Levi Ackerman
Fluff: The Last Return
Fluff: The Unspoken Dance
Angst, Fluff: Frozen Stakes
BUNGO STRAY DOGS
Ranpo Edogawa
Fluff: The Case of the Unreadable Girl Part 2
Angst, Fluff: Closer Than You Think
Fluff: Silent Acts Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Fluff: A Gift for the Soul
Fluff: The Perfect Moment (Eventually)
Fluff: A Long-Forgotten Song
Fluff: Detective, Notice Me
Fluff: Hand in Hand
Fluff: More Than Meets the Eye
Fluff: Playing Family
Fluff: Little Moments Like This
Angst: Still in the Picture
Fluff: Found in the Rain
Fluff: Case of the Cuddly Culprit
Angst, Fluff: Footprints to You
Fluff: War of Sugar and Praise
Fluff: Flustered and Flawless
Fluff: Red Shovel Mystery
Angst: The One Mystery He Wished He Didn't Solve
Fluff: Chasing Cats and Catching Feelings
Fluff: Not My Boyfriend
Angst, Fluff: Ticking Clocks
Dazai Osamu
Angst, Fluff: Veil of Thorns Part 2
Fluff: Inkbound Hearts
Fluff: Even You Can Bloom Here Part 2
Fluff: With You, Maybe
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
Fluff: In the Quiet Moments
Chuuya Nakahara
Fluff: Everything That Isn't Broken
Junichiro Tanizaki
Fluff, (slight angst): Junebug and the Menace
Multiple BSD Characters react to:
Angst, Fluff: Reader getting kidnapped
(Ranpo, Dazai, Chuuya)
Angst, Fluff: Reader being submissive (scared of conflicts)
(Ranpo, Dazai, Chuuya)
Fluff: Reader (wife) is ticklish
(Ranpo, Dazai, Chuuya)
Angst, Fluff: Reader getting kidnapped Part 2
(Akutagawa, Fyodor, PM!Dazai)
DEMON SLAYER
Kyojuro Rengoku
Fluff: Cursed Exchange
Gyutaro
Angst, Fluff: The Demon in the Shadow
Fluff: Under the Streetlight
HAIKYUU
Sugawara Koushi
Fluff: Spike of Affection
Tendou Satori
Fluff: Stupid Insecurities
Angst, Fluff: Petals and Promises
Fluff: Guess My Feelings
Fluff, Fun: Brains, Brawn, and Bird Theft
Ushijima Wakatoshi
Fluff: Always, Us
Kita Shinsuke
Fluff: A Taste of Something New
Miya Atsumu
Fluff: Setting the Standard
Fluff: Not Just Another Birthday
Miya Osamu
Fluff: Closing Time Flirt
Multiple Characters:
Seijoh 4 react to their best friend having a crush on their sister
Captains react to Reader bring the sister of another Captain
KAIJU NO. 8
Soshiro Hoshina
Angst, Fluff: The Blade That Protects You
Angst, Fluff: Unspoken Truths
Poly, Fluff: The Love Plan Part 2 Part 3
Fluff: Paws & Pouts
Fluff: Just Curious (At First)
Gen Narumi
Poly, Fluff: The Love Plan Part 2 Part 3
Angst, Fluff: Through the Darkness
NARUTO
Kakashi
Fluff: How Not to Flirt, by Kakashi Hatake (Pt.1)
Fluff: Love Blossoms Under the Moonlight (Pt.2)
Gaara
Angst, Fluff: Even the Dessert Blooms
Shikamaru
Fluff, (slight angst?): What A Drag... Without You
Hello, can I request a Ranpo Edogawa or Naruto Uzumaki x a reader who has Shinigami eyes?
I don't know if you've seen death note So I'll summarize it for you like this: basically, the reader has eyes that will allow him to know the date of death of a person just by looking at them.
So I wonder how they react if the reader insists on prolonging their life by protecting them from absurd things like begging them to let them taste their food first to see if it's not poisoned,or making sure they don't get crushed by a bucket and making sure there aren't any slippery things on the floor, reminding them to eat slowly,Taking them by the arm when they are walking in the dangerous outdoors, being with him twenty-four hours a day all the time to make sure nothing happens to him.
Ticking Clocks
A/N: I’m actually watching Death Note at the moment (just a few episodes left) and I’m completely obsessed! I also decided to write for both Naruto and Ranpo, so I hope you enjoy it!
synopsis: You were born with the cursed gift of the Shinigami Eyes, the ability to see the name and death date of every person you meet. But what happens when you meet someone like Ranpo, whose death date is completely blank? Or when Naruto’s, once far in the future, suddenly shifts, leaving him with only days to live?
content/warnings: Ranpo x reader, Naruto x reader, canon-typical blood and violence, angst and fluff, -4.271 words for Naruto, -3.603 words for Ranpo
Naruto Uzumaki
You didn't remember the first time you saw a death date.
You were too young, maybe six, maybe seven, when the names and numbers started appearing above people's heads. At first, you thought they were your imaginary friends' jokes, little timers counting down to something exciting. You smiled at them. You watched them tick.
Then, one of the timers hit zero.
You had spent the years since learning to look away. To not stare too long. To blur your vision when someone walked past. You trained yourself to ignore them the way people ignore dust in sunlight—there but unseen, unacknowledged, uninvited.
You never asked for the Shinigami Eyes. You didn't even know how you got them. There was no deal, no voice in the dark, no price. Just... numbers. Hanging. Like low-hanging stars.
Eventually, you learned to live with them.
Until him.
With him, your world was too bright, too loud, too full of ramen and laughter and sharp edges softened by his presence. He was messy, infuriating, selfless to a fault. Always late. Always loud. Always… alive.
You had been close for years, almost something more, but never crossing the line. You held his jacket when he forgot it. He held your hand when you were quiet too long. He called you "his person." You called him "your idiot."
You knew his date, knew he had a long life. He was Naruto, after all. If death had tried to touch him, you always thought, it would have tripped over his shadow clones and gotten drop-kicked into another dimension.
So what changed that he now only had a few days left?
You hadn't meant to look. You never did, not with him. But that morning, something gnawed at you, a tug behind your ribs, like a wire pulled taut. You told yourself it was just a bad dream you couldn't remember, that it was nothing. That everything was fine.
Still, you went to his office.
The Hokage Tower was the same as always. Paperwork stacked like mini mountains. A neglected cup of miso ramen on the desk. A few scrolls spilling from a drawer he swore he'd fix "tomorrow." And Naruto, in the center of it all, grinning like the sun was stuck behind his teeth.
You smiled back, a little crooked. He said something, some dumb joke about paperwork being a greater enemy than any rogue shinobi, and you laughed like you were supposed to.
And then you realised what you were seeing.
The number. Floating just above his head, sharp and white against the air, burning like frostbite in your vision.
Five days.
You blinked. Looked again. Five.
Yesterday, Naruto had decades left, long enough for gray hair, for a family, for peace.
But now—
Your stomach turned to stone.
You stepped back without meaning to. Your breath caught in your throat, sharp and dry. He didn't notice. Of course he didn't. He never noticed when you unraveled quietly.
You wanted to scream. To demand who, or what, or how. To grab him by the collar and shake him until the number changed back. Until time rewound itself.
Instead, you nodded at his joke. Your mouth moved around some excuse, something about being tired, about having errands to run.
He believed you. Of course he did. He always believed you.
You left before your legs gave out.
You made it back to your flat without collapsing, but only just.
The door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly the weight of it, all of it, crashed down like a ceiling giving way. Your legs buckled. You slid to the floor, back against the door, and the silence of your home wrapped around you like a too-tight noose.
Five days.
You buried your face in your hands, fingers trembling.
He was your person.
It wasn't official. No labels, no confessions, no kiss sealed with promises. But still. He was yours in the ways that mattered. In the quiet moments. In the way he always looked for you first in a crowded room. In the way your laughter made more sense together. In how your silences never felt empty when he was near.
You had always imagined growing old side by side, through gray hairs and laugh lines, through the ridiculous stories he'd still be telling at seventy, through stubborn old age and stupid arguments and comfort found in the mundane.
You imagined him holding your hand with weathered fingers. You imagined falling asleep to the sound of his breath, not silence. Never silence.
But now—
Now he had five days.
You couldn't breathe.
The room tilted, narrowed, spun like it didn't want you inside it anymore. You crawled to the couch and pressed your face into the cushion, trying to keep yourself from screaming. Or sobbing. Or breaking completely.
You couldn't lose him.
You couldn't even think about it without your insides turning to ice and your stomach twisting itself into knots so tight you felt like you'd be sick.
He couldn't die. Not him. Not now. Not yet.
Not when you hadn't told him. Not when he didn't know. Not when he still smiled at you like forever was something real.
You clutched a pillow to your chest like it could anchor you. But nothing could. Not now. Not with that number burning in your mind.
You needed him.
And you didn't care what it took, you had five days.
You would find out what changed.
You would stop it.
Even if it killed you.
The next day, you showed up at his door before the sun did.
Naruto blinked at you, bleary-eyed and half-dressed, hair a disaster, sleep still clinging to the corners of his grin. "You okay?" he asked, scratching his head. "You look like you didn't sleep."
You didn't answer. You just pushed past him into the kitchen and started inspecting everything.
His breakfast, only half-made, was on the counter. You checked the ingredients. Smelled the milk. Tasted the broth. You tested each bite of his food before letting him near it, pretending it was nothing, acting casual. He gave you a funny look but didn't press. He never did when your voice got too quiet.
He sat across from you and dug in once you nodded. "Man, you're weird today," he mumbled through a mouthful of noodles, smiling like he didn't only have four days left.
Your hands were clenched under the table.
Later, on your way to the tower, you caught the way his shoe was untied. Before he could take another step, you dropped to your knees and knotted it tight. Double-knotted, even. He laughed. Laughed.
"You trying to keep me from embarrassing myself in front of the others by tripping over my shoelaces, or what?"
You didn't answer. You couldn't tell him it was because you'd pictured him tripping and cracking his skull open on the stone path, his date ticking down with every drop of blood. You couldn't say that death felt close now, like the air tasted different.
He kept walking. You stayed a half-step behind him, just close enough to grab him if he fell. When you reached the stairs leading to his office, you insisted on him going first.
"In case you fall," you said, like it was perfectly normal.
He blinked. "I'm not a grandma—"
"You're clumsy," you snapped, too sharp, too fast.
His brows knit in concern, but you were already pushing him forward, keeping your arms just slightly on his back like you'd catch him if gravity tried anything funny.
By the time you got him seated behind his desk, you were sweating.
Then came the hardest part: keeping him there.
"No missions," you said, before he could even reach for a scroll. "You're the Hokage. You delegate. Delegate harder."
He looked at you sideways. "Uh, yeah, but I was gonna check on the border reports myself later—"
"No. It's not safe."
"...For me?"
You didn't answer.
Instead, you went to find Sakura. You cornered her near the hospital, voice low, hands gripping her shoulders tighter than you meant to.
"I need you in the village," you said. "No missions. Not this week."
Sakura blinked. "What's going on?"
"Just… please. If something happens, I need you close. I need a healer. The best one."
Her eyes searched yours for answers. You didn't give any. Eventually, she nodded.
You spent the rest of the day hovering around Naruto like a nervous shadow. Checking his food again at lunch. Making sure he didn't touch that old shuriken in his drawer with the rusted edge. Pulling his chair away from the window when the wind got too strong, just in case the glass shattered.
You were unraveling, and he didn't even know it.
But you didn't care if he thought you were acting strange.
Because every time you looked up and saw that number, it was still there.
Three days by now.
And you were running out of time.
He noticed.
Of course he did. Maybe not right away, Naruto was sharp where it counted, but subtlety had never been his strength. But by mid-afternoon, as you intercepted a third messenger hawk before it could even reach his desk and insisted on filtering through the reports yourself, he looked at you a little too long.
That soft, thoughtful kind of look he only wore when he knew something wasn't quite right but didn't yet know how to fix it.
"Hey," he said, voice lower than usual, almost careful. "You good?"
You didn't look up from the scroll in your hands. "Fine."
"You sure? Because you've been… I dunno. Kinda intense today."
"I'm always intense."
He chuckled under his breath, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, but this is more like… ANBU-level intensity. Like you think someone's about to blow up the tower."
You rolled the scroll tighter than necessary. "Drop it, Naruto."
That shut him up, just like you knew it would. You never snapped at him. Not like that. The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. He shifted behind the desk, but didn't push.
Not then.
Later, just after sundown, he tried again.
You were sitting beside him on the Hokage Office roof, a spot you'd both claimed years ago as your unofficial meeting place after long days. The stars had started peeking through the dusk, and the village lights flickered on one by one like fireflies catching their breath.
He nudged your shoulder with his. "You gonna tell me what's going on now?"
You looked away.
"I mean, seriously. You've been taste-testing my ramen, tying my shoes, walking in front of me like I'm gonna spontaneously trip and die. Did I miss a prank memo or something?"
Your throat went dry.
He turned, facing you now. Closer. Too close.
"You're scaring me a little," he said, softer now. "Talk to me."
You opened your mouth, closed it. Your heart thundered so hard it almost drowned out the sound of the wind. He was looking at you like he always did, like you mattered, like he saw you even when you were trying your best to disappear.
You couldn't tell him about the date.
But you could give him something.
"I just…" you began, voice barely more than a breath. "I care about you. Okay?"
That wasn't enough. It wasn't everything, but it cracked something open in your chest.
"I care about you more than I ever say out loud. More than you probably realize. And I just—" You paused. Swallowed hard. "I don't want to lose you. I can't."
His eyes widened slightly, a breath caught in his throat, like he was hearing something he'd always wanted to hear but never expected to. "You—?"
A loud clang echoed on the roof behind you as Kiba landed near the two of you.
"Yo, Naruto!" His voice rang out, far too loud, casual, oblivious. "Shikamaru's lookin' for you. Something about the Suna reports, wants you downstairs like, now."
Naruto blinked. The moment shattered.
You stood up before he could say anything more, before he could look at you too closely again.
"I'll go tell him you're on your way," you said quickly, already rising to your feet. "Don't worry about it."
You didn't wait for his answer.
Because if you stayed any longer, you might've actually told him the truth.
And there were only two days left.
You couldn't risk wasting even one more.
The last day came too fast.
You woke up with a cold knot in your chest and the kind of heavy, airless dread that made your bones ache. The sun rose like it didn't know any better, soft light stretching through the village as if this day were like any other. But you knew.
You knew.
The number above his head had dwindled down to nothing but hours now. Then minutes. You couldn't stop looking. Couldn't stop counting. Couldn't breathe.
You stayed close.
Naruto didn't question it anymore. Not really. He still looked at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle with pieces he didn't have, but he let you follow him from room to room, let you linger too long, let you hold on just a little tighter than you ever had before.
You didn't leave his side. Not once.
You made him breakfast yourself, watched the stove the whole time, tasted every bite. He didn't joke about it this time.
You stopped him from heading out to the training grounds, stopped him from delivering a message himself, stopped him from walking alone through the village.
"Just stay with me," you said, when he looked like he was going to argue.
And miraculously, he did.
The day passed too slowly and too quickly, all at once. Every second ticked like a death knell. You kept glancing at that floating number, waiting for it to freeze. For it to vanish. For something to happen.
It never did.
It just kept counting down.
You couldn't sit still. Couldn't calm the trembling in your hands or the buzzing in your spine. You tried to laugh when he laughed, tried to look normal when he looked at you, but your throat was too tight, your heart too loud.
By evening, the sun dipped below the rooftops, and the last sliver of orange light caught on his hair like it always did, like it always had, and you nearly broke.
"I'm staying here tonight," you said, when he looked at you with that soft tilt of his head. Like he could hear your heartbeat. Like he'd figured out just enough to be scared, too.
He didn't ask why.
He just nodded. "Okay."
You curled up on the couch in his living room while he moved around the space, pretending not to notice how your eyes followed every step. You kept checking the time in your head, imagining every terrible way it could end. A heart attack. An ambush. A seal gone wrong. Something quiet. Something sudden. Something unseen.
It didn't matter what. You just had to be there.
You sat there into the night, wide awake, the silence stretching and wrapping around you like thread pulled too tight. Your muscles hurt from clenching so long. Your eyes burned, dry and wide. You thought maybe if you just watched him long enough, hard enough, death wouldn't be able to sneak past you.
And if it tried—
You'd stop it.
You'd stand in front of it.
You'd beg it to take you instead.
It happened just before dawn.
That strange, hushed hour where even the air feels like it's holding its breath. Naruto had finally drifted off in his bed, and you sat cross-legged on the floor by the window, watching the horizon lighten. You hadn't slept. Not properly. Not in days. Your body ached with it. Your eyes burned. But you didn't care.
You were so close to the time the number would hit zero.
Then you felt it.
A shift in the air.
Too quiet. Too still.
You stood before your mind could fully catch up, instincts carrying your body to the center of the room just as the shoji screen slid open with a whisper that shouldn't have been there.
The enemy shinobi stepped through like a shadow come to life, fast, silent and already moving to kill.
You didn't hesitate.
Your own kunai was out in a flash, steel meeting steel in the low light. Sparks scattered. You forced him back, just enough to draw him away from the bed. Behind you, Naruto stirred, mumbling in confusion, still half-asleep.
"Stay down!" you barked, too loud, too sharp.
But your limbs were slow.
Slower than they should've been.
Your muscles didn't respond like they used to, not after days of watching, waiting, never resting, never breathing.
The enemy feinted left and you missed the tell. A flick of the wrist, a twist of motion, and the kunai in his hand was sailing past you, straight for Naruto, vulnerable, blinking, sitting up with sleep still clouding his vision.
Time stopped.
Your body moved on instinct.
You threw yourself between him and the blade, no thought, no hesitation. Pain exploded through your side as steel sank deep.
You collapsed.
Naruto's voice cracked the air like a thunderclap. "No—!"
The moment your body hit the floor, everything changed. The warmth of blood spreading across your skin blurred into the sound of him rising, of chakra crackling to life. His presence shifted from confused to furious in less than a breath.
He moved like a storm unleashed.
You barely registered it, just flashes of gold and shadow and rage. The enemy shinobi didn't stand a chance. Naruto knocked the blade from his hand, shattered his guard with a single blow, then slammed him hard into the wall with enough force to leave a crater.
The man didn't get up.
You blinked against the blur in your eyes. Your breath hitched. Your hands pressed uselessly to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to hold on just a little longer.
Naruto was at your side the next instant, eyes wild.
"Hey…hey, stay with me, just hold on, I've got you, okay?" His voice cracked. "You're gonna be fine. I'll take you to Sakura, just don't—don't you dare—"
You wanted to tell him not to cry.
You wanted to tell him you were glad it was you.
Because the number above his head was gone. Back to how it used to be.
He was still alive. You'd done it.
Naruto didn't remember the exact moment he scooped you into his arms, only the warmth of your blood on his hands and the way your breath hitched, shallow and unsteady, against his shoulder.
He held you like something fragile. Like if he shifted even a little too fast, you'd break entirely.
"Hang on," he whispered, over and over, like a prayer. "Just hang on."
Then he was moving, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, cutting through the village like a flash of lightning. The sky was just starting to gray at the edges, the quiet of morning giving way to distant birdsong and shuttered windows creaking open.
He was halfway to the hospital when he saw movement ahead, another chakra signature approaching fast.
Lee.
The taijutsu master landed hard on a rooftop just ahead of him, eyes widening as he took in the sight: Naruto covered in blood, your limp body cradled tightly against his chest.
"Naruto! What—!?"
"Enemy shinobi," Naruto ground out, never slowing. "Snuck into my house. She took the hit meant for me."
Lee's face darkened instantly. "Is she—?"
"She's alive, but…" Naruto's voice cracked. "I need Sakura. Now."
Without hesitation, Lee gave a sharp nod. "I'll rouse the others. Sound the alarm. If one got in, there may be more."
"Thanks," Naruto said, breathless. "Cover the village. Don't let anyone else get hurt."
Lee was already gone.
Naruto landed hard in front of the hospital's main doors, shoving them open with his shoulder. "Help!" he shouted. "Someone get Sakura—now!"
Nurses scrambled at the sight of him, bloodied, wild-eyed, clutching you like a lifeline. A medic-nin moved to take you from his arms, but Naruto growled low in his throat, holding you tighter.
"I've got her. Just… Show me where to take her."
A nurse nodded rapidly and led the way. Naruto followed without looking away from your face, not for a second.
Your eyes were barely open now, unfocused. You were murmuring something, but the words were slurred, fading.
"I'm here," he whispered, leaning close. "You're okay. You're gonna be okay."
But gods, he was terrified.
He'd faced armies. He'd stood in front of monsters, of gods, of death itself. But nothing, not one single battlefield, had ever made him feel like this.
He'd never seen you bleed for him before.
He'd never come this close to losing you.
And now that he'd almost did… he realized he couldn't. Wouldn't. Ever.
He stayed by your side as they led him into the emergency ward. He didn't let go of your hand. Not even when Sakura burst in through the double doors, eyes wide with panic, hands already glowing with chakra.
Naruto looked up at her, voice low and hoarse.
"Save her," he said. "Please."
Sakura worked with terrifying precision.
Her hands glowed with steady light as she hovered over your body, sealing torn muscle, knitting flesh, purging the worst of the internal damage. Naruto didn't leave the room. Not even when she told him to.
"She needs rest, Naruto."
"I'm not leaving her."
And he didn't.
Not when they moved you to a private recovery room. Not when your blood was cleaned from his arms. Not when the rest of the village stirred into full alert.
Word had spread. A midnight assassination attempt on the Hokage's doorstep. All shinobi had been called to immediate lockdown. Shikamaru had taken over security protocol and retrieved the unconscious enemy from Naruto's house. He was already working on interrogation.
But Naruto… Naruto didn't move from your bedside.
Hours passed.
He watched your chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. Watched the crease in your brow soften slowly as the pain began to dull.
He sat there with his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced in his hair, whispering things you couldn't hear.
Then finally, finally, your eyes opened.
Slow. Blinking. Dry.
He was out of his chair before you could focus, hovering over you with such a rush of emotion in his face it almost knocked you out again.
"Hey—hey, you're awake." His voice broke. "Gods, you're—you're okay."
Your throat was dry when you tried to speak. "Naruto…?"
He took your hand, sat down at your side, didn't let go.
"You're safe," you whispered, voice ragged.
His grip tightened. His shoulders trembled.
"I was supposed to protect you," you said, but the words were weak, slipping out like water through cracked glass.
Naruto shook his head, voice low and rough with something too close to breaking. "Don't—don't do that. Don't act like that was okay. You jumped in front of a kunai, Y/N. You nearly…"
He stopped himself. Jaw clenched.
He looked away.
"I can't lose you," he said, quieter now. "Not like that. Not ever."
You stared at him, heart squeezing, throat burning. You hadn't meant to confess like this. Not on a hospital bed, pale and bandaged, bruises blooming beneath your skin. But you'd almost died keeping the truth hidden. You couldn't carry it anymore.
"I knew," you whispered.
He looked up.
You swallowed hard. "About the attack. Not the specifics. Just that… something would happen. That you were going to die today."
Naruto's brows pulled together. "How could you possibly—?"
"I can see it," you said. "People's death dates. I've been able to since I was a kid. I don't know how. I didn't choose it."
He blinked, stunned silent.
You continued. "There are names. Numbers. Above people's heads. I've trained myself to ignore them. To not look. But… I always saw yours. You had years left. So many. But a few nights ago… it changed. It dropped to days."
You took a shaky breath. "And I didn't know how it would happen. If it was an illness, or a jutsu gone wrong, or an ambush in the dark. But I couldn't…I couldn't just do nothing."
You met his eyes.
"So I stayed close. I tasted your food. I watched your steps. I guarded your door. Because if anything was going to take you, it'd have to go through me."
Naruto didn't move. Just stared. Then finally, slowly, he sat down on the edge of your bed again.
You expected him to argue.
Instead, he let out a breath that trembled in his chest.
"I don't want you to die for me," he said. "I want you to live. With me. For as long as we've got."
The words hung between you, heavy and real.
"Is the number still gone?" he asked, voice raw.
You nodded, slowly. "It disappeared the moment I got hit."
He swallowed. "So you changed it."
"No," you said, softly. "You did. You fought back. You survived. I just stalled fate long enough for you to grab your future with both hands."
He looked at you like he'd never seen you before. Like he'd finally understood.
"I love you," you said, voice barely a whisper. "I think I always have."
The silence that followed was warm.
Not empty.
Not afraid.
His hand found yours again.
"I'm not letting you go," he said. "Not now. Not ever."
And this time, you believed him.
Ranpo Edogawa
The first time you walked into the Armed Detective Agency's office, it felt like stepping into a world already halfway unraveling. Files were stacked like precarious towers, someone's coat was draped over the back of a chair as if it had lost a fight, and the air smelled faintly of coffee and ink.
You didn't mind chaos.
Not when you lived with a different kind of burden, the one in your eyes.
You had never asked for them. The Shinigami Eyes had come as part of a price someone else paid long ago. An old deal you had inherited without choice, a gift cursed into your bloodline. One glance into someone's face, and you saw it: their full name… and the exact date and time of their death. Like a clock already ticking.
You had long since learned not to flinch when you met people's eyes. Most had years left. Some had days. The elderly cashier at the corner store had another eight months. The man who sat beside you on the bus every Tuesday? Three years and a half. Some people were lucky. Some weren't. You saw it all.
So when Ranpo Edogawa looked up from a bag of pressed chocolate snack cakes and offered you a lazy smile, you saw…
Nothing.
No name.
No date.
No time.
Nothing.
You blinked.
You looked again.
Still nothing.
Not even the usual ethereal glow. It was as if your power didn't work on him at all.
You should have told someone. Reported it to Yosano. Asked Dazai if it was a known ability. But something in Ranpo's smug grin silenced you. Something about the way he lazily popped a bite-sized cake into his mouth, as though he already knew what you were thinking.
You didn't say anything.
Not yet.
It didn't take long for you to get used to life at the Agency.
Atsushi was the first to warm up to you, offering awkward smiles and asking if you needed help carrying anything. Yosano scared you at first, but you quickly learned she was sharp-tongued in the way that meant she cared. Kunikida's lectures about "standards" became something of a background hum in your day, and Dazai's antics… well, you learned to ignore them unless they involved something dangerous.
Ranpo was different.
At first, your interactions were limited to polite greetings and the occasional small talk. You weren't even sure he noticed you beyond the snacks you sometimes brought to the break room. But every time you saw that blank space, that impossible absence where his death date should have been, you felt your curiosity tighten like a knot in your chest.
You started making excuses to talk to him.
If you needed a case file, you asked him where it was instead of checking the cabinet yourself. If you had free time, you lingered near his desk under the pretense of organizing paperwork. You'd ask him about his deductions, about how he saw through people so easily. He always answered, often with a smug tilt of his head, but there were moments, rare and fleeting, when his eyes softened in a way that made your heartbeat stumble.
And you kept looking. Every day.
Nothing changed.
It was maddening.
You considered the possibilities. Was his ability interfering with yours? Was he already dead in some way your eyes couldn't comprehend? Or was there something even stranger, something that bent the rules you had lived with your entire life?
You didn't have answers, but you were getting something else instead, familiarity.
You noticed the way Ranpo always ate sweets in pairs, never one at a time. The way his voice became a shade quieter when he was actually concerned about someone. The way he tilted his head when he listened, like he was dissecting your words piece by piece.
And you found yourself… liking it.
It wasn't just curiosity anymore. It wasn't just about the blank space in your vision. Somewhere between stolen glances and shared snacks, between casual conversation and the rare moments when his arrogance gave way to sincerity, you'd grown comfortable with him. Too comfortable.
One afternoon, you caught yourself laughing at something he'd said, something you couldn't even remember a moment later and realized your chair had somehow ended up right beside his. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he leaned toward you slightly, as though sharing some secret.
"You're staring again," he murmured, not looking up from the candy he was unwrapping.
You froze. "Am I?"
"Mhm." He popped the candy into his mouth, eyes glinting under the lenses of his glasses. "What is it you're trying to figure out about me?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your mind scrambled for something casual, something that wouldn't give away the truth. "You're… hard to read."
His smile widened. "Good. That means I'm doing my job."
But when he looked away, you thought you saw something else there, something that wasn't smugness at all. It was gone in an instant, but it left you wondering if, for all your searching, Ranpo might have been studying you just as closely.
That possibility stayed with you, and the closer you grew to him, the harder it became to ignore that blank space in your vision.
With everyone else, the numbers came easily, steady as clockwork, whether they were decades or mere hours away. But with him, there was nothing. No faint glow. No flicker of time. Just… absence.
And absence meant uncertainty.
Uncertainty meant danger.
You didn't know if his death would come suddenly or not at all. You didn't know if you could save him, if fate had left you even the slightest chance. All you knew was that you didn't want to find out the hard way.
So you started watching him more closely.
At first, it was small things. You'd glance at his food before he ate it, making sure there was nothing that looked off. You'd nudge his coffee mug a little further from the edge of the desk so it wouldn't spill on him. You'd walk behind him on the stairs, just in case he missed a step.
He didn't seem to notice at first.
But then there were the bigger things, those you couldn't explain away so easily. Like the time you stepped in front of him as a delivery man carrying a ladder nearly swung into the hallway. Or when you asked to try his drink from the vending machine because the ice looked strange. Or when you stood a little too close at crosswalks, your hand almost brushing his sleeve as if you were ready to pull him back.
The problem was, you weren't doing it consciously anymore.
You'd see him with a loose shoelace and kneel down to tie it before realizing how absurd it must have looked. You'd catch yourself scanning the ceiling for loose tiles when he walked into a room. You'd find excuses to go on errands with him, because what if something happened when you weren't there?
It wasn't just about protecting him anymore. It was about being there.
Ranpo never called you out for it directly, but sometimes you caught him giving you a look, sharp, thoughtful and almost amused. As if he knew you were playing at something and was curious how far you'd go before you told him why.
It came to a head on a case one afternoon.
You'd been sent along with him to follow up on a witness. It was supposed to be safe, no criminals, no danger. Just a simple interview. But as the two of you walked down a narrow side street, you spotted a motorbike swerving too close to the curb. Before you even thought about it, your arm shot out across his chest, halting him in place.
The motorbike roared past, missing him by maybe a foot.
Ranpo looked down at your arm, then at you. "…You okay there, hero?"
You pulled your hand back quickly. "Sorry. I just—"
"Thought I was going to die?" he supplied, one eyebrow raised.
The words hit you harder than you expected, because yes. That was exactly it.
But you forced a laugh. "It's called being cautious."
He studied you for a long moment, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're acting like I'm fragile."
You opened your mouth to deny it, but something in his gaze told you he wouldn't believe you anyway. So instead, you said nothing.
And from that moment on, you knew two things for certain:
One, Ranpo was starting to suspect you.
Two, you weren't going to stop.
That's how he began testing you. At first it were little things, so small you almost convinced yourself you were imagining them. He'd walk just a little too close to the curb when the street was busy. He'd lean back in his chair at an angle that made it creak ominously. He'd balance his tea precariously near the edge of the desk.
And each time, you reacted.
A hand to steady him, a quick tug on his sleeve, a silent relocation of his drink to safer ground.
You thought he'd stop once he saw how quickly you stepped in.
He didn't.
In fact, it escalated.
One morning, you walked into the break room to find him reaching deliberately for the highest shelf without using the stepstool, standing on the edge of the counter. You froze, heart lurching.
"Ranpo, get down."
He smirked, fingers curling around the box of sweets just out of reach. "Why? Afraid I'll fall?"
"Yes." The word left you before you could soften it.
His smile widened, and he hopped down easily, handing you the box like it was a prize he'd won. "Interesting."
You tried to ignore it, but the pattern kept repeating.
During a case, he'd wander too far into a dim alley, ignoring your calls until you caught up. At lunch, he'd eat something from a questionable street vendor just to watch your expression twist. Once, he even pretended to step in front of a slow-moving bicycle, only to sidestep it at the last second, laughing when you pulled his arm.
"You've got quick reflexes," he teased. "Good to know."
It was driving you insane.
Every time he did it, the knot in your chest pulled tighter. Because you didn't know if he was only teasing you, or if he truly didn't care what happened to him. Because the blank space in your vision hadn't changed, and you still didn't know if that meant he was safe or standing on the edge of something irreversible.
And because you knew deep down, that if he pushed too far, you'd follow him straight into the fire without a second thought.
One evening, after you'd spent the better part of the day dragging him away from precarious situations, you found him leaning against the Agency's front desk, watching you.
"You really do think I'm fragile," he said, not as an accusation, but as a fact he'd finally confirmed for himself.
You swallowed. "I think you're—" You stopped. Too valuable. Too unpredictable. Too important. "—reckless."
Ranpo's smile tilted. "Maybe I just like seeing how far you'll go."
You stared at him, pulse in your throat. "And what if I go too far?"
"Then," he said, leaning in just enough that you caught the faint scent of candy on his breath, "I guess I'll know exactly how much I matter to you."
You didn't answer. You couldn't.
Because he was already walking away, leaving you with nothing but the sound of his laughter and the awful, undeniable truth that he was winning this game.
It happened on a case that should have been simple. A low-level extortionist, rumored to have a weapon but too cowardly to use it. The kind of job Ranpo could solve before lunch.
You should have known he'd push it.
The suspect was cornered in a cramped back office, sweat running down his temple, his hand twitching near the inside of his coat. Kunikida was midway through ordering him to surrender when Ranpo stepped forward.
"Wow," Ranpo drawled, hands tucked casually into his pockets. "You're really going to make us waste more time? You couldn't intimidate a kitten, you know."
You stiffened. "Ranpo—"
But he wasn't done. "Let me guess. You bought that gun off some back alley dealer and now you think you're untouchable? You probably don't even know how to—"
The suspect's hand flashed.
The gun came up.
There wasn't time to think.
You grabbed Ranpo's arm and shoved him sideways just as the gun went off. The crack of it tore through the air, sharp and deafening. Pain ripped across your shoulder and your knees almost buckled.
"Y/N!" Ranpo's voice hit you before anything else. He was already at your side, his hands gripping you just above the wound as Kunikida surged forward to disarm the suspect.
Dazai's voice floated distantly, mocking the man even as he twisted the gun from his hands, but you could barely focus. Your shoulder throbbed, your sleeve already warm and damp.
Ranpo's usual smugness was gone, replaced by a sharp, focused fear. "Idiot," he muttered, and you couldn't tell if he meant the suspect or himself. "You're bleeding."
"Needed to make sure you'd be fine," you tried to joke, but your voice came out thin.
"Shut up." His grip tightened, as if he thought you'd vanish if he let go.
Kunikida and Dazai hauled the suspect out, their voices fading down the hall. Ranpo stayed beside you, his eyes fixed on the wound with grim precision.
"You're coming with me," he said, already leading you away with more care than you'd ever seen from him. "Yosano will fix this."
"Ranpo, I can—"
"You can't," he cut in, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You just got shot because I—" He stopped himself, jaw tight. "We're not doing this here."
The walk back to the Agency was a blur. Ranpo didn't let go of you once, his arm steadying you the entire way.
When you reached Yosano's office, he didn't simply hand you over, he stayed. Even as she worked on your shoulder, he leaned against the counter, watching every move, his expression unreadable but his eyes still holding that razor's edge of worry.
"You're reckless," he said finally, as if accusing you.
You almost laughed at the hypocrisy, but the look on his face stopped you. It wasn't smug. It wasn't teasing. It was… guilt.
"Ranpo—"
"Don't say it," he interrupted, gaze flicking away. "Just… don't do that again."
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because even through the ache in your shoulder, you knew you'd do it again without hesitation.
Yosano's hands were steady as always, but her voice carried that edge between amusement and irritation."You're lucky," she said, tightening the bandage around your shoulder. "No bone damage, no torn arteries. Still, don't move this arm too much for the next few weeks."
You nodded, wincing as she adjusted the wrap.
She straightened, her gaze sliding toward Ranpo, who was still leaning against the counter. "You know," she said casually, "I could fix this in a few minutes."
You didn't have to ask what she meant. Yosano's ability could heal even mortal wounds, but only by bringing her patient to the brink of death first. And she didn't do it gently.
"No, thank you," you said quickly, before Ranpo could open his mouth. "I'll take the long recovery."
Her lips curved in a faint smirk. "Suit yourself. I'll check in later."
With that, she left, the click of the door closing behind her leaving you in sudden, heavy silence.
Ranpo didn't speak at first. He just stood there, watching you. His usual easy posture was gone; he was still, deliberate, his hands buried in his pockets like he didn't trust them not to fidget.
When he finally moved, it was to pull a chair closer and sit across from you, elbows resting on his knees.
"Why?"
The question was quiet but sharp, cutting clean through the air between you.
You blinked. "Why what?"
His gaze didn't waver. "Why you keep protecting me."
You tried to look away, but he leaned forward just enough to keep your eyes locked on his. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. The stairs. The streets. The food. And today…" His voice dropped lower. "You practically threw yourself in front of a bullet."
"That's not—"
"Yes, it is." His tone left no room for argument. "You've been doing this for months. I thought maybe you were just… overly cautious. But no. It's always me. You don't do this with anyone else."
You swallowed hard, your pulse beating in your ears.
"Why?" he asked again, softer this time.
You hesitated, your mind scrambling for something simple, something harmless. But the truth pressed at your throat like it wanted out.
Because I can't see your death.
Because that means you could die at any moment.
Because I don't know how to stop it, so I have to try at least.
But all you said was, "Because you matter to me."
Ranpo was still watching you with an unreadable expression, lips parting like he was about to speak, when the door swung open.
Dazai and Kunikida stepped in, the former wearing his trademark smirk, the latter already assessing you from head to toe.
"Y/N, how are you?" Kunikida asked.
"There's the hero of the day," Dazai drawled.
"I'm fine," you replied, managing a small smile. "It's nothing serious, I just need to rest my arm for the next few weeks."
Kunikida's shoulders eased a fraction. "That was reckless," he said, but his voice softened. "I'm glad you're alright. Go home and rest, the day's been exciting enough. Dazai can write the report—"
"Do I have to?" Dazai groaned, but Kunikida was already dragging him toward the door.
As soon as they were gone, Ranpo stepped forward and took your uninjured arm with surprising care. "Come on," he murmured. "I'll take you home."
The walk back was quiet, the city lights blurring in your peripheral vision. All you noticed was the steady weight of his hand on your back, guiding you as if afraid you might stumble.
When you reached your apartment, he stopped at the threshold. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, something you weren't used to seeing.
"Let me stay," he said simply. "Just tonight. Not that Yosano was wrong, but if you did bleed out in your sleep, I'd never hear the end of it."
You barely had time to protest before he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
The air between you felt different now, charged with something unspoken. You ended up side by side on the couch, closer than necessary, your healthy arm brushing against his.
His gaze shifted from the television to you, his eyes narrowing like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
And then, without warning, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was sudden and impossibly gentle.
You froze for a heartbeat, pulse hammering, before warmth spread through you like a slow-burning flame.
When he pulled back, his usual smirk was softer, almost vulnerable.
"Guess I'm not just testing how far you'll go," he murmured. "I'm seeing how far I want to go."
Neither of you moved away. His gaze lingered on yours, sharper now, the softness from a moment ago replaced with something more deliberate.
"Promise me something," Ranpo said suddenly.
You frowned. "What?"
"That you'll never do something like that again."
"Like what?"
"Throw yourself in front of me." His tone was unusually firm, cutting through the quiet. "Don't save me if it means you get hurt."
You hesitated, the weight of his words pressing against your chest. "…I can't promise that."
His brows drew together. "Y/N—"
"I can't," you repeated, your voice steadier this time. "Because if something happened to you and I could have stopped it… I'd never forgive myself."
He stared at you, and for a moment you thought he might argue. Instead, he leaned back slightly, watching you like he was waiting for more.
You exhaled slowly. "You deserve to know why."
The words spilled out before you could second-guess yourself. You told him about your eyes. The names, the dates, the ticking clock only you could see. How you'd lived with it for years, learned to keep it hidden.
And then you told him about him.
"The first time I looked at you, there was nothing," you said quietly. "No name, no date. Just a blank space. And I don't know what it means, but I know I can't risk it. I can't risk you."
You forced yourself to meet his gaze, bracing for the possibilities, the shock, the disbelief, maybe even fear. "I thought you might start stressing over it. Or be scared."
But Ranpo just smirked lazily, leaning back into the couch cushions like you'd told him something he'd already guessed.
"So what you're saying," he drawled, "is that I'm safe as long as you're around."
You blinked. "…That's not exactly—"
"That's exactly what you said," he interrupted, his smirk deepening. "Which means all I have to do is keep you close. Problem solved."
You let out a shaky laugh, part relief, part disbelief. "You're impossible."
"And you," he said, nudging your knee with his, "are mine. So no more worrying. I'm safe whenever you're with me."
His confidence was infuriating. And yet, for the first time since you'd seen that blank space in your vision, you almost believed him.
Hi-hiiii! (◍˃̶ᗜ˂̶◍)ﾉ” Idk about you, but I love a good isekai story. If you're interested, could you write about a Reader that reincarnates into Kalluto Zoldyck from HxH? Reader could be from our world and know the plot, or it could even be someone from a different series, like Naruto. (A Hatake!Reader would be super cool; they'd be used to the killing, but also better adjusted than the mess the Zoldyck family is{in regards to family bonding and stuff}, lmao.)
I want Reader to be sweet, generally, but is a badass. Also, their Nen could be both Canon!Kalluto's plus a specialist ability of your choice(keeping their specialist part hidden). I feel like the Zoldycks wouldn't know what to do with such a sweet Reader, that they'd accidentally end up pushing Reader away from the family to the point of just pulling a Killua and ghosting them, lmao.
Idk, mix and match what you want, I'm just throwing out ideas, haha. I'd love to see your take on this prompt, but if the muse isn't blessing you, don't worry about it. ❤️( ˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵ )❤️
The Wrong Reflection
A/N: I've never written something like this before, but it was really fun! There might be a second part, I'm not sure yet. Maybe it'll involve the Phantom Troupe, that's why it's set after Greed Island when Kalluto had already joined the Spiders.
synopsis: You, a shinobi and sister to Kakashi Hatake, suddenly wake up in a strange world. In the unfamiliar body of Kalluto Zoldyck. Struggling to navigate his cold, dangerous family and the overwhelming loneliness of having lost your old life, you set out to survive, searching for purpose, connection, and a way back home.
content/warnings: Hatake!reader, only platonic relationships, no x reader since Kalluto is a minor, angst and fluff
You wake up in silence.
Not the kind of silence you know from your shinobi life, the tense, vibrating stillness before a blade strikes or the breath before a jutsu is cast.
No.
This is dead silence.
The kind that feels like it's been stretched too thin, like the house itself is holding its breath.
You open your eyes.
The ceiling is pale wood, carved with quiet elegance. The walls are shrouded in dark silks, and the furniture looks more expensive than anything you owned. You don't recognize any of it.
Your limbs are stiff, smaller than they should be.
You sit up abruptly.
Your hair falls into your face, black, not silver.
Your hands are small, delicate. The skin is pale, your fingers elegant, like they've never held a kunai or wrapped a bandage in wartime. Panic starts low in your stomach and climbs.
Where are you?
You swing your legs off the bed and catch a glimpse in the mirror across the room. The boy staring back at you is unfamiliar: raven hair pulled back with a paper fan tucked behind one ear, eyes dark and slanted, lips pressed in that faint, aristocratic stillness.
But they widen with your shock.
You whisper your name aloud, your real name: "Y/N Hatake."
The boy's lips move with yours.
You try to focus your chakra, feel the familiar rush through your tenketsu. But it's… strange. Your chakra feels off, like it's warped or hollow. And beneath it, something else pulses. Something colder, tighter. A strange, thin wire of energy, like a thread wound around your very soul.
Before you can make sense of it—
Click.
The door to the room creaks open.
You don't even hear footsteps. He's just there, in the doorway: tall, lean, his eyes round and black and utterly without warmth. His presence makes your skin crawl. His aura is suffocating, not in strength, but in how still it is.
Like death standing politely in the corner.
"You're awake," he says, voice low and flat. "What happened?"
You instinctively rise to your feet, ready for a fight, but your balance is off. This body isn't yours. You're slower. Smaller.
"Who are you?" he asks again, stepping forward. "You're not my brother."
You freeze.
Brother?
You try to speak, your voice trembling more than you'd like.
"I… I don't know where I am. I—I'm not your brother. I'm—my name is Y/N Hatake. I'm from Konohagakure. My brother is Kakashi. I—"
His aura changes.
It spikes, just a fraction, enough to press against your skull, like an invisible blade. He's still not blinking.
"You are in Kalluto's body," he says coldly. "But your aura is wrong. Your voice, your posture, your soul…It's not his."
Your breath catches. You don't understand.
Kalluto. That's the name of this body?
"I don't know who that is," you manage, heart thudding.
For a moment, he simply studies you.
Then—
Snap.
He's gone.
But the room is cold now. Something was left behind, his presence, or his warning.
And you know, without needing to be told:
You are not alone in this house.
You are not welcome.
And whoever these people are…
They are not going to let you walk away without answers.
Your legs tremble as you stumble forward, eyes fixed on the full-length mirror in the far corner of the room.
You reach it slowly, heart pounding like a drumbeat that doesn't belong to you. Your reflection blurs as your eyes sting.
You lean in, nose nearly brushing the glass. The boy staring back at you looks delicate. Refined. Pretty, even. Like a porcelain doll dressed for mourning in his black pyjamas. High cheekbones. Long lashes. Soft lips that twitch when yours do.
You raise a hand to your face. So does he.
But it isn't you.
You're Hatake Y/N, youngest of the Hatake clan. You've tracked enemy shinobi across snowfields. You've bled beneath enemy blades. You're a shinobi.
So who the hell is this?
Behind you—
"You stare like you've never seen yourself before."
You whip around.
The tall man from before is back, watching you from the doorway. Unblinking. His voice is monotone, but there's something sharp behind the calm.
"Get dressed," he says, nodding toward the wardrobe. "We're going to talk. Properly."
He leaves without another word, vanishing so silently it chills you.
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, fingers clenching into fists before slowly opening again.
Your body feels wrong. Too light. Too small. You don't recognize the way your center of balance shifts with every step. Even your breath sounds different, too soft, too shallow.
You move to the wardrobe.
It opens smoothly, hinges whispering open with barely a sound.
Inside, rows of nearly outfits greet you. Dark-colored kimonos with subtle flower patterns at the sleeve and the end. No pants. No boots. No armor. Just silk and shadow.
You hesitate. Then reach for one.
It takes longer than you'd like to get dressed. Your fingers fumble with the obi. The sleeves feel strange. You avoid looking down as best you can, you already know you're not in your own body. You don't need more proof.
Still, even without looking, you feel the truth.
You're in a boy's body.
But everything about you looks soft. Slim waist, long lashes, delicate collarbones. Your new face could pass for a noble girl's. It's jarring. Even cruel.
You glance at the mirror again, fully dressed now. The kimono fits perfectly. You look like someone meant for tea ceremonies, not battlefield carnage. Not for kunai. Not for blood.
You reach out and gently touch the edge of the mirror's frame.
"You admire yourself too much."
The door opens again, and the voice pulls you away from your thoughts.
He's standing there once more. The tall one. The one with the black, soulless eyes.
You steel your spine.
"Follow me."
You do.
You trail behind him through a winding corridor, your feet padding against dark wood flooring. The air is cool, tinged with incense. The house is large, massive even, but closed-off and silent. Like a temple. Or a tomb.
Everything is dark. Walls in black, navy, crimson. Rich fabrics, elaborate carvings, paper doors that look like they haven't been opened in years.
You take a few steps too loud. Your heel taps instead of gliding.
He turns his head slightly, not stopping.
"You're walking too loudly."
You flinch.
"I—I'm sorry. I used to be better. My steps were silent in my own body."
That gets his attention.
He stops. Turns fully to face you.
"Explain."
You breathe in carefully, watching his eyes. He's unreadable, like a shadow wearing skin.
"I was a shinobi," you say. "I trained to move silently, walk without leaving traces, hide my presence, mask my breathing. I could run over leaves without making a sound. But... this body—this isn't mine. It moves differently. My center of gravity is wrong. I can't even tell where my steps fall until I hear them."
A pause.
His gaze lingers on you for a moment. Then:
"You speak the truth. Or at least, you believe it."
He starts walking again.
You follow, trying to move softer.
"You said you're a shinobi," he continues, voice flat but probing. "From where?"
"Konoha. The Hidden Leaf Village."
"I never heard of it." His tone doesn't mock you, but it doesn't believe you, either.
"What? But… most people know it. It's in the Land of Fire—one of the Five Great Ninja Villages."
He only stares at you with unblinking eyes.
You clench your hands inside the sleeves of the kimono. "I don't expect you to believe me. But it's the truth. It's all I have. I can't give you any proof right now… but if you let me go home, if I could just talk to my brother, he'd confirm everything. He knows who I really am."
He doesn't respond. Just continues walking.
The silence stretches as you descend a staircase and enter a deeper part of the house.
You have no idea where you are.
But you can feel it in your gut:
You're in a den of monsters.
And you're wearing one of their faces.
The air grows colder the deeper you go. The walls shift from dark wood to smooth stone. The ceilings rise. The scent of old incense and paper-thin blood lingers on the air, and you realize that despite the stillness, you are not alone.
He walks ahead of you, silent as a falling leaf, his long hair swinging like shadow behind him.
You try to match his pace.
"I forgot to introduce myself," he says suddenly, not looking back. "My name is Illumi."
The name settles in your chest like a stone.
You nod once, quietly. "It's nice to meet…"
"Through this door," he interrupts.
You stop in front of a tall door, black lacquer with a delicate silver emblem carved into the center, a swirling Z. Before you can even ask where you're going, he opens it.
The room beyond is vast. Cold. Beautiful in a way that feels surgical.
It's a sitting room, technically, but everything about it feels like a throne room built for execution.
There are already people inside.
A man with silver hair and a massive build, standing tall near the far wall. His presence is magnetic, commanding. His expression is unreadable, but you can feel his power just from his stance.
A woman sits beside him, dressed in sweeping gothic robes, her lips curled into a faint scowl. She wears a kind of mask, something that hides her eyes, paired with a large hat that obscures the rest of her upper face. Because of the mask, her expression is unreadable.
Near the side of the room, on a velvet chaise, lounges a heavyset boy with short hair, eating chips straight from the bag with one hand and lazily swiping through some device with the other. He looks up, uninterested, until his eyes widen slightly. You feel him scan you like a database processor, running through something in his head.
And at the back, tucked almost too comfortably into the shadows, sits an elderly man, thin and precise, sipping tea from a tiny porcelain cup. His eyes are closed, but his presence is loud.
Illumi gestures for you to step forward.
"This is the rest of your family. Or rather—Kalluto's."
You hesitate.
"Go on," he says. "They won't hurt you. Not yet."
You take a step. Then another. You bow stiffly.
"My name is Y/N Hatake. I'm not your family. I woke up in this body, and I don't know how or why—but I'm not Kalluto. I was born in a village called Konoha. I'm a shinobi. My brother is Kakashi Hatake, the Sixth Hokage. If there's a way to contact him… I'm sure we can figure this out. Maybe Kalluto ended up in my body somehow. A jutsu we didn't recognize, something that switched us, or… changed everything—"
"You claim to be a foreign soul," the man with silver hair studies you. His voice is calm. Heavy. Like judgment dressed as observation.
"Yes," you say. "I know how it sounds. I have no proof, but I swear I'm not lying."
The woman tilts her head, smiling a little too widely.
"He's sweeter," she hums. "Kalluto never smiled like that. Never hesitated. Never sounded so small… Do you remember me, dear?" she coos.
You shake your head.
"No."
The heavyset man, Milluki, Illumi offers in a flat whisper, snorts and sets down his device.
"This is a freak show. Are we sure this isn't some weird Nen possession? Like, memory overwrite? Maybe a parasite-type specialist?"
Illumi shakes his head.
"I can feel his aura. It's shaped like Kalluto's, same root, but the flow, the refinement, the instincts are foreign. Off-pattern. Like a different artist copying the same brushstroke."
The old man in the corner finally opens his eyes. You freeze. They're sharp. Merciless. Wise. But also… curious. "And what do you want, foreign child?"
You swallow.
"I want to understand what happened. I want to go home, want to talk to my brother."
The silence after that stretches long.
Finally, the silver-haired man nods slightly. "We will not harm you. You are still… our son's vessel. His body. Until we understand what's happened, we will treat you as Kalluto-adjacent."
"I… appreciate that," you say, your voice trembling slightly. "Also, I'm a girl. So, uh… hearing 'him' when you talk about me feels a little weird. I mean, I guess I am a him right now… but still."
There's a pause. Not a long one, just long enough for you to regret saying anything.
Milluki lets out a short, snorting laugh from the corner. "Hah. That's rich. A ninja princess in Kalluto's body. This just keeps getting weirder."
You don't respond, but your jaw tightens.
The woman's lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile, more like curiosity turning over in her mouth. "So delicate," she murmurs. "It's almost fitting."
Silva raises a brow but says nothing. He doesn't seem amused or offended, just processing, the way someone might observe a new species.
The old man sips his tea with no reaction at all, as if gender identity is the least interesting part of this strange puzzle. It probably isn't, if you're honest.
Illumi, still standing beside you, finally speaks. "If that's what you prefer," he says tonelessly. "It doesn't change anything. But I'll note it."
Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.
You start fidgeting with your hands, the silk of the sleeves slipping between your fingers. "So, uh… is there any way to contact my brother? Or any shinobi from Konoha? Even the Kazekage from Suna, if that's closer. I'm sure Gaara could help. He knows me."
The old man finally stands, his movements slow but purposeful. He crosses the room with a slight hunch. "I know this world well, child," he says, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. "And I've never heard of any of those places."
He stops a few feet in front of you, tilting his head as he studies you more closely. "This may be more interesting than I thought."
"They're real," you insist quietly. "Two of the most famous shinobi villages. Konoha in the Land of Fire, and Suna in the Land of Wind."
"I looked it up," Milluki mutters, holding up his device. "There's nothing. No such names. Not on any network."
Illumi turns slightly, his aura flaring in an instant. It's sharp, pressurized, like a needle pricking the back of your neck.
"So you're lying."
"I'm not lying!" you shoot back, startled. "I am from Konoha. How would you even look it up with that thing? Wouldn't you need… a map?"
Milluki scoffs. "A map?" he repeats mockingly. But the smirk fades when he realizes you're serious.
"Wait… don't you know what this is?" He holds the phone up again, more confused than smug now.
You blink at it.
"...No?"
A beat.
"You don't know what a phone is?" Illumi asks, and for the first time, there's something just slightly off in his voice. Not quite surprise, but close. Like the needle of his perception has tilted.
You shake your head.
The family exchanges glances, brief, quiet, unreadable. Not panicked. Not angry. But calculating.
The tall man finally speaks.
"How about you start from the beginning," he says, nodding toward the long dining table visible through an open set of doors. "Tell us where you came from. And what you are."
You nod, slowly.
And so, you all sit.
The table is far too long, the air too heavy, but they let you speak.
You begin to explain: Konoha, the hidden village in the Land of Fire. The shinobi system. The Hokage, your brother, Kakashi, now the Sixth. You talk about the structure: Genin, Chūnin, Jōnin. About how you reached your rank. The ANBU. Missions. Chakra. Hand signs. Seals.
You tell them about the Akatsuki (or what was left of them) and the Fourth Shinobi World War.
Surely they've heard of it, right? Something that big?
But as your words settle into the room, you're met only with silence. Calculating, speculative silence.
And slowly, you begin to realize:
They really don't know.
None of it.
You're completely alone here.
That evening, the silence of the room wraps around you like heavy fog.
Kalluto's room.
Yours now, apparently.
It's quiet, too quiet. Not the soft kind that brings peace, but the type that amplifies the ache in your head, in your chest. The shadows stretch long across the floor.
You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers loosely clasped, head bowed.
It hurts.
Your head hurts from the flood of information. Names, systems, power structures. Technology Milluki had shoved into your hands with an eye-roll and a scoff, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
Phones, networks, internet. He'd laughed at your confusion. "That was just basic stuff," he said, snorting as he clicked through app after app. "You haven't seen anything yet."
And he was right. Because even after just a glimpse, you'd felt your chest tighten with how alien this world was.
And then there was Nen.
Illumi had brought you to a cold training chamber. His instructions had been precise, detached, but strangely patient. He'd studied your reactions, observed how quickly you'd learned the basics. Aura control, the feel of Ren and Zetsu under your skin. Like chakra, but not. More visceral. Wilder. And yet, your shinobi training made it… accessible.
Not easy. Never easy.
But possible.
Still… it wasn't familiar. It wasn't home.
You lie back slowly on the bed, staring at the high ceiling, arms sprawled over your stomach. The kimono bunches slightly at your waist. Even your body, this body, feels unfamiliar. Smaller. Lighter. You caught your reflection again earlier, and your breath had caught in your throat.
Pretty. Petite.
Delicate features, soft lines, long dark hair. You knew you were in a boy's body. You felt it. But it didn't change how alien it looked in the mirror, like someone had dressed your soul in someone else's porcelain doll.
And still, it wasn't what unsettled you the most.
It was the emptiness.
You missed them. Your team. The long walks through the village, the scent of ramen in the air. The warmth of laughter, the comfort of banter. Your brother's rare but genuine smiles, the warmth of his presence even when words were few.
Were they looking for you now?
Could they?
Was Kalluto in your body? Had your family noticed the difference? What if they hadn't? What if he was there, quiet and distant, and no one even realized you were gone?
Or worse, what if your body was just empty?
Were you dead?
Were you dreaming? Comatose? Was there another version of you out there, walking the streets of Konoha, completely unaware of what you'd left behind?
Tears prick your eyes, sharp and sudden. You cover your face with both hands and take a shaky breath.
You don't cry.
You can't cry.
You're a shinobi. You've faced war. You've buried friends.
But this… this kind of isolation, this displacement from everything you've ever known, it's not a battle.
It's a slow, silent drowning.
You let out a quiet exhale and roll to your side, curling slightly, trying to shrink the world down to just the soft whisper of the sheets.
For now, all you can do is survive.
And hopefully find a way back.
It's been a week since you woke up in this unfamiliar body, in a house that feels more like a fortress than a home. Every day, you tread carefully, watching, listening, learning.
You're not sure if they see you as an intruder, a threat, or just a ghost wearing their son's skin. But you've made a decision.
If you're stuck here, for now… then you'll try to live here. Try to be useful.
Try to be kind, even if no one quite knows what to do with that.
You start with something small.
One morning, after breakfast—if you could even call that silent, stiff ritual a meal—you linger in the kitchen. The servants give you sideways glances, clearly unsure of your presence, but you smile anyway.
"I can cook," you offer gently. "I mean, I know it's not exactly professional, but I used to make ramen back home. Just… simple stuff."
The chef, clearly unsure whether he's allowed to let you, hesitates. But you press on, tying your sleeves back and getting to work.
It feels good. Familiar. The way the steam curls, the warmth of the broth, the rhythm of your hands.
Later, you bring the bowls to the living room on a tray, hopeful.
"I thought… maybe everyone might want some lunch?"
Silva glances over from where he's seated, a thick file open in his hands. His stare is impassive, unreadable.
"That's unnecessary," he says simply. "Meals are handled."
You nod quickly, the tray still in your hands.
"Right. I just thought…"
But he's already looking away.
You find the garden one late afternoon.
The quiet there is different, not heavy, not judgmental. Just… quiet. You kneel beside a patch of overgrown green, rolling up your sleeves and carefully pulling weeds. The dirt gets under your nails. It feels real.
"You shouldn't be out here."
You turn to see Kikyo standing a few feet away, arms folded, her mask gleaming in the afternoon light.
"I was just helping," you say softly. "It's peaceful here."
"You'll ruin your hands," she says curtly. "And Kalluto never bothered with dirt. He had refinement."
You glance down at your fingers.
"Right. Sorry."
She doesn't move.
"You keep trying to act like you belong. Like you're one of us," she continues, voice tight. "But you're not. You're soft. I can see it. Too soft. Too breakable."
You swallow.
"I just thought… I could try."
"Don't."
She turns and disappears into the house.
You're invited into Milluki's room exactly once.
He's surrounded by tech. Screens, wires, a small mountain of half-empty snack wrappers.
"You ever played Hellstorm IV?" he asks, shoving a controller into your hands before you can answer.
You try. You really try.
But the buttons are foreign, the graphics too fast. You're dead in under a minute.
"Wow. You suck," he says with a cackle.
"I've… never played games before."
"Yeah, no kidding."
He doesn't invite you back.
Zeno practically lives in the library.
You tried asking him once about history here, about maps, about anything that could help you understand where you are. He shut the book he was reading, stared at you for a long moment, then opened a new one without a word.
You got the message.
Now, you only pass by quietly.
Illumi is different.
You can't say better, just different.
Sometimes he watches you for minutes at a time without speaking. His expression doesn't change, but you feel the scrutiny like a weight on your skin.
He still trains you in Nen. Corrects your posture. Tells you to focus.
He praises your progress in vague, clinical tones.
"Kalluto was not this quick. You've adapted well."
Sometimes, when you're sitting alone after training, he lingers at the doorway. Like he might say something more. But he never does.
You wonder if he thinks you're a parasite.
Sometimes you wonder if he's right.
That night, you sit cross-legged on your bed, hands cupped in your lap. The room is dim, lit only by a flickering lamp.
No one came to check on you. No one knocked. No one asked what you needed.
You try to hold the memories of home like water in your hands.
Naruto's laugh. Sakura's teasing. Kakashi's silent presence at your side.
You wonder if they're missing you. If they've noticed you're gone.
You wonder if you are gone.
You whisper your name aloud, just to hear it, your real one.
And then you say it again.
Quieter.
Just for yourself.
Because right now, it's the only piece of you left.
You're peeling vegetables in the kitchen when Silva calls you.
No warning. No preamble. One of the servants enters, bows stiffly, and says, "The head of the family requests your presence."
Your hands pause, a strip of carrot curling over your thumb. You wipe your fingers quickly and follow.
The house is colder than usual.
You're led into a smaller sitting room, one you've never been in before. Silva sits in an armchair, his long hair tied back neatly, arms crossed. Illumi stands behind him, motionless. Kikyo sits off to the side, veil pulled even lower than usual. Zeno isn't here. Milluki isn't either.
No one speaks for a moment. You stand quietly, hands tucked inside your sleeves like always.
Finally, Silva exhales through his nose. "This… isn't working."
You blink.
"What?"
"You're not Kalluto," Kikyo says sharply, voice brittle behind her veil. "Not in soul. Not in spirit."
"We've given it time," Illumi adds. "We've watched you. Studied you. You're gentle. Too kind. That's not who our Kalluto was."
That stings. You knew it already, of course. But hearing it like that, spoken so plainly, sends a cold weight into your chest.
"So what does that mean?" you ask softly. "What do you want me to do?"
Silva's gaze hardens.
"You will leave. You'll take that body and go live in the world. Learn it. Survive it. Do what you must to keep Kalluto's body strong and capable."
Kikyo shifts, clearly on the verge of saying something cruel, but holds back.
"You're not being exiled," Silva clarifies. "You are simply… no longer ours."
"But you're letting me live." It's not a question, but it kind of is.
Illumi nods.
"You've done nothing to endanger us. And you haven't mistreated Kalluto's body. That's enough for now."
He steps forward and hands you two things: a slim phone and a sealed envelope.
"Use the phone only in case of emergency," he says. "If you contact me for anything else, I won't answer. I don't have time to babysit you."
You accept both items with trembling hands.
"The envelope contains money," he continues. "And a location. Yorknew City. Start there. Blend in. Stay alive."
You stare down at the envelope.
Yorknew.
The name feels familiar.
Of course…It was mentioned in a few old newspapers you found in the library. Something about the biggest heist in history, pulled off against the Mafia by some organization. You don't remember their name, but apparently, they're some of the most dangerous people around.
Kind of reminded you of the Akatsuki.
You try to meet his gaze, but as always, Illumi's face is unreadable. Not cruel. Just… detached.
Silva finally stands. His towering presence fills the room.
"You can leave in the morning. A car will take you to the city's edge."
You want to ask if this is kindness. Or just practical mercy.
You don't.
Instead, you bow. Not because they deserve it, but because you do. Because you won't let their coldness harden your heart.
"Thank you," you whisper.
They don't reply.
That night, you pack what little you own: a few kimono, a change of clothes you bought online with Milluki's help weeks ago, and the envelope Illumi gave you.
You sit on the edge of the bed—his bed—and trace the phone with your thumb. It feels alien in your hand. Like everything else.
You wonder if Kalluto's soul is still alive, trapped in your old world.
You wonder if your brother's looking for you. If he feels the gap you left behind.
"I'll come back," you whisper into the quiet. "I'll find a way home."
But first you'll learn how to survive in this strange world.
Even if it's without a family.
Even if you're starting with nothing.
Tomorrow, Yorknew awaits.
And who knows what you'll find there?
You don't know what you expected.
But it certainly wasn't this.
The airship hums beneath your feet, wind pressing against the window in gentle pulses. Your hands are clutched tightly in your lap, knuckles pale beneath the sleeves of your kimono. You haven't moved for most of the ride.
You've scaled mountains, sprinted across treetops in the dark, survived ambushes and assassins and far worse.
But nothing—nothing—prepared you for flying.
Your stomach had lurched the moment the ship lifted into the sky. The sensation of weightlessness, the distant curve of the world visible from the window…It all felt wrong. Like defying gravity should come at a cost.
You'd thrown up twice in the small bathroom.
Now, you sit silently, the smooth, mechanical sounds vibrating through your bones. The pilot had barely looked at you when you boarded, and you didn't dare ask questions. You're used to silence now. It wraps around you like a second skin.
The closer you get to Yorknew, the more the world below changes.
No more dense forests or quiet rivers. No farmland or open spaces.
Just buildings. Roads. Noise.
So much noise.
The moment you step off the airship, it hits you all at once.
The smell of oil and exhaust. The rush of people. So many voices overlapping, none of them familiar. Towering skyscrapers stretch toward the clouds, blinking with lights and shifting billboards. Music blasts from unseen speakers overhead, some upbeat tune you can't understand, all bass and glittering synths.
It's loud. Too loud.
The streets buzz with strange machines, cars, Milluki had explained, racing by in bright colors. The crosswalk blinks red. Then green. Then red again. You barely catch the rhythm in time to follow the crowd.
You're swept along like a leaf in a current.
People bump into you. Some apologize. Most don't.
You can't help it, you stop right in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at a glowing ad where a giant digital woman twirls in slow motion, holding a perfume bottle.
She smiles, fake and perfect.
You blink.
You've never felt so small in your life.
A few people grumble as they have to walk around you, but you stay rooted to the spot for a moment longer, clutching the strap of your small bag.
You whisper to yourself,
"It's okay. Just a new kind of battlefield."
You remember what your brother once told you."When you're overwhelmed, focus on what you can control."
So you do.
You find a bench. You sit. You breathe. Slowly, one inhale at a time.
You pull out the phone Illumi gave you and open the folded note tucked in your sleeve. It's a map, simplified and hand-drawn, with a red circle around a neighborhood in southern Yorknew.
A start.
You still don't know where you are.
But you're here. You're alive. And for now… that has to be enough.
You get back on your feet, and you start walking.
The hotel isn't much.
Faded wallpaper peels at the corners. The mattress sags. The little bathroom barely runs warm water. But it's clean, and it's yours. A door that locks. A place to sit and think without being watched.
A start.
You drop your bag beside the bed and sit down slowly, trying to ignore the way your thoughts churn.
Illumi's envelope had been thick with bills. No goodbye. Just instructions.
"Only call me in an emergency. You'll figure the rest out. Start in Yorknew."
So you came here, to a city that hums like a live wire. That moves like it doesn't care if you fall behind.
You step into the daylight the next morning, determined.
You need a job. A plan. A place in this world.
You start simple. Asking vendors. Shopkeepers. People outside buildings.
But they all pass you by.
Too busy. Too rushed. Too indifferent.
Someone laughs in your face when you ask if they're hiring. Another pretends not to hear you at all.
You try to swallow the tightness in your throat, but it keeps climbing. You duck behind a line of vending machines and lean against the cold metal, head tilted up toward the sky.
You miss the trees.
The wind.
You miss Kakashi's dry remarks. Naruto's boundless energy. Even Sasuke's brooding silence had a kind of comfort.
And now? You don't know what you're doing. Not really.
This isn't Konoha. There are no missions. No team. No orders to follow.
You wipe your face with the sleeve of the borrowed kimono.
You promised yourself you wouldn't cry.
You're still standing there, blinking furiously and pretending to read a city map, when a voice breaks through the noise of traffic and conversation.
Clear.
Sharpened by disbelief.
"Kalluto?"
You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.
That name. Again. It still doesn't feel like yours.
Slowly, you turn.
A boy with silver-white hair stands a few steps away. He's younger than most of the people around, but older than you, at least in this body. His presence is sharp, aware.
His eyes lock onto you, narrowed and uncertain.
Beside him, another boy stands with a curious, friendly expression, dark-haired, bright-eyed, his whole posture open and relaxed.
"Hey," the white-haired one says. "Why are you… out here?"
You blink at him, uncertain. "Do… I know you?"
That throws him. Just slightly.
"…What?" he says, his voice low. "What are you talking about?"
"I—I mean, I don't… I don't know who you are."
His eyes narrow further, flicking over you, your posture, your clothes, your voice.
Then he steps a little closer. Not threatening, but… focused. Watching you like you're a puzzle that suddenly changed shape.
"You're not Kalluto," he says after a long moment.
Your heart stings.
"…No," you say quietly. "I'm not. I'm just… in his body. Met his family, they kicked me out."
There's a long silence between you.
The world keeps moving, people passing, cars humming in the distance, a song playing faintly from somewhere nearby.
But this moment feels suspended. Unmoving.
Then the other boy steps forward with a bright smile.
"Well, if you're not Kalluto… who are you?"
You end up at a small ice cream shop tucked around the corner of the busy street, just far enough from the noise that it doesn't make your skin itch. The smell of sugar and cold cream lingers in the air, and the bell above the door jingles softly as the three of you step inside.
Gon immediately heads to the counter, eyes shining at the rows of brightly colored flavors. "Let's get mint chocolate! Or maybe… ohh, they have melon!"
Killua doesn't say much. He keeps a step behind you, arms crossed, watching you carefully even as he orders a plain vanilla cone. You just get something small, vanilla, too. It's simple.
You take a seat at a small table near the window. Gon flops into the seat across from you like he's known you forever. Killua sits with more restraint, his eyes never quite leaving your face.
"So…" Gon grins. "You said you're not Kalluto. But who are you?"
You hesitate, glancing down at your cone before answering. "My name is Y/N. Y/N Hatake."
You take a breath and continue. "I'm… from a different world. Or another universe, I guess. I don't know how I got here. I woke up in that big house, the Zoldyck mansion. In this body. In Kalluto's body."
Gon tilts his head. "What kind of world?"
"I was a shinobi," you say. "A ninja. From a village called Konoha, short for Konohagakure, in the Land of Fire. My brother is Kakashi Hatake. He was the Sixth Hokage. Basically, the leader of the village."
Killua frowns. "That doesn't sound real."
"It is," you say softly. "It was my life. One day I went to sleep in my body… and woke up in this one. Illumi was the first to notice something was wrong. He was in my room before I could even figure out what was happening. He—he knew right away that I wasn't Kalluto."
You swirl your spoon through the softening ice cream.
"They interrogated me. The whole family. I tried to explain, but it's hard when you don't even understand it yourself. Still, they didn't hurt me. Not physically. I think they were more curious than anything. But I was…" you hesitate, forcing a smile, "too soft, I guess. Too nice. Not like Kalluto. I didn't belong there."
Killua is quiet, his mouth a thin line. Gon, however, leans forward like he's listening to a fairy tale.
"And then they sent you away?" Gon asks.
You nod. "Illumi gave me money, a phone, and told me to survive. Sent me to Yorknew. Said I should 'keep the body healthy'."
Killua finally speaks. "That sounds like something he'd say."
You let out a tired laugh. "Yeah… That's been my life for the past few weeks. Now I'm trying to find a job, trying to figure out where I fit in. This world is… a lot. So fast. So loud. There's so much technology I don't understand. People are cold. Everything feels too big."
For the first time, Killua looks at you, not just observing, but seeing. The weight in your eyes. The effort it's taken to hold yourself together.
A pause. Then, Gon beams again. "You can hang out with us! We're in town for a while. And if you're trying to figure this world out, maybe we can help!"
You blink. "You'd do that?"
"Of course," Gon says brightly. "You're Killua's little brother. Well… kinda? Used to be? This is really confusing, huh?"
Your heart skips. Brother?
"We're… brothers?" you ask, the words slipping out before you can help it. There's a flicker of hope in your voice, something fragile. Maybe, just maybe, there was someone here who could still be family. Someone who wouldn't flinch when you smiled too warmly or spoke too kindly.
Killua glances at you, and something shifts in his eyes. "I'm not like them," he says, cutting straight through your thoughts.
You blink, startled.
"You wear your emotions all over your face," he continues, matter-of-fact. "It's easy to tell what you're thinking."
"Oh."
"It's not a bad thing," he adds with a tilt of his head. "Gon's the same way."
"Hey!" Gon protests with a huff. "I'm very mysterious, thank you!"
That starts an easy back-and-forth between the two of them, a little round of teasing and mock indignation. You watch them, quiet and smiling, warmth blooming in your chest. It's familiar, like the way Naruto would provoke Sasuke, or drag Sakura into another pointless argument. Loud, chaotic affection. A kind of love that never needed to be spoken aloud to be understood.
You hadn't realized how much you missed that sound.
Then Killua turns back to you, licking the last bit of his cone. "You're weird," he says simply. "But not dangerous. So… yeah. We'll help you out."
The smile that grows on your face is small, uncertain, but real.
For the first time since waking up in this strange, bright, terrifying world you don't feel quite so alone.
The rest of the afternoon is spent wandering the sun-drenched streets of Yorknew. You trail just behind Killua and Gon as they point out various shops, snack stalls, and towering skyscrapers with the casual confidence of boys who've seen more of the world than most adults.
It's overwhelming, the noise, the people, the lights. But somehow, with them beside you, it's also okay.
They talk easily, excitedly, telling you stories so outrageous they'd sound like lies if you didn't feel the truth radiating from both of them.
Killua grins as he describes the Hunter Exam, how they dodged death more times than they could count, survived poison, illusions, murderous opponents, and a tournament at the end that nearly broke them.
Gon tells you about the Heavens Arena, how they trained there for weeks, learned about Nen—Killua rolls his eyes and interrupts to add that they also got beaten to a pulp by a couple of freaks but learned a ton in the process.
"And then we went to Yorknew the first time," Gon adds. "There was this group, really dangerous, like super strong. We tried to stop them."
"Got our asses handed to us," Killua admits, not even embarrassed. "But we helped some people. Learned some stuff. Got smarter."
"And then, you won't believe this, we got sucked into a video game," Gon says, his eyes wide with remembered excitement.
You blink. "What?"
"A literal game. Like, inside it," Killua confirms, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. "Greed Island. We collected cards, fought monsters, completed quests. It was wild."
You stare at them. "That… That sounds insane."
"Right?!" Gon laughs. "But it was awesome. I even learned a new move there!"
It all sounds surreal. Dangerous. Unbelievable. And yet, your chest aches with something sharp and wistful.
This is a life. This is adventure, purpose, laughter, friends. Not that cold mountain mansion, not those silent dinners.
Not being forgotten just for being kind.
As the three of you take a seat at a low fountain and watch the passersby, your phone buzzes.
You fumble it open, still not quite used to the sleek, glowing screen, and read the message.
Did you find him?
Just that. No name. But you know exactly who it's from.
Your fingers hover awkwardly over the keys. You're not even sure how to respond, or if you should.
Wordlessly, you show the screen to Killua.
His face twists. "Tch. That bastard."
Gon leans over to look. "Illumi?"
"He sent you here on purpose," Killua mutters, glaring off into the street. "He knew I'm here, that I'd find you. He probably guessed I'd feel your aura. It's still Kalluto's body, after all."
You shift uncomfortably. "So… this was all planned?"
Killua shrugs, teeth clenched. "Not exactly. He's not that smart. But he's manipulative. He set this up, still keeps track of me. Knew I'd come if something felt off."
You nod slowly, unsure of what to say. There's a weird twist in your gut. You were never really free, not even when they kicked you out.
Gon nudges you gently. "Hey. That doesn't change the fact that we met! Which is still kinda cool, right?"
You smile weakly. "Yeah… It it."
Later, as the sky begins to darken, as you three sit down on a bench close to your hotel.
"We've been tracking Gon's dad," Killua finally says. "We found a new lead after finishing Greed Island. Could bring us straight to him."
Your eyes widen. "Your dad?"
Gon nods. "We've been looking for him forever. But we're not in a hurry. Thought we'd stick around Yorknew a few more weeks. Relax, explore, have fun."
Killua smirks. "We're kind of rich now."
Now?" Gon laughs. "You've always been loaded."
You can't help but laugh, too. There's something surreal about it, like a dream you haven't quite woken up from. But for the first time in weeks… it doesn't feel like a nightmare.
And just maybe, you're not alone anymore.
The next week in Yorknew passed in a blur of color and noise, laughter and light.
You crash in your small hotel room at night, aching in places you didn't know could ache, sore from training, full from snacks Gon insists on buying, and, maybe most shocking of all, content.
During the days, they show you around the city. Not just the tourist spots, either, though those are fun, but the weird, exciting corners only two hyperactive, curious teens like Gon and Killua would find. A hidden arcade on the fifth floor of a laundromat. A dumpling stand run by a woman who says she met god once (Killua rolled his eyes at that). A bookstore where the owner sleeps behind the counter and lets you read anything if you promise not to make too much noise.
And all the while, you train.
Killua's surprisingly patient when it comes to explaining Nen again, breaking it down so it makes more sense to someone not born into this world. Gon's less technical but eager to help, offering encouragement and clumsy demonstrations that somehow still work. Together, they help you refine your control. Focus your aura. Strengthen what Illumi brushed over.
It's hard work, but it's fun, too. Like the old days in Konoha, training with Naruto and the others. Sweating and laughing and feeling yourself slowly, finally, grow into your own skin again.
And then it happens, completely by accident.
Gon is in the middle of showing off his "Janken". Rock, paper, scissors, powered by Nen. You're watching with a crooked smile, sipping on some weird melon soda he made you try, when the thought hits you:
That looks fun.
Not practical. Not stealthy. Not anything you would have used in battle.
But it looks fun.
So you try it.
You mimic his stance. Lift your hand. Concentrate. You feel your aura shift—no, reshape—and then, to everyone's shock, a low buzz of energy hums in your palm.
"Ja—ken…" you say slowly, almost as a joke. "Gu!"
A shock of focused aura blasts forward, smaller than Gon's version, less refined, but unmistakably similar.
The soda slips from Gon's hand and bursts across the sidewalk.
Killua stares at you.
"…You copied it?" he asks, eyes wide.
"I… didn't mean to," you mutter, staring at your own hand like it betrayed you. "I just…watched. It felt like something I used to do. Back in my world. My…Sharingan." That's when you realise the almost similar feeling to back then. No real Sharingan, but a similar chakra.
It somehow… followed you.
Not exactly as it was. Not an eye technique. Not visual. But something deeper. A specialist ability, hidden until now. The same instinctive, reactive mimicry that once made you a feared shinobi… now adapted to this world. To Nen.
Gon is grinning so hard it looks like his face might split in two.
"THAT'S SO COOL!"
Killua looks less enthused. More worried.
"That's… not normal," he mutters. "Specialist, maybe. Or something even weirder. You're sure you didn't use any abilities from before until now?"
You shake your head. "I didn't even think I could."
He looks at you for a long second, expression unreadable.
Then he sighs. "Well, whatever it is… don't show it off. Not yet. You have no idea what kind of attention that's gonna draw."
You nod. His words are serious, but there's no edge to them. No fear. No rejection.
Just concern.
Care.
You tuck the moment away, like a precious gem. Along with Gon's wide smile, and the sticky warmth of spilled melon soda on your fingers, and the dizzying joy of not being alone anymore.
You don't know how long this will last. Or what comes next. But for now… you're safe. You're seen. You're you.
It happens over breakfast, if you could call three sweet buns and two cans of soda a meal.
Gon's foot bounces under the table as he digs through his backpack, finally pulling out a card. He holds it up proudly, grinning at you.
"We're gonna use this," he says, "to find my dad."
You blink. "That's… what exactly?"
"An Accompany card, from Greed Island," Killua says, chewing lazily on his straw. "Won it at the end of the game. It's supposed to lead Gon straight to his father as soon as we activate it."
"Or at least close enough to keep the trail warm," Gon adds, eyes bright.
You don't know what to say at first. You've only known them a few weeks, but in that short time they've made this strange, disorienting world bearable. Their energy filled the empty space in your chest left by Konoha. Their bickering reminded you of home.
And now they're leaving.
Gon's eyes land on you again. "You should come with us!"
You smile. It's soft. Genuine. But sad. "This is your adventure," you say. "I can't follow you on this one. Not when I still don't know who I am in this world."
Killua doesn't argue. He just gives you a long look, understanding, if a little reluctant.
"You should head to Heavens Arena, then," he says. "You'll earn some money, and get stronger while you're at it."
"Heaven's Arena? The combat tower you told me about?" you echo.
"Exactly," Gon says, beaming again. "It's really tall! You fight, and if you win, you move up."
"Apparently Kalluto's been there before," Killua adds, glancing at you. "You get two entries per person. So technically… you've still got one left. You can earn a lot of money there"
You nod slowly. The idea of a structured environment, one where you can test yourself—and maybe earn enough to keep going—doesn't sound bad at all.
"But don't use your weird Shari—whatever—copying thing," Killua warns. "People are gonna start talking if you do. It's too flashy."
"Stick to basics for now," Gon agrees. "Focus. Precision. You're already strong, Y/N. Just be careful. And don't go up to the 200th floor, it gets too dangerous there."
There's a beat of silence.
You don't know what to say, how to tell them you'll miss them. That, somehow, they've become your tether here. Your first friends.
So you just nod.
"I will."
They both grin.
That afternoon, they walk you to the station, watch you disappear through the crowd. Gon waves so hard he nearly trips stumbles into a lantern. Killua pretends not to care, but keeps looking at you, his blue eyes landing on yours.
Then they're gone, as you got swallowed by the crowd.
And you're alone again.
But it's different this time.
Because now you have a plan and a direction.
Heaven's Arena.
You slip your hands into your sleeves and start walking. Toward the unknown.
But not without hope.
Not anymore.
HI AGAIN, I was wondering if you can make a part 2 to the "BSD characters reacting to reader being kidnapped" but with akutagawa, port mafia dazai, and fyodor instead?
Ty!! ♡☆
BSD Characters Reacting to Reader Getting Kidnapped Part 2
A/N: So, I tried my best to write something for Fyodor. I’m not really sure if I represented him accurately, if not, I’m sorry! I still hope you like it.
content/warnings, Akutagawa, Fyodor, PM!Dazai, canon-typical blood and violence, angst & fluff, 3.039 words
Akutagawa
The Port Mafia didn't have doctors. Not officially, anyway.
Hospitals were too risky. Clinics too public. Most of the time, members either walked it off or died where they fell.
Except for you.
You weren't a field agent. Not a killer. Not a torturer. You didn't handle smuggled weapons or orchestrate assassinations. You were just… support. Quiet. Efficient. The one who stitched up gunshot wounds under dim lights and disinfected knife gashes with trembling hands. The one who learned anatomy because no one else could afford to.
And the only one who'd ever touched Ryunosuke Akutagawa without fear in their eyes.
You'd been the one to drag him in when he collapsed at the entrance of the headquarters two years ago, lungs choking on blood and coat in tatters. No one else had dared to get too close, not when Rashomon was coiled around him like a beast guarding its dying master. But you saw through the snarling shadows. You saw a man who didn't know how to ask for help.
And so you gave it anyway.
From that moment on, something unspoken began.
He never said thank you. But he didn't need to.
He returned often. Too often. With wounds that seemed half self-inflicted, as if daring himself to come back to you. And you always treated him in silence, never questioning, never prying. Just glances held a second too long. Gloved hands that brushed your wrist when he handed you his coat. A quiet nod after you wrapped a fresh bandage around his ribs.
Over time, those silent encounters began to spill beyond the sterile walls of the infirmary.
What began as routine treatment slowly became something else, softer. Warmer. Something that lingered.
The infirmary was quiet after midnight. Most of the Port Mafia slept like the dead or didn't sleep at all. You fell somewhere in between, still cleaning instruments, folding gauze, preparing for the next wave of chaos.
You weren't surprised when you heard his steps. Soft, deliberate, recognizable even in a crowd.
He didn't knock.
He never did.
"Akutagawa," you murmured without turning.
He hovered in the doorway, the long black of his coat trailing behind him like a shadow that refused to leave. "You're working late."
"So are you," you replied, glancing over your shoulder with a small smile.
He stepped inside slowly, as if unsure he was welcome, even now, even here, after all this time. But he always came. Always.
You didn't ask if he was hurt. He would've told you if he was. Or maybe not. You had learned to read it in the way he carried himself, in the tension in his shoulders, in the rare moments when his hand would linger an inch too long against yours after a bandage was tied.
"I got coffee," you said, nodding to the small table in the corner.
His eyes flicked toward it, then back to you.
You didn't ask if he wanted any. Just slid the second cup across the table like always.
It had become a ritual, one of many.
You'd stop at a café on the way in. Order yours. Then pause, sighing to yourself, and order another. Just in case. You told yourself it was habit. That it was easier than watching him stand awkwardly with nothing in his hands. But you knew the truth.
You thought about him.
More than you should.
And somehow, every time, he came.
Sometimes, when you worked too late and the streets were too quiet, he'd walk you home.
Never because you asked. Akutagawa didn't offer kindness in words. He offered it in presence. In silence. In the way he kept a step behind, watchful. In the way Rashomon would flicker to life the moment someone walked too close.
You pretended not to notice the way he waited until your lights were on before vanishing into the night.
Other nights, he would sit on the edge of the infirmary cot while you restocked the cabinets, the silence between you stretching into something familiar. Comfortable.
He didn't speak much. But when he did, his words were careful. Intentional. Like they meant more than they said.
"Your hands are always cold," he murmured once, when you brushed against his wrist accidentally.
You'd blinked, startled. "You noticed that?"
He had.
He noticed everything about you.
You had noticed things too. The way his eyes softened when you wiped blood from his jaw. The way he never flinched when you touched him, though you knew how violently he responded to anyone else getting too close. The way his coat sometimes brushed your leg when he stood beside you, like Rashomon was reaching out without him realizing.
There was something there.
Not quite a relationship. Not just a friendship. Something suspended in the in-between. Heavy with emotion, but light in presence. Lingering glances. Fleeting touches. Shared coffee. Quiet nights.
Maybe something like love, if only either of you had the courage to act on it.
But maybe, one day, you would.
That morning had been ordinary.
You'd been restocking bandages in the backroom, humming softly to a song you only half-remembered, when the lights above flickered.
You didn't even hear the door open.
"Akutagawa." The Boss's voice was impassive, cold. "We have a situation."
Akutagawa raised his eyes with only a slight furrow in his brow. "What is it?"
"One of our members was taken last night. No witnesses. A message was left. They want the weapons shipment we intercepted last week. Otherwise…" Mori slid a phone across the desk. The screen showed a message. Short. Crude. Threatening.
"Give up the cargo or she dies."
Akutagawa's eyes flicked over the message once. Then twice. His pupils shrank. His jaw clenched.
Mori continued, unbothered by the silence. "You've worked with her before, haven't you? She's talented. Knows her field. But if we can't retrieve her… well. We'll need to find another doctor."
The words find another were still echoing when Rashomon surged to life in the room, a wave of living black slicing the desk in half.
"...There is no other," Akutagawa growled, voice low and vibrating with fury. "There will never be another."
They hadn't seen Akutagawa like this in years.
He tore through the city like a stormcloud made flesh, leaving bodies in alleys and blood on walls. His expression never changed, cold and sharp as a blade, but his rage was written in every motion.
There were no negotiations. No mercy. No survivors.
Every lead led to another, and another, until he stood before a warehouse on the city's edge, its rusted metal doors groaning in the wind.
Inside, you were barely conscious.
Tied to a chair, blood drying on your cheek, breath shallow. The men guarding you were laughing. Talking about what to do when the deadline passed.
The moment Akutagawa stepped through the door, the laughter died.
He didn't speak.
He didn't warn them.
He simply unleashed.
Rashomon roared from his coat like a dragon awoken from centuries of sleep. Screams erupted and were cut short in seconds, limbs severed, necks snapped. The walls ran red. No one had a chance. They died with terror still frozen in their eyes.
And then, silence.
Only your ragged breathing remained.
He dropped to his knees before you, gloved hands shaking for the first time in years as he cut your bonds. Your body slumped forward, too weak to stay upright. He caught you before you hit the ground, cradling you against his chest.
Your eyes fluttered open, just barely.
A soft smile ghosted across your lips.
"…You came," you whispered, and then your body went limp in his arms.
Akutagawa stared down at you, heart hammering against his ribs.
"…Of course I did."
He stood, carrying you like something sacred. The world behind him burned. He didn't care.
He'd do it all again. And more.
Just to keep you safe.
Fyodor
No one understood why Fyodor kept you close.
You weren't a strategist. Not a fighter. You didn't hack into government systems or run underground networks. You weren't a member of Decay of the Angel in the traditional sense—just someone who had somehow, inexplicably, ended up in his orbit.
A civilian. A quiet one.
You'd met by accident.
Literally. On a rainy afternoon in a narrow alley when he turned the corner and nearly collided with you. You had dropped your umbrella. He had caught it before it hit the ground.
You'd apologized softly, looking up into those strange violet eyes, and thanked him with a faint smile.
That should've been the end of it.
But Fyodor Dostoevsky had paused. Tilted his head. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt the stillness of curiosity.
He kept crossing paths with you after that, coincidence, at first. Then something more deliberate. A conversation at a bookstore. A silent walk across the same bridge at midnight. A question you asked him one day:
"You always seem like you're waiting for something. Or someone."
He had smiled at that. The kind of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
You weren't stupid. You had your suspicions about who he really was, but you never pried. Never feared him.
And that? That made you dangerous.
And precious.
He kept you close after that, always on the edge of his world, never fully in it. Somewhere safe. A secret kept in a chaotic life.
He thought that was enough.
It wasn't.
The message came through encrypted channels he didn't even know were still active. An anonymous broadcast. A name. Your name.
"We have her. Try anything and she dies."
There was no demand. No instructions. Just your image, tied to a chair, bruised and pale, your lip split and eyes foggy with pain.
They didn't want something from Fyodor.
They wanted to hurt him.
And for the first time in years, he felt it, real, visceral rage. A violent heat blooming in his chest like something alive.
He didn't show it on the outside.
He sat in his chair in the shadows of his hideout, fingers steepled, violet eyes narrowed, still as a painting.
But inside?
He was calculating death.
They had dared to touch you.
To take his.
Others expected him to be cold. Rational. Surgical.
But Fyodor's mind didn't go blank when he was angry, it sharpened. Became a weapon.
In a matter of hours, he traced the signal. Tracked down every alias used in the message's chain. Knew where they were hiding before they even realized they'd been exposed.
And then, he began to move.
Slowly. Precisely. A methodical reaper in a black cassock, whispering sins into the ears of those who had taken you. One by one, they died screaming, confused how a man who never touched a weapon could orchestrate such personalized hell.
Fyodor didn't blink. He didn't gloat. He simply watched them fall, every corpse a step closer to you.
The last one talked. They always did.
You didn't know how long you'd been there.
Pain blurred time. The world spun, tilted. You tried to stay awake, tried to hold onto the hope that maybe someone would find you. That maybe—
Then you heard footsteps.
Soft. Measured. Controlled.
The door creaked open.
You blinked past blood and haze, and there he was.
Fyodor.
Calm. Pale. Untouched.
But his eyes…those eyes were on fire.
He crossed the room in silence and knelt before you, his hand ghosting over your cheek, barely touching, like he feared he might break you if he pressed too hard.
"Y/N…" he whispered, voice softer than a prayer.
You managed a broken smile. "You… came…"
His hand slid to the rope at your wrists, fingers precise. "Of course I did."
You fell forward into him as the restraints dropped away, too weak to hold yourself upright. He caught you easily, cradling you against his chest. For the first time since he was a child, his hands trembled.
"They touched you," he murmured, almost to himself. "They hurt you…"
Your hand found his shirt, clinging weakly.
"I'll never let them again," he said.
And this time, it wasn't a promise.
It was a verdict.
PM Dazai
The Port Mafia was no place for kindness.
You knew that.
Still, you stayed.
You didn't kill. Didn't interrogate or torture. You weren't a fighter or an assassin. You cleaned wounds. Reattached fingers. Numbed pain with trembling hands. You patched up the very people who left bodies in alleys and blood on boardroom walls.
You were soft. And in the Mafia, softness was dangerous.
Which is exactly why Osamu Dazai noticed you.
"I don't get it," he murmured one evening, perched on the infirmary counter, legs swinging lazily. "Why are you here?"
You glanced up from the bloodied gauze in your hand, arching a brow. "Why are you?"
"You mean why I'm in your infirmary, why I'm in the Port Mafia, or why I exist at all?" Dazai mused dramatically, leaning further back in the chair he'd dragged next to your desk. "Because that's a bit of a philosophical question, don't you think? Why is anyone here? Does life have meaning? Personally, I'm still waiting for a sign."
You stared at him flatly. "Dazai."
He met your gaze without missing a beat. "Y/N."
A long moment passed in a silent standoff, his eyes glittering with amusement, yours full of exhausted warning. Finally, you sighed and turned back to your tray of fresh bandages, pretending to ignore the way he grinned behind you.
"If you're not hurt, you should go. It's late. And for someone who complains about life so much, you really should get more sleep."
Dazai clutched his chest like you personally shot him. "You wound me. And let you walk home all by yourself? What kind of man would I be if I let a delicate little thing like you get snatched off the street?" He swayed dramatically in his chair, pretending to faint. "Think of my conscience."
You rolled your eyes but didn't argue. That was how it always went.
Dazai spent most of his free time in the infirmary, lounging wherever he pleased, the cot, the supply cabinets, your desk. Some days he simply watched you work in silence, eyes tracking your every move like you were something curious and sacred. Other days he teased you until you threatened to stitch his mouth shut.
He brought you pastries when he remembered. Coffee when he didn't. And when your shift ran too late, he'd declare the streets "far too dangerous for someone like you" and walk you home, whether you agreed or not.
It hadn't been hard to notice when things started to shift.
When the teasing softened.
When fleeting touches lingered longer than necessary. When those late-night walks ended with coffee in your apartment and casual excuses like "I'm too tired to go all the way home tonight" as he settled himself on your couch with a smug smile.
And somehow… you let him stay.
Not just in your home.
But in your life.
And then you were gone.
The call came through in the middle of the night.
You hadn't returned from a supply run. No contact. No signal. Only a message. Anonymous and threatening.
"Return the stolen goods. Or she dies."
It was supposed to be a warning.
But they'd made one mistake.
They'd taken you.
The Port Mafia was a place where emotions were liabilities, twisted into weapons the moment you let them show. Dazai knew that better than anyone. So when the message came through, he didn't flinch. Didn't panic. He simply looked at the attached photo of you tied to a chair, blood trailing down your temple, eyes shut tight in pain.
Dazai tilted his head. Then he smiled.
Not the flirtatious, lazy grin he always put on around you.
A colder smile. Quieter. Deadlier.
He didn't go to Mori. Didn't wait for orders. He disappeared into the city, a ghost in black, whispering questions into ears that were all too willing to bleed for answers.
He didn't need a trail.
He carved one.
Bodies dropped like breadcrumbs, every lead ending in another corpse, another whisper, another scream. Dazai didn't flinch. He was methodical, surgical.
It wasn't rage that drove him.
It was purpose.
And behind that purpose, something he wasn't ready to name.
The warehouse was quiet when he arrived.
Too quiet.
Dazai stepped through the rusted doors like a shadow, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning every corner.
He saw you instantly.
Tied to a chair. Bloody. Barely conscious.
His heart clenched, but his face didn't change.
He just smiled.
Not for you.
For them.
The men surrounding you turned at the sound of his footsteps.
They never had a chance.
Within seconds, one was dead, his neck snapped with surgical efficiency. Another took a bullet through the skull, courtesy of Dazai's stolen sidearm. The third begged. Cried. Promised money.
Dazai's voice was calm. "You took something that doesn't belong to you."
Then the fourth screamed. For too long.
And then it was quiet again.
He was at your side in a heartbeat, crouched low, fingers trembling as they undid the knots at your wrists. "Y/N," he murmured, voice softer than he meant it to be. "I've got you."
You blinked, eyes unfocused. "…Dazai?"
He pulled the ropes free and caught you as you collapsed forward, pressing you gently against his chest. His hands cradled your back like he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go.
"They hurt you," he whispered.
You nodded weakly.
"I'll kill them again."
You gave a broken little laugh, because that was such a Dazai thing to say. But when you looked up at him, something was different.
He wasn't smirking.
There was no mask. No game. Just pain. Raw and quiet.
"This place…" he began, and stopped. Shook his head. "This isn't where you belong. Were we belong."
You stared up at him, heart pounding. "Then why did you keep coming back?"
"Because you were here."
That was the first time you ever saw Dazai look afraid.
Not of dying.
Not of killing.
But of finally admitting he wanted to live for something. For someone.
Can you do alice in borderland characters and how they are with their kids. The kids are around 7/8 and/or 16/17
AIB Characters With Their Kids
A/N: Hi! I've got a few comments this time.
Since there was no mention of a reader-insert, I focused solely on the characters themselves. I hope that's what you were going for! If not, feel free to let me know (I'd be happy to write a version where the reader interacts with the characters and their kids, or even has kids of their own.)
Also, I wasn't entirely sure whether the children were meant to be with them in the Borderlands, or if their stories should take place before or after the events there. So just to cover all bases:
Some of the stories are set before the Borderlands, some after, and a few during.
For the ones set after, I based them on the end of season 2, since season 3 isn't out yet and there's still a lot unknown about the new game and how things will be afterwards. That means the characters survived and don't remember what happened in the Borderlands.
As for Last Boss, I chose to set his story during the Borderlands. Since there's no after for him in canon, and his persona there is so different from who he was before, I wanted to explore what fatherhood would look like for him in that environment with the person he became there.
Same with Mira. As a citizen, we don't really get to see who she was before entering the Borderlands, so her story is also set while she's already a part of that world.
All that said, I hope you still enjoy the stories!
content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, Usagi x Arisu, reader, canon-typical blood and violence, fluff, - 6.569 words
Ann
Ann's alarm went off before the sun rose. By the time most of the city was still yawning into life, she had already brewed coffee, packed school lunches, and checked over three case files spread neatly on the kitchen counter.
The uniform never wrinkled. Her notes were always color-coded. Her badge sat in the same spot on the hallway table, next to her keys and the small, battered lanyard her youngest, Yuki, had made her from craft beads: #1 Mama in rainbow letters.
She wore it under her blazer like a secret.
"Brush your hair, not your face," she called from the kitchen, half-joking, as she heard the thump of small feet and the sleepy whine of protest.
"Mamaaaa, it is brushed!"
Yuki stumbled into the kitchen, hair a wild mess anyway. Ann crouched beside her, gently smoothing it down with a practiced hand, fingers fast but gentle.
"Good effort. Let's aim for 70% less chaos next time."
Yuki giggled. "That's not how percentages work."
Ann smirked. "Says the seven-year-old who put juice in the rice cooker."
"That was one time!"
Riku was more complicated. At sixteen, he had started asking questions Ann couldn't always answer, or wouldn't. He wanted to know what her job really entailed. Why she came home some nights with bruises, or with silence wrapped around her like a second skin.
"You always say you're 'fine.' That's your answer for everything."
"Because I am fine," she replied calmly, spooning miso soup into a bowl.
"You can't lie to me. I'm not a kid anymore."
She paused, then finally looked up. "Exactly. You're not. So I need you to hold the line while I'm gone. Keep your sister calm. Keep the house steady."
Riku hated that. That she made it sound like he was her second-in-command instead of just her son. But deep down, he understood. Because she never lied about why she worked so hard.
"You don't have to save the world, you know," he said once, bitter.
Ann had answered softly, "But someone has to make sure it doesn't eat people like you alive."
Detective work wasn't a job you left at the station. It followed you home, in blood on your cuffs, in suspects' eyes that haunted your dreams, in the constant state of readiness. But Ann had rules. Hard ones.
No work calls after dinner.
No discussing active cases around the kids.
One family day every Sunday. No exceptions.
It wasn't always perfect. She missed a school play once and didn't forgive herself for days. But she made up for it with a late-night picnic on the rooftop, showing Yuki how to spot constellations through her old detective binoculars.
Riku got into a fight at school once. Ann didn't yell. She just sat across from him at the dining table and said, "If you're going to fight, at least make sure it's for the right reasons."
Then she handed him an ice pack like it was the most natural thing in the world.
At night, after the kids were asleep, Ann would sometimes sit at the window and look out at the city. Her expression unreadable. She never told anyone how thin the wire she walked felt, between being a protector at work and a nurturer at home.
She worried. About Riku growing up too fast. About Yuki being too soft for a hard world. About whether she was doing enough, or doing it right, or if one day a case would go wrong and she wouldn't come home.
But still, every morning, she made breakfast. Every night, she tucked Yuki in with a quiet "Good night, firecracker" and left Riku's door slightly ajar, just in case he ever wanted to talk.
They were her why. Her anchor.
And even when her body was exhausted and her mind cluttered with case notes and security reports, Ann never let that line blur. At work, she was Detective Rizuna. At home, she was just Mama.
It was a sunny Tuesday.
Riku was meeting his friends after school. Yuki forgot her bag and had to come back for it, which made them all late. Ann had been called in to brief a task force about an active case, and her hands were shaking, not from nerves, but from too little sleep.
She kissed them both goodbye as she dropped them off at school.
"Love you," Yuki mumbled sleepily.
Ann paused. She rarely said it back, not because she didn't feel it, but because she felt it so intensely it sometimes caught in her throat. But this time, she made herself say it.
"I love you too. Both of you."
Then she turned and walked towards Shibuya.
Neon signs flickered even in the daylight. People swarmed across the crosswalk like schools of fish. Ann moved through it all with her usual controlled grace, already running a mental list of her day: case updates, paperwork, one suspect interview she wasn't looking forward to.
She reached the base of the scramble crossing and waited, eyes scanning traffic, people, rhythm.
That's when it happened.
Three guys bolted past her, nearly crashing into her shoulder.
One of them shouted something back to the others and laughed. They disappeared into the station in a blur of limbs and adrenaline.
Ann exhaled, slightly amused. The crossing light flicked green. She stepped forward with the crowd.
Then—
A thunderclap.
No—not thunder. Something brighter. Louder.
The sky exploded in light, even though there was no festival, no warning.
Ann looked up.
Her lips parted slightly as the impossible firework bloomed across the sky.
Kuina
Kuina hadn't planned on being a mother.
She hadn't planned on waking up in a hospital bed with a bleeding temple, a splitting headache, and an inexplicable sense of déjà vu. She didn't remember what happened. No one really did. Just that a meteor had struck Tokyo.
When the news broke, the numbers were staggering. Countless dead, even more injured.
All Kuina knew was her friend, Aya, didn't make it. She found out after waking up, Aya had listed her as the emergency contact.
She had two kids. No partner. No extended family willing to step in. They were just names in a file now—Haruto (7) and Mina (16)—until Kuina showed up at the child services office with a half-torn photograph and said, "I'm not leaving them."
Kuina's place was barely big enough for one person, let alone three. A converted one-bedroom tucked above the boutique where she worked, with paper-thin walls and a stubborn heater. Still, it became a home faster than she expected.
The kids didn't cry much.
That scared her more than if they had.
Mina was sharp-edged and quiet, folding laundry like a soldier and keeping her little brother fed with automatic precision. Haruto clung to Kuina the first night like she was the last solid thing in the world.
She didn't know how to parent. She still felt like she was holding herself together with duct tape and muscle memory. But she knew how to fight, and that was enough, for now.
Her days began at 6:30.
Breakfast was an improvised affair, instant miso soup, rice from the night before, eggs if she hadn't forgotten to buy them. She burned toast constantly. Haruto liked jelly on everything. Mina didn't eat much.
Kuina walked them both to school, even when it meant being late to work. She'd adjusted her shifts at the boutique, talked her manager into flexibility, traded weekends with coworkers who still lived with their parents.
She wore lipstick again. Something Aya had always insisted made her look "too strong to ignore."
When Haruto asked if she'd always been a mom, Kuina just ruffled his hair and said, "Only recently."
He laughed. "You're kind of a cool one."
Homework. Dishes. Laundry. One fight about screen time. One apology note from Mina, written in sharp kanji on a sticky note. Haruto fell asleep early most nights, tucked under a blanket Kuina had half-knit during a quiet month last winter.
She sat on the floor some nights with a glass of cheap wine, her back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it might offer her instructions.
But they were alive. That was enough.
She never said no when the kids needed something. Mina wanted to join the art club. Haruto asked for swimming lessons. Kuina made it happen, one shift at a time, one bent yen at a time.
When Mina finally cried, weeks in, quietly, in the dark, Kuina didn't try to fix it. She just sat beside her on the mattress and let the silence settle.
"You don't have to be strong," she whispered. "That's my job."
Kuina wasn't soft, but she was steady.
She gave them what she didn't have growing up, consistency, space to feel, the freedom to ask questions without judgment.
She taught Mina how to throw a punch. Taught Haruto how to tie a proper knot and how to stand up for himself without hitting first. On Sundays, they visited the park near the river. Kuina never missed a school event, even when she had to run to get there halfway through.
She was tired. God, she was always tired.
But for the first time, she didn't want to run. Didn't want to disappear or vanish into someone else's idea of who she should be.
They needed her.
And maybe, in some strange way, she needed them too.
One night, as she tucked Haruto in, he asked her, "Do you think my mom would be happy we're with you?"
Kuina hesitated.
She brushed a hand through his hair, just like Aya used to. "Yeah. I think she'd be really proud of you. And…I think she trusted me."
He nodded, eyes fluttering shut.
"Do you miss her?"
Kuina stared at the ceiling for a long moment, the air thick with grief that hadn't gone anywhere, it had just reshaped itself into something she could carry.
"Every day," she whispered. "But I've got you now."
And as she turned off the light and stepped out into the hallway, she realized something she hadn't quite admitted to herself:
She had found a reason to keep going.
Even if she never remembered what happened in that lost, broken space where time stopped, this was her second chance.
And she wasn't going to waste it.
Mira
To most of the Borderland, Mira was untouchable.
She was mythic, a ghost in lace gloves, watching people gamble their lives with a smile just a beat too long to be sincere. But behind the silk curtains of her villa, hidden from the death games and smoke, Mira lived with her two children.
Kai (17), tall, curious, and cerebral, with a sharp tongue and a voice always just on the edge of questioning authority.
And Rina (8), small and eerily perceptive, who couldn't remember the old world anymore, only the Borderlands, but she never seemed afraid of it.
They had been part of the Borderland, citizens, like her. After being brought there long ago and surviving their round—thanks to their mother who did everything to ensure they lived—they chose to stay. Far from the cruelty of the real world, they remained in a place they could shape and mold to their will.
Not many knew Mira had children. Fewer believed it when they heard. She didn't parade them. Didn't treat them as extensions of herself. But she taught them, carefully and methodically.
The house was vast but never cluttered. Rina liked to play in the garden, among the roses Mira had dyed to an unnatural crimson. Kai spent his days in the library, reading philosophical texts and game theory books that Mira had collected.
Dinner was never skipped, and always elegant. No matter how many games were being played outside, Mira insisted on two meals together each day.
"Ritual keeps the mind intact," she would say, slicing into her food with surgical precision. "Especially in a place where rules bend."
The children asked questions. Constantly.
"Mama," Rina asked once, legs swinging from her chair, "why do people cry when they lose the games?"
Mira tilted her head, considering. "Because loss is inconvenient. But mostly… it makes them feel alive."
Kai would scoff. "You talk like emotions are toys."
Mira smiled, eyes sharp. "Aren't they?"
Mira didn't scold. She didn't threaten. But her silence was heavy and when she looked at you too long, it was like she peeled the skin off your thoughts.
Yet she was never cruel to her children. In fact, she was careful with them, in a way that bordered on reverence. She read them poetry. Taught them the constellations, even though the sky in the Borderland was slightly wrong. She showed Rina how to play chess by age five. By age eight, Rina was beating guests Mira brought to the estate, even Kuzuryu didn't stand a chance against the girl.
Kai hated games at first, said they were tools for the weak to feel clever. Until he realized they were also weapons. Then he became obsessed.
"You're raising us like little versions of yourself," he accused her once, arms crossed. "Forcing us to play."
Mira only chuckled. "I'm raising you to survive."
He never questioned that again.
Rina was rarely allowed to leave. Mira said the world was "loud" for children like her, not scary, not dangerous, just unrefined. But Kai was older. Stronger. She sent him to watch games sometimes. Not to participate, not yet, but to observe, take notes, watch people unravel.
"How do they react when they realize the rules were never fair?" Mira asked after he watched his first game through the monitors.
Kai had answered, "They look for someone to blame. Or someone to follow."
Mira had simply smiled. "That's when you know you've won."
Despite all her cold logic and twisted playfulness, Mira did love her children deeply. But it was love on her terms.
She didn't say "I love you." She said, "You are mine."
She didn't comfort. She prepared.
She didn't protect. She trained.
In her own way, she believed this was love at its highest form: shaping them into minds that could outlast anyone else's. Teaching them to dance through lies and half-truths. To recognize illusion for what it was. To master emotion rather than drown in it.
But sometimes, when Rina fell asleep curled against her shoulder, or when Kai asked questions that reminded her of things she'd tried to forget, Mira would pause.
She would brush a hand over Rina's hair.
She would whisper, "You don't have to win every game. Just the ones that matter."
The Borderland would not last forever. Mira knew that. Things shifted here—slowly, like tectonic plates. The system reformed itself, as if searching for new challengers, new meanings.
But whether this world collapsed or evolved again, Mira's children would endure.
They were not meant to escape. They were meant to rule. Or at the very least, remain untouched by its chaos.
She was raising more than heirs. She was raising witnesses. Mirrors of her own warped grace. Citizens who would one day decide whether this world should burn or be reborn.
Aguni
Aguni had always been a man of order.
The house wasn't spotless, far from it, but it ran on structure: shoes by the door, dishes done after meals, lights out by 10. Not because he enjoyed control for its own sake, but because it helped him breathe. Structure left less room for chaos. And chaos, he'd learned, was rarely merciful.
His sons—Riku, seventeen, brooding and sharp-eyed, and Souta, eight, endlessly curious—kept him grounded. Kept him honest. They were his reason for every early shift, every tight-lipped apology for missing a school play, every aching muscle and unopened bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cupboard.
He wasn't soft. He wasn't poetic. But he showed up. That had to count for something.
Riku reminded Aguni too much of himself, especially on the worst days.
Angry at the world, constantly questioning authority, testing every line just to feel like he had control over something. Aguni didn't meet fire with fire. He met it with stone.
"You want to act like a man?" Aguni said once, after Riku stormed in with bruised knuckles from a schoolyard fight. "Then carry the consequences like one. No hiding. No blaming."
"Yeah?" Riku shot back. "And what about you? You bury everything and call it strength."
Aguni didn't argue. He just handed his son a cold pack and said, "Use this. And next time, keep your hands up."
They didn't say "I love you" often. But they never needed to.
Souta was different. Bright-eyed and soft-voiced, he still believed people were good. That monsters only lived in storybooks. Aguni protected that belief like it was something sacred.
They played catch in the tiny park across the street. Built Gundam models on weekends. Aguni wasn't great at small talk, but Souta never cared. He just liked being close to his dad, even in silence.
"Do you ever get scared at work?" Souta asked one night, curled against his side on the couch.
Aguni ran a hand through his son's hair. "Yeah. But I do it anyway."
"That's what brave means, right?"
Aguni nodded, voice low. "That's exactly what it means."
There were nights when the house felt too heavy. Memories of the war. The loss of comrades. The pressure of fatherhood pressing down like armor he couldn't take off. On those nights, Takeru Danma would show up, no warning.
"Got ramen," Takeru would announce at the door, bags in hand. "And beer. The good kind. You look like hell."
Aguni would grunt something about work. Takeru would wave him off and go play a card game with Souta while Riku sulked in his room pretending not to listen.
"You're doing good," Takeru said one night after the boys went to bed. "Better than you think."
"I don't feel like it."
"You're not supposed to. That's how I know you're serious about it."
Takeru never stayed the night, but his timing was perfect. Always just when Aguni was about to break. Always when he needed someone to remind him that showing up, even wounded, was enough.
Once a year, Aguni took both boys to the cemetery. The boys' mother had died not long after Souta was born, an illness that came fast and took faster.
Riku barely remembered her. Souta not at all.
Aguni never spoke much at her grave. But he'd set flowers down, fold his arms, and close his eyes.
And every time, without fail, he'd whisper: "I'm doing my best."
And when they walked home, both boys were quieter. As if they understood what couldn't be said aloud.
Niragi
Niragi never imagined he'd be a father. He wasn't the type. Didn't want to be the type.
He was living in a cramped third-floor apartment that smelled like wet concrete and leftover smoke. He worked part-time at some warehouse, burning his hands on rusted metal, flipping off his manager in his head. The rest of the time, he went to college in his first year, studying game engineering. He had plans, maybe. Big ones, vague ones. Mostly, he was angry. At the world. At himself. At people who made his school years hell.
And then there was a knock.
He opened the door and there she was: Mika.
His ex.
They hadn't spoken since the screaming match in her kitchen over a year ago, the one where she told him he was broken, and he told her she didn't know what real damage looked like.
Now she stood there holding a baby in a gray blanket. Her hands were trembling.
"This is yours," she said, and handed the child over.
He didn't speak for a full ten seconds.
"You're not serious," he finally said.
Mika laughed, hollow, exhausted. "I can't do this, Niragi. I never wanted this. I thought I could fake it. But I can't."
"You think I can?"
"No," she said. "But I think you'll try. Which is more than I can promise."
And then she was gone.
Just like that.
Gone down the rusted stairwell, into the rain, leaving Niragi holding a human being he didn't even know how to look at.
The baby was a boy. Five months old. Quiet at first. Then not quiet.
Niragi had no idea what to do. No money. No formula. No crib. He panicked, cursed the world, punched the wall, then Googled everything he could in the corner store while buying cheap diapers and instant noodles.
The kid's name was Aoi.
He thought about giving him back. Dropping him off at a shelter. Leaving him with someone who actually had a chance at not screwing it up.
But then Aoi got sick one night, feverish, breathing weird. Niragi wrapped him in a hoodie, bolted into the street, flagged down a cab with wild eyes and no wallet. He sat in the ER with a bloody lip from stress-biting it too hard, holding a tiny, flushed face against his shoulder.
That night broke something open in him.
He didn't know if it was love, or fear, or guilt, or all three twisted together like barbed wire.
But he didn't leave after that.
Not once.
Niragi wasn't a soft dad.
He cursed under his breath while changing diapers. Forgot wipes and used tissues. Dropped spoons on the floor, then picked them up and shrugged. "You'll live."
He snapped at other parents in the park who stared at his piercings. Once, when a stranger asked, "Is that your nephew?" Niragi responded, "No, he's my parole officer."
He didn't read bedtime stories. But he told Aoi stories from his own life, rough ones, full of fights and kids who were assholes. He didn't sugarcoat things. But somehow, Aoi still clung to every word like they were fairy tales.
And the kid? He adored him.
He'd giggle when Niragi made dumb faces. Reach for his necklace. Fall asleep wrapped in one of Niragi's black hoodies.
Sometimes Niragi stared at him sleeping and whispered, "You don't get it, do you? You're the only person who doesn't look at me like I'm dirt."
By the time Aoi turned seven, Niragi had more routine in his life than he ever thought possible.
He managed to finish his study (he isn't even sure how he did it) and worked as a game engineer. It was a good job, enough to keep food on the table and heat in the apartment. He learned how to cook eggs exactly how Aoi liked them. Kept a list of school events taped to the fridge, though he pretended to hate them.
"I'm not clapping for some dumb song," he muttered once before Aoi's music performance. (He clapped the loudest in the front row.)
He still snapped. Still had bad days. Still struggled with the darkness in his own head. The rage, the trauma, the voices from school hallways.
But every time he looked at his son, something pulled him back.
Aoi had fallen asleep on the couch, hugging his favorite plushie, some half-ripped thing Niragi had won in a claw machine years ago.
Niragi sat beside him, a cigarette half-lit but untouched between his fingers.
He stared at the city lights through the window. His face was tired. His hands were rough.
He never wanted to be a father.
But he was a damn good one, in his own broken, lopsided way.
He leaned back, exhaled, and muttered, "You're gonna be better than me, kid. Smarter. Kinder. I'll make sure of it."
He didn't know it would be the last night before he disappeared.
Before the Borderland.
Before fire and blood and cruelty rose like a second sun.
But for that one final night, Niragi wasn't a villain.
He wasn't a fighter. Or a freak. Or a ghost.
He was just a father.
Trying. Failing. Loving.
And somehow… keeping it together.
Last Boss
Last Boss never expected to raise a daughter.
But then again, he'd never expected anything from life. It gave him darkness, and he gave it back. Hina was the one thing he never asked for, and yet, the only thing that made him want to stay alive.
Her mother left before Hina could walk. He never talked about it. Never needed to. All that mattered was that she stayed, bright-eyed and brave, even when the world didn't deserve her.
The day the sky turned white and the fireworks ripped across Tokyo, he'd been holding her hand. One second they were at a train station. The next, the streets were empty. And death had rules now.
Games. Cards. Survival.
And a child in tow.
They played their first game together, a brutal round of tag with bullets. He carried her in his arms, running through deadly corridors, shielding her with his body. When it was over, he was bruised. But they were alive.
Last Boss didn't trust the world anymore. He never had.
So he found an abandoned apartment in the shadow of the city, third floor, narrow stairwell, busted door. He barricaded it with scrap metal, nailed in tight. Hina painted a crude cat face on the front with charcoal.
"Now it looks like home," she said. He almost smiled.
Every time he returned, he brought something: cans of food, water, old books, sometimes soft toys pulled from the wreckage of empty stores. He made her promise to stay quiet. Taught her how to listen through the walls. How to recognize footsteps that weren't his.
"Rule One," he told her, crouched beside her tiny bedroll. "Never open the door for anyone. Not even me. Not unless I knock three times."
She nodded. "Three knocks."
He touched her cheek, his calloused fingers barely brushing skin. "Good girl."
He didn't trust the Beach.
Too many smiles. Too much talk of freedom while knives were hidden behind backs.
So Last Boss volunteered for more games than necessary. Most players thought he was reckless. Suicidal. Creepy. A man with nothing to lose.
That was exactly what he wanted them to believe.
Because when he played alone, no one followed him back. When he played alone, he could bring her, extend her visa. No witnesses. No danger to her through other Beach members.
Sometimes, when his executive status allowed it, he'd slip away under the cover of dusk. Make the long walk through crumbling alleys, stepping over wires and ash, until he reached her door.
Three knocks.
And then a tiny voice:
"Daddy?"
When she opened the door, he let the mask fall. His shoulders dropped. The blade at his hip stayed in its sheath. He stepped inside and ruffled her messy hair.
At first, she had been scared of his new appearance, but she quickly got used to it. Said he looked cool now.
"Still safe?" he asked.
"Still safe," she grinned.
With others, Last Boss was a blade. Cold, fast, precise.
But with Hina, he became something else. Quiet. Gentle. Focused. The scarred man who barely spoke would sit for hours helping her draw with burnt pencils. He'd listen to her hum made-up songs. He'd hold her when nightmares came.
She never saw him kill. He never spoke of blood.
But once, after he returned late and sat washing his hands at the sink, she asked, "Are you sad?"
He didn't answer.
She crawled into his lap anyway and whispered, "You don't have to be scary when you're here."
And he wasn't. Not with her.
It happened after a brutal Spades game. Last Boss was limping, blood drying on his sleeve, but still carrying Hina, when a voice called behind him.
"Need help walking?"
Aguni.
Last Boss stiffened. His hand twitched near his blade. But Hina tugged his hand, looking at him with her big eyes.
Aguni saw her. Said nothing for a long moment.
Then, quietly: "She yours?"
Last Boss gave a slow nod.
"I won't tell. But you shouldn't do this alone."
He waited for the rejection. The blade. Anything. Instead, Aguni reached into his bag and handed the girl a wrapped protein bar.
"Name's Aguni," he told her.
"Hina," she replied with a smile.
From that day forward, Last Boss wasn't the only one protecting her.
Aguni brought supplies. Cleared out dangerous nearby buildings. He never treated her like a burden. Only as something precious.
Last Boss never said thank you. But Aguni understood.
At the Beach, Last Boss remained the knife in the dark. Cold-eyed, always watching. His sword glinted under the Beach's neon lights. He whispered threats when needed. Executed them when necessary.
People feared him.
Which is exactly what he wanted, because fear kept them away. Kept them from following when he left the Beach for a "supply run".
And anyone who saw him with Hina?
Didn't see anything ever again.
And when he slipped away, through the shifting ruins of the Borderland, to a door with a cat face drawn in charcoal…
He became Takatora Samura again.
He knocked three times.
And waited to hear his daughter say,
"Daddy?"
And for that brief moment, in a world of death and games and cruelty—
he lived.
Chishiya
He hadn't wanted a child.
Not as a teenager. Not with a girl he had known for just under a year, whose laughter annoyed him as much as it intrigued him. She was vibrant. She wanted to feel everything.
When she told him she was pregnant, he didn't yell. Didn't even flinch. Just stood still, hands in the pockets of his coat.
"I'm keeping it," she said, braver than him in that moment.
He nodded.
That was all.
The delivery was early. Sudden. Violent.
He was there. Not because he wanted to be, but because she called his name just before being wheeled into surgery.
She didn't wake up.
And then there was Souta.
This tiny, wrinkled, squalling thing wrapped in pale green blankets. A hospital ID tag around his ankle. A pulse and lungs and his mother's eyes.
Chishiya stood over the incubator and stared. No emotion showed on his face.
Inside, something cracked quietly, but he ignored it.
He always did.
He was twenty now.
An intern with a white coat far too big for his narrow frame, eyes sharp as glass. His reputation at the hospital was already growing: brilliant, cold, unshakable.
At home, in their cramped Tokyo apartment, he was something else.
Still quiet. Still emotionally guarded.
But there was a routine.
He'd wake before the sun, set out a bento box with plain rice and pickled plums, Souta liked the sour taste. He'd leave him notes on post-its:
"Eat this."
"TV off after one episode."
"Don't open the door."
Then he'd disappear into long hours of rounds and sleepless emergency shifts.
Sometimes, he came home and found Souta asleep on the couch, crayon marks on his cheek, cartoons paused mid-frame.
Sometimes, the boy waited up, kicking his legs at the table, eyes droopy.
"You look tired," he'd say.
Chishiya would glance at himself in the hallway mirror, then shrug. "So do you."
He wasn't warm.
He didn't ruffle hair or throw his child into the air or bake smiley-face pancakes.
But he was present.
Always.
Quietly. Reliably.
The lights worked. The meals appeared. The medicine was precise and timely.
He taught Souta to read by taping difficult words to furniture.
He taught him to fold clothes with geometric precision.
He taught him chess at four, and never once let him win.
"You'll learn more this way," he said.
And he did.
Souta fell asleep in his hospital coat once, curled up in the waiting room chair.
Chishiya walked past, paused, and doubled back.
Draped a blanket over him.
Kept walking.
Another time, Souta got sick with a fever. For two days, Chishiya barely left the apartment. He sat by the bed, measuring temperature every hour, cooling him with damp cloths, counting heartbeats with two fingers on the wrist.
"Am I gonna die?" Souta mumbled once, delirious.
"No," Chishiya answered simply.
"You're mine. I wouldn't allow it."
He didn't call himself "Dad" and Souta never pushed it.
Sometimes it was "Chishi."
Sometimes just "Hey."
But the bond was there, in the silences, the rituals, the absolute certainty that if Souta cried in the night, someone would always come.
He didn't tell stories. Didn't sing lullabies.
But when Souta asked, "Why don't you smile?" Chishiya paused.
Then said: "I'm saving it."
"For what?"
He looked down at him, something flickering faintly behind those calculating eyes.
"I'll let you know when I figure it out."
The call came just after noon.
Chishiya had been elbow-deep in a case study, fluorescent lights humming overhead, his colleague talking too much about an appendectomy.
Then his phone buzzed once.
Souta's school.
He answered with a clipped, "Chishiya."
A woman's voice, quick and tight:
"—just wanted to inform you, there's been an accident—"
That's all he heard.
Accident.
The next second, the line crackled. Static swallowed the rest of her sentence, and he didn't wait for it to clear.
He was already moving. Phone shoved into his coat pocket.
"Someone cover for me," he told the room.
"Wait, what—"
But the door was already swinging shut behind him.
He didn't remember the train ride. Didn't remember dodging through the school gates. Didn't remember his own heartbeat until he was standing in the nurse's office, hands clenched at his sides.
And there was Souta, swinging his feet at the edge of the cot, holding an icepack to his head.
"…You didn't answer the rest of the call," the teacher said, quietly. "He just slipped running in the hall. Hit his head. He's completely fine. It's just a bump."
Chishiya didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the kid.
Souta looked up. "You look pale."
"You look stupid," Chishiya replied, dryly.
But his knees buckled just a little when he sat beside him.
Chishiya took the rest of the day off.
They got ice cream, even though it was barely 10°C. He let Souta pick the flavor. Even the toppings.
He followed him to the bookstore and bought him three full volumes of the weird detective manga he liked, even though Chishiya personally thought the plot holes were unforgivable.
They walked home slowly, the city glowing around them, his hand brushing the back of Souta's coat every few seconds, as if afraid he'd vanish.
That night he tucked him in quietly.
Souta rolled over, face half-buried in his pillow, a faded bandaid on the side of his head. "You were freaking out," he said, voice muffled.
"I don't freak out."
"You so freaked out."
Silence.
Then, Chishiya leaned down. One hand smoothed the boy's hair. The other brushed over the tiny bump.
And then, just for a second, he kissed it.
Soft. Careful. Like it might undo something only he could see.
As he pulled away, Souta blinked up at him. "You smiled."
Chishiya didn't deny it. He just sat on the edge of the bed a little longer, shadows under his eyes, his voice quieter than usual.
"…Don't run in the halls."
And Souta didn't say it out loud, but he understood.
That kiss wasn't for the bump.
It was for the terror Chishiya couldn't put into words.
The kind that stays in your chest long after the danger is gone. The kind you only feel when you realize: without them, the whole world could stop.
Usagi and Arisu
Time had passed. Quietly. Kindly, even.
It was hard to say when life began to feel normal again, when the horrors of the meteor strike stopped haunting every dream, when Tokyo's sky stopped looking like the last thing you'd ever see.
But one day, it did.
And now, Arisu and Usagi lived in a sunlit apartment near the edges of Inokashira Park, with laundry that dried on the balcony and tiny shoes that littered the genkan.
Their twin boys, Karube and Chota, were seven.
Arisu and Usagi were the kind of parents who read every label twice before packing lunch. Who walked their kids to school even if it made them late. Who made it to every school play, even the ones where their sons had two lines and forgot them both.
Arisu was softer. He worried more. The past never let him relax completely. Even now, a scraped knee made his breath catch. He hovered sometimes, gently and anxiously, until Usagi gave him a look, and he exhaled and backed off.
He was patient, though. The kind of father who'd sit for an hour explaining how bugs hibernate or why the moon changes shape, even if only one of the twins was still listening by the end.
Usagi, on the other hand, was steady. Calm. She could silence a tantrum with one raised eyebrow. But her discipline was always firm, never harsh. When she spoke, the boys listened, not out of fear, but respect.
She taught them to climb trees. To pack a backpack. To check knots twice.
Sometimes, when the city was too much, they'd take weekend trips to the mountains. And when the boys asked why she was so good at hiking, she'd just shrug.
"I used to do it with my dad."
That was all.
They never told the boys the full story of their names.
Not yet.
But sometimes, Arisu would catch himself staring at them—Karube with his wild confidence and scraped elbows, Chota with his thoughtful eyes and too-big heart—and his chest would ache.
The names weren't just in memory.
They were a promise. That those who were lost wouldn't be forgotten.
Mornings were chaotic. Someone always lost a shoe. Someone always put jam on the wrong side of the toast.
But laughter echoed often in their kitchen. The boys teased each other, Usagi dodged yogurt being flung at her shirt, and Arisu usually burned the eggs.
Evenings were quieter.
Homework. Stories. A small piano no one could play very well. The occasional argument over bedtime.
And every now and then, the boys would ask questions that made Arisu freeze.
"Did you ever have friends before you met Mama?"
"Were you ever scared as a kid?"
Usagi would always reach for his hand beneath the table when that happened. Anchor him. Let him breathe through it.
And Arisu would nod, smile, and answer honestly.
"Yeah," he'd say. "But I wasn't alone."
A school play.
Karube was the tree. Chota was the moon.
It was a hilariously uncoordinated production, paper stars falling off the ceiling, a rabbit who forgot every line.
But Arisu had tears in his eyes the whole time.
Because they were there.
Alive.
Whole.
His sons were onstage, laughing and proud, and his hand was in Usagi's, warm and steady.
He didn't need to look over to know she was smiling, too.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't without struggles.
But it was perfect.
Every scraped knee was worth bandaging. Every question worth answering. Every hug, no matter how rushed or sticky, was given without hesitation.
Because they knew what it meant to lose everything.
And so they gave their sons everything they could.
Love. Stability. A childhood untouched by terror.
They didn't speak much of the past.
But sometimes, when the twins were asleep, Arisu would rest his head on Usagi's shoulder and whisper, "We did it, didn't we?"
Gulps,,,Its me again,,, Ur like my fav Ranpo writer EVER because you just understand his character SO perfectly so everytime I have a Ranpo fic idea I always wanna see how you'd write it :"3,,, SO UMMM SQUIDWARDDDDE I HAVE AN IDEAAAA!!!
I was thinking Ranpo x gn! Reader based off the song Boyfriend by Ariana Grande :3???
🎶"Even though you ain't mine, I promise the way we fight. Make me honestly feel like we just in love. 'Cause baby, when push comes to shove. Damn baby, I'm a train wreck, too... I lose my mind when it comes to you. I take time with the ones I choose. And I don't want to smile if it ain't from you, yeah"
Like imagine Coworkers Ranpo and reader with INSANE romantic tension.... Touches that lingered way too long, stares that were totally there for a long time and sharp like a predator, when they get too close when reaching for a book on the bookshelf and just,..freeze to feel eachother's heat, when Yosano and Dazai teases you two. And the worse part? Jealousy.
Ranpos not your boyfriend, you're not his partner...romantically. But whenever one of you are with someone and getting a little too comfortable? Youd scoffed, annoyed, and Ranpo would sulk and get whiny.
So one day, you were talking to Ranpo about one of your clients, saying that he's so nice and all. And Ranpo just gets all sulky and the conversation turned into this:
R: "Oh please, that dudes an arrogant manchild blah blah blah"
Yn: "WOAH that's rich coming from YOU."
They didn't even realize it, but they started "arguing" about the people they've been too close to, letting all the jealousy out as if they're arguing like a couple caught who their lover cheating. Until the argument somehow escalated to—
Yn: "Don't be ridiculous. That girl could never be as bold as me."
R: "Yeah well prove it! Come here and kiss me like she tried to!"
Yn: "Maybe I will!"
R: "YEAH wait what—"
And then Reader grabs Ranpo's collar and did something that left the two of them speechless later oughhhh the dummies in love </3
-ur local 🍮anonie here to cook again hihi
Not Your Boyfriend
synopsis: You and Ranpo Edogawa are definitely not dating. Just coworkers with lingering touches, heated arguments, and unresolved tension the entire Agency won’t stop teasing. But when jealousy turns petty and a flirtation war escalates into a dare, one kiss changes everything you both refused to admit.
content/warning: Ranpo x reader, fluff, -3.024 words
The Armed Detective Agency was chaotic at the best of times. Coffee-stained case files, stray bullets from Yosano's treatments, and Dazai's latest round of failed suicide attempts littered the halls like clockwork. But the real chaos began when you joined.
Fresh-faced and clever, you weren't just another field agent. You were sharp, analytical, quick on your feet. A strategist with a steel spine and a silver tongue. You didn't need to be the strongest in a fight. You just needed to know where the pressure point was.
Ranpo Edogawa noticed you immediately. He'd scoffed on your first day. "Oh great, another one who thinks they're clever."
You'd smiled sweetly. "Only if you're worried I might actually be."
From then on, the two of you were like magnets, constantly pulled together, constantly repelling.
Ranpo was annoying. Arrogant, childish, smug beyond belief. Always snacking, always lounging, and somehow always right. But you? You didn't fall in line like the others. You questioned him. You pushed back. You rolled your eyes when he got too dramatic and challenged him when he acted like the world revolved around his genius.
And even worse, you kept up with him.
When he solved a case in seconds, you were already two steps behind, but never more than that, close enough to make him glance over his shoulder, just to check.
He said it didn't bother him.
But he always glared a little longer when you cracked a deduction he hadn't vocalized yet. When you corrected one of his dramatic proclamations with something technically more accurate. When you leaned in over the evidence table and pointed to a blood pattern he hadn't noticed through the sugar rush.
The others caught on before either of you did.
The way you'd argue about the most insignificant things, whether a suspect's handwriting implied desperation or narcissism. The way your shoulders would bump "accidentally" during case reviews. The subtle, absurdly intense way your eyes would lock across the room during strategy briefings. Like a pair of wolves circling the same prize.
Yosano once whispered to Atsushi, watching the two of you bicker over the angle of a footprint,
"That's either romantic tension or premeditated murder. I'm not sure which."
Dazai? He was thrilled. "You two fight like a divorced couple who never stopped sleeping together," he'd say, casually flipping through a newspaper. "It's adorable."
You didn't dignify it with a response. Ranpo usually threw a candy wrapper at him.
The truth was: neither of you realized it yet. You thought it was just irritation, that the red heat in your chest when he smirked too knowingly was just anger. That the breathless pause when he leaned too close over your shoulder to read a file was just annoyance. That the occasional electric shock of your fingers brushing his on the edge of a shared paper was nothing but coincidence.
But the tension was there. Building. Coiling like a spring between you. In every touch that lingered just a second too long. Every stare that burned too deep. Every insult that felt just a bit too personal, too intimate.
And deep down, something was waiting.
Waiting for one of you to break.
To realize what was really going on.
Or maybe just... snap.
Working at the Agency meant always being on edge, not because of the missions, but because of him.
You never asked for this.
And yet, here he was again, hip pressed against yours at the cramped conference table as he leaned over to snatch a file from your hands.
"I was reading that," you snapped.
"I finished it faster," he replied smugly, popping a piece of candy into his mouth like punctuation.
You rolled your eyes and tried to reach for the file again, only for his fingers to brush yours, just barely, but it was intentional, you could feel it. Ranpo didn't need to touch you to grab the folder. He chose to.
Your hand stayed on the paper just a second too long. So did his.
Neither of you moved.
Neither of you spoke.
It was like the room had thinned around you. Like there was something crackling in the air between your hands, an invisible, unbearable thread pulled taut.
Then Yosano walked in with her clipboard, glanced down, and said flatly:
"If you two are going to eye-fuck over case files, at least do it after I get my coffee."
You jerked your hand back. Ranpo just clicked his tongue and turned away, but his ears had gone faintly pink.
It didn't stop there.
There were the glances. The kind that lasted too long to be casual. The kind where you'd catch him watching you mid-conversation, eyes sharp, lips parted like he was thinking something he wasn't allowed to say out loud.
The kind that made your breath catch in your throat and your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with irritation.
The touches also were too frequent, too "accidental."
When you brushed past him at the vending machine and his hand lingered against the small of your back for a moment longer than necessary.
When he handed you your coat and his fingers trailed just briefly over yours.
When he leaned in too close, breath warm on your neck, pointing at a clue you both already knew was there.
You told yourself it was just Ranpo being Ranpo.
He told himself you were just easily flustered.
Neither of you admitted that sometimes, after those encounters, it was impossible to concentrate for the rest of the day.
It happened on a rainy afternoon.
You were both stuck inside the Agency headquarters. No fieldwork, just cold coffee, the low hum of the radiator, and endless reports to sort through.
You were reaching for a book on psychological profiling. So was he.
Same shelf. Same moment. Same damn book.
Your hands collided. Neither moved.
Your eyes met across the narrow space between you. His hand didn't pull away. Neither did yours.
There was barely an inch between your faces. You could feel his breath, warm and sweet from his latest round of candy. His eyes flicked down to your mouth before darting back up.
You didn't miss it.
And he knew you didn't miss it.
Silence stretched. The book long forgotten.
You weren't even pretending anymore. The heat between you was molten, a slow, dangerous burn that made the room feel suddenly too small.
Your voice, when you finally spoke, was low. Breathless.
"Do you need something?"
Ranpo's smirk flickered, uncertain for the briefest second, and then returned, sharper than ever.
"Yeah. That book."
Your fingers tightened around the spine at the same time he did.
Neither of you let go.
Dazai, sitting nearby, finally sighed and muttered to Atsushi, "They're going to combust. We should probably move the flammable materials."
The rain hadn't let up. Which meant everyone at the Agency was stuck indoors, restless and buzzing with too much energy and nowhere to direct it.
You were at your desk pretending to work, highlighting the same sentence over and over, trying not to think about how close Ranpo had stood to you earlier. How his fingers had brushed yours like it was an accident, how his voice had dropped a note lower when he whispered something about "staying sharp."
Across the room, Ranpo was pretending not to look at you. He was bad at it.
The tension was palpable. Like a rubber band stretched to its limit, one wrong move away from snapping.
Yosano was the first to break the silence.
She set her clipboard down and turned to Dazai with a deadpan smile.
"So. Are we still placing bets on how long it'll take before they tear each other's clothes off?"
You choked on your tea.
Ranpo nearly dropped his candy.
Dazai didn't miss a beat. "Oh, I already lost my money. I gave them two weeks after their first case together. That was months ago. The sexual tension is starting to affect the Wi-Fi."
You sputtered. "Excuse me?"
Yosano turned, completely unbothered. "Oh, please. Don't act surprised. You and Ranpo practically eye-fuck over every unsolved case. It's exhausting."
Dazai leaned back in his chair with a sigh of theatrical longing.
"Do you two even realize the way you look at each other? It's like enemies in a slow-burn romance novel. All hate-glances and accidental hand touches. I'm just waiting for someone to shove someone else against a wall."
Your face burned hot but Ranpo, for once, was silent.
Yosano tilted her head at you. "You do realize you held hands in front of the coffee machine for almost a minute yesterday, right? Just because both of you refused to let go of the sugar."
"That—! That was accidental!" you stammered.
Dazai gave you a pitying look. "It wasn't. He caressed your wrist. We saw."
Ranpo finally snapped, crossing his arms, voice slightly higher than usual. "I wasn't caressing, I was just—!"
"—Lingering," Yosano said smoothly. "And don't even get me started on the bookshelf thing. The sexual tension in that moment could've cracked the spine without you touching it."
You both went rigid.
Dazai turned to you with the most annoyingly gleeful smile.
"At this point, just do us all a favor and kiss. Or scream at each other and then kiss. Or scream while kissing. I'm not picky."
Your mouth opened. Closed. You looked at Ranpo. He looked at you.
You both turned away, faces burning, muttering things that sounded like "idiot" and "not happening" and "don't flatter yourself", but neither of you moved from your spots.
Dazai whispered to Yosano with a grin,
"It's always the bickering ones. I give it one more week."
Yosano nodded. "Or one more jealous outburst."
And neither of you noticed the way Ranpo's eyes flicked to you again.
Or the way yours were already on him.
It was supposed to be a simple mission. Drop off evidence at a local precinct. Stop for tea. No drama.
But then Ranpo had spotted the candy store across the street.
"Five minutes," he said, already halfway across the road before you could respond.
You sighed and followed. It wasn't like you had a choice — he'd probably get distracted and wander off into traffic otherwise.
The place was bright and colorful, all glass jars and smiling staff. And one particularly overly friendly girl behind the counter who lit up like a lightbulb the second Ranpo walked in.
She leaned forward onto the glass display like it was instinct, giggling before he even said anything.
"Welcome in! You're adorable. I mean—uh, what can I help you with?"
You narrowed your eyes.
Ranpo, oblivious to your side-eye, smiled back with the kind of lazy charm that made your blood simmer.
"Well, I'm already sweet enough," he said, voice a notch smoother than usual, "but I guess a little extra sugar never hurts."
Your jaw clenched.
He knew what he was doing.
And worse: he glanced at you mid-flirt. Just to see your reaction.
You busied yourself by pretending to read the labels on lollipops, but your mind was stuck on her laugh soft, flirty, eager, and the way Ranpo let her brush his hand when she gave him change.
When you stepped out of the shop, you didn't say a word.
But Ranpo noticed the stiffness in your shoulders. The way you didn't wait for him to catch up. The way your arms crossed a little tighter across your chest.
And he smirked.
So when you stopped by a corner café for a break before heading back, and a guy, tall, broad, with a too-perfect smile, turned to you in line and said, "Hey, I like your jacket,"
You didn't hesitate.
"Thanks," you said, smiling just a little too wide. "I could say the same about your eyes."
Ranpo froze.
He blinked. Then squinted.
Then sulked.
You and Mr. Perfect chatted for maybe thirty seconds. You complimented his dumb shoes. He offered to pay for your drink. You declined with a laugh. It was harmless. Mostly.
Ranpo said nothing. Just stood behind you, glaring daggers at the man's spine like he was mentally willing it to explode.
Once you stepped out of the café and started walking again, Ranpo didn't follow.
You turned.
He was still by the door. On the ground.
"Ranpo."
He sat cross-legged on the sidewalk like a moody child, cheeks puffed slightly in exaggerated annoyance, candy bag clutched dramatically to his chest.
"I'm not moving."
You stared. "You're sitting on the street."
"I refuse to walk beside a traitor."
"A what?"
Ranpo turned his face away with a huff.
"You flirted with a random guy. So inappropriate. We're on a mission, you should focus. And you call yourself a detective…"
You raised an eyebrow, half exasperated, half amused. "You were basically purring for Candy Girl earlier."
"That was professional. She gave me a discount."
"You let her touch your hand."
"She was touched by greatness. Not my fault."
You folded your arms. "You flirted first."
"To get a discount! But you? Your flirting was sloppy. You laughed at his shoes."
You couldn't help it, a laugh escaped. "Oh my God, you're jealous."
Ranpo looked up at you with narrowed eyes, cheeks a little red. "I am not. I just demand loyalty from my—" He paused. "...my coworker. For team morale. That's all."
You crouched slightly to his level, grinning now. "So team morale only collapses when I flirt?"
He looked away. "You're being very bold lately. It's suspicious. Apologize."
"For what?"
"For… emotionally attacking me with your behavior and risking our mission."
You leaned in just a little. "Make me."
Ranpo stared at you.
You stared right back.
Then, muttering something under his breath, he groaned loudly, flopped backward onto the sidewalk like a dying cat, and said, "I'm gonna lie here until you apologize or until Kenji comes and carries me home."
You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm, heart very stupidly pounding.
This man was a menace. A walking contradiction. He flirted, pouted, sulked, and somehow made every single interaction feel like foreplay.
And worst of all?
You were starting to enjoy it.
You sighed, crossing your arms, looking down at Ranpo lying dramatically on the sidewalk like he'd just been shot in the heart instead of mildly inconvenienced.
"Fine," you said, the word like glass in your throat. "I'm sorry."
His eyes opened slowly.
"That didn't sound very heartfelt."
"I'm so sorry, Edogawa." You placed a hand to your chest. "For being bold and mildly flirtatious with a man who was just being polite. I can only hope my sins don't destroy our team morale forever."
Ranpo squinted. "...Acceptable."
He stood, brushing imaginary dirt from his coat like a soldier rising from war. Then he glanced at you, still sulky, still dramatic, but upright.
You resumed walking back to the office together, the silence thick and awkward. You hoped that was the end of it.
It wasn't.
"You know," Ranpo started again, kicking a rock down the sidewalk with a little too much force, "that guy definitely moisturizes with gasoline and lies to his therapist. Total arrogant manchild. Probably thinks girls owe him attention just for existing."
You blinked at him, jaw tightening. "Excuse me?"
"I mean, sure, he smiled." He waved a hand lazily. "But his eyes were empty. Soulless. Probably a Gemini."
You stopped walking. "Woah. That's rich coming from you."
Ranpo turned like you'd just slapped him with a case file. "What's that supposed to mean?!"
"You're Ranpo," you said, throwing your hands up. "You're the biggest manchild I know!"
He gasped. "How dare—"
"You eat candy for breakfast, talk like you invented oxygen, and sulk like a Victorian orphan whenever you don't get attention."
He blinked. "...Okay, first of all, that was weirdly specific. Second, I do not sulk."
"You laid down in the middle of a sidewalk because I talked to a guy for thirty seconds."
Ranpo looked horrified. "That wasn't sulking, that was a protest! A dignified act of emotional self-defense!"
"Oh my god." You dragged a hand down your face. "You are impossible."
"I'm impossible?! You flirted right in front of me!"
"You flirted first!"
"Not with intent!" he shouted, offended like you'd insulted his entire family. "I flirted for candy. You were giggling like a schoolgirl at a boy band meet and greet!"
"I was being polite!"
"You were twirling your hair!"
"I wasn't—!" you stopped. "That's not even—why were you looking that hard?!"
He faltered, mouth parting slightly. "I—I wasn't! I just—observed it with my skills."
"Oh, so now your ability tells you when I'm twirling my hair at attractive strangers?!"
"Yes!" he snapped. "I mean—no! I mean—shut up!"
You threw your arms out. "I can talk to people, Ranpo!"
"You can't talk to him!"
"Why not?!"
"Because—because he was...! He was objectively terrible!"
"Oh, and that girl wasn't? She called you adorable the second you walked in!"
"Maybe she was just... bold!"
You glared up at him, defiant, heart thundering. "Don't be ridiculous. That girl could never be as bold as me."
His eyes narrowed, lips twitching into a smirk that was more challenge than smile. "Yeah? Well prove it. Come here and kiss me like she wanted to."
"Maybe I will."
"YEAH—wait what—?"
Before he could react, your hand gripped his coat collar, yanked him down, and kissed him.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't careful.
It was months of tension and insult-laced affection poured into one desperate, heated moment. Lips crashing, breath tangled, hands clenched like you were both trying to win.
Ranpo froze for half a second.
Then he kissed you back like his life depended on it.
When you finally pulled apart, barely, foreheads touching, breath ragged, you were both stunned silent.
Ranpo blinked at you.
"…You did not just do that."
You smiled, still close enough to feel his breath. "You dared me."
He looked dazed. "I—I wasn't serious!"
"I was."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then finally muttered,
"…I might be in love with you, and I hate that for me."
hi!! may i request a fic for tanizaki (or ranpo if u dont write for him) with an extroverted and chaotic reader?? basically like dazai but less suicide jokes. they enjoy messing with people, especially the younger ones in a way an older sibling would. with the character, reader's still very teasing but there's a softer edge to it that's barely noticable
the one time the reader dropped their chaotic nature is when they find out the character's in danger beyond his control. so they basically go haywire but with the most dead serious face ever; their actions say everything but their expression is totally blank
(also mayhaps have it be male/masc! reader, but gn is fine :])
Junebug and the Menace
A/N: This turned out shorter than I planned, but I couldn’t think of anything more, I’m sorry! I still hope you like it!
synopsis: Known for your teasing and unpredictable nature, you are the last person anyone expects to turn cold and serious. Until Tanizaki disappears, and you'll do whatever it takes to bring him back safe, no jokes this time.
content/warnings: Tanizaki x male!reader, canon-typical blood and violence, slight angst, fluff, -2.956 words
The Armed Detective Agency had its share of unpredictable personalities.
Dazai was a walking question mark with a penchant for drama and death wishes. Kunikida clung to his ideals like a man clinging to a lifeline. And Atsushi was still trying to figure out how to exist in the madness without losing his mind.
And then there was you.
You didn't walk into a room. No, you exploded into it, all mischief and energy, like someone had replaced the concept of "professionalism" with "whatever makes things interesting."
No one was exactly sure how you got hired. Some said it was because you saved a diplomat from an armed ambush with nothing but a pencil, a fire extinguisher, and your terrifying charisma. Others whispered that Dazai had vouched for you personally, which sounded like a red flag until they remembered how many people Dazai had not vouched for.
All anyone knew was that, somehow, you were effective. Unhinged, dramatic, and occasionally irresponsible, yes, but effective.
"Kenji!" you shouted from across the office one morning, sliding in on socked feet with a coffee in one hand and a paper plane in the other. "Catch this and I'll buy you lunch!"
Kenji's eyes lit up as you hurled the plane with too much force. It embedded itself in the wall three feet above his head. You blinked. "...Well, that was a wind issue. Lunch deal still stands."
You high-fived Atsushi (too hard), swiped Kunikida's notebook (again), and narrowly avoided one of Ranpo's snack traps laid across the floor like landmines.
It was chaos. It was exhausting. And it was so very you.
But beneath the pranks and loud entrances was a strange kind of wisdom — the kind that slipped into your jokes when no one was paying attention. You gave Atsushi advice disguised as sarcasm. You helped Kyoka understand people better by mimicking their flaws. Even Kunikida, after initially threatening to throw you off the balcony, begrudgingly admitted that "your results outweigh your... numerous character defects."
And then there was Tanizaki Junichiro.
Quiet. Polite. Slightly too serious for his own good.
The perfect target.
You teased him with the dedication of a full-time job. Every flushed reaction, every stammered "W-What are you doing?!" was fuel for your fire.
But what no one really noticed, or maybe they just didn't comment on, was that your teasing with Tanizaki was different. Still chaotic, sure. Still dramatic. But with a gentler edge. Less razing, more playful poking. You never pushed him as far as you pushed the others. You noticed when he was overwhelmed. You always stopped just shy of too much.
You'd sit on his desk, flipping his pen between your fingers, making grand claims about your incredible brilliance while he tried not to look flustered. He failed every time.
He'd grumble, look away, mutter something about how you were insufferable, but he never told you to leave.
And you never did.
Because for all your chaos, you understood people in a way that surprised everyone.
You were loud, unpredictable, and constantly pushing buttons, but beneath all that?
You noticed everything.
And that was what made you dangerous.
The Agency office was humming with quiet activity. Papers rustled, Kunikida muttered about "daily schedules" and "unacceptable behavior," and someone, probably Dazai, had managed to tape a fake resignation letter to the back of Atsushi's jacket.
You, of course, had spotted it immediately and decided to leave it there. For science.
But your true target of the day?
Tanizaki.
There he was, typing away at his desk with the same quiet focus as always. Shoulders slightly tense, headphones around his neck, brown hair falling just enough into his eyes to be annoyingly perfect. He looked… peaceful.
Which simply would not do.
You strolled over casually, hands behind your back like you weren't planning something. Which meant you definitely were.
"Tanizaki," you said, sing-song sweet. "Working hard or hardly working?"
His fingers paused just enough to let you know he heard you. He didn't look up. "That joke is ancient."
"Oh, I know," you replied, leaning down next to his chair. "But it's tradition. I ask, you roll your eyes, and then you pretend you don't like me hovering."
"I don't need to pretend," he said, deadpan. But the tips of his ears were already pink. Progress.
You plopped down sideways across the edge of his desk like you belonged there — knocking a file slightly askew with your elbow. Tanizaki sighed through his nose but didn't push you off.
"So," you continued, glancing at his screen with an exaggerated squint. "Still doing actual work, huh? That's cute. Someone's gotta balance out my creative chaos."
"You're not chaos. You're a hurricane in human form."
You grinned. "Aww, you noticed. That's basically flirting, Tanizaki. Keep this up and I might have to start calling you pet names in front of the others."
That got him. His head snapped up so fast you heard a faint pop in his neck.
"Please don't."
"Oooh, the panic," you cooed, resting your chin in your hand as you looked at him. "What's wrong? Scared I'll start calling you 'Junyun' in front of Kunikida?"
"...That doesn't even make sense."
"You're right. 'Junebug' is better."
He buried his face in his hand with a quiet groan, but you caught the twitch of a smile just before he hid it.
For a moment, the teasing faded into something quieter. Not gon e,just… softened.
You watched him work in silence, swinging your legs like a child, one of your hands trailing along the edge of the desk. It wasn't often you sat still like this, especially not next to someone like him.
But Tanizaki never asked you to be anything other than what you were. He endured your chaos, rolled his eyes at your dramatics, and sometimes, just sometimes, he even played along.
You were pretty sure he didn't realize how much that meant to you.
So naturally, your response to that soft realization was to throw a paperclip at his arm.
He blinked, looked at you. "Seriously?"
You smirked. "Just keeping you alert. You never know when I might stage an ambush. Gotta keep your senses sharp, Junebug."
"You're a menace," he muttered, but again, no actual protest.
You hopped off the desk dramatically, spinning once like a stage exit. "And you love it. Don't worry, I'll come back to bother you later. Try not to miss me too much, okay?"
As you sauntered off to find new mischief, you didn't see the way Tanizaki looked at your retreating back, exasperated, sure, but with a tiny, unmistakable smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
It started like any other day.
You were halfway through rearranging Kunikida's sticky notes into a massive smiley face when the mission brief landed on the desk with a soft thud. Fukuzawa's writing. Clean. Efficient. Final.
"Tanizaki's taking lead recon on this one," Ranpo muttered around a lollipop, glancing lazily at the paper. "Low-risk surveillance. Just needs someone who can be invisible in a crowd."
You raised a brow. "He's going alone?"
Ranpo shrugged. "Backup's on call if he needs it. Nothing serious."
You made a show of dramatically sighing and flopping into your chair. "Boring missions are a crime. I should've been assigned. I'd have at least made it interesting."
Across the room, Tanizaki rolled his eyes, pausing at the door with his usual messenger bag slung across one shoulder.
"You'd blow your cover in ten minutes."
"Oh please," you shot back, "I'd be the cover."
He gave a half-smile. You saluted him two-fingered and added, "Stay safe, Junebug."
He didn't respond. Just gave you a small nod and slipped out the door.
That was the last time anyone saw him.
At first, no one panicked. He was good at vanishing, that was the point of his ability. Hours passed. Then a day. You made a few snarky jokes to cover your unease.
"Maybe he finally snapped and went off-grid. Can't say I blame him. I have been extra annoying lately."
No one laughed.
By day two, even Naomi didn't know where he was.
That's when the tension in your chest, the one you thought was irritation, began to twist into something colder. He wasn't answering his phone. His ability hadn't been activated in over thirty-six hours. Naomi was visibly shaking when she asked if anyone had heard from him.
Ranpo said nothing.
That was the worst sign of all.
"Someone took him," you said, voice deep, the humor gone like a cut wire.
The Agency began pulling in contacts. Kunikida issued alerts. Fukuzawa activated emergency protocols.
But you didn't wait.
You moved in silence, pulling on your coat, checking your gear. No theatrics. No smart remarks. Not even a fake dramatic monologue.
Dazai watched you from the corner with unreadable eyes. "You're not joking," he said quietly, like it was a strange new language on your tongue.
You looked at him. Blank. Cold.
"I don't joke when it comes to him."
Then you left.
And the room felt colder for it.
It didn't take you long to find them.
The trail was tacky. Whoever had taken Tanizaki didn't know how to cover their tracks from someone like you. Desperation makes people sloppy. You followed traces: a blank security feed here, a severed comm signal there. Someone was trying to draw the Armed Detective Agency into a trap.
And they were using him as bait.
That was their first mistake.
The warehouse on the edge of the harbor was the kind of place bad things happened when no one was looking. Salt-worn walls, rusted steel, shadows long and still. Silent.
You moved like a ghost through the back entrance, slipping between patrol patterns with practiced ease. No dramatic entrance. No flashy lines. Not even a grin.
Just silence.
You spotted him in the center of the open floor, tied to a chair beneath a swaying overhead light. His head hung low. A small cut marked his cheek, dried blood near the corner of his mouth. His wrists were bound too tight.
But he was breathing.
Alive.
That was all you needed.
You took inventory of the four guards stationed around him. Two near the shadows with guns, one by the door, and one pacing, probably the one in charge. You heard the click of a communicator.
"They're late," the leader muttered. "Maybe the brat wasn't valuable enough—"
You didn't let him finish the sentence.
The moment your foot hit the floor, the first guard dropped, unconscious before his body hit the wall. The second spun too late; you twisted his wrist, flipped the gun, and slammed the butt into his temple.
Clean. Efficient.
The third went for Tanizaki, a mistake you punished instantly. You tackled him mid-step and pinned him, arm breaking with a muffled crunch beneath your knee. He screamed.
You didn't flinch.
Only the leader was left now. He stood, wide-eyed, gun shaking in his hands.
"You—you're the chaotic one," he stammered, stepping back. "The guy who never shuts up."
You stared at him, utterly blank.
"You kidnapped my teammate," you said. "There's no joke for that."
He aimed the gun. You moved before he could blink. Disarmed. Disabled.
Alive, but only barely.
You stood in the wreckage of the would-be ambush, chest rising slow and steady, dust settling like snow in the silence. And then you turned to him.
Tanizaki.
He was barely conscious, eyelids fluttering.
"Y/N…?" he rasped.
You were already at his side, undoing the bindings with trembling precision. His wrists were red and raw. Your fingers brushed over them gently, slower than the rest of you had moved all night.
"I'm here," you said, voice low, steady, but no less intense. "You're okay now. I've got you."
His eyes fluttered open just enough to focus on your face. No smirk, no teasing glint in your eye. Just that blank, cold stillness that was somehow more terrifying than any outburst.
"You…" he whispered. "You didn't smile."
"Didn't feel like it," you murmured, sliding your coat off and wrapping it around him. "I don't do bits when it's you on the line."
He blinked slowly. "Did you… kill them?"
You stood. Looked around at the moaning heap of bruises and broken egos scattered across the warehouse.
"No," you said. "But they won't be getting up for a while."
Tanizaki exhaled a tired, pained chuckle. "You're terrifying."
You offered the smallest, faintest smile, just for him.
"Only when I have to be."
Then you lifted him carefully, holding him close in your arms—not like a damsel, not like a burden, but like someone you refused to ever let fall again—and walked out of the wreckage, not once looking back.
The door to your apartment creaked open with the sound of safety.
You stepped inside carefully, still holding Tanizaki in your arms, even though he'd mumbled a weak "I can walk" about three times on the way here. You ignored him every time. He'd stopped protesting after the second block.
Your place wasn't huge, but it was lived-in. The kind of space that carried your chaotic energy even in stillness. A clutter of mismatched mugs, posters tacked up at weird angles, stacks of books, a couch covered in blankets and throw pillows you "borrowed" from the Agency.
You nudged the door closed with your foot, finally setting Tanizaki down on the couch with a gentleness that felt... uncharacteristic. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
"You really didn't have to carry me all the way here," he muttered, half-embarrassed, half-exhausted.
You knelt down in front of him, pulling off what was left of his torn gloves. "Yeah, I know. But I wanted to. You got a problem with that, Junebug?"
He gave you a tired, sideways look. "You only call me that when you're trying to fluster me."
"Exactly," you said, tugging off his coat. "If I stopped now, you'd think something was actually wrong."
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. You caught the expression and let it sit between you, warm and brief.
You stood up and crossed the room, fishing through a small dresser near the kitchen. "Here," you called, tossing him a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, both a little too big for him, both soft from too many washes. "Change into those while I call the others. And don't you dare pass out until I get back."
You heard him shuffling as you stepped into the next room, pulling your phone from your pocket. One bar. Barely enough. You called anyway.
The line picked up on the first ring.
"Where is he?!" Naomi's voice hit like a bullet. You held the phone away from your ear.
"Alive," you said calmly, "safe, and changing into one of my hoodies. He's fine, Naomi. He'll call you soon, I promise."
A pause.
"You swear?"
"I swear. I wouldn't bring him home if I thought he needed Yosano. He just needs rest."
Another pause. Softer, now. "...Thank you."
You hung up before she could make you feel weird about it.
You came back into the living room to find Tanizaki curled up in the hoodie, sleeves slightly too long, pant legs bunched at the ankles. His hair was a mess, and the shadows under his eyes were darker than usual. But he looked warmer. Comfortable. His usual stiff posture had melted into the cushions like he belonged there.
And, honestly? He kind of did.
You set a glass of water and a small first-aid kit on the coffee table, then sat beside him with a groan.
"You've got terrible taste in villains," you said, breaking the silence as you pulled a damp cloth from a nearby bowl and gently pressed it to the dried cut on his cheek. "Next time, pick someone with better minions. These guys didn't even last a minute."
He chuckled weakly. "I wasn't trying to impress them."
"Oh, I was." You smirked a little, dabbing carefully at the corner of his mouth. "Imagine how cool I looked, dropping four guys with only my bare hands." You jokingly flexed your muscles, making Tanizaki smile softly.
His eyes found yours, tired, but more focused now.
"I've never seen you like that before," he said quietly.
You paused.
"Yeah," you murmured, sitting back just enough to meet his gaze. "I don't bring out that version of me unless someone really matters."
His brows lifted slightly, but he didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
You grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch and tossed it over him, then nudged the side of his head until he leaned into your shoulder.
"No jokes tonight," you said softly. "Just sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up."
Tanizaki closed his eyes.
And for the first time in days he felt safe.
A quiet moment passed. Just the sound of his breathing and the steady hum of your apartment settling in for the night.
Then, barely above a whisper, you heard him murmur, "Thank you… for coming for me."
Your breath caught.
He wasn't looking at you. His eyes were still shut, voice soft and unguarded, the kind of thank you that wasn't just gratitude. It was trust. It was weight. It was him saying he knew what it cost you to turn off the jokes and step into the fire for him.
You looked down at him, the faintest smile on his lips, curled into your hoodie like he belonged there.
Your heart thudded once. Hard.
"…Anytime, Junebug," you whispered, barely able to say it through the tightness in your chest.
Hiii!! I’ve read the fandoms you write for, and I was wondering if you’d write for Naruto 👉🏽👈🏽
One of my favorite characters from the show is Shikamaru, and I really want to see some fluff or slight angst to fluff IDKHAHAH from him hehe.
I’ve had this idea a while ago whereas reader is someone who’s the complete opposite of him—chalant, loud, really straightforward but oblivious (maybe a personality like Naruto)—I think it’d be a cute trope!
Reader clearly has a thing for Shikamaru and doesn’t really deny it. Even his friends know something’s up. She looks up to him and always swears to catch up to him, challenging him with whatever comes to mind (an excuse to spend time with him). Kinda like Guy and Kakashi lol
Although, I feel like he’d lowkey push her away (or rather his feelings lmao) and show no interest. The nonchalant king he is, Shikamaru would definitely be the type to prioritize other things more, aaand he prolly doesn’t know how to embrace the fact that he does like her too 😔
Because of this, reader kinda feels like anything she does is just “a drag” for Shikamaru (she’s the type to take things to heart 😞). To lessen his burdens, she distances herself to him. (Overthinker much AHAHAH)
In the end, Shikamaru realizes how much he misses her antics and confronts her about everything 😜
Thank you, hope you consider this (if you feel like writing for him 🥹)! I love your works sm 🥰
What A Drag...Without You
synopsis: You, a loud and passionate shinobi, fall hard for Shikamaru Nara. Your relentless energy crashes against his calm indifference, until your silence teaches him just how much he can’t live without the noise.
content/warnings: Shikamaru x reader, slight angst, fluff, -3.608 words
You weren't born in the Leaf, but it had started to feel like home. Or, well… as close as a place could feel when you never really sat still long enough to call anything home. Konoha had accepted you even with your loudmouthed-whirlwind energy and all. They'd accepted you far more easily than you'd expected. Something about the people here, especially the shinobi, made your edges feel a little less sharp.
Still, if you were a typhoon, then Shikamaru Nara was the still air before a storm. Unmoving, unbothered, and utterly calm.
And you liked him. A lot.
Not that you tried to hide it.
You'd been assigned to Konoha over a year ago, technically as part of a long-term exchange program between your village and the Leaf. Political ties, strategic sharing of knowledge, goodwill, all of that official shinobi nonsense. But what the Hokage hadn't accounted for was that you had a type, apparently. And it wore a chuunin vest, had a perpetual slouch, and rolled its eyes so hard you were surprised they hadn't gotten stuck.
You first saw Shikamaru during a joint mission debrief, and something about the way he yawned mid-report while still perfectly analyzing the enemy's entire formation had you hooked. It wasn't love at first sight or anything that dramatic, but you'd be lying if you said your heart didn't beat faster every time he muttered something too smart for his age.
You admired him. Fiercely.
Which meant, naturally, you started doing what you did best, being relentless.
"Bet you can't beat me in a tree-climbing race," you shouted at him once as he passed by the training fields, hands in pockets, eyes half-lidded with disinterest.
He blinked. "Why would I want to?"
"Because I'll annoy you every single day until you do."
"…Troublesome."
"Exactly!" you grinned like that was the greatest compliment in the world. "Come on, Shikamaru, don't make me drag you up there."
That's how it went with you two. You poked. You prodded. You challenged. You called him out when he was too quiet. You'd show up to the missions office only to shout across the lobby: "Oi, Nara! Still pretending to be lazy, or are you finally gonna spar me today?"
And sure, maybe other people would have gotten offended by how often he brushed you off, but you? You lived for it. There was something thrilling about trying to pull a reaction out of him. Like a puzzle you couldn't quite solve. Every dismissive glance or lazy reply just made you more determined to get under his skin.
Because under all that detachment, there was something.
You knew it.
…Even if he acted like you were just noise.
You didn't care. He was clever. Steady. Sharp in ways that made your reckless brain itch with admiration. And if no one else was gonna say it, then you would…repeatedly. Loudly. In front of his entire team.
"You're actually kind of amazing, you know that?" you'd told him once after a mission. "I mean, sure, your social skills are tragic, but your brain? Beautiful."
He didn't even flinch. Just kept walking, muttering something about the clouds and how nice silence used to be.
But you kept showing up. Kept challenging him. Because somewhere deep down, you believed that if someone like him could see you, really see you, not just as the loud transfer shinobi from another village, but as someone worth keeping around, then maybe this place really could feel like home.
Shikamaru found you exhausting. That much, he never hid.
But not uninteresting.
At some point whole village knew how you felt about Shikamaru, from Ino's exasperated sighs to the way Naruto nudged you with his elbow every time you stared just a little too long. You'd never been good at hiding anything, especially not your emotions, and when it came to Shikamaru, you wore them like a forehead protector.
Loud. Obvious. Proud.
"You know, if I had half your brain, I'd be Hokage by now," you told him one evening after a mission, limping slightly from a twisted ankle. He hadn't even broken a sweat. "It's honestly unfair how smart you are."
"Mm," he replied, barely glancing at you.
"Not to mention you're, like, weirdly attractive for someone who looks like they haven't slept in three years."
"Is this supposed to be flattery?" he muttered.
"Nope. Just the truth." You grinned. "But if you take it as a compliment, I won't stop you."
He didn't respond.
You laughed it off. Like always.
That was the thing, you could take a hit. You could take a dozen. You'd been raised tough, with pride stitched into your skin. But somewhere along the line, all the joking and teasing had stopped being a game. You started staying a few seconds longer after missions, waiting for him to say something, anything, before you left. You started learning what kind of food he liked, which shogi terms made his eyebrow twitch, how to read his silences.
And you started hoping, stupidly hoping, that maybe one day, he'd look at you like you weren't just another noise in his day.
But hope has sharp teeth and eventually, it started to bite.
You tried to confess once.
Or… something close to it.
"I like being around you, you know?" you said one afternoon as you walked together, your team having just split up after a mission. "You're calm. You make me want to be better. More focused. You make the world feel less… chaotic."
He didn't stop walking. Didn't look at you. Just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and let out a sigh.
"Must be exhausting for you then," he said. "Trying so hard to get attention from someone who doesn't care."
You blinked.
The words hit harder than any kunai. Not because they were cruel. He hadn't even said them harshly. But because they were cold, flat. Like your presence wasn't even worth the effort of softening the blow.
"Oh," you said after a pause, your voice smaller than you meant it to be. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."
He didn't say anything else. You didn't push. Not that time.
But something shifted.
After that, you stopped telling him he was attractive. Stopped sitting next to him when there were other seats available. You still smiled, still trained, still joked with everyone else like nothing had changed.
But inside, a little part of you curled up and went quiet.
You weren't stupid. You knew when you weren't wanted. You'd just been too stubborn to admit it.
You'd annoyed him enough. That much was clear. So you started making things easier for him.
No more dumb challenges. No more "Bet you can't beat me in—" anything.
You'd been a drag on him long enough.
And if there was one thing you promised yourself when you came to the Leaf, it was this:
You wouldn't force yourself where you weren't welcome.
Even if part of you still ached every time you saw him lounging under that same tree, looking at the clouds like nothing had changed.
Because, for him… maybe nothing had.
But for you?
Everything had.
At first, it was a relief.
That's what Shikamaru told himself.
No more yelling across the training grounds. No more sudden, overdramatic "Shikamaru, fight me!" declarations. No more being roped into idiotic contests that had no tactical value whatsoever.
Things were… quiet. Peaceful. Predictable.
Exactly the way he liked them.
Except…
He didn't feel relaxed. Not really.
He was tired.
Not physically. Missions were the same as always, and he got more sleep now that you weren't pestering him with random dares or late-night training ideas. But somehow, the air felt heavier. His days stretched longer. The silence that used to be his sanctuary now sat on his shoulders like a weight.
It started with small things.
You used to always sit nect from him during mission debriefs, slightly leaned sidewards, grinning like you were about to say something you knew would get under his skin. Now, your seat was further down the table, wedged between Naruto and Kiba, laughter easy and bright, but never directed at him.
You'd stopped saying his name.
It was weird.
He'd never realized how often you said it until you stopped.
At first, he chalked it up to your mood. Maybe you were just focused on something else. Another mission. A new crush. Some annoying hobby that would explode and fade just as quickly.
But days turned into weeks. And you didn't come back.
No challenges. No taunts. No loud compliments that made his teammates snort and Shikamaru pretend to be annoyed when he wasn't.
No you.
"Something wrong?" Ino asked one day as the team gathered for lunch. Shikamaru barely touched his food.
"No."
She arched a brow. "You've been spaced out all day."
"I always space out."
Choji chimed in, eyes flicking toward the other end of the table. "You mean you're always like this except when someone else is around."
Shikamaru followed their gaze. You were talking animatedly to Lee, waving your hands in that big, expressive way that had once driven him crazy. But now, it only reminded him of how distant you felt.
You hadn't looked at him once.
Ino leaned back and sipped her drink. "You know, she hasn't challenged you to anything in weeks. You must be happy."
He didn't answer.
Later that day, he found himself at the training field, alone.
He hadn't meant to go there. His feet just… took him.
You weren't there.
Of course you weren't. You didn't wait for him anymore.
He stood under the tree where you used to shout at him from the branches and looked up, half-expecting you to drop down with that smug little smirk, throwing a kunai just to "keep him awake."
Nothing.
Only clouds.
Only silence.
And it hit him, finally, this was what he said he wanted.
Peace. Quiet. No one bothering him.
But it didn't feel like peace at all.
It felt empty.
That night, Shikamaru sat on his roof, legs pulled up, eyes fixed on the sky.
The stars blinked lazily above him, and for once, they gave him no answers.
You used to do that too, sit and look at the stars. You once claimed they were better than clouds because "they don't run from things. They just stay."
He didn't know why he remembered that. But he did. Word for word.
He realized then that he didn't just miss your noise, your challenges, your reckless energy.
He missed you.
He missed the way your presence made the day less predictable, less slow, less flat. How your chaos somehow gave his calm a reason to exist. Like you were the fire that kept the room warm while he pretended he preferred the cold.
And now that you were gone?
He was freezing.
From then on, Shikamaru started hovering.
Not obviously, that wasn't his style. But for a few days now, you'd been catching glimpses of him lingering nearby. Just outside your sparring sessions. At the edges of your conversations. Sitting a little closer than he used to, pretending to be bored while his eyes followed your every movement.
You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn't react.
Not because you didn't care.
But because you finally did, about yourself.
You still smiled at him. Polite. Calm. No bitterness, no hard edge. Just… friendly. Which was strange coming from you. You were never just "friendly." You were an explosion in a quiet room. A laugh that echoed. A dare waiting to happen.
But now, when he approached, there was no joke on your tongue. No mischievous glint in your eyes.
Just a nod. A soft "Hey," and a smile that didn't reach the corners of your mouth.
Then you'd turn and leave.
It unnerved him.
The first time, he chalked it up to a bad day. The second time, maybe you were just busy. But by the fourth or fifth, something cold settled in his chest, the sinking weight of regret.
He'd come to watch you train, hoping maybe you'd tease him into joining, like old times. But you didn't even glance his way. He lingered until your session ended, just to catch you as you walked off the field.
"Hey," he said, stepping in your path. "Got a minute?"
You looked surprised. Like you'd already stopped expecting him to seek you out.
"Of course." Your voice was light. Too light. "What's up?"
He wanted to ask why you weren't challenging him anymore. Why your voice didn't spike with energy when you spoke to him. Why it felt like he was talking to a version of you behind glass, close enough to see, but too far to touch.
Instead, he just said, "You seem… different."
You tilted your head slightly. "Different how?"
He shrugged, suddenly unsure of his words. "I don't know. Quieter."
You smiled at that a closed-lipped, quiet thing. "Guess I just got tired of making noise where it wasn't wanted."
There was no accusation in your voice. No edge. Just honesty.
And that somehow cut deeper than anything you could've screamed at him.
Before he could say anything, you gave him a small wave. "I should go. Mission prep."
And then you were gone again. Light steps. Straight posture. Controlled.
Just not you.
That night, Shikamaru lay awake longer than usual.
You hadn't disappeared. You were still in the village, still doing missions, still training and laughing and existing.
But you weren't in his world anymore.
Not the way you used to be.
You'd stopped trying. Stopped chasing him. Stopped trying to earn space in a life that he'd so carelessly made you feel unwanted in.
And now?
Now he finally wanted you in it.
Not just the version of you that waved politely and walked away.
He wanted the loud you. The exhausting you. The one who shouted over the wind, who never backed down from a challenge, who looked at him like he was more than just the genius who didn't want to be bothered.
And for the first time in a long time, Shikamaru didn't know what to do.
He only knew one thing:
He missed the way you used to say his name.
You were mid-sentence, laughing with Choji outside the mission office when you felt it. A firm hand closing around your wrist.
Before you could turn, you were already being dragged.
"What the—? Shikamaru?!" you exclaimed, half stumbling as he pulled you away from the benches and down the hallway toward the training grounds.
Choji called after you, voice full of shock and amusement. "Hey, man! At least let her finish her sentence!"
Shikamaru didn't respond. His jaw was tight. His grip was just shy of too firm. His silence was louder than your protests.
When he finally stopped, you were behind the storage building, far from curious ears. He let go of your wrist like it burned him, but he didn't step back.
"You can't just do that!" you snapped, rubbing your arm, more stunned than angry. "What the hell is your problem?!"
"You," he said, sharply.
You blinked. "...Excuse me?"
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, eyes darting away like he couldn't look at you for more than a few seconds. "You—you don't talk to me anymore. You don't bother me."
"Wow," you said, folding your arms. "Sorry for removing myself from your very busy, very important life. I figured I'd done enough annoying already."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?" you asked bitterly. "State facts?"
He let out an angry breath, stepping closer. "You can't just shut me out."
You stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "Are you kidding me right now? You made it very clear you didn't care. You said I was exhausting. That it was a waste of time chasing attention from someone who didn't—" You stopped, swallowing the rest of the sentence.
"Didn't care," you repeated, softer.
Shikamaru was quiet for a long beat. The wind rustled overhead. A leaf scraped by on the ground between you.
"I thought," he said, voice low, "that if I ignored it long enough, you'd stop making me feel things I didn't know how to deal with."
You blinked. "What?"
He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And for once, there was no laziness in his gaze. No tired detachment. Just frustration and something raw underneath it.
"You were loud and annoying and completely ridiculous. You made everything more complicated. More chaotic. You challenged me to the dumbest things. You embarrassed me daily in front of my friends. You didn't take a single hint to back off."
You stiffened. Your arms folded tighter. "Yeah," you said. "So I did you a favor and finally did."
"But when you did…" His voice dropped. "Everything got quieter. Too quiet. You were supposed to annoy me forever, and you just…stopped."
You didn't know what to say. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"I didn't realize I needed you around until you weren't there anymore," he admitted, almost begrudgingly. "Until the silence actually felt like a drag."
Your chest felt tight. This wasn't how you imagined this moment. Not angry and cornered and breathless.
"…Why now?" you asked. "Why say this now?"
"Because you're not you anymore," he said. "You still smile and talk and train and joke. But not with me. You just… nod. Like I'm a stranger. Like I'm no one. And I deserve that, I know I do. But I can't stand it."
You looked down at your feet. His words were hitting places you'd tried to protect for weeks.
"So what, Shikamaru?" you asked quietly. "You miss me making your life harder?"
"No," he said. "I miss you making it worthwhile."
That pulled your eyes back to him.
He looked like he hated every second of admitting it. But he wasn't backing down. And it was the most un-Shikamaru thing you'd ever seen — this emotional, messy honesty that had clearly been building behind all those sighs and shrugged shoulders.
"…I don't know how to do this," he said finally. "Relationships. Feelings. I still think it's all a drag. But you—not having you is worse."
Silence stretched between you.
Then: "I could challenge you to a shogi rematch," you offered, voice just above a whisper. "Maybe let you win this time."
His lips twitched, almost a smile. "You never let me win."
"Guess you'll have to stick around if you want a shot."
He exhaled, slow and relieved. "Troublesome."
But his voice was softer now.
And this time, he didn't walk away.
From then on, you were back to your old self. Almost, at least. You challenged him to duels again, chatted him up, and even started throwing the occasional compliment his way.
Everything seemed normal again.
Except it wasn't.
Of course, Shikamaru noticed. He noticed the way your voice stayed just a bit quieter, your gestures a little smaller. You were still sunshine, but no longer blazing heat. More like a warm lamp left on in the corner.
He watched you now the way you used to watch him: quietly, from the corner of his eye, as if afraid you might vanish if he looked too directly.
You hadn't meant to dim yourself. It wasn't bitterness—it was caution. Respect.
A quiet promise to him, unspoken but clear: I won't be too much again.
But Shikamaru knew.
And he knew he had to show you it was okay. That you were okay. That even if you were too much… he still wanted all of it. All of you.
So, he decided to stop thinking and simply act.
You were standing with Ino and Kiba one afternoon, trading stories from a mist-soaked mission in the Land of Rivers, when the sound of approaching footsteps stirred the air behind you.
You turned just as a familiar voice cut through the breeze.
"Hey."
You blinked. "Yeah?"
Shikamaru stood a few paces away, hands in his pockets, expression as unreadable as ever, but his gaze was locked on you, steady and focused.
"…Race you," he said.
You tilted your head. "What?"
"To the top of that tree," he added, nodding toward the tall cedar down the road. "Unless you're too tired to keep up."
You stared at him, frozen mid-thought.
Ino and Kiba fell completely silent. Then, in perfect sync, they both turned their heads to stare at him like he'd just grown a second head.
Shikamaru didn't flinch.
You, on the other hand?
You lit up.
Your eyes went wide with disbelief, then crinkled with delight. That beaming, ridiculous grin—the one he used to complain about— spread across your face like a sunrise breaking through clouds.
"Oh, it's on, Nara."
You didn't even wait. With a burst of chakra, you took off toward the tree in a blur of excitement and momentum.
Shikamaru sighed a long, suffering, theatrical sound. But he smirked as he followed.
Kiba shook his head slowly. "What the hell just happened?"
Ino crossed her arms, brow raised. "I think… Shikamaru just flirted."
"Shikamaru doesn't flirt."
Ino's eyes followed the two figures now scaling the tree like a pair of reckless kids. "Apparently, he does now."
And up in the branches, laughing as you looked down at him from just a few feet higher, you called out, "You sure you're ready for all this trouble, genius?"
He looked up at you, breath steady, smile small but sincere.
"Guess I am."
And for once, being a little bothered didn't feel like a drag at all.
could you right chuuya ranpo and dazai with a ticklish wife plz :33 (ill just stop saying seperate since i think you get that ill always req sep lol)
BSD Characters Reacting to Reader Being Ticklish
content/warnings: Ranpo, Dazai, Chuuya, wife!reader, fluff, - 1.678 words
Ranpo
The late afternoon sun painted golden streaks across the wooden floor of your apartment, the rays slanting in through sheer curtains that fluttered lazily in the summer breeze. The living room was quiet and peaceful, save for the soft hum of a fan and the rhythmic flipping of pages.
You sat curled up at one end of the couch, engrossed in a book, when you felt a warm weight plop down dramatically against your side.
"Y/N..." came a long, drawn-out whine.
You didn't even look up. "Ranpo, whatever it is, no."
"You don't even know what I was going to say!" he pouted, shifting to rest his chin on your shoulder. His sharp green eyes sparkled with mischief already.
"You want me to get you sweets from the kitchen."
"...Okay, maybe you do know," he mumbled, fake-offended.
You chuckled, still flipping the page. "Then why don't you go get them yourself, great detective?"
Ranpo gave an exaggerated sigh, flopping onto his back across your lap like a limp cat. "But my deduction power is weakened when I'm low on sugar... I might pass out before I reach the cupboard."
You arched a brow, unmoved. "Mmhm. Tragic."
Ranpo blinked up at you with an innocent, beatific smile. "Okay, you asked for it."
"...Asked for wha—Ranpo!"
Too late. His fingers shot out like he'd planned the attack five steps ahead. They poked at your sides with surgical precision, zeroing in on the spots he'd memorized long ago. You squealed, twisting as laughter burst out of you involuntarily.
"Ranpo! No—stop!" you gasped between giggles, trying to squirm away. But he was already grinning from ear to ear, straddling your lap now, all too happy to continue his evil plan.
"You should've just gone to the kitchen," he sing-songed, wiggling his fingers right under your ribs, where he knew you were especially ticklish.
You practically screamed with laughter, grabbing at his wrists. "Okay, okay! I'll get your stupid sweets!"
He paused, hovering his fingers just an inch from your stomach. "Promise?"
You gave him the stink-eye while trying to catch your breath. "You're lucky you're cute."
"I know," he said smugly, rolling off you with a triumphant laugh as you pushed yourself up from the couch, still giggling a little as you trudged toward the kitchen.
As you disappeared around the corner, you heard him yell after you, "Don't forget the strawberry ones!"
You returned a minute later, tossing a wrapped packet of candies at him. He caught them with one hand, immediately popping one into his mouth like a child on Halloween.
You flopped back onto the couch with a huff. "One day I'm going to build up immunity to tickling and then you'll have nothing left."
He leaned over and pecked your cheek. "You've been saying that for a year. And I still win every time."
You tried to glare, but the softness in his gaze disarmed you. It always did.
A moment passed.
Then, like a little gremlin, he poked your side again, just a little one, just to watch you flinch and squeak.
"Ranpo!"
He cackled with glee and flopped into your lap again, this time curling into you like a contented cat. "You're the best," he murmured, his voice quieter now. "You always take care of me."
You carded your fingers through his messy dark hair, letting your hand rest gently on his head. "Even when you're a menace?"
"Especially then."
You sighed in fond exasperation. "You're lucky I love you."
Ranpo cracked one eye open. "I know," he said with a lazy grin. "But just to make sure… I might need to tickle you again later."
"Don't you dare."
He smirked. "No promises."
Dazai
It had been one of those days.
The kind that made the walls feel too close, the silence too loud. You sat curled on the futon, knees tucked to your chest, watching the sky bleed into twilight beyond the window. Dazai hadn't said much since coming home. He never asked questions when your mood dipped, he simply watched. Waited.
He sat on the floor nearby now, back against the wall, arms lazily folded behind his head like always. "You're awfully quiet tonight," he said, voice light, like he wasn't trying too hard.
You didn't respond right away.
"…Just tired," you muttered eventually.
"Hm." He tilted his head toward you, brown eyes sharp and unreadable. "Tired of me?"
A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, but you knew better. He was teasing, but there was that flicker of something else beneath it. Insecurity. Doubt.
You sighed, unfolding yourself slowly. "No. Just… foggy."
He nodded once. Then pushed himself up to sit beside you on the futon, a little too close, his thigh pressing against yours. "Maybe I should remind you what joy feels like, hmm?"
That was when his hand slid almost lazily toward your side.
You flinched. "Dazai. Don't you dare—"
Too late.
His fingers snuck under your shirt just enough to find the sensitive dip of your waist. You gasped, twisting away on instinct.
"No! Stop—!" You tried to squirm off the bed but he caught you with infuriating ease, wrapping an arm around your middle and pinning you to him.
"Oh~? Sensitive there too?" he cooed, his tone maddeningly amused. "I love discovering new things about my adorable wife."
"I swear if you keep doing that—Dazai!" you yelped, laughter spilling out against your will as his fingers found another weak spot.
"Come now, don't act like you don't enjoy the attention," he murmured, lips brushing your ear now. "You're laughing already."
You tried to kick him, but your aim was off through the haze of giggles.
"You're evil," you gasped, nearly breathless.
"No, no," he replied smoothly. "I'm efficient. You were sulking, and now you're laughing. Problem solved."
Eventually, as your protests grew more serious with mixed with breathy whines and tearful wheezing, he finally relented, releasing you from his ticklish torment.
You slumped against him, red-faced, hair messy. "You're such a menace."
His arms wrapped gently around you now, soothing where he'd once teased. "Maybe. But you'd be lost without me."
"…Maybe."
You nestled into his chest anyway.
He kissed the crown of your head. "You should see your smile. It's my favorite thing."
"Even when I'm trying to glare at you?"
"Especially then."
And then he did it, just one more poke to your side, gentle but effective.
You jumped. "Dazai!"
He was already laughing. "I couldn't help myself~ You're so delightfully ticklish."
You grumbled, pressing your face to his shoulder to hide your smile. He held you tighter.
In the end, the fog didn't feel quite so heavy anymore.
Chuuya
The evening air in your shared apartment smelled like wine and leather. Chuuya had just gotten home from a long day at Port Mafia HQ, tie loosened, hat tossed on the kitchen counter, his hair slightly mussed from the wind. He looked like the elegant chaos he always was.
You, meanwhile, were lounging on the couch with your phone, legs stretched across the cushions like you owned the place. Technically, you both did, but it never stopped you from pushing your luck.
"You didn't even come greet me?" he asked as he walked in, mock-offended.
You shrugged, eyes still on your screen. "You're a big boy. I figured you could handle the door on your own."
He arched a brow, kicking off his boots with a sigh. "Tch. Someone's feeling bold tonight."
"I'm just tired," you said sweetly.
"Mm. So tired you can sass me, but not get up and give me a hello kiss?" He leaned over the back of the couch, bracing himself with his hands on either side of your head.
You smiled up at him smugly. "Exactly."
"Oh really," he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "You sure you wanna play that game?"
You didn't even have time to process what was happening before he vaulted over the back of the couch and landed right beside you, grabbing your legs before you could escape. You shrieked in protest as he climbed over you with that infuriating smirk.
"Wait—Chuuya, don't—!"
"Oh, don't what?" he asked, already slipping his hands under the hem of your shirt to your sides. "You mean don't do this?"
He struck like a man on a mission, fingers expertly kneading at your waist, just enough pressure to make you jolt and burst into laughter. Your phone went flying as you writhed under him, gasping for breath.
"Chuuya! You jerk—stop—!"
He chuckled low, pleased and merciless. "You think I forgot you're ticklish as hell? Baby, I never forget a pressure point."
You slapped weakly at his arm, trying to twist away, but he only shifted to pin your hips with his thighs, grinning down at you like a man far too smug for his own good.
"You gonna behave now?" he asked, pausing for a brief moment of mercy.
You panted, face flushed. "I was always behaving!"
"Wrong answer." His fingers dove right back to your ribs, and you shrieked again, voice breaking from laughter.
"Okay okay okay—! I give up! I give up!!"
He finally stopped, chuckling as you collapsed into the couch cushions, limp and breathless.
"God, you're evil," you wheezed, trying to fan your burning face.
Chuuya leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple, his voice softer now. "Only when you get cocky."
You glared at him half-heartedly, but he smiled down at you, eyes warm despite the chaos he'd just caused. He ran a gentle hand over your side, now rubbing instead of tormenting.
"Admit it," he murmured. "You like that I know your weak spots."
You tried to scoff, but the small, flustered smile betraying you said everything he needed to know.
He kissed you again, this time on the lips. Slower. Sweeter.
And just when you thought you were safe, his hand twitched against your side.
You jumped with a sharp squeak. "Don't even think about it!"
He laughed, rolling off you at last. "No promises, sweetheart."
God I love your bsd fics so much... I know Ranpo has alot right now but I'm greedy asf..../silly I'd like to request a gn!reader x Ranpo fics please >_<!!!
I was thinkinggg Ranpo and reader are close feiends but Ranpo has just a tiny (lie) crush on Reader but he's a little tsundere about it </3 Like he'd tag along on missions with Reader that he just commented on it as "boring" just 5 minutes earlier. Or that he had thus dumb lovesick look on his face when he listens very intently when Reader talks (if anyone comments on it he'd just say they're hallucinating). And most shocking to the ADA members was that Ranpo doesn't seem to mind if Reader plays with his hat and playfully steals one if hus candies on the table (Ranpo finds that extremely attractive for some reason).
That was until one time, you two were going after to the ADA after a mission, it was really windy as it blows Reader's hair in their face, making a mess. Ranpo then laugher at how funny they look before helping them brush it off their face, but when Ranpo brushed the last strands of hair out to meet Reader's eyes, he was almost hypnotized. When he reused he was staring top long, Ranpo stammered out a weak mock of "I look better than you!!" Before jogging away to a nearby bakery as an excuse, a red flush on his face.
Days passed, when suddenly Reader came in thr ADA looking sad, Ranpo asked them whats wrong, to which they replied "My cats missing for 2 days now :(((" and Ranpo was like "whatever he'll be back go ask someone for help" but when you were about to walk to Atsushi, Ranpo cuts you off and said dramatically "Fineeee since you're begging (they were not) I'll help you find that stupid cat" So later that afternoon Ranpo and Reader split up to look nearby Reader's apartment. It was starting to rain as Ranpo scoffed and pulled out his umbrella, when a few minutes later Ranpo spotted the cat walking casually before he started chasing the cat down.
Agonizing minuted later, Ranpo returned to Reader with the cat in his hands, no stretched on him but there was a dirty paw mark on his face from the cat fighting him. Reader thanked Ranpo as they hugged their cat, and that's when Ranpo realized: Reader doesn't have an umbrella, they were drenched and their hair damp and sticking on their face. Ranpo moved closer before putting the umbrella on both of them as he wiped the wet strands off Reader's face, and as Ranpo's hand stopped behind Reader's ears, they stared at eachother, no words. Before Ranpo muttured; "...You're pretty." 3hich made Reader smiled softly "You're not sk bad yourself." And poor Ranpo was starting to blush as the cat interrupted them with a big MOEWWWW as they both walk back to Reader's apartment. And subconsciously, Ranpo tilted the umbrella more to Reader's side <3333 -🍮Anonie hihi
Chasing Cats and Catching Feelings
synopsis: You're a member of the ADA, and Ranpo insists you're a disaster, yet somehow, he tags along on all your cases, lets you steal his candy, mess with his hat, and even chases your missing cat through the rain just to see you smile.
He swears he’s not in love with you. (He totally is.)
content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x gn!reader (Reader has long hair), fluff, -3.671 words
The Armed Detective Agency wasn't exactly known for being a quiet workplace, but ever since you joined, things had gotten just a little more unpredictable.
You were one of the newer members, competent in both investigation and fieldwork, and well-liked by everyone. But out of all the agents, the one you somehow ended up closest to was Ranpo Edogawa.
Why? No one really knew. Maybe not even you.
"Ughhh, this is so boring," Ranpo groaned loudly, tossing his head back across the couch like he was auditioning for a drama. "Seriously, why do you even say yes to these cases? A missing heirloom? That's like, grade school level stuff."
You flipped through the case file without looking up. "And yet, you're sitting next to me again."
Ranpo clicked his tongue. "Only because if I leave you alone, you'll trip over something and turn a boring case into a full-blown disaster."
"You're worried about me?" you asked with a grin, looking at him from the corner of your eye.
"Hah? No! I'm worried about my own time being wasted if I have to come fix your mess later."
Still, the very next morning, when you stood in front of the train station ready to head to the client's location, there he was, chewing on a lollipop and tapping his foot like he had been waiting for you.
"Finally," he said with an exaggerated sigh. "You're late."
"You got here before me?"
"I didn't want you falling onto the tracks or something. You have the coordination of a folding chair."
You rolled your eyes, hiding the smile that tugged at your lips.
Despite the constant complaints, Ranpo always showed up. And when it came down to solving cases, the two of you worked like clockwork. Your practicality grounded his genius, and his observations pulled details you wouldn't have noticed in a hundred years.
He never outright said it, but even the others at the ADA noticed.
Ranpo preferred working with you.
Not that he made it obvious.
"Look, I'm just saying," he'd grumble while lounging at his desk, "if they're going to send someone out anyway, it may as well be me. I'm the only competent one around here."
"I'm literally right here."
"Exactly. Someone's gotta supervise you."
But the truth was written between the lines: the lollipops he brought you without comment, the way he stood just a little closer when you were around, the smirk he tried to hide when you teased him.
You'd long stopped questioning why he tagged along.
Even if the case was beneath his standards, even if he insisted it was a waste of time…
Ranpo always went when you did.
It didn't take long before your friendship with Ranpo became something of a spectacle within the Armed Detective Agency.
Not because either of you made a scene, but because Ranpo Edogawa, the self-proclaimed greatest detective, had apparently fallen into something far more complicated than solving cases: a crush.
And not a subtle one.
The first person to notice, of course, was Dazai.
It started with a simple observation.
"He, Ranpo~," Dazai leaned over his desk one afternoon, chin resting on his hands as he stared at his colleague with a sly grin. "You've been watching them for five minutes now. I think you forgot your candy's melting."
"I have not," Ranpo replied immediately, not even looking away from where you were standing across the room, animatedly discussing details of the latest case with Kunikida.
"You're not even blinking."
"I am blinking."
"You're smiling."
Ranpo's expression dropped instantly into a deadpan stare. "You're hallucinating. Go to Yosano."
But Dazai was not deterred. "So intense, so dreamy… do I see hearts in your eyes, Ranpo-kun?"
"I will push you out that window."
"…Please do."
It was true, though, Ranpo had a very specific expression when you were talking. Eyes sharp but soft, head tilted just slightly, candy often forgotten in his fingers as he listened with a surprising amount of focus. And it wasn't just about the case. You could've been talking about the best kind of cat food and he'd still be tuned in like you were delivering state secrets.
Atsushi once asked him, "Ranpo-san, how do you remember everything Y/N says so well? Even when it's not about work?"
Ranpo snorted. "Because unlike the rest of you, I have a functional brain."
But when Atsushi walked away, Ranpo muttered under his breath, "…and their voice is kinda nice, I guess."
He would never admit it out loud, of course. Not even under torture.
Which made the next discovery even more shocking.
One afternoon, you were at the communal table scribbling notes when you reached over and plucked Ranpo's hat right off his head.
Everyone went silent.
Even Yosano paused mid-sip of her tea.
Ranpo blinked, eyes lifting lazily toward you. "Tch. Give that back."
You placed it on your own head instead, grinning. "I think it suits me better, don't you think?"
Everyone braced themselves.
Surely Ranpo would lose it, go on about "sacred headwear" or "don't touch my stuff" like he usually did.
Instead…
"Hmm. I guess you don't look terrible."
Gasps were heard.
Horrifyingly, he even reached over and adjusted the hat so it was slightly askew. "But if you're gonna wear it, tilt it to the left. It's cooler that way."
It was like watching a unicorn drink coffee.
Even more so when, not long after, you swiped one of the candies from Ranpo's stash on the table without asking.
"Hey," he said, looking over.
You paused mid-chew, eyes wide. "Sorry, was that your last—"
Ranpo shrugged, leaned back in his chair. "Whatever. You're lucky I like you."
"You what?" Dazai immediately popped up from behind a stack of files.
"I mean—like you as a tolerable coworker!" Ranpo corrected, nearly choking. "Ugh, you're all so dense! I'm just being nice. That's allowed, you know!"
Atsushi whispered to Kenji, "Is this what it looks like when Ranpo's in love?"
"I think so," Kenji replied, nodding like he was watching a nature documentary. "It's kinda cute."
And from that point on, it was official.
You were Ranpo's weak spot.
His not-so-secret secret.
Not that he'd admit it. To every teasing remark or side-eye glance, he had the same response:
"You're imagining things."
"You're delusional."
"I'd rather date a puzzle box."
But he still followed you around on every case.
Still smiled when you stole his snacks.
Still listened with stars in his eyes when you talked about absolutely nothing at all.
And everyone at the ADA just… quietly let it happen.
Even Kunikida sighed and accepted it eventually. "At least it keeps him from bothering me."
The walk back to the Agency after a mission was usually quiet between you and Ranpo.
He'd often spend the time loudly complaining about how "unworthy" the case was of his genius while you tuned him out with just enough well-timed nods to make him think you were listening.
Today was no different.
"That case was, like, two brain cells at best," Ranpo declared as he strolled beside you, lazily twirling a lollipop in his mouth. "They could've asked a fortune cookie and gotten the same result."
You chuckled. "And yet, you still came with me."
"I didn't want you screwing it up."
"Sure."
But before he could respond with another dramatic sigh, a strong gust of wind barreled down the street, blowing your hair directly into your face in a chaotic tangle of strands.
"Pffft—!" Ranpo burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. "What—what even is that style?! Wind-powered disaster?!"
You groaned, brushing your hair away uselessly as another gust pushed it right back. "Shut up."
"I can't! You look like a seaweed ghost!"
"I said shut up!"
You tried to fight your hair back into place, but it was a losing battle. Ranpo was still chuckling to himself when he stepped closer, brushing a few strands away from your eyes with surprisingly gentle fingers.
"Hold still," he muttered, still half-laughing as he smoothed the mess away from your face. "You're gonna walk straight into a pole like that."
You froze.
His fingers lingered just a second too long as he tucked one final lock behind your ear, and then… your eyes met.
And stayed there.
Time slowed, just a fraction. The laughter died on Ranpo's lips. His hand hovered by your face, fingers twitching slightly like he wasn't sure if he should pull back or not.
His usual smirk had faltered. His expression now was soft. Open. Eyes wide, like he'd accidentally stepped into something too real.
And then—
Realization hit him like a brick wall.
Ranpo blinked rapidly, yanked his hand back, and took two clumsy steps away. "W-Whatever," he stammered, waving a hand as if that would erase the moment. "You still look like a mess. I look better than you!"
He spun on his heel.
"I-I'm going to the bakery! I deserve a cake for suffering through this visual trauma!"
And with that, he jogged away down the sidewalk, ears turning red and voice trailing behind him.
You stood there, hair still fluttering slightly in the breeze, watching him go with an amused smile tugging at your lips.
He never once looked back, but if he had, he might've caught the soft look on your face too.
Ranpo Edogawa had solved cases that would make the average person's head spin.
He had outwitted international criminals, exposed underground plots, and once solved a triple murder while eating a parfait.
But none of that compared to the current, unsolvable problem that haunted him for days after the Wind Incident.
Your face.
More specifically: the moment he brushed your hair back, looked into your eyes, and promptly had his entire brain shut down like a power outage.
Because here was the horrible truth Ranpo was now desperately trying not to face:
He liked looking at your face.
Really liked it.
He'd always enjoyed watching you—your expressions, your smile, even your little frowns when you were thinking hard—but now that he'd really looked… he couldn't unsee it. Couldn't un-feel how warm his chest had gotten when your eyes met his.
It was mortifying.
So, naturally, he decided the mature solution was to avoid you entirely.
"Ranpo," Kunikida had said on the third day, "are you hiding under the desk?"
"No."
"…Yes, you are."
"Stop hallucinating. Get your eyes checked."
Even Yosano had raised an eyebrow. "You haven't followed Y/N onto a case all week. Are you sick?"
"I'm fine," Ranpo snapped, wrapped in his cape like a burrito on the agency couch. "I just need a break from ugly people."
Dazai had choked on his tea. "So you're saying Y/N is ugly now?"
"Shut up!!"
But no matter how hard he tried to disappear into his cape, his snacks, or behind Kenji (who was very confused but supportive), it all fell apart the moment you walked into the office.
The front door creaked open.
And there you were.
Soaked in soft light from outside, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes tired, no smile. Just a look of quiet sadness weighing on your face like you hadn't slept.
Ranpo forgot how to breathe for a second.
He got up before he even realized it.
"…Hey," he said, sharp eyes scanning your face like it was a crime scene. "What's with the tragic main character energy? You look all... soggy inside."
You blinked in surprise at his sudden appearance beside you. "Oh. Hey, Ranpo."
He didn't respond with his usual sarcasm. Just stared at you, frowning. His candy hung forgotten in one hand.
"What happened?" he asked, voice more serious now. "You look—uh—not great."
You hesitated for a second, then sighed. "My cat's been missing for two days."
Ranpo blinked. "…That's it?"
"I've looked everywhere. Posters, calls, the alley behind my apartment…I don't know, Ranpo, I just—" you cut yourself off, shaking your head. "I know it's dumb. I just… I've had him since I was a kid."
Ranpo made a face. "Whatever. It's a cat. It'll come back when it's hungry. Go ask Atsushi or something."
You gave him a weak smile and turned to do just that.
Ranpo stared after you, something tensing in his chest.
And then—
"FINE!" he blurted, dramatically stepping in front of you. "Ugh! You're so helpless without me! I guess I'll help you find your dumb cat."
You stared at him. "...I didn't even ask you."
"I heard the desperate plea in your voice," Ranpo declared, adjusting his hat like he was preparing for a grand mission. "Don't cry. I'll solve this tragic feline case for you."
"…I wasn't crying."
"Not yet. But you were about to… Probably."
You couldn't help but laugh, just a little. The corner of Ranpo's mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile back.
And just like that, the great detective was at your side again, hat tilted, lollipop between his teeth, eyes glinting with determination (and definitely not concern).
He would not admit he'd missed being near you.
He would definitely not admit that seeing you sad made his chest ache.
But he could help find a cat.
And maybe he could keep you smiling again.
The search began around your apartment complex, weaving through narrow alleys and winding side streets, where cats often lurked like little shadows between garbage bins and vending machines.
"This is stupid," Ranpo muttered for the seventh time as he scanned a hedge with narrowed eyes. "Why do cats even run away? If I had food and a roof I'd just stay put forever."
You glanced over your shoulder. "Maybe he's just adventurous."
"Maybe he's just dumb."
Despite the grumbling, Ranpo had followed you faithfully, checking under stairwells and behind cardboard boxes with an exaggerated groan every time he crouched. He hadn't walked this much voluntarily since the last time you forgot your lunch and he "coincidentally" showed up to bring you snacks.
After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, you both came to a stop at the intersection near the corner shop.
"Nothing on my end," you sighed. "We should probably cover more ground if we split up."
Ranpo made a face. "Ew. No. That means I have to do things by myself."
"You're a world-class detective."
"Exactly. I shouldn't have to do grunt work."
But even so, when you gave him a small, tired smile and pointed toward the side street, he didn't argue.
"Fine. But if I get kidnapped, I'm haunting your apartment forever."
"Noted."
You both parted ways, disappearing down opposite streets. The sky, which had been overcast all day, finally gave up the act.
A slow drizzle began to fall, light at first, then quickly turning heavier.
Ranpo let out a loud, theatrical sigh and pulled out a compact umbrella from his coat.
"Of course it rains," he grumbled, popping it open with one hand and holding a lollipop in the other. "Classic sad-anime-weather timing. Perfect."
He trudged along the slick sidewalk, eyes scanning the shadows, muttering half-hearted calls of your cat's name.
"This stupid cat owes me so much candy for this..."
Then, out of the corner of his eye—movement.
Something small. Four-legged. Slipping out from under a parked car like it was nobody's business.
Ranpo froze.
"...No way."
The cat—your cat—paused in the middle of the road, completely unbothered by the rain or by being missing for two full days. It blinked up at Ranpo with slow, impassive feline judgment… then casually turned around and walked away.
"Oh no you don't," Ranpo hissed, quickly stepping after it. "You are not disappearing on me, you little fur runaway."
The cat picked up speed.
So did Ranpo.
Within seconds, it was a full-on chase.
"Come back here!!" he shouted, bolting after the cat through puddles and slick pavement, umbrella flailing in one hand as he dodged pedestrians and cursed under his breath. "I am not losing to a walking dust mop!!"
The cat weaved effortlessly between crates and fences, clearly enjoying itself, while Ranpo practically skated around a corner, almost slipping.
People stared. One guy applauded. A child pointed and yelled, "Run, Mister Detective!"
"Shut up, I am running!"
Finally—finally—the cat ducked under a mailbox to take cover, and Ranpo lunged.
"Gotcha!!"
He emerged moments later, slightly soaked, holding your very smug-looking cat in both arms, who meowed once, as if to say took you long enough.
"…You better be cute enough for this to be worth it."
The cat sneezed, then casually slapped its paw against Ranpo's cheek like it was personal.
Rain still fell in gentle sheets as Ranpo trudged back to the corner shop where you were meant to meet up, umbrella tilted awkwardly above him, cat cradled in his arms like a soggy loaf of defiance.
There was a muddy paw print on his cheek. His hat was damp. His shoes made that awful squelch with every step.
He was, by every definition, over it.
"Dumb cat," he muttered, glancing down. "You better not slap me again or I swear—"
That's when he saw you, standing just under the overhang in front of your building, arms hugging yourself against the rain, head swiveling back and forth, still searching.
Your eyes landed on him.
And everything lit up.
"Ranpo!" you gasped, rushing toward him. "You found him!"
The cat gave a bored meow. Ranpo held it out with both hands like he was returning a cursed artifact.
"Take it. He hates me. I hate him. We're even."
You laughed and scooped your cat into your arms, clutching it to your chest with a breathless sort of joy. "You're okay," you whispered, rubbing your nose into the fur. "You scared me, you little jerk…"
Ranpo blinked.
And just like that—all his complaints, all his wet clothes and bruised pride and the sheer indignity of chasing a cat through alleyways—gone.
Because you were smiling.
Completely, genuinely, softly smiling. The kind that reached your eyes and tugged at the corners of your mouth like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. It hit him like a car.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Because he didn't just like your smile.
He loved it.
He'd die for it.
And as you looked up at him with eyes so bright, grateful, and warm, like he'd just saved your whole world, Ranpo felt something inside his chest just give out.
This was it. This was his death scene. Someone call Yosano, he was going into full cardiac arrest.
You stepped closer, cat still in your arms, and said, "Seriously… thank you, Ranpo. You didn't have to do all that, but you did. I really owe you."
He swallowed hard.
Your face was still lit with happiness. That smile was still there. And for one long, brain-melting moment, all he could do was stare.
You.
That smile.
You looking at him like that.
Yup. He could die happy.
Ranpo cleared his throat, looked away, and tried to put on his usual lazy smirk, except it came out a little crooked. "Tch… I told you. You're helpless without me."
But his voice was softer this time. A little breathless.
"…That smile better not be a limited-time offer," he muttered before he could stop himself.
"Huh?"
"Nothing!!" he snapped, ears going red as he spun around dramatically. "Let's go before I drown in feelings… or rain. Whatever!"
Ranpo was about to walk off, fully prepared to pretend he wasn't completely overwhelmed by your smile, when he paused.
His eyes flicked back to you.
Your hair was plastered to your face in damp strands, clinging to your cheeks and neck. Rain had soaked through your clothes, leaving little puddles on the pavement where you stood, cat tucked safely in your arms.
You didn't have an umbrella.
Of course you didn't.
Ranpo clicked his tongue softly, almost to himself. "Seriously," he muttered.
He stepped closer, slower now.
Without a word, he tilted his umbrella over your head, letting the rain tap against his back instead. You blinked up at him in surprise, and before you could say anything, he reached out. His hand gently brushed the wet strands away from your face.
The movement was careful. Uncharacteristically tender.
His fingers brushed across your cheek, then your temple, stopping just behind your ear as he tucked the last bit of hair away.
Your eyes met again.
Neither of you said a thing.
The world narrowed to the two of you standing there under the soft rhythm of rain, close enough to feel the warmth between your bodies even in the chill of the storm.
Ranpo's hand lingered behind your ear, frozen in place like his brain had just short-circuited again. He stared—really stared—as if seeing your face for the first time all over again.
"…You're pretty," he muttered.
The words escaped him before he realized they'd left his mouth.
Your brows lifted slightly, eyes wide for a heartbeat, then you smiled.
Soft. Genuine. Warm enough to melt the rain.
"You're not bad yourself."
Ranpo's heart somersaulted violently in his chest.
His ears flushed red. "Wh—Huh?? I mean—obviously, but—"
Before he could crash and burn any further, the cat in your arms chose that moment to let out a loud, soggy "MREEEOWWW."
You looked down and laughed, petting it between the ears. "Right, right. Home first. Romance second."
Ranpo choked. "Wh-What do you mean romance?! I didn't say anything romantic!!"
You didn't even bother replying, just started walking slowly toward your apartment, still under his umbrella, as if nothing had happened.
Ranpo shuffled after you, face burning, brain spinning.
And without realizing it, he tilted the umbrella even more to your side.
His shoulder was getting soaked.
But he didn't care.
Because you were right there beside him, laughing softly with your cat in your arms, the rain blurring around you like the background of some quiet movie.
Got one for the aib crew! So, reader is a really good singer ok? So, I have more than one idea for this so you decide what to do with it! Maybe the character finds them singing by themselves and just... Stops. They are mesmerized by their voice and/or the character have problems sleeping because of nightmares and either reader has the idea or the character asks them to sing for them so that they can relax and fall asleep, I think that would be very cute :3
Btw, I really really really love your writing and how you write the characters🫶🏽🩷
AIB Characters react to Reader singing just for them
content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, Usagi, Arisu, reader, canon-typical blood and violence, fluff, - 5.949 words
Ann
The wind whispered through the broken windows of the crumbling building, an old fabric they had taken shelter in for the night, after the Beach wasn't no longer. The world outside was quiet, save for the low hum of cicadas and the distant creaks of a city that had long since been abandoned by normalcy. In the dim, flickering light of a candle, Ann sat cross-legged on an old mattress, her back pressed against the peeling wallpaper.
Sleep didn't come easy anymore. Not after what she'd seen. What she'd done.
Her eyes were open, scanning the darkness as if shadows would suddenly sprout blades. Her fingers twitched reflexively by her side, trained from muscle memory to reach for her weapon. But the silence held. It was peaceful, almost deceptively so.
Then she heard it.
A voice. Soft, clear, melodic.
It drifted through the cracks in the hallway like a gentle breeze. A song. Someone was singing.
Ann blinked.
She stood quietly and followed the sound, barefoot across cold tiles. The voice guided her like a lighthouse through fog, leading her past broken furniture and old stains of a time long gone. The words weren't familiar, but they didn't need to be. It was the tone. Smooth as silk, warm as firelight.
When she reached the source, her breath caught.
You were sitting alone on a windowsill in an old break room, legs pulled up to your chest, your eyes closed as you sang to the empty night. No audience. No intention of being heard.
And yet you were.
Ann stayed in the doorway, invisible to you, eyes wide, not with suspicion, not even with the calculating watchfulness she usually carried, but with something else.
Wonder.
Your voice was raw and beautiful. Not forced. Just… natural. The kind that made you feel even before you understood the lyrics. Each note seemed to wrap around her chest, softening the armor she'd built from cold logic and distant professionalism. For a minute, she forgot the games. The blood. The fear. All of it.
You finally noticed her when your song ended.
"Oh, Ann. Sorry, did I wake you?"
She shook her head slowly, stepping into the room. "No. I… couldn't sleep."
You gave a knowing smile. You'd seen it in her. The tension in her shoulders. The quiet stares at the wall in the middle of the night. Ann wasn't the type to admit when something was wrong. But you were learning to read her.
"Nightmares?" you asked softly.
Ann hesitated.
Then, a small nod.
There was a silence between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Just fragile. Like something private was being shared without needing to be spoken out loud.
"I don't usually let people see me like this," she muttered, almost to herself.
You moved aside and patted the space beside you on the wide windowsill. "That's okay. I'm glad you're here."
Ann sat. Close enough to feel your warmth. She didn't meet your eyes right away, but her posture relaxed, just slightly.
"Do you want me to sing again?"
She looked at you then, truly looked. Her eyes weren't wide with awe like before, but soft. Curious. Vulnerable.
"…Would you?"
You nodded and began again, your voice weaving through the quiet like a lullaby spun from moonlight. You didn't belt it out this time. Just enough to reach her. Gentle and slow. And as you sang, you felt her head slowly lean against your shoulder.
She didn't speak, but her breathing changed. Slower. Deeper. You stole a glance at her. Her eyes were closed. Her brows weren't furrowed anymore.
She had finally let go.
When the song ended, she didn't move. You didn't either. The city outside slept, and so did Ann, peacefully, for once.
You stayed like that for a long while, holding still as if afraid that even breathing too loud would break the spell.
And just before you closed your own eyes, you felt her whisper, so faint it was almost a breath:
"Thank you…"
Kuina
The game had ended. Another night survived.
Blood was still splattered against Kuina's temple, dried into her hair where a shard had grazed her earlier. She was fine. She was always fine. That's what she told herself. Strong. Capable. Sharp as a blade.
But strength wasn't an armor, and even the sharpest blade got tired of cutting.
The Beach was quieter now. Most people had gone to their rooms, while others lingered in the self-proclaimed party room, still drinking. You sat near the pool on a small couch beside the pool bar, a spot you'd claimed as your temporary refuge. You liked it there: the night air was clear, and the couch was surprisingly comfortable.
You thought you were alone.
So you sang.
It wasn't something you did for attention. It was just how you processed things. Letting melodies rise up from somewhere deep inside, notes and words that soothed you when nothing else could.
Your voice filled the air like velvet and starlight. The song was slow, wistful, something between a lullaby and a lament. And for a moment, it made this terrible world feel… human.
Then, a soft voice behind you:
"…Holy shit."
You jumped slightly, startled but relaxed when you saw her.
Kuina stood next to the pool, arms folded, but there was something raw in her face. Not smugness or flirtation, like she sometimes wore like an armor. No, this was different.
"I—I didn't know anyone was there," you said, cheeks heating up.
She shook her head slowly. "Don't stop. Seriously. That was…"
She didn't finish the sentence. Just walked over and sat down next to you on the couch, cross-legged. Her eyes didn't leave you. They were wide but calm, like someone watching a sunrise they hadn't expected to see.
"You're amazing," she said, almost in awe. "Where the hell did you learn to sing like that?"
You smiled shyly. "I used to sing a lot before all… this."
Kuina nodded. "You sound like you still do. Like the world didn't touch that part of you."
That hit something in your chest.
"You okay?" you asked gently.
Kuina tilted her head back against the cushions, letting out a slow breath. "I've been running on empty lately. Can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes I hear screams. See faces I couldn't save."
You didn't respond with words. Instead, you sang again.
This time, just for her.
The melody was softer now, cradling the air like warm hands. Kuina didn't look at you, just closed her eyes and let it wash over her. Her breathing slowed. Her shoulders slumped in a way that told you she'd finally let herself stop pretending, just for a little while.
A few minutes passed, then her voice came again, small:
"Can I… ask something weird?"
"Try me."
"Would you sing me to sleep?" she asked, eyes still closed. "Just for tonight. I don't want to dream."
You nodded, even though she couldn't see you. "Of course."
You kept singing, gentle verses, wordless harmonies, a rhythm that matched the rise and fall of her breath. Kuina eventually curled up, arms folded beneath her head like a pillow.
She fell asleep before the second chorus.
But before her consciousness fully slipped away, she murmured, half-dreaming:
"You've got magic in your voice… You make this place feel like it's not hell."
You blinked hard, chest tightening. Reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"Sleep well, Kuina," you whispered.
And in the quiet that followed, your voice filled the room once more. Not for survival, not for distraction, but for healing.
Mira
The Queen of Hearts sat alone in her room near the top of Shibuya Scramble Square.
Far above the empty city streets, beyond the neon-soaked silence of Tokyo's bones, Mira was still very much awake.
She reclined in a velvet chair in her room, once a high-rise office floor, now draped in elegance of her own design. The walls were lined with soft fabrics and shimmering glass. Mirrors. Orchids. The illusion of warmth.
But even all her illusions couldn't erase the truth:
She was lonely.
And tonight, it settled heavier than usual. Not sharp, but suffocating. A weight that pulled at the edge of her perfect smile, that curved her fingers into the silk of her robe like she was trying to anchor herself to something real.
In moments like these, even she couldn't distract herself with games or philosophies or charm.
The silence was too loud. The emptiness too full.
Then she heard it.
A voice. Your voice.
Soft. Smooth. Floating through the structure like a secret riding on the wind. A sound that didn't belong in this dead world, which made it all the more beautiful. Mira stood without realizing it, her bare feet silent on the marble floor as she moved toward the rooftop.
The lounge was quiet. Cool breeze. Dim lights left over from another time.
And there you were.
Sitting alone on one of the cushioned chairs, your arms around your legs, your eyes lost in the stars you couldn't quite see through the glow. You didn't notice her at first. You were mid-song, some old melody from a forgotten world, shaped by sorrow but wrapped in peace.
Mira didn't speak. Not yet.
She just watched.
You.
You, who she had taken from the Beach after the Ten of Hearts game. You, who had caught her attention not with logic or lies, but with softness. With the kind of presence that couldn't be explained, only felt.
And now, here you were. Giving her something she didn't realize she needed.
When you finally sensed her, you looked up, not startled, just warm.
"Mira."
She smiled, slow and almost wistful. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't," you said. "I was just… singing to myself."
"To me, it sounded like you were singing to the sky."
You smiled, and she sat beside you, close, but not too close. Enough that she could feel your warmth. Enough that she could imagine something impossible.
"I used to like silence," she said softly. "Now it feels like it's always waiting to devour me."
You didn't ask why. You didn't have to. The answer hovered between you.
Because this would end.
Because either you would die, or she would.
Even if you played every other games left in the Borderlands, you'd only delay it. The inevitable. The final card. Her game.
You could feel it in the air. In how she looked at you.
"How long do you think we have?" she asked quietly.
"I don't know," you said. "Not long enough."
She let out a soft breath, too elegant to be a sigh, too real to be anything else.
"I hate the idea of time," she murmured. "I built a palace above the world, tried to shape it into something I could control. But even here, I can't stop it."
You turned toward her, voice gentle. "You don't have to stop it tonight."
Mira looked at you then.
Really looked.
There was something in her eyes that cracked through the perfection, not madness, not mystery. Yearning.
"…Will you sing again?" she asked.
You nodded. "Of course."
You began to sing.
And Mira—Queen of Hearts, manipulator of minds, master of illusions—let her head rest against your shoulder. Her breath slowed. Her hands stilled.
And for one night, in a world that couldn't last, she closed her eyes and let herself pretend.
Pretend that the stars were real again.
Pretend that time wasn't running out.
Pretend that your voice wasn't a countdown to a game that would kill one of you.
As the final note faded into the night, Mira whispered, just loud enough for you to hear:
"If there were an eternity, I'd spend it here. With you."
And in your silence, in your closeness, she drifted off.
The Queen of Hearts, feared, admired, untouchable, asleep beside the only thing in the Borderlands that made her feel like something other than a fate waiting to be played.
Aguni
The fire crackled softly in the metal barrel between you, casting flickering orange shadows across the warehouse walls. It wasn't much, but it was enough to push back the cold for now.
Another bitter night in the Borderlands. The kind that sank into your bones if you sat still too long. The kind that made you feel how alone you really were.
After the brutal Ten of Hearts game… after the fall of the Beach… you'd been wandering aimlessly, numb and disoriented. Alone.
At least, until you found him.
Wounded. Shaken. But alive.
You didn't speak much at first, there was too much grief between you, too many ghosts. But something unspoken kept you close. Survival. Maybe something more.
You found this abandoned warehouse a few days ago. Empty, forgotten. Like you.
Since then, the two of you had stayed here, keeping warm by the fire, waiting for something to happen. For the next game to begin. For fate to knock again.
But for now, the fire burned. And for now, you weren't alone.
Aguni hadn't moved from his spot all night. Leaning against a concrete pillar, arms crossed, eyes on the flame, but not really seeing it.
He was like that sometimes.
Quiet. Still. Haunted.
You'd learned not to press him.
But tonight felt different. He looked even more distant than usual. Eyes unfocused. Shoulders tight. Like the ghosts had gotten too loud again.
You spoke gently, "You alright?"
He didn't answer at first. Then came a grunt. "Yeah. Just tired."
But he wasn't sleeping. Not really. You could tell.
You looked down at your hands, rubbing your thumbs together nervously, then asked, "Do you want me to sing something?"
That made his eyes shift toward you.
Not a sharp glare. Just… surprise.
You'd sung before, when the others were away or asleep. Music had always been a comfort for you, a way to push back the bleakness. You never expected anyone to listen, especially not him.
But Aguni just watched you for a beat, then gave a small nod.
"Yeah," he said gruffly. "Go ahead."
So you sang.
Not loudly. Not like a performance. Just something slow and warm. A melody that curled around the firelight and softened the cold air. Your voice was rich and steady, like the kind of lullaby a world like this shouldn't still have.
Aguni didn't speak. Didn't shift. But his eyes never left you.
He didn't realize his breathing had slowed until the second verse. Or that his fingers had unclenched. Or that, for the first time in what felt like weeks, his chest didn't feel like it was being crushed by a weight he couldn't name.
When the song ended, the silence that followed didn't feel heavy.
It felt safe.
"…You're good," he said finally. His voice was low, rough, but there was something softer underneath. "Like… real good."
"Thanks," you said with a small smile. "It's just something I do when the world gets too loud."
Aguni exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to the floor.
"You ever have… nights where you can't stop thinking about the people you've lost?"
You nodded. "Yeah. I think about them a lot."
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. "I see him sometimes. When I close my eyes. Still hear his laugh. Then I remember the end and…" He trailed off. The sentence hung in the air, unfinished.
You stood, quietly crossed the space between you, and sat down next to him, close, but not touching.
"I can sing again," you offered gently. "If it helps."
This time, his nod was almost imperceptible. But it was there.
You began a different song. Lower. More intimate. Like a promise whispered in the dark.
This time, Aguni leaned back against the pillar and let his eyes fall shut.
You didn't think he'd sleep, not really. He rarely did.
But halfway through the song, his shoulders sagged. His breathing deepened. The hard lines in his face eased, if only just a little.
He wasn't crying. Aguni didn't cry. But his head tilted ever so slightly toward your shoulder. Like a man who had carried too much for too long and finally, finally allowed himself to be held, even if just by a voice.
And as the last note faded, he whispered, barely audible—
"Don't stop singing… Not until I forget the screams."
You nodded, tears pricking your own eyes.
"I won't."
You sang him through the night. Through the weight. Through the silence that had gripped him for so long.
And Aguni, bruised, broken, battle-worn, let your voice carry him somewhere quiet.
Somewhere human.
Niragi
The rooftop of the abandoned hotel was cracked and littered with old cigarette butts and broken glass.
Niragi sat at the edge, staring out over the scorched city. His burns still throbbed beneath his jacket—shiny, angry reminders of the fire that didn't kill him. Should've, maybe. Sometimes he thought about that. How he didn't belong here. How he didn't really belong anywhere.
Everyone avoided him even more now. Couldn't blame them.
He was unpredictable. Violent. Scarred inside and out.
So when he heard someone singing nearby, actually singing, out here in the Borderlands like it was just another Thursday, his first instinct was to scoff.
The hell kind of idiot sings in a place like this?
But then he listened.
And then he forgot to breathe.
It was soft. Not the polished, too-perfect crap he'd heard in department stores back in the real world. No, the voice was real. Raw. Pure. Like pain and hope had been melted together into a sound that didn't make sense here. Didn't belong here.
Just like him.
Niragi stood, brushing dust off his pants. His steps were quiet at first, then heavier as he got closer. He followed the voice to the stairwell that led to the lower floor. He found you sitting alone on a busted bench, back to him, looking out at the sky like it still had stars worth wishing on.
You didn't hear him coming. That's how lost you were in your own music.
And for once, Niragi didn't interrupt. Didn't bark a sarcastic comment. He just leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching you. Listening.
His heart was doing this weird thing, beating too fast and too slow at the same time.
When the song ended, you finally noticed him.
You tensed. Everyone tensed when they saw Niragi.
"…Didn't know anyone else was up here," you said, trying to keep your voice neutral.
He tilted his head. Smirked. But it didn't reach his eyes. "You sing like you forgot this place is hell."
You gave a small shrug. "Maybe that's why I do it."
Niragi walked toward you, too close, too fast, the way he always did. But something was off tonight. There was no fire in his expression. No smug cruelty.
Just quiet. Restless tension.
He sat down beside you, still watching the skyline.
"I should hate it," he muttered. "Your voice. How it makes everything feel like it's not rotting. I should hate that."
You glanced at him carefully. "But you don't?"
He let out a dry laugh. "No. I really don't."
You were silent for a moment, then said, "You want me to sing again?"
He didn't answer right away.
But then his voice dropped, low and honest in a way that caught you off guard:
"…I haven't slept right in weeks. Every time I close my eyes I see fire. People screaming. Myself screaming."
You didn't say anything.
You just nodded and started singing again.
This time, the song was slower. Steadier. Like rain falling on burned earth.
Niragi didn't look at you. Just kept his eyes on the horizon, breathing deep. For a man who never let his guard down, he looked… different. Still. Exposed. Human.
Halfway through the second verse, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands shaking slightly.
He wasn't crying. Not exactly. But something inside him cracked.
"Keep going," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Don't stop."
And you didn't.
You sang until the city went quiet. Until the nightmares backed off just enough. Until the fire in his head died down, and Niragi—burnt and broken and hated by almost everyone—sat beside you, eyes closed, letting your voice hold him together.
For once, he didn't threaten. Didn't joke. Didn't hide.
And when your final note hung in the air like a heartbeat, he whispered:
"You're the only thing in this world that doesn't sound like pain."
Last Boss
The rain clattered like drumbeats against the rooftop, matching the rhythm of your heart.
You sat alone in the uppermost floor of the Beach's old hotel, feet dangling out of a shattered window frame. Everyone else was downstairs, recovering from the chaos, drinking, plotting, licking their wounds.
You just needed quiet.
So you sang.
Nothing loud. Nothing theatrical. Just the soft hum of a song you remembered from the world before, something wordless and low, something aching and warm. You didn't even realize you were singing at first. It just slipped out of you.
And below, in the shadows of the hallway, someone listened.
Last Boss leaned against the wall, face half-hidden by his hood, black tattoos crawling up the side of his neck. His blade was tucked into his belt for once. No mask. Just his bare expression, intense, unreadable, and focused entirely on your voice.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Like he'd stumbled into a church by accident and was afraid even breathing would shatter the illusion.
When the song ended, your voice tapering off into silence, you finally sensed him.
You turned and nearly jumped. "Oh—! You scared me."
He stepped out slowly, deliberately. The wet light from the window shimmered against the blade on his hip, but he didn't reach for it.
"You sing," he said.
You blinked. "I… yeah. Just something I do when I need to calm down."
He tilted his head. "That sound. It doesn't belong here."
You weren't sure if he meant it as an insult or a compliment.
"I guess neither do I."
Last Boss stepped forward, his feet nearly silent on the slick concrete. He stood a few paces away, eyes not on your face, but your throat. Where the sound had come from. As if trying to understand the mechanism behind something that felt like magic.
"You make the world sound like it's not dying," he murmured.
There was something unnerving about him. Always had been. But tonight, he wasn't chaotic. He wasn't threatening.
He was… curious.
And underneath that, maybe even a little reverent.
He sat across from you on the cracked windowsill without asking. The silence stretched, thick with rain and ghosts. Then he spoke again:
"I don't sleep."
You didn't answer right away.
"I can imagine," you said softly.
"I hear knives in my dreams," he added. "I see blood. I feel it. Sometimes it feels better than waking."
His tone wasn't theatrical. He wasn't trying to scare you.
He was just telling you the truth.
You nodded slowly, voice calm. "Want me to sing something for you anyway?"
His eyes finally lifted to meet yours.
Dark. Piercing.
"…Yes."
So you sang.
Something soft. Slow. Older than memory. It wrapped around the cold air like a blanket too fragile to survive here. You didn't know what Last Boss was thinking, but he didn't move. Didn't interrupt.
He just listened.
And for once, his fingers weren't twitching toward his weapon. His shoulders, usually coiled tight with tension, gradually lowered. His head tilted back slightly, eyes half-lidded. Rainwater dripped from the ceiling in slow, rhythmic patterns.
When the song ended, he stayed silent.
You thought maybe he'd just vanish back into the darkness, the way he always did.
Instead, he spoke again, low, hoarse, almost inaudible.
"No one ever sings for people like me."
There was no bitterness in it. Just quiet, aching fact.
You met his gaze. "Then they're wrong."
He stared at you a moment longer.
Then, in a motion so unexpected you almost missed it, he leaned forward and gently brushed a strand of hair from your face.
Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the hallway, his footsteps quieter than the rain
And you realized something then:
Even a man who lived by the blade could be softened, not by fear, not by control, but by a song that made the world feel briefly, impossibly kind.
Chishiya
The abandoned clinic was quiet now.
Somewhere in the distance, the aftermath of a game echoed. Gunshots swallowed by the wind, the chaos distant but familiar. You, Chishiya, and Kuina had taken shelter in what remained of the second-floor infirmary. The air smelled of dust and fading antiseptic.
Kuina was on watch, sitting on the rooftop and overlooking the city.
Chishiya sat by the window, arms folded, white hoodie stained faintly with dried blood. The firelight from the lantern flickered across his face, casting sharp shadows beneath his silver-blonde hair.
He looked calm. He always looked calm.
But you'd been around him long enough to see the signs of exhaustion behind his half-lidded eyes. The tension in his jaw. The way he hadn't spoken in hours.
You'd also learned that he never asked for help.
So you didn't offer advice. You didn't ask if he was okay.
You just sang.
Softly. Barely above a whisper. A song you remembered from before, something gentle, melodic, steady. You weren't even sure you meant to sing at first. It just slipped out while you reorganized supplies, your voice blending into the stillness.
Chishiya said nothing at first.
But you caught the flicker in his eyes.
He didn't turn around, but his shoulders shifted ever so slightly. His breath paused, not in annoyance. In attention.
You sang on.
And when the song faded into silence, you didn't expect a response.
So you nearly jumped when his voice cut through the quiet.
"…That song," he said. "Where did you learn it?"
You glanced over at him. "It's old. From the real world. One of those songs you don't realize you've memorized until you need it."
He finally turned to face you, resting his chin on his hand. "You sing like the world never broke."
The words caught you off guard.
You smiled faintly. "It did. But that's exactly why I sing."
He tilted his head, studying you in that unblinking, clinical way he did when he was trying to dissect something… or someone.
And yet, there was no coldness in it this time.
Just quiet curiosity.
"Do you use it as a defense mechanism?" he asked.
You chuckled softly. "Is that how you'd classify it?"
Chishiya gave the faintest smirk, something between a shrug and an answer.
Then, unexpectedly:
"…Would you do it again?"
You blinked. "Sing?"
He nodded, eyes drifting back toward the darkened window. "It's easier to think when you're singing. Quieter in my head."
You felt something shift in your chest.
He hadn't said "please," but for someone like Chishiya, even asking was something close to intimate.
So you sang again.
This time, for him.
The song was a little slower, a little sadder. You weren't trying to impress. You just let the melody flow like water, steady and soothing.
And Chishiya—the man who always sat so still, always watched everything from a distance—closed his eyes.
He didn't speak.
He didn't move.
But his breathing slowed. His hands unclenched. His body, usually sharp and still like a coiled spring, relaxed just slightly into the wall behind him.
You didn't know how long you sang. Long enough that the storm outside faded, long enough that your own heartbeat calmed. When you finally stopped, you turned your gaze to him again.
Chishiya's eyes were still closed.
But then his voice came, so soft it almost wasn't there:
"…No one's ever made the silence feel kind before."
You said nothing, just sat beside him, resting your back against the same wall. For a while, you both listened to the wind. The crickets. The absence of screams.
And then, in a voice drowsy with something like sleep:
"Stay. Just for a while. In case the quiet doesn't last."
You nodded.
And without a word, began to sing again, a lullaby not just for rest, but for all the pieces of Chishiya no one else had ever seen.
Usagi
The fire was small, barely more than embers. A circle of warmth in the cold forest clearing.
Usagi sat close to it, arms wrapped around her knees, jacket zipped all the way up. The wind rustled the trees above like whispers, never loud, but always there. She kept her eyes on the flames, trying not to think. Trying not to remember.
You sat a few steps away, silent, watching the shadows move across her face. She hadn't spoken much since the game ended earlier that day. Another victory, another loss. That was how it always went.
You'd seen that look on her before. The stillness of her body. The haunted glaze behind her eyes. It usually came late at night, when no one else was around, when no one was pretending to be okay.
You didn't ask her if she was alright.
She wouldn't lie, but she'd still say "I'm fine."
Instead, you said softly, "Want me to sing something?"
Her head turned just slightly. "Sing?"
You nodded. "Helps me when I can't sleep."
She hesitated. Her lips parted like she might make a joke, deflect it, shift the mood.
But then she looked at the fire again and said, "Yeah… Okay. If you want to."
You smiled, then drew in a quiet breath.
Your voice came out low and smooth, not sharp, not showy. Just something natural and full of warmth. It spread through the trees like smoke, wrapping gently around everything, even the silence. The melody was soft, delicate, a bit like a memory you hadn't held in years, or a sunrise no one saw.
Usagi didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Her breathing slowed. Her arms loosened from around her knees. And when you glanced at her, her face had softened. Not gone blank, but relaxed in a way that told you your voice had gotten past her armor.
You sang a little longer. When you finally stopped, the quiet felt different. Not hollow. Just… still.
She was staring at the fire again, but her voice was steadier this time.
"My dad used to sing to me," she said. "Only when we were out in the mountains. Just the two of us. He had a terrible voice," she added, lips curling faintly.
You smiled. "That must've made it even more special."
She nodded. "It wasn't the song. It was the fact that he sang it. For me. Like… even when everything was hard, even when we were freezing, he made sure I felt safe."
Her voice went quiet again. The silence lingered between you both.
Then she looked at you and said, "That's how it felt just now. Like the world could fall apart and I wouldn't notice, because you were singing."
Your chest tightened a little.
You reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, slowly, softly, in case she pulled away.
She didn't.
Instead, she asked, "Would you sing for me again? Just until I fall asleep?"
You nodded. "As many times as you want."
She shifted closer to you, curling up with her head near your lap, close enough to feel your warmth.
And as you began the next song, something slower, almost like a lullaby, Usagi closed her eyes. The tightness in her brow disappeared. Her breathing evened out. The forest stayed still.
You sang until her body went slack with sleep, and even then, you didn't stop right away.
Because in that moment, it felt like your voice wasn't just a comfort, it was a promise. That there was still something soft in this world. Something real.
Something worth surviving for.
Arisu
The city was asleep again, or what was left of it.
The sun had barely dipped below the skyline, staining the sky a deep, bruised orange. Somewhere far off, birds called out over rusted rooftops, their cries distant and dissonant, like they, too, were trying to find something familiar in this world that no longer made sense.
Arisu sat hunched over on the steps of the Beach, his hair falling into his face, arms resting loosely on his knees. His hoodie was stained with dust, and his fingers trembled slightly. Not from fear, but from the adrenaline that hadn't quite faded yet.
The latest game was over. They'd survived. Again.
But Arisu looked like he'd lost.
You spotted him when you walked up to your room and approached slowly, keeping your steps soft in the cold stairwell. He didn't hear you until you sat down next to him, your presence warm and gentle beside the weight of his silence.
"Hey," you said quietly.
He gave a small nod, not quite turning toward you. His eyes were glassy.
You didn't ask him if he was okay.
Arisu hated that question.
Instead, you said, "Do you want me to sing?"
He looked at you then. Just barely. His lips parted slightly, and for a second, you thought he might refuse. But then:
"…Please."
It was just a whisper. A breath. But it was real.
You leaned back, watching the sky through the window, and let your voice rise slowly into the air, soft and warm, as if trying not to disturb the bruised peace that had settled over the hotel.
The melody was something tender, wordless at first. A song that didn't ask anything of him. Just existed. Like comfort with wings.
Arisu didn't move.
But his breathing shifted.
Like his body had finally let go of something too heavy.
You sang a little longer, just enough to let the warmth curl around him, sink into his bones. When your voice finally faded, you waited in the silence that followed, not pressing. Just being there.
Then, softly, he spoke.
"When I close my eyes, I still see them," he said. "Karube. Chōta. The way they looked when they… when they left me."
You turned toward him. "I know."
"I keep thinking if I'd just moved faster, done something different…"
His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, head lowering like the weight of it all was too much again.
"I know," you whispered again. Then gently, "Arisu… can I sing for them, too?"
He looked at you sharply, not out of anger, but out of surprise.
You didn't wait for an answer. You just sang again. This time, with words.
Something mournful, something full of love. A song for the dead, but not a dirge. A lullaby for the ones who were gone, and the one who was left behind.
Arisu's shoulders shook once.
Then again.
And without a word, he leaned against your shoulder.
His breath caught in his throat, but no sobs came. Just long, trembling exhales. Like your voice had opened a pressure valve in his chest.
You rested your head gently on his, still singing, even as his tears finally came.
They fell silently, like rain against warm pavement.
You didn't flinch.
You just sang.
And when the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the city fell into shadow again, Arisu whispered, so quietly you almost didn't catch it:
"Your voice… is the first thing that's made me feel alive in a long time."
You closed your eyes, still singing. "Then I'll keep singing. For as long as you need."
I have no idea if you’ve already written this scenario but could you please do a Dazai x reader who is excellent with children? Like, who absolutely cherishes kids and feels responsible for anyone younger than her. I imagine the reader on some kind of mission and finding a kid alone without anywhere to go so she brings the kiddo to the agency and takes care of them with the utmost care and love they have. Not denying any request to be picked up or wanting to play games until the real mother arrives and picks up their child.
If you can’t tell I live for motherly characters This is comforting for me since I'm 24 and unfortunately infertile so I love seeing this kind of dynamics <3
With You, Maybe
snyopsis: Finding a lost child during a mission brings out the depth of your care, leading not only to the bittersweet ache of goodbye, but to the quiet bloom of something deeper with Dazai.
content/warnings: ADA!Dazai x reader, fluff, 5.845 words
The Armed Detective Agency was a whirlwind of personalities. Chaotic, unpredictable, brilliant. Some days felt like surviving a storm with nothing but a paper umbrella, but somehow, it always held together. In the center of it all, holding people together like a quiet anchor, was you.
Officially, you were a capable detective with a sharp mind and a steady hand in the field. But unofficially, and perhaps more importantly, you were the Agency's heart.
Your desk sat beside Kenji's, near the window with the best view of the spacious balcony and the tiny garden he had begun cultivating. A few mismatched pots, some herbs, and a single stubborn sunflower. Every morning, without fail, Kenji would greet you with a toothy grin and a dirt-smeared hand proudly holding a new leaf or bud.
"Look, look! It's growing just like the sunflowers back home!" he'd beam, tugging on your sleeve until you came to admire his latest discovery.
You always did, kneeling beside the pots and asking earnest questions. "Did you water them this morning? How's the mint doing?"
Kenji would light up under your attention. "You remember which one is mint? You're amazing, Y/N!"
His innocence and brightness tugged at your heart in a way you never could ignore. He reminded you of sunshine after rain, and you found it impossible not to cherish him.
Then there was Atsushi.
Atsushi didn't know how to handle your care.
You'd hand him lunch you packed "just in case," gently smooth his hair when he looked too tired, or wrap a scarf around his neck in the winter without a word. And every time, he'd freeze for a second, eyes wide like he wasn't sure it was real.
"Y-You didn't have to do this…" he'd mumble, his ears tinged red.
"I know," you'd reply with a smile, "but I wanted to."
That always left him flustered and quiet, but a little more relaxed each time. He never asked for it, but the warmth in his eyes gave you all the thanks you needed. Deep down, you knew the boy had never really had someone to look after him, not like this. You were determined to change that, one gentle gesture at a time.
Kyoka was the quietest of the three.
She watched you from a distance at first, unsure what to make of you. When you brought her tea during breaks or took the time to braid her hair while she read, she sat very still, like a cat unused to kindness, suspicious it might vanish.
One afternoon, you found her sitting alone on the sofa, fiddling with the strings on her phone charm.
"Can I sit?" you asked softly.
She nodded.
You sat beside her, holding out a small bento box. "I made extra."
She stared at it for a moment, then at you, as if trying to find the trick. There wasn't one.
"…Why?" she asked quietly.
You smiled, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Because you matter."
She didn't reply, but she took the bento. That evening, you found a small paper crane on your desk, folded with surprising care. It said more than words ever could.
And finally, there was Dazai.
Your dynamic with Dazai was… complicated, in the way oil swirled beautifully in water but never quite mixed.
He was the storm. Erratic, unbothered, a mess wrapped in gauze and riddles.
You were the calm. Gentle but firm, warm but grounded.
Dazai teased you constantly.
"Well, well, if it isn't the Agency's official caretaker. Have you wiped Kenji's face today? Tucked Atsushi in for his nap?"
"Maybe after I find where you hid the mission reports," you'd quip back without missing a beat.
His smile always lingered a little longer around you, like he was trying to figure out what made you so real. And maybe it slightly unsettled him.
You weren't fooled by his aloofness. You saw the way he lingered near the younger agents when he thought no one was watching, the way he paid attention to your kindness more than he let on.
He never said it out loud, but something about the way you carried yourself—your unwavering softness in a world as sharp as knives—pulled at something deep in him.
Something forgotten. Something he'd buried.
And though he still made jokes at your expense, there was a new edge to his gaze when he looked at you.
Curiosity. Maybe even admiration.
Still, he never crossed the line. Not yet.
You were friends. Odd, mismatched, frustrating friends. But that foundation was solid, and for now, it was enough.
After all, the world was complicated enough.
But that would all change soon.
The warehouse was hollow and cold. Sunlight sliced in through broken windows in narrow blades, dust dancing through the air like restless ghosts.
You stepped carefully across the creaking floorboards, eyes scanning the debris. A routine recon mission, Dazai had said. Quick in, quick out. Suspicious reports of an abandoned facility possibly linked to a smuggling ring. Nothing unusual.
But then you heard it.
A small, sharp sound. Not metal, not a bird, not wind.
A cry.
You froze.
Dazai looked at you, eyebrows raising beneath his messy bangs. "Well, that's not on the mission sheet."
You were already moving.
You followed the sound down a narrow hallway and into a half-collapsed storage room. Your heart clenched at the sight: a boy, no more than five years old, curled up behind a stack of crates, arms wrapped tight around a battered stuffed animal. His face was streaked with tears and dirt, his tiny shoulders shaking.
"Hey there," you whispered gently, crouching low, hands open to show you meant no harm. "It's okay. You're safe now."
The boy flinched at your voice, squeezing his eyes shut tighter and whimpering louder.
Behind you, Dazai leaned against the doorframe, watching with a neutral expression. "Might be a trap," he said quietly, though not without a trace of doubt. "Could be bait."
"It's a child, Dazai," you snapped softly, not with anger, but urgency. "Look at him."
That was all it took.
You lowered yourself to the floor completely, inching closer until you could reach out and gently brush a trembling little hand.
His fingers clutched yours in an instant. Desperate, like finding a lifeline.
"Oh, sweetheart…" you murmured, voice breaking as you slipped off your jacket and wrapped it around his tiny shoulders. "Shhh, you're okay. I've got you. You're safe now."
The child clung to you wordlessly, sobbing into your chest. Your arms closed around him with instinctive warmth, fingers stroking his tangled hair.
You began to rock gently, murmuring soothing things: soft nothings, tender promises, the kind of words that were more emotion than language.
"You're not alone. I'm here. No one's going to hurt you. I promise."
When he began to hiccup and calm, you pulled back just slightly. "Can you tell me your name?" you asked, brushing a thumb under his eye.
The boy shook his head, eyes still wide and wet. Not ready. That was okay.
"Then I'll stay with you until you're ready," you said without hesitation. "However long that takes."
Dazai watched in silence.
You glanced back at him, expecting a sardonic comment. Instead, he looked thoughtful. Not mocking. Not smug.
Just… watching.
Finally, he pushed off the doorframe with a sigh. "Well, I suppose our 'routine mission' just became a rescue op. I'll call it in."
As he stepped outside, you looked down at the boy still nestled against you, his little fists bunched into your shirt. He'd stopped crying, but only barely.
You stood slowly, keeping him in your arms, bouncing gently like you'd done it a thousand times before. "You want to come with me?" you asked softly. "Somewhere warm? With snacks and soft blankets?"
The boy nodded against your neck. His stuffed toy drooped from his hand, almost slipping.
You caught it and tucked it under his arm with a smile. "We'll bring it too, of course."
Back in the car, you cradled the boy in your lap the whole ride.
You didn't stop stroking his hair. You didn't stop whispering little things—stories, jokes, reassurances—anything to keep the fear at bay.
When Dazai glanced over from the driver seat, his eyes lingered on you longer than usual.
"You're really something, you know that?"
You didn't look up. "He's scared. That's all that matters right now."
"Hm," he hummed, noncommittal. "You'll break your back if you carry everyone like this."
"Then I'll break it gladly," you said without missing a beat.
The child stirred a little in your arms, mumbling something that sounded almost like a thank-you. You smiled down at him, your heart aching and full.
When you arrived at the Agency, everyone gathered instantly, drawn by curiosity, but staying for the softness of the scene.
You didn't let anyone touch the boy yet, not until he was ready.
You found a spare blanket in the lounge, wrapped him up, and settled onto the couch with him tucked close against you.
Even Ranpo didn't make a joke.
Atsushi arrived a moment later, looking stunned. "Who…?"
"A new friend," you said softly. "He just need someone right now."
Atsushi nodded, his eyes flicking to the child in your arms with quiet understanding.
Dazai watched from across the room, unreadable.
The boy fell asleep not long after. Safe, warm, and still nestled in your arms.
And even as your legs went numb and your back ached, you never shifted once.
Because his breathing was steady now. And he wasn't crying anymore.
The boy slept for a few hours, curled in your arms like a kitten tucked into warmth for the first time in days. You didn't move once.
You just kept your hand gently on his back, rising and falling with each slow breath.
Eventually, as the light of afternoon filtered through the windows, the boy stirred.
A tiny yawn escaped him before he blinked sleepily up at you. His eyes were still puffy, but clearer now. Less afraid.
"Hi there," you whispered, giving him the softest smile. "Feeling a little better?"
He blinked once, then gave the tiniest nod.
You sat up slowly, letting him adjust, still wrapped in the blanket. "Can I ask you something?"
He hesitated, then nodded again.
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
A pause. He bit his lip, then mumbled, "Shun."
You smiled, gently brushing his messy bangs back. "Shun. That's a beautiful name."
His little hands clutched his stuffed animal tighter. It was worn and ragged, one button eye missing, but clearly loved. You didn't comment on it—just offered him a gentle pat.
"Do you know your last name, Shun?"
His head tilted slightly, brows pinching. Then a small shake. "Don't know."
"That's okay," you said quickly, reassuring him. "No rush."
"Where's your mama or papa, Shun?" you asked next, softer still. "Do you remember where you last saw them?"
Shun blinked again. "Mama was crying. She said wait. She said don't move…"
You felt your heart lurch.
"She told you to stay put?"
He nodded. "But I got scared… I wanted to find her, but then I couldn't."
You pressed a hand gently over your heart to steady the ache. "You were very brave, Shun. You did everything right. We'll find your mama, okay?"
Across the room, Dazai had wandered in unnoticed, leaning casually against the doorway with a pocky stick between his lips. His eyes, however, were sharp, locked on you and the child with an unreadable emotion.
Shun looked over, startled by the sudden presence.
Dazai waved lazily. "Yo."
The boy blinked at him, then turned to bury his face into your side again.
You gave Dazai a look.
He held up his hands. "What? I didn't even say anything traumatizing yet."
You rolled your eyes.
Just then, the door creaked open further and Ranpo strolled in, followed closely by Kunikida, clipboard in hand.
"We heard he finally woke up," Kunikida said, pushing up his glasses.
"I got his name," you said quietly, brushing your fingers through Shun's hair again. "But he doesn't know a last name or much else."
Ranpo unwrapped a piece of candy and popped it into his mouth, settling onto the armrest beside you like it was his personal throne. He tilted his head as he stared at the child, eyes sharp behind the lazy smile.
"Kid's about five, maybe younger. Local, most likely."
Kunikida nodded sharply. "Ranpo, go through recent missing person reports. Cross-reference with facial recognition and any local alerts. Check everything."
Ranpo groaned—loudly and dramatically, as expected—but gave a half-hearted salute. "Yeah, yeah. You all work me to death."
"We'll start with reports from the last week," Kunikida continued, ignoring him. "Cover all surrounding wards. Someone has to be looking for him."
"I'm staying with him," you said at once, tightening your arms slightly around the small figure nestled into your side.
Kunikida gave you a brief look and nodded. No argument. He already knew there was no moving you from the child's side.
Ranpo gave Shun another glance, this one slower, more thoughtful. "Doesn't look hurt. Just scared. We informed Yosano just in case."
You raised your eyebrows.
Ranpo smirked. "Told her to stay in the infirmary. Figured the last thing he needs is a woman in a lab coat holding a bone saw."
"That's… fair," you admitted, smoothing the blanket over Shun's shoulder again. "Probably better to ease him into things."
"I'll have Kenji put together something simple to eat," Kunikida added, already scribbling into his notebook. "Something bland and easy to digest. In the meantime, stay with him. Keep talking to him. Let us know if he remembers anything else."
You nodded. "Of course."
And with that, the two men turned to leave. Kunikida was already muttering to himself about cross-referencing ward data, and Ranpo loudly complained that no one respected his brilliance until they needed it.
Just Dazai lingered.
He walked over and crouched beside your seat, chin resting in his palm.
"You always do this," he murmured, not teasing this time.
"Do what?"
"Take in broken things. Like they're fragile birds you can nurse back to flight."
You smiled down at Shun. "Sometimes they just need someone to believe they can fly again."
Dazai looked up at you with something heavy behind his eyes. "And you? You ever think about what you need?"
"I need him to be safe," you answered simply.
Dazai studied you in silence.
Then, with a sigh, he stood and stretched. "I'll go bug Ranpo. See if he'll let me help search. I'm useless here, anyway."
You glanced up. "You're not useless."
He paused.
"…That's dangerously close to sounding like praise, you know."
"Take it or leave it."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "I'll take it."
As Dazai disappeared down the hallway, you looked back at the small boy tucked against your side, his fingers now curled around yours in quiet trust.
For now, it wasn't much.
But it was enough.
It was nearly sundown by the time the Agency got an answer.
You were still curled up on the couch in the lounge, Shun nestled against your side under a fresh blanket. He'd finally eaten. Kenji had returned proudly with a small bowl of rice porridge, which Shun had eaten slowly, cautiously, like he expected it to vanish halfway through. But he finished every bite.
Now, the little boy was drawing quietly with one of Kyoka's colored pencils, leaning against your arm. You let him, occasionally pointing out his scribbles or asking, "Is that a tree? Or maybe a dragon?"
"Dragon-tree," he said with a rare, tiny smile.
Your heart melted instantly.
When Kunikida reentered, you knew something had shifted.
He carried his clipboard and cleared his throat before speaking.
"We found her."
You looked up, alert. "His mother?"
"Yes. Her name is Hoshino Mei. She was taken into custody by the local police this morning. She's an eyewitness in an organized crime investigation—seems she saw something she wasn't supposed to. They've moved her into protective custody for the time being."
Your stomach dropped. "So she's not coming tonight."
"No," Kunikida said. "She's safe. But the police won't release her until morning, at the earliest. They're handling her statement now. We'll verify everything once it's cleared with the higher-ups."
You looked down at Shun, who was now watching you, eyes wide with quiet understanding. He knew his mother wasn't coming, even if he didn't fully grasp why.
You tightened your arms around him instinctively.
"I'll take him home with me."
Kunikida blinked. "You… what?"
"I have the space. He shouldn't be here overnight in a place full of strangers and stressful energy." You gave a small shrug. "It's just for one night."
Kunikida opened his mouth to argue, then glanced at the boy. His shoulders dropped. "Fine. But document everything. And update us the moment the situation changes."
"I will."
Shun tugged on your sleeve. "You have a home?"
You smiled down at him. "I do. Want to stay there with me tonight?"
He nodded immediately, clutching his stuffed animal.
From the hallway, Dazai's voice floated in, far too casual to be an accident. "Guess I better tag along, then."
You turned. "What?"
Dazai strolled in, hands in his pockets, smiling faintly. "What if he wakes up scared in the middle of the night and you fall asleep too hard to hear him cry? Or what if the police come knocking? Or the mafia shows up?" He placed a dramatic hand on his chest. "It would be irresponsible of me not to come."
You narrowed your eyes. "You just want an excuse to invade my fridge and sleep on my couch."
"Exactly," he said brightly.
You sighed, shaking your head, but the corner of your mouth twitched. "Fine. One night."
Shun looked up at Dazai warily.
Dazai crouched beside him. "Hey, kid. I snore a little, but I make great hot cocoa."
Shun blinked. "Do you really?"
"No," Dazai said seriously. "I'm terrible at it. But I steal snacks very quietly. You'll barely notice."
The train ride home was quiet.
Shun sat in your lap the whole time, head tucked beneath your chin. Dazai leaned against the opposite seat, one leg stretched out, arms behind his head as he watched you both, smiling, but subdued.
Your apartment was warm and simple, softly lit. You handed Shun a set of clean pajamas (Kenji's spares, he wouldn't mind), and he changed in the bathroom while you laid out a blanket and pillow for Dazai on the couch.
"I feel underappreciated," Dazai said, flopping down dramatically. "Not even a real bed?"
"You're lucky I didn't make you sleep on the balcony."
He chuckled, then watched you as you helped Shun climb into bed in clothes that were much too big for him. You let him pick a plush from the small collection you kept from when you were young. He clutched the small Charmander tightly, then reached out for you.
You didn't hesitate. You laid down beside him, tucking the blanket over both of you. His tiny hand slipped into yours.
"Can you stay here till morning?" he asked sleepily.
"Of course, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
You stayed like that until his breathing evened out and his grip loosened.
Dazai was quiet for a long moment, then spoke lowly, from across the room.
"You're dangerous, you know."
You blinked at him from the bed. "Excuse me?"
He gazed at the ceiling. "People like you. You make others want to believe in things again."
You smiled faintly. "That's not dangerous."
"It is," he murmured, voice almost lost to the quiet hum of the room. "Because people like me can't help but stand too close."
You didn't answer that. Just watched him, for a moment longer, before turning back to the boy asleep in your arms.
The storm hadn't passed yet.
But for tonight, the world was quiet.
And warm.
And safe.
You woke to the gentle weight of small fingers curled into your shirt, and the softest sound of quiet breathing against your side.
Morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, painting warm golden patches across the room. The world felt still and tender. The kind of peaceful silence you rarely got im your line of work.
Shun was still tucked beside you, one hand gripping his stuffed toy, the other resting lightly on your chest. His lashes fluttered as he began to stir.
"Good morning," you whispered, brushing his hair gently back from his face.
He blinked up at you, still half-asleep. "You stayed."
"Of course I did," you smiled. "Told you I would, didn't I?"
He gave a tiny nod and nestled in again for a moment longer before sitting up, yawning wide and rubbing at his eyes with his fists.
"You hungry?" you asked softly.
He nodded.
"I was thinking… pancakes. With strawberries and whipped cream. What do you think?"
His eyes lit up, and he gave a shy, sleepy smile. "With syrup, too?"
You tapped his nose. "All the syrup you want."
In the kitchen, you worked quietly, careful not to make too much noise. Shun sat at the table, legs swinging under the chair, watching you with wide eyes.
You made the batter from scratch—fluffy, golden pancakes with a hint of vanilla—and set fresh strawberries on a plate to slice. Shun helped you mix the whipped cream, carefully holding the bowl while you whisked it.
"Want to taste it?" you asked, offering the whisk.
He nodded eagerly and licked a dollop from the tip, giggling. "It's sweet!"
"You're sweeter," you replied without thinking, and his little grin made your heart flip.
Just as you flipped the last pancake onto a plate, there was a loud, exaggerated yawn from the living room.
"Something smells like love and diabetes," Dazai called groggily.
You looked over your shoulder just in time to see him shuffle into the kitchen, his hair even messier than usual and your spare blanket still draped around his shoulders like a cape.
"Good morning, sunshine," you said with a smirk. "You're just in time."
Dazai raised a hand dramatically. "Ah, to be awakened by the scent of strawberries and the sound of domestic bliss. What a dream."
Shun giggled from his chair.
Dazai turned to him. "You find me charming, don't you?"
Shun nodded. "You talk weird."
"I take that as a compliment," Dazai said solemnly.
You rolled your eyes and began plating up breakfast. Towering stacks of pancakes with whipped cream clouds, syrup drizzle, and bright red strawberries sliced like little hearts. You even made a mini stack just for Shun, with a smiley face drawn in fruit.
When you set the plates down, Shun's eyes went wide. "It looks like a party!"
"That's because it is," you said, tousling his hair. "A morning celebration. For you being brave. And safe."
"And because I survived your couch," Dazai added with mock solemnity, picking up a fork.
You all ate together—Shun with quiet delight, Dazai with amused satisfaction, and you with a heart that felt full.
For a little while, there was no worry about police reports, missing mothers, or organized crime.
Just strawberry pancakes. Sticky syrup fingers. Sleepy smiles. Domestic bliss.
And warmth.
A kind of peace neither you nor Dazai found easily.
It was a soft, breezy morning when the three of you left your apartment.
Shun was freshly dressed in clean clothes (you had quickly washed his clothes last night) and clutching his (your) stuffed Charmander with one hand. His other hand was tucked into yours.
The walk to the train station was only a few blocks, but halfway there, Shun tugged on your sleeve and looked up with sleepy eyes.
"My legs are tired…"
Without thinking, without hesitation, you bent down and scooped him up into your arms.
Dazai, walking beside you with his hands in his pockets, glanced sideways with a faint smirk. "He's got you wrapped around his little fingers."
You glanced down at Shun, who now had his arms looped around your neck and his cheek pressed to your shoulder.
"I don't mind," you said simply.
"Of course you don't," Dazai murmured, a hint of something softer in his voice. "You'd carry the whole world if it asked nicely enough."
The ride back to the Agency passed in a blur of small conversations: Shun asking questions about passing buildings, pointing out dogs, and repeatedly insisting Dazai's scarf made him look like "a sleepy snake." Dazai, to his credit, took it in stride.
When you stepped into the Agency's lounge, Kenji came bounding over with a loud, "Shun!"
Shun beamed, wiggling in your arms until you set him down. He rushed over to Kenji and immediately began showing off his stuffed animal like it was brand new.
You couldn't help smiling. Seeing him so full of energy… it made your chest ache.
Time passed quickly.
Too quickly.
Kunikida entered the room an hour later, adjusting his tie with practiced precision. His expression was neutral, but his voice was gentle when he spoke.
"She's on her way."
The words hit like a quiet bell.
Shun's mother. Coming to take him home.
Of course, you were relieved. Grateful, even. This was what you'd promised him. Safety, family, home.
But the ache started building in your chest before you could stop it.
Shun didn't seem to understand at first. He was sitting on the couch beside Atsushi and Kyoka, showing off the dragon-tree drawing from the day before.
You knelt down in front of him, placing your hands on his knees gently. "Hey, sweetheart."
He looked up, bright-eyed. "Yeah?"
"You remember how I said we were looking for your mama?"
He nodded quickly.
"Well… she's coming here. Today. To see you."
His smile faltered, brows pinching in confusion. "Now?"
"In a few minutes," you said softly. "Isn't that good news?"
He looked down at his stuffed toy. "Yeah…"
But his grip tightened.
You gently brushed your thumb along his cheek. "You'll finally be together again. Just like you wanted."
He nodded again, slowly. But his little lip wobbled.
And that's when your own heart cracked, quiet and clean.
Dazai leaned in the doorway, watching it all. He didn't say anything this time. No jokes. No clever commentary. Just those dark, unreadable eyes fixed on you and the boy who was breaking both your hearts in real time.
You pulled Shun into your arms again, this time slower, more tender.
"I'm so happy for you," you whispered, holding him close. "And I'm going to miss you like crazy."
Shun sniffled. "Can I still draw you a dragon-tree?"
You smiled into his hair. "You better. I'm expecting at least three."
He clung tighter, small fingers fisting into your shirt. And all you could do was hold on.
The sound of the front door opening sent a hush through the lounge.
You turned, still kneeling with Shun clutched in your arms, and saw her.
A woman in her late twenties, dressed in civilian clothes provided by the police, stood just inside the Agency's entrance. Her posture was tense, shoulders slightly hunched as if bracing for impact, but the moment her eyes landed on the little boy in your arms, everything fell away.
"Shun…"
Her voice cracked like dry earth under rain.
Shun looked up immediately, wide-eyed. For a beat, he didn't move. Then his whole body jolted.
"Mama!"
He launched forward, nearly stumbling in his rush. You helped guide him as he ran into her arms, his little hands clutching fistfuls of her shirt, her sleeves, anything he could reach.
She dropped to her knees, pulling him into a fierce embrace, sobbing openly as she held him against her. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry, baby—Mama didn't mean to leave you—I didn't want to—but I couldn't—"
Shun didn't answer in words, just held her tighter and whispered, "I missed you."
You stood quietly to the side, giving them their moment, tears quietly burning the corners of your eyes. Behind you, the rest of the Agency stood in quiet respect, even Ranpo, unusually silent. Dazai watched from his usual spot by the door, gaze low, arms folded, not a trace of amusement in his face.
When the storm of emotions softened, Shun's mother looked up at you.
"I…" she tried, voice breaking, "I don't have the words. I don't even know how to thank you."
"You don't need to," you said softly, stepping closer. "He's safe. That's all that matters."
She nodded, brushing tears from her cheeks with one hand while cradling Shun with the other. "They told me he was found by the Agency, but I didn't know someone had actually… taken care of him like that."
You gave her a warm, if bittersweet smile. "He's an incredible kid. I just gave him what he needed."
Shun turned in her arms to look at you, reaching one small hand toward you again. "Can I visit?" he asked, voice trembling.
You knelt again and took his hand. "Of course, sweetheart. You can visit anytime."
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart."
Before they left, Shun's mother hesitated, then pulled out her phone with slightly trembling hands. "Would you… would you mind giving me your number? In case he asks for you?"
Your heart clenched at that. "I'd love that."
You exchanged contact information quickly, then crouched down to hug Shun one last time.
"Be good, okay? Listen to your mom. And take care of that dragon-tree drawing. We've got work to finish."
He nodded solemnly, the way children do when they're trying not to cry. Then he threw his arms around your neck once more.
When he finally let go, his mother gave you one last, tearful smile and mouthed, thank you, before gently leading him toward the door.
Shun looked back three times.
Each time, you waved.
Each time, he waved back harder.
And then they were gone.
You stood in the quiet that followed, your arms strangely empty, the room feeling just a little colder without that small, warm presence by your side.
The silence lingered.
Until Dazai spoke from behind you.
"You did good."
You turned to look at him. "You say that like I just finished a report."
"No," he said, voice softer now. "I mean it."
You blinked. Dazai rarely meant things. At least, not out loud.
"You gave that kid more in two days than most people get in a lifetime," he added.
"I'm just glad he's going home."
Dazai tilted his head, studying you. "You okay?"
You smiled, but it wavered. "Yeah. Just a little… empty."
He stepped beside you and gently bumped your shoulder with his.
"Well, if it helps," he said casually, "I sleep on your couch one time and now I miss your pancakes too. So…"
You laughed through the ache. "You want to come over again?"
He smirked. "Only if you keep the syrup stocked."
"Deal."
The Agency quieted as the sun dipped behind the skyline. Case files were closed, chairs pushed in, coats shrugged on. The usual end-of-day hum.
You had finally managed to catch up on your reports—after spending half the day replaying the image of Shun waving from the Agency's door—and were gathering your things when a familiar figure sidled up beside you.
Dazai.
No goodbye. No question. Just… there.
You gave him a sideways glance as you pulled your coat on. "Did you need something?"
"Nope," he replied cheerfully, hands tucked in his pockets. "Just thought I'd walk you home."
You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How thoughtful."
"I have my moments," he said with a wink. "Also, your fridge still owes me a rematch."
You snorted. "So it wasn't about being thoughtful."
He shrugged. "Maybe it was. Maybe I just thought you could use some company."
Your smile faded slightly at that, because he was right. The day had left a lingering ache in your chest. An emptiness that only silence made worse.
You didn't reply. You just walked.
He stayed close the whole time, quiet in the way only Dazai could be when he truly wanted to be present. You didn't talk much. Just the rhythm of your steps, the occasional brush of shoulders, the comfort of not being alone.
When you arrived home, you flicked the lights on and dropped your bag on the side table. The familiar scent of your apartment wrapped around you, warm and safe.
Dazai walked in like he belonged, shrugging off his coat and draping it over the back of your chair.
You made tea while he sank into your couch like it was muscle memory.
After a long, comfortable silence, you spoke.
"I miss him."
Dazai looked at you over his cup. "Shun?"
You nodded. "It was only two days, but… it felt like something clicked. Like I was meant to be there for him. Like I wanted to be."
"You did good," he said again, more quietly this time.
You stared into your tea, fingers curled around the warm mug. "I want that. Someday."
Dazai tilted his head.
"Kids," you said softly. "A family. It's always been something I've wanted. Someone to take care of. To love like that. I don't even know what it'll look like, but… I know I'll be happy when it happens."
For a moment, he didn't say anything. Just looked at you, longer than necessary.
Finally, he set his cup down with a soft clink.
"I've never thought about it," he admitted, his voice low, almost distant. "Having a kid. The idea always seemed… unrealistic. Like trying to picture the moon in your hands. Too big. Too fragile."
You looked at him, brows furrowed. "Because of who you are?"
He gave a wry smile. "Because of who I was. And maybe still am, sometimes."
Another silence.
Then, more gently, "But…"
Your heart stilled.
"…if I had someone," he continued, voice quieter now, gaze softer than you'd ever seen it, "someone kind… and strong… who made the world feel less like quicksand and more like home…"
He looked at you fully now, no sarcasm, no masks.
"Maybe it wouldn't be as scary as I thought."
You weren't sure who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you—but the space between you disappeared in a heartbeat.
His hand came to rest gently on your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. You leaned into it instinctively, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.
"Y/N," he said, your name like a whisper that carried weight, "you'd be the kind of parent that could change someone's world."
You opened your eyes to meet his, and that's when he leaned in.
Not rushed. Not uncertain.
Just… inevitable.
Your breath caught when his forehead rested against yours, so close your lips barely brushed. The room was quiet, no words needed. Everything had already been said.
HELLOOO i've recently started reading your fics and your writing is AMAZING!!
is it possible to request a ranpo x reader angst? i don't have a very concrete idea but the main idea would be that the reader becomes "the only mystery he wished he didn't solve quickly". i thought of something with deception and betrayal between the two. preferably, they had a close bond due to history or due to present circumstances. i don't really know, you can do whatever you may please with this prompt!
i've had this idea for a while now, but i didn't know what to do with it. i thought that if you could write it, it would be very much appreciated! no pressure if you're too busy! thank you so much! <3
I'm so sorry for the long wait! I wasn’t really sure what to write at first. And since I received another request that fit the concept of yours, I decided to combine the two.
Heyy!! I really hope I won't be a bother (especialy since I do struggle with english and I often make spelling mistakes, so please excuse me😭). I have been craving some angst for a while, cause why not!
I want it to be a Ranpo× reader, where reader is a trăitor for the ADA. The idea is like this– reader joined the agency a LONG while ago, they were found in some abandonez building and claimed to not remember much. They joined and were a fine aset to the team since they were surprisenly a good fighter, especially with guns. Now, Ranpo would have figured out they were a trăitor for the Port Mafia INSTANTLY if he used his glasses, but (similar to what hapened when he didn't soubt Fukuchi in the anime) he didn't read in to them and didn't bother. So, troughout time reader got acostumed with the ADA, helping around, almost like a family. During this time, Ranpo and reader also started dating. Reader always seemed caring and loving, always spoiled him when needed and grounded him when he went too far. He didn't know this but, deep down, reader is doubting themselves. They don't want to betray the agnecy...they don't want to hurt Ranpo. Buy it was their job. If they didn't do this, they would have been punished insted. So the day hapens (you can devide how, maybe there was an ambush and reader, insted of helping the ADA, they helpped fge enemy and that's when the reveal is done, idk). Either way, it ends with them pointing a gun twird Ranpo, staring right in his eyes. All those memories...all the happy moments... they stared back at the Port Mafia members, than at the ADA members. No...they couldn't do that. They insted shot the ropes/restraints that held the ADA members down, letting them escape, them shot themselves with one last sorry for the betrail. They relased that it wasn't worth it and they regrete it
Yosano cpuld save them last moment and there will be a happy ending where reader is forgiven or if you live a sad ending. You can decide that. Hope I wasn't a bother, YOU ARE AN AMAZING WRITER BTW💕
Thank you so much!
Since I received a similar request, I combined yours with the other one. I hope you like it!
A/N: This is based on two requests that were rather similar, which I merged together. I hope you like it!
synopsis: The Armed Detective Agency found you with no memories, but after noticing your extraordinary combat skills, they gave you a place to stay. Over time, you found friends, family, and with Ranpo, something like love. But even then, you were hiding something.
content/warning: Ranpo x reader, angst, character death, -7.821 words
The rain had long soaked through your clothes by the time they found you.
The abandoned building stood at the edge of Yokohama — the kind of place children whispered about and dared each other to enter. Cracked windows. Collapsed roof. Mold. Silence. But you had been there for at least a few days, huddled beneath the remnants of a rusted metal stairwell, your arms wrapped tightly around your knees, your eyes wide and hollow.
"There's someone here," Atsushi had said first, his voice hesitant as his footsteps echoed across the damp floor.
You didn't move.
Not even when the footsteps grew louder, or when the flashlight beam lit your face.
You barely registered the blur of other voices, but one thing was clear: you didn't know them. You didn't know anything.
Not your name.
Not why you were here.
Not how your hands were stained with drying blood.
You were taken back to the Armed Detective Agency, wrapped in a blanket, your hands trembling against the ceramic cup of tea they offered. You stared at the liquid like it might leap out and attack you.
"You're safe now," Dazai said gently. "You're not hurt… at least not on the outside. But you don't remember anything, do you?"
You shook your head slowly.
"Not even your name?"
Another shake.
That was when Ranpo walked in, lazily munching on something sweet, coat draped unevenly over one shoulder.
"You guys found a stray?" he asked mid-bite, voice casual. His eyes flitted over to you. For a second, his expression froze, like something tickled the back of his mind, but then it passed. He didn't even touch his glasses.
"They're clearly harmless. No ability, just scared. They smell like mildew and trauma."
"Ranpo," Kunikida muttered, adjusting his glasses with a sigh.
You said nothing. Still numb. Still processing. Until a sharp crinkle echoed from your jacket pocket.
Your fingers moved slowly, almost like someone else's. You pulled out a small leather wallet, soaked and cracked with age. Inside was an ID card. Faded. Damaged.
But the name… it stared up at you like an accusation.
Y/N L/N
Your lips moved silently, repeating the name. It didn't feel familiar. But it was something.
It was yours.
You stayed at the Agency temporarily, just until you "figured things out." A room was offered. Clothes. Food. The bare minimum for a life. Your voice returned slowly, quietly. You couldn't answer questions about the past, but you were cooperative. Helpful, even.
Then, one day, they brought you along to observe a minor mission.
Just to watch.
That was the plan.
But when the ambush happened, when the enemy lunged from the shadows with blades and guns, you moved before you even had time to think.
Two shots, clean through the knees.
One disarm, two steps forward, elbow to the throat, twist, fire.
By the time the others blinked, the fight was over.
You stood at the center of it, breathing heavily, eyes wide with your own disbelief. The pistol still warm in your hand. You hadn't missed a single shot.
"That was… impressive," Kunikida managed, lowering his own weapon, mildly stunned.
"They moved like they've done this a thousand times," Dazai added, eyes narrowing in quiet amusement, or curiosity.
Atsushi was the one to say it: "Maybe they used to be a soldier…?"
Ranpo, watching from the side, unwrapped another piece of candy and tilted his head. "Or something else."
Still, he didn't reach for his glasses.
He just smiled faintly.
"Guess they're more interesting than I thought."
And just like that… you became a part of the Agency.
Not a mystery. Not a threat.
Just a person with no past.
And a gun that never missed.
Your first official week in the Armed Detective Agency passed in a blur of uncertainty and quiet exhaustion.
You had no past, at least, none you could remember, but that didn't stop the others from treating you like a person, not a puzzle. Kunikida gave you a copy of the Agency handbook, meticulously annotated in yellow highlighter. Dazai tried (and failed) to enlist your help in his increasingly absurd suicide attempts. Atsushi offered quiet, awkward kindness, often accompanied by food.
Even the building itself became familiar: the way the old wood creaked just outside the break room, the humming noise the lights made at night, the steady clatter of typing from the main office.
You weren't just staying anymore.
You were learning how to live.
Your combat ability quickly became too obvious to ignore. You didn't just shoot well, you moved like instinct, a blend of strategy and control that suggested years of training.
"You may not know who you are," Fukuzawa said during a quiet moment, "but you know how to protect people. That counts for something."
They assigned you light fieldwork at first. Surveillance. Recon. Accompanying Atsushi or Kenji on missions where they needed an extra set of eyes. You performed flawlessly.
The ADA never treated you like a threat.
Ranpo was… difficult to understand at first.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't pry. He didn't offer comfort, either. But he watched you with sharp, green eyes that seemed to slice through everything.
At times, he treated you like any other new recruit: lazily dismissive, annoyingly smug, and frustratingly clever. But every now and then, he'd say something that caught you off guard.
Once, during a late evening where only the two of you were in the office, you found him curled up on the couch with an empty snack bag balanced on his stomach.
"You're thinking too hard," he mumbled without opening his eyes.
You glanced at him. "How would you know?"
He cracked one eye open and grinned. "Because you haven't touched your tea in ten minutes. And your thumb's tapping the same spot on your knee, over and over."
You stared at him.
"Relax. I'm not using my ability," he added casually, before closing his eyes again. "That one was just obvious."
That night stuck with you.
After that, the two of you started… talking.
Ranpo liked to complain. About the vending machine, about paperwork, about Kunikida's rules. You, in turn, found yourself gravitating toward him more and more. There was something grounding about his presence, as chaotic as he was. He never pitied you. Never prodded at your lost memories.
And he never asked you to be someone you weren't.
Over time, your friendship began to shift. Subtly at first, then more noticeably.
You first realized it one quiet afternoon, sitting at your desk and staring blankly at a case report you couldn't bring yourself to finish. It wasn't anything serious, just an insurance fraud case that had spiraled into minor extortion. But your mind kept drifting. It had been happening more and more lately.
Your thoughts didn't drift back into memory, but instead toward small things: Atsushi's shy laugh, the smell of the tea Yosano brewed, the sound of the wind outside the office…
And Ranpo.
The way he chewed candy like it was a form of punctuation. The way his expression sharpened when something caught his attention. The way his voice could cut through your haze without needing to be loud.
You didn't notice he had entered the room until a crinkle of plastic snapped you from your daze.
He held out a brightly colored snack bag, one you'd been eyeing for weeks in the vending machine but never actually bought.
You blinked. "How did you…?"
Ranpo shrugged, already munching on another treat from his pocket. "You always look at them. Every time you walk by the vending machine. Figured you were either broke or indecisive."
You stared at him, surprised. "You were watching me?"
"Of course I was," he said, grinning. "You're interesting."
You took the snack from his hand slowly. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. I stole it from Dazai's desk."
"…Of course you did."
Another change came after a low-risk field mission. Observe, report, disengage. Routine.
And it was, right up until a suspect tried to escape and a flying shard of glass caught Ranpo along his forearm.
Nothing major.
But he would not shut up about it.
Back at the Agency, you practically had to drag him into the break room to sit down while you rummaged through the first aid kit.
Ranpo pouted exaggeratedly as you knelt in front of him, dabbing antiseptic onto the cut.
"Ow."
"It's barely bleeding."
"It stings."
You gave him a flat look. "You took down three armed suspects last week—only god knows how—and now a paper-cut wound is your downfall?"
Ranpo smirked. "Hey, it's not just the wound. I'm also emotionally scarred."
You rolled your eyes but kept your touch gentle.
He watched you in silence for a few seconds. "You're good at this."
"Patching people up?"
"Yeah. Makes me wonder how many times you've had to."
You froze for a fraction of a second.
Ranpo noticed, but said nothing. Instead, he leaned back and let you tape the bandage in place.
"…You didn't flinch when the glass broke," he said softly. "You moved like a soldier."
Your hands stilled again. Then resumed.
"I guess some things stick even when memories don't," you murmured.
"Maybe," Ranpo replied. "Or maybe it's just muscle memory and dumb luck."
You looked up at him.
His smile wasn't teasing this time.
It was kind.
A few weeks later, you and Ranpo were partnered for a late-night surveillance assignment. A minor gang operation suspected of smuggling weapons through abandoned train lines.
The operation was boring, cold, and endless.
You didn't complain once.
By the third hour, you'd both relocated to the backseat of a surveillance van. Ranpo stretched out sideways, head pillowed on your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm going to sleep," he said flatly, already closing his eyes.
"You're supposed to be watching the monitors."
"You're supposed to be watching me."
You rolled your eyes but didn't move. His weight was comforting, warm. You looked down and found his features softer in sleep, less sharp, less smug. Vulnerable.
You let your fingers drift through his hair gently.
He didn't stir.
For a moment, the world outside felt far away. No past. No orders. No ADA or Port Mafia. Just Ranpo. Just this.
It wasn't until a few hours later that Ranpo stirred slightly, clearly awake now but deep in thought. At least until his voice cut through the calm air, his head still pillowed on your legs.
"If you ever remember something—something bad—will you tell me?"
You didn't answer right away. Then, quietly, you nodded. "I will."
Ranpo exhaled—light, but not quite a laugh. "Good." His voice was softer now, almost thoughtful. "Still... I think I'll keep trying to figure you out anyway. Piece by piece. Maybe I can solve you."
You gave a small smile. "Think I'm that kind of puzzle?"
He looked up at you then, eyes steady, almost too knowing. "You're my favorite kind. The mystery that matters."
You didn't reply.
Because a part of you already feared what would happen when he finally did.
Each day passed with small victories. A shared joke. A solved case. A clean shot.
You didn't know what you were to each other yet. Friends? Partners? Something more?
But the way Ranpo smiled at you sometimes—like he was trying not to look too long—made your chest ache with something you weren't ready to name.
For the first time in your life, you felt like you truly belonged.
It wasn't until a few months later that things between you and Ranpo became clear.
It began the way it always did: late at night in the office, half-empty coffee cups scattered across desks, the ghost of old cases still clinging to the air.
You were flipping through a thin stack of case files for a string of burglaries. The others had already left, but Ranpo was still stretched across the couch like a lounging cat, head hanging over the edge, one arm dangling toward the floor.
"You're still here?" you asked, glancing at him over the top of the folder.
He gave a half-hearted yawn. "I was waiting to see how long it'd take you to realize you're reading the files in the wrong order."
You blinked, then looked down.
…He was right.
You sighed and flopped into the seat across from him. "You're insufferable."
"You say that with love."
You looked at him. He grinned.
And you realized, then, just how long you'd been looking at him this way. Not just watching him. Seeing him. You noticed the way his hair curled around his ears when it got too long. The way he got strangely quiet when rain hit the windows. The way he always made sure you were looking at him when he said something he meant.
The silence lingered a bit too long this time. He sat up.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing," you said.
He squinted at you. "You're deflecting."
"Ranpo—"
He stood and crossed the room to your desk, plucking the file from your hands and tossing it aside. "You're always looking at me like that lately."
"Like what?"
"Like I matter to you more than I should."
You didn't move. He was too close now. Closer than he usually got. Close enough to see the mischief fall away from his eyes.
"Do you want me to be wrong?" he asked, voice quieter now.
You hesitated. Then said, softly, "No."
Ranpo stared at you. The kind of stare that didn't need his ability to see everything. He leaned forward a little, close enough to breathe the same air.
"…I already knew," he admitted. "But I didn't want to ruin it by naming it too soon."
You smiled faintly. "That's a first. Ranpo Edogawa, the world's greatest detective, ignoring a clear answer?"
"Not ignoring," he murmured. "Just savoring the buildup."
And then, without a single ounce of ceremony or tension, he kissed you.
No dramatic swell of music. No trembling hands. Just the warmth of his mouth against yours, familiar, inevitable. It didn't feel like a first kiss.
It felt like you'd already had a hundred of them, in ways that didn't require lips at all.
The next morning, Ranpo refused to tell anyone.
He sat across from you at the office meeting, smirking every time you glanced his way, legs kicked up on the table like nothing had changed.
But then he handed you your favorite snack under the table during the break and whispered, "This is the part where we're a secret, just for us. Secrets are fun."
You didn't argue.
Because for once, you weren't afraid of secrets.
From then on, your relationship only deepened.
It had been raining the entire day, a slow, gray drizzle that made the city feel even quieter than usual. You were at home right now, Ranpo staying over. He hadn't moved from his spot on your couch, buried beneath his blanket like a burrito of boredom.
You walked over, carrying two cups of hot chocolate (his had extra whipped cream, of course) and set one down on the table beside him.
Ranpo's head peeked out from under his blanket. "Is this bribery?"
You smirked. "Only if it works."
He sat up slowly, taking the mug with both hands like it was the most precious thing in the world. He didn't say thank you, but the way he leaned into your side as you sat beside him said it all.
You let the silence settle for a moment, the soft patter of rain on the windows weaving through it.
Then, almost reluctantly, you spoke. "You overstepped with Kunikida today."
Ranpo blinked. "He was being uptight."
"He usually is. But you didn't have to rub the solution in his face. You know how much he values process."
Ranpo sighed and stared into his cup like it had answers. "I just get tired of pretending not to know things."
"I know," you said gently, resting your hand on his arm. "But being right doesn't mean you have to be cruel."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he whispered, "…You're not afraid of me."
You blinked. "What?"
"When I say something no one else saw. When I know things I shouldn't be able to. They flinch. You don't."
Your hand slid down to his, fingers wrapping around his tightly. "Because I know the difference between clever and cruel. You're not the second. Not really."
Ranpo leaned his head on your shoulder, the weight of him soft and warm. "You're like… my moral compass. My chocolate-giving, scolding compass."
You laughed, pressing your lips to his hair. "Someone's gotta do it."
He stayed there until long after his drink had gone cold.
It had taken weeks of subtle observation, watching the way Ranpo lit up when he talked about this obscure, out-of-print mystery novel, how his fingers brushed longingly across bookshop windows, how he'd mutter "that one's impossible to find" before moving on.
So when he stepped into the Agency that afternoon, still chewing on a lollipop and clearly expecting another uneventful day, he froze.
There it was. Laid out on the desk in front of him like a holy grail:
A worn, first edition of The Crimson Labyrinth fromhis favorite author, in its original language, with the pages still smelling faintly of old paper and ink.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
"Surprise," you said from behind him, a little breathless. You'd gone through so many secondhand collectors, shady forums, even a librarian contact of Tanizaki's. "Told you I was good at solving mysteries, too."
He didn't answer.
Didn't move.
Then slowly, Ranpo turned around, eyes wide, and for once, not sharp, not calculating, but soft. Disarmed.
"You found this... for me?"
"Of course I did," you said, tucking your hands in your pockets, almost shy now. "You're important to me. I wanted you to have something that mattered."
He looked down at the book again, then back at you. Something in his expression shifted, something vulnerable. Like he was seeing you all over again, for the first time. As if the stars had just rearranged themselves into your name.
You watched as he stepped forward and, without a word, wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into a quiet, steady hug. His face buried against your shoulder.
"You're ridiculous," he mumbled, voice thick. "Stupid and kind and... perfect."
You smiled into his hair. "Guess I'll take that as a thank-you."
He didn't let go for a long while. And when he finally did, he looked at you like you'd reached up and hung the stars just for him.
And maybe, in that moment, he believed you had.
The message came in just before dusk.
An emergency request from the police. Unusual, considering they often preferred to solve things on their own before reaching out to the Armed Detective Agency. But this time, it was different.
Hostage situation.
Possible ties to the Port Mafia.
Location: A derelict warehouse complex by the docks.
You, Ranpo, Atsushi, and Kunikida were dispatched immediately.
The silence in the car was suffocating.
It wasn't the usual focused quiet before a mission. No one said it aloud, but all four of you felt it, something was wrong. The kind of wrong that settled low in your gut and made your fingers twitch toward your weapon without thinking.
You sat in the back beside Ranpo, eyes fixed on the blur of buildings outside the window as the van sped toward the docks. Kunikida was driving, knuckles tight on the steering wheel. Atsushi was in the passenger seat, glancing nervously at the GPS every few seconds, like the address might somehow change.
"Emergency kidnapping report," Kunikida muttered. "Warehouse by the south port. Intel came in from the police ten minutes ago. We act fast, secure the area, confirm the hostage's safety. In and out."
"No time for backup?" Atsushi asked, tension clear in his voice.
"We are the backup," Kunikida snapped.
You tried to steady your breathing, but the dread was clawing up your spine. You couldn't tell if it was guilt or fear or both.
Beside you, Ranpo finally spoke. Quietly. Too quietly.
"This doesn't add up."
Kunikida glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "You think it's false intel?"
Ranpo didn't answer right away. His arms were crossed, but his usual lazy posture was gone. He was sitting up straighter now, eyes narrowed, no joking, no snacking, no bravado.
"Everything about this feels too neat. Too timed."
You felt your stomach turn, wishing for nothing more than to be anywhere else. This mission, today… you couldn't do it. You felt sick just thinking about the outcome.
That's why, in the end, you made a choice.
You leaned forward suddenly, voice a little too sharp. "Atsushi."
He jumped. "Y-Yeah?"
"Call Dazai. Right now. Tell him what we know, location, situation, all of it. Ask him to bring Kenji and Kyouka. Quietly."
Kunikida turned sharply toward you. "Why? That's not protocol—"
"It's a hunch," you said quickly, forcing your voice to stay steady. "Ranpo feels it too. Something's off. If it turns out we're wrong, fine. But if we're right…"
A beat passed. Kunikida didn't like it, but he didn't argue.
Atsushi nodded and started typing out a message to Dazai, his fingers trembling slightly.
Meanwhile, you pulled out your phone and hit Yosano's contact.
She picked up fast. "Yosano here."
"You and Tanizaki still on the north side?" you asked.
"Yeah. Sorting out a rogue ability case near the industrial park. Why?"
"There's an urgent situation at the docks. Warehouse by the port. Kidnapping, but… it's not sitting right. Something about it feels like a setup. If anything goes sideways, we'll need you. Try to get here if you can."
A pause. "You think it's a trap?"
"I'm not sure. But I don't want to take chances."
Yosano's tone changed instantly. "Got it. Keep me updated. I'll move the second I can."
You hung up, pulse pounding.
Ranpo was watching you.
Not suspiciously. Not yet. But his eyes had that glint, the one he got when something didn't quite fit. You avoided his gaze and turned back to the window.
Outside, the sun was starting to dip and the warehouses came into view.
The moment you stepped out of the car and inside the building, the cold hit your skin like a breath held too long. Each step forward felt like a sentence, deliberate and heavy, pulling you closer to something final.
The air smelled of rust and damp, mingled with something sharper, something wrong. Dust floated through slivers of fading light that cut in from broken windows.
But otherwise…
Silence.
No shouting. No signs of a struggle.
No hostage.
Just the sound of your footsteps, echoing across the vast, hollow space.
Kunikida was the first to break it. "Where are they?"
He scanned the room, opening his notebook with precise fingers, already preparing for a fight. Atsushi's eyes darted from pillar to pillar, hands curled into fists. Even he felt it now, the wrongness settling into every corner.
Ranpo didn't move. He stood near you, hands in his pockets, brow creased. "No tire tracks. No chains. Not even dust disturbed. There was never a hostage here."
His voice was cold now, detached. Sharp.
Then—
Click.
The sound of a gun being loaded echoed from behind one of the steel beams.
Then another.
And another.
Figures emerged from the shadows, deliberate and confident, guns drawn and eyes glinting beneath the dim lights. Port Mafia operatives, at least a dozen, dressed in black, each one stepping forward like part of a dance they'd rehearsed far too many times.
They'd been waiting.
And you'd walked right into their trap.
Ranpo exhaled through his nose, not surprised. "Thought so."
Atsushi bared his fangs, his body already shifting slightly, ready to transform. Kunikida muttered a few words under his breath, the tip of his pen moving with deadly speed across a page in his notebook.
But you…
You didn't move.
You didn't reach for your weapon.
Didn't fall into a stance.
Didn't shift your weight.
You just stood there, still, almost too still.
Ranpo noticed.
His eyes flicked to you. The others were too focused on the enemy, but he wasn't. His attention was split, one part on the threat, the other on you.
"You're not reaching for your gun," he said, casual but quiet, meant only for your ears.
You didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Something in you clenched. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, searching, picking apart your stillness the same way he always picked apart crime scenes.
It was only a matter of time.
Your fingers twitched by your side, the ache in your chest twisting with each beat of your heart. You stared straight ahead, into the eyes of Hirotsu, commander of the Black Lizards.
You told yourself the moment wasn't here yet.
You told yourself you still had time to choose.
But the truth was:
You were already out of time.
Ranpo's voice came again, lower now. Less teasing. Almost soft.
"…What did you do?"
The first one of the Port Mafia to speak was Hirotsu.
He stepped forward, crisp and calm, as always. His cane clicked against the concrete floor, and a satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Well done," he said smoothly, voice like silk across steel. "You led them here perfectly. Just as planned."
Silence.
Your heart stopped.
Ranpo didn't react at first, not visibly at least. But his gaze didn't leave you. He didn't blink.
Atsushi's brow furrowed, uncertain. He looked between Hirotsu and you, eyes wide with confusion. "Wh… what does he mean?"
You said nothing.
You couldn't.
Hirotsu chuckled. "Come now, no need to be shy. You've done your part, played your role as the poor soul who lost their memories. You've fulfilled your orders. Your Port Mafia superiors will be pleased."
Kunikida froze mid-step. He turned sharply toward you, voice slicing through the stillness.
"Orders?"
You didn't look at any of them. You couldn't.
Atsushi took a step toward you. "Wait… that's not… No, that's not true, right?" His voice cracked, small and uncertain. "You wouldn't work with them. You hate the Port Mafia. You said so. You— You're one of us."
Still, you didn't move.
The truth was there now, hanging in the air, undeniable. Unforgiving.
Ranpo's voice didn't come.
Not yet.
Kunikida clenched his jaw, his voice growing hard. "Tell me this is some kind of tactic. A trick. You didn't— You didn't lead us here. Tell me this isn't real."
You finally looked up, meeting his gaze.
The pain in his eyes hurt more than any bullet ever could.
"I…" Your voice barely came out. "I didn't want this."
Atsushi staggered back like you'd struck him. "Then why?! Why did you do it?! I was the one who found you! You were hurt—scared—I… I trusted you!"
"I didn't have a choice!" you snapped, louder than you meant to. "They would've killed me. Or worse. And not just me, the Agency. I never wanted to hurt you."
"Then why didn't you tell us?!" Atsushi shouted, desperate. "We would've protected you! We're your family—!"
You looked down. "I know."
Kunikida cursed under his breath, turning away. The disgust in his voice burned. "All this time… You lived among us. Ate with us. Trained with us. Fought beside us. And it was all a lie."
"It wasn't," you whispered. "It wasn't a lie."
Finally—
Ranpo moved.
He stepped forward slowly, the usual spring in his stride gone. No theatrics. No biting remarks. Just those green eyes staring into yours.
"You," he murmured, voice quieter than you'd ever heard it, "were a mystery from the start."
He reached into his coat, pulled out his glasses, and slipped them on.
No words. No dramatic declaration. Just silence.
A long moment passed.
Then he sighed.
Like he'd just solved a puzzle he didn't want to see the answer to.
"…I ignored the signs," he said softly. "I didn't want to believe the inconsistencies. The gaps in your story. The times you were too fast, too accurate, too prepared. I saw them, but…"
He trailed off.
You didn't dare breathe.
"You were never just a case to me," he said. "You were mine. My partner. My—"
He stopped himself.
Then, with a breathless shake of his head, he looked down.
And before you could speak, Hirotsu's voice cut in.
"What about the other Agents?" he asked smoothly, raising a hand to signal the others to stand by. "Is there any backup coming?"
All eyes turned to you.
Ranpo's.
Kunikida's.
Atsushi's.
The Port Mafia's.
You could feel every gaze, every breath, every second stretching like wire pulled too tight.
Your heart pounded in your ears.
You knew what would happen if you said yes. They'd regroup. Prepare. The Port Mafia would switch tactics, change the plan, perhaps even kill the Agency members before help arrived.
But if you said no—
If you gave them even a few more minutes—
"...No," you said. The word came out flat. Almost dead. "There's no backup. Everyone else is on other missions."
A beat of silence.
Then Hirotsu smiled. "Excellent. Then let's finish what we started."
You didn't turn. Didn't flinch.
But behind you, you heard Kunikida shift, finally stepping closer, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. Atsushi looked stunned, confused, like he was still trying to wake up from a nightmare he hadn't realized he was in.
And Ranpo?
Still staring at you.
Still quiet.
He saw it. Of course he did. The pause. The slight shift in your posture. The way your fingers curled just slightly, as though suppressing something. He saw it and understood, not just the facts, but the intention.
"…You're lying," he said under his breath.
You met his eyes.
For a moment, it was like no one else existed.
He didn't accuse you. Didn't shout. He just said it like it was a truth that cracked the air.
And when you didn't deny it—when you said nothing—his breath caught.
"Why are you doing this?" he whispered.
You looked at him then, really looked at him, with all the grief swelling in your chest, all the regret tangled behind your ribs.
You leaned in, just barely, your voice low, meant only for him.
"Because it wasn't a lie," you breathed. "What we had… everything between us? It was real, Ranpo. All of it."
His eyes widened. Not with surprise. No, he'd hoped for this answer, maybe even known it. But hearing it aloud shattered something inside him.
It was real.
And that made it hurt even more.
You turned away, placing yourself subtly in front of him.
A shield he hadn't asked for.
The Mafia agents began to move forward.
Guns loaded.
Abilities ready.
But still, you didn't raise your weapon.
You stood between the two worlds.
Between the ones who had raised you… and the ones who had saved you.
Hirotsu raised a hand, signaling the others to aim, to get ready to shoot.
You stepped in front of him, just enough to block his direct line to the others without drawing your weapon. Your hands remained at your sides, calm… but your voice, when it came, trembled.
"Wait."
Hirotsu stopped, raising an eyebrow in irritation.
"Don't kill them yet," you said, voice low and steady. "They might still be useful."
Hirotsu raised a brow. "Useful?" he repeated, unimpressed.
"Yes. Interrogate them first," you said, fast. "The Agency never fully trusted me. They were careful what they told me, especially about internal protocols, emergency fallback plans, anything related to their contingency networks. They always assumed I might remember something dangerous."
You lied with practiced ease.
It sounded logical. Plausible.
But Hirotsu frowned. "You've been with them for over a year. Surely you know everything that could be useful. Don't tell me you grew soft."
You kept your posture straight. "I'm not soft. I'm thorough. If there's anything I missed, any piece of intel they kept hidden, it'll die with them unless we ask."
Silence stretched, taut as wire.
Hirotsu studied you, eyes narrowing.
And behind you, you felt the tension shift.
Because Kunikida, Atsushi, and Ranpo all knew the truth: the Agency had trusted you. Despite thinking you were an amnesiac stray with a gun, they'd let you in. Let you close. Let you listen. They had told you everything you could've asked for.
And now here you were, lying through your teeth to protect them.
Not a word passed between the three of them, but you felt the question hang in the air:
Whose side are you on?
You weren't sure. Not anymore.
You just knew they couldn't die. Not yet. Not here.
"They're too dangerous to keep alive," Hirotsu finally said, tone sharpened like the edge of a knife. "We didn't bring you this far to play games. You know what they're capable of. If the Armed Detective Agency gets a chance to strike back, we'll lose everything."
You clenched your jaw.
"But—"
"You'll do it," he cut you off. "Show us. Prove your loyalty."
The silence that followed rang louder than a gunshot.
You didn't move at first. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. Loud. Raw. Unsteady.
Atsushi tensed behind you. Kunikida's fists curled tighter at his sides.
Ranpo still hadn't moved. Just stood there, still and unreadable, his gaze fixed on you.
You slowly reached for your gun, every movement stiff with hesitation. You felt the weight of every eye in the warehouse. Every second dragged out like a year.
Your hand trembled as your fingers wrapped around the grip.
When you drew the gun, you didn't point it at Atsushi. Not at Kunikida.
You aimed it at Ranpo.
The man you loved.
His hands remained in his coat pockets. He didn't flinch, didn't step back. Just watched you with those calm green eyes, quiet and impossible to decipher.
It felt like the world around you dimmed until it was only the two of you in that space. No Port Mafia, no ADA. No lies, no missions. Just… him. And you. And everything that had happened between you.
His voice, when it finally came, was almost too soft to hear.
"…So this is it?"
You didn't respond. You couldn't. You tightened your grip instead.
Ranpo still stared. Not with anger. Not with fear.
Only the faintest glimmer of something else—
Hope.
He didn't believe you'd do it.
He didn't believe you could.
And deep down, you didn't know if you could either.
But the pressure behind you—Hirotsu's eyes, the Port Mafia's presence, the weight of your double life collapsing in on itself—was pushing you closer to a line you'd never meant to cross.
You didn't know what gave it away first.
The faintest rustle of movement.
A sliver of light shifting through dust-specked glass.
Or maybe it was just instinct. That strange, inexplicable pull in your chest telling you to look.
Your eyes flicked to the corner of the warehouse, toward one of the tall, cracked windows. And there, barely noticeable through the grime and shadow, was a figure crouched low and peering in.
A straw hat.
Harp, focused eyes, despite his usual easy nature.
Kenji.
You didn't let yourself react, not fully. But your heart leapt, your chest tightened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt something like hope coil in your ribs.
They came.
You bought them enough time.
Ranpo was still watching you, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. He saw the shift in you immediately. Not in your posture, not even in your expression. But in the flicker of light behind your eyes. The way your hand steadied on the gun.
You let out a tiny huff, almost a laugh. You couldn't help it.
"…Kenji's terrible at hiding."
A beat.
Ranpo's eyes widened just slightly.
You turned. Fast.
Gun raised, you fired.
The shot rang through the warehouse like a whip crack, striking one of the Port Mafia members nearest the exit in the shoulder. They dropped with a grunt, weapon clattering from their grip.
"Traitor!" Hirotsu bellowed, already diving behind a steel pillar as chaos erupted. "You damned idiot! The Port Mafia will rip you apart for this!"
Glass shattered as Kenji burst through the window with the strength of a battering ram, Kyouka gliding in behind him with silent precision.
Dazai emerged from the shadows at the rear entrance, that lazy smile not quite reaching his eyes as he raised a hand and nullified an incoming attack.
Atsushi shifted mid-sprint, white fur blooming across his arms as he barreled into one of the Mafia thugs with a roar.
Kunikida's notebook flashed open; within seconds, a sleek revolver materialized into his hand as he aimed and fired with surgical precision.
But you stood still. In the eye of the storm.
All around you, they moved. The Agency members, your friends, surviving the very trap you led them into.
You could almost laugh from the relief of it.
They were going to be okay.
They'd live.
They'd walk away.
But not because of you. No.
Because they were stronger than you. More righteous.
Better.
You had led them into this hell. You betrayed their trust and lied to their faces.
Nearly got them killed.
You weren't going back with them. You couldn't.
The Port Mafia would never accept your betrayal. The Agency could never forgive it.
You were alone. Completely, devastatingly alone.
And as that truth settled into your chest like iron, you knew what you had to do.
Your eyes swept the chaos, searching, and found him.
Ranpo.
Hunched behind a fallen beam, his hat slightly askew.
Watching you.
His gaze locked with yours the second you looked at him.
He knew.
His mouth opened. "No—wait—!"
He lunged forward, weaving through the fray.
But you were already lifting the gun.
A smile broke across your face, small and sorrowful. "I'm sorry. For betraying you." Your voice cracked. "And thank you, Ranpo… for showing me what being loved meant."
Ranpo screamed your name.
But he was too far.
Too late.
You pulled the trigger.
The world tilted.
Light flared behind your eyes, then dimmed.
And the last thing you saw was his face.
Terrified, furious, heartbroken.
Before everything went dark.
The sounds of gunfire had faded into the distance.
The last of the Port Mafia members disappeared into the shadows, their retreat disorganized, a far cry from the trap they'd laid only minutes before.
Kunikida stood still, breathing heavily, blood on his vest — not his. His fingers clenched around his revolver as he scanned the warehouse, his jaw locked tight.
Dazai strolled in from the far side, his coat fluttering lightly behind him as though this had just been a walk in the park. "Well, that was a nice little reunion," he said cheerfully, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Not exactly my idea of a productive night, but hey. We're all alive."
Kenji waved cheerfully from the upper catwalk. "I think I knocked one of them out cold!"
No one reacted.
Kunikida stood still, his breath slowing as the adrenaline ebbed. His notebook slipped back into his coat pocket with a practiced motion, but his hands remained clenched at his sides, knuckles white. There was a tension in his frame that had nothing to do with the fight.
It was the why that weighed on him.
You.
The traitor who had led them into a trap.
The comrade who had, in the end, saved their lives.
He stared blankly at the floor, jaw clenched, voice low and bitter. "I don't get it… Why throw everything away at the last second? Why risk it all?"
He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying — and failing — to hold onto the strict logic that usually grounded him. "I swear… I'll have them write mission reports for an entire month."
Dazai, lingering nearby with his hands tucked lazily behind his head, glanced over. His usual smirk softened, just a little. "No one deserves that, Kunikida," he said mildly. "Even for betrayal."
Then, after a beat: "Two weeks, maybe. If they brings snacks as an apology."
Kunikida didn't respond. His throat worked once before he looked away.
Because despite everything—despite the betrayal, the trap, the danger—they all knew you still belonged to the ADA. You belonged to them. You had lied, and that would have consequences. Kunikida was even looking forward to lecturing you. But in the end, you still chose them.
Atsushi was dusting off his coat, his tiger limbs having faded back to human form. He turned, intending to echo the same thought. You had saved them. He'd seen it. The hesitation, the misdirection, the lie to Hirotsu.
He wanted to thank you.
To say you chose us.
So he turned, smile just barely beginning to form on his bruised face—
And froze.
His blood ran cold.
"…Ranpo…?" he called out, voice small.
No response.
The detective was kneeling several meters away, back to the rest of them. Still. Rigid. His hat had fallen to the floor beside him. His shoulders were trembling, but he made no sound.
"Ranpo…?" Atsushi took a few hesitant steps forward.
That's when he saw it.
You.
In his lap.
Limp.
Unmoving.
Blood. So much blood.
"A-Ah—!" Atsushi's voice broke. "No—no no no—!"
Kunikida's head snapped toward him. Dazai's eyes narrowed. The air shifted. Tension twisted back around their ribs like a vice. Kenji, who had been helping Kyouka disarm a Port Mafia device tucked into one of the crates, turned around just in time to see the stillness in Ranpo's silhouette.
Kenji blinked. "...What—what happened?" His voice, usually so cheery, was small now. Uncertain. "They're… they're okay, right?"
Atsushi stumbled forward, stopping just short of the blood pooling beneath you. "Why did they—why did you—they saved us! We could've—they could've come back with us!"
Dazai stood off to the side, arms folded, no joke on his tongue this time. His gaze lingered on the steady pool of red forming beneath you. "So much for the mission reports," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. The humor was hollow. Paper-thin.
Kunikida didn't speak. He just stood there, watching.
He'd wanted answers. He'd wanted to demand them. Wanted to scold you, give you the lecture of a lifetime, drag you back to the Agency and make you earn every ounce of trust again.
And he would've.
But none of that mattered anymore.
You had chosen them.
In the end, you had chosen them.
And now you were gone.
Ranpo didn't move.
Not when Atsushi started crying openly.
Not when Dazai muttered curses and began barking orders.
Not even when Kenji called your name, voice cracking like a snapped bone.
He just knelt there.
You were heavy in his lap, your body limp, your warmth already fading. The blood seeped through his coat, thick and final.
He stared down at you, blinking like he couldn't quite understand what he was seeing. Like if he squinted hard enough, he'd catch some detail the others missed, some sign you were still breathing.
But he didn't.
Because you weren't.
His hands hovered in the air for a moment, then slowly touched your face, trembling in a way that felt foreign on him. He brushed your hair back from your forehead like he was memorizing you. Mapping the contours. The small, final details.
"You're a terrible liar," he whispered, voice dry, rasping at the edges.
"You always looked left when you fibbed. Bit the inside of your cheek. Flinched when Kunikida raised his voice. You were full of tells…" His mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "But I didn't see it. Or maybe I did, and I just didn't want to look."
His thumb grazed your cheek, gentle. Reverent.
"You are the only mystery I wish I didn't solve. Because now that I have…" Ranpo's voice broke as he clenched his eyes shut. "…now that I have, you're gone, a—and I—I—" His voice broke, turning into a silent sob as his body started shaking.
No one dared to speak. Even Dazai had fallen quiet.
Atsushi stood behind him now, stunned, with tears falling freely. Kunikida clenched his fists, jaw locked. Kenji had taken his hat off and was holding it in front of his face, small trembles wracking through his body. Kyouka's expression didn't shift, but her knuckles were white where she held her sword.
But Ranpo didn't move.
Didn't wipe away the tears that fell.
Didn't hide it.
His shoulders still trembled and then he crumpled forward, forehead pressed to yours, like he could hold you there, keep you from slipping away entirely.
"I could've stopped this," he choked out.
He drew in a ragged breath, breathless from a grief that had no edge, no bottom.
"I didn't want a mystery. I just wanted you."
There was no reply. Just the soft, unbearable silence of your absence.
"Ranpo." Yosano's voice suddenly cut through the air, confused and desperate. "We got here as fast as we could—" she whispered, kneeling next to him and reaching for your pulse, clinging to the hope that maybe you were still alive. Maybe she could still activate her ability.
There was nothing.
And you were cold.
Ranpo was whispering something again, voice hoarse and cracking. Apologies. Nonsense. Your name.
Yosano sat back on her heels, head bowing slightly. "Too late," she murmured. "They're already gone."
Junichiro stared, stunned. "No… your ability—can't you—?"
"They're not on the brink of death," she said gently, firmly. "They're past it."
The words hit the room like a drop of water on embers. No one moved. No one breathed.
Junichiro's gaze dropped to the floor as he moved closer, crouching beside Dazai. "What… what happened?" he asked, his voice low.
He wanted to understand—needed to understand—how it could've gone this bad so quickly.
The Agency didn't always win. That's not how it worked.
But they never had to bury one of their own.
Dazai exhaled, soft and low. "Everything."
And nothing anyone could fix.
They all looked again toward Ranpo, toward you.
Watched, how Ranpo broke.
The sound he made was barely human. Gutted. Cracked open from the center. He gripped you close, held you against him like you were the only thing keeping him grounded, and he sobbed, no cleverness, no bravado, no wit.
Just grief.
Pain, deep and wild, torn from a place so rarely touched.
And for once, the world didn't look at Edogawa Ranpo and see the Greatest Detective in Yokohama.
They saw a man who had loved.
And lost.
And would carry the wound of that loss forever.
Hii, how are you? Just wanted to say I love your works😭💓 what’s your favorite anime?
I'm fine, thank you!! I hope you're also doing good! 🫶🏼
I'd say Haikyuu is my favourite. It's just one of those anime I can watch over and over again. I love how every team and character is portrayed, and even the small side characters get their moment to shine, even if they lose the match!
But I also really love Hunter x Hunter. It was one of the first anime I watched, so it holds a special place in my heart.
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