wc: 1300+ - a/n: i may or may not have gotten too carried away, not proofread
SFW
Despite what most people think, I believe if you're dating this man he's completely in love with you to the point of no return.
He wouldn't put himself through the trouble of being in a relationship with someone if his sole purpose was manipulation—he knows how to get his way without putting himself in unwanted situations, especially if it's pretending to be in love with someone he isn't.
He fails to accept he's fallen for you at first, not that he doesn't understand what he's feeling but rather the fact that he hates remembering he's human too.
He watches you a lot from afar before he even considers confessing in any way, analysing if you're really worth it and what he feels for you is truly real.
He'd prefer someone who sees the world similarly to his idea of it, but not someone who agrees with everything he says blindly. He loves hearing what you have to say and debate with him; it only makes him fall for you harder.
It takes him a long time before he says anything about his feelings, wanting to know for sure if anything were to happen it wouldn't end, he doesn't like the idea of getting that close with another person just to potentially be strangers with them in the future.
Getting used to physical touch is something he struggles at first, but something in him also yearns to be close to you. He gets used to it after some time and appreciates you being patient with him.
Avoids arguing with you if he can, I do believe he's the type to feel uneasy if he felt like you were upset with him. It only makes him lose his focus and he doesn't like having his attention being diverted when he has a goal to complete.
If you work with him, he loves pulling all-nighters with you by his side, as you hack into confidential government documents.
The breaks you take consist of going out to the balcony and slowly make out while the entire city sleeps, unaware of its impending doom.
He thinks you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on and the best thing to ever happen to him, you can see it in his eyes as he drinks in the sight of you under the moonlight.
He loves kissing you, finding it to be one of the things which eases his nerves; and he regrets taking so long before he first did. Bonus points if he gets to slip his tongue in.
When he thinks deeply of it, he does find the idea of marriage illogical in the legal sense, but subconsciously entertains the idea of you two being bound together in a way people see as sacred.
Would propose if he realised that's what you wanted.
Once he's certain of your devotion to him, you're his top priority and would never do something to endanger you, he always finds a way to keep you safe no matter how impossible it may seem.
When he struggles expressing his emotions to you, he finds the solution in spoiling you rotten; it doesn't matter if you could buy everything you wanted, he wants to make sure you know you're important to him and the thought of you leaving him due to his lack of expressiveness hurts him more than he'd like to admit.
Leaving him is not really an option, unless you really wanted to—but he'll do anything to make sure you never feel that way.
Possessive AND jealous but not controlling due to his fear of driving you away.
Thinks sleep is a waste of time but his body isn't strong enough to bear sleep deprivation so he lays on your chest to nap during evenings before continuing.
Even though his introverted demeanour makes people think he's the quiet type, he could talk for hours in your presence and he is happy to know he's no longer alone and that he has someone who understands him.
Yours is the only smell which doesn't make him nauseous.
Loves board games of any sort and the quiet evenings when he can let go a little and play with you are his favourites.
NSFW
Loves naked intimacy without it going any further, it means a lot to him being able to let his guard down enough to do that.
Even though he'd die before ever admitting it but his sexual desire for you developed before you were even together.
Probably dreamt of fucking you a few times and woke up mortified, not wanting to look you in the eye the next day but still did to not seem suspicious, and tried to avoid being around you as much as he could before he missed seeing you.
He is more aroused by the emotional intimacy of it rather than physical, and being close to you in a way no other person can.
Could fuck you for hours if he could, and he sometimes falls weak to that urge as he finds himself delaying his work to have you pressed under him a little longer.
Intertwines your fingers together and presses them just above your head to pin you down harder but to also feel your palm against his.
Knows every single turn on and kink you have, without you ever having to mention it and indulges in most of them.
Dominant in a way of serving you instead of having power over you, and he isn't satisfied until you are overstimulated beyond consciousness.
He probably initiated it first—no matter how much he hated being seen as desperate, his desire for you has more power over him than his feeling of shame.
Almost always makes you cum once before any actual penetration unless he's extra pent up, but even then his priority is your pleasure.
Tries to hold back as much as he can until you're crying from desperation, you needing him is what he enjoys seeing.
Loves every single detail about your body and nothing about you could ever repulse him. If he were to hear you say something derogatory about yourself he'd feel personally offended to hearing you talk negatively about something he finds out of this world; before he fucks you in front of anything reflective so you could see how perfect you are just the way he sees you.
Pulls you onto his lap as he works so you could cock-warm him and hug him at the same time, even better when you kiss him occasionally.
He made sure to make your first time with him special, wanting you to know how much your well-being matters to him; and switched to a rougher side only if you urged him to.
He likes missionary mainly because he wants to look into your eyes and see every micro expression you make, but him flipping you onto your stomach and lifting your hips up is almost always inevitable.
Loves having a good view of him stretching you out, if the position isn't allowing him to look into your eyes, he's looking down to watch you gripping him.
As much as he enjoys eating you out, he loves seeing you on your knees for him and he struggles the most to remain gentle when you do before gripping your hair to pull your head closer to him.
He'll make sure you have no choice but to make sound, he'll decide he isn't doing good enough if you can stay quiet and won't stop until you're begging him to.
He lays you down on his chest and plays with your hair whether it's long or short before carrying you to the shower and fucking you one more time as you're standing with your back to him, and always carries you back to bed to lay you down before eventually having to go back to his work.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa as your boyfriend .ᐟ.ᐟ `` ʰᵉᵃᵈᶜᵃⁿᵒⁿˢ
— art credits go to their rightful owners .ᐟ
⊹ ࣪ ˖ before you read...
pairing(s) : PM!Ranpo Edogawa x executive gn!reader
work type: headcanons
a/n: ignore if there are any grammatical errors gulp.. this is not proofread TT also, this will obviously be kinda ooc hehe... I still tried to incorporate ranpo's canon personality even in an alternate universe tho!!(♯ihopeididagoodjob)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦ho's often in your office more than his own. if someone looks for him and he's not found in his office, they'd know exactly where to check next. it's turned into a habit by now.
it's actually quite hilarious, actually. a subordinate would knock on your door asking for Executive Edogawa and the man is sprawled on your couch with his coat covering his face, his unfinished snacks on the coffee table next to him.
“give him a moment”, you'd say, still skimming through paperwork without looking up. ranpo would eventually wake up and very irritably address the subordinate whose come to ruin his beauty sleep.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦ho knows how your mission went without you even having to tell him. you didn't NEED to tell him anyways, he already knew before you even stepped foot into headquarters.
you'd walk into his office with a smile and he'd immediately deadpan you with, “you got shot on your left shoulder and you're refusing to get it checked. are you trying to bleed on my couch or something?”
you have to pause for a second, have to mentally remind yourself that this was RANPO EDOGAWA. of course, what were you even thinking? trying to hide these kinds of things from him was pointless.
he immediately drags you to the infirmary after, or he just slides a first aid kit over to you and instructs—no.. ORDERS you to get the wound dressed(lovingly). he will be watching the entire time.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦ho absolutely REFUSES to join combat missions unless absolutely necessary. it simply was not his thing at all. he'd rather sit back and deduct missions from his office with an open bag of candy.
but if Mori were to personally order him to go into the field due to certain circumstances, the only person he'd willingly stand beside during the whole mission is you. not because he needs your protection, God no. it's because aside from Mori, you were the only other person who knew how to translate his impossible deductions into immediate action without questioning him.
you never ask "why" when he suddenly tells you to shoot the third floor's 5th window to the left instead of immediately going for the sniper on the roof, or whenever he suddenly orders a change of route in the middle of a mission.
you trusted him and his brain more than anyone.
݁⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦hose greatest act of love isn't grand declarations or dramatic promises, It's trust. in a world where he sees through every lie, every motive, every hidden agenda, you become one of the very few people whose words he accepts without needing to analyze them first.
if you tell him “I'll come back”, then you'll come back. not because his deductions guarantee it—but because, for once, he chooses to trust your promise over his own endless calculations.
coming from the man who can see through literally everything and everyone, there is no greater proof that you've become home to him.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦ho doesn't—NEVER—tries to comfort you with empty words. cause every word he says is never empty. it was always simply just the truth. and who was to ever question Ranpo Edogawa.
everytime you wake up from a nightmare, breathing unevenly, shoulders shaking, he'd just roll over and wrap a lazy yet grounding arm around you.
“..go back to sleep, you know none of it was your fault. I've told you this 67 times now”, he'd mumble into his pillow before turning his head and opening his eyes to look at you.
“it wasn't your fault, none of it was”. simple words, but it was enough to ground you and get you back up on your feet.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦ho has absolutely no shame when it comes to using his executive privileges for ridiculous reasons. he knows damn well he can do anything, cause the mafia needs their greatest strategist to be satisfied at all times to ensure 100% success rate.
“...ranpo, why is there an invoice for 15 boxes of imported candy?”
“Mori approved it ^^”
you're not even surprised cause of fucking course he did😭😭😭😭
⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦ho refuses to let you accompany him on any missions that he'd been specifically assigned to. alone.
it's not that he doubted your capabilities or combat abilities, no of course not. never. but because he knew exactly how dangerous a mission could get whenever Mori sends him on a one-man. an unpredictable mission that can even push an executive down a peg or two.
sometimes you argued with him over it. but he'd never budge. he just silently and patiently listens to you and let's you finish before saying:
“If you're beside me, I'll spend more time calculating how to keep you alive than solving the case”. you'd stare at each other and he'd look away first, surprisingly.
“...it's inefficient”. he's not trying to downplay your feelings, that's just his silent way of telling you he didn't want to think of any scenario where he's forced to choose between you and an objective.
PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦ho notices whenever you're having a hard time with yourself after work, be it mentally or physically.
work in the mafia was gruesome, everyone knew that. and surprisingly, it sometimes even takes a heavy toll on executives.
whenever these rare moments occur, ranpo always makes sure he's near you or is constantly in your space. if you're both in your office, ranpo would scoot a little closer to you while you're doing paperwork. during executive meetings, he would make sure he's always seated across from you or next to you. he's a silent, grounding presence.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦ho treats your presence like a guaranteed constant, and your attention like something he can demand without ever saying please.
he'd lean into your side during important conversations with other executives, unbothered by the fact that you're talking about infiltrating another organization's base and eliminating all of them.
“is it really necessary for Ranpo-san to be listening to us like this?”, an executive would ask while staring at a very distracted ranpo. (is reading a detective novel probably)
“he wouldn't listen if I told him to go away anyways, just ignore him. now where were we—”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ PM!Ranpo Edogawa ノノ 𝓦ho, despite everything, has moments of startling vulnerability that only you are allowed to witness. these moments are rare and unplanned. you never know when they could happen, but you're always prepared.
after long days, when even his mind feels heavy, he will lean against you without any commentary. no teasing, no whining, no playfulness. just silence.
and you've learned to stay absolutely still whenever he needed you during these times.
In these moments, he's not the Mafia's "greatest strategist"—he's just a boy whose brain never stops, finally choosing one place to rest even if its only for a short while.
and he trusts you not to move.
a/n: there wasnt enough ranpo works here so I decided to write PM!ranpo for my own guilty pleasure. please take note that this is my own version of PM!ranpo and he probably wasn't accurate to your own interpretations of him (≧∇≦)/
“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 ?
in the words of ango sakaguchi talking about dazai, "...you nasty man.".
⭑.ᐟ MDNI +18 only ⭑.ᐟ
note: the things that i have thought alone, let alone said out loud, and publicly online about him, make me unable to run for office (•ᴖ•｡) EDIT: SOMEHOW MISSED F HERE TOO — UPDATED! <3
tw: edg*pl*y, suc*dl ideation, overstimulation
A = Aftercare (what is he like after sex?)
As annoying and predictable as it is, I think we know that it depends on his mood "( – ⌓ – ) He's either going to be teasing you for being fucked senseless or tending to you cautiously like he holds his favorite tattered and dog-eared to hell book or quietly tracing kanji onto your shoulder blade as you lay across his lap as he reads an excerpt from his current favorite poetry book to you. Definitely the type to flow with the moment, meaning he may not get up immediately, opting to wait until both of your heartbeats slow down enough to breathe normally again. He may be a sarcastic shit but he is a giver, he is an (undercover overlover). Just like the black cat that he is, you will feel his quiet affections somehow, but he may take his time savoring the moment.
"My, my bella. Look at you. You're quite the mess. Here, let me help."
B = Body part (his favorite body part of his and yours)
his body: fingers
He knows he has pretty hands and very nice long and slender fingers. He knows the effect they have visually and for sure the effect physically. There has never been nor will there ever be a time that if he uses his fingers that you are not seeing stars. He loves to tease so he loves to drag his finger along objects of attention or especially skin (teasingly or affectionately). He loves how much you love his hands and what they do to you — whether its passively holding them or pulling them away after you came so hard you're losing consciousness and he keeps going with a smirk on his face.
your body: torso (front/back)
He loves to observe your body from his fascination with humans. The beauty of the body is something he silently cherishes beyond being a gross flirt (borderline teenage boy behavior). The smooth expanse of your torso, front or back, is something he could stare at (and does) for hours.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum)
His appreciation for your torso, of course means, that he loves to spill on you. Anywhere, all over. To see his ownership on you gets him off. Alternatively, and equally, that ownership extends to overfilling you inside over and over until it's seemingly endlessly spilling out, if he can help it. Definitely the type to both scoop it back in or slide it on his finger into your mouth (freak).
D = Dirty secret (a dirty secret of his)
He's actually quite the romantic. He's so detail-oriented as an annoyingly-genius detective, he also notices the little things about you that he comes to find endearing. The slight in your mouth when you're focusing hard on writing or typing out a particularly difficult case, the keychain on your bag with the little bell he can hear from down the hall before you walk in, the copy of your well-loved favorite book on your desk, used as your adoring coffee cup coaster everyday. He doesn't realize he's keeping track of these things until he's too far deep (an internal "uh-oh" on his part). He would never let anyone catch wind of this weakness, he is well aware of how easily they can be exploited and ripped away in the blink of an eye.
E = Experience (How experienced is he?)
Being the notorious flirt that he is, he's charmed his way into a few beds. However, he enjoys the playing of the game more than winning. In moments of weakness, being unable to cope with whatever is plaguing his mind at the time, he has indulged in detached, meaningless sex. Attachment is something he actively avoids. That being said, he does still have his ego, so he's finely-tuned his techniques. He knows what he likes and knows just what will make someone scream.
F = Favorite Position (what is his favorite way to take you?)
I think The Favorite has to be backshots in any variation: bent over a bathroom counter, standing with your back arched in the supply closet, on all fours, or your chest to the bed with your knees down and he yanks your ass up by gripping your hips hard enough to bruise—however, the condition is: he must be able to grab your face and force you to turn and look at him. He is gripping your chin and pulling you into a filthy kiss, devouring your whimpers, and offering his own hunger-being-satiated moan back into your mouth with a sick, amused smile that you're completely undone on his cock and how he gives it to you. I still think he's more of a tits guy, but something about taking you from behind, playing with your tits or generally playing with any parts from behind, and likely choking you by wrapping a hand around or pinning your neck to the wall/bed is *chefs kiss*. I think it's hotter to him to force you to reveal how fucked dumb and desperate you are, by hitting it from the back, and refusing to let you hide your face/reactions/sounds. Another way to explain the reason is his love to tease:
"Now don't hide from me, bella. I couldn't hear you. Let me help *grips your face to turn and face him*...theeere she is. Did you say something about going to cum? Mm, not till I say, bella. I think I can make you beg for it. *squishing your face more in his hand* You're gonna beg, bella — understand? Tell me you understand.
G = Goofy (Is he more serious in the moment? Or humorous? etc.)
Are you kidding? He is weaponizing his goofiness 24/7. He antagonizes the hell out of you for his own pleasure (just a smidge of degradation) just to remind you how, literally, under his thumb you are.
H = Hair (How well-groomed is he?)
He cares about the little details, but doesn't obsess. As lazy and showing up late as he can be, it's because he's taking his time doing exactly what he wants. Which happens to be having a getting ready routine that may be the most stable thing in his life besides Chuuya being pissed off every time he sees him. Part of this routine involves: a strict breakfast of coffee and a cig, a leisurely shower (not caring to actually wash his hair ever, however his body will always be clean and fresh but not maintained), air-drying his mess of hair, and putting on that goddamned bolo tie. Besides keeping this routine for his edging sanity, showing up late to piss off Kunikida is part of the routine too. Basically: most of the focus is being selectively fresh and pissing off Kunikida.
I = Intimacy (How is he during the moment? Romantically.)
He's a mixed bag. Temperamental. I think at a certain point, once enough of his walls come down, it is just about romantic intimacy. Compared to other occasions he has slept with someone, he isn't detached and is actually quite invested in your reaction, your pleasure, and satisfaction with him. He cares to be a memorable experience (in a way, to make you crawl back to him to get fucked dumb — but he'd never admit that it's also so you stick around him because he might kind of like you a little bit.). Crossing the romantic threshold, he's the type of tender that will hold you tightly but hold your face gently (almost as if he's worried you will disappear if he looks away or loosens his grip ever so slightly, and he cannot live through losing someone he's let in again). One thing is for sure, you will have his full attention, for both your sakes.
J = Jack off (masturbation)
I can't say I can see him doing it very often. I think he'd rather seek out his weakness in another body or drink away the desire — at least until he meets you. Almost feel like he has an aversion to physical contact (ability related? perhaps). Then it becomes the quickly building tension, you're unaware of, given his mass flirtatious aloofness, where his locked away feelings in words get trapped behind his teeth, and, well his inability to open his mouth and desire to put his hands on you go straight to his dick. For sure ends up at his desk pretending he doesn't care about anything until you bend over in your little skirt to pick up his paperwork he carelessly let fall off the desk, and he catches a peek at your chest, your thighs as you stand up, and your intoxicating perfume — definitely rock hard in an instant and pretends he's bored and going home for the day (he's definitely taking care of it in the agency bathroom, but he'd never let anyone figure out someone got to him that deeply.)
K = Kink (one or more of his kinks)
PRAISE/DEGRADATION:
He is absolutely talking you through it — he never shuts the fuck up! He loves nothing more than to play with an ego and he will make sure you know just who owns you and who's cock you're going dumb on. He will praise you mockingly in the same breath that he says something dehumanizing. The duality of man that he has is ridiculous. He is so mean, simply for fun.
"You're taking me so good, bella. You're doing so good. Ah-ah, eyes on me, my little fucktoy."
overstimulation/powerplay:
This is in the same vein as the praise/degradation, he wants you to remember the time spent with him, to remember you'll always be underneath him — or so he thinks until he's spent a night with you. He'd never consider it being submissive, but for entertainment's sake, he would enjoy powerplay. I mean, twist his arm, you know? A hot body wants to top him and maybe bring him within an inch of his life (his lovely suicidal dreams) and he's the one getting overstimulated — he'd let you have your fun, but make sure to pay his brat back.
EDGEPLAY:
You cannot convince me he has not tried using a gun or knife during foreplay or during. Life and death is a meaningless form of entertainment to him. He would love nothing more than to weaponize that with pleasure. Along the lines of powerplay, he would keep a gun or knife underneath your jaw or scratch a knife down the center of your chest, drawing a bit of blood every now and then (in addition: he for sure bites and leaves evidence of ownership: bruises, cuts, teeth-marks). He is for sure a sadist and masochist — taking things too far makes him feel alive.
"Does it sting? Good. You're doing so good for me, you're still here. I can hear you whimpering, you like it when I press the blade nice and tight under your jaw. Don't you, belladonna?"
L = Location (favourite places to take you)
Literally anywhere. He doesn't care whatsoever. I'd even venture to say, he would be entertained for someone to come across you getting your guts rearranged. Definitely the type to let his intrusive thoughts win (we know this) so his impulsive behavior is as strong as his surprising willpower (this man loves playing stupid). Has definitely followed you out of the agency main office, grabbed you by your wrist, and yanked you into a supply closet for a tryst he cannot pretend he's fine with waiting for. He will take you whenever he can, given your consent, of course (we love a consent king) — but he won't back down quietly, he WILL complain and pout.
"Very well, bella. But you can't blame me, you look delectable and I'm just so hungry."
M = Motivation (What turns him on, gets him going?)
Initially, his interest being piqued and wanting to play with his food. No one really catches his attention, he's fairly bored with humanity as a whole, typically expecting the worst of humanity. Something about you interests him (it's called having a crush) and he has to get to the bottom of it. He knows the effect he has on women and loves to tease so goddamned much, it's so annoying (he loves it). However, he does find himself occasionally uncharacteristically nervous around you when you actually look him in the eyes with your earnest, sweet, curious eyes. It quickly becomes a craving, a fix he has to have, which is being in your presence and interacting with you however he can — the more flirtatious and physical, the better. He has to understand this interest (it's called a crush) and until he realizes his motivations are just called affection and adoration, he will continue to try and play with his food until he realizes he is tightly wrapped around your finger even tighter than his own bandages.
um.....૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡ — part 2 available here (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
i'm so disgusting about dazai, um do not look at me rn! i know he'd be able to handle how much of a freak i am 🔪(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) um sorry if this was a lot for some of you, i am Not Well in the head and a longtime dazai kinnie. :')
ATSUSHI'S cheeks flush the very moment he notices the hotel's mistake of assigning you two a room with one queen-sized bed rather than two single ones. He's been looking forward to a night on plush bedding, with soft pillow and a cushioned mattress after the stress of today's mission, but he'd rather sleep outside on the street than make you uncomfortable.
Trying not to sputter and act too flustered at the mere thought of sharing a bed with you, he's quick to offer it up to you. Really, he insists! He's fine on the floor! Though, if you're particularly stubborn about it and assure him you don't mind sharing, he will eventually cave in.. only for it to be a worse night than sleeping on the floor ever could have been. He's so focused on keeping proper distance between the two of you, he can't relax at all, his body tense with him focusing on not staring at you for too long. He refuses to be weird or creep you out and, well — as long as you get a night of good sleep, it doesn't matter that his dark circles are stronger than ever next morning.
"Hm? No, I'm fine, I promise. Just—, ah, didn't sleep much, haha. No, no, that's not what I meant, it wasn't your fault at all! You know, the walls are thin, especially with tiger hearing! But I'm good, don't worry about me. I'm glad you slept well."
AKUTAGAWA doesn't care about such trivial things. If the job demands it, he will share a bed with you. If it's not necessary, he will not, to keep things professional and your relationship to each other normal, meaning cool and relatively aloof. It's you who has to convince him to actually share the bed; you're well aware of the bad circumstances he's used to, and that sleeping on the floor would even be considered normal to him. You refuse to let that happen.
It takes a while to convince him; he's stubborn and views sharing a bed as too much, too straining for your relationship, and the thought of things becoming weird between you is bothersome to him, though he eventually agrees, if only to make you quiet down. He doesn't move a lot in his sleep and keeps a reasonable distance between the two of you — until the pillow he's been holding close drops off the bed and he accidentally clings to your arm instead, deep asleep. The next morning, he's up before you, and strongly flustered.
"I'm fine with the floor. I don't mind. I don't. Take the bed. ....... Alright. If you insist, we'll share."
JŌNO is loud in his frustration at some people's pure incompetence. He doesn't curse or yell, not in front of you, though his tone is sharp and clipped, and you swear he's only seconds away from outright threatening the poor front desk employee. When it becomes evident that even the Hunting Dogs' reputation won't fix the predicament, he settles on silently seething. Although he sighs a bit, and it seems more like he's doing it out of obligation rather than anything else — he'd much rather share, really; his back hurts from a long day too! —, he offers you the bed.
If you even hint at being fine with sharing, he's taking you up on it. He won't force you to share, he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable, but he would also prefer the bed, and he doesn't mind being closer to you either. It's not the best sleep he gets; he's a light sleeper, and he does make sure to keep distance between you. When he does wake up and notices you've kicked the blanket off yourself, he's feeling fond enough of you to drape it back over you.
"Pure incompetence from the staff. From a hotel with a usually flawless reputation, I expected much better. .. Share? I don't see any other option. If you're certain about it, that is. I can also bring this matter up to the owner — no? Well. Alright."
Really, TECCHOU doesn't care much. He notices the circumstances — how could he not? The singular queen-sized bed takes up quite a large part of the room —, but if you're not uncomfortable with the situation, he isn't either. If you are, he takes the couch or floor without another word. It's all up to you.
You have to be the one to offer it, though. He's quick to agree, but essentially claiming the bed by offering to share himself feels wrong, somehow, and he knows Jōno would berate him for it. When you end up under the same blanket, he falls asleep easily. He's not sure why, but the feeling of someone being close to him brings him peace, and he hopes you feel similar, knowing he'd be awake and ready to defend your life in a heartbeat at the first sign of danger.
"Yes. Let's share. If you're sure, I mean. I don't mind either way. Yeah. Good. Sharing it is."
KUNIKIDA takes the situation in stride — or so he thinks. While he's sure he's keeping his best neutral expression on, he looks nothing short of stressed out, face pale and sweat beading on his temple as he pushes his glasses up in a nervous habit. He offers the bed to you, of course. There's no other option in his eyes, and no matter how much you insist that you don't mind sharing, he refuses.
The mere idea of accidentally brushing up against you in the middle of the night has him sweating nervously, the thought of you feeling creeped out by him and even suspecting him of getting too close on purpose makes him sick. He'll take the couch, or the floor, if needed. He'll be fine. He's going to court you properly; after all, he already has the exact order in which he'll ask you out on dates to certain spots planned out, and those plans won't be ruined by an accidental bed sharing moment, not if he has anything to say about it.
"No, thank you. You should take the bed. I'll be fine wherever, but it's important for you to get some rest. ... Yes, I'm sure. No need to worry about me. I'll go ask for some extra blankets at the front desk."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Dazai can never beat the high maintenance allegations. He needs you with him at all times. I mean what would he do without his belladonna, he's convinced that if you leave his side he'll die.
That also translates to the bedroom, his long slim fingers have to be on you during ever moment of your love making. He needs to know that you're real. But his way of always having his hands on you always ends up in you being oh so overstimulated. I mean you need to feel as good as you make him.
He loves when you orgasm. His mission every time you two have sex is to break the record of how many times he can make you cum. Not to even mention he has such a high sex drive. He needs sex like all the time. And oh boy his stamina you could be going for hours if you have the right amount of time.
Most of it is just him between your legs coaxing one orgasm after another. Once he's satisfied in how many times you've come all over his face then and only then will he sink his cock into you.
But if you think that once he comes inside you that you'd be done, you are dead wrong. I mean you made him so pent up with the sweet whines that came out of your mouth. So why wouldn't he need to cum 2-3 times inside you?
"Do you ever think why the filthy, infected monsters bit me instead of you?" His breath fans your neck, the tips of his hair tickling your collarbones as he leans in impossible close - nearly crawling into your skin. "Not even a feral would want their mouth on you"
Slowly, he leans closer - just enough. Just enough for his cool lips to skim over the side of your neck, grazing the soft, warm spot beating with life in your veins.
"Filthy human" the words push past his lips, too raspy and cold to be just a whisper. Somewhere between a calloused caress and a curse.
Geto, Kenjaku, Mahito, Sukuna, Fyodor, Dazai, pre AE Sunday
i had this passage idea since i dreamt of a zombie apocolypse with romance and didnt know where to go with it sooooo it goes here :) zombie apocolypse romance!!
summary . . . they save you after you've been injured and captured by an enemy.
contents . . . sfw, f!reader (chuuya & dazai) and gn!reader (akutagawa), violence / blood, threats, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, and it's pmboss!dazai bc i can't help myself — 3.5k total
notes . . . i got this request so long ago lol. not my best work, but i have been in the worst writing slump ever and just wanted to finish something. i've also never written for akutagawa before so pls be nice <3
𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 . . .
there are very few times that chuuya feels he’s been outsmarted. he knows he’s not the mastermind of the port mafia, but he certainly isn’t a fool. when it comes to you and your well-being, though, his mind short-circuits, half of his intelligence draining away while his emotions take hold.
your relationship isn’t a secret to anyone in the port mafia, which means that it isn’t a secret to your enemies either. and while most people know it’s hard to land a finger on chuuya directly, his pretty little girlfriend doesn’t have the power of a god nestled inside of her.
the rage sparks through him, growing fiercely into the blaze of a forest fire, until all he can think of is getting you home safely. he thinks of your sweet smile as he rips the door of the enemies’ base off the hinges, crushing it into a million pieces with the force of gravity.
the men are quick to react, but chuuya hurtles the crushed door towards them, knocking three of them to their feet. another group charges at him, but their guns do little against his skill. after years of fighting some of the strongest ability users, simple criminal organizations are as easy to step over like ants.
chuuya kills them all — except for one.
the man’s knees are wobbling, hand shaking around the gun as he realizes that these will be his final moments. there is fear in his eyes, brown ones that rest wide open, and chuuya almost hesitates. his remorse doesn’t last long, though, before he’s wrapping a hand around the man’s throat, thrusting him backwards.
“where is she?” chuuya asks, voice sharp and commanding.
he can feel the man swallowing.
chuuya knows that backup is probably on the way, but it won’t matter whether they show up or not. he’ll crush the rest of his enemies just as he’s crushed the last twenty men. the poor soul in his leather hold seems to know that as well.
“i-i’ll take you to her,” he rasps, dropping his gun to claw at chuuya’s hand.
he drops him, lets him take a few heaving breaths and coughs, before he’s kicking at him, forcing him back to his feet.
the young man takes him up the elevator, weaves him through a hallway as chuuya leaves a scattering of bodies in his wake, not hesitating to kill a single man that gets in his way. there is nothing that can keep him from you.
how fiercely and loyally he loves you — it drives him to near insanity.
finally, with blood coating his face and his clothes, the young man enters a room, locked with a code, revealing you.
chuuya’s rage is almost as blinding as his corruption, as he gazes at the sight of you. bloodied and bruised, tied up in a chair, so visibly harmed. his hands clench into fists. “get the fuck away from her,” he says to the man who seems to be monitoring you.
“what are you doing in here?” the men left in the room panic, but they don’t have time to react before chuuya throws them back at the wall, so quickly, with so much force, that their spines snap. they hit it with a sharp crack, skulls shattering against the plaster, the wall crushing beneath the weight of them.
limply, they fall to the floor.
chuuya rushes over to you.
the young man that led him here disappears, but chuuya isn’t worried about him. he’s a coward; he’ll likely flee from the country and never look back. the men that truly hurt you are already dead, and he’ll burn this building to the ground once he’s gotten you away from it.
“hey,” chuuya says, cradling your cheeks gently, trying to coax you back awake. he’s not sure if it’s exhaustion, blood loss, or the obvious head trauma that caused you to pass out in the first place. but you’re still breathing, so he counts that as a blessing.
“hey,” he whispers again, kissing your forehead, like it will heal all your ailments. “wake up, baby. we gotta get you out of here, okay?”
it takes you a few seconds to come to, eyes glazed over and shell-shocked as you blink at him. “chuuya?” you say; your voice is so hoarse it makes chuuya want to keel over and vomit. “is it really you?”
guilt gnaws at him, almost crushing, at the fact that thirty-six hours passed, and you’re delirious enough not to recognize him. you probably haven’t eaten, either.
he should’ve been there. no one should’ve ever had the chance to hurt you, yet…
“it’s me, i’m here,” he says, kissing your lips, your temple, brushing your hair away from your face. the strands are sticky with blood. “shit,” chuuya nearly shouts, pulling a knife from his pocket, sawing through the thick ropes around you as quickly as he can. “i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry.”
he can’t get you free fast enough, and you smile at him, drowsy, your eyes fluttering shut once more. “it’s okay, chuuya,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “you’re here now.”
“you have to stay awake,” he says desperately, realizing your head is still bleeding. he doesn’t know how hurt you are. chuuya’s no expert when it comes to medicine, but he’s smart enough to know that internal injuries could be even worse than the external ones.
“stay awake for me, okay, honey? i’ll get you back to the boss and we’ll find you a doctor. you’ll be just fine.”
“okay, chuuya,” you hum, weakly gripping his back. seconds of silence pass before you mutter, “i just want to go home.”
"i know." his heart pulls, and he almost lets out a cracked sob. but he refrains, knowing that there is plenty of time to drown in his sorrows later.
finally, he gets the ropes under, lifting you from the chair. you’re so much lighter, weaker, and it makes him sick as he carries you. “let’s get you home.”
𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀. . .
the call comes just as akutagawa is getting ready to head home for the evening, his tasks completed, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
normally, he doesn’t stick around to say any goodbyes, sneaking off into the darkness of the night like a shadow, blending right in. but, something about the evening, so gloomy and drizzly with spring rain, feels off.
with a heavy knot in his chest, so much different than an incoming fit of coughs, akutagawa heads back up to mori’s office, if perhaps to only ensure that everyone else’s jobs had been completed. he’s a lot of things, but he’s never been a slacker; and he’ll do what it takes to ensure that his position in the mafia is eternally secure.
though, he doesn’t have the opportunity to get all the way upstairs before he run into the boss, who is calm, but with an air of irritation clouding him.
he explains the current situation to akutagawa in a clipped tone, bored — an enemy group has kidnapped you, holding you hostage.
“how rude is it to bother a man, just as he is getting ready to go to sleep?” mori says, sighing histrionically.
but what is a minor inconvenience to mori sends an entire wave of dread through akutagawa, his entire body feeling as if it’s been dipped in ice. he can’t explain the horror that washes over him, not really, because he shouldn’t feel so panicked. it is rare for him to get worked up about the danger his subordinates find themselves in, save for his sister, of course.
but you… you’re different.
“can i trust you to diffuse the situation?” mori asks, impatiently glancing at his watch as if that will change anything. “i can call someone else, but they will not be so quick.”
akutagawa doesn’t even think before he accepts the job, hating the way he sounds pathetically desperate for more details. his hands flatten the edge of his cloak, as if his ability is going to take on a mind of its own.
he calls for a driver, calm but breathing so heavily that an aching cough rises up in him. his throat feels as if it may begin to bleed, but he swallows, glances away from the driver and gets himself under control.
there’s a ransom — bring them the money and they’ll return you, mori had told him. you’re only a lower ranking member of the mafia, and someone that makes for a pretty poor bargaining chip, so the motive is questionable.
mori probably would’ve let you die, akutagawa knows, his teeth gritting together, so much so that a splintering sound comes from it. but the boss, in his infinite, concerning wisdom, seems to also know that his loyal dog has an soft spot for you.
as regrettable as that may be.
akutagawa has no doubt that whoever the enemy is, they are no match for him. still, a twinge of anxiety settles in his stomach, fingers jittery as the driver, despite the decreased traffic of the hour, seems to drive impossibly slow.
“are we not in a rush?” akutagawa snaps, leaning forward.
“apologies,” the driver, says, not daring to even look at akutagawa from the mirror. but the car speeds up, enough for akutagawa to be able to notice, at least. it cools the simmer that has already begun deep in his chest.
even so, the car seems to go at a snails pace, minute upon minute flying by, with you in the clutches of an enemy.
akutagawa doesn’t care who they are. he doesn’t care why, or how they captured you. he wants them dead. he’ll rip them apart, easily, and he’ll make them suffer — they’ll be alive for all of it, for every second that he peels the skin from their bones, ripping the smaller ones out of their sockets.
what he feels for you… well, it’s too hard for him to admit to himself. he has no experience with what it means to care for another person, doesn’t even know if that’s his goal. he just knows he wants to protect you.
and he can’t do that if you’re dead.
finally, the car pulls up to an old warehouse, one at the very outskirts of the port, beyond the docks and the shipping carts. it’s tucked far back, an obvious lair for some villainous organization that doesn’t want to be found.
akutagawa gets there, but there is nothing. he hears nothing, feels no signs of life as he trudges through the puddles left behind from the earlier rain.
a small string of panic begins again, as he wondered if maybe the call that mori had told him was only a ruse. maybe this entire time had been a distraction, a way to lure him away. there are other skill-users in the mafia, but none quite as dangerous as him.
though, he hears it, then. a small little sound, muffled and hoarse, full of pain.
he ducks into another corner of a warehouse, and you’re there — bound with chains and a gag across your mouth, one of your eyes blackened with bruises, your nose bleeding.
his heart aches. never in his life has he so quickly made his way over, used the sharp edges of his ability to shear through the chains, falling to his knees as he unbinds the cloth from your lips.
“where are they?” he rasps, mouth opening and closing, hating the sound of his own voice. he recognizes his desperation, his anger, but the affectionate sound that clips at the end is unfamiliar, as he shakily pulls himself closer to you.
you glance up at him, eyes glossy and wide, and though you are scared, hurt, he’s so thankful you are alive. his heart flips once, as you grasp at his cloak, the material that has the blood of so many staining the threads.
“gone,” you say, throat chalky, words nothing more than a note against the wind. “they fled when they heard it was you coming.”
“and left you?” he asks, jaw clenching, as he hopes that the emotions aren’t as visible on his features as he thinks they are. “were you not a ransom?”
“no,” you swallow, hard, as if in pain. he notices bruises around your neck, the shape of fingerprints indented there. “i was bait.”
anger rises up in him like a wave, engulfing him, wholly and relentlessly. he is no stranger to that, like he is the kindness you show him, the way you look at him as if he is your protector, rather than a bringer of destruction. “i’ll go after them. where are they headed? they’ll pay, i’ll slaughter—”
“ryunosuke,” you say, reaching for him as he stands, expression pleading as he backs away. “stay.”
he has half a mind to ignore you — the enemy escaped, after all. but your voice. your eyes… you look so small sitting there, bloodied and bruised and broken.
“please,” you try again, near tears, and though he has never been good with obvious displays of emotion, something within him snaps at the desperation in the word.
he nods, slowing his pace as he returns to you, lets you wrap yourself in him, cling to him. his hands fall, naturally, to your waist, somehow knowing where they belong, even if akutagawa never has a clue what he’s doing with you.
“i’ll call hirotsu,” he says simply, before pulling out his phone, not bothering to untangle himself from you.
𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 . . .
dazai is not a forgiving man, and will never learn to be. forgiveness is not a luxury he is often able to indulge in in his line of work, and his heart has hardened enough that until the end of time, those that are branded his enemies will remain his enemies.
though, in his blackened heart, one soured over the course of time, you have carved out your own little space, lit it up with golden rays of light that are fiery enough to melt the stone casing of his chest.
his only love — his only weakness. but it is a weakness that his enemies know about as well.
dazai tries his best to keep you safe. he always has, and he knows that, sometimes, his grasp on you can be a little too tight. that the way he tries to keep you under his watchful eye can sometimes be stifling, frustrating.
but he can’t always be there to protect you. and it is in times like these, that he regrets letting you go without a bodyguard. he regrets that he listened to your insistence that you could keep yourself safe.
he should’ve at least told you to take a friend.
“boss,” his subordinate says, bowing his head, his voice pleading, desperate. “i’m so sorry. your wife—”
“if anything… anything happens to her, you will be the one responsible, do you understand?” dazai says, his eyes cold as he glowers down at the man, only a few inches shorter than him, but feeling so much smaller. “i will personally see that this act does not go unpunished.”
“of course, sir,” the man says, and he, at the very least, has the decency to sound resigned. to accept his fate and suffer the consequences, for allowing the boss’s wife to get herself into such a situation.
and dazai means it, every last word; if he finds you in a state closer to death, anyone who put you in harm’s way will be torn apart from the inside out. he isn’t able to think of anything but bringing you home safely, his hands shaking with rage as he sends more than enough people out on a search to find you.
with all the strings he’s able to pull as the mafia boss, it doesn’t take long to find you, for those that have bravely — or stupidly — used his wife as bait to come forward, and offer an attempt at some sort of negotiation.
there’s little of the conversation that dazai remembers on the phone, even less that he remembers after that. the anger bubbles up in him and grabs hold of his conscience, the emotion directing his movements with a mind of its own.
he’s already sent out every last one of his people into the field, ensuring that the organization that had the gall to threaten you is wiped off the face of the earth. deleted from every corner of the world, buildings flattened to the ground. by tomorrow, they won’t have ever existed.
today, he doesn’t care what happens as long as he finds you alive.
you’re held hostage by two men — so completely beaten that they’ve given up on any restraints. whatever they wanted from you, you seemed to refused to have given up, lip bleeding, eyes swelling so badly that you can’t even open them.
dazai doesn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger on the first man, then turning to the other, shooting the hand that holds the pistol. the man recoils, shouts, and drops the weapon completely, as dazai lands another bullet to his knee, causing him to fall.
slowly, dazai walks up, firing again to his other arm, a loud snap echoing throughout the room. the man winces, trying to crawl to the gun, one last desperate attempt to stay alive.
he kicks the gun away, watching, as, pathetically, the expression in the enemy’s face changes — any of his remaining hope vanishes.
“you told me she was unharmed,” dazai says, bending down, his coat flaring out behind him as he squats.
the man coughs, gasping for air as the blood seeps out of him. “we lied.” he smiles cruelly, and though he shares the same sort of darkness as those in the port mafia, there is something even more twisted in his smile.
dazai hums. “you the leader?”
the man doesn’t give an answer, but the slight twitch of surprise on his face is all dazai needs. he’s no one — just a grunt whose life was put on the line to guard you.
“didn’t think so.” dazai shoots him once, straight through the forehead, instantly killing him. but he is vindictive, angry, and the man he truly wants to destroy, the one who took you, is nowhere to be found. another bullet lands, tearing apart the flesh of his temple, then another, and one more, his skull beginning to cave in from the force of it all.
dazai heaves, letting the gun clatter to the ground as it runs out of bullets, and then he realizes, all this time, you’ve just been watching him. the ugliest side of him — the worst side of him.
you’re no stranger to it, of course. how can you be, when you’ve shared a life with him for years? but that doesn’t mean he wants you to see it, see how bloodthirsty he can become.
he stumbles over to you, where you’re still sitting on the ground, your wrist in your lap, bent at an angle that he knows isn’t right. bruises are littered across your skin, and your hair is matted from the blood that pools at your temple.
it takes every ounce of restraint he has to stay calm, a million feelings swirling under his skin. ones that he was never familiar with until he met you.
“i’m sorry,” he says, taking your face in his hands so, so softly, worried that he’ll hurt you even more. “i’m sorry, darling. i should’ve — i should’ve been there.” dazai notices his hands are shaking and he balls them up into fists, leaning back. “fuck. fuck — i’ll kill them all, just tell me who it was. anyone who laid a finger on you. i’ll cut them down one by one.”
“osamu,” you say, and your voice is raspy, cracking, as your unbroken arm reaches for him, squeezing his shaking hand. “i—”
you open your mouth to continue, but only tears come streaming down your cheeks, over your bloodied lips, saltiness soaking your jawline. no words don’t leave you, but a soft sob chokes itself up your throat.
“hey, hey, hey.” dazai’s voice softens, every muscle in his body relaxing as he draws you nearer to him, into his chest with a touch that’s barely there. “you’re safe. i’m here, okay? they’re not going to hurt you again, sweetheart.”
you sniffle, barely making a sound, but he can feel the tears drop onto his clothes, soaking the material.
“can you walk? are you hurt anywhere else?”
you hesitate for a moment before answering; he’s not sure if there’s a reason you only answer the first question. “i can walk.”
dazai nods, and though the rage is still bubbling there, underneath the surface, there is a coolant streaming through him at the vision of you alive. the men who did this will pay the price, but he still has you — and that’s all that matters.
