#ranpo

he still remembers the first time you used his given name, back when the two were ever so painfully getting closer in your relationship. your voice was soft that evening, and you felt a little reluctant to call him “osamu” for the first time.

if only you knew how his heart skipped a beat at that time—how badly he wanted to ask you to say it again, to bless his ears once more with the warmth and gentleness of your tone. but of course he disguised his initial reaction with a lighthearted response: “ara, ara, is that what you’re calling me now, bella? how scandalous~”

it still feels odd to him, hearing his name being spoken and laced with so many emotions: love, frustration, concern, neediness. he loves it every single time, and he could listen to you say it for hours. maybe it’s a bit indulgent, self-serving even, but he doesn’t necessarily care.

besides, you seem to like calling him by his first name or nickname rather than his last name, given how many times it accidentally slips out at work.

though he doesn’t mind at all, and quite frankly, no one at the agency really does either. it’s a place of chaos and strange wonders, so nobody bats an eye at what you call each other.

to him, it’s more of a sign of how comfortable you are, forgetting where you are and who’s watching in the first place. it warms his chest.

──────── small drabble here (,,>ヮ<,,)

“you okay, ‘samu? you’ve been unusually quiet.” you mumble, gently stroking his hair while his head rests on your chest.

he looks up at you, his heart fluttering once again at the nickname. he actually wonders if he could ever get used to it.

“why, i’m quite alright, my dear~ can’t a man dwell in silence and listen to his lover’s heartbeat once in a while? how am i supposed to hear it when i keep talking?” he says, his voice smooth and steady as ever.

“that is, unless you like hearing me talk? in that case, how about we talk about the new suicide method i thought of. it involves you and your soft, squishy thighs–”

you pull on his hair, causing him to shut up real quick and let out a whine that may or may not sound somewhat indecent.

“bad dog.” you say, and dazai only gasps as he feigns offense, leaning in closer.

“bad dog? how dare you call me such a simple-minded, voracious, filthy beast? i’m so much more intelligent and well-behaved than a stinky mutt!” he says dramatically, pouting ever so slightly.

you giggle at that, feeling just a tiny bit bad. not for him obviously, but rather for the poor dogs he insulted. “i’ll never understand why you hate dogs so much.”

dazai only looks at you, his expression softening at your laugh. he doesn’t really want to answer, so he settles for attacking you with kisses instead.

“simple, they’re sloppy. but i suppose if i’m a dog to you, i may as well act like one too, right?” he teases, his kisses wet and more like he’s licking you, which feels ticklish.

you squeak out in fake disgust, laughing and trying to tilt your head away. “gahh, osamu, stop! that tickles! bad dog, very bad dog!”

eventually, dazai stops and pulls away, giving you room to catch your breath after laughing so much. god, he loves hearing you laugh.

chuuya.:

when you first called chuuya “chuu,” cooing the nickname right into his ear at work, the man was utterly perplexed, confused and embarrassed all at once.

he’s a man of authority at work, and having you rile him up so easily with just a single word, no matter how cute and innocent, is really bad for his ego.

but despite everything, and even while already plotting how to get back at you, he can’t deny that it sounds extremely sweet rolling from your lips.

it gives him a sense of normalcy he’s never known in his messed-up life. how could he, when he literally grew up as a lab rat, got stabbed in the back more times than he can count, and now works in the mafia? and he’s actually decent at his job, too.

no person who’s good at killing will ever feel remotely close to normal or human. no, more often than not he feels empty, like he’s not living but merely existing to serve.

when you enter the picture, however, his perspective changes. he feels happier waking up now, less miserable and more fulfilled. he loves that you provide a stability in his life he so desperately yearned for. after all, the only stable thing he could rely on back then left him, betrayed him. and blowed up his car for no fucking reason at all.

and while chuuya is utterly scared that you’ll betray him too, that you’ll leave him like everyone else did, these small domestic moments silence his doubts.

they remind him that you’re not like the others, that you love him, unconditionally and irrevocably, and he clings so desperately to that feeling. because your love is one of the few things in his life that makes him feel truly human—wanted instead of needed.

it’s such an ordinary thing for couples to do, giving each other nicknames. while he calls you things like darling, sweets, or doll, too, knowing you came up with something personal—even if it’s just a shorter version of his name—makes him feel cozy and warm.

the thought that you even cared enough to come up with something, that it’s specifically meant to tease him and make him feel something, means more to him than you could possibly imagine.

however, just because he’s softening over a nickname doesn’t mean he’ll let you off the hook. if you want to play, he’ll play dirtier. he’ll tease you with names he’d only use in the bedroom, or touch you where he knows it will leave you wanting more.

──────── small drabble here (,,>ヮ<,,)

“ahh, you’re so damn cute, chuu~ look at you, so focused on such trivial work,” you tease him, sitting on his lap in his office and pinching his cheeks playfully. “my pretty man.”

chuuya only raises a brow, averting his gaze from the file he’s reading and now staring at you. a small smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“heh, cute? is that really all you can come up with to annoy me?” he says, drumming his finger gently over your hip with the hand that’s steadying you.

“oh no, i didn’t mean to annoy you… is my pretty little executive upset i called him cute?” you say in a higher pitch, cupping his cheeks and smiling in amusement.

now you’ve got his full attention. he knows exactly what you’re doing—calling him little when you know how insecure he is about his height.

still, he keeps his emotions surprisingly well in check. though maybe it’s only because he refuses to give you the satisfaction of a reaction when you’re being such a brat. at the same time he can’t let you get away with it so easily either.

“call me little again, i dare you,” chuuya warns, though his voice sounds anything but threatening.

“my little chuu-chuu,” you mumble, a challenging glint in your eyes.

“you’re being bratty on purpose, aren’t you, doll? want me to correct this behavior so badly, hm? well, that can certainly be arranged.” he whispers against your ear, his grip on your hips tightening.

a small shiver runs down your spine at his words and your cheeks grow hotter. this is what you wanted, after all. you love riling him up so much, don’t you? not that he minds. this gives him a reason to be extra rough with you tonight.

“gonna wipe that stupid grin off your face. just you wait until we get home.”

ranpo.:

ranpo is so used to people respecting him, taking him seriously, and using honorifics that compliment him on how intelligent he is.

after all, his ability to deduce the truth or predict an outcome from the smallest of clues is astounding—both to outsiders and to you.

so when you called him “ranran” for the first time, he took it as a challenge. your intentions were innocent enough, just a cute nickname you came up with and wanted to call him.

but who is he if he doesn’t feel just a little mocked by it, as if you weren’t taking him seriously?

to him, nicknames are endearing, yes, but also childish. he prefers the respect that comes with honorifics, the praise tucked neatly inside them. so why should he put up with such antics from you? because you two are together? hardly a reason. at least, that’s what he tells himself at first.

he doesn’t expect you to grovel at his feet (though, admittedly, the image is rather amusing), but he does hope you’d respect him.

truthfully though, the more often you call him by that nickname rather than his actual name, and the way your voice grows softer, more playful when you say it, the less it actually bothers him.

in fact, it starts to feel genuine. adorable, even. and ranpo loves seeing you happy. it makes his heart swell in a way he doesn’t quite know how to deal with.

maybe being seen as just ranpo, your ranpo, the love of your life—hopefully—is sometimes more pleasant than being treated like the world’s greatest detective.

obviously, he’d never admit that. so he keeps up the dramatic act, because letting you know how much it gets to him would be far too vulnerable.

but being with him for some time now, you can read him more easily than he’d like to admit. much to his demise, you realize way sooner than he’d prefer that he actually loves it.

perhaps he shouldn’t let you hang around dazai so much. that man keeps teaching you how to read lies through body language. and now, that’s something even ranpo can’t hide. much to his annoyance.

──────── small drabble here (,,>ヮ<,,)

“soo, how’s my sweet ranran doing?” you ask, plopping yourself over his shoulders and chair at the agency.

it’s a busy day, but you finally have some free time. and what better way to spend it than by annoying– uh, spending time with your ever-so-loving boyfriend?

ranpo, who’s been munching on some snacks, leans his head back and looks up at your face, trying to hide the small smile tugging at his lips with a mild pout.

“don’t call me that,” he says, but you only laugh, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

“you know you love it, don’t act like you don’t~” you tease, sitting down in the chair next to him. you rest your head on your hand, elbow on the table, gazing at him while stealing one of his strawberry pocky.

usually he’s the one stealing snacks from others and never lets anyone take his sweets, but as long as it’s you, he allows it.

“you know you’re gonna have to replace that,” he says, watching you eat the pocky with a small hint of amusement.

“aww, is ranran sad his sweets are getting eaten? how ever can i make my darling forgive me?” you muse, playing into his shenanigans.

“well, for one you could go buy me more sweets. but i happen to accept kisses as payment as well,” ranpo says, leaning his upper body ever so slightly closer.

you roll your eyes playfully but eventually comply with his demand, kissing him tenderly.

he smiles at that and holds you in place as you try to pull away, enjoying the warmth radiating from you.

“is the nickname really that bad?” you ask, amused.

“hmm… let’s just say it’s not the worst thing your pretty little mind has come up with.”

atsushi.:

atsushi is used to nicknames, most commonly known under his nemesis’ own: weretiger. though, it isn’t really an intimate one.

he’s quite certain akutagawa only calls him that to mock him, to reduce his worth as a human being by not even acknowledging him as one.

and while he doesn’t mind all that much—since it’s one of the few things that doesn’t sting so horribly, considering what else he was called during his time at the orphanage—nothing could have prepared him for the nickname you decided was his the moment you started dating.

yes, you didn’t even wait until the two of you were settled before addressing him with it. ever since you met atsushi, the name lingered on your tongue, aching to be spoken out loud.

though, he knew long before you first called him “‘sushi” that this would be his nickname, because he saw that you had already saved his contact under that name.

he wasn’t prying, god no. he was just helping you find your phone by calling it. it’s not his fault he was the one who found it first and happened to sneak a peek at the display.

but in all honesty, he didn’t think much of it at the time. after all, his first priority back then was bringing your phone back to you.

it didn’t cross his mind again until much later, when you two finally got together and you called him that sweet, adorable name out loud. and it didn’t help that you said it so casually, so absent-mindedly, in such a soft voice that he practically melted.

he still melts at it even now. he tells himself he should be used to it by this point, but he simply can’t wrap his head around how cute you sound and look saying it, always beaming at the sight of him.

truly, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt more loved in his entire life than with you. and that nickname especially makes him feel cherished.

he doesn’t know exactly why. maybe it’s because it’s from you, specifically. or maybe it’s just the fact that it reminds him he’s grown into someone who can be loved, someone who isn’t useless or worthless

──────── small drabble here (,,>ヮ<,,)

“you know, every time i call you ‘sushi i actually want to eat sushi. maybe atsu is a better nickname,” you mumble, sitting cross-legged while waiting for atsushi to finish braiding your hair.

he loves braiding your hair in the evening before bed. it’s comforting, and a nice way to spend a little more time together before actually falling asleep.

“ah, i’m sorry…?” he says, not entirely sure how to respond. after all, he didn’t choose his own name. though he’s not sure he’d change it even if he had the chance.

“mhm, don’t be. maybe i just need another nickname for you, one that doesn’t make me hungry,” you say, dismissing his apology quickly—you don’t want him to feel bad about his name too.

he’s far too precious to you for that. and you’d never want him to feel more like a burden than he already does.

“what about atsu? would you like that?” you ask, leaning back against his chest as he finishes braiding your hair.

atsushi wraps his arms around you, adjusting you so you’re leaning more comfortably against him.

“hm… i don’t hate it. but you don’t have to change the nickname. we could also just keep some sushi in the fridge to deal with your cravings,” atsushi says.

“ah, and with what money are we going to afford that? besides, sushi tastes best when it’s fresh. nice idea though.” you mumble, closing your eyes as sleepiness begins to wash over you.

“i’ll just stick to ‘sushi. i don’t think i’d be able to erase it from my memory anyway. i’ve had you saved like that in my contacts since forever,” you say, smiling proudly.

“yeah, i know,” atsushi says with a soft chuckle. you open your eyes and look at him, not having expected that.

“how come?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.

“w-well, i saw it when i was helping you search for your phone, and my name popped up on the display since i was the one calling you. it wasn’t on purpose…”

“mhm. you sure you didn’t snoop around?” you tease him, smiling lightly.

“of course! i would never go through your stuff, love,” he insists, emphasizing his words so you’ll believe him.

“i was just teasing, ‘sushi. don’t worry, i know you’d never do that,” you say, pulling his face down to press a quick kiss against his lips, which he gladly returns.

۶ৎ note.: i could go on and on about this! having someone create their own nickame just for you or simply calling you by your first name is so dear to me. personalized nicknames over universal nicknames any day !! also, i decided to end my hiatus a day early because i miss writing sm. and just a small last thing, i’ve been getting requests during my hiatus. while i don’t mind that, please keep in mind that in the future my breaks might be longer and that i won’t write them until after my hiatus. hope you guys can understand and respect that! ♡

tagging.: @illchooseanamesoonipromise @xyliskz @justyna4a @sakui1 @irlyluvosamu

↪thanks for reading! reblogs & comments are much appreciated! MLIST

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.