because how do you explain this?

How do you tell him that being this close makes your heart race in ways that are definitely not calm, that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, that it’s overwhelming in the softest, most embarrassing way possible?

“…It’s just a lot,” you admit finally, voice quieter.

He watches you for a moment longer.

Then, slowly, his fingers curl—just slightly—against yours.

Not gripping. Not demanding.

Just… there.

“I see.”

You don’t pull away this time.

Your heart is still racing. Your thoughts are still a mess. Nothing about this is composed or dignified.

But as his hand stays lightly against yours, as the quiet morning wraps around both of you, something else settles in too.

Warmth.

Soft, unfamiliar, but steady.

“…You’re still strange,” he adds after a moment.

You snort despite yourself. “You’re one to talk.”

“…Perhaps.”

There’s the faintest hint of something in his voice—almost amused.

The hallway outside the dorm is quiet when you finally make it back. Your shoulders ache, your feet hurt, and you swear the day felt twice as long as usual. You fumble a little with the key in the door, sighing softly as the lock clicks open.

Warm light spills out to greet you.

“[Name]?” a familiar voice calls from inside.

Your exhaustion melts just a little at the sound. “Yeah… it’s me.”

You slip off your shoes near the door and step fully into the small dorm room you share with your boyfriend. It isn’t fancy—just a modest little space with a couch, a low table, and the bedroom down the short hall—but right now it feels like the coziest place in the world.

And right in the middle of it is Atsushi.

Nakajima Atsushi is sitting on the couch with a blanket draped over his lap, a book forgotten in his hands. The moment he sees you, his golden eyes brighten instantly, like someone flipped on a light inside him.

“You’re home!” he says, relief obvious in his voice.

You barely get two steps closer before he’s already on his feet.

“Long day?” he asks softly.

You groan in response and drop your bag by the couch. “The longest.”

Atsushi laughs quietly, the sound warm and sympathetic. “Come here.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

The moment you step into his arms, everything finally feels like it slows down. His embrace is gentle but firm, his arms wrapping around you as if he’s been waiting all evening just for this.

Which… he probably has.

You bury your face in his shoulder with a tired sigh.

“Mmm. Don’t let go,” you mumble.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Atsushi replies, voice fond.

He smells like laundry soap and something faintly sweet, maybe the tea he likes to drink in the evenings. His hand comes up to rub your back in slow, soothing circles.

“Rough day?” he asks again, quieter this time.

“Customers were grumpy. My boss was grumpy. The weather was grumpy,” you mumble against his shirt. “I think the entire world woke up and chose violence.”

Atsushi snorts softly.

“Well,” he says, “I’m not grumpy.”

You tilt your head up just enough to look at him. “Good.”

“Actually,” he adds shyly, ears turning faintly pink, “I’ve been waiting all day to see you.”

Your tired heart squeezes.

“You’re too sweet,” you murmur.

Before he can protest, you tug him down with you onto the couch. Atsushi lands beside you with a soft oof, blinking in surprise as you immediately curl against him like a cat seeking warmth.

“There,” you say, satisfied.

He hesitates for half a second before wrapping his arms around you again, clearly happy to comply. The blanket that had been on his lap gets pulled over both of you, and suddenly the whole world feels very soft and warm.

Your head rests against his chest.

You can hear his heartbeat.

Steady. Calm.

Atsushi’s fingers gently comb through your hair, slow and careful like he’s afraid of disturbing you.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

“Much,” you mumble.

There’s a peaceful silence that settles between you. The kind that only happens when you’re completely comfortable with someone.

After a minute, Atsushi speaks again.

“I made dinner earlier,” he says. “It’s in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

“Later,” you say immediately, snuggling closer.

His arms tighten just a little around you.

“Okay.”

Another quiet pause passes.

Your hand slides lazily across his shirt until you find his hand resting near your shoulder. You lace your fingers with his, squeezing gently.

“Did you miss me?” you ask.

Atsushi goes very still.

Then he laughs nervously.

“Of course I did,” he says.

You tilt your head again to look at him.

“How much?”

His face turns pink almost instantly.

“A lot,” he admits. “The dorm felt really empty without you.”

“That’s cute.”

“It’s not cute—!”

You grin and poke his side.

“It’s adorable, Atsushi.”

He groans softly, embarrassed, but his hand squeezes yours anyway.

“You’re one to talk,” he mutters. “You practically tackled me the moment you got home.”

“Correction,” you say lazily. “I cuddled my boyfriend.”

He tries very hard not to smile.

Fails completely.

“You can cuddle me anytime,” he says quietly.

Your chest warms.

You shift slightly so you’re more comfortable against him, your arm draped over his waist now. Atsushi instinctively adjusts too, one arm wrapped around your shoulders while the other rests gently along your side.

It’s warm.

Safe.

The kind of comfort you can only find with someone who truly cares about you.

“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “coming home to you is the best part of my day.”

Atsushi freezes again.

You don’t even have to look up to know he’s blushing.

“R-really?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

His hand resumes its slow movement through your hair.

“…Then I’m really glad you came home,” he whispers.

You smile against his chest.

Outside, the evening grows quieter. Inside the dorm, wrapped in a blanket and your boyfriend’s arms, the stress of the day finally melts away.

Atsushi continues holding you like you’re something precious.

And when your breathing grows slow and sleepy, he just cuddles you a little closer.

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ first ____ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 15!chuuya x f!reader sfw, cutesy wordcount: 1041

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ crush?! 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 15!chuuya x f!reader sfw, cutesy wordcount: 867

When he hears the commotion, Chuuya doesn’t even think.

He’s halfway down the street after a Sheep errand, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, biker jacket hanging open over his hoodie and old band tee, when he hears it - snickering. The kind that makes his shoulders tense automatically.

You wake to warmth.

Not the gentle kind that comes from a blanket kicked half-off in the night, nor the soft brush of morning sun through the curtains. This warmth is solid. Heavy. Wrapped around you with possessive insistence.

Chuuya’s arm is slung over your waist, his gloved hand absentmindedly fisted in the fabric of your sleep shirt like you might vanish if he loosens his grip. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, breath slow and deep, the faint scent of wine and expensive cologne clinging to him even in sleep.

He makes a low sound—half a sigh, half a hum—and shifts closer.

Much closer.

You stiffen.

Because now there is absolutely no mistaking the situation.

He presses against you, hips rolling forward instinctively, and your entire body goes hot as you realize just how awake a certain part of him is.

Chuuya, however, is very much not.

He nuzzles into your shoulder, nose brushing your skin, and tightens his hold. His thigh slides between yours, dragging you flush against him. You let out the tiniest, most betrayed squeak.

He doesn’t wake. He just exhales softly, content, as if he’s found exactly what he was searching for.

You know he doesn’t remember his dreams. He’s complained about it before—how he wakes up with the vague feeling that something happened but can’t grasp any of it. “Like trying to hold water in your hand,” he once muttered, scowling over his coffee.

Well.

Whatever water slipped through his fingers this time clearly left evidence behind.

You try to gently pry his arm off you. It’s useless. Even asleep, he’s strong. His ability might be inactive, but the years of Port Mafia training aren’t.

He shifts again, hips rocking faintly as if chasing something just out of reach. A quiet, almost frustrated breath escapes him.

Your face feels like it could combust.

“Chuuya,” you whisper, barely audible. It’s more breath than sound.

He only burrows closer, his lips brushing your collarbone in an absentminded graze. Not a kiss—just a sleepy, instinctive motion—but it sends a ripple down your spine anyway.

You try to ignore the way your own body reacts.

His hand slides from your waist to your stomach, fingers splaying, then slowly drifting lower. Not deliberately. Not consciously. Just following warmth.

You grab his wrist before he gets any ideas.

That, apparently, is enough to stir him.

His brows knit together, lashes fluttering as he surfaces from sleep. A soft groan leaves him, voice rough and gravelly. “Mm… what?”

You freeze. You are acutely aware of everything. The weight of him. The press of him. The fact that you are very much trapped.

He blinks at you, still hazy, blue eyes unfocused. For a second, he looks peaceful—unguarded in a way he never is during the day.

Then he shifts again.

And immediately goes very, very still.

There’s a beat of silence.

His eyes sharpen. Awareness snaps into place.

He glances down between you.

Then back up at your face.

You have never seen him look so genuinely confused.

“I—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Did I…?”

You can’t even form words. You just shake your head rapidly, mortified and strangely amused all at once.

His expression shifts from confusion to dawning horror. “I was asleep.”

“I know,” you mumble, staring determinedly at his collar instead of his face.

There’s another pause. He frowns slightly, as if mentally flipping through empty pages.

“I don’t remember anything,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Not even a little.”

That somehow makes it worse.

Because whatever his subconscious conjured up, it clearly involved you.

Heat creeps up his neck, dusting his ears pink. He clicks his tongue softly in irritation—at himself, at his traitorous body, at the unfairness of it all.

“Tch. This’s stupid.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. It’s soft, breathy, and entirely fond.

His eyes flick back to yours, embarrassed but stubborn. “Quit that.”

“You’re the one who attacked me in your sleep,” you murmur.

“I did not attack you.”

“You absolutely did.”

He huffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. Carefully—almost cautiously—he loosens his grip, shifting back a few inches to give you space.

You immediately miss the warmth.

He notices.

A slow, knowing look crosses his face.

“…You want me to move back?” he asks, quieter now.

You hesitate.

He arches a brow.

Your silence is answer enough.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Can’t remember the dream,” he murmurs, leaning in again, slower this time. Intentional. His hand settles at your waist, thumb brushing small circles against your skin. “But I’ve got a guess.”

Your breath stutters as he presses a gentle kiss beneath your ear—very much awake now, very much aware of what he’s doing.

“Chuuya…”

He hums softly, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Relax,” he whispers, far more composed than he was moments ago. “I’m awake this time.”

And when he pulls you close again, it’s not confused or instinctive.

It’s deliberate.

Tender.

Still a little heated—but controlled.

You hide your face against his chest, heart racing, while he chuckles under his breath, clearly pleased with himself now that he’s regained his footing.

He may not remember his dreams.

But judging by the way he holds you—careful, reverent, and just a little bit smug—you have a feeling he doesn’t mind recreating them.

You wake up with your heart in your throat.

For a second, you don’t know where you are. The ceiling above you isn’t yours. The air smells faintly like dust and laundry soap, and something warm presses against your side. Your fingers are curled in fabric that isn’t your bedsheets.

Then it all rushes back. Sleepover. The Sheep’s hideout. Chuuya.

Your breathing doesn’t slow.

The room is dim, early morning light slipping through the thin curtains. Somewhere down the hall, you can hear someone snoring. A pipe clanks. The city outside is just beginning to stir.

You try to swallow, but your throat feels tight. Your eyes burn. You don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now.

You shift, just slightly.

The movement wakes him.

Chuuya’s arm, which had been loosely slung over your waist, tightens on instinct before he even opens his eyes. “…Mm?” His voice is thick with sleep, rough around the edges. He lifts his head, auburn hair a complete mess, blinking blearily at you. “What’re you—”

He stops.

Even in the half-light, he can see it. The way your shoulders are tense. The way your hands are trembling against his shirt.

He pushes himself up on one elbow immediately, sleep gone in a snap. “Hey. What happened?”

You shake your head.

You don’t want to talk about it. You can’t. The images are already fading at the edges, but the feeling lingers — heavy and cold and wrong.

Chuuya’s brows draw together. He’s used to this in a different way. Nightmares from the younger Sheep. Kids who’ve seen too much, lived too rough. He knows how to bark a soft, “Oi, it’s fine,” and ruffle their hair, maybe shove a blanket at them and tell them to quit whining.

This is different.

You’re not one of the Sheep. You’re not some kid he has to keep in line.

You’re his.

And that makes his brain short-circuit a little.

He sits up fully now, cross-legged, staring down at you like you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve. His hand hovers awkwardly in the air before settling carefully on your shoulder. “Bad dream?”

You nod.

Your lip wobbles despite your best efforts. Embarrassing. You squeeze your eyes shut, turning your face toward the pillow so he won’t see.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then you feel the mattress dip as he shifts closer.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time.

His hand moves from your shoulder to your cheek, fingers a little calloused, surprisingly gentle. He nudges your face back toward him. You resist for half a second before giving in.

His blue eyes are wide, searching yours like he’s trying to spot an injury.

“You’re safe,” he says, like it’s a fact. Like it’s obvious. “You’re here. With me.”

Your chest tightens all over again — but not in the same way.

He looks faintly frustrated, not at you, but at himself. “I dunno how to do this,” he mutters under his breath. “Usually I just tell ‘em to suck it up.”

Despite everything, a weak huff of laughter escapes you.

He scowls. “Oi, don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

Your voice sounds small.

That seems to decide something for him.

Chuuya exhales sharply, then flops back down beside you with a dramatic huff. Before you can react, he pulls you against him — not loose and half-asleep like before, but deliberate. One arm wraps firmly around your back, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head and tuck your face into his chest.

You freeze for a moment.

He’s warm. Really warm. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.

“There,” he grumbles. “That’s gotta help or something.”

It does.

His hand starts moving in slow, awkward passes over your hair. Not quite smooth, occasionally catching, but consistent. Careful. Like he’s afraid you’ll break.

You breathe in. Out. In again.

“You don’t have to fix it,” you murmur.

“I know,” he shoots back automatically.

A pause.

“…But I’m gonna try anyway.”

His grip tightens slightly, protective without even thinking about it. At fifteen, he carries the weight of a leader, of responsibility, of power — but right now, he just feels like a boy trying very hard to make someone he cares about stop shaking.

Your fingers curl into his shirt again, but this time on purpose.

He notices.

His chin rests lightly on top of your head. “If anything tries to mess with you,” he says, voice low and certain, “I’ll crush it.”

You smile faintly against him. “It was just a dream.”

“Don’t care.”

There’s no hesitation in that answer.

The steady rhythm of his breathing begins to anchor you. The room doesn’t feel so foreign anymore. The early light is softer now, less gray, more gold.

Your heartbeat finally starts to match his.

After a while, when your breathing has evened out and your body has gone loose and heavy against him, he speaks again — softer than before.

“Next time,” he says, almost shyly, “wake me up sooner, okay?”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “You were asleep.”

“So?” He frowns, like that’s the stupidest excuse he’s ever heard. “I’m your boyfriend. That’s my job.”

Your chest warms in a way that has nothing to do with fear now.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His hand keeps moving through your hair, slower and slower. Protective. Possessive. Gentle in a way he’d never let the others see.