“would you die for me?” dazai asked suddenly as you floated together down the river. you’d taken a spontaneous trip away, just the two of you, and were observing a quaint little river twinkling under artificial lights when dazai fell in. of course, you had to jump in after him.
you hummed, water tickling the sides of your face as you drifted beside him. “better. i’d live for you.”
dazai went quiet. you didn’t trust yourself to look over at him without sinking, but you reached out and tangled your hand in his.
over the gentle rush of water, you heard his breath hitch.
“but,” you said, and there was a slight tease on the tip of your tongue. “when we’re both old and have experienced life to the fullest… perhaps some poison in wine would be a peaceful way to go. i’d even let you pick the type.”
in your peripheral, you watched as dazai let his head fall beneath the quiet current. you counted to five before tugging him back to the surface, listening to him sputter for a few seconds before giving his hand a squeeze. “you can’t get rid of me that easy, my love.”
“i suppose not,” he agreed easily, voice a bit scratchy from the water that trickled in through his nose. “a wine of nightshade berries does sound like an exquisite experiment.”
“it does,” you mused. “an exquisite, future experiment.”
dazai hummed, but he didn’t release your hand. “spending the next few years or so with you doesn’t sound too bad, either…”
your smile was quick and real and painful. it was easy to throw his words back at him. “i suppose not.”
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ft. dazai, ranpo, akutagawa, chuuya, nikolai + BONUS ATSUSHI!
to everyone who needed a comfort version :) @hiitsme12345 @strawberry784 @kazuubaby @veyeruss @blueyescape and the nonnie who requested this in my inbox <3 (if you interacted with my post verbally i tagged you i hope that's ok ^_^; + here's the pin i got the banner from)
dazai.
he’s tried to flirt with you before. actually, he flirts with you constantly—like a habit, like breathing. half of yokohama probably thinks you’re already dating.
but you never took him seriously. not really.
and he understands why. it’s his fault. he’s too much of a joke to be taken seriously. too many empty smiles, too many lazy pick-up lines. he’s made a name out of playing pretend.
so this time, he wants to do it differently. no dramatics. no fake suicide attempts, no over-the-top metaphors. just him. just honesty.
the rooftop is quiet. the sun’s dipping behind the city, casting shadows across the edge of the building. he leans against the railing beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours.
“you know,” he says, voice gentler than usual, “i think you’re the only person who’s ever made me want to stop playing around.”
you glance at him, lips quirking. “is this another one of your lines?”
he chuckles softly. “no. that’s the thing. it’s not.”
he pauses, gaze fixed on the sky. “i don’t expect you to believe me. i’ve made it pretty hard to take anything i say seriously. but… i think about you a lot. and not in the flirty, ridiculous way you probably think. i mean the quiet kind. the real kind.”
you blink, surprised. he’s not smiling. not like he usually does. his voice is steady, eyes focused, like for once, he’s showing you the version of himself no one gets to see.
“i know it doesn’t mean much, coming from someone like me,” he murmurs, “but i like you. properly. and if you’d give me the chance, i’d like to show you that i can be serious about you.”
your breath catches. he finally turns to face you, expression unreadable—but not guarded. not distant. for once, he’s not trying to be clever or charming. he’s just… trying.
you smile. really smile this time. and when you reach for his hand, he exhales, shaky.
“okay,” you say. “then show me.”
his hand tightens in yours like a vow.
ranpo.
he waits until the office is empty.
no one to interrupt. no one to tease. just you and him, sprawled on the agency couch, feet propped up, the remains of too many snack wrappers littering the table.
“hey,” he says, leaning sideways so his head lands on your shoulder. “so. big secret.”
you raise a brow. “yeah?”
he peeks up at you, eyes sparkling.
“i’m in love with you.”
you laugh, like he’s being silly. “that’s a bold way to start a joke.”
“who’s joking?” he says, grinning. “you’re smart and sweet and you always bring me strawberry gummies. i decided like a week ago. i love you.”
“ranpo,” you start.
“no takebacks!” he cuts in. “now it’s your turn.”
you pause.
“…my turn?”
he nods dramatically. “you’ve been staring at me like i’m your favorite puzzle. so come on. say it.”
you roll your eyes — but you’re smiling, cheeks flushed.
“fine. maybe i love you too.”
he beams. “knew it.”
and then he throws an empty candy wrapper in celebration.
akutagawa.
he thinks about you more than he should. that’s the first thing he realizes.
he doesn’t understand it, not fully. love has always been a concept that felt distant, messy, something he didn’t believe himself capable of. he’s sharp edges. he's violence in a coat and gloves. not the type to fall in love, and certainly not the type anyone falls in love with.
but you’re different. you talk to him like he isn’t a weapon. you listen even when he’s quiet. and worse—you smile at him. not out of fear, not out of pity, but real, warm, genuine.
it terrifies him.
so for a while, he stays silent. watches from the edges. offers you small things—tea when you’re tired, his scarf when it’s cold, walks you home when the sun sets too early. he doesn’t have the language for affection, but he does his best with what he knows.
his hands are shaking.
you don’t notice at first — it’s cold, and he’s always a little stiff in winter. but when he reaches into his coat and pulls out a folded letter, the tremble is unmistakable.
“…i wrote something,” he mutters, not meeting your gaze.
you take it, unfold it gently. the handwriting is stiff and neat. it smells faintly like ink and metal.
you read it.
twice.
it’s… him. awkward and formal and painfully sincere.
“i do not know how to express this well. but i want you to understand. i care for you in ways that are unfamiliar to me. i would like to be more than your friend, if you allow it.”
you look up at him — he’s still not looking at you.
“akutagawa,” you say softly. “you don’t have to write it down.”
he stiffens. “…i thought i would say it wrong.”
you tuck the letter close to your chest. “you said it perfectly.”
he finally meets your gaze.
and when you step closer, take his hand, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
chuuya.
chuuya’s always been a planner.
he doesn’t just wake up one morning and decide to confess—he thinks it through. overthinks it, really. you mean too much to him to mess it up.
so he makes sure the timing’s right. that you’re both free that evening. that the weather’s good, his shirt is steamed, and his hair is cooperating. he even goes to the nice florist two train stops away just to get the bouquet you always pause in front of.
he’s a little overdressed—navy coat, gold buttons, sleek slacks—but it’s all intentional. he wants to look good for you.
when he shows up at your door, flowers in hand and a nervous smile tugging at his lips, he clears his throat like it might steady his heart.
“i was wondering if you’d let me steal you for the night.”
you grin, teasing. “steal me? sounds criminal.”
“just dinner,” he laughs. “and maybe a few things i’ve been wanting to say.”
he takes you to your favorite place. gets a table by the window. even remembers how you like your food. he’s all charm and smiles—until dessert comes, and his fingers tap once against the table.
“alright,” he says, quieter now. “this might sound stupid, but…”
you look at him, waiting.
he reaches into his coat pocket and sets down a small velvet box. not a ring, not yet—but a necklace. gold. subtle. elegant.
“i like you,” he says, voice low but certain. “more than i probably should. and i know we joke around a lot, but i mean it. i think about you all the time. you’re always in my head. and i want—i want to be someone important to you.”
you go a little still.
“you don’t have to answer now,” he adds quickly. “i just… wanted you to know.”
you lean forward, resting your hand over his. his breath catches.
“you already are.”
chuuya’s eyes flick up. “what?”
“you’re already important to me,” you say, smiling. “i thought it was obvious.”
he lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—like relief.
“well,” he grins, cheeks warm. “i guess i worried for nothing.”
when he walks you home, he offers you his arm. you loop yours through it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the necklace stays in your hand the whole way back.
he’s still grinning when you kiss his cheek at your door.
nikolai.
you don’t know what to expect when he drags you through the empty carnival grounds at dusk, laughing wildly about a “grand surprise of cosmically romantic proportions!”
“there better not be pigeons,” you mutter.
“just one,” he grins, bouncing on his heels. “but he’s strictly here for moral support!”
the carnival’s closed. long empty. you’re about to ask how he even got in when he waves a glittery ticket stub in your face.
“it’s not trespassing if you bribe the gatekeeper with a bag of cotton candy and a song about love,” he says, then winks. “besides. it’s for a good cause.”
he tugs you past ghostly snack stands and darkened booths until you reach the carousel—paint chipped, horses frozen mid-gallop, the whole thing quiet and still.
“ta-da!” he flourishes an arm. “romance!”
you blink. “…you brought me to a haunted carousel.”
“correction,” he says, hopping up onto the platform and pulling you with him, “i brought you to the haunted carousel where i plan to confess my eternal love for you, complete with dramatic lighting and perhaps a confetti cannon.”
“perhaps?!”
he spins around one of the horses, hands flared wide. “now imagine—me, you, one slow rotation, the soft creaking of aged machinery, and then—” he twirls dramatically, catching your hand and dipping you like you're in a musical. “—i bare my soul.”
you laugh, cheeks warm. “is this your way of asking me out?”
he pauses. still holding you. still just a little too close.
“…yeah,” he says, softer. “it is.”
your breath catches.
he smiles. not wide and ridiculous, like usual. just a small thing. honest. there’s a flicker of nervousness in it. something a little too real.
“i know i joke a lot,” he says. “i know i’m too much. but i mean it. i’m not playing around with this.”
you stare at him, heart suddenly loud.
“…i like you, too,” you whisper. “you’re not too much. you’re just—you. and i kinda love that.”
his eyes widen.
then, in perfect nikolai fashion, he whoops loud enough to startle three birds from a tree and pulls you into the tightest spin-hug imaginable.
“YES! i KNEW the carousel would work!!”
you laugh into his chest, dizzy with him, with the moment.
he kisses your forehead, light and fleeting, before pulling you up onto the carousel horse beside him.
“ride of your life,” he promises, already reaching for the controls. “confetti cannon pending.”
atsushi.
he doesn’t have a plan. of course he doesn’t.
he tried to make one—really, he did. even wrote a list of all the things he could do to show you how he felt. but the truth is, atsushi is terrible at planning things when he’s nervous. and nothing makes him more nervous than you.
so you get a knock on your door at 7:43pm. he’s holding a paper bag and two cans of your favorite tea.
“…hi,” he says, sheepish. “i, um. didn’t cook. but i remembered you said you were too tired to make dinner, so…”
you let him in, and he fidgets while you open the bag. inside: takeout from your favorite place. nothing fancy. just exactly what you wanted.
you beam. “atsushi…”
“you deserve good things,” he says, then winces. “i mean—not that food is the only good thing, but—i wanted to make sure you ate. and that you know i care.”
he looks like he wants to disappear.
you walk up to him and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “you’re the sweetest person alive.”
he stares at you. like you just reset the universe.
“i… i am?” he stammers.
you smile. “you are.”
you spend the night on the floor, cross-legged, sharing food and watching old cartoons. atsushi’s shoulders slowly relax. he laughs more. he leans against you once, shyly—and doesn’t move away when you lean back.
eventually, you glance at him, gentle. “you’re always doing nice things for me. why?”
he fidgets with the hem of his sleeve.
“because i like you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “a lot.”
you blink. “you… like me?”
he nods, cheeks flushed. “i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. i just—I wanted you to know.”
you set down your drink. reach for his hand.
“atsushi,” you say, “you make me feel safe. happy. seen. how could i not like you?”
he blinks once. twice. and then—like sunlight breaking through clouds—he smiles. full and soft.
“…really?”
you nod. and this time, he’s the one who leans in first.
a/n my nikolai part was kinda ooc at the end but erm that's ok 😓 and YAYAYAY ATSUSHI i love writing for him. he's only in this version because i'd never dare friendzone him my love augh
Guys this is long omg holy characterization? or nah?
Nsfw Alphabet template from @the-coldest-goodbye
My works: enjoy
Bye now - Mars ♡
Aftercare - What they're like after sex
Depends on if you're someone he loves or just a quick fuck
Quick fuck - he'll roll over and clean you up, maybe share a cigarette, stay in bed together both of you staring at the ceiling and when you fall asleep he'll leave
In love - clingy. So clingy, oh my god! Wants to crawl into your skin because the emotions he feels are so overwhelming and he can't express that like a normal person.
Will still clean you up but will want to stay buried inside you, he wants to cuddle and talk about the sex, his performance, what you enjoyed and what you didn't, what he can do better etc.
Wants to be the little spoon, actually falls asleep with his face buried against your chest, the tiddies keep the nightmares at bay
Body Part - their favourite body part on themselves and their partner
Himself - definitely his hands or mouth. He loves the anatomy of his hands, on the flip side, he also likes his mouth because he loves how he can sweet talk himself out of or into most people and/or situations. Regarding a partner, he loves his hands and mouth simply because of how much he can make his partner come undone with them
On his partner - I see Osamu as a boobs guy, don't get me wrong he loves all of you, but I can definitely see him having a boobies fixation. Obviously for the sexual stuff duhz, of course he's gonna fuck your boobs, suck them until they're oversensitive, but more so for the ease it brings him. He's stressed out? Hands are reaching for your chest, that's his stress balls now. He wants to block out the world? Face is buried between them as he clings to you and pout until you stroke his hair and he falls asleep
Cum - Anything cum related
At first he cums outside most of the time, he doesn't want to accidentally get someone pregnant. Comes on the nearest place, so if you're doing doggy he comes on your ass, if missionary he comes on your tummy, if you're giving him head he likes coming on your face. It's just something so satisfying seeing his cum on your face, he likes smearing it across your cheek and making you suck his fingers to clean him up. If his partner is someone who cannot get pregnant he's cumming inside. If he's the one getting penetrated, he would want his partner to come inside him.
Dirty Secret - A dirty secret they would have
Not a secret in his defense because if you asked he'd just tell you, but he stole your panties when you two first started dating, and every time he came over he'd return them and steal another dirty pair.
Also I don’t know if this would be considered a dirty secret but I'll include it anyway, he subtly trains you to look forward to his calls/ texts or visits. During your talking stage, if there is one, he would text you at a specific time everyday and overtime you find yourself looking forward to it. He won't tell you but he did it intentionally.
Experience - How experienced are they?
Very experienced, he's canonically a womanizer which implies he's experienced. He knows what he's doing and also he's good with anatomy so knows his way around the human body. Used to sleep around a lot, used women for sex and to bury, literally, his problems if only temporarily. If he's committed I can see him as someone being extremely loyal to his partner. Final verdict - experienced and his partner reaps all the benefits of that
Favourite Position - What's their favourite position during sex
Lotus or Chairman.
For lotus, he just loves the intimacy of it, he loves looking up at you and also being able to suck your boobs. Definitely buries his face into your neck and moans. When he comes he bites down on your shoulder. He loves talking you through it whilst holding deep eye contact, the type to hug you close as you grind down onto him
For chairman, he insists on doing it in front of the mirror. Loves making you watch yourself as he makes you come over and over again. If his partner struggles with body issues, he doesn't let you come until you praise yourself. Will rest his chin on your shoulder and toy with your clit until your legs are shaking and your head is thrown back over his shoulder. You definitely squirt and ruin the mirror
Goofy - Are they more serious or humorous in the moment
It definitely depends on the mood, but obviously for the most part Osamu is a goofball even if it is a mask. I genuinely see him cracking jokes during sexy time, he wants to set a chill and comfortable vibe. If the mood is more intimate then I can see him being serious and taking his time in loving you. If you wanna crack jokes, he's reciprocating that energy and a bonus is you squeeze him tighter when you laugh so double win!
Hair - How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?
The carpet matches the drapes. As for being well groomed it depends. He has periods of letting it grow wild, when he's in a particularly cruel depressive slump but if he's planning to hook up with people he definitely makes an effort to trim it
If he's with a partner, he asks them to shave him and he returns the favor if they so please. If you do want him to shave you, he's messing around and letting his artistic side out. Definitely shaves funny shapes into your bush before trimming/ shaving you
If his partner is someone who waxes, he lets you wax him. More for the pain aspect than the grooming aspect but you don't need to know that.
Hair doesn't bother him, not on himself or his partner, he just like switching it up sometimes
Intimacy - How are they during the moment, the romantic aspect?
Can be romantic, but can be goofy. If you want a slow sensual love making session and express that to him, he does make the effort. Goes all out, rose petals, candles, lingerie, he lives to please
Makes you hold eye contact with him whilst you wreck him, if you look away he slows down or stops completely.
Jackoff - Masturbation
He is hypersexual, it's a coping mechanism from having to use his body for his advantage during his mafia days. Gets period where he doesn't have sex, touch himself, or his partner - it can last for weeks
On the flip side, has a fiend side where he can fuck his fist until his cock is raw
Keeps photos of his partner for when they're not around, steals their dirty panties/ boxer for when he masturbates later.
Either he masturbated everyday, multiple times a day or not for weeks
Kinks - Some kinks they may have, I'm gonna shamelessly plug my kinktober Dazai fics haha (in no particular order)
Choking - he loves choking you when he's fucking your throat, but he also loves you choking him. He likes receiving it more than giving, satisfies his self harm tendencies
Cum Eating - I fully believe that if he was in love he would be disgusting with it. Yes, he wants to eat your cum. Yes, he wants to come inside you and then eat the mixture of his and yours come oozing out of you. Yes, he wants to cum inside your ass and lick it clean.
Boob Job - he just loves sliding his cock between your boobs and fucking them until he cums on your boobies.
Exhibitionist - the idea of getting caught gets him going. Not only does it fuel the possessive side of him that wants everyone to see that you belong to him, but the way you cling to him and urge him to go faster whilst simultaneously milking his cum? He loves every minute of it.
Impact Play - ties into his self harm tendencies but he gets pleasure from certain impact plays. Will be thrilled to do the same to his partner but he always ends up going easy on them, he never wants to hurt you even if you give consent for it
Foot Fetish - if he's feeling especially sadistic he will make you grind your cunt on his foot and control your orgasms. If you come without his permission? He's punishing you either by pussy slapping, overstimulation, or edging
Blindfold - not so much for the actual blindfolding but more so of the fact that you trust him enough. He also loves letting you blindfold him and ride him until he's crying and wetting the silk blindfold
Filming - he needs masturbation material, but also being able to watch back and see how you both lose yourself in each other in such an animalistic frenzy, makes him feel oddly human.
Free Use - again it's more so the fact that you trust him so much to allow him this privilege rather than the action itself. Only allows himself to be free use to you if he loves you, if you're a fling he's not giving you that power but if you offer him? He's not saying no.
Edging - uses it as a punishment most days but genuinely enjoys watching you cry and beg for him to let you come. You're crying for him? His cock? You love him that much? He's delulu jkjk
Also loves edging himself either during sex or masturbation
Overstimulation - Lets you ride him until both of you are slumped against each other and still grinding, having to can't get enough of each other
Voyeurism - oh he loves this! He makes you touch yourself for his sick pleasure. If his partner is a virgin, he makes them touch themselves, makes them show him how they masturbates. Can definitely see him whispering "You need to stretch yourself open for me, Bella"
Orgasm Control - lovessss being the one who tells you when to come, when not to come. Equally gets rock hard when you put a chastity cage on him and send him to work. Loves that shit
Biting - the idea of wanting him enough to claim him via love bites and hickeys gets him going. He is a possessive bastard who loves biting you. Bites your ass cheek, your boobs, your neck, your ear, once bit your clit and earned himself a smack in the head
CBT - Cock and Ball Torture, this man loves when you cage his cock and balls, loves when you twist and turn it in ways that's so pleasurable it turns into pain
I could go on with his kinks but this is already so fucking long omg only for Osamu
Location - Favourite places to do it?
Bedroom - He feels most safe and comfortable here, honestly anywhere in your apartment really
Club/bar bathrooms - Turns it into a competition to see if he can make you moan and scream louder than the music
Agency Bathroom - It's sneaky and thrilling and he loves the nasty looks Ranpo gives him after
Agency Closet - You just squeeze him tighter when you think Kunikida is gonna find you
Cinema - Osamu is super smart and he can predict most movies so it's boring but he indulges in you by fucking you in the theaters.
Motivation - What turns them on, gets them going?
Seeing you. You breathing. You. You. You.
No seriously, he loves when you sass him, lives for banter, it turns him on so much
Watching you stand up for him gets him rock hard
Outsmarting him turns him on to no end
Physically, it would be you lounging around in his clothes, it just does something to his poor cock
When you two cuddle and you push back against him or hump him from behind, he lives for that shit
Someone who matches his freak gets him incredibly turned on
No - Something they wouldn't do, turn offs
Blood play is something I see him drawing a line at. He doesn't want to see you and blood together, he can't fathom the idea of losing you and that materializes with paranoia so blood play is a no no
Degrading, I can't see him doing this, yes he would playfully degrade his partner but it's nothing too intense. Yeah, he'll call you a dirty slut but never will he call you worthless or pathetic or such. Nor would he want to be degraded, his brain is already mean to him he doesn't want the person he loves doubling down on that
Cucking, he is a possessive man, I can't see him open to watching someone fuck the person he loves
Threesome, he is greedy and wouldn't want to share you with anyone else
Oral - Preference in giving or receiving
He prefers giving, loves to please and loves to be praised for it. Also I can see him as a lovesick fool who wants to do everything to make his partner's life easier. Hard day at work? Lay down babe, let me take your mind off it. Walking home? He pulls you into a dark alleyway and drops to his knees and buries his face into your cunt, lifting your leg over his shoulder. Eating you out is his favourite oral play
He does like receiving head, he enjoys fucking your face and throat but he would choose to eat you out over receiving head
Pace - Are they fast and rough or slow and sensual
Osamu can do both and he wants what you want. If he had a bad day, he wants nothing more than to pin you down and fuck you like a wild animal. Equally sometimes he just wants to kiss every inch of your body and sink inch after inch slowly into you, prolonging the sex for as long as possible
Quickie - Their opinion on quickies and how often
He loves a good quickie. Every time he tries to beat his score. He made you come in under ten minutes last time? This time he's gonna make you come in under five! Loves doing it during working hours, in the mornings, before a mission, he loves quickies. It's fun, and he enjoys the rush of feeling accomplished in making you come so quickly. Gets his heart pumping and he loves it
Risk - Are they game to experiment? Do they take risk?
Yes! He lovess experimenting, especially with a partner on the inexperienced end, he loves opening their world view and showing them all the wild and wicked ways he can ruin them. He will take a risk from time to time when he wants to spice things up but if there's even a tiny possibility of his partner getting hurt he shuts it down asap.
Stamina - How many rounds can they go for and how long
He has phases. On one hand he can go for hours on end for multiple rounds and still want more until you both are on the verge of passing out
On average, every day life he can last three to four rounds for multiple hours.
Toys - Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves
He has a collection and a discount code at the local sex shop. Loves using toys on himself and his partner. If he's not living with his partner, he sends them home with new toys for them to try out and then makes them tell him in detail how that experience was. If one of you buys a new toy, he makes you sit down and talks you through using that toy on yourself
Uses toys during sex for maximum pleasure
Unfair - How much they like to tease.
It's Osamu, I don't think I need to say much for this. He LOVES to tease. He loves to tease you until you're mad and drag him home and ride him until he's crying. Gets hard teasing and riling you up. If you work together, rip my friend. This man will torture you with ghost touches and filthy whispers against your ears during the most inconvenient of times. In an important meeting? He's playing footsies with you under the table. Makes you wear a vibrator that he can control from his phone and turns it all the way up when it's your turn to speak in the meeting.
Yeah safe to say, Ranpo is giving you a both nasty side eye, also makes you buy him candy for him to shut his mouth
Volume - How loud are they, what sounds do they make?
He moans like a fucking slut. High pitched and whiny to tease you but when he gets close it turns into deep groans and grunts. Whimpers out your name needily when you overstimulate him. By himself, he’s more quiet, moaning into your dirty panties/boxer
Wild Card - A random headcanon for the character
Wants to send the videos of him making you cum to all your failed relationship, won’t do it but fantasize about it
X-Ray - What’s going on under those clothes
A shower, a solid 5.5 inches, 7 inches when erect, pale with a flushed pink bulbous tip. Is HUNG, it’s always the skinny men I swear. Has veins running along the underside of his cock. His tip, the slit, is the most sensitive part of him.
Yearning - How high is their sex drive
He has moods, as I’ve stressed during this entire long rant about him lol, his sex drive is high normally unless he gets into a depressive slump and doesn’t touch himself or you for weeks on end
Zzz - How quickly they fall asleep after
He will clean you both up before snuggling up against you. Always waits until you fall asleep first before he attempts to sleep. Sleep never comes naturally to him but being pressed up against you always helps.
synopsis.: being the only one who truly understands dazai practically guarantees he’s doomed to love you and vice versa ♡ og req here
pairing.: dazai osamu x gn!reader
cw.: sfw, no established relationship, fluff, confession, perhaps a more feminine reader but overall it’s gender neutral, kinda bittersweet, very introspective, reader is extremely similar to dazai
wc.: 2.1k
۶ৎ note.: i strongly urge you to go read the original request to understand what this fanfiction is about, but of course you don’t have to! i think it’s quite clear even without reading it, but just in case you want some extra clarity (see what i did there? i am so funny, i know) also, i am actually quite proud of how this turned out :) i hope you guys like it
you are used to it by now. his constant flirting, i mean. perhaps a little too used to it.
you remember the day dazai first approached you. mindlessly complimenting you. it was right after his entrance exam, when he first started working with the agency.
for some reason, you stood out to him then—and still do. of course, you were skeptical at first, like everyone else. after all, a man wrapped in bandages who seemed to have never existed before the age of twenty is… unusual, to say the least.
yet you never questioned his motives. never made him feel any less worthy, despite knowing nothing of his past. dazai appreciated that, but at the time, he couldn’t decide if you were simply naive for trusting him so easily or if you had figured him out from the start.
even today, he still has no clue how someone could ever understand him.
but you somehow do. and that unsettles him. so much that he actually has to pause when he talks to you sometimes, to keep him from spilling every dark secret or morbid thought that consumes his filthy mind.
and while he knows his charm has zero effect on you, it’s easier for him to talk to you like that—focusing on making you blush instead of giving you even the smallest chance to read him. even if he can’t help but rely on your understanding every so often. though he would never admit that.
dazai leans against your desk this afternoon with deliberate casualness, his sleeves pushed back as usual and allowing you to gaze at the bandages peeking from underneath.
sunlight filters through the tall windows of the agency, small flakes of dust visible, floating above the paperwork and half-finished reports.
you are reviewing and correcting a file, your posture relaxed but attentive, brows faintly drawn in concentration.
“you know,” he muses after a moment, voice light with idle curiosity, “most people become flustered when they realize someone is flirting with them.”
your pen keeps moving across the page, the sound deliberately drowning him out, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.
“it’s quite impressive, actually,” he adds, watching you rather than the report in your hands and letting the words hang in the air, “that you can ignore it so calmly.”
you still do not look up, but for half a second, your pen wavers. just a fraction. then it continues again, steadier than before.
“i’m simply choosing not to encourage bad habits,” you reply evenly.
dazai smiles. of course you would say something like that.
most people react to his flirting predictably. they laugh, grow flustered, sometimes encourage it without realizing they are doing so. it is easy to navigate those reactions, easy to steer them wherever he pleases.
but you simply… decline the premise. he rarely gets rejected, although he isn’t sure if you’re really rejecting him. your words and actions are just as mystifying as his own.
truthfully, it would be easier if you just mocked him outright. at least then he would nervously laugh it off and retreat behind the usual dramatic theatrics.
instead, you treat his advances like a puzzle you have already solved—interesting once, but hardly worth solving again.
you’re making it hard for him to know if you actually despise him, even though from another perspective it might look like you do.
but simple-minded people don’t know you like he does. they don’t realize how much thought you put into each word that leaves your mouth.
so he keeps trying anyway, not sure what he’s hoping for.
“bad habits? so you see my affection for you as a nuisance rather than something that could blossom into something beautiful?” dazai says, speaking in riddles and allegories once again. “where has your sense of romance gone?”
you turn another page in your report. “if it were genuine affection,” you say calmly, “you wouldn’t hide it behind a joke.”
the answer lands more precisely than you likely intended, and for a brief moment, dazai’s smile thins.
ah.
so that’s how it is.
you aren’t oblivious to his advances, and you certainly aren’t immune to them. you’re ignoring them on purpose. you’re waiting. waiting for something that dazai knows he struggles with the most: being honest about his feelings.
the realization settles somewhere beneath his ribs with a heavy weight.
of course you would want something direct. you of all people would never accept half-truths wrapped in humor or laced with innuendo. unfortunately, that was exactly the kind of thing dazai osamu specializes in.
his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he pushes himself away from the desk with an easy stretch.
“ah well,” he says lightly, hands slipping back into his pockets. “perhaps i’ll improve my habits someday.”
you hum in vague acknowledgment, already absorbed in your work again. however, you can’t help but follow him with your gaze once he starts walking away from you. the distance feels wrong and a pang of guilt washes over you.
later, the office hums with its usual rhythm, paperwork being shuffled around, kunikida lecturing a familiar brunette, and ranpo’s candy wrappers flying around.
the floorboards creak as someone moves between the desks, and atsushi suddenly appears beside you, holding a report that he very clearly needs help with.
from near the window, where kunikida is currently pulling on dazai’s collar and berating him over something trivial once again, he can see it clearly—the soft look in your eyes at atsushi’s clumsiness and his nervous yet stupidly gentle demeanor.
he isn’t sure why you always carry this look whenever you interact with atsushi. it’s tender, warm, filled with an almost endless patience. he wonders what it would take for you to look at him like this, just once. the thought lingers longer than he’d like it to.
but then again, how could you? dazai is nothing like atsushi. he doesn't possess that same gentleness, and he certainly has no desire to pretend he does. after all, what use would your love be if it’s directed at a persona he copies instead of his true self?
what even is his true self? that’s something not even dazai himself can answer properly and neither can you. not really, at least. he fears nobody can.
from time to time he wonders if you can see through his carefully crafted façade and decode the thoughts he tries so hard to hide. he has a hunch you can, though only sometimes.
those rare moments are the closest anyone has ever come to understanding him. so he can’t help but want to keep you close, desperately hoping you might help him understand himself a little better.
and perhaps that’s absolutely, disgustingly selfish of him. and perhaps it’s not true love. he’s not sure he’s ever felt true love before, for god’s sake. but from what he knows, you seem to be giving him a feeling uncannily close to it.
so he doesn’t care if he’s selfish for craving your existence every second of the day.
once atsushi returns to his desk, you focus on your own work again. you can practically feel dazai’s gaze lingering on you.
and while you know he definitely has a soft spot for you, you don’t want to risk getting vulnerable with him, not when you don’t know how deep it truly goes.
however, it is quite amusing knowing he feels just a tiny surge of jealousy.
you know dazai isn’t jealous in the sharp, possessive sense that would cause him to intervene, but you hope it at least makes him think about his feelings for you.
because at the end of the day, you’re ready and only waiting for him to be ready too.
the night shift drapes the agency in a different atmosphere altogether. the city outside is reduced to distant traffic and a muted glow, the windows reflecting more interior than exterior now. the overhead lights are dimmed, casting the office in a warm shade of amber.
you look over only to see dazai lying on the couch, a book open in his hands. he hasn’t turned the page in several minutes. you two are the only ones left in the office.
“you’re being awfully quiet,” you say, stopping just a few steps in front of him.
eventually dazai lowers the book covering his face, but he doesn't look up immediately. “why, do you miss being blessed by my oh so delightful voice?” he muses, sitting up straight.
seeing that his poor attempt at a joke doesn’t get a reaction out of you, he exhales faintly, the breath almost sounding like a laugh. he pats the spot next to him, gesturing for you to sit down beside him.
the cushioning of the couch dips slightly once you sit down, and for a moment neither of you speak. the air feels heavier all of a sudden, the urge to fill the silence growing stronger with each second that passes.
you turn your upper body toward him, only to catch him looking at you already. the way he studies you so carefully steals your breath away, and for just a split second dazai earns the privilege of witnessing your soft gaze.
though it disappears quickly, as if you’re reserving that look for someone else. someone that’s not quite him.
“you know, they say the eyes are the window to the soul,” dazai begins, a fragile smile adorning his lips as he brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear.
“your soul is the prettiest i’ve ever seen. but i wonder—what do i have to do, so that i can always admire it instead of you only allowing me glimpses of it?” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.
you lean into his touch without meaning to, furrowing your brows in frustration at his words. they are confusing, a tangled mess hard to decipher. it’s irritating you.
but before you can say anything else, dazai lets out a knowing chuckle. he knows what you want; he just loves teasing you too much to give it to you so easily.
“what i mean to say is… i love you, bella,” dazai says, his words simple and unadorned. “i love you.” a truth spoken out loud and directly for the first time ever since you've known each other.
you stare at him, searching his gaze for anything—anything that could stir a hint of uncertainty within you, but there is no mischief, no doubt. only something frighteningly sincere.
your heart begins to flutter and you exhale shakily, releasing a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. the tension in your muscles slowly fades, and your whole body suddenly feels light.
relief settles over you as you give him a warm smile. “i love you too, dazai,” you say, covering his hand that has moved to cup your cheek with your own.
“i almost thought you’d never say it,” you add in a lighthearted tone, letting out a small laugh. but dazai doesn’t laugh along with you. instead he remains silent, his smile faltering just a little.
“i thought i didn’t deserve you or your love. i still think i don’t deserve any of it. especially not when there are people who can offer you something far less complicated,” he says, his voice low but steady.
your brows draw together and you gently take his hand in yours, squeezing it reassuringly. “who says i want less complicated?” you say, pausing briefly.
it’s true, dazai is a complicated person and you’re certain this isn’t going to be easy with him. but then again, you’re complicated, too. you’ve made terrible mistakes, too. you’re tainted for life, too. yet dazai still finds beauty within your tarnished being.
“no one’s perfect, dazai. myself included. if i were, my heart probably wouldn’t ache for you,” you whisper softly, leaning in to wrap your arms around him and draw him in for a hug.
“i love you. no matter how much you think you don’t deserve any of this, i think you do and nothing is going to change that. so let’s just… cherish whatever this is between us.” your lips occasionally graze the tender skin of his neck as you bury your face in it, simply relishing in his embrace.
you hear dazai swallow thickly, and he reluctantly returns the hug, resting his chin atop your head. your comforting warmth seeps through his clothes and the bandages that cling to his skin. it calms his racing mind, especially paired with your soothing scent.
“of course, you’re right,” dazai whispers, wondering how long this relationship will last. he hopes it lasts forever, until both of your grounding heartbeats grow eerily still. but that’s probably just wishful thinking. maybe. who knows?
note.: PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU CHANGE YOUR USERNAME, I WAS HELLA CONFUSED omg (｡ŏ﹏ŏ)
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they get jealous over the reader talking to another guy. Last time you said you pick ur main three characters, soo them again with maybe chuuya as well 😼
Better than him !
Characters: Dazai Osamu, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Nikolai Gogol, Chuuya Nakahara.
we need more dazai osamu being an awkward mess ... ♡ — dazai x gn!reader
⠀⠀⠀⠀how odd ...
⠀⠀⠀⠀the port mafia didn't leave room for the weak. he knew that better than anyone. as the boss' right hand man, he knew he was one of the smarter kids his age. he'd toughed out much harder battles, than this, strategised through far worse.
⠀⠀⠀⠀and yet, he was brought to his wits end by a very, very common problem ... his crush was in tears.
⠀⠀⠀⠀ you, in your teary state, were sitting on a park bench beside him, sobbing as you curled up into yourself. you barely reached his nose (he liked to say he couldn't see you, he definitely could. too much., actually. he couldn't take his eyes off you). and the only word he could think of to describe you was ... cute. for the first time in his short life, he's felt an inexplicable urge to cling to someone, despite everything. he knew you'd be torn away from him the minute he got to close, the second he got complacent but even then, he couldn't help be drawn closer each time he sees you.
⠀⠀⠀“im sorry you had to see this,” you mumbled. you were crying over an argument. “i was hoping to wait a while before i cried, but ... i couldn't help it. im so sorry.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀at the moment, you face was red from crying, nose especially so from all the tissues, eyes were bright with tears. the only sound between you was the soft noise of sniffling and the eventual tears that flowed back. it felt pathetic, how little he could think of to say at the moment.
⠀⠀⠀⠀he could feel his hands twitching at their sides, itching to be doing something, he wasn't entirely sure what. he'd never recieved any form of comfort. he lived in a shipping container for god's sake and the only visitors he had there were stray cats in the dock looking for fish. when he was sad, he'd merely pet them. they'd all gotten familiar with him after a point, and they purred like engines when he gave them any attention. he vaguely remembered that petting stray cats calmed them down so ....
⠀⠀⠀⠀before he could even think twice, his hand was right on your head, gliding through your hair, where it stayed, drifting through your locks.
⠀⠀⠀⠀“wh–what?” he looked up from the strands of hair. she seemed to be looking at his hand ... “what are you doing, ‘ai?”
⠀⠀⠀⠀ oh. oh god.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it was only now that he noticed that he was practically petting you like a cat ...
⠀⠀⠀he pulled his hand back into his lap as fast as possible, as if he's been caught stealing. he seemed to be trying to play it off with a distant expression. it wasn't working too well, however. his ears were far too red to be fooling anyone.
⠀⠀⠀“sorry,“ he replied curtly. “i thought it would help.“ he was picking at his nails as he did.
⠀⠀⠀a moment of painfully awkward silence hung over the two of you as dazai looked away in pure embarrassment and you looked back with confusion.
⠀⠀⠀next thing he knew, you'd had grabbed his hand again, placing it on your head, right where he previously had.
“It’s pathetic how much you’re trying to cling to control,” voice low, your fingers hover over the buttons of his shirt. “Especially when you keep crawling back to me every goddamn time.”
Your gaze slices through the unsheathed bravado, zeroing in on the way Dazai’s breath hitches, that fleeting crack in his confident mask—enough to send a shiver of triumph through you. Shifting in his lap, you hold him in place, and momentarily, his eyes flash, a tell that would go unnoticed by anyone else, but you catch it. He’s slipping, unraveling under the weight of your presence, and you haven’t even begun to dig in.
One by one, you undo his buttons, savoring the deliberate slowness, relishing the burn of discomfort that begins to cling to the air around you. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles pale, but you know—oh, you know—that this facade of restraint is nothing but a thin veil stretched too tightly over something far more volatile. You’re pushing him, probing the limits of his composure, searching for the breaking point where he shatters into something unrecognizable.
“You know I’m right,” your lips brush his ear, warm breath hitching in the space between you. His eyes flutter shut, a futile attempt to block out the heat pooling in his stomach, the magnetic pull he can’t escape. Yet, the evidence is there; muscles tighten beneath your touch, every feather-light caress igniting something primal within him. He wants this, wants you—each moment a descent into madness and desire.
With tantalizing slowness, your hands drift down his chest, fingers grazing the taut skin of his abdomen. Dazai shudders in response, a sharp intake of breath escaping his parted lips as he remains ensnared. Doing so, he allows you to peel away the layers of his defenses, one agonizing inch at a time. And, heavens, he needs you to.
When silence reigns, you dig your fingers into the flesh of his waist. It sends a jolt of heat through him, and rather than recoiling, he leans into it, breath hitching and back arching, desperate. Every inch of him seems to scream for more, yet you hold him there—caught in a tormenting limbo between fierce control and reckless surrender. He wouldn’t fight it. Couldn’t.
Pathetic.
The shirt falls open, and you take a moment to truly see him. Rapid breaths dance in concert with the frantic rhythm of his heart, skin flushed with a heady mix of frustration and something darker, deeper. You pull him closer, inch by inch, and he is letting you. Naturally.
With him, it’s always been the same. Out there, he’s a viper, a reaper, the ice-cold mafia executive everyone fears. But with you? He’s nothing but a mess, ready to get wrecked by the same power he held over others. He never stays long, never talks much—too consumed by his unapologetic needs.
But he always returns.
“You hate this,” you say, voice a whisper but charged with a devastating clarity. “You hate that you need this. That you need me.”
Dazai’s jaw clenches, a silent protest etched on his face before his dark eyes lock onto yours—searching, undone, half-lidded. “You sure do talk a lot.”
Yet, despite his foolishness, the truth, raw and wounding, is this: Dazai does hate it. But not in the way he wants you to believe. He hates that he can’t stop wanting this, wanting you, wanting the sweet release of surrender. He aches for it in a way he can’t express, in a way he’s never allowed himself to feel. Years of cold stone walls, the need for control, and yet they suffocate him, a noose tightening around his throat, while the thought of letting go shatters him anew.
You lean in closer then, tracing the edge of his belted waistband, the final barrier between you and the truth beneath. He doesn’t stop you. No fight left, only an acquiescence that settles heavy in the air. What resides here is undefined, a feral dance of power and submission, untamed and dangerous.
After unbuckling his belt, your eyes never leaving his, your fingers slip beneath his pants. Dazai gasps as he feels your fingers brush against his sensitive skin, the touch tentative yet purposeful, igniting a storm within him. He’s lost, and he knows it—his grip on those carefully crafted emotions fading like whispers in a tempest. You’re unraveling him, thread by thread, and he can do nothing but surrender, over and over again.
“Your body’s betraying your wicked mind, dear,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “Stop holding onto your selfish dreams.”
In response to your words and tightening grip, his hips lift subtly to meet your hand, the soundly inhale that escapes like a confession, the way his chest trembles with each shallow breath. It’s instinctive, a primal response that overrides the sharp precision of his mind, leaving nothing but raw need in its wake. He doesn’t just crave this—he starves for it, the hunger etched into the taut lines of his frame, his skin burning beneath your fingertips like kindling ready to ignite. Every nerve is alight, every inch of him unraveling under your deliberate torment, each brush of your hand pulling him deeper into a haze of helpless desire.
He falters further, a low, guttural sound slipping past his lips as his head tilts back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. His body answers you without hesitation, chasing every flicker of heat, every promise of release. The tension he carried like armor moments ago melts into something molten, spilling into the cracks of his carefully constructed facade. There’s poetry in his surrender, the way his body bows to you as if your touch were both a command and a sanctuary. He is undone, not just by touch but by the cruel truth in your gaze—the knowledge that you hold all the power he swore never to relinquish.
And still, he aches for it, again and again, day by day, for you, for the ruin you carve into him with every devastating touch.
The room throbs with heat, heavy with the remnants of desire and tension. The sheets cling to your damp skin, barely draping over the curve of your hip, yet even that scant barrier feels unbearable to him. Chuuya’s arm tightens around your waist, his hand sprawled possessively across your stomach, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His lips—swollen and red from what just transpired—trail soft kisses along the curve of your neck, each lingering touch a silent claim that mirrors the grip of his fingers.
His mind flickers back, replaying moments etched into the haze of passion. The way his hands roamed over your body, desperate to map every inch of you. His gloves abandoned long ago, he’d let his bare hands glide over the smooth expanse of your back, tracing the delicate dips and curves of your form. Rough yet reverent, his touch had left a trail of yearning in its wake. Even now, the memory only sharpens his hunger.
Desire courses through him, a need far from sated. He has touched, kissed, claimed—but it isn’t enough. It never is. Every soft sound you make, every shiver beneath his fingertips, only deepens the craving that burns within him. He wants more. He needs more.
When you shift, muscles tensing as if preparing to rise, his grip tightens instinctively.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, his gravelly voice sending a tremor down your spine.
You freeze, glancing over your shoulder. His crimson hair is a wild mess, damp strands clinging to his forehead. His blue eyes, usually sharp and calculating, smolder darkly, heavy-lidded and brimming with something raw and unfiltered. In this moment, he looks utterly wrecked—and yet entirely unyielding.
“Chuuya, I need to—”
“You don’t need to do anything,” he interrupts, his tone low, dangerous. His hand slides lower, brushing against your hip, igniting a pulse of heat beneath your skin. “Stay.”
The other hand presses against your stomach, grounding you, pulling you closer. His lips graze your shoulder, trailing down to the sensitive spot where your neck meets your collarbone, plunging you into a sea of sensation.
“This isn’t—” you begin, but your words falter as his teeth scrape lightly against your skin, followed by the warm glide of his tongue.
“I know exactly what this is.” Voice thick with desperate urgency, he adds “And I don’t care. You’re not leaving.”
Your breath hitches as his lips find the pulse in your neck, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. He doesn’t relent, kisses turning into nips, his teeth grazing your skin like he’s intent on branding you, ensuring you’ll remember this.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper, though your voice trembles, unconvincing beneath the weight of his touch.
A low chuckle rumbles against your skin, his lips curling into a smirk. “Doesn’t it?” he drawls, his hand sliding up to trace the edge of your ribs. “Then why are you still here?”
Your silence betrays you. His hand moves, brushing the sheet aside entirely, tracing lazy patterns over your bare skin.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, brushing the shell of your ear. “Trying so hard to deny it, but your body’s honest, doll.”
His words melt the last threads of your resolve, the mockery within them tinged with a need he can’t voice.
“Stay,” he repeats, his breath hot and insistent. “Stay with me. Tonight.”
And as his arms wind tighter around you, pulling you flush against him, his silent promise is undeniable: tonight, you’re not going anywhere.
Ranpo exists in his own untouchable world, one of brilliance and ease, where the weight of actions doesn’t hold meaning, and consequences are but distant whispers. He’s blissfully unaware of the intoxicating effect he has on those around him—on you, specifically. Why would he question it? He doesn’t notice how your breath catches like a startled songbird when his hand brushes against yours, nor how his mere proximity unravels you, thread by delicate thread. To him, it’s all so simple, so natural. You’re here, by his side, and that’s where he believes you belong. He doesn’t need to ponder why that feel so profoundly right.
He sits far too close on the couch, the soft press of his thigh against yours sending ripples of awareness through you—an illicit thrill, though you both know it isn’t intentional. He doesn’t spare a thought for the way the air between you has vanished, charged with unspoken promises. His attention, as fleeting as moonlight, flits lazily over the file in his lap, fingers flipping pages he’s not truly reading, his mind adrift in its own vibrant sea. The golden glow of the lamp bathes his face, casting light over the unruly strands of his dark hair and highlighting the serene expression he wears like a crown.
You’re acutely aware of him, of the faint scent of sweets that clings to him, of the steady rhythm of his breathing, of every casual move he makes as if they’re notes in a symphony composed just for you. And then, without even lifting his gaze from the file, he takes your hand in his, his grip light yet possessive, as though it belongs there—as if the universe conspired to create a perfect fit between you.
“Hold still,” he murmurs absently, as if you’d moved at all. The deep, velvet softness of his voice rolls over you like a warm tide, pulling you under its spell, and before you can muster a response, his lips kiss your knuckles, warm and fleeting. His touch is tender, unthinking, like a gentle breeze brushing over your skin, yet it sears into your consciousness, igniting you from within. Your chest tightens, heat swirling in your cheeks, but he remains blissfully ignorant of the way you stiffen under the weight of his gaze. To him, it’s nothing—just a moment of thoughtless affection. He shifts slightly, leaning closer into your space, the warmth of his shoulder brushing against yours. His presence is consuming, enveloping you like a silken cloak—so achingly casual that it steals the breath from your lungs.
Ranpo pulls back just enough to allow the air to shimmer between you, eyes still glued to the paper, his thumb now tracing lazy circles along the back of your hand. The touch sends delightful shivers racing down your spine, but he doesn’t even glance up. And then, as if curious about the very fabric of your connectedness, he brings your hand to his lips again. This kiss lingers a heartbeat longer, soft and steady, his breath fanning across your skin, igniting butterflies in your stomach that flutter wildly.
“You’re warm,” he remarks offhandedly, his voice low and almost hypnotic, like the languid murmur of a summer breeze. “Maybe a little too warm.” Finally, he turns to you, and his green eyes twinkle with light amusement, a mischievous edge that makes your heart leap. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”
The words are nonchalant, drifting carelessly through the air, yet they strike you like lightning, leaving you flustered and helpless against the enchanting spell he’s unknowingly woven around you. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that whimsical way of his, completely unaware of the way your resolve crumbles beneath his gaze.
Your cheeks burn as you nervously look away, praying he won’t see the vivid flush spreading across your skin. But he remains blissfully oblivious—of course, he doesn’t notice. He’s still holding your hand, still tracing slow, teasing patterns across your skin, still sitting far too close. He doesn’t realize the storm he’s ignited within you, fierce and unrelenting.
And yet, there’s a softness in the way he stays there, in the gentle cadence of his thumb moving in circles against your palm, in the way he breathes so steadily beside you, each rise and fall a hushed promise. He’s unaware, yes, but there’s an unmistakable thread of intention woven into his presence, buried deep within his unconscious mind.
You glance at him, trying to calm the tumult rage within your chest, but his face is turned back to the file, completely at ease in his world. He doesn’t see the chaos he’s left in his wake, doesn’t comprehend how every touch, every lingering kiss to your hand feels like a revelation, a realization of all the unspoken wishes you yearn to voice. But maybe, just maybe, some part of him knows—some deep, unspoken part of him that draws him close to you, closer than he’s ever been to anyone else.
And so, you let him stay, the warmth of his thigh pressed against yours, his hand loosely holding yours like it’s the most familiar thing in the world. Because for now, this quiet, undefined intimacy is enough. For now, he is more than enough.
a/n: HELLO i am alive, no further comments. idek why i wrote this. and it’s probably highly ooc i‘m sorry (i am not, i need bottom dazai biblically) also, i couldn’t bring myself to make ranpo‘s part suggestive ㅤ:,) yikes but it’s, at least, cute. in a way ?
