I'll be writing for Bungou Stray Dogs, which is my favorite anime!
MASTERLIST
Since it's my favorite anime I'm excited for y'all to read my works. Don't worry it's not my first blog, also you can request and tell me what you wanna read.
New stuff will be published here every Tuesday and Friday starting next week (may change depending on my mood, health, inspiration etc. maybe I'll post more if it works out). Sometimes I'll be also posting random headcanons (you can give me ideas for them).
I'll be posting previews of the new fics every Thursday and you'll be able to choose which fic you want to see first + you can comment if you want to be tagged in any of them.
If you have any questions let me know, I'll gladly answer you!
contains fem!reader, fluff, kisses, hope you'll like it!😘
summary: You have a day off but Chuuya has to leave and go to work. You want to keep him in bed.
The gray light of a rainy Yokohama morning filters through the heavy velvet curtains of your shared place, casting a soft, muted glow over the tangled silk sheets.
Beside you, the mattress shifts. Chuuya is already sitting up, his back to you, the sharp lines of his back moving as he reaches for his clothes.
Panic—dramatic, oversized, Dazai-esque panic—flares in your chest. You aren't ready for the world to take him back yet.
With a sudden burst of movement that belies your sleep-clouded frame, you lunged forward, wrapping your arms around his waist and dragging him backward with all your strength.
"No," you groan into the skin of his shoulder, your voice thick with sleep but laced with theatrical despair. "The world is ending, Chuu. It’s a catastrophe. If you step foot out of this bed, everything will crumble, the sky will fall, and I will simply expire from heartbreak right here on these sheets..."
Chuuya let out a huffed laugh, his body falling back against the pillows under your weight. "Y/N, quit the theatrics. Boss called three times. There’s a shipment coming into the pier that needs an Executive’s eyes, and since you’re currently 'dying,' I’m the only one left to do it."
You tightened your grip, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. "Mori can walk to the pier himself. Stay with meeee! Make us so heavy that we can't lift ourselves out of the bed. We can be two black holes just drifting in the blankets forever!"
He turned in your arms, his gloved hand (he was already halfway dressed, damn him) cupping your jaw. His blue eyes, usually so sharp and piercing, were soft, swirling with affection he only ever showed you.
"You’ve been spending too much time listening to that bandaged piece of shit," Chuuya muttered, though he made no move to get back up. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. "I’ll be back soon. I’ll even bring home that wine you’ve been eyeing yesterday."
"A bribe!" you gasped, pulling back to look at him with faux betrayal, your messy bed head making you look like a disgruntled bird. "You’re trying to buy my silence with vintage spirits? How scandalous. How effective. But it’s not enough! I need at least three more hours of cuddling, or I’m going to defect to the Agency just to annoy you."
Chuuya barked a laugh, the sound bright and genuine. He rolled over, effectively pinning you beneath him without using an ounce of his ability, his weight a comforting pressure against your frame.
"You wouldn't last a day there. Too much paperwork, not enough violence," he smirked, his thumb stroking your lower lip. His gaze dropped, losing its playful edge for a moment as he took you in—your mesmerizing eyes, the way your hair fanned out against the white pillowcase. "Fine. Twenty minutes. If I’m late, I’m telling Mori it’s your fault for being too damn beautiful to leave."
"Make it thirty and I won't set your favorite hat on fire," you negotiated, a mischievous glint in your eyes.
"You’re a menace, Y/N," he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly tone that always made your heart skip. He didn't wait for a rebuttal, leaning down to capture your lips in a slow, deep kiss.
You hummed into his lips, your fingers tangling in the ginger locks at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. For a Port Mafia Executive known for being one of the most dangerous hand-to-hand combatants in the underground, you felt remarkably soft in his arms.
contains fem!reader, I'd like to say fluff? but I felt more of an unease while writing this🤣 (I DON'T KNOW IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!), hope you'll like it!😘
idea given to me by anon!: hii!! I was thinking of an artist!fem reader x fyodor where he's just chilling in a cafe while reader is in the corner drawing him bc he caught her eye. And in the end, she shyly walks up to fyodor and gives him the sketch she made. You can decide what happens next. Just a lil suggestion. And also, I absolutely adore ur writing<3🥹
The steam from your black coffee curls into the air. You sit tucked away in the dimmest corner of the cafeteria, your legs crossed under the small table as your eyes track the movement of a man sitting a few tables away.
He is ethereal in a way that feels almost dangerous. His skin is a sickly, beautiful pale, framed by dark hair that peeks out from under a white, fur-lined ushanka. He looks frail, his shoulders hunched slightly as he rests his chin on his interlaced fingers, but there is an undeniable sharpness to his features. His eyes are the color of crushed amethysts—dark, tired, and brimming with a terrifying intelligence.
You can't help yourself. You reach into your bag, pulling out your worn sketchbook and a pencil. Your fingers move with a feverish grace, capturing the slope of his nose, the delicate curve of his thin lips, and the way his heavy cape drapes over his slim frame. He is the most captivating person you’ve ever seen in Yokohama.
As you lean in to shade the hollow of his cheek, you feel a prickle of intuition. You tilt your head, your eyes lifting from the paper, and suddenly, you are looking directly into his violet gaze.
The air leaves your lungs. Your heart thuds against your ribs as a deep, burning crimson floods your cheeks. You freeze, caught in the act, but before you can even blink, he calmly averts his gaze, returning his attention to the steaming cup in front of him as if you were nothing more than a passing shadow.
Your face is still hot, but the artist in you is bolder than the girl. You tear the page from the notebook with a soft rip, your hands trembling slightly. You stop beside his table. He doesn't look up at first.
"Excuse me," you whisper, your voice a bit raspy. You slide the sketch onto the table in front of him.
He blinks, his long lashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks as he looks down at the drawing. A small, enigmatic smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He picks it up with slender, steady fingers.
"This is... quite a detailed perspective," he says, his voice smooth like silk. He finally looks up at you, his eyes unreadable. "Do you often make a habit of capturing strangers on paper, my lady?"
"Only the ones who look like they don't belong to this world," you manage to say, your face heating up immediately when you realize what you just said.
He hums, a dark, melodic sound.
"A flatterer. Or perhaps just a very keen observer... I am Fyodor." He tilts his head, studying your face with an intensity that makes your skin crawl and tingle at the same time. "And what does the artist call herself?"
"Y/N," you reply, feeling smaller than usual under his intense gaze.
"Y/N," he repeats, tasting the name. He tucks the sketch into the folds of his cape. "I shall keep this. It is rare that someone sees me so... clearly. Thank you, Y/N. Perhaps our paths were destined to cross in this little corner of the world."
He offers a polite, chillingly graceful nod, and though he doesn't say another word, you feel as though you’ve just handed a piece of your soul to a demon who actually appreciated the craft. (damn look at all that poetry I'm serving here😂)
THIS WILL HAVE A PART 2!
the anon wrote that I can write whatever I want from here so this will have a part 2. I just let it out like this because I wasn't active on tumblr for a long time and wanted to post something for you guys!😘
contains fem!reader, yelling, calling people names?, nightmare, fluff, hope you'll like it!😘
summary: Kōyō finds you on the streets and decides to take you with her because of your ability.
The afternoon sun filters through the smog of the Suribachi City crater, casting long, jagged shadows over the scrap metal.
You’re perched on a stack of abandoned crates, idly picking at a chipped fingernail. Your eyes track a stray cat, but your focus shifts when the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of geta sandals hits the pavement.
Out of the grey haze emerges a woman who looks like a hallucination. She’s tall—intimidatingly so—wrapped in a stunning, deep pink kimono patterned with golden spider lilies. Her hair is pinned up perfectly, and she carries a traditional paper umbrella that shields her from the grime of your world. She stops a few paces away, her gaze cool and calculating as she looks down at you.
"What a waste," she says, her voice like silk over a razor blade. "A girl with a gift that can unravel the very fabric of intent, rotting away in a gutter."
You don't move. You just tilt your head, your messy hair falling over your eyes. You let out a short, mocking snort.
"And what a waste of fabric," you drawl, gesturing to her expensive silk. "You look like a lost geisha who took a wrong turn at the pier. Did you come here to find a husband, or did your brain just fall out of your head on the way to the tea house?"
The woman’s expression doesn't flicker, though the Golden Demon shadow behind her shivers with a brief, murderous intent.
She’s recognized your ability: Cruel Elegance (with a single thought, you can manifest invisible, razor-sharp threads of solidified gravity that bind the target's will to your own).
It’s an ability fit for a queen, yet it’s being used by a brat in a dirty hoodie.
"The Port Mafia has a place for someone with your... sharp tongue," she continues, ignoring your insult. "Under my tutelage, you wouldn't have to scrounge for scraps."
You jump down from the crates, landing lightly on your feet, your thin frame tensed. You look her up and down with pure, unadulterated disdain. "The Port Mafia? Please. I’ve seen your grunts. I’m not interested in being your little doll, lady. I like my freedom, and I like not smelling like incense and old blood."
She takes a step closer, the air growing heavy, but you don't flinch. You bare your teeth in a smirk. "Seriously, get away from me! You’re blocking my sunlight and your perfume is giving me a headache. Go find some other orphan to brainwash. I’m busy doing literally anything else."
For a second, the air is deathly still. Then, to your surprise, the woman huffs a dry, elegant laugh. It’s not the sound of someone offended, it’s the sound of someone who has found a very interesting toy.
"You have spirit. It will be entertaining to watch the world try to break it," she says.
Without another word, she reaches into her sleeve and pulls out a small, high-quality slip of paper. She flicks it toward you. It catches the wind, dancing through the air until it lands right at your feet. Written on it in perfect calligraphy is a phone number and a single name: Kōyō Ozaki.
"Keep it," she says, turning her back on you and beginning to walk away, her umbrella spinning slowly. "When you realize that your insults can't fill your stomach, give me a call. I’ll be waiting."
You stare at her retreating back, your face twisted in an annoyed scowl. "Yeah, keep walking, Kimono-lady! Hope you trip on your own ego!" you yell after her.
Once she disappears into the fog, you look down at the paper. You want to tear it up—you really do—but instead, you shove it deep into your pocket, clicking your tongue in annoyance at the fact that she got the last word.
🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮
The weeks that follow are a slow, agonizing blur of hunger pangs and shivering nights. Your ribs are beginning to poke sharply against your skin. You try to tell yourself you’re fine, but your legs feel like lead. Every time you pass a shop window, your reflection looks like a ghost.
Finally, pride loses the war against starvation. You pull the crumpled slip of paper from your pocket, the edges soft from you fidgeting with it. You try to flag down a salaryman, your voice raspy.
"Hey, suit-and-tie! Let me use your phone. It’s an emergency, and your face is also an emergency, so we’re even," you snap, trying to maintain your edge.
The man sneers, pulling his bag away. "Get lost, brat. Go beg somewhere else."
"I'm not begging, I'm offering you the privilege of—" Your voice cracks, and he pushes past you.
You stumble, the world spinning for a second. You consider using Cruel Elegance to just rip a phone out of someone’s hand, but your energy is so low you can barely manifest a single thread.
Suddenly, a shadow falls over you. It’s cool, smelling of expensive camellia oil and sharp iron. "Still as charming as ever, I see."
You look up, squinting through your messy bangs. Kōyō Ozaki stands there, her umbrella tilted perfectly. You gape at her, your brain sluggish. "What the... were you stalking me!? Is this a hobby!? Do you have a 'find the dying orphan' sensor in that hairpiece!?"
Kōyō lets out that same low, amused huff. "I merely keep track of my investments. And you look like you’re about to collapse."
"I’m fine," you lie, your stomach betraying you with a loud, hollow growl.
She doesn't argue. She simply reaches out, her hand surprisingly firm as she grips your shoulder. "Enough. The street's had its turn with you. Now follow me."
🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮🪭💮
The Port Mafia’s quarters are nothing like the damp crates of the slums. You’re bathed, scrubbed of the Yokohama grime, and dressed in a small, soft kimono—lavender silk that feels like a cloud against your skin. You’ve been fed more high-end chazuke than you thought possible, and for the first time in years, your stomach doesn't ache.
Kōyō shows you to a room with tatami mats and a futon that looks thick enough to sink into.
"Sleep," she commands, her eyes softening just a fraction. "No one enters this wing without my permission. You're safe here."
"Whatever," you mutter, though you’re already swaying on your feet. "Don't think this means I like you. This room is way too clean, it’s suspicious. You probably have cameras in the walls to watch me drool."
"Go to sleep, brat," she replies, though there's a ghost of a smirk on her lips as she slides the door shut.
But the safety is a double-edged sword. Once your body relaxes, the trauma of the slums bubbles up. You fall into a feverish sleep, dreaming of dark alleys, the sound of bones snapping, and the cold feeling of being completely alone in the dark.
You wake up with a gasp, your chest heaving, the lavender silk dampened with cold sweat. The silence of the room feels heavy, crushing.
You’re terrified. The tough girl act vanishes in the dark. You scramble up, your legs trembling, and slide the door open. You wander the hallway, your vision blurred by tears you refuse to let fall.
You find her room by the faint scent of incense. You don't knock, you just slide the door open an inch, trembling. Kōyō is sitting up, reading by a dim lamp. She looks up at your pale face and the way you’re clutching your elbows.
"I... I can't sleep," you whisper, your voice small. You try to find a mean comment, a jab about her looking old in the lamplight, but nothing comes. Your lip just quivers. "The room is... too quiet. I hate it."
Kōyō sighs, setting her book aside. She doesn't mock you or tell you to grow up. She simply peels back the heavy duvet of her own bed. "Come here."
"I’m not a baby," you sob, even as you practically dive toward her.
As soon as you’re close, she pulls you into a firm, warm embrace. She smells like home—not the home you had, but the one you dreamed of.
You bury your face in the expensive silk of her robes, finally letting the tears spill over. You’re a ball of shaking nerves, clinging to her like she’s the only anchor in a storm.
Kōyō’s hand rests on your messy hair, her fingers gently smoothing out the tangles.
"Hush," she murmurs, her voice a low hum against your forehead. "The dark can't reach you here. I’ve killed far scarier things than your nightmares."
"You're so annoying," you muffle into her shoulder, your grip tightening on her waist as you finally start to settle.
"And you are a handful," she whispers back, shifting so you can rest your head on her lap. "But for tonight, you may simply be a child."
She stays like that, stroking your hair and humming a wordless tune, until your breathing evens out and you fall into the first real, dreamless sleep of your life.
"This is... quite a detailed perspective," he says, his voice smooth like silk. He finally looks up at you, his violet eyes unreadable. "Do you often make a habit of capturing strangers on paper, My Lady?"
"Only the ones who look like they don't belong to this world," you manage to say, your face heating up immediately as you shift your weight nervously.
He hums, a dark, melodic sound. "A flatterer. Or perhaps just a very keen observer... I am Fyodor." He tilts his head, studying your face with an intensity that makes your skin crawl and tingle at the same time. "And what does the artist call herself?"
"Y/N," you reply, feeling smaller than usual under his intense gaze.
2. Chuuya x PM!Executive!fem!reader
"No," you groan into the skin of his shoulder, your voice thick with sleep but laced with theatrical despair. "The world is ending, Chuu. It’s a catastrophe. If you step foot out of this bed, everything will crumble, the sky will fall, and I will simply expire from heartbreak right here on these sheets..."
Chuuya let out a huffed laugh, his body falling back against the pillows under your weight. "Y/N, quit the theatrics. Boss called three times. There’s a shipment coming into the pier that needs an Executive’s eyes, and since you’re currently 'dying,' I’m the only one left to do it."
You tightened your grip, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. "Mori can walk to the pier himself. Stay with meeee! Make us so heavy that we can't lift ourselves out of the bed. We can be two black holes just drifting in the blankets forever!"
contains fem!reader, suicide mentioned, fluff, hope you'll like it!😘
idea given to me by anon!: So how about a Dazai x s/o reader where reader learns Dazai likes crabs and because there's rarely anything Dazai likes which isn't super eccentric, she(or they if you prefer writing gn) gets super amped up and makes sure to prepare Dazai something crab-related every alternate day. Dazai does like crab but in truth it's not his favourite food and having to eat it everyday just becomes too much and he finally has to tell reader that crab's not his favourite food, it's more so a convenient thing he tells everyone. Uhh super dumb req but~~~
The smell of savory, buttery seafood begins to permeate the ADA office for the fourth time in a week.
You step inside the office holding a delicate crab bisque garnished with fresh herbs, and set it down on Dazai’s desk.
Your eyes shimmer with a rare, focused intensity. You’ve been on a mission: ever since you overheard that crab was his favorite, you’ve made it your life’s work to ensure he never goes without.
Dazai stares at the bowl. His shoulders drop just a fraction of a millimeter. He looks up at you, meeting your gaze, and offers a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Another culinary masterpiece, Y/N? You’re going to make the rest of the Agency jealous," he says, his voice smooth but carrying a hint of strain.
"I don't care about the others," you reply, leaning back against his desk, your hair framing your face perfectly. "I heard you liked it. Since you usually don't care about anything that isn't... well, poisonous or lethal, I figured I should support your one healthy hobby. Eat up, Dazai. I made sure the meat was fresh from the harbor."
Dazai picks up the spoon, swirling the broth slowly. "Fresh. Right. You know, Y/N, the dedication you have for everything else... you've really applied it to the kitchen too, haven't you?"
"I don't do things halfway," you say firmly. "If you love crab, you’re getting the best crab in Yokohama every other day. It’s the least I can do."
Dazai takes a tiny sip, swallows hard, and sets the spoon down with a quiet clack. He looks at your beautiful, expectant face—the way you’re looking at him with such genuine, uncharacteristic sweetness—and he finally breaks.
"Y/N," he starts, his tone shifting to something more grounded, "we need to talk about the crustaceans."
You blink, your lashes fluttering over your eyes. "Is it the seasoning? I can adjust it for Friday's meal."
"No, no! The seasoning is divine," he sighs, running a hand through his brown curls. "It’s just... how do I put this? I feel like I’m becoming a crab. I’m starting to walk sideways. I think I heard my soul make a clicking sound this morning!"
You tilt your head, confused. "But you said you loved it."
"I say a lot of things! I say I want to do a double suicide with a beautiful woman, and yet here I am, still unfortunately alive and smelling like a tide pool," Dazai says, throwing his hands up dramatically. "The truth is, Y/N... crab isn't actually my favorite food. It’s just... convenient. It’s easy to tell people, it’s a quick canned snack, and it keeps everyone from asking deeper questions about my palate. But having it every forty-eight hours is starting to feel like a very delicious form of torture."
You stand there for a moment, stunned. Your figure goes rigid, and then, slowly, your shoulders relax. You let out a soft, airy laugh that makes Dazai blink in surprise.
"Oh?" you say, a playful spark returning to your eyes. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? I’ve been waking up at 5:00 AM to hit the fish markets for you!"
"I didn't want to hurt your feelings! You looked so... amped up. It was terrifying and adorable," Dazai admits, leaning back in his chair.
"Dazai, I would have stopped weeks ago!" You shake your head, a strand of hair falling over your eye. "I just thought you actually loved something for once, so I tried to do something nice for you. You should've told me before!"
Dazai laughs, a genuine, lighthearted sound this time. "So, no more crab?"
"No more crab," you promise, leaning in closer, your face inches from his. "But now you have to tell me what you actually want. And don't give me that 'convenient' excuse again."
Dazai looks into your eyes, his smirk softening. "Well, since you're so good at this... maybe you could just use your hands to make me a simple sandwich next time? Or better yet, just sit here and talk to me. That’s much easier to swallow."
• Dazai’s mind is a noisy, dark place. When you sing, he describes it as his mind finally clearing. He will lay his head in your lap and go completely still, which is rare for him
• He loves the breathy, ethereal quality of the flute as well. He’ll joke that your music is "enchanting enough to lure him to the afterlife," but in reality, it’s the only thing that makes him want to stay in the present
• If you’re practicing, he’ll try to "conduct" you with a chopstick. He’s annoying until you actually start playing a soft melody. Then he just watches you with an uncharacteristically soft, vulnerable expression
• He suffers from insomnia. On particularly bad nights, he’ll whisper, "Sing the one about the crows again?" Your voice is the only thing that helps him drift off without nightmares
• You’ll find voice memos on his phone labeled "DO NOT DELETE." It’s just snippets of you humming while doing chores or practicing a difficult flute trill
• If someone interrupts your singing, Dazai’s immediately goes super dramatic mode. Nobody ruins his private concert
• He’ll try to play the "suicide song" on your flute
• For your anniversary, he’d track down a rare, vintage wooden flute. He won’t admit how much it cost or how many favors he pulled to get it
CHUUYA NAKAHARA
• Chuuya has expensive taste in music, so if he says you’re good, you are elite. He thinks your voice is top-shelf liquor for the ears
• He loves the flute because it requires incredible breath control. As a fighter, he respects the lung power and discipline it takes to play
• His ideal date is sitting on the balcony with a glass of wine while you play a soft melody. The combination of the night air and your music is his peak relaxation
• He’ll pretend he can’t hear you singing through the door, but he’s actually leaning against the wall on the other side, smiling like a dork
• He’ll tap out the beat on your shoulder or hip while you hum. He’s surprisingly good at keeping time
• He finds your voice soothing specifically because his own life is so violent. Your soft melodies act as a balm for his Corruption-scarred soul
• He’ll brag about you to the Port Mafia members. "Yeah, my girlfriend plays the flute. Like, professionally. Better than anything you listen to"
RANPO EDOGAWA
• Ranpo gets bored easily, but he never gets bored of your voice. He calls it "The Only Sound Worth Listening To" (besides the sound of candy wrappers opening)
• He treates you like a human jukebox. "Play the theme song from that detective show! Now sing that pop song from the commercial!"
• He thinks your flute case is a great place to hide his secret snacks. You have to check it every time so you don't find a candy or a lollipop in your headjoint
• "You know, your pitch is 0.5% off today. Are you tired?" He’s the only one who notices the tiny shifts in your voice before you even realize you’re getting a cold
• If you play a particularly difficult piece perfectly, he’ll give you his favorite candy or a high-end chocolate. That’s how you know he really loves you
• When he’s frustrated about something, you just have to start singing softly. He’ll deflate like a balloon and crawl into your personal space to listen
• He likes to solve mysteries while you practice in the background. He says the frequency of the flute helps his brain click into gear
• He tells everyone at the Agency that he discovered your talent, even though you’ve been playing for years
MICHIZŌ TACHIHARA
• He acts like he doesn't care about "fancy music," but the second you pick up the flute, he goes quiet and red in the ears
• He's your biggest fan in secret. If he sees a flute soloist on TV, he’ll scoff and say, "Pff, Y/N can do that thing way better!"
• You’ll catch him whistling the tunes you play on your flute while he’s cleaning his guns or doing something mundane. When you point it out, he obviously gets flustered and denies it
• After a rough mission with the Black Lizard, he just wants to sit on the floor at your feet while you sing. He doesn't want to talk, he just wants the melody to wash the tiredness off his body
• He'll nudge you with his elbow and mumble, "Hey... do that thing with the high notes? The one that sounds like birds?"
• He’d buy you the most expensive cleaning kit and pad-savers. He treats your flute with as much respect as his own weapons
• He often says stuff like: "I dunno much about music, but... your voice makes me feel relaxed. So, thanks"
DOPPO KUNIKIDA
• Your practice time is literally written into his notebook. "5 PM - Y/N Practice (Flute). 6 PM - Dinner." He values your dedication to your craft
• He has a color-coded filing system for your sheet music. If you lose a page, don't worry—Kunikida has a digital backup and a laminated copy ready
• He'll gently adjust your shoulders while you play to make sure you aren't straining your back. "Breath from the diaphragm, Y/N!"
• If the Agency is too loud while you’re visiting, he’ll slam his book on the desk. "SHUT UP! Can't you see she is trying to practice a delicate melody?!"
• He has a deep respect for the flute’s history. Sometimes he’ll ask if you can play traditional Japanese pieces. It brings a rare, peaceful smile to his face
• Kunikida is the type to learn basic music theory just so he can understand your hobby better. He wants to be able to talk to you about it
• He always carries honey-lemon tea in a thermos for you. "You were singing for three hours. Drink this so you don't strain your vocal cords"
• He would never admit it, but he has a playlist of your practice sessions that he listens to when he’s stressed out
• To him, a perfect home involves the sound of your flute echoing through the hallway. It represents the peace he’s fighting for
contains fem!reader, suicide mentioned, fluff, hope you'll like it!😘
summary: Waking up with him
The morning sun is an intruder in the dimness of the apartment, slicing through the gaps in the heavy curtains to illuminate the dust motes dancing over your bed.
You are already awake, your frame stretched out across the mattress. Your hair is a chaotic halo of sleep-mussed layers against the white pillowcase.
Beside you, buried under a mountain of beige blankets and tangled limbs, is the Agency’s most brilliant and most difficult problem.
Osamu Dazai is currently a dead weight, his breathing deep and rhythmic, his face smoothed into an expression of complete peace that he only ever shows you.
You sigh, your eyes blinking slowly as you prop yourself up on one elbow. Your silhouette casts a long shadow over him. You reach out, your fingers tracing his face gently before shaking his shoulder. "Osamu. Wake up. Kunikida has already called my phone three times."
A muffled groan vibrates from beneath the duvet. He doesn't move, instead burrowing deeper into the warmth, his hand blindly reaching out until he finds your waist, pulling you back down toward him.
"Nooo... the world is ending, Y/N," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep and raspier than usual. "I’ve decided to retire. My new occupation is being a professional blanket warm-holder. It’s a very prestigious position."
"It’s 10:00 AM," you counter, trailing your fingers through his messy brown hair. "You have three reports due, and Ranpo-san already ate your hidden stash of high-grade crab because you weren't there to defend it."
That gets a flinch, but his eyes stay shut. He shifts, rolling onto his back and pulling you over him so you’re draped across his chest. His hands settle comfortably on the small of your back, appreciating you even in his semi-conscious state. He finally cracks one eye open, staring up at you with a mixture of adoration and dramatic suffering.
"Let him have the crab," Dazai sighs, his gaze wandering over your mesmerizing eyes. "Why would I care about food when I have a goddess pinning me to my bed? You’re so beautiful, Y/NNNNN... it’s actually a crime. I should arrest you. Or we should go commit a double suicide together right now, before the caffeine kicks in."
"You say that every morning," you whisper, leaning down until your nose brushes his. "And every morning, I tell you that I’m not dying until you at least finish your paperwork. Get up, you lazy brat."
"Heartless! My own girlfriend is a slave-driver!"
He suddenly bolts upright, though he keeps his arms wrapped tightly around you, forcing you to sit in his lap. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. "Just five more minutes. If you give me a proper 'good morning,' I might consider moving a toe."
"A proper one?" you ask, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips.
"A kiss. A long one," he bargains, pulling back just enough to look at you, his chocolate-brown eyes bright with mischief. "One that makes me forget that Kunikida-kun even exists. Otherwise, I’m staying in this bed forever."
You can't help it. You lean in, closing the distance. The kiss is slow and deep, tasting of shared secrets and the quiet intimacy of the morning. His hands slide up your back, his fingers tangling in the messy ends of your hair. When you finally pull away, his expression is dazed, his pupils blown wide.
"There," you say, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Now, get up."
Dazai lets out a long, theatrical whine, falling backward onto the pillows and dragging you with him for one last squeeze. "Fine, fine! But if Kunikida-kun yells at me, I’m hiding behind you. You’re much prettier to look at than his angry face."
"Get up, Osamu," you laugh, though you lean down to press one last kiss to his forehead.
"I'm going, I'm going..." he mutters, though he doesn't move for another five minutes, simply staring at you with that dizzy, lovestruck look that reminds you exactly why you’re the only person in Yokohama who can handle him.
For a second, the air is deathly still. Then, to your surprise, the woman huffs a dry, elegant laugh. It’s not the sound of someone offended though.
"You have spirit. It will be entertaining to watch the world try to break it," she says. Without another word, she reaches into her sleeve and pulls out a small, high-quality slip of paper. She flicks it toward you. It catches the wind, dancing through the air until it lands right at your feet. Written on it in perfect calligraphy is a phone number and a single name: Kōyō Ozaki.
"Keep it," she says, turning her back on you and beginning to walk away, her umbrella spinning slowly. "When you realize that your insults can't fill your stomach, give me a call. I’ll be waiting."
2. Dazai x ADA!fem!reader
You stand there for a moment, stunned. Your figure goes rigid, and then, slowly, your shoulders relax. You let out a soft, airy laugh that makes Dazai blink in surprise.
"Oh?" you say, a playful spark returning to your eyes. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? I’ve been waking up at 5:00 AM to hit the fish markets for you!"
"I didn't want to hurt your feelings! You looked so... amped up. It was terrifying and adorable," Dazai admits, leaning back in his chair.
"Dazai, I would have stopped weeks ago!" You shake your head, a strand of hair falling over your eye. "I just thought you actually loved something for once, so I tried to do something nice for you. You should've told me before!"
contains fem!reader, wine mentioned, fluff, hope you'll like it!😘
I love writing for him so much, favorite character of all time😍
summary: You had a rough day so you come to your boyfriend for comfort
The weight of the day hangs heavy on your shoulders, a physical burden that even your formidable ability can’t lift. Being a Port Mafia Executive is a relentless cycle of high-stakes negotiations and blood-slicked combat, and today, you’ve reached your limit.
You don't knock. You never do. You push open the heavy doors to Chuuya’s office, your eyes tracking him immediately.
He’s buried behind a mountain of paperwork, his brow furrowed in that focused, slightly irritable way that always makes you want to mess with him.
"You look like you're about to explode, Chuu," you murmur, your voice thick with exhaustion.
You don't wait for an answer. You cross the room with the effortless stride and collapse forward, draping your frame over his back. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the comforting, sharp scent.
"Oi, Y/N! I’m right in the middle of a report for the Boss," Chuuya grumbles, though his tone lacks any real bite. He freezes for a second, then sighs, leaning back into your embrace. "Rough day?"
"The worst," you mumble against his skin, squeezing him tighter. "If I have to kick another subordinate into shape, I’m going to go on strike. Carry me."
Chuuya huffs a laugh, reaching up to pat your arm. "You're an Executive, not a toddler. Get off me, I need to finish this."
"No. Paperwork is the enemy. I am the priority here," you counter, turning your head to nip playfully at his earlobe.
You feel him shiver slightly, his gravity manipulation flickering for a split second as a pen on his desk floats an inch into the air before dropping.
"You’re a menace," he mutters, but his hand finds the back of your head, his gloved fingers gently tangling in your messy hair. "Fine. Five minutes. Then you let me finish."
"Make it zero minutes," you say, suddenly pulling away. Before he can protest, you reach out and snatch the hat right off his head.
"HEY! GIVE THAT BACK YOU BRAT!"
You ignore him, spinning on your heel and retreating toward the plush leather couch on the far side of the office.
You plop down, tucked into a corner, and immediately drape his discarded coat over your body like a heavy, protective cocoon. You settle his hat onto your own head, pulling the brim down low over your eyes.
"It's mine now," you announce from the couch. "The hat, the coat, the office, you. Everything is mine!"
Chuuya pushes his chair back, the wheels screeching against the floor as he stands up.
He marches over to the couch, looking down at the heap of silk and attitude that you are. "You’re stealing my clothes while I’m working now? That’s low, even for my girlfriend."
You peek out from under the brim of the hat, your expression sleepy and soft. "Come here..."
He groans, but the hardness in his blue eyes melts instantly. He sits on the edge of the couch, and you immediately shift, pulling him down next to you. You take one of his hands and press it against your cheek, closing your eyes.
"Talk to me," you whisper. "Tell me about something that isn't work."
Chuuya sighs, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "I was thinking about that vintage Petrus I saw at the auction. And about taking you out this weekend. Just us. No phones, no subordinates."
"I like the 'just us' part," you breathe, reaching up to hook your fingers into his waistcoat, pulling him down until his face is inches from yours. You press a lingering, affectionate kiss to his lips, tasting the faint trace of smoke and the warmth of him.
"You're exhausted, Y/N," he says softly, his voice dropping an octave as he brushes a stray lock of hair from your face. "Sleep. I'll stay right here. Paperwork can wait until tomorrow."
"You promise?" you ask, your voice trailing off as sleep begins to pull at you.
"Yeah," Chuuya whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead, his hand resting protectively over yours. "I promise. Rest. I've got you."
As you drift off under the weight of his coat, the last thing you feel is the steady rhythm of his heart and the quiet, gravitational pull of the only person who makes the chaos of Yokohama feel like home.
Osamu Dazai x fem!reader (slight platonic!Kyouka Izumi x fem!reader)
contains fem!reader, suicide mentioned, yelling, fluff, hope you'll like it!😘
summary: You brought your cat to the Agency and now Dazai wants the same attention you give Kyouka and your cat
The morning air in the Armed Detective Agency is unusually soft, scented with the aroma of tea and the faint, earthy smell of old books.
You sit at your desk, your hair falling over your shoulders in artful disarray. Despite your reputation for being a lethal whirlwind on the battlefield, your movements in the office are slow and deliberate.
A soft mew erupts from the bag resting on your lap. Out pops a tiny, silver-furred kitten with eyes that mimic your own.
"Is he... allowed to be here?" A quiet, monotone voice drifts from your side.
You look down to see Kyouka standing there, her eyes wider than usual, fixed intensely on the tiny creature. You offer her a warm, patient smile that makes your eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Of course, Kyouka-chan. He wanted to meet you," you say, your voice like velvet. You reach into your bag and pull out a small container. "And I brought the extra-firm tofu from that shop you like. We can share."
Kyouka’s face lights up with a rare, microscopic spark of joy. Within seconds, she is settled on the floor at your feet, the kitten pouncing on her kimono sleeves while she delicately eats a cube of tofu.
Watching her, your heart melts. She’s had such a hard life, and you’ve made it your personal mission to be the older sister she deserves.
"He is very soft, Y/N-san," Kyouka whispers, letting the kitten lick her thumb. "Like a tiny cloud."
"He likes you," you murmur, leaning back. "He knows a good soul when he sees one."
The peaceful atmosphere is abruptly punctured by a theatrical sigh. Dazai, who had been "working" (staring at the ceiling), suddenly lunges forward.
He doesn't go for the cat, and he certainly doesn't go for the tofu. Instead, he drops to his knees beside your chair, leaning his head against your arm.
"Y/N-chaaaannn! This is blatant discrimination!" Dazai wails, pouting so hard it’s a wonder his face doesn't stay that way. "You give the kitten pats! You give Kyouka-chan tofu! But what about me? I am suffering! I am dying of neglect!"
You chuckle. "Dazai, calm down. You aren't dying."
"I am!" He insists, and then, to your utter shock, he begins lightly headbutting your shoulder like a persistent cat. Thump. Thump. Thump. "I require healing! I require the touch of my Belladonna! Pat me, Y/N! Pat my head or I shall simply wither away!"
"Dazai, stop," you say, though your tone lacks any real bite. You're far too patient for your own good. "You're going to give yourself a concussion."
"A concussion caused by Y/N-chan? What a poetic way to go!" Thump. "Pat me! Pat! Me!"
Kyouka looks up from the floor, holding the kitten. "Dazai-san is being loud. Should I use Demon Snow?"
"No, no, it's fine," you sigh, finally giving in.
You reach out with a slender hand and place it atop his messy brown curls. The moment your palm makes contact, Dazai freezes, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss washing over his face.
You ruffle his hair gently, the way you would a stray kitten. "There. Are you happy now, you menace?"
Dazai lets out a long, dramatic purr. "Exceedingly happy. I might never move again. In fact, I'm retiring right here—"
"DAZAAAAAIIIIIIII!"
The door slams open with such force the hinges groan. Kunikida stands there, a fountain pen snapped in his hand, his face a terrifying shade of magenta. He looks at Kyouka on the floor with a cat, then at Dazai practically vibrating under your hand.
"YOU WASTE OF BANDAGES! WE HAVE THREE CODES TO DECRYPT, AND YOU ARE ACTING LIKE A HOUSE PET!" Kunikida screams, stomping toward your desk. "AND YOU Y/N! DON'T ENCOURAGE HIM! YOUR PATIENCE IS A WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION IN THIS OFFICE!"
Dazai looks up at Kunikida, his hand still holding onto your sleeve. "Can't you see I'm busy being cherished, Kunikida-kun? Go away, you're ruining the aesthetic we have going on."
"STOP WASTING TIME AND GET TO WORK!"
Dazai ignores him entirely, reaching up to twirl a lock of your hair around his finger. "He’s so loud, isn't he? It’s bad for my ears, and it’s certainly bad for your radiant complexion. You're so patient to put up with his constant screaming. Don't you think he'd be much more peaceful if he just stopped breathing for a few minutes? Just as an experiment?"
"Dazai, don't suggest murder-suicides in front of the child," you say softly, though a small, amused smile plays on your lips.
You reach down to scratch the kitten behind the ears as it wanders over from Kyouka’s lap.
"I'M NOT SCREAMING!" Kunikida yells, slamming his Ideals notebook onto the desk. "I am articulating the necessity of productivity!"
"See?" Dazai whispers loudly to you, shielding his mouth with one hand while the other rests on your arm. "He’s obsessed with his little book. It’s a sickness, Y/N-chan. A tragedy! He doesn't understand the fine art of doing absolutely nothing while looking into the eyes of a beautiful woman. He has no soul. No romance. Just schedules and pens."
Kyouka looks up from the floor, her expression as deadpan as ever. "Kunikida-san’s pen is leaking."
Kunikida looks down at his hand, sees the blue ink staining his palm, and lets out a sound that is half-strangled sob, half-war cry. "I... I have a spare! This was calculated! Dazai, if you don't get off Y/N in the next three seconds, I will schedule your funeral for 3:15 PM!"
"Make it 3:30," Dazai chirps, finally sitting up but refusing to move away from you. "I want to finish sharing this tofu with Y/N-chan first. And maybe another head pat? For my trauma?"
You sigh, the sound gentle and melodic, and give Kunikida a sympathetic look. "I'll make sure he looks at the files, Kunikida-kun. Just... give him a moment to settle down."
"You're an angel, Y/N-chan!" Dazai beams, sticking his tongue out at Kunikida behind your back. "Hear that? She said I need a moment. Go organize some paperclips or something."
As Kunikida begins to vibrate with a fury that threatens to level the building, you calmly pick up a piece of tofu with your chopsticks and offer it to the pouting detective.
He takes it with a look of pure victory, while Kyouka quietly moves the kitten away from the blast zone of Kunikida's inevitable explosion.
You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the comforting, sharp scent.
"Oi, Y/N! I’m right in the middle of a report for the Boss," Chuuya grumbles, though his tone lacks any real bite. He freezes for a second, then sighs, leaning back into your embrace. "Rough day?"
"The worst," you mumble against his skin, squeezing him tighter. "If I have to kick another subordinate into shape, I’m going to go on strike. Carry me."
Chuuya huffs a laugh, reaching up to pat your arm. "You're an executive, not a toddler. Get off me, I need to finish this."
2. Dazai x fem!reader
You sigh, your eyes blinking slowly as you prop yourself up on one elbow. Your slim silhouette casts a long shadow over him. You reach out, your fingers tracing his face gently before shaking his shoulder. "Osamu. Wake up. Kunikida has already called my phone three times."
A muffled groan vibrates from beneath the duvet. He doesn't move, instead burrowing deeper into the warmth, his hand blindly reaching out until he finds your waist, pulling you back down toward him.
"Nooo... the world is ending, Y/N," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep and raspier than usual. "I’ve decided to retire. My new occupation is being a professional blanket warm-holder. It’s a very prestigious position."
contains fem!reader, being prisoner, hope you'll like it!😘
it's a little shorter so I'll probably come up with a part 2. GUYS HE'S SO CUTE IN THE FIRST PIC I CAN'T😊🖤
summary: You made a mistake and now you're DOA's prisoner
The heavy iron shackle bites into your ankle, a cold contrast to the plush mattress beneath your slim frame. You shift restlessly, your hair tangling further into a messy web against the white sheets. Your eyes are clouded with the sheer, agonizing weight of inactivity.
Across the room, Fyodor is a statue of irritating serenity. He hasn't looked up from his desk in hours, his slender fingers dancing across a keyboard with a rhythmic click-clack that is slowly driving you insane.
"I'm boooooreeeeed," you groan, the sound vibrating through the silent room. You let your head hang off the edge of the bed, your hair sweeping the floor as you stare at him upside down. "Fyodor. Fyooodooor. Dear Demon... I am actually dying of stagnation. My cells are literally withering away."
Fyodor’s fingers don't pause. His voice is a smooth, melodic hum that barely carries across the space. "The human body can survive weeks without food, Y/N. I assure you, you will survive an afternoon without chaos."
"I’m an Executive, not a monk!" You kick your free leg out in frustration. "Talk to me. Do something. Perform a miracle. Juggle? You look like you could juggle."
"I would appreciate some peace and quiet while I orchestrate the collapse of the current social order," he replies, finally pausing to turn a page in a leather-bound ledger.
He doesn't even look at you, his half-lidded violet eyes fixed on the text. "Surely you can find entertainment in your own thoughts."
"My thoughts are currently occupied with thirty-six different ways to break this bedframe and use the splinters to pin your head to that desk," you huff, rolling back onto your stomach and propping your chin on your hands. "Do something funny. Tell a joke. Dance? Anything!"
Fyodor sighs, a soft, weary sound. He finally turns his chair slightly, looking at you with that unshakable, terrifying calm. "I am not a jester, Y/N. I am a man of faith and purpose. If you find the silence unbearable, perhaps you should reflect on the tactical errors that led you to this."
"Ugh! You're no fun! You’re absolutely, 100% zero fun!" You flop back onto the pillows, throwing an arm over your eyes dramatically. "You’re like a funeral director on a Sunday morning. If I’m going to be a prisoner of the DOA, I at least deserve a host with a personality."
You sit up suddenly, a spark of mischief lighting up your gaze. "Actually, you know what? Call that white-haired guy! The one with the funny hat and the cape! At least he knows how to put on a show. Compared to you, he’s a god-tier entertainer! Tell him I want a magic trick!"
Fyodor’s eyebrow twitches almost imperceptibly. "Nikolai is... busy. And I highly doubt he would be the calming influence you clearly require."
"I don't want a calming influence, I want to see something explode!" you snap, crossing your arms over your chest. "Go get him, Fyodor. Or start dancing. Those are your only two options if you want me to stop whining."
Fyodor returns his gaze to his work, his expression unreadable. "Then I suppose I shall have to get used to the sound of your whining. It is a small price to pay for the peace of not having Nikolai dismantle the walls."
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