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No time no see. It's so refreshing to see you on my dash. Welcome back! 🤗🤗
How are you doing?
Sending hugs!
HELLA MY GORGEOUS MOOTIE!! 🥰🤍 it is so good to be back!
ive been doing well, balancing work and life together (which is a lot harder than i thought it’d be!!). coming back to bsd feels so warm in my chest, ive been rewatching all of the anime too and its been the best time heh
how are you!! i hope you have been keeping well and ive missed seeing you on my dash, too!!
Hi hi! I've read your request rules, so I hope I'm doing this right :')
Anyways, I'm not too sure if you do platonic reader stuff so feel free to skip this if you don't, but I'd like to request some headcanons with Chuuya and a pm! Reader (My mind thinks of like a subordinate under him but they can be an executive or whatever) that acts similarly to Albatross. Yes this is because I like angst.
That's it. Have a great day and night ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )
A/N: oh boy if this is cuz of the recent stormbringer chapters then I feel you :’) We just can’t give Chuuya a moment of peace can we. Also this is the first time I've written hcs like this so I'm not sure I did it right, feedback is always appreciated!
Ghost of You | Chuuya x PM!reader | Headcanons
Synopsis: in which Executive Nakahara receives a haunting disguised as an unexpected recruit
Tags: Chuuya x PM!reader (platonic), angst, ouch stormbringer crumbs
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who wondered why the hell he’d need a demolitions expert with pyromanic (emphasis on manic) tendencies in his division, but being forced to accept this new recruit anyway on Mori’s orders
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who regarded your little chitchats with everyone as useless drivel until he sees how your energy lights up his other subordinates.
The difference is night and day when he’d talk to them before you. Anything he’d say would leave them tense and stiff— not good for the mission— and not due to any fault of his own. This is just the way of the commanding officer.
But with you, their shoulders shake with laughter and the fear falls from their eyes. One word could light a fire under them ready to charge into combat— as equals. If laughter was medicine, then you were one hell of a doc.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who questions why you wear shades everywhere, even indoors, to which you reply “never know when you need to make a bang.”
He deadpans. “Did’ya bring anything with you other than your god awful jokes?”
“Ten tonnes of TNT. I got a string of dynamite strapped to my inner coat too.”
“...Forget I asked.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who has to physically steer you away from one corner of the garage every time he’s about to bring you on a mission.
A whistle escapes your lips, eyes still snagged on the vehicle. “Sweet bike you got there, Boss. How come you never take it out on jobs?”
“Don’t touch it.”
“Come on~ just one ride. Please~”
“Can’t you take an order for once,” he sighs. Looks like he’s gonna need an extra cigarette today.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who sees how swiftly and easily you integrate yourself into his division.
Soon enough, you exchange paperwork with his men as often as playing cards, pass around bombs like bottles around a table, warm hands patting you on the back wherever you go.
If he catches one of his units slacking off, it’s usually because you dragged them into the pool hall again.
“You’re such a canker sore, Boss,” you whine as he drags you by the collar.
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
You cross your arms. “What’s that saying about ‘All work and no fun’? I was just thinking the guys could blow off some steam.”
“Well all fun and no work gets you killed. Where’s that report I asked you for this morning?”
“Alright, fine, fine,” you relent, swatting his hand off. “What a grouch.”
His heart stops. When did he get like this? And didn’t he swear to himself he’d never step foot in that pool hall again?
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who refuses to send you on those most dangerous missions despite knowing full-well how capable you are and then stares off in his office asking himself why the hell he just did that.
“It’s cuz you’re still a newbie,” he argues.
“Bullshit. I can dismantle a bomb in 60 seconds flat and set one up in half that time. You know damn well you’re wasting your best explosives tech.” A stubborn thumb points to your chest. “Name one other person in your division better suited to this job than me.”
He can’t. He knows this. But the stupid weight on his chest keeps him immobile.
“I said no. That’s final.”
“I’m going anyway,” you yell over your shoulder as the door swings closed.
“Don’t—” slips out before Chuuya hears himself. For a single heartbeat, silence occupies his office, makes room for itself on his couch like an unwelcome guest.
Eventually, Chuuya grumbles, “Fucking hell.”
And yet, he can’t stop the devastating smile that sneaks onto his face.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who absentmindedly finds himself complimenting your taste in clothes one unsuspecting morning, “Nice coat, the fur trim’s a cool touch.”
You flash a toothy grin back at him, puffing out your coat. “Thanks man, yours is sick too! It’s a different shade of black than usual.”
“Huh.” He glances at what he threw on in a rush that morning. “Guess it is.”
So someone notices that not all blacks look the same. It isn’t until you’re halfway down the corridor did he realize his subordinate just called him “man.” And somehow, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who suddenly finds his nightly rooftop smokes a little less cold in the warmth of another lit cigarette.
One balanced between his lips, he doesn’t even have to look when he passes the extra roll to you.
Some nights, with the shadow of the moon obscuring your silhouette, he can almost forget who he’s standing beside. Even easier when you lapse into stretches of rare silence, nothing but the soft glow of two embers above the canopy of city lights.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who will never admit that every time he tasks you with disarming a bomb or rigging a vehicle full of explosives, he’ll always hold his breath until he knows you’re a safe distance away
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who now has an extra pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment of his car. Because now he’ll know who to blame if this one blows up.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖Executive Nakahara ˎˊ˗ who loses yet another battle with the bottle, mumbling half-asleep during a night of jovial celebration.
His head is on the counter when you catch him murmuring, “‘tross…”
“Wazzat boss? Didn’t quite get that.” You scoot closer until your ear hovers close to his troubled face. You’ve never seen him like this before, with so much of his anguish unmasked.
“Your bike… ‘course I take her out every week so she don’t rust.”
This makes you freeze, the image of one chained corner of the garage springing to mind.
The motorcycle he never lets anyone touch.
The one you caught him polishing one Sunday morning, and then the next.
“She’s safe with me, don’t you worry,” is the last thing you need to hear.
Your next instinct comes as naturally as waking. Without a word, you shrug your coat off and drape it over your sleeping executive.
Yeah, he’s worked hard enough today. Best let him rest.
"And I chase it down with a shot of truth
Dancing through our house with the ghost of you"
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dazai osamu, chuuys nakahara, fyodor dostoyevsky x fem!reader
synopsis. the stuff which would make most people's jaws drop is just the bare minimum in your partner's eyes or, a sneak into one of the many different ways in which your partner surprises you.
word count : 3.8k words.
note. ahhhhh!! i am actually so excited for this one. i wrote this when this trend was everywhere and got inspired by seeing the bsd edits on this lol and wrote it in like two days (?) despite having a very busy schedule cause of uni (literally had 9-6 that day and 8-2 on the next day). please have mercy on me and shower this with love because i literally resorted to writing on paper to get my brain working. anyways onto the fic itself, i am sure you guys would read dazai's and chuuya's parts and have great expectation for fyodor's but then realise it's going in a very dif direction and that's because i wanted to portray these men doing what they usually don't as a 'bare miminum' for you. dazai won't spend this much on js anyone, chuuya won't be this nervous infront of anyone and fyodor won't js indulge in those silly acts for js anyone. you are special so they do it only for you. and i rlly love when writer's make chuuya use "doll" as a term of affection for his partner cause idk it js sounds so hot to me? lolll anyways! comments, reblogs and asks are always appreciated and i hope you enjoy reading this!
the dividers are from @designlikenonsense
despite appearing as harmless and laid back, DAZAI OSAMU is filled with secrets which start from the top of his head and ends at the tip of his toes and one such secret which you have been trying to uncover since a long time is: where does his income to spoil your so lavishly come from?
everytime you gave up on thinking about it and ended up asking dazai about it, he would either chuckle or wink at you and tonight is no different.
“i am seriously curious. where is your never ending money coming from?”
“shh. don't worry your pretty head with such trivial matters.” he chuckles and decides not to reveal it today as well since it will take quite a long time to explain how he still remembers the routes chuuya had made himself back when he was sixteen and made in charge of handling port mafia's jewel business.
dazai remembers the routes in perfect detail and after pulling a few strings, he came to know the schedule which the mafia follows to smuggle these jewels from one place to another.
he is a member of the armed detective agency and so it's only appropriate for him to inform kunikida about these routes and trust him, he was going to . . . until he heard the rumour about a specific diamond set worth billions of yen being smuggled in one of the trucks.
dazai just needed to make a few phone calls, repeat a few old threats which he used to back in the days, express his concern about valuable information being spread and being used in the wrong way, gently reassuring said few people that none of these scenarios would become reality as long as dazai's here and —
“open it.” he gently encourages and nods towards the navy blue velvet box placed on your left palm.
slowly, you look at the box in your palm and then at dazai again to try finding something on his face which could give away or help you guess what could be inside the box but you can't find anything on his face.
seeing you hesitate, dazai lazily raises his eyebrows which makes you hurry and open the box to try to stop any retort or anything from coming out of his mouth.
the opened box reveals two diamond earrings resting on the black cushion. the earrings are half the length of your thumb and look delicate enough to be broken by a violent gust of wind. they sparkle when the lights fall on them at a certain angle, giving them an almost ethereal light blue look.
your eyes widen at this sight and your head shoots up to look at dazai yet before you can express your confusion or gratitude, he tilts his head with a playful frown and it makes you wonder if something's wrong.
“oh dear, don't they look incomplete just by themselves?” saying so, he grabs your wrist and leads you towards the bedroom, not bothering to conceal his impatience and excitement to see your reactions.
you manage to ask, “they look really expensive.”
“if you like them then all you have to do is admire how they look on you. leave worrying about the prices to me.”
“but osamu, what's the occasion?"
“i wanted to see my pretty wife sparkle in diamonds.”
“osamuuuuu!” you whine as you two stop in front of the edge of the bed where another blue box, similar to the one in your hand but in a bigger size, is.
you immediately know there's a necklace inside because of the size of the box and dazai's words but you don't get to demand answers from him first as he steps behind you and touches your elbow to urge you to open it.
carefully, you lean down and open the box, gasping softly; the necklace somehow manages to look even more delicate. it's as if it's made of solid ice. the same diamonds are glimmering on the necklace too, as if they are greeting you.
your eyes constantly switch between the necklace and earrings in your hand for half a minute and you turn to face dazai when a similar box resting on your dressing table catches your eyes. it's the same size as the box in your hand.
“go on.” dazai's soft voice makes you slowly walk towards the dressing table and pick the box up, placing the earrings in it's place instead.
you open it to find a bracelet inside, it's design is similar to the previous two jewellery items you have opened.
dazai footsteps can be heard despite how softly he walks on the carpet and you turn around to face him and your face finally heats up as you see him going down on one knee and extending a hand holding another blue velvet box.
in one smooth motion, he opens the lid of the box inside which a ring with a delicate band and a massive diamond waits for you. as lights fall on the diamond at certain places, the diamond appears in a light shade of blue.
“sir, will you please explain this situation to me?” you raise your eyebrows and tilt your head but can't suppress the smile which brightens your entire face and to dazai osamu, the diamonds pale in comparison to the happiness on your face.
“miss, what's there to explain? can't i give my wife a gift without a reason?”
“you are spoiling me, osamu.” you nearly giggle as you offer your hand to him.
dazai removes your wedding ring and slips it in his trench coat pocket before quickly slipping the diamond ring on your finger.
he presses a kiss against the back of your palm and murmur, “please, this is barely the bare minimum. wear it everyday, okay?”
“it'll get ruined that way.”
“then let it. i will change it with a better set in a few months anyway. either way, any and every sort of diamond i ever saw seems dim in comparison to you.”
despite having a scary reputation, CHUUYA NAKAHARA is really good at keeping acquaintances and his business partners happy. he has a certain charm among many others which makes them be fond of him and makes them trip over their feet trying to please him in any way they could.
you knew this but you didn't know the extent of it.
when chuuya called you last night and told you to prepare for paris, you didn't question him about anything because it's not rare for chuuya to take you on impromptu trips the moment he gets day offs. perhaps you should've questioned him when some of the members from his personal body guard squad (they aren't really there to protect him but to intimidate others and enhance his reputation as an executive) accompanied you but again, that's not too rare as well. happened at times and you weren't really new to travelling in port mafia's private jet as well.
the beautiful building in front of which the car stopped also didn't seem too unusual because with chuuya, you can never know what he's going to surprise you with next. anything is possible.
the moment you enter the main hall of this building, you see many tables covered in rich table clothes and with chairs around them as if they are waiting for people to occupy them and in the very centre is a stage, the kind on which models walk during fashion shows.
the lights of the stage and the ones above it are on as well as the screen at the centre of the stage and it looks prepared to start a show at any moment.
“c’mere.” chuuya whispers and places a hand on your hip to guide you towards the table just a few steps in front of the end of the stage and this is the only table which has two chairs and not the usual five. there's a fancy vase of fresh roses and jasmines on the table.
“ours?”
chuuya blinks as if he can't believe your question then he looks around at the seemingly empty hall and pretends to frown, “i don't see anyone else. do you, doll?”
“you could've just answered.” you grumble as you walk past him to pull your chair and sit on it — a petty move because it's always chuuya who does this for you. he once told you he liked to make sure you are sitting properly before doing so himself.
“stupid questions get these type of answers.” he snaps his fingers and activates his ability to stop you in your place and walks past you to pull your chair back, “i don't understand why you insist on acting this way despite knowing i can use my ability.”
then, he snaps his fingers again for the sake of being dramatic and you feel the heaviness leaving your body and the suspicions you felt when you entered and saw the weird setting because chuuya is smiling at you and there's really nothing which can scare or put you on edge when chuuya's near, acting as if he's too high and mighty for things which might terrify you. he just might be.
“you are so dramatic, chu. seriously.” you heave an exaggerated sigh and make sure to brush your shoulder against his as you walk past him to sit down. a turn over your shoulder enables you catch the way his eyes soften at the edges as he stares at you.
“but honestly, what's the plan?” you ask once he's seated as well yet before he could respond in any way, you hear music from speakers which you can't even see in this dim lighted setting.
you naturally look towards the stage and see your name displayed on the screen and once again, you begin to feel weird.
“chuuya?” you look at him to see if he's as confused as you but he's smiling softly in a way he often does whenever you catch him staring at you while you are doing idle chores or anything at his apartment, “what's going on —”
someone calls your name but it's a voice you — hell, most of the world — recognize because of the sheer amount of times you've heard the owner of this voice giving speeches, interviews and what not.
you whip your head towards the stage again and it's really him — sauvlete, the fashion designer who is praised across countries and continents and on whom the fashion world always keeps their eyes on because he has been nicknamed to have hands of midas. any fabric he touches, he brings it to life. not only is he creative and surprisingly an easy going person but one can also feel the passion he has towards expressing ideas, sentiments and such through clothes by the way he talks about his projects.
you had mentioned him to chuuya once.
“i am sauvlete and on the request of my dear friend, chuuya nakahara, i am more than honoured to be able to create a custom dressing line for you. chuuya came up with elements to be added, accepted or rejected the dresses and was very closely involved in the entire process. i hope you can feel the love and consideration he has for you whenever you wear any of these dresses. congratulations on your engagement.” sauvlete bows and rushes back stage to probably signal the models to begin their walks yet one word he used in his speech repeats in your mind.
“engageme —” you come to a stop as soon as you turn towards chuuya because on both of your sides are the same bodyguards who had accompanied you on this trip, holding various gifts ranging from diamond necklaces to designer shoes which look almost exotic to a big bouquet of flowers and even a cake in your favourite flavour and such.
“I love you.” he mouths and then clears his throat as he looks at the mafia members, “you guys can go away now. thank you. take a day off starting from tomorrow.”
once they are seated at tables which are far from the one you two are at, chuuya grabs your hand into his gloved one and stares at your empty ring finger, “i know proposals like this aren't liked by many people since it makes them feel pressured into answering and i think maybe a quiet proposal would have been better. regardless, don't be afraid. whether you accept or reject, my feelings for you won't change at all and i would do all of this for you again so don't feel indebted or anything and be true to your feelings. i just miss you so much i wanted to do something special and things turned up this way that everything ended up happening at the same time —”
“acting humble doesn't suit you, nakahara.” you chuckle and extend your other hand to poke his forehead, “why are you acting as if me rejecting you is a possibility.”
“i didn't want you to feel pressured into answering.”
“aww, so cute — no, seriously!” you exclaim when you see the unimpressed look taking over his face, “really! you are spoiling me too much!”
“this is the bare minimum.” he tells you and before you could say it really isn't because not everyone you know cares for you the way he does, is as selfless as he is when it comes to you and puts you and your needs above his own, the models walk out one after the other.
you can't tear your eyes away from the dresses; each beautiful in it's own way and most of them have accessories or designs, patterns or decorations etc, which are a direct reference to your previous conversations with chuuya.
your eyes get teary the more you watch them and realise just how much chuuya loves you and then —
“wear this one at our engagement party, okay?”
despite being extremely secretive and busy most of the time, FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY has never turned you down whenever you expressed your desire to meet him. even if it's raining or snowing like crazy and it seems difficult to leave your house, fyodor dostoyevsky finds a way to meet you if you wish to see him.
you do not know what his job is (but you assume it has to do something with politics or business because he's always meeting people who seem way too important and are drowned in wealth) and you don't know what keeps him busy and away from your shared apartment most nights (he told you it's because his job is dangerous and he would rather keep you isolated from it and this further strengthens your belief about what field his job lies in) but you know he loves you.
he really does because why else would he not have as much as the ghost of a frown on his lips despite waiting for you in this downpour for two hours already?
you could spot the silhouettes of him and two of his bodyguards standing behind while holding an umbrella over his head but it does little to shield him from the rain which is violently clashing against the ground and breaking into smaller components which splash around in protest. the hem of his pants are in a darker shade compared to the top part of it and his shoes glisten because of how wet they are and yet, the moment he sees you hurrying towards him, he raises his hand and gestures to you to slow down.
one flick of his wrist dismisses the bodyguards who are here to guard him and you too, naturally. one of them hands over the umbrella to him before stepping inside his partner's umbrella and they walk towards one of the two cars parked at the distance just as you stand before fyodor.
“i am so sorry, they delayed everything for some reason —”
“i merely respected your wishes but i still believe you should've let me come pick you up or send someone to pick you up. how did you come here?” fyodor leans his temple against the pole of the umbrella and raises his eyebrows at you.
“well, i travelled?”
“by? which mode of transportation did you use, dear?”
despite how he appears in public, fyodor has a habit of nagging at you from time to time. you don't mind it since you know he's doing this because he cares for you and also because seeing his usually charming and handsome face painted with light disappointment and disapproval makes your heart flutter dangerously.
“i took the metro —”
“in this rain?” fyodor purses his lips in disapproval and before he can open his mouth to nag some more, you raise your hand to poke the tip of his nose which is extremely cold to the touch and indicates how long he has been waiting for you and it makes your heart clench with guilt.
“you aren't angry?” your voice is soft as you ask and fiddle with the handle of your own umbrella. “i am really sorry to keep you waiting here for so long. you are so cold to the touch —”
“i am worried because i picture you taking the metro in this heavy rain and how uncomfortable it must've been for you, not because of anything else. i don't mind standing here for even six hours because getting to see you is always worth the wait.” he leans closer to you as he speaks and ends his words by placing his hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb over your skin to make sure you are actually here and aren't one of the hallucinations he sees whenever he's running on too little sleep (which happens often).
“you are too nice, i swear, fedya.” you cutely and generously praise him and fyodor chuckles. there's no bitterness building in his heart as he hears your words because however he may actually be — if you say he's nice then he must be nice and if you say there are two suns in the sky then he will make sure there are two suns in the sky.
whatever you say, fyodor will make it reality.
“come close then, dear girl.”
happily, you close your umbrella and step under his and giggle because of course you two won't fit under one umbrella, “fedya, one of us will get wet —”
you pause as he tilts the umbrella towards you to shield you from the rain while his shoulder is getting drenched in the rain. the white shirt absorbs the water and turns somewhat translucent.
“you are going to get wet!” you gasp and place your hand on top of his to grab the handle, pushing it towards him to cover him from the rain but he pushes it towards you again.
“fedya, don't be foolish. you'll get wet and sick.”
“dearest, i can tolerate that but i can't let you get sick.”
“i think the same.”
“let's not act like kids and just let me shield you —” a strong gust of wind passes by you two and the umbrella which is held by two shaky and unstable hands, flies away with it and lands at your feet.
you look up at fyodor despite the rain strongly falling down on you two and your breath gets stuck in your windpipe.
fyodor is a handsome man, there's no denying that and his always well kept and calm composure only enhances his attractiveness but now – his hair sticks to his forehead while his clothes stick to his body, rain drops trail numerous paths down his face and since most of them overlap on top of each other, they make him face glimmer in a way.
“i missed you.” you breathe out and feel like slapping yourself because these should've been your first words.
your lips tug down just a bit but fyodor who always keeps a keen eye on you especially, notices it and his heart loudly throbs and he quickly takes a step forwards, cups your cheeks with both hands and leans in to peck your forehead, “i missed you too. i do every second i am away from you.”
pulling back from you, fyodor leans to pick up the fallen umbrella and holds it over your head and blinks as you are already drenched. it makes no difference if there's an umbrella conceding you or not now.
“you look so handsome despite the rain.” you say and if you are saying it then fyodor believes he must actually look good right now.
he runs a hand through his hair to brush it backwards and reveals his forehead, hoping this makes him look more attractive in his eyes. he doesn't go out of his way to do this usually as he thinks one's attitude and the way they carry themselves speaks more than any gestures could but when it comes to you, fyodor finds himself doing things he normally wouldn't.
“do i?” his voice didn't sound this teasing in his mind as it does when he speaks.
you nod, grabbing his hand as you lead him under the shelter of the nearest building you could find but by the time you both reach it, you are drenched to the bones.
clothes and hair stick to your wet body and your fingers are beginning to get wrinkly but you barely pay them any mind.
in the small space, you and fyodor stand extremely close and this closeness increases when he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer to his side.
leaning his cheek on the top of your head, he mumbles, “happy? we are both wet now.”
“it's fun to get wet sometimes.”
“not when we have a dinner scheduled.” he mumbles but realxes a bit anyway, turning his head to kiss at the top of your wet head. “do you want a car?”
“public transport ia sufficient —” you aren't sure how many times you got interrupted today and in this hour alone but once again, your voice came to an immediate halt as fyodor straightenes up, grabs your hand and pulls you into the open sky.
on seeing your bewildered expression, fyodor offers you a smug smile, “we are already late and in no state to sit and eat dinner. we are past the appointed time anyway so might as well make the most of the rain. besides, isn't it fun to get wet sometimes?”
“you cheeky man.” you shake your head, nearly squealing as he spins you around on the empty road.
there's a small smile on fyodor's face as he pretends he didn't just lie about being past the appointed time. he indirectly owns the place. they'll open up and serve him even if he comes at midnight or after it.
fyodor dostoyevsky just wants to make you happy and since money and materialistic pleasures aren't doing the job anymore, he chose this way. actually, the reason you were late and everything got ‘delayed’ is because of fyodor. he had pulled strings to make it happen because he wanted to show you how unreliable public transport is for you but then it started raining and as the first few drops collided with the ground and his umbrella, he got this idea.
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hello milky! i do not think we have properly introduced ourselves to each other yet, and so i wanted to stop by now and say very nice to meet you. «milky» is such a cute name; i associate it with every sweet bread or pastry i like. c: i am pleased i am seeing you around more on here lately; i hope you are having a lovely august so far, and i am excited to hear about and read through your works whenever i am able to do so ♡
hello, sweetheart!! no, i don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves yet — it is so sweet of you to drop by my blog and leave me this ask 🥺🫶
thank you! people often ask where i got the inspiration for my online name, and usually, i reply with “both these words sound nice and comforting to me, so i stuck them together” — milky-aeons reminds me of a yummy space-pastry and i adore that 🥰
ive been more active and it feels like coming home to this fandom. there’s so many wonderful people on here (including you!!). i love seeing you pop up on my feed and can’t wait to explore your blog myself (obsessed, obsessed with your aesthetic).
have the most wonderful day, my lovely mootie, and thank you again for stopping by!! 🥺🤍
౨ৎ. everyone had something to hide, you knew all too well. everyone had some sort of body they liked to keep in the closet. it was why you and DAZAI OSAMU worked so well, after all. no questions, no strings attached; a completely unprofessional relationship that consisted of heated looks and too many things always left unsaid.
. . . what is to become of you both, of this fragile tranquil you shared, when an overseas ability user shows you just how many of those bodies your superior had buried in his closet?
warnings: dazai x f!reader, original guild member character; robert lee frost (irl poet circa 1874), angst, hurt/comfort, f!reader, gifted!reader, shared baths, unresolved feelings, sexual content, sexual relationship, unprofessionalism (superior/subordinate), dazai doesn't respect boundaries (he barges into your bath), foul language, unrequited (?) love, praising ("good girl"), smoking, pretend drowning, post season one, w.c — 7.2k
note: i wrote this a very long time ago. it was part of a massive mega fic i wrote for dazai when i was a teenager lolol. i think it'd be fun to rewrite one day, let me know what you guys think mwah mwah <3
now playing: cashmere cat — trust somebody ft. selena gomez, tory lanez
The gallery was always vacant come this time of day.
It was the point of the evening where dusk and night collided in a burst of vivid oranges and violet splattered against the sky. People flooded into nearby train stations to commute from a long shift at work, all with their own stories, someone dear waiting for their return.
Perhaps that was why nobody sat on the bench beside the only spectator of this particular piece as he contemplated on its beauty. The pale white wall behind its canvas threw the whole painting into awe-inspiring focus.
THE LAMENT FOR ICARUS
Herbert J. Draper
Oil on canvas, 1898
"Beautiful piece," His sudden company mused when he took a seat near the edge of the bench. "Isn't it?"
Dazai Osamu didn't take his eyes away from the painting when he answered, voice light, "It is. A heart-breaking story painted so magnificently."
"Perhaps that's why it has a whole wall to itself."
"I wonder . . . "
Dazai turned to regard the stranger at his side. A poor description; no one was really a stranger to him in Yokohama. Except, this immaculate man who wore a suit of white and had hair akin to an ebony waterfall was no man regular to this city.
"You surely have come a long way to admire the artwork." He said to him through a lopsided grin.
The stranger mirrored his smile; a mischievous little upturn of his lips that hid everything he was feeling. "For a masterpiece like this? Why, I'd walk the globe to see it."
"Even for a facsimile? I hear the original is on display in Britain."
"And I heard the exhibition in Yokohama was truly an experience." Was the stranger's enigmatic reply.
"The Lament for Icarus," Dazai began to recount what he knew of the story. "A tale of a captured son and his father. In order to escape, the father came up with the idea to create wings of feathers and wax. Although he warned his son not to fly too close to the sun as they escaped, the son could not help his wonder," A pause. Heavy with thought. "Icarus flew too close to the sun despite his father's warning and suffered the consequences for it. His wings of wax melted into a heap that could no longer hold his weight any more, and he went plummeting to the earth."
"A sad story." His company commented.
"A moral which teaches human beings not to spoil righteousness with what they have, by desiring what they have not."
"Is that what you think?" The man asked him. His eyes were a bottomless colour of deep brown—so deep they almost looked black, when he turned around to Dazai with an urging hum. "I think of it as a love story."
Dazai's eyebrow raised. "Oh?"
"Icarus was so enthralled by the sight of the sun that he ignored his father's warnings and flew too close," The stranger's voice dipped, as if speaking about something grave. "His wings of wax were no match for the heat, but he did so, any way. Pushing closer until it eventually led to his end."
Dazai continued to regard the man by his side. He had an aura of mystery and an accent thick with routes of the west. "A love story doomed to calamity, hmm? How awful it is to be fallen for, then."
A pregnant moment. Then, a spark, an unsheathing of the metaphorical blade.
"I am no man to question another's limits when it comes to following their interests, but the art of Yokohama is not why you came here," The stranger steered his attention away from the art when Dazai said the next words slowly, "Respected Guild Member, Robert Frost."
"Are you always so sure of yourself?" The man; Frost, asked him, but there was a tremor in his voice that spoke of hidden amusement.
"No human is sure of themselves," Dazai mused. "But have the capability to convince themselves that they are."
"You speak as if you are not a human being."
"Now, that is a funny observation."
The painting depicted a grand angel with wings of burnt orange and brown, laying in the arms of those who sung his heart-breaking lament as he was swept away to the underworld. Quiet hung thick in the air; simply two men who didn't have the highest opinion of each other to an innocent by-stander. But the conversation was already taking place. One which used the shattering silence as its catalyst.
"Why [Name]?" Dazai asked him after a long moment. "Surely, the Guild can execute their plan using Atsushi-kun alone. A woman with an uncontrollable ability is bound to be too messy, even for you, to ensue chaos on the city."
"Ah, so that mind of yours is wicked, after all." Frost said through a breath of peculiar awe. "Is it difficult? To be cursed with such knowledge?"
Dazai chuckled at the question, parrying. The twinkle left his eyes, turning them a matte coffee under the sparkling gallery lights. "The mind is a curse. I would have thought the Guild had their fill placing a bounty over the head of Atsushi-kun. And now they wish to take yet another member of the Agency into their ranks. Allure for broken things is not their style," A pause. Realisation suddenly crackled in his mind. "Unless an operative of the Guild is not acting on standard protocol?"
Frost's hands, hidden behind gloves of white, came up in an open gesture of defeat. "You were not the first to break lovely [Name] out of my ability for no reason. Indeed, I sought her out purely on my own accord. The rumours of the lady with a broken ability were just too attractive not to buy into."
"That doesn't seem to be the case," Dazai cut him off with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. "While I do accredit those who would travel the world for something they are interested in, travelling all the way to a foreign land relying on a simple rumour is not a risk the Guild would take." Frost looked to him, and when he did, he noticed that the colour of the Agent's hair was rather similar to those painted on the angel laying dead in the picture. Dazai lifted a hand hidden in bandages and traced something in the air, as if drawing his incomprehensible thoughts into focus. "No. It is not a risk someone attempting to stop the Guild would take."
At that, the pinpoint accuracy he has said those words in, emotion betrayed the cracks of Frost's face. Dark eyebrows lifted in surprise.
"Well, you would be no fun trapped in my ability!" He said through a disbelieved scoff. "It would be over before I even blink."
"Are you complimenting me?" Dazai chuckled. His eyes had tugged at the sides when he smiled. An unreadable one that could hold a light to Frost's own.
"You told me that the mind is a curse." Frost pushed.
"It is. And yet, it is that curse which will come together and fight to protect this city. It is also that curse which wonders why you have decided to betray your organisation, and why you believe our [Name] could be the one to stop them."
Frost turned away from Dazai's coy smile to admire the painting, suddenly contemplative under a passive expression.
"The Guild was magnificent, once," He reminisced, his mind drifting to someplace far away. "An organisation that promised of community and prosperity. That was why many of us were attracted to its membership in the first place. And then," Frost paused, eyes fluttering to the top of the staff he carried. "It was cursed. With ideas of greed and calamity. It's magnificence dulled by the want for power, territory and mostly—for prized trinkets."
"Prized trinkets." Dazai repeated, turning back to the painting. "Is Atsushi-kun what they think of as a prized trinket? Miss [Name], too?"
"No, but the city in which they live in is. At least, according to our Leader. And in order to obtain such a trinket, one must eradicate the forces that protect it."
"Ah, so pit the Armed Detective Agency against the Port Mafia in order to remove both organisations from the city?" Dazai's voice had an airy, impressed tone. "It's not bad."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it is what I would have done."
"During your time as a Port Mafia Executive, I'm sure."
Slowly, Dazai turned back to look at the man sitting next to him. The stranger to Yokohama who dropped by uninvited. Frost didn't take his gaze away from the artwork to see the dangerously probing look Dazai had to his eyes. Instead, his lips lifted into a smile.
"My ability, Mountain Interval, shows people the lives that they could have lived. Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?" Frost didn't give Dazai a breath to answer. "Everyone makes choices. But nobody knows what choices have the capability to change their entire fate. And when somebody is trapped in Mountain Interval, it is as if they are living a completely different life to the life they would have lived if they didn't make that choice. Of course, the only way to break Mountain Interval, is to realise what choice that was."
Quiet. Perilous, teeth-baring. Frost took delight in the way Dazai's body had gone completely still with realisation, and went on.
"Through a probability of fate, lovely [Name] found herself assigned to a board of Port Mafia Executives in the middle of a perilous mission for wealth. It took her quite some time to figure out what choice she had made in order to bring her there. Although," Finally, his attention drifted from the piece to look directly at Dazai. "I'm sure you have already guessed what that choice was within the second I spoke of it. As, at the heart of it all, there seems to be you."
If Dazai did come to guess what choice his subordinate had made trapped in a world that showed her his Port Mafia past, he didn't show it. He didn't show any emotion on his face as he turned to look ahead and went silent. He looked just like he did when Frost approached him before they had this conversation—all the secrets of the world locked up in his head and his emotions so tightly restrained it was inhuman.
Frost wondered, just for a second, as he regarded the enigmatic Agent of the Armed Detective Agency, if there was a person in this world that he would let the reins on those emotions loose for. If the woman he had trapped in his Ability could ever have the possibility to be that important to him.
"Perhaps the leader of the Guild is akin to Icarus," Dazai suddenly said when Frost moved to get up. "Yokohama is the sun he can't have, but he'll attempt to fly towards it, any way. Casting the entire organisation into flames amidst the process."
Frost cocked a brow from where he stood; a step or two away from the bench. "You say humans are never sure of themselves, but you speak as if you are."
"And you say you would like to betray your organisation, but there is a vacant look to your eyes that tell me good is not the only thing you wish to do."
The conversation ended at the final tone in Dazai's voice. Frost closed his eyes and began to walk away—the sound of his shuffling steps and the constant clicking of his walking stick echoing against the walls of the gallery.
"I was pleased to meet you here, Dazai Osamu. Give my respects to lovely [Name]," Then, right before he exited the place through the quiet automatic doors, he promised, "I do hope I meet her again, very soon!"
The sound of his staff reduced to nothing and Dazai Osamu was once again, alone in the gallery. Nothing save for the silence that made his mind all the more deafening and the haunting angel-song of the painting that whispered throughout the air.
If someone were to tell you, days before your world was thrown upside down, that you would be relieved to be in the middle of the mess that was Dazai Osamu’s apartment, you would have laughed straight in their face. But now here you were, admiring the dust against his table-tops, the blinds you took an entire afternoon of your life to put back together and the empty mackerel tins like you had just stepped into a small corner of heaven.
Because you were home. This was your home. Every crack in the floorboards and dirty coffee cups were a reminder of the man that you shared it with.
But after what you had saw—that Ability Guild Member Robert Frost trapped you inside . . .
You grumbled, shutting your eyes as if to dull an ache, and sunk into the hot water a bit more. He had a deep bath in his apartment, which was one of the few things you were grateful for amidst all the clutter. Bunking with your colleague was not easy. Bunking with your colleague who you were unrequitedly in love with was definitely not easy—but there were reprieves. The warm water seeped into your muscles and threatened to send you to sleep as you tilted your head back, thinking.
Dazai should be back soon. He had promised not to leave for too long, heading out to do God knows what on a Sunday afternoon. You were wise not to keep tabs on your superior's endeavours—but the way you reacted when he shrugged on his jacket; the short stab of panic through your chest. You had not expected it, but he had seen it. And the way his eyes twinkled with mirth told you he thought you were finally putting you both out of your misery and inviting him to bed.
If only he knew, what you had saw. What you knew. Taste the panic on your tongue that screamed at you when he wasn’t there; what if he leaves, this Dazai Osamu you were falling so hard for, and you were back in that Ability? That you hadn’t really broken out, after all?
Business with a mysterious individual. I won't be too long, Dazai brushed you off before spinning on his heel and out the door.
A Port Mafia Executive.
Dazai Osamu was a ruthless Port Mafia Executive before he crossed paths with you.
It was the fact that took all of your attention. Of course it did, because it was the most startling. There were a lot of things you thought Dazai worked as before coming to the Agency, but hell—the Agency's enemy never dared to cross your mind. And you hadn't been able to tell him, were afraid. There wasn't really a fitting way that you could drop a bomb like that in the middle of a conversation and not expect it to explode back up in your face. But the more this information sat on your shoulders, the more it threatened to eat you whole with a burning need to know.
You couldn’t even tell him you were in love with him—how the hell were you meant to tell him that?
You placed your arms back into the water with a sigh. What were you meant to do with this? Some of it was so surprising that you weren't aware of how important it could be; Yosano, with a tether to the Port Mafia's Boss; Chuuya, with an ability he couldn't control and the possible key to yours; Dazai, with a life you wanted to believe wasn't a part of him, any more. You were still in the process of digesting it that you hadn't even thought about how to act, let alone who to speak to, first. Or why the city you called home somehow felt foreboding all of a sudden.
As if shadows lurked in the walls and waited to come out. Or, as if an evil bigger than all of you loomed at the horizon and threatened to throw the city into upheaved terror.
You didn't have the chance to be swept up by the sea of your overthinking—a distraction barged into the bathroom, uninvited.
Quite literally.
A startled gasp bubbled from your throat when Dazai closed the door behind him and turned around. You didn’t even hear him come in!—he always did walk with those weightless steps, erasing himself from existence everywhere he went. But now, standing there, he was a calamity. Something was swelling beneath the surface, you could tell, but your shock won out first, quickly chased by hot mortification.
“Oh my God—Dazai!” You shrieked, dipping down into the water so it reached your burning cheeks. “What the fuck!”
He didn't answer you, which gave you immediate warning signals that something was wrong, very wrong. His eyes held you for a moment; flickered to the bath you were attempting to sink into as far as you could with your arms clamped against your chest, thinking.
His thinking stopped when he came to a decision and started shedding his coat off of his shoulders.
"What the fuck are you—?" You watched as he bent to take off his shoes. Anticipation and nerves were a punching force in your throat. "Dazai." No answer as he attacked his other lace. You barked his name, "Osamu!”
He finally looked up to you after throwing his shoes somewhere without a care in the world.
"Hmm? I'm undressing to take a bath." Both hands came to undo his waistcoat when he straightened, his fingers making quick work of the buttons holding it in place. "What do you think I'm doing, love?”
Love. Red washed over your skin at the two ideas attacking your mind right then, all at once. One; seeing Dazai—your superior, your roommate, the man of your most intimate desires—without his clothes on, and two; having you—hopeless romantic, desperately pining—with him in a small bathtub where you also don’t have your clothes on.
Fucking say something!
"N-No," You said, but your voice was a little strained. Dazai locked eyes with you as he undone the first button of his shirt, and you had to fight before the intense deep brown of them drowned you whole. "No, no, no!”
"No?" He opened another button. "Whatever do you mean?"
The part of you that roiled in bed at night, imagining your fluttering fingers on your body as his own was screaming at you. It was begging you to let him join, to see all of that clothed skin you craved so desperately, to explore it wet and bare. But this was so quick, so out of the blue. You had been in love with this man for months; you weren’t ready for something to happen so suddenly. There was something wrong. You knew your superior a lot better than he gave you credit for—and that unhinged emotion in his eyes you couldn’t place, it frightened you. For him.
“What the hell is your problem? You’re not getting into the bath with me!” You protested, but your mouth was dry and it came out a little weaker than you would have liked.
Suddenly, his fingers paused on the third button of his shirt at your denial. "Are you saying that you won't let me bathe with you if I remove all of my clothes?"
Love. Remove all of his clothes. Your heart was slamming against your ribcage. “Yes! Get out!”
Three quick steps that you only had to blink to miss and he was already at the edge of the bath and swinging his leg into the water.
What is he—! You shrieked his name, but he didn't heed. Not until he took both of his legs that still had his pants on, for God's sake, and sat in the water on the other side of the bath. Liquid sloshed over the sides at the added weight. He adjusted himself—legs awkwardly shoved beside your body that you plastered against the bath wall and arms on each ledge.
You were so speechless that it took you a moment to find any coherent words.
And they were;
"Are you nuts?!"
He grinned. It was oddly forced, only you could notice. "Rude. What do you think?"
"You just," Your eyebrows crashed together, eyes flying from his face to his body rapidly. Anger and shock kept ebbing on the surface of your face—neither one staying for long enough. “You just—what the hell, you're still in your clothes."
"You told me that you would not let me in if I had no clothes on," He rested his head against the back of the bath. His neck muscles moved underneath his bandages when he drawled, "But said nothing against me having them on."
You tried to meld yourself against the cold ledge, snarling. Stupid brunet and his talent to reason himself to correction, every single time. You hated him, you loved him; they eddy together into a colour you can’t explain. Part of you wants to give him a kick and scream bloody murder—how dare he invade your privacy so obtusely? But that other part; that damned complicated part, it somehow relaxed at the thought of your superior seeing you this vulnerable. As if the leap in your relationship would open some metaphorical new door.
Stupid girl—what was he even doing, really? Trying to kill you? Is that what he was doing?
"I had an interesting meeting today," He suddenly spoke up, his voice tight and blunt. Less musical than you know him for. "We shared a similar appreciation in art."
"Did you?" You asked him, your own voice so embarrassed it was hoarse. "Did he tell you to try and ruin the bath of the closest woman you could find, too?"
"No, but he did tell me a peculiar story of a woman he trapped in his Ability—of a life she could have possibly lived."
Snared.
Caught.
He knew.
You cleared your throat, taking a moment to form the words, “He didn't happen to have two soul-sucking eyes, a white suit and a bird sitting on top of his head, did he?"
"The suit and eyes? Yes. The bird?" Dazai raised a brow. "Unfortunately, no."
"Damn. The bird was the only redeeming thing about him," You muttered. Then, took a deep breath. "Dazai, I was going to tell you—"
"Were you?" He sang, but it wasn’t playful, it was the start of a lament.
“I just didn't know how—"
"Were you scared?"
It was enough to force your own words back into your mouth, the way he had said such a thing. It was like a whip, quick and impactful.
Were you scared?
Of me?
It suddenly fell into place.
The urgency, the barging in uninvited, the dark storm underneath the surface of his composed expression. He was always the joker—he wore a smile so bright it was too perfect to be real when he teased Atsushi during work hours or flirted with the waitress in the Agency Café. But you could see the fissures, you always picked out the tells he thought no one else could. And this little episode of his, it wasn’t you he should be asking that question to.
It was him.
He was scared—under all that bravado. Your superior was scared of what you had saw in an Ability world which showed you his past. What life would have been in the present if he had stayed with the Port Mafia; how cruel and wicked and empty he would have become, because of it.
It broke you. It emboldened you, all at once.
Slosh, slosh.
Dazai felt the water shift, lapping up against the sides. Rarely did the man not know what he was doing. His mind was honed like a whip, a dangerous blade, once used to destroy and decimate. But you knew— you had been shown who he really was by that Ability. He had never meant to keep his crimes from you—but, perhaps, he had grown comfortable. With the snide comments, the gentle jabs, the drinks you shared from his dirty glasses.
He had grown comfortable to the peace of you—you stilled his mind, you made him forget.
But now, the little charade was up. You had seen how broken and dirty he was. You’d throw him away like everybody else; a filthy, too-used rag.
Slosh, the water moved again, but this time with added weight. Then, a presence, a warmth. Dazai’s eyes flickered open, only to dart to your hands suddenly outstretched—reaching for him. They didn’t stop and he didn’t make any moves to deter them, letting you shift closer until both your hands rested on his damp shoulders.
You were moving towards him in the bath. Overcome with the desire to touch him, to ground him. It was entirely not like you and borderline mad to lift your body out from the water, to show this man your most vulnerable state when you swore you’d always keep this love for him buried, never to be said. And yet, you found yourself willing to do anything to make him smile, to reassure him that he wasn’t the mirage you saw—that you knew he had become a new man, a better man.
You were in too deep, already.
Dazai’s unreadable eyes darted to yours when you moved to straddle him underneath the water; soft skin against his wet clothes. They held questions, so many questions, the light twinkled back into them a little bit more.
You worried your lip between your teeth and his eyes flickered down, fixated there.
Maybe he was in too deep already, too.
“I don’t think,” You whispered, voice low and feathery. Fingers curled into his wet shirt. “I don’t think I could ever be afraid of you, Osamu.”
Osamu. He stared at you, and stared, and stared. As if looking at an art piece from the gallery, as if you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He didn’t let his eyes fall lower to your naked torso, nor did he bring his hands to cradle your hips as you sat in his lap.
He had to know. “What if I said you should be?”
You quirked a small ghostly grin. “. . . Then I’d say, when have I ever taken orders from you, my shitty superior?”
He couldn’t understand you—he never could, right from the day you took your entrance exam. Dazai couldn’t predict how you thought. Perhaps, that’s what made you so exhilarating, like an honest breath of fresh air. He felt the anxiety ease in his chest; the embers stayed, glowing, ready to consume him. But your fingers held onto his shoulders so tightly and your eyes wouldn’t stray from his own no matter how red your cheeks had become.
Right now, he didn’t ask questions.
Slosh. He swayed his body forward, completely on instinct.
And stopped, right before your lips—letting you pull away, asking, begging. Dazai could feel how your breathing hitched so softly, coming out in puffs of air against his mouth.
"You do not want me." He said, and it almost shattered your naked heart. His eyes were hooded and heavy. "Do not be fooled; that person you saw, he is still with me. I am still him. Nothing can erase the stains on my soul."
Your hands moved from his shoulders to fist into the hair on his temples. "You are not that mirage. Your past does not define you, Osamu. I have seen all the good you have done for the Agency—that is not something a person incapable of change would do."
"Tell me to pull away." His lips were so close to yours, you could taste the bite of cigarette smoke. Liar. He told you he would quit. But perhaps addiction was all this was; making your mind eddy of all coherency and rationale.
Kiss me.
Kiss me until I can't breathe.
"Are you sure you want me to?" You challenged, the air charging. Hot. Electrifying. The type of surge you could feel when he caught you staring in the Agency offices, and didn't look away. "You are human, after all. What is that bullshit you always say?" His hands twitched, shoulders wound as tight as a bowstring. When you smiled, it was lopsided—a stupidly lovesick expression. "That humans are never really sure of themselves?"
His ochre eyes flickered across your face. He was trying to read you. You begged him for once, for once, to let you in. To peek through the fissures you could see so expertly and glimpse who he was at the—
Dazai surged forward, crashing his lips onto yours.
It was cataclysmic—he moved like he needed you, the bath water lapping up and over onto the tiles as you joined. His kiss was so sudden that you froze, gasping against his mouth, the air squeezing from your lungs. You felt his hands grasping for you, desperate, almost clawing. They gripped the small of your back just where you straddled him and pulled you so impossibly close.
Holy shit.
This was happening.
The match has been struck—and you both caught flame, burned, like two tragic, collapsing stars.
Dazai must have felt your spine snap taut at the intensity of his pursual. He had rushed you like a starving man, after all, gasping for that tiny morsel of air. He softened around you, letting you go just so, but still keeping you encircled around the waist. He had pinned you down like a hunter would a butterfly by her wings, afraid, terrified you'd flap and fly away.
Parting your mouths. Waiting. Eyes colliding, bodies swaying forward to kiss again. And again. There were so many things you both left unsaid—but that did not matter. Right now, Dazai felt as if he was as close to dying as he would ever feel, that if his lips were off of yours for more than a second, this reality would collapse in and unto itself.
“Miss [Name].” He rasped between breaths. Before completely stepping off the cliff. “Please, tell me to stop.”
You fisted your hand into the back of his hair—pulling so his head would crane to look at you. You were done denying this thing between you, it was too far gone. The both of you were too far gone, and you did not fucking care.
“For once, Osamu, shut your mouth.”
You came crashing down on-top of his infuriating little smirk.
Mouths and teeth clashed together, some parts a snarl, some parts a feral bark of relief. You moaned into the kiss, feeling a pool of heat punching desperately low in your gut. Especially when Dazai tilted his head, slipping his tongue shamelessly between your teeth and invading your mouth so delightfully. He lapped and kissed at you, intent to taste every single inch of you. You felt his hand cradling the back of your neck, rubbing soothing circles, easing the tension from your shoulders and making you melt into him.
Holy God, he was good at this. You didn’t have the time to wonder how many women he had taken to bed to learn all of his tricks—and you did not want to. Not now. Not when your naked core rubbed against his wet pants under the water.
He noticed your hips attempting to move. The water was sloshing and lapping with your ministrations. His hum was like honey across your skin, invading the cavern of your mouth and dancing down your spine. Fuck, you were so, so hot. You did not know if it was from the bath, or the steam, or the way every single nerve fibre ignited like a crackling firework. You were completely at his mercy. It was mortifying, really, how easily you bent your spine into him, how you keened.
Dazai seemed pleased by how soft you had become in his hand. Good girl, you wanted him to praise you, and almost slapped yourself for thinking something so depraved.
But then, he planted a firm grasp on the wet skin of your hip, guiding you to grind down against him. Hard. And all self-bereavement went flying out the window.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, you gasped, maybe you said it. Like your own lament before you sunk into death; yes, Osamu, yes, yes, oh my God—!
Teeth biting. Fingers digging, scratching, pulling each other so achingly close to relieve the months of agony you had put yourself through. You almost cried with pleasure when he raised his hips to meet your intensifying grinding, the stiff seam of his zipper hitting against your clit every single thrust.
“Osamu—fuck . . .” You snarled. There was a dreadfully playful look to his eyes; pupils blown wide as he watched you grind against him. “You—I—!”
“I think I remember you telling me to shut my mouth.” He purred, voice like treacle. He reached around with his other hand to grope at your slick breast—kneading, working you like a divine harp only he could play.
The bandages, the friction.
You were about to loose your fucking mind.
“Now, why would I deny such a pretty lady’s request?”
You hinged your mouth open when the coil in your belly tightened, tightened, pulled so taut you were very sure you were about to implode.
And just when you got there, tittering on the knife’s edge, did he slow his ministrations underneath you.
You could have bitten his gods damned fingers off.
Protests flew to the tip of your tongue—hot and caustic—but the words died when you felt a different kind of pressure there, instead. The hand on your hip has disappeared underneath the water and between your legs—massaging, thrumming, your clit so overly sensitive that you couldn’t really parse what he was doing, but just knew that it felt so damn good.
This man; he was going to be your undoing. You had signed your death warrant now, but you didn’t care.
His lips came to your ear—the air sending shivers down your spine when he whispered, “Tell me what you need, [Name]. My beautiful [Name]."
Oh, he was going to make you beg. You hated him. You would burn everything that attempted to take him away from you.
“I—ah—I need . . . !” He switched his pace, using his thumb to rub circles over your clit while his index slid against you, curling, teasing.
“Hmm?”
“Shit!”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s right.”
“Fuck you, Osamu.” You gasped. He increased the speed of his fingers. “Fuck you! I’ve always fucking needed you! Please, let me—!”
He snapped his fingers up into you, hot and hard. His hips canted, pressing you into all his sturdy lines—your nipples, your skin, all rubbing and grinding and his mouth was on yours again, and—
He bit down hard on your lip, and you saw white.
A spine-shattering orgasm ripped through your body. You bowed forward into him, and he held you close, breathing in all the sighs and shouts that tore from your throat for him. Broken, wounded versions of his name. You were so, so beautiful. He touched you like he would the petal of a flower but with enough force to never let you go. Dazai felt you tighten, fluttering around his long fingers so hard he knew how intense the orgasm had been. Then, you relaxed. Collapsing into him as if someone had cut your strings.
You breathed hot and heavy into your superior's neck. Into the damp bandages and soft curls of mahogany hair. There was foggy bliss for a moment. Nothing existed, nothing else mattered except the pulsing flutters of an orgasm settling all over your sweating skin. You felt like you were glowing with a fine layer of starlight, of pure, smouldering sparks.
A rock hit the bottom of your stomach when you came to—realising what had happened, who had happened. You straightened up to straddle your current superior—fuck, fuck, your mind started reeling, your breasts rising and falling rapidly when you realised you had walked right over the edge. The professional boundary was crossed. You would never go back, never return to just those heated looks across the Agency floor as co-workers, roommates, and nothing more.
You waited for the panic to come. The fumbling of your legs as you jolted out of the bathtub, never looking him in the eye again.
But it didn't.
Sharing a thousand unsaid confessions, you and Dazai stared at each other. It was the most disorientated you had ever seen your superior; his lips a little raw, eyes leaping with an untamed heat that you felt in your stomach. Breaths, in and out, in and out, a shared thing between you both. A secret. Some messy, dangerous formation of a promise.
Air caught in the back of your throat—and suddenly, it was laughter. Fucking hell, you were giggling. Like a damn schoolgirl. And it didn't stop. Tiny hikes and hitches of your laughs filled the bathroom air. You brought a hand up to cover your mouth, abashed.
You did not catch it—how could you, so caught up in what had happened and how mortified you would feel about it—but the sound of your peal of perfect giggles brought mirth to Dazai's dark eyes. You were sunshine, cradled here on his lap, covering your blushing cheeks with ashamed fingers. Always so bright, blinding, something he wanted to pocket in a small jar and keep on his nightstand.
He wanted you all for himself—he would stain you. He would eclipse the radiance that almost made it painful for him to touch you.
What an awful thing he was, then. A true rejection from humankind. He didn't care. Right now, he knew he'd corrupt you, and still, reached out to brush a strand of your wet hair behind an ear.
You peaked up at him, surprised. There was a warm expression softening all the lines of your superiors' face. It reminded you that he was still only a young man.
"You have such a beautiful laugh." Dazai said, his eyes unfocused. Elsewhere. "Have I ever told you about the first time I heard it?"
"No . . . " You answered. Curious as to where he was leading. "Humour me."
He chuckled. "Clever. It was during your first week, when we had all gathered to get to know you better after the Entrance Exam. Kunikida-kun had embarked on a lengthy explanation of what he expected from an ideal wife. All fifty eight points, I believe!" A pause, his lips curving impishly. "I remember how you allowed him to finish, listening with rapt attention—before completely laughing in his face."
The memory was distant now, months and months into the past. You remembered thinking how absurd the Idealist had sounded with his demands of a perfect woman that would have the honour of being his wife. Shock had winded you so bad that you have barked out laughing right in your new colleagues face only on your second day.
Dazai's expression beamed. "It was glorious, Miss [Name], to see how red his face became. I think that could have been the moment where I fell madly in love with you, you know?"
He was teasing you. But the words set off a riot of butterflies in your chest, regardless. A silly part of you wanted to immortalise his voice saying those words and play it over and over again, to listen it so much that the dangerous four letter word made little sense.
You smirked, pushing at him playfully. "Liar. You're just stingy because I never laughed at your stupid jokes."
"You were a serious nut to crack! I honestly thought you would hate me forever, for no reason! Ah, but I sliced through you valiantly, in the end. Who knew you had a soft spot for toilet humour?"
"That's because you made a poop joke while we were in the middle of a critical government meeting and Kunikida-san cracked his pen in two."
"You! Still! Laughed!"
"Whatever, idiot." You scoffed, rolling your eyes. The banter settled, fizzled into something pregnant. Golden and vulnerable.
" . . . Osamu." You corrected, voice so soft it was like the beat of a butterfly wing.
Dazai didn't bother to hide how he reacted to his name shaped from your mouth. It made him rear up with possessive pride. Osamu, spoken like an angel's song. Only for your voice. He had to manufacture up a reaction for how that made him feel, in the future. But right now, it was just you, and him. A man and a woman. A bathtub, suspended in time.
If only you could both stay here, basking in the innocence of this moment, forever.
He had indulged himself, perhaps too much.
It was time to step back into reality. He was good, however, at dressing it up in ribbons and bows.
"What's this?" Dazai looked behind you suddenly with a slack-jaw. He gasped, over-grandiose. "Is that a vessel coming our way? One which could crash into us if we don't dive now!"
Your eyebrows dipped. What—?
He was quick to suddenly grab your ankles and yank! until you were slid onto your back, splashing suds and soap all over the bathroom floor.
"You must go underwater, beautiful siren, or they'll see you!"
"Osamu!" Your arms shot out to brace yourself. You were laughing deeply because of how stupid he was being. "Hey, stop!"
The water sloshed about as he braced himself over you. He brought your faces close, his lashes long at this level and his voice a dark whisper. "I'll protect you, don't worry. They'll never see you~"
You pushed at his chest. "Get off of me, you big moron."
He gasped. "You'd push the man risking his life to save you? How cruel!"
"Not when the man is trying to drown me in his bathtub!"
"I'm doing no such thing!"
"You're so goddamn heavy I think you might!"
His eyes cast up. "Ah, Belladonna. Your beautiful voice has attracted them. Quick! Take me under the water while you dive. I'd gladly die a watery death with you."
You laughed again, high and stomach-aching, when he tried to bring you under the water, once more. Slapping your hands about and catching him in the face at one point. His bathroom surely was soaked by the end of it, and so was he. But you were laughing too hard to care and there was so much bath water in his hair he looked like a soaked puppy.
Perhaps it was a trick of the water when your ears became logged by the end, but you were very sure you heard the deep throng of his laughter, too.
The rare one you didn't hear a lot of the time.
His heart-shatteringly real laughter.
note: it was so fun to revisit this fic. it was a canon-divergent fic where reader became an armed detective agent and ended up living with dazai (because fuck company policy, i guess LMAO). jk atsushi took the last dorm so she was housing with her superior for a little while. i am a big fan of robert frost and his poetry, he became a character in part two of this fic series, but ofc he was a real author as is the bsd characters and his ability mountain interval is based on his collection of poems published in 1916. as described, he trapped the reader in a divergent life she could have lived if she didn't make that choice which changed the entire trajectory of her life (and Dazai's!). lmk if you guys would like to see more of this fic series or snippets of it. its v fun to see how much your writing evolves over the years and breathing life back into something u love so much !!
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