It was the middle of the night. The air wasn’t cool and breezy like it was in your last city, no, it was damp and muggy. A sheen of sweat had built up on your forehead and you tried desperately to ignore how Nightwing’s eyes followed the drop of sweat running down your neck. Ever the flirt. You were tired, hungry, and running on two cups of cheap coffee. The latest case was a classic, some amateur cartel smuggling stuff they shouldn’t be at the docks of Bludhaven. Easy and simple enough one would think, if it wasn’t for the fact that this has been a lead you’ve been following for months.

The legendary Penguin, yes, The Penguin from Gotham was trying to spread his roots into various surrounding cities. It started off small, but the operation was steadily growing bigger and bigger. Soon, the city may fall into his mangy clutches, and that was something you couldn’t afford nor would allow. Not in your precious city.

Unfortunately for you, Bludhaven’s new resident was making it much more difficult than you would have liked.

“For what? Knocking out my suspects for the next who knows how long,” you scoffed, staring down at the numerous unconscious bodies before you. “I wanted to question them first thing on the scene.”

Nightwing’s smile dropped into an exaggerated wince, and he followed your line of sight. “I mean, I’m sure I can get one of them up and going in no time.” He kneeled down, grabbing the shoulder of the body on top of the pile and aggressively shaking them. “Hey, buddy! Wakey wakey!”

You rolled your eyes with a huff, digging in your long coat for your latest stress reliever. It took a hot second, but eventually your hands snatched up a small, well loved box. You pulled it out, popped it open, and picked out a fresh cigarette. The box returned to your pocket and in exchange you pulled out an old lighter, scuffed and all, but hey it still worked. You put the cigarette in its rightful spot between your lips and cupped a hand around it, impatiently getting to work on firing up the lighter.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Nightwing piped, tilting his head.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you muttered, eyebrows scrunching in frustration. No matter how many times you flicked it the lighter just wouldn’t cooperate and your poor thumb was suffering the consequences. “We’re not exactly friends.”

Finally, a small flame flickered out with a hiss and you lit the stick. You nearly moaned at the sensation of hot smoke filling your lungs, and you tilted your head back to blow it all out.

“Ouch,” he drawled, drawing himself up to full height with a small groan.

Adult, male, possibly in his thirties?

Your mind got to work on assessing the man before you, running your eyes up and down his figure. You’ve done it a hundred times before in a desperate attempt to figure out the man before you. Just who exactly was under the mask? The one that haunted you even in your dreams.

Clearly he worked out if the toned muscles straining against his suit said anything. In all areas, you realized. Arms, legs, thighs…

“My eyes are up here sweetheart,” The very man you were ogling said, two fingers pointing at his own. You quickly inhaled and the nicotine went down the wrong pipe, causing you to hysterically cough with red hot cheeks. You desperately attempted to ignore the deep chuckle you heard, and only came back to reality when your cigarette was plucked from in between your fingers. “Enough of that. These things can kill you, you know?”

You scoffed, awkwardly clearing your throat after. “Didn’t know you were as certified in medicine as you are with the law.”

Nightwing laughed once more, opening his mouth to speak when a hand clapped you on the shoulder. You jumped with a swear, swatting your laughing partner in the shoulder. “Jesus, Dave! How many times have I told you to knock that off?”

“Now is that any way to treat your comrade in front of our resident celebrity?” Dave chuckled, brushing his blonde hair back with his other hand and flashing Nightwing a grin.

Dave, your assigned partner, was a lot more fond of the vigilante than you were. You remembered all the headaches you got from just how much the blonde sang the other praises back at the station. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he had a puppy crush on the hero.

Nightwing smiled back, though you noted that it was somewhat strained. The thought caused you to raise an eyebrow. The man in black and blue loved attention from what you could remember, basking in the crowds that surrounded him in the daylight hours. So what made him so shy now? “You flatter me, sir. It’s all simply in a day’s work.”

Dave beamed at the attention. “And we are forever grateful for it. Now, if you don’t mind, me and my partner need to get back to the station.” He threw his arm around you, turning his head to you and ignoring the burning stare at the side of his head. “Clean-up crew just arrived. We just need to head back to the station for a quick statement and then we can handle the rest in the morning.”

“Thank god,” you muttered, and without looking back at Nightwing you turned and walked back to your cruiser with your partner beside you, his arm still wrapped around you.

. . .

Dick couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he realized he loved you.

Maybe it was when he first started his activities in Bludhaven as Nightwing. The first night he ran into you he could remember the loud sigh of irritation you let out after evaluating him, clearly not a fan like he would have thought. Not to toot his own horn or anything…

It was just nice to not be thrown at for once, his reputation following him from one grim city to the next. He was used to endless praise and claims that he could do no wrong, people frothing at the mouth not just for Nightwing but the esteemed Richard John Grayson, adopted son of the legendary Bruce Wayne.

Or maybe he realized when he first met out outside of his persona. His first day on the police force, fresh out of the academy and in desperate need of his first paycheck for rent (he refused to rely on Bruce’s money once he moved out, no matter how much it pained him to do so…). His supervisor, an older man named Patrick, was giving him a tour of the station.

It wasn’t until he heard yelling from across the room that he first laid eyes on you outside of his alter ego. You were furious, absolutely furious from what he could tell. Your victim? A poor newbie, just like him, sitting down in front of you with her hands folded in her lap and head tilted down in shame.

“-have any idea what could have happened!” He caught, pausing in his stroll and focussing all his attention on you. “What if he didn’t miss? What if our robber wasn’t such a shit shot and the bullet hit you?”

“I-I just,” the woman mumbled, twiddling her thumbs and shying back from you. “I just thought that it would be better if it was me who got hit instead of you!”

If you were furious before, you were absolutely hysterical now. “Listen here! My life is no more important than yours. Got it? What you did wasn’t brave, it was stupid. You have a family to get back home to. People who need you outside of these walls. You can’t be there for them if you’re dead on the street you hear me?”

The woman before you mumbled something, and upon you yelling at her to repeat finally lifted her head up and firmly said, “I understand!”

You nodded, taking a deep breath and stepping back. “Good, good. From here on out I don’t ever want to see you pull some shit like that again, okay? Everyone’s life matters here, I don’t care about you being brave. I care if you get back home.”

Despite being teary eyed, the woman gave you a watery smile as she nodded. It was clear she was touched by how much a superior seemed to care.

Said superior, upon realizing that everyone in the main office was staring, snapped. “Get back to work!”

As if she was talking to him personally Dick snapped up straight, turned his head, and continued following his assigned officer.

“Don’t mind them,” he said, patting Dick on the shoulder with a smile. “They look scary but they really just care too much. You’ll learn the longer you stay here.”

Dick desperately hoped so, his heart racing as he attempted to peek over his shoulder to get just another glance of you. He couldn’t. So, he decided to put his own investigative skills to work.

Detective [First Name] [Last Name], partner of Detective Dave Richards. You’ve been on the force for nearly five years, three in Star City and now two in Bludhaven. You had no partner to go back home to, but you did have a cat. The rest of your family stayed behind in Star City, but you still contacted them frequently.

He wondered if they were proud of you.

A multiple award winning investigator for the good work you did.

An exemplary member of the Bludhaven Police Force…but withdrawn in every social aspect of the work he quickly learned.

You hated speaking to news outlets. You were too blunt and weren’t good at sugar coating the nitty gritty details of public cases. You hated being on camera. Your smile would be just a bit too big and strained to convince anyone that it was natural. You especially hated the parties the station would throw every once in a while to ‘enforce comradery’. He could always find you in the very back corner of the main room, fidgeting with a cup of alcohol he knew you had no desire to drink.

Like now.

The party was in full swing, a celebration for another one of Penguin’s plans to sink his teeth into Bludhaven foiled. It was a group effort on everyone's part, and the chief wanted to emphasize that fact through the gathering.

Dick, personally, didn’t mind these events. Being a Wayne he’s had more than his fair share of galas and charities, this was easy compared to that.

Or, it should have been.

“You’re not subtle my boy,” Patrick muttered to him, and Dick’s gaze snapped from you to the older man with flushed cheeks.

“If you ask me I’m not being obvious enough,” Dick pouted, taking another sip from his cup. While not normally a fan of drinking he relished in the burn down his throat.

“You’re staring them down like a creep,” Patrick pointed out, watching some officers play a miserable game of charades. Half the players were too drunk to comprehend anything and the other half were chatting it up with one another instead of participating. “You need to get some guts and just walk up to em.”

“I have guts,” Dick muttered, redirecting his attention over to you. You were now flipping through your phone, paying the party and its people no mind. Most likely going through various spare care files and the like. You were a workaholic like that, never allowing your mind to fully rest.

Dick could think of a few ways to empty that mind of yours and get you to finally relax…

Patrick scoffed. “Sure, kid, sure.”

“I do! Watch, you’ll see, I’ll charm them right here, right now.”

He tilted his head back, downing the rest of his drink for liquid courage. Slight regret stewed within him when he tried walking afterwards, tilting left then right, but he didn’t care. No, all his attention was zeroed in on you. Beautiful you.

The light of your phone lit up your face in the dark corner, and even from across the room Dick could see how it accentuated your features. Your (e/c) eyes, accessorized by the dark eyebacks underneath. Your chapped lips that you had a habit of picking, but were probably still oh so soft. Physical traits that most would see as a flaw, yet Dick couldn’t help but adore.

He was half way across the room, currently trying to wobble his way around a desk, when he caught sight of his nemesis in the corner of his eye. Heading in the same direction as him.

Dave.

Fucking Dave.

Dick had no qualms against Dave, no in fact he slightly admired the man’s constant positive attitude. He was so vastly different from you in every way, his light never dimming despite the constant emotional hardships that came with the job. It was almost hard to believe that you two made such great partners.

But like the old saying goes, ‘opposites attract’...

Not if Dick had anything to do about it.

It was ridiculous. Utterly pathetic and ridiculous, this one sided beef that he had with a man who was completely oblivious to it. For crying out loud, he was pretty sure Dave didn’t know Dick existed at all!

But all was fair in love and war. And Dick was deeply in love and refused to back down.

So he picked up the pace, swerving past various paper stacked desks and ignoring multiple attempts at others trying to converse with him. He cursed his natural charisma at just how many tried, his popularity within the station showing at the wrong time. Every so often he glanced in Dave’s direction, gauging just how close the man was getting to you, and would speed up his walk in a desperate attempt to get to you first.

The distance between you both was quickly closing, and against his better judgment Dick walked faster. He was nearly jogging at this point, gaining multiple looks for it, but he couldn't care less. All that mattered was getting to you.

He was about to declare victory, only mere steps away from you when tragedy befell him. He should have known that he wasn’t that blessed, not with his history.

Dick tripped on his own foot.

Dick Grayson, an ex-flying Grayson, the renowned and agile hero Nightwing, tripped on his own foot in front of the love of his life.

All he could think on his way down was gods, any out of the dozen he’s faced, please smite me.

An exploding pain in his face was all he could register next, ranging from his forehead down to his nose and then his chin. All in sweltering pain and suffering from some minute form of rugburn.

Yeah, not his finest moment.

“Christ, are you okay?” A sweet voice asked above him, and it took Dick a minute to realize it was your sweet voice that asked him.

Unfortunately for him, all that came out when he tried to respond was a pained moan.

“Wow, you really ate it there huh, dude,” Dave’s irritating voice piped up next, before a set of arms lifted him from under his own.

The world was tilting on its axis and everything was far blurrier than it should be. Everything had a double of itself, and while Dick wouldn’t mind two of you, he knew that was bad. Even worse, there were two of Dave when the man leaned over to get a look at his face and winced. “Damn, that’s sure gonna leave a mark.”

“Way to make him feel better,” you rolled your eyes, finally pocketing your phone and looking up at Dick with sympathy. “Seriously, are you okay? We can check to see if the station nurse is anywhere around here.”

“I got him,” Patrick's voice piped up from behind him, and Dick thanked whatever god was out there that instead of smiting him, they sent a literal angel to help him. The older man’s arms took over for Dave, wrapping around his waist and throwing his arm over his shoulder. “I think it’s about time he went home anyways. He’ll have one hell of a hangover. Detectives.” Patrick gave a nod of farewell and before Dick could embarrass himself any more turned them away and walked them out to the exit.

God, Dick was such an idiot…

. . .

The next time Dick saw you was only a few days later, barely recovering from the scene he made at the party.

He did everything he could to avoid you at the station, and it seemed to work in his favor. You were still assigned on the mass Penguin case, and Dick himself was still limited to city patrol and parking tickets. Suffice to say it created the perfect schedule of avoidance for him.

On the downside, he missed you oh so much. Which is why when on his patrol as Nightwing he quite literally jumped at the chance to see you once more.

It was nearly midnight, funny how that seemed to be his ideal time to talk with you. You were just leaving the police station, shoulders sagged in exhaustion and eyes bleary. All you wanted to do was go home, shower, and snuggle with Lady Puursephone.

A familiar set of feet landing behind you, however, proved that it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Awfully late for you to be going home,” Nightwing spoke, mock sympathy pouring from him.

You rolled your eyes and refused to look back at him, continuing on your way to your apartment. You prayed that he would get the hint and go back to whatever hole he crawled out of, but when did the universe ever do what you want? Instead he jogged up beside you, arms lazily folded behind his head. Thankfully, he decided not to speak any further than that.

Bludhaven, despite its massive rise in crime as of late, was actually quite nice at night. It, like Gotham, was a city that never sleeps, but sometimes you got lucky and managed to walk home with little to no crowds to slow you down. The moon, dim as it was, fought to shine against the pollution clouding the sky and if you squinted really closely, you could just barely make out the stars in the night sky.

The two of you turned a corner, silence still encircling you, when you recognized an itch in your throat. Knowing exactly what you craved you stuck your hands in your pocket, pulling out a small box. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Nightwing scowl. 

“Why are you so into smoking now? You never did it before,” he huffed, glaring as you stuck the stick in between your lips and whipped out your lighter.

You shrugged. “Dave lent me one a few weeks ago to help me relax. Guess I just got hooked like everyone else.” Distantly, you could hear him grumble something that sounded awfully like ‘of course it was him’ and you turned to look at him inquisitively. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head and kicked a rock in his path. It reminded you of something a child would do. “It just seems like you and him are awfully close.”

“Of course we are. He’s my partner.”

“Yeah, I bet he would like to be more.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snapped, stopping and turning to look at him. You coughed slightly, still not quite used to all the pungent fumes that came with smoking.

Nightwing continued on a few more steps before he stopped, sighed, and looked at you with crossed arms. “I’m just saying I know guys. They act all friendly and act like they have your best interest at heart, when all they really want is to…you know.”

You glared at him. “No, I don’t. And even if I did it would be very unprofessional of you to suggest.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“What, so just because you’re the city’s self-proclaimed savior you have to act like mine too?”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying at all! I just…” He sighed, running his hands down his face but then wincing. “Ouch!”

Alarm bells rang throughout your body, and before you knew it you tossed your cigarette to the ground and rushed over to him. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? You idiot, why are you talking with me instead of getting treated?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he waved off, backing away from you. But you were persistent, and with every step backwards you took one forward. The two of you continued this dance until Nightwing found himself with his back to a nearby brick wall of a building. It was rough and uncomfortable against his suit, but he couldn’t help but press into it when you stopped right in front of him.

“Show me,” you demanded, and for a second he could feel his legs wobble at the authority in your voice. You were so close he could smell not just tobacco, but your natural underlying scent. He could see every lovely feature you had up close, and for a second his eyes betrayed him and flickered to your lips. When you saw him hesitate you let out a huff, grabbing his wrists and pulling them off his face with little effort. Your eyes narrowed as you scanned his face, noting the scratches and what looked to be friction burns on his face. “What even happened?”

“I, uh…” Nightwing began, looking everywhere but your eyes as red slowly began to creep into his face. He whispered something, and when you dared to move closer he finally blurted, “I tripped!”

You blinked once, twice, thrice. “You what?”

If his face wasn’t red before, it was completely beat now. “I tripped.”

You went quiet for a few moments, staring him down as if you were searching for a lie, and when you found none you finally backed up. “Moron.”

Nightwing balked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” was all you said, before resuming your walk to your apartment.

His jaw dropped, staring at your figure, before running up beside you once more. “Uh, rude! I could have done it saving someone you know! This could be a battle mark!”

“Uh-huh, and is it?”

“Well, no, but that’s not the point!”

At that you let out a small laugh, and he nearly tripped over his own feet (again) at the sound. He stared at you for a few moments, before a victorious grin overtook his face. “You laughed.”

“What,” you questioned, glancing at him with furrowed brows.

“You laughed! Just now. You never laugh!”

“I do, you just never gave me a reason to.”

“Oh, so it's my misery you find joy in.”

“Your words, not mine.”

You bickered back and forth, unaware of the time that passed as you did. You didn’t know it, but your heart felt lighter as you did. Despite the headache he’s given you so many times in the past, Nightwing was genuinely…dare you so fun to be around.

Before you knew it you arrived at the front entrance of your apartment building.

“Well, this is me,” you gestured.

Nightwing nodded. “That it is.”

Neither of you made a move, simply staring at the other. Mapping each other out, as if attempting to ingrain the other in your minds.

Eventually, though, you snapped out of your trance, turning to open the door before a final thought popped into your mind. “Oh, and be careful from now on, Grayson. Wouldn’t want others catching onto you.”

And with that you shut the door in his face, ignoring the wide eye stare burning into your back.

— ᨳ he constantly talks to henry 2.0 about you and your relationship when you’re not in the room, insecurities, praises, worries. the goldfish hears it all. ଓ

— ᨳ guests who wants to go into his room to talk with him are constantly going to you for help with the secret phrase. ଓ

— ᨳ when he wants to hang out with you, he’ll just lurk around you while looking all gloomy. he wants to ask, but is too afraid of rejection to do anything. he just hopes you pick up on the ‘hints’ he’s giving. ଓ

— ᨳ he finds his nervousness about social situations to be better managed when he’s talking online… meaning he can and will spam you with game invites. ଓ

— ᨳ he will always make sure to have a controller for a second player set up just for you. he actually bought a custom controller for you, and gets mad whenever anyone else touches it. ଓ

— ᨳ whenever he feels envious about you speaking to other men he tries to recall times you’ve comforted him to calm himself down. ଓ

— ᨳ when you’re not sleeping over he cuddles into body pillows and imagines it’s your body. ଓ

— ᨳ he has many photos of you set as widgets on his phone. ଓ

— ᨳ while he enjoys his alone time he does have you on the back of his mind a lot, you live rent-free in his head. ଓ

— ᨳ he tries to get you to cosplay as his favorite characters a lot !! his phone’s camera roll is filled with dozens upon dozens of photos of you. ଓ

— ᨳ while he often fantasizes about the idea of you sitting on his lap while he plays… he’s not so eager about actually acting it out. he likes to completely focus in on his games. ଓ

— ᨳ he has a folder on his pc that is filled with multiplayer games you like. ଓ

♡ 𝒪. Dazai -`♡´-

It isn't difficult for Dazai to get people he wants, simply walking up to them, flirting his way with ease through the conversation, and gaining their number by the end of it. He has no troubles expressing his admiration and adoration for those he finds awe-strikingly beautiful, galivanting his way up to their side with some smooth line and a graceful chuckle, and they're hooked, line and sinker, in a matter of seconds.

You will watch from afar as he does this countless times, observing in silence, not quite understanding what he is doing, or how the people he speaks to have sudden flushed cheeks, giggles that sound like melodies, and accept kisses on hands from a stranger. On any other ordinary day, that would be a nightmare scenario for you, being approached by some guy that thinks he has a chance at going on a date with you and then daring to touch you without your permission. You have never understood the complexities of romance, finding actions by those blinded by "love" succumbing to such idiotic outbursts and saying the dumbest things merely because someone told them they were pretty.

In summation, you believed there wasn't any possible way for you to fall victim to "crushes" since you are hyper aware of yourself at all times, and no one has ever earned the privilege of catching your eye enough to make you stumble over your own words in conversation.

At least you believed that until you're standing on the sidewalk watching Dazai yuck it up with some random girl ahead of you, leaning against the building while she is practically pinned beneath him, and an incredibly foreign feeling is stirring in your chest at the sight. She giggles and twirls her hair, other hand coming up to rest on his chest, and you're too caught up in watching her to see that he has been side-eyeing you repeatedly - to make sure you are seeing this.

Now, Dazai has noticed a few months ago you had begun to exhibit weird behavior whenever around him: your sentences are no longer stringed with prolific thought and unwavering confidence, but you have resorted to shutting up or providing short answers; you sit a little closer to him on the subway; if you two touch, you immediately pull away, and he has caught on numerous occasions how terribly your hands shake. He'll watch as you stare down at them with furrowed brows before stowing them away in your pockets, pretending none of that happened, and continue on with your day as he walks beside you. He has taken note that you have recently become a bit hostile toward him whenever he stops to talk to someone in efforts to obtain their number.

That was the final piece to the puzzle of your mind he has been trying to put together, coming to the conclusion on his own before you could: you like him. Which is about time, since I've been trying to get you to notice me romantically for almost a year now. Plus, he may or may not have discussed it with Ranpo to help him meet the deduction - who only assisted in the matter for a month's worth of lunches and 'a Ramune a day' as bribery to keep it hush for using his "ability" on you.

You stand there, awkwardly, this new emotion rampaging, but you have to wait for him to finish. Just... stand here and wait. That thought bothers you, and you can't understand why. You have been experiencing strange happenings where your heart is irregular, no matter how many visits to the doctor you make - you've been going so often that the doctor has to turn you away until you're actually having a heart attack. When you express concern that you think you are, she just rolls her eyes and sends you on your way. You can't bring yourself to talk to anyone about this, and you're worried mentioning it to Dazai won't be of much help since he isn't a medical professional.

Eyes flicker between the girl gushing over him, and your friend laughing as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and that seems to be your undoing. You storm up to them, those mischievous amber eyes on your immediately, the shadow of his infamous smirk plastered on his lips, and she gives you a strange look. "We're leaving." You demand, speaking for both of you, and she glances at him.

"Do you know them?" She tosses a thumb in your direction, and that makes... whatever is happening worse.

"Yes, he knows me! He ditched me to come talk to you for some weird reason when we are supposed to be spending time together!" You huff, primarily throwing all of this in his face, and he is still wearing that infuriating arrogance you have seen too many times to count. His attention is off the stranger, her name gone with the wind, and he gazes at you intently. "I'm glad you find this so funny." You spit, eyes narrowing at him. "God, when will you ever take anything seriously?" You scoff, shaking your head and stimping off in the opposite direction you came.

He pushes himself off the side of the building, but his bandaged arm is snatched by the girl, whose brows are raised in question. "What?" His tone is flat, making her give him an incredulous look.

"Aren't you wanting to go out?" She asks, since that was apparently the point of the conversation. His head slowly cocks, eyeing her up and down, then lets out a laugh of disbelief.

"Don't flatter yourself. I was using you to make them jealous," he slips his arm away, leaving her shocked with jaw slacked to race back up to your side. You're fuming, partially from the stunt he pulled and the other part because you haven't the slightest clue of what's wrong.

He falls into step with you, but you purposefully ignore him, digging around for your headphones to shove in your ears, but his hand comes up to stop you, and he is still sporting that dumb smile. "Have we figured it out yet?" He asks, and you blink up at him.

"Figured what out? That you're an annoying, arrogant man whore that talks to anything that breathes?" You stop yourself from going further, lips parting and just as surprised with yourself as he is for your words. You eye him up and down repeatedly, fingers trembling like all the times before, and your heart is not only pumping a mile a minute but aching from seeing him with that other girl. He shares a similar look, continuing to hold onto your wrist, and his eyes suddenly soften, the aura of his inflated ego melting away.

"I've noticed you've been having a difficult time understanding some stuff," he begins, and you want to be surprised he's noticed, but it's Dazai - he's so observant, he could see a broken arm before I could feel it.

Alas: "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm doing just fine."

"Did it bother you seeing me talk to her?" He probes, gesturing vaguely to where he left the stranger behind, and your eyes couldn't help following that direction to see she is long gone. Your neck slowly cranes back to look at him, swallowing, and nod. "Do you know why?" You hesitated, eyes dropping down to the ground, then shake your head. "Would it help if I told you why?" Your line-of-sight snaps back to meet his, jaw flexing and relaxing, cheeks getting warm when you realize his large, gorgeous hand is still holding onto you.

"Go ahead and enlighten me, detective," you murmur, almost a whisper, trying to uphold yourself as if none of this is getting to you.

"Don't get mad," he gently sings, wearing a normal smile fit for a normal person, and his eyes are lively in the afternoon sun beaming down on him. The sight quickens your pulse, and quite frankly, pisses you off. "It's because you have a crush on me." He tells you, and you stare at him, unblinking. "Yeah, it's true. You have romantic feelings for me. You wanna be more than my friend." He keeps going, and you begin lightly shaking your head, brows knitting together. He nods in response to your declination.

"Oh yeah," he eggs on, knowing for a fact this is eating away at you. "You wanna hug me, and kiss me, and maybe even go on a date with me!" He is now relentlessly, tortuously teasing you with all of this, your face beet red and hotter than the asphalt, making him laugh more. "And then, maybe after that, you wanna sleep with me!" He takes it so far you get flustered, hands flailing around that you drop your earbud and have to cover your face, because you truly never thought this to be possible. You still don't understand anything that is happening to you, having to take his word for it, and you think you're going to throw up.

"I'm gonna kill myself!" You scream, tearing off down the sidewalk, and Dazai couldn't get more of a kick out of this, swiftly nabbing your abandoned earbud before racing after you, closing the gap quickly due to his long legs, continuing to tease you like a couple of fifth graders on the playground.

♡ 𝒞. Nakahara 𐚁

You stand there with your hands at your side, fingers twitching every so often while you stare ahead at Chuuya, receiving orders from him for the next mission, but you can't seem to concentrate. Your brows knit together briefly in different intervals, and your heart seems to be pounding in your chest as you are in the same room as him. This has been happening more frequently, no explanation, no amount of deep thought can help you understand what is going on. The only thing you have been able to deduce is it only happens around Chuuya. You were sure to test the theory by being alone with many other people you know and talk to, and your heart rate stayed steady the entire time.

You had been running experiments on yourself since you have also hit a wall in conversation. Usually, you could engage perfectly fine with the executive without issue; however, roughly around the same time your heart decided to beat erratically, you have been stumbling over your words, getting flustered, and you're trying way too hard to avoid saying anything embarrassing - not something you were concerned with prior. You have reduced yourself down to silence, and unfortunately for you, he's taken notice.

He stops speaking, you don't realize it, and he is staring at you: your chest rises and falls more unevenly; you're not just still, you're rigid; eyebrows twitch; the corner of your mouth flinches; fingers flex and relax quickly, repeatedly; your eyes are spinning in your sockets. His brow gradually raises, slowly setting the packet down, and he just continues his observation. He is able to recognize you aren't listening to him; you're staring through him. "Are you high?" He blurts, your state similar to someone attempting to pass it off, in the most unsubtle way possible, that they are not under the influence.

The question snaps you back to this reality, blinking rapidly, and shooting him an incredulous look. "I beg your finest pardon?" You scoff, arms folding over your chest. "I don't do drugs." You tell him, pointed. "I'm actually incredibly insulted you would even accuse me of that, Mr. Nakahara." You nose turns up, pulse cranking up to an inhumane beat, and he nods slightly.

"Then why're ya actin' weird?" An eye peeks out at him before turning more to avoid looking at him.

"I am perfectly perfect fine and normal," you fumble over your tongue, using an excessive amount of words, saying it with full confidence, and he can't help but letting out a puzzled chuckle, walking over to you with those calculated and slow steps. Each one makes your nerves buzz, your bloodstream turn to ice, and pricks at your ears with each soft clack clack clack along the polished floor.

"People that are 'perfectly perfect fine and normal' don't usually avoid eye contact when proving they are," he circles in front of you, thumb and finger carefully grabbing your chin you force you to look at him, so he can thoroughly examine what could be causing the issue for your weird behavior, but all he notices is how red your cheeks are getting instead. We've been close before, this isn't new. His face is insanely close, noses almost touching, so he can better examine you, and the faint scent of his fading cologne is still strong enough to invade your senses, and the light smirk on his lips is making you want to die. Why in the world do I feel this way?! It's just Chuuya!

"Ya got a fever or somethin'?" He asks then, your face immensely flushed, then carefully removes his glove to press the back of his warm hand to your forehead. You're shutting up now, no witty remarks or playful backtalk like you typically throw at him, just standing there in front of him with sweat on your lip and in your trembling palms. "Never seen ya act this way. What's goin' on?" He cocks his head, removing his hand to pull the glove back on, and you swallow as your fingers come up to touch your cheeks. They're burning against your ice cold fingertips.

"I uhm..." You clear your throat, hands drifting back down to your sides, and you shift in your spot, avoiding looking at him directly - you know those stunning blue and brown eyes are analyzing you, and it makes your skin set aflame under your suit, feeling exposed to a degree no other human being has ever experienced. "I have been feeling... strange." You begin, unsure how to begin telling him what you're going through, and the air is cold. He waits, expectantly, trying to catch your downcast gaze, a bit antsy himself as his teeth carefully chew on the inside of his cheek. I wanna be patient, but I also wish you'd just spit it out.

"I don't really understand what's going on," you admit, shoulders slumping, and your hands come back up for you to fiddle with your fingers, making his brow cock upward. "I've been running some personal tests to see if maybe I need to see a doctor, and I kind of did go. And the results were embarrassing." The worst part was that the doctor was Mori, and he just kind of chuckled before sending you off.

"Well, embarrassing is better than dyin'," Chuuya gestures for you to continue, his interest piqued now, given he knows how rational you are of yourself and others, running experiments on yourself isn't out of the ordinary - but an embarrassing diagnosis? I'm all ears. "Go ahead, you can tell me. I'd say we're close enough to share these kinds of things." Your eyes dart up to meet his, a strange sincerity nestled in that two-toned gaze you hadn't seen before, and your heart shot itself up so far in your throat, you choked. His hands are immediately out, to try to help you, but you wave him off as you cough into your elbow.

"Wh-Whenever I'm near you..." You inhale, wiping the small tears that formed at the corners of your eyes, slowly releasing it, and shake out your hands. "Whenever I'm near you, I can't breathe. My heart is constantly racing, and I get nervous, and it's really difficult to talk to you." He blinks once, face frozen with a quizzical expression, and he doesn't know what to make of that. "When I went to Mori, for a checkup because I was worried about such a heartbeat per minute, he just... laughed at me, saying it was a 'crush'!" You emphasize the "diagnosis" the in-house mafia doctor told you, after reassuring you otherwise your levels are normal, and Chuuya's body is the rigid one now. He stares at you, baffled and bemused that you openly admitted that your issue is that you like him, then he remembers you aren't well-versed in the area of romance and lack comprehension with feelings such as love. From his understand, you've never experienced a crush - he feels a little honored he's your first one.

Wait... A crush on me?!

He suddenly lets out an airy, almost arrogant chuckle, making attempts to bounce back from his shock, and the lopsided smile on his mouth is sending your fight or flight into overdrive. Your body trembles, hands tremoring with anticipation shivers, and your teeth chatter. "Easy, babe. I tend to have that effect on people." He croons, tone cool, and your brows furrow. What kind of effect on people?

"Babe...?" You echo, and the arrogance is dwindling once again. Shit, forgot who I was talking to. "Chuuya, I'm really confused." You confess, voice pitching to helplessness, and the embarrassment is worsening. He clears his throat, standing up straighter and drops his arms down to his side, trying to become serious.

"How you're feelin' is what happens to people when they like someone else. More than a friend," he explains, trying to be gentle, but he kind of feels like he is speaking to a toddler. You look at him with big eyes, the innocence and lack of understanding prominent, and he wets his lips as he chooses his next words carefully. "You feel like that, around me, because you like me more than a friend." He speaks a bit slower, and you nod once.

"Right..." You nod once more. "Are we sure it's just not an anxiety attack? I do get those often and it feels quite similar to this." He stops for a brief second before letting out another laugh, covering his mouth, but it's too late since you already saw and heard him, and your heart palpitates in place. "I think it's happening again right now." You breathe, pointing to your heart. He would be way more flattered over this if he didn't need to help you work through these newfound emotions.

"Do you feel anxious?" He asks, stepping closer, closing any gap there may have still been, and your nose wrinkles.

"N-No?"

"Then it's not an anxiety attack," he soothes, head tilting, chain on his hat following his movements and clinking softly. "Don't worry, I'm more than happy to help ya sort of this shit out, yeah?" He offers his hand to you, and you glance down at it before meeting his eyes again. His fingers merely extend out more, inviting you, and you hesitantly rest it down in his palm - not before trying to jerk it away at first, forcing him to grab your fingers as delicately as possible so you don't run away.

"Let's try this," he brings you hand up near his face, and you watch him closely, suspicion raising, before his lips carefully, gently, place a lingering kiss to your knuckles. It feels like you just got shot right in the chest, steam coming out of your ears, and you quite literally yank your arm away to turn on your heel and bolt out of the door. He stares after you, bewildered, hand slowly grabbing his hat to pull it down over his face, and he starts bursting out into laughter with cheeks about as deep as scarlet.

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You sigh heavily when you see Dazai wobbling and trudging his way up to you, a crooked smile on his bust lip, and his glasses dangling from his fingers. He tosses a hand up at you in a wave, and as he gets closer, you see his eye is beginning to bruise. “Hey, there’s my favorite flower.” His voice is a bit scratched and groggy; you cock a brow.

“Osamu,” you drag his name out in a warning, arms folded as you stand in front of your off-campus apartment door. “What have you done now?”

“What? I can’t go around defending your honor?” He coolly lets out, but it’s a bit of a whine. You roll your eyes, practically in defeat, and shake your head.

“We’re adults now. Why are you entertaining high school shit?” You murmur, ushering him inside and leading him to the kitchen where he plops down, his opened hoodie splaying out at his sides, and he winces as his arm comes around his stomach. In the light, he looks way worse than you expected, and some blood is trickling down his chin. He sees the way you’re inspecting him, and he offers another cheeky grin.

“I know, I look hot. You can say it,” he breathes, but he’s wrecked. Your fingers carefully push back his mop of hair, then set his glasses off to the side as you go in search of an ice pack.

“I told you before, you don’t need to go fighting my battles for me anymore,” you sigh inward, grabbing a bag of frozen corn you have no intention of actually using, wrapping it in a towel, then offering it to him.

“Yeah, well, it’s what I’m supposed to do,” he grimaces and grunts under his breath when he resituates himself, pressing the bag carefully to his gradually swelling mouth. “It’s part of being a boyfriend.” He mumbles then, eyes downcast when his hand slips under his shirt to gingerly massage his stomach. You shake your head again, not necessarily disappointed but some other thing close to it; he’s been getting in between you and bullies for as long as you’ve known him, feeling the need to protect you since he wasn’t afraid – he should have been though, since it always ended with him being injured in some way, shape, or form. You have felt the guilt follow you your entire life, nursing him back to health, having to tell his parents the wounds are because he was protecting you, and while they never yelled at either of you, you had it in the back of your mind they didn’t really want him talking to you any longer.

However, no matter how much they quietly protested behind your back, it was the only time he defied them, because he loved being your friend more than worrying about being in pain.

“Where else did they get you?” You’re already grasping the hem of his shirt, lifting up to see some bruising under his hand that he tries to hide. “Dammit Dazai!” You scold, brows downturned as you shove his hand to the side to get a better look: the color appears normal, but it’s big. “You antagonized them, didn’t you?!” You’re storming back to the freezer, jerking it open and aggressively rummaging around in for another bag of frozen vegetables, and he just has to sigh, to brush you off, since you often react this way after he comes stumbling home in this condition.

“I didn’t,” he weakly defends, a sharp inhaling causing the pain to sting worse in his side. “They were running their mouths, one v three.” He tells you, eyeing how you’re shaking your head with disappointment and irritation, wrapping another towel around the bag then stomping back over to hold it on his bruise to at least prevent swelling. “Why are you so upset?” He asks, dumbly, his free hand reaching to brush his fingers through your hair.

“Because you’re an idiot,” you mutter, kneeling down to sit on the floor, and allow your head to cautiously rest on his chest.

“You used to call me your hero,” he jokes, struggling less to speak, but it’s hidden in his tone he’s bothered you aren’t calling him that right now – or much less anymore. “Would you prefer the Kumo to be coming to your rescue?” He goes on, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, and your eyes roll at that comment. He’s been frequently mentioning the hero that has run rampant in the different districts of Tokyo, dubbed “Kumo” since they have spider-like powers, leaving behind webs in their wake, anonymously helping police arrest criminals, prevent murders and gang wars, help kids find their parents, and the occasional cat stuck in a tree or dog in a fire get safely to their owners. Journalists, gossip rags, and the head of the police force have been trying to find out the identity of Tokyo’s Kumo, given they wear a mask and full-body suit to hide every aspect of themselves; the media bounty for any information on this superhero is rising higher with each passing day. The last you had heard, it was over eighty million yen. And you want in on it – that kind of money is life changing.

The thing is, “the Kumo” can’t exactly come to your rescue, and you can’t exactly turn them in for cash since you are Tokyo’s Kumo. You haven’t gotten around to telling Dazai about this, a secret you’ve been keeping to yourself since freshman year of college. Somehow, while at a bio-engineering laboratory for a random zoology course you took merely for the credit, you got bit by a spider during the tour and haven’t been the same since. Your eyesight wasn’t necessarily terrible before, but you had woken the next morning with beyond perfect vision, seeing clearly near and far; your hearing was heightened, able to pick up on many different voices and sounds within the city; your reflexes were beyond compare, sensing things before they happen; and you were… sticking to stuff. Your hands clung to anything they touched – walls, doorknobs, posters, leaves, buildings, clothes, hair – and that made for some rather interesting scenarios that you had to try explaining away to your boyfriend, who for once found your behavior strange, but couldn’t nail any solid evidence to use to confront you on it. There’s also the matter of a new, completely random spider infestation going on at your shared place – unsure if that is related.

At first, you didn’t really know what to do with your abilities, learning at the worst time that you can shoot spider webs from your body, which added to the constant sticking, and you were stuck in one for about twenty minutes – because this might as well happen. You had gotten out eventually, after essentially sitting in a forced time-out to think about this absolutely insane situation you have gotten pulled into, just before Dazai came home, and had the mess conveniently cleaned up without a single trace of excess webs – however, spiders were still lurking in the corners. It was when you had bumped into a simple thief, someone that had taken what looked like a standard gym bag, and all it took to get it back was a flick of your wrist to shoot a string of web to yank it backward. Much to both yours and the robber’s surprise, it was stronger than you expected, and the guy wasn’t willing to stick around to ask you questions, especially considering who they stole from was approaching. They definitely didn’t ask you anything, just grateful to have their belongings back, and you were left standing there utterly confused by the reflexes you exhibited in the moment – as if it was second nature.

The webs being sturdy gave you a bright idea, and you learned had to web sling through the city for faster transportation. Not without a little trial and error, of course, littered with bruises and busted or scraped skin, but it is so much more fun than walking.

Thus began your newfound purpose of helping others, tinkering with a costume until it was perfect to conceal your identity while giving you flexibility to move, learning and training to better understand these powers, and coming to the realization that people actually enjoyed having you around in their time of need. However, it was difficult to keep up with the monumental task you had set for yourself, considering underneath your mask, you’re still a college student trying to make it to graduation, working at your part-time job, and maintaining your relationship. There are days you want to give up, disappear, and hope for the best that you can get by in life having these extra abilities that annoyingly but rather conveniently help you with your day-to-day.

Then there are other days, when everyday civilians are thanking you for your services, kids looking up to you, and ensuring safety of the place you live that pushes you to keep going. Those people don’t care who is hiding under the mask, marveling at your powers and selflessness, your capabilities and willingness to help, your strong will, and all around the nicest person most of them will ever interact with in their lifetime.

Alas, you’ve been doing this for about four years now, and you’ve been able so far to keep your identity a secret from Dazai. You don’t like that you’ve kept something this serious from him, but you have convinced yourself it’s for the greater good, as well as for his own safety. You have had a few run-ins with menial villains, as any superhero would, and yeah they weren’t all that terrible, but it’s better if you keep them separated from your private life. He’s suspicious, though, and you’ve almost slipped up in front of him on numerous occasions, but for now, at least to your current knowledge, he has no clue. This isn’t to say there have been strains on your relationship, given crime and trouble isn’t ever on pause, and you would be out all different hours of the night before you come trudging back into your place, exhausted, a bit battered and bruised, and plopping down on the couch to sleep for the evening. You’re also a horrible liar.

There had been a small handful of nights you shuffled in, wearing your normal clothes and suit stuffed in your bag, that the light flipped on to reveal Dazai standing there in his pajamas, a confused but disappointed expression etched into his features, and he’d have questions you weren’t sure you had appropriate answers to.

“Where were you?” He asked one particular evening after you had a run-in with a low-level gang that was rampaging Shibuya, causing trouble and starting to get violent, a special request from the police that if the Kumo was listening on the report to get to the scene immediately. You made it out primarily unscathed, at least in the face, and you stared at him wide-eyed for a moment too long while you conjured up an excuse. “It’s almost two in the morning.” He added, brows knitting together, eyes distraught behind his glasses, and you hadn’t been checking on the time.

“Uhm…” You started, swallowing, adjusting your grip on the bag strap, and your gaze started darting around to come up with any reason at all that he would believe that you were out until almost two o’clock in the morning without checking in with him. “I-I decided to pick up a late-night shift at the store. You know, stocking during close and stuff.” You rushed out, but that isn’t something your location does – they stock off-hours in the morning before open, and Dazai knew that because you always complained if you were asked to come in at five in the morning and would rather stay later at night. “We received a big shipment that we had to get stocked quickly, couldn’t wait until morning.” You cleared your throat, beginning to step forward when you noticed the change in his demeanor. An eyebrow raised as you stared at him, watching, and his jaw flexed.

“Are you cheating on me?” He forced the question out, not one he would ever have thought he’d need to ask, but it had been weighing heavy on both his mind and heart, no other explanation as to why you would be running around all hours of the night, making up half-assed excuses for why you’re tumbling in that late, and you unintentionally had been distant with him. You were stock-still in place, blinking rapidly, and at a loss for words at such an accusation. A labored breath escaped, and you weren’t sure if you could keep this up any longer. “If you don’t want to be with me–”

“What?” You interrupted, voice hoarse, and bag shrugging down to the floor with a thud at your feet. “No! No, Osamu, no, I’d never cheat on you!” You stepped closer, but his hands were in his pockets instead of reaching for you or wrapping you up in a hug. “No, it was work, I’m serious.” You continued with the lie, desperate to claw and cling to any old thing your tired brain could think up, and so many ‘I’m sorry’s were already following. He wanted to believe you, everything telling him he should, but he knew you weren’t at work – he called, and no one was there.

“Okay, okay!” He had to pump the brakes on your mouth running a mile a minute, but he still didn’t make any moves to seek physical touch or comfort from you. “Just… Go take a shower or something.” He gestured up the stairs, vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, and you merely nodded, grabbing your bag to sling back over your shoulder, and climbed each step as if it was its own individual mountain.

After that day, he was more suspicious than ever, beginning to get increasingly more nosy, and you’ve caught him a few times too many rooting around in your stuff. You try not to be angry with him for it, considering you are keeping a ginormous secret from him, but you also are nervous he might start figuring things out by putting two and two together. He’s been asking to share locations – the both of you – and you are running out of reasons why you are against that, and he keeps every terrible lie in the back of his mind, noting you haven’t given the same reason twice. He’s been wanting to spend even more time with you once classes are done and if neither of you have work to do – he’s been closely monitoring your work schedule, making it harder for you to say ‘I’ve picked up an extra shift’, considering you’re supposed to be part-time. He’s been visiting you more frequently at work for lunch breaks, and picking you up after your shift, since he had noticed you are always running off elsewhere when your shift ends.

On the outside, Dazai is an overbearing and borderline controlling boyfriend. On the inside, you’re panicking because Tokyo needs their Kumo but your already clingy boyfriend suddenly needs all of your undivided attention. You are just so grateful he wasn’t accusing you of cheating, considering you’d never, but also didn’t know how to prove you weren’t. On top of that, he ended up coming up to you a few days later and said: “I’m not sure why I even thought of that. We’re both total losers, there’s no way you’d be able to find someone else to date.” You hit him upside the head. And then your hand stuck to his hair that you had to pretend was on purpose until you could figure out how to release it. He just thought you were really mad at him and taking it out on him hardcore.

Needless to say, you’re just glad he hasn’t kicked you to the curb, and he’s getting one step closer to figuring you out. 

You sigh, readjusting the frozen bag better on Dazai’s stomach, and shake your head against his rumpled shirt. “The Kumo’s too busy with more important things to help me with bullies that peaked in high school.”

“That’s what I’m here for, then,” he reiterates, combing his fingers through your hair before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We don’t need to bother a superhero with something I’m perfectly capable of handling.”

“I really wish you’d quit engaging with them,” you sit back up, getting to your feet, and walk off in the direction of the bathroom to get the first aid kit. He watches after you, sucking in a breath then carefully exhaling, shifting in his seat to be as comfortable as possible, and wondering what your deal was with this spider person running around. Anytime he mentions them, you seem to be disinterested, or feigning interest, acting as if you don’t really know too much about them, sometimes implying he was a mere “fanboy” on the hero. To prevent eyebrow raising, you engage in enough conversation about it until you can segue the conversation elsewhere.

He never used to question you, your actions, your terrible lies, having known you for so long he figured he knew you inside and out. He did notice, after freshman year, you were different, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. Before, albeit more on the passive end, you always looked to him to solve your bullying problems, no matter that you two were in college now, since it seemed people are mean no matter their age; after the odd and mysterious change, you didn’t seem to ask him for help anymore on your issues. He truly can’t do too much for you, but he is more than willing to fight your battles if it means ensuring your safety; if he has to take a few blows to the face and stomach, he will – he always has, and he always will.

You have just been so strange.

Though, while you are under the impression your identity as Tokyo’s anonymous superhuman has been well-hidden up to this point, since he had calmed down on the helicopter tendencies, Dazai actually has plenty of evidence that he is gearing up to present to you on why he is confident in pinning you down for all of this. He just… doesn’t know how to address it. For the past year, he had dropped asking you too many questions, which was a relief, but it was primarily because he had decided to follow around the Kumo. Clearly asking you directly wasn’t getting him anywhere, so he figured he’d have a better chance at watching the superhero in action firsthand.

He and every other civilian believes the hero doesn’t have a set schedule, available around the clock, always on time whenever they need them to show up and save the day. However, he has noted that the Kumo is most active in the afternoons, coincidentally when classes are done – more specifically, your classes. He knows that isn’t sufficient, as there are plenty of people available in the afternoons, so it doesn’t rule anyone out completely, other than night class attenders or people with late-night jobs. Your shifts can vary, since you work at a convenience store nearby campus, meaning you may be available in the afternoon or you may not be, it depends; Kumo happens to be available when you are and are not working, but he can’t bring himself to rule the hunch out completely. That has made his eyebrow arch at the thought when he was jotting it down in his notes, since that implied you were either lying about working or taking off mid-shift to go handle business – both things typically uncharacteristic.

Sometimes he’ll sneak around town when he sees the Kumo swinging by on their string of web, momentarily captivated by the ability, seeing them zoom by, flicking their wrist effortlessly to shoot another string to swing from one building to the next. He’ll forget about his personal mission to uncover the identity when he continues watching their body fly and flip around, envious of the gymnastics, and has almost counted you out completely from the stunts alone – you cannot do any sort of flip to save your life, barely a somersault. That’s when he has to remind himself that this person has powers, enhancing their usual capabilities, possibly making someone who previously was an athletically inept loser become an Olympic contender.

Caution is not his forte, just as he interferes with your personal fights, he will try to get involved with fights from strangers and gangs, his thoughts consumed with being right that it’s you under that mask, the sheer idea of you being in potential danger kicking in his instincts to protect you as he is running into the middle of a gang war – only to be swept up by Kumo and swung off to a safer location and scolded by them that ‘this isn’t a job for a civilian’ and to ‘head home’. He watched closely to the demeanor of the masked hero, watching their hands fly and move around as they spoke, how a fist would place on their hip, and the voice was obviously changed in pitch and tone in a lousy attempt to disguise it, to be undetectable. He noted how similar it was to getting scolded by you, especially when he was at home with you the next day, he purposefully knocked something off the counter, an extremely cheap and ugly mug he purchased strictly for destruction, and paid close attention to your demeanor at how you berated him for knocking the cup over, hands flying and moving around, a fist on your hip, but your voice was normal. Recognizable.

He’d be lying if he wasn’t thinking about trying to hitch another ride on that swinging web.

The two of you only had two classes together, early mornings on Mondays and Thursdays, back-to-back, and Dazai would have the news quietly playing in his earbud in those classes, listening for anything life threatening that would call for the need of a superhero. So far, nothing has come up, and you are always in perfect attendance for both classes, unless you have told him otherwise due to being sick at home – definitely not faking since he can see the sniffles and redness on your nose and in your eyes, and you’re too weak to even get out of bed to send him off. He has, weirdly enough, on those days still seen Kumo swinging around without a care in the world, preventing bank robberies and armed theft at the corner store, and even being held at gunpoint by someone trying to run away from the scene. He may or may not have heard a nasty sneeze coming from underneath that mask shortly after disarming and wrapping the perpetrator to a streetlamp to await the police’s arrival for a proper arrest, a stuffed and clogged voice speaking into the phone.

Dazai has tried researching until his heart gave out on such a phenomenon. It took him countless days and meaningless hours scouring the internet for anything that would point toward spider-like superpowers that could infect a human being, the idea so illogical. However, he has no choice but to believe it, since someone is literally flying and swinging around on spider webs, he is fairly certain emit from their body, just like the arachnid.

It took quite a bit of that wasted time for him to find a possible connection, coming across an article deep within Google’s archive of searches, past new articles and fanfiction and apparent interviews, was a report on findings for genetically modifying living creatures to enhance their senses and lengthen their life span, and if they were successful, it could be considered ‘the most revolutionary discovery in scientific history’. Starting with a little spider. The document was hundreds of pages long, and Dazai spent hours diligently reading every single word on the pages, pounding back can after can of coffee with his glasses pressed up high on his nose, and his tired eyes couldn’t stop taking in everything he was finding out.

“‘O.M. Industries?’” He murmured as he read the company over and over again, his weary brain doing everything it can to connect the dots. It isn’t until his gaze veered off, eyes crossing from exhaustion, to a picture of you in a lab coat and laboratory, that he saw the bio-engineering’s name stitched faintly on the front of your white coat, and his heart dropped. There were plenty of other students in your class that went, the zoology enrollment huge, it seriously couldn’t be you. He decided the next morning to call in for an appointment to meet with the lead scientist of the lab and project to find out more, which is coming up here soon.

Meanwhile, you are seriously just trying to survive. You have done this for four years now, you’d think it would all be easier by now, but it isn’t. If anything, it feels harder. You want to tell Dazai, but with him running up on the sidewalk trying to interfere with your superhero business when you’re the Kumo is stressing you out beyond belief and is exactly why you haven’t gotten around to it yet. Being out in the general public, being counted on for things primarily handled by the police, made you come to the realization you had been blind completely to the way people are. They’re dangerous and violent if they feel like that’s all there’s left for them to do, and pulling your boyfriend into it makes your heart twist and clench, sick to your stomach, and incredibly irritated that he thinks he’s "big and bad" enough to jump in the midst of gang wars or robberies.

The first time he stepped on the scene, running up as if he alone could stop a bullet, your jaw fell to the concrete. You faltered, almost getting yourself hurt in the process, a pocket knife zooming through the air past your head.

“You need to go!” You commanded with your altered voice, panic settling in while you held him back, being a human shield, and he had the audacity to argue.

“No way! You can’t do this on your own!” He scoffed, and a small part of you then thought that maybe he already knew, since he was speaking as if he was aware that was you under there. You had sensed it before you heard it, the world seeming to move in slow motion compared to you, the slow pull of someone’s finger on the trigger, the sonic boom of the gun going off, and having scoop him up in your arms to quickly evacuate the scene. He clung to you, shaking some in your hold, eyes squeezed shut as he hid his face in your covered neck, and you rolled your eyes while moving between buildings with your webs. This is the guy who insists on solving all of my problems.

You dropped down to the ground, him not letting you go, unaware he was also standing upright without fear of gravity pulling him down, and you lightly patted his back. “Look, you can’t run around doing things like that.” You lectured, finally peeling him off of your body, and he actually pouted. “While it is always appreciated to receive assistance from a citizen, this is a dangerous job dealing with dangerous people. You aren’t equipped with taking on the duties I do.” This was not a new speech you have had to give, mostly to teenagers and children, which I guess is the same difference when it comes to Dazai.

“How are you better capable to take on such danger?” He challenged, arms folded, and he glared down at you – that didn’t help your anxious mind in thinking he already knew. You’ve seen that look before, one he gives when you’ve been out-of-character or letting people torment you.

“I shoot webs,” you countered, swiftly lifting your wrist to shoot a web at his mouth, and he stared at you with big, accusatory and angry eyes. His fingers came up to try clawing away at it, but it was thick, and if he could speak, he’d be interrogating you and asking how you became the Kumo in the first place – because that is such a “you” thing to do. “Go home. Stay out of danger, I’m sure you have someone worried sick about you.” And you left him with that, leaping up into the air and firing off another string, latching to the nearest building to swing back to where you once were. Your mind was preoccupied as you tackled the group of gang members, unsure if you handled that correctly, if you had given yourself away somehow; why he felt the need to come to your aid. Even if there was the possibility he still didn’t know, that would mean he was trying to help a random, masked stranger with the yakuza merely because they were outnumbered. And that was certainly not the last time he did that, either, somehow at your side to help with fists up and determination in his expression.

That sounds exactly like my Osamu, and how can I be mad at him for that?

Dazai had a difficult time that night working to get the web mouthguard removed, astonished by how sticky it was. When you walked in, you found him in the bathroom, frozen, a pair of sharp, pointed scissors near his face, and you had to pretend to be shocked at the state. Your eyes locked in the mirror, his narrowing briefly before correcting, then turned to hand the scissors to help get him free.

“Oh, I dunno, ‘Samu,” you giggled, taking the sheers regardless. “I kinda like you being this quiet.” His brows had downturned in a cartoonish manner, and muffled sounds tumbled out but it only made you laugh more. “I guess the Kumo’s got a sense of humor!” He rolled his eyes and plopped down on the toilet seat, folding his arms, and pouted.

Why, yes, yes you do.

You have been avoiding the police radio all day, needing a break, falling behind on your studies, needing to ease up on superhero duties since you have caught Dazai on a handful of occasions following around the Kumo with a notebook, pen, and sometimes even a camera like a little undercover investigator. You’ve been wanting to make a joke to him about capturing some pictures to turn into the tabloids for a bit of extra cash, but you knew there’d be no way to explain away your knowledge of him sneaking around since he hasn’t mentioned to you directly, his partner, that he’s stalking the hero. You have made attempts to rummage around for said notebook, but he keeps it at his hip at all times and hides it with diligence because you have yet to come across it. I just wanna know what you think of me.

In your rooting around, mutual nosiness, you did find a note off to the side where he has an appointment with “OMI” in a couple days, it flying over your head completely. You couldn’t even be bothered to wonder if it was a doctor’s appointment.

While you can avoid listening in on the police radio all you’d like to, crime and villains never cease, and your senses are going haywire, every nerve in your system sending signal after signal for your feet to move. You’re hardly over the threshold of the bathroom before the movie theater crashing sound of a car barges through the side of your apartment, where the kitchen is, and your eyes are trembling in their sockets so badly, you can barely make out Dazai’s figure stumbling along the hallway while he holds onto the wall. His eyes are bugging, whipping over his shoulder to look at the damage, and sees a standard four-door sedan lodged in a giant hole, knocking out the table he was previously sitting at.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, arm moving slowly as it scrambles for you when you rush to his side, hands all over his body to make sure he’s in one piece, completely ignoring the fact that a vehicle is just… there. His arm wraps around your shoulders, hand pressing your head to his chest, amazed and terrified gaze trained on the catastrophic mess, and you’re not even sure what this could have caused it. Suddenly, this may be out of your wheelhouse, considering you live on the third floor. “I didn’t think that happens in real life.” He swallows, holding you tight, forgetting about his pain in an instant.

“It usually doesn’t,” you whisper, daring to break away from him, inching your way to the ginormous opening that the car is half-hanging from, and there is more noise, yelling, screaming, and a roar of an unknown beast sounding in the middle of the street. You peer down, heart catching in your throat at the height, your suit not on to placebo you out of the fear, and your brows twitch together at the sight of a somewhat familiar body rampaging the street. He’s large, as big as the Hulk, but less green, and his fists are the size of wrecking balls, slamming them down into the asphalt to create craters. People are running left and right, screams for help, asking what’s happening, who that is. Where the Kumo is. Your hand fumbles to rest on the metal door, to steady yourself, and you feel a chest behind your arm with shuffling perking your ears.

“He grew,” Dazai murmurs, astonished, audible bafflement in his tone. Your head whips in his direction, distraught and puzzled, looking up at his pale face.

“What are you talking about?”

“Reks,” he nods in the direction of the hulking giant of a human, those absurd fists continuously coming down and knocking around, picking up more cars to toss in the air, and the billowing of his deep voice tells you this can’t possibly be real. And yet, you got bit by a radioactive spider that gave you superpowers, but this. This is what’s unbelievable. “He wasn’t that size when I last saw him.” You dart your line of sight back to the scene, watching equally large feet stomp around, and you whirl your entire body around to face Dazai.

“You fought that?!” You scream, pointing backward at him.

“In my defense, he wasn’t that big when I did!” He argues, gesturing in the same direction, and you scoff. “He was maybe only a little taller! And… And his clothes fit!” He adds, indicating this is an incredibly sudden change to see in your usual antagonizer.

“Dammit Dazai!” You stomp your foot. “No wonder you look so busted up!”

“How was I to know he was Reks on ‘roids?!” He counters, pointing back at him so your attention is on that and not your boyfriend. “He is demolishing the city! What are we gonna do?” Your head shakes in bewilderment, holding a hand up and blinking rapidly as you collect your thoughts.

“We?!” You exclaim. “We are leaving! Go, get a move on!” I demand, starting to shove him in the direction of the front door, but he’s fighting with you, trying to push your hands away.

“You can’t run away from this!” He emphasizes, stopping you both in your tracks, trying to essentially let you know he knows. “They need you!” Just as he tells this to you, an inhale that feels too heavy and weighing down on your lungs freezing in your chest, another guttural bellow comes from the enlarged Reks outside, faint, but clear.

“Bring out the Kumo!” Another car horn blares, getting quieter and quieter with the assumption it is flying in the opposite direction to a different building. You’re stopped cold, staring up at Dazai, feigning cluelessness because you don’t know when to quit, and you have to ignore everything happening outside until you are sure he is safe. “Come out, little spider! I wanna squash ya!” Reks continues antagonizing, trying to draw you out, and the helplessness and hopelessness of the city is coming crashing down on your shoulders while they are in terror, and you’re nowhere to be found.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you shake your head again, lowering your gaze and beginning to shove him again toward the door, leaning down to snatch his shoes so he can get them on to run as far away as he can. “I can’t help people. I’m not a hero. I mean, shit, look at you, you’re in that condition because I can’t defend myself.” You ramble, avoiding looking at him, forcing your own shoes on and grasping the knob. However, his hand comes out over yours, and your heart is hammering in your ears. Your nerves are lighting up once more, making your teeth chatter with anxious anticipation, and fingers tighten around it against his protest. “I can’t save anyone from this. I’m just a person like you. There’s nothing we can do other than save ourselves–”

“You keep saying I can’t fight your battles for you. Now’s the time to take him on yourself,” he says, gentle but firm, and the sentence hits your heart like a ton of bricks – similar to the car hitting the building. “You’ve always been stronger than you think, and I knew it in the back of my mind, but I just wanted to be the one to protect you. Prove it then that you don’t need me.”

“I always need you.”

“I can’t fight that,” he tells you, honest for once that this far exceeds his match. You keep avoiding him, letting his words sink in, not surprised in the slightest such an inspirational speech is coming from him at a time like this, somehow knowing when it’s best to take things seriously, and letting you know he has full faith in you.

You nod slowly, letting out that breath you had been holding onto, and twist the knob to hurriedly push him out of the door. He is already protesting, asking you what you think you’re doing, and simply slam the door in his face to lock before he can try getting back in. “Run as far as you can! Get to safety! Kumo should hopefully be here soon!” You tell him from the other side as he is kicking and banging on his end, rattling the doorknob, and repeatedly calling out your name, demanding to be let back in. You have to ignore him, racing off to your room to find your suit, feeling silly that you have to change before going to fight off an overpowered version of your high school – and now college – bully that’s been trying to lure your superhero persona out this entire time.

You have to discreetly get yourself up to the roof of your building, tugging your mask on as you climb up the wall out of the bedroom window that is facing away from the villain, but kind of near where you last left your boyfriend. Careful steps get you there, nervous you have to face this guy on your own, unsure how he could even get to be this ginormous, and realize the wreckage is getting far more worse that you cannot buy yourself enough time to calm down. You stagger to your feet, stepping up on the ledge, and bite down on the inside of your cheek when you kneel down in position, staring over at the mess he’s made. The city is gonna have a hell of a time cleaning this up.

A quick, shrill whistle catches Reks’ attention, his head whipping around, but due to his large size, it comes off more as slow motion, until he ultimately thinks to look up and notices the Kumo he has been calling out to has finally arrived. You offer a two-finger salute, and he is mildly annoyed you’re so high up off the ground level. “There you are, Kumo!” He shouts, pointing an extra meaty finger in your direction. “Come down here and fight me so I can take you back where you belong!” His feet stomp down again, more craters emerging, while objects and people around him bounce into the air from impact. Cars bigger than the one in your kitchen lift off the road, and you have to fight against your fears – while ignoring that incredibly strange comment.

“Man, Reks, I know they said you needed to strengthen up to stay on the wrestling squad, but don’t you think you’ve gone a little overboard?!” You shout in return, maintaining a nonchalant composure with such a great distance between you two.

“The name is ‘Rex’ now!” He corrects with a smash of his hand into a streetlight pole, and you blink at him from behind your mask.

“Yeah, that’s what I said, ‘Reks’!”

“No! ‘Rex’!” He repeats, and you stare at him.

“Yeah, ‘Reks’!” You call back, and the civilians are now scrambling to run away while the two of you continue to shout “Rex” and “Reks” to one another, enough of a diversion for everyone to escape, knowing that underneath that engorged skull is still the dimwitted lowlife that only got into the same university as you because his parents are the largest donors. Not because of his brains.

He lets out a roar, something like an ogre that has been hidden away in a cave for hundreds of years, grabbing someone’s abandoned vehicle as if it’s a Hot Wheel, then ripping the thing clean in half. “Stupid spider!” He chucks them backward, colliding into more buildings behind him, and a few people start spilling out of them in the opposite direction. “It’s ‘Rex’! R-E-X!”

“Oh!” You drag out, snapping your fingers. “Sorry, I don’t speak English.” Every nerve in your body sparks, your feet kicking you up in the air on instinct and just miss getting hit by a dulled traffic light, the wires sticking out grazing our heels. You sling a string of web out across to the other building, swinging down and closing your legs tightly together with your feet upward, and knock into his nose on the way down, before flying to the rooftop; his head falls backward, but he remains upright, not that you were expecting to actually get him down. He yells out in pain, the attack more an inconvenience than an actual blow, and you crouch down with your elbow propped on your knee. “Oops, sorry there! Didn’t see you. They really should consider installing web crossings for me.”

“I’ll crush you!” He shouts, visibly enraged, face bright red and teeth bared. An extremely large vein is protruding in his forehead, and he kind of looks like a military reject.

“How cliche!” You gasp, feigning fear, and your hands come up to your mashed cheeks. “A giant human being threatening to crush a tiny spider? Whatever will I possibly do?” You antagonize, your hand now placed on your forehead, trying to keep him distracted with eyes on you so that there aren’t any more innocent bystanders getting stuck in the crosshairs. You think for a moment, him standing there seething, not used to having people make fun of him, until you hold your finger up. “Oh! I know!” Quickly, in rapid succession, you start swinging from different rooftop buildings, circling him, arms coming out with every cross of his path, masses of webs sticking his feet to the concrete, and he’s too busy trying to grasp you to notice.

You can’t help laughing, getting a bit of a satisfactory enjoyment out of it all, taking on someone who has been a jerk to you for years finally getting what he deserves without actually, physically, hurting him back. While your webs are strong against the average human being, they aren’t much to this monstrous thing; it slows him down enough to make him have to free his feet, then get stuck with every fwip in his direction, leaving you to wonder how much of this will it take to tire him out.

As you’re having your good fun with attempts of tuckering out Rex, stomping and stumbling around like a giant man-baby, spider webs everywhere, a voice that brings everything to a halt – including your heart – rings out in the empty street, garnering his attention and causing you to lose your grip, falling down to the ground in a rolling heap. “Hey, Reks! Come finish that fight we started!” Dazai provokes, the other whirling around to look at him, and squints, his molecularly rearranged brain trying to remember who he is. “You know who I am.” He puts his glasses on, and Rex points at him when the realization hits, a vein in his neck now popping out.

“Freak!” He roars, the newfound, boiling anger fuel for his inhuman strength to worsen, his trapped feet tearing themselves away to start a slow tromp toward your unbelievably moronic boyfriend. “It’s ‘Rex’!” You are rushing to your feet, pushing yourself off the ground, and coming up behind Rex to reach Dazai.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” You scream, tackling him mid-run, not stopping – even when he yelps and grunts in agony from the impact on the giant bruise on his stomach that now makes more sense – him clinging to your body in a frantic mess as you shoot a string up to a nearby building to soar through the sky to avoid the oversized mits reaching for both of you. “I told you to run away!” You scold while you two swing deeper into the city, trying to get him closer to a medic or hospital, and he heaves, wrapping his arms tight around you. Your nervous system is wrecked, senses firing off at different intervals, not able to tell what is what, and you can’t hear him at first – despite being right by your ear.

“…–ar! Car, car, car!” He’s screaming, eyes popping out of his skull at the sight of another sedan coming your guys’ way. You gasp when your senses come back to you, tossing him effortlessly in the air as high as you can, swinging yourself up toward a higher building just to twist and flip back in its direction to push off of, sending it back to the ground and you to Dazai. Who is screaming and flailing as gravity tries bringing him to the street.

“I got you!” You both collide with one another, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, breathing heavily, and never have been happier to see you in his life. His heart is hammering into yours, his body trembling, and he’s muttering to himself incoherently while you start looking for a closed off alley, absolutely certain Rex isn’t following that Dazai will be safe tucked away here so you can handle this issue without worrying he’ll interfere again. “It’s alright, you’re okay.” You reassure when you hear his teeth chattering in your ear canal and feel his nails trying to claw through your suit.

You swing into the nearest alleyway you spot, no one else around, and Rex so far behind it’ll take him twenty years at his pace to catch up and find you guys. A web sticks to a streetlamp, allowing for you to lower your bodies slowly, him not daring to release you even when his feet connect with the asphalt. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.” You soothe, rubbing his back, but he shakes his head that is hidden away in your neck. “You won’t be bothered here, I promise. I have to get back to stop him.” You make the attempt to break away, but he’s scrambling for you, the distress evident on his features, and part of you wants to rip the mask off to properly comfort him. Then you remember: you’re the Kumo right now. In the intensity of the moment, you completely forgot you needed to conceal your identity, but instead you practically gave yourself away.

You clear your throat, putting on your fake voice, and toss a thumb over your shoulder as you place a hand on his chest to keep some distance. “I-I need to go. Will you be alright here?” It takes him a moment, but he is suddenly looking at you as if you’re absolutely deranged – his eyebrows are deeply furrowed, lightly shaking his head, and small, confused sounds are coming from his shuddering lips.

“Wh-Wha…” His hands grip your arms, bringing you close, then begins shaking you. “I know! I know it’s you under there! Quit acting like I don't!” He pleads, helpless, shaken. His eyes are glassy behind the lenses, red, and his face is paling. Your hands carefully come up to gingerly grab at his, to make him stop, and you have to hush him like a startled animal. “I know. I know it’s you. I know you anywhere.” He whispers, fingers reaching for the edge of your mask, and you have to snatch them, pushing them away, and maintaining your composure is harder than you thought it’d be.

“How? How did you know?” You ask, defeated. You can feel his freezing, frigid skin through the suit, and you’re worried he’s going to send himself into shock.

“You’re not subtle,” he steps closer, and you can hear his heart still pounding in his chest. “Plus, your voice. I’ve known you since we were seven, I hear it everyday. It’s my favorite sound, how could I not recognize it?” Your lips part, getting ready to say something in return, but there’s faint crashing in the distance, back where you left Rex, and you hate that this is happening right now.

“Look, I need to go, I need to stop him,” you have to force his trembling hands away, ignoring the expression etched into his features, him begging you not to leave him there alone. The sight is heartbreaking, your strong and brave boyfriend who fights every single one of your battles is now weak while you have to go save the day. “Stay here, please. I will be right back here to get you, I swear to you.” You’re already slinging webs to the streetlamp, feet off the ground, and he’s still clamoring for you.

“W-Wait! Wait!” He breathes, fingers brushing your ankle, and you sigh, knowing prolonging leaving Rex to his own devices will cause more destruction than necessary. You flip yourself over, hanging upside down like an actual spider, and you stare at him expectantly through your mask, holding onto the webbing tight.

“What is it?”

“I-I wanna give you good luck,” he says, a bit childish, and your brows come together. At a time like this? His fingers come back toward the hem of your mask, gradually pulling it down, but only just under your nose.

“Osamu–” His large hands are holding the sides of your face, cracked and bust lips pressing to yours, and somehow the tension in your body melts away. You don’t mean to, but you sigh with relief, this enough to remind you he is okay, and so are you, and you have your nerves back in check to take on the villain.

When he pulls away, not without landing one more lingering peck, he struggles but manages to get your mask back in place, and he still looks distraught. “Go on, my spider lily, my favorite flower.” He swallows, not wanting to send you off, but he knows he doesn’t have a choice. “I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you, but not as much as I do.”

“I’ll come back in one piece,” you promise, taking a deep inhale before shortening the web so you can better flip upright and swing through the city, to get yourself back to Rex, and Dazai just has to watch you leave.

He stands there, sucking in a big breath, then shouts as loud as he possibly can, so not only can Tokyo but the entire world hear him: “You’re my hero, Kumo!”

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E. Ranpo ᝰ.ᐟ

Believe it or not, you have gotten into Ranpo’s good graces, being deemed his “favorite junior detective”. It may or may not have to do with the fact you’re constantly telling him how great he is, or that he’s the smartest guy you’ve ever met, looking at him with stars twinkling in your big, curious eyes. Everything you say is one hundred percent true, though: you are baffled and amazed by his genius, his wits, and his inhuman deduction skills. Especially when it comes to using them on you.

You’re not one to wear your emotions on your sleeve, remaining collected most of the time, even if something is deeply bothering you. Ranpo, however, is able to crack the case in an instant. He puts those glasses on, activates his “ability”, and he has you all figured out. You definitely feel seen, that’s for sure. You also don’t mind that he makes his version of an effort to check on you when you’re in your “moods”.

The first time he did this to you, there wasn’t anything particularly wrong. Just… one of those days. You had come into the agency office like usual, greeted everyone like usual, and sat at your desk — like usual. What tipped him off was that you didn’t greet him, something you didn’t realize you hadn’t done, as if your subconscious knew if you approached him while you felt the way you did, he’d know instantly. And he did, simply by peering at you with those analytical green eyes over his glasses. For some reason, your lack of attention that morning was bothersome, so he took it upon himself to get to the bottom of it.

“Hey, how’s my favorite junior detective?” He greeted, coming up to the side of your desk to rest a hand on the edge. He purposefully pushed his frames up further on his nose, so that you knew he knew. You blinked before forcing a big smile, though you are always happy to see him, so it wasn’t too difficult to form.

“Hi, Ranpo,” you greeted in return, sitting up a little straighter. “I’m alright, how are you doing?” You ignored his obvious attempt at you asking what he had deduced, which threw him off further — getting him closer to realizing something in fact was wrong. He stared at you a moment before letting out a big, dramatic sigh with a slump of his shoulders.

“Well, you see, I’d be better if someone had told me hello this morning, but it seems I’ve been forgotten! What’s a master detective to do?” He finished his little tangent with a close of his eyes, and another dramatically pitched sigh. “I mean, honestly, I thought we were friends? Now you have left me to the wind! Not even a ‘screw off’!” You couldn’t help the giggle that came out at that last part, earning a slight smirk from him at garnering enough of a positive reaction for his hard work.

“Oh, Ranpo, who would ever forget you?” You teased, leaning down into your bag to pull out another smaller bag, extending your arm in offering. “By the way, I stopped by the convenience store on the way here. The one you like, said it has the best custard buns.” It was a nonchalant exchange, not much thought behind it other than you were already there in need of a drink, and the colorfully labeled stand full of pastries caught your eye. He stood there in silence for a second, eyeing the bag of goodies, before directing his attention back to you. The smile you wore grew genuine due to his childish antics, and he couldn’t help a relieved grin of his own as his greedy fingers came to take the treasure from you.

“Trying to sweeten me up after ignoring me? Could this have been a plot from the start?” He peeked inside, seeing not one, not two, but three of his favorite custard buns sitting at the bottom. How generous of you, junior detective!

“Nothing can get past you, Master Detective,” you smiled bigger before scooting into your desk, the weird mood you woke up with suddenly starting to vanish, and you began working quietly on your reports. He wanted to bug you more, hearing how great he is for making you feel better, and how grateful you were he spent his precious time to do so, but there were custard buns waiting for him, and he was feeling a little hungry. He snuck one more glance at you, taking his glasses off to do so, before turning on his heel to sit down at his own desk and dig into the snacks.

There was a different day when you walked into the office, not wearing your usual morning grin, not greeting anyone, and plopped down in your chair without a word to start going through your paperwork. And Dazai’s. And Atsushi’s. And even some of Kunikida’s. You were forewarned as you bumped into Dazai that they were needing to rush out to complete one of their investigations, asked you if it’d be too much trouble for your assistance on their abandoned work, and you for some strange reason said you were more than happy to help. Your brow furrowed, your nose scrunched, and you let out a small huff of irritation, but you powered through, scribbling along the pages of your work, Dazai’s, Atsushi’s, and Kunikida’s. And Ranpo noticed your blatant frustration. He always noticed when it came to you. He sought your attention the most, so willing to give him it, quick to tell him how wonderful he is, but you have been slacking lately, and he may or may not begin to feel… neglected.

When he leisurely walked up to your desk, hand on the surface to make himself known and not startle you, he originally planned in some lighthearted teasing. However, when he saw the annoyance written all over your twisted features, he decided against it. “How’s my favorite junior detective?” He asked — no jokes, no teasing, just sincerity. You paused for a moment, wondering if you should even take a break at all with how much there was, before going back to jotting things down.

“I’m alright,” you muttered. You realized then that it was Ranpo speaking to you, and you faltered once again. A small smile graced your lips as you sat the pen down then reached into your bag, pulling out two glass bottles. “I picked up some Ramune. I couldn’t remember which flavor you liked, so you can choose.” You gestured to them, an original flavor and a blue raspberry, and his brow raised. He was used to your simple offerings, treating them as such: offerings. Mere treasures to please him. Though, it struck him as incredibly odd that even when you were the one down in the dumps, you still provided him with a treat to get through his day. He glanced between the two flavors, partial to either, so it didn’t matter. He did know that you were a fan of blue raspberry-flavored things.

He grinned, that better-than-you boyish grin, reaching his hand out to take the original flavor. “Would you like me to open yours for you?” He offered, unprompted, and you blinked.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Please,” you scooted it closer to him, secretly grateful he was willing to do it for you since it was the only reason you strayed from getting it more often: you hated trying to get the stupid thing opened. Your eyes watched his hands, palm pressing down on the top to get the little ball down into the section of the bottle, then he pushed it back toward you. Your hesitant and weary smile grew into a gracious beam, aiming it up at him. “Thank you, Ranpo. You’re the best.” Strangely, his heart skipped a beat at that, and he wore a proud smile before shrugging.

“I know, Keeper of the Ramune, God of Fizzing Drinks. Please, go on,” he distracted you from your additional reports the rest of your shift, subtly dropping it off to their respective desks after you had left the office for the evening, with Post-It note reminders that the boys needed to complete their own work and necessary overtime was no issue.

It wasn’t lost on him that no matter the condition you were in, there was still the small thought in your mind to bring something to him. He came into his office another morning with a brand-new pen holder and various pens, saying you had noticed he kept losing his and would rummage around in other peoples’ desks or the supply closet for more. So, as a solution, you bought him more with a place to keep them.

You subconsciously bought two notebooks, only needing one, so you dropped it off to him at his desk while he was reading a magazine, sucker poking out of his cheek, and he stared at it before trailing his gaze up to watch you sit down without another word.

You had brought him lunch on multiple occasions, simply stating that he needs to eat something other than his delicious sweet treats and candy, alongside not just a Ramune, but a big bottle of water since you don’t know when the last time was you saw him drink any. He was always grateful for food, never one to turn it down, especially a free meal like the ones you bring, but he was surprised every single time. On some occasions, he’d venture to protest, saying you didn’t need to be doing all of that, and he was capable of going out on his own for lunch. You’d smile, sweeter than his favorite candy, tilt your head, and say: “Let me be nice to you.”

Your gifts started to look a lot less like offerings and more like what they are: gifts. With every convenience store run for custard buns or a candy bar, a Ramune or other fizzing drink you know he likes, every lunch brought to him, every office supply specifically for him to use, and every other small trinket that has made its way across his desk struck him with the realization that these are gifts.

The most recent thing you had sat on his desk was an origami paper crane you spent hours learning how to do, this being your first successful one that came out looking perfect enough, and your first thought was to give it to Ranpo.

“Do you like it?” You ask, hands folded in front of you while you wait for an answer. His curious green eyes flow down at the crane, not much taking him by surprise these days, but to see it sitting neatly on his desk like this, with you hoping he likes it, very much has him in a state of temporary shock. 

“You made this for me?” His finger carefully touches it, watching it rock back and forth, before looking back to you.

“Well, I mean…” You didn’t want to go on a weirdly long tangent about how you wanted to learn to begin with, no one particular person in mind when you started. It was when you finished, pleased with how well it turned out, that you decided there wasn’t any better to have it than him. A sudden rush of heat crawled to your cheeks, your smile becoming shy, and you dropped your gaze with a meek nod. “Y-Yeah, I made it for you.” He eyes you up and down before his all-knowing smile forms, cautiously setting the crane near the pen holder, then gets to his feet while pulling out one of his drawers — one you know is his “special” sweets drawer. Your features fall into curiosity, leaning over some to watch his hand move around, rummaging in his stash, then plucking a wrapped treat between his fingers.

You watch with big eyes as he walks around his desk, other hand motioning for yours. You stare for a moment, mildly confused, but raise your arm to hold your palm up in offering. He sets it down, the wrapping cold to the touch, and you peek down to see it is blue raspberry flavored, your favorite. Just as you raise your head, so you could thank him, his lips press a soft kiss to your now incredibly inflamed cheek. It lingers, even after he has pulled away, a light laugh following at your reaction, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets while he gazes at you, admires you, his usually sharp and analytical stare has grown gentle. Your eyes have gotten even wider, shoulders scrunched in surprise, and biting down on your tongue to prevent yourself from saying anything stupid. “Thank you, my favorite detective. I love it.”

How much he loves and craves your attention, but this reaction is his favorite. Easily confirming his deductions that he pretty much already had figured out. And now, junior detective, you can have it easily deduced that he maybe feels the same way.

O. Dazai -`♡´-

He stalks around often in the base, his coat floating behind him, barely clinging to his shoulders, a scowl permanently etched into his features, and those stark white gauze bandages wrapped tightly around his head to cover one of his eyes. He used to joke more frequently than he does now, aging in the mafia not doing him any favors, considering he thought he would have been free by now — either by finally deciding he could leave, or by a successful suicide. He rounds corners with cautious precision, towers over others like a demon, and hides in the shadows as if he is one. He would run his mouth a lot, his thoughts turning into giant, long rambles that he’d go on for days if you’d let him. Now, he doesn’t seem to have much to say.

You’ve been in the mafia for a few years, being one of Dazai’s direct underlings, but you’re of very low rank. You needed someone to report to, and Mori off-handedly shooed you in his direction. You both were young, but you had nowhere to go, and living was expensive. You also were naive to the members, not knowing anything about your new executive superior, simply noting to yourself that he didn’t seem like the type to be barking orders.

You were against killing, had no “real” or “useful” skills, so you were appointed the mafia’s primary delivery person. Mori would hand you special packages that needed to be sent out immediately, and you would diligently get them to their recipients in record time — considering you don’t have any other duties. Dazai would poke fun at you, remarking how swiftly you get things done, politely coercing you to try other things like infiltration, recon, or intel gathering. You would always accept these light taunts as true compliments with a professional smile, then decline his offer at “moving up”, preferring your standing as it is.

To this day, if he is in a good enough mood, he’ll tease you about how you’ve been the “Port Mafia’s best mailman”, asking if you’d ever considered finally accepting his offer to work on more important assignments.

“Mr. Dazai, you know I always appreciate your kind and uplifting words, but I really do enjoy running around Yokohama to drop off Mori’s contraband,” you’ll respond with a soft giggle, the corner of his mouth twitching, and sometimes you might catch that solitary amber eye soften.

“I thought I told you to just call me Dazai?” He’ll murmur, cheek on his fist, gazing at you from across his desk while you sit in front of him for one of your “performance reviews”. It was more or less just him asking you if you still like your position, and you constantly remind him that the answer hasn’t changed. Not in the five years you’ve been here. Not today. And certainly not tomorrow.

“Forgive me, you’re the only one who doesn’t want me doing it, so I tend to forget,” you’ll bow your head, polite and respectful, still wearing your calm smile, and he just stares at you. You do intrigue him, your loyalty maybe not near the level of his executive partner, but enough that it helps him want to keep you around. You noticed that you have been receiving considerable pay raises to your already greedy wages, and you aren’t sure why, considering you are simply as he states: the Port Mafia’s personal delivery department. It’s possible that some of the boxes withheld incredibly dangerous or classified items, maybe some of the envelopes had the highest of important information, but none of it ever piqued your curiosity enough to ask. None of it seemed worth gradually increasing pay rates to drop a package off on a doorstep or shoving a letter in a mailbox.

However, unbeknownst to you, your cold hearted superior believed that you needed to make more than what you were receiving. He’d be sending in glowing reviews to Mori, whispering in his ear that you are a fine member and needed to be treated as such. The top secret was: he wanted to keep you around, especially since he made you his little gofer. You didn’t mind when he’d ask you to go pick stuff up for him, running executive or personal errands if he were either too overloaded with work, preoccupied with something of his own, or lazy. Being a mail runner had its downsides: you didn’t always have work to do, but you still had to show up or risk missing out on getting paid. You tried to be a model employee, mostly in fear that since you were now associated with the mafia, getting kicked out on your ass from them wouldn’t look good on your resume for even the convenience store. Or, you know, dead.

So, on you went with his requests to pick up something from a drop-off point after previous negotiations went well, running off to the police department to gather reports that were considered “handled”, or running to the video game store because he was too impatient to wait until after work to get it. Something he noticed when you’d return is you were never empty handed, extra trinkets or snacks alongside whatever it was he needed.

“Mr. Dazai, I finished that thing you needed me to do for you,” you were at the threshold of his office door, a cup in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. He raised his head, seeing you hadn’t entered, before gesturing you in.

“Thank you, Bug,” he eyed the cup, wondering where else you had gone when he needed you clear across town. You had a slight skip in your step at the nickname, something you took as an adorable term of endearment, since he gave others dog nicknames that would otherwise be deemed hateful. You tried not to listen to everyone that would hammer in your head that he was insulting you, mostly because you didn’t want to hurt your own work morale, nor believe that your supervisor hated you. “And where did you wander off to this time?” His brow quirked, nodding toward your full hands. You stopped in front of his desk, carefully setting the cup down, then the bag, and rifled through it.

“I wanted a coffee for the walk back, then decided to get you something. Then I realized I don’t think you’ve eaten yet today, so I got you a snack,” you pulled out a small convenience store bento, placing it before him. Then you carefully scooted the to-go cup closer. “You mentioned that you tried matcha lattes recently, so I grabbed one for you.” His lone eye darted from your casual beaming face, to the drink, then to the food.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered, not making moves to take anything.

“No, I know, but I was already out,” you cleared your throat before proceeding with caution. “Do you… need me for anything else today?”

“Not at the moment,” he kept his hands where they were, still avoiding the sustenance you had thought he needed. “Why? Do you have sudden deliveries to make?” He did pick his pen back up and went to work on his reports, something you rarely saw him do.

“Well, no,” you shifted from one foot to the other, your hands going behind your back. “Uhm, Mr. Nakahara needs me to assist with some stuff, and I told him I would since I don’t have any deliveries today.” You knew, being one of his subordinates, how he felt about Chuuya, and you had picked up in more recent years that Dazai did not like you spending time with him — whether or not it was work related. You watched as he paused, his pen going limp ever so slightly in his fingers before he gripped it again. His eye darted along the page in front of him, concocting some idea or distraction to get you to abandon your promise to assist his partner, knowing you never deny an order from your direct executive.

“Actually, Bug, now that I’m doing all this paperwork, I realized I might need some help,” he straightened up in his seat, adjusting his gaze back to meet your curious one, and you tilted your head.

“Yeah, of course,” you shrugged. “I’ll let Mr. Nakahara know—”

“No, I can get with him,” he stopped you when you were mid-turn of your heel, other hand out. “Could you stop by the secretary wing and grab any of the stacks in the outbox to bring back here?”

“Absolutely, I’ll be as quick as possible,” you affirmed with a single nod, getting ready to take off again when his throat cleared, and it caught your attention once more. You were getting a little nervous, wondering if you had done something wrong, but you happened to notice his hand outstretched to drag the bento closer to him.

“Thank you, for the snack. That was… that was really kind of you. You… You didn’t have to.” He looked as though he struggled a bit to get that out, not that he was always impolite, just obvious he wasn’t used to receiving such selfless gestures. His gratitude is usually dripping in his coy and teasing nature, hardly ever genuine. How sweet. You grant him one last smile then make way for the secretary wing.

Dazai paid closer attention to you upon returning from errands: anything he sent you out for, your hands were full of something to give him. Whether it was different drinks you had heard him mention he liked, snacks, mangas, magazines, books, and even gloves when the colder months came. He’d just stare at you, his eye traveling down to the presents on his desk that you laid out for him, then look back to you — mildly bewildered.

He wanted to repay your kindness, but other than continuously ensuring Mori paid you well and keeping your delivery routes cleared of danger didn’t seem enough anymore. How else would one show gratitude for receiving items? By exchanging items in return. The first time he came up to you, he looked a bit sheepish, something you weren’t used to from him. His hands were behind his back, and he was trying to sort himself out a bit before his shoulders suddenly straightened.

“Hi, Bug,” he finally greeted, you standing there patiently as he went through whatever it was running through his head, smile on your face as always when he graced you with his melancholic company.

“Hey, Dazai,” you adjusted the strap of your messenger bag, filled to the brim with heavy packages and miscellaneous envelopes that the boss needed delivered before the end of the day. You arrived earlier than normal, and while executives’ schedules are not usually set in stone, it was a surprise to see him here so early. “What brings you in so bright and early?” He breathed out a slight chuckle, feeling as though he had gotten caught, then cleared his throat.

“Uhm, I… I found this, and I thought that you’d like it,” he withdrew his hands, bringing his fist out in front of you. Your gaze turned puzzled, lifting your hand so the palm was under it, before he opened his hand and a small but hefty metallic object dropped to your skin. You glance at it, bringing it closer to examine, and see it’s a sturdy metal thimble. “You… you sew still, right?”

“I do. I didn’t think you remembered,” you carefully pick it up between your fingers, squeezing it some and notice with glee it doesn’t have much give. You slipped it on your finger, to make sure it fit, and your smile turned into a grin. “Thank you! I actually needed a new one since I stepped on my last one and crushed it.” He stared down at you, the elation and gratitude written all over you from a simple thimble was new to him. You stuffed it in your suit jacket pocket, gracing him with another beam, before circling around him to head toward the exit.

“Y-Yeah, no problem,” he mumbled to himself, watching after you, noticing the small skip in your steps, and the corner of his mouth turned up.

After that day, he wanted nothing more than to continue seeing that grateful grin all over your face, scouring the sidewalks and the roads and the alleyways for other small but sparkling treasures to gift you. You’ve received a combination of a few odds and ends: a perfectly smooth rock that was weird shaped; a cold coin-like object that neither of you could decipher if it was actual currency, or something abandoned from the arcade; a couple of different glass marbles that had different colors swirling around inside; loose buttons; and a child’s lost bouncy ball that was somehow in near mint condition.

At first, the objects were, admittedly, strange to be handed. He’d greet you, his voice soft, and his hands behind his back with a child-like wonder in his visible eye, a bit sheepish at first as he approached you. “Bug, I have something for you.” He’d catch your attention, then reach out to, as gingerly as possible, grasp your wrist to position your open palm up for him, then carefully drop the trinket.

In all honesty, while it was so nice and downright adorable that he thought of you this often, it was something else that made you accept these asphalt gems, forgotten memories for those they used to belong to: it was his smile he wore when he offered them up. It was the shyness and innocence it carried when he watched you examine what he brought, it growing even more when you tell him thank you and that you love it, even if you don’t know what it is. It’s the way that for once since working here with him, you get to see him be different.

However, the more you accepted, the more Dazai started to overthink his choices. Things left on the side of the road were starting to not be good enough, so he started venturing out toward the port or the beach, digging in the sand to find pretty shells or sand dollars; finding a different country’s currency amongst the edges dropped by importers and exporters; sometimes he’d come across small pieces of jewelry. A single earring, a bracelet missing a couple stones, a necklace chain, and once he found a ring with a giant gem nestled inside covered in sand. He didn’t think anything of it when he presented it to you, other than it was pretty and shiny, but you stared at it — blankly — for a long moment before your smile became more gentle.

“You want me to have this, Dazai?” You asked, pointing to the ring in his bandaged palm. You had just returned with the empty satchel, getting ready to report to Mori that you had finished your route early and wanted to test if he’d allow you to have the rest of the day off. Your executive had gotten in your path though, his smile a bit more smug than normal as he taunted that he found a pretty awesome gift for you. You weren’t expecting something this beautiful and well-intact.

“Well, yeah,” his brow raised, the look on his face showing a touch of confusion. “I spent forever digging around for it.” The thought made you giggle out loud, the biggest, baddest, and — second — strongest member of the mafia is sitting on the beach in his uniform digging in the sand for lost treasures to gift you, the Port Mafia’s lowest of the low: a mere delivery person. “Do you… not like it?” He tried coming off as though the thought didn’t bother him, that it didn’t matter to him what your opinion was because it was just a stupid ring. However, your silence, the lack of an immediate answer, made him waver.

“I love it,” you murmured, the grin on your face never seeming to disappear as you took it to slide on your middle finger. It was a bit too gigantic, the security of the diamond taking you by surprise, and you notice only a few grains of sand in the crevices. He even took the time to clean it before giving it to me. You watched it sparkle tremendously in the light of the building’s hallway. “Thank you, Dazai. It’s absolutely beautiful.” His shoulders visibly relaxed, biting his bottom lip to conceal his shocked happiness that you put it on.

“You’re welcome.”

Once again, though, that wasn’t enough. The look on your face when receiving the ring, how soft and gentle you had become, he wanted to see more of that. He wanted to hear you tell him 'thank you' over and over again for his efforts in finding something absolutely perfect and worth giving you. Silly trinkets that meant nothing he found on the ground, things no one would miss, and uncovered small treasures from the sand that are someone else’s distant memories still weren’t good enough.

Thus began him resorting to rummaging around in peoples’ pockets, alive or… otherwise. He told himself that whatever he would find from these people would be in pristine condition, nothing missing, and sometimes even brand new. Yeah, Dazai knew he could go to the store for you, purchase something, then bring it back in a pretty box or bag with a ribbon — that wasn’t enough. He liked to search, to have the glint and gleam catch his eye, and make him think of you while on his missions and assignments, his interrogations, his meetings, his walks home.

You had garnered quite the luxury collection from this, making small jokes here and there with him that his “grave robbing” and “petty theft” have become endearing, interchanging the accessories you’d receive from him in your day-to-day, but the ring would always remain on your middle finger. You had gotten it resized to fit more snug, to avoid it falling off, and he couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter in his chest every time he saw you with it. Which was a new reaction to you he hadn’t felt before. Or he had ignored it to a point he couldn’t anymore.

“Bug,” Dazai catches you by the arm before you take off from his office, looking up at him wide-eyed. He doesn’t usually touch you, if ever, and this is the first time he’s doing so. You want to contain yourself, all those years of pretending like you didn’t have a crush on him because he’s technically your boss, but between all of these sudden hidden treasures he’s been hand-delivering to you and now touching you, the slight blush creeping up on your cheeks is evident with how warm you’re getting, and even he notices.

“Y-Yeah? What is it?” You clear your throat, straightening up and attempting to look him in the eye, but the smile on his face tells you that he already knows how you feel.

“I got this for you,” his other hand comes out from his pocket, holding out an oval-shaped stone. You peer down at it, seeing a small butterfly encased in the amber rock, and you peek up at him. “It was sitting on the desk of a different organization leader’s office. I had noticed it when I walked in for a meeting, and I thought… Uhm…” His words falter to a screeching halt, originally speaking a mile a second to withering down to being silent. His eye widens, staring at you, and he quickly shuts his mouth. He wasn’t even like this when he gave me the ring. You reach your hand out, fingertips running along the smooth, glossy rock, and you just smile.

“It’s really pretty, Dazai,” you assure, gingerly taking it to look at it more closely. “Is it ‘cause you call me bug?” Your eyes avert back to him, noticing a small tint of pink on his cheek, his gaze lowering from embarrassment. He nods. “Thank you. I’ll put it on my desk at home so I can look at it all the time.”

“Yeah, sure, no-no problem,” you watch as he fumbles around in his words, the only fidgeting being from his eye that looks everywhere but directly at you.

“Hey, c’mere,” you wave him down so he can be a little more eye-level with you. His brow arches but obliges, leaning down some and granting you a bit of eye contact. You’re nervous, though, pushing forward a playful smile. “I wanna give you something too, is that okay?” He hums, tilting his head, and he reminds you a bit of a confused puppy while he stares at you, waiting. “Close your eyes.” He blinks, a coy grin spreading across his mouth, but his lid drops anyway.

“You’re playing a lot of games with me, Bug. You’re lucky I’m patient, but I’m dying to know what it could be—” He cuts himself off when he feels your soft lips on his cheek, and your fingertips under his chin. Which they leave all too soon when you pull away, his eye cracking open, and his mouth still parted mid-sentence.

“Wow, I guess there is a way to shut you up,” you giggle, beginning to slowly walk backwards toward the door. “Bye, Dazai. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You offer him a small wave, your face in flames, and all but bolt out of the door. He watches after you, quickly straightening up, then suddenly his feet carry him toward the doorway.

“Bug!” He calls out, but you don’t stop, practically running down the hall. “Bug, wait a second! You missed!”

fluffuary 2026 | masterlist | requests: closed

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