came across your wattpad account a few minutes ago, realized u had tumblr linked and as soon as i saw profile, my jaw instantly dropped??? your layout is gorgeous oh my god it screams rich vibes
half haven't written anything because i've been stacked with projects, half because i've been too busy catching up on the witch hat atelier manga to be mentally prepared for the anime.
promise i'm working on requests! my attention is split between them and writing my current chuuya long-fic, but i hope to finish a couple requests soon :D
── THE CLOSEST TO HEAVEN I'LL EVER BE ノ HOW THEY KISS YOU (PT. 1) ‧₊˚ ⋅
✦ . . . three men. three different kinds of devotion. and the quiet, intimate moments where possessiveness, tenderness, and love blur into something consuming.
content. f!reader. sfw, minor injuries, kissing, suggestive themes, implied/referenced violence, needles, discussions of religion, established relationships. 3.9k+ words.
⤷ features osamu dazai, chuuya nakahara, and fyodor dostoevsky.
would you like to see more content? fill out the taglist!
✦ — 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈
The plush leather of the chair warmed like an old ceramic pot left in the sun, cradling your tired body as it soaked up the light. Your feet braced against an adjoining stool as your diligent hands stitched a nasty tear on Dazai’s coat sleeve, ripped in a violent, early-morning raid in one of the harbor warehouses. You’d already been tempted to fix it, but Kunikida’s persistent complaints forced your hand—though the dedicated man hadn’t intended for you to do it, it would be obvious come Monday morning that the coat’s wearer had no hand in its sudden repair.
Speak of the devil and he will appear, standing at the entrance of your living room, tapping his foot with the impatience of a child.
“How long is this gonna take?”
“It’s only been ten minutes.” You didn’t even bother to look up, preoccupied with piercing the needle through a particularly tough patch of fabric. “And this is your coat. I could just not fix it at all.”
“Then I’d be practically naked!”
“That’s what I thought.”
Dazai’s eyes slitted like an ill-tempered cat, the distance between you unable to muffle the amusement in your tone. He was certain you were smiling, a crescent-shape drawn across your lips as you perched in the chair, pleased with yourself.
“Such a cruel woman!” he cried, hobbling like a midday drunkard across the room. “Can’t you have pity on a poor man’s heart?”
He tumbled into the chair, the motion accidentally forcing the needle into the tip of your thumb. Hissing, you snatched your hand, eyeing the bead of blood that blossomed from your fingertip. Your frown only deepened as a drop glided down your finger, claiming a piece of coat fabric for itself.
“Great. Now I’ve got blood on it.”
“It’ll come out.”
Your glare dried out any words that tried to come out of his mouth, flopping your unfinished handiwork down onto your lap.
“I’m the one who’ll have to clean it.”
“We certainly can’t have that, can we?” Your pissed-off face only egged on his shit-eating grin. “How will you be able to manage with such an injury?”
Uncareful hands rustled your shirt like they were attempting to placate a stray animal, the same uncareful man prancing off toward your bathroom.
“This is your fault, you know!”
He either didn’t hear you or completely ignored you—only he would know, but you could guess—the cliff-edge of a tune on his lips as he rummaged through your bathroom cabinet in the dark. Not that he needed to turn on the light to find it, hands meeting the cool plastic of a medical kit before he’d even finished the first verse. He returned, and you were in the same state he left you in, unamused and wilted.
He almost felt bad. Okay—he did feel bad. For you getting hurt, that is.
Not for messing with you. Much. It wasn’t his fault! You were so absolutely darling when enraged.
“Excuse me,” he sang, plopping onto the stool with the kit in his lap, nudging your feet with his hip as he reached for your hand. “Alright. Let me see it.”
It remained firmly held in your other. “You don’t have to go through all this trouble, you know. It’s just a prick.”
“No, no, no.” Despite his teasing, he was careful not to irritate you or your wound further, easing the hand into his lap. “You just sit there and relax. Doctor’s orders.”
That determined look on his face made it clear there was no arguing with him, so you didn’t. Submitting with a huff, you allowed your hand to be examined, now careful fingers tracing up the ridge of your thumb. Still, you couldn’t help your suspicion.
“Why do I feel like this was all just an elaborate scheme to make me pay attention to you?”
“They didn’t call me the demon prodigy for nothing.”
You swallowed the retort in your throat, suddenly exhausted by the idea of an endless back-and-forth. Your firm mask of anger did not take long to crumble to your feet, eyes fluttering as the sun tempted them to close. It had been an overwhelming day, and Dazai was more than happy to provide a momentary respite, nimble fingers massaging the tense muscles of your palm as you unwound.
He popped the kit open, reaching for one of the small bandages, only to halt at the sight of one of his wraps. If he was going to take care of you, why not draw it out for as long as he possibly could? He was sure you wouldn’t mind.
Unwinding a section of the wrap, he slowly spindled it around your thumb, careful not to wind it too tight. Your hand was so warm—unbearably so. Like you’d soaked up the sun itself. It would’ve been no surprise to him if you were its reincarnation, though he’d wonder what he had ever done to deserve sunshine in his hands.
The faint rhythm of a rickety fan guided his fingers, encasing your palm in the protective fabric. His thumb brushed past an old scar from a year he couldn’t name, and he made sure to document it in his mind with the reverence of a scholar.
“Uh, don’t you think this is a bit overboard?”
You were right, he knew, but he refused to answer, pressing his lips to the bandaged tip of your thumb. “Is there a problem with me wanting to take care of my beautiful girlfriend?”
A small noise from your lips—maybe in disbelief, maybe in something far more remarkable—shattered the remains of his soft intentions, his heated mouth drawing a line between the constellation of beauty marks on your hand. Scars, freckles, moles—anything he could see.
The medical kit landed with a thunk as he snatched you by the waist, dragging you onto his lap as he journeyed from wrist to arm. You flushed underneath his touch, taut like a spring pulled back on the verge of release.
“What is going on with you?” Your breath hitched, head craning back as he nipped at the sensitive patch of skin found in the juncture of your neck.
“What?” he asked, unrelenting. “Is something wrong?”
You didn’t know how to reply. Found yourself not wanting to, biting back a noise as he marked delicate, binding kisses up the curve of your neck.
“Truth is—” His breath prickled your skin. “I’d wrap you up entirely if it meant keeping you all to myself. I’m greedy like that.”
He met his destination at the curve of your jaw, darting his heated touch from the crinkle of your eyes to the wrinkle of your brow, ending at the corner of your lips to sit on the tempting edge of an actual kiss.
He pulled back, and despite the smirk on his face, the softness of his eyes had you melting.
“You okay, pretty girl?”
The heat left you dazed, replying with a simple, “Mhm.”
He hummed, caramel eyes flickering from your own to your lips. You were truly the most breathtaking creature to ever exist—you could feign indifference all you liked, but the best part of his day would always be watching you unravel the moment he had you in his arms. How could he not fall in love with such simple beauty?
“You'll have to forgive me, then.” His touch, despite his words, was gentle as he whispered against you. “I’m a weak man.”
You grabbed at his collar as your lips collided, sighs spilling into the kiss as your last drop of restraint dissolved. The coat bunched between you joined the kit on the floor, his hand circling your hip, chest pressed flush against his own. Could you feel his heart beat from this close? He certainly could feel yours.
“God—” he breathed. “Can’t believe you’re all mine. So beautiful.”
You laughed against his lips, eyes shining like he’d brought you back from the dead.
“You know this isn’t gonna get you out of cleaning, right?”
He snorted, knowing nothing could be more perfect than the realization that you had both been positively made for one another.
✦ — 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀
It had been a long day for the Port Mafia executive.
Not because of missions or paperwork—he would’ve preferred either to the assortment of mundane duties he’d been forced to attend. Fights were supposed to be fun. Exhilarating, even—at least that’s how he saw it. A clash of power and will, pushed to the brink to see which would win. He’d always admired foes that met him with that understanding.
Which is why he wasn’t too pleased by the string of cowards lined up for him to capture.
The latest had been a group that had attempted to breach one of the mafia’s largest depots. He had been looking forward to it for days, only to be met with disappointment as its members turned tail and ran the second they spotted him.
They were dumb enough to mess with the mafia, but not enough to even try to fight him?
What a serious buzzkill.
His shoulder creaked as he rolled them, like an old metal pipe, the elevator to the mafia’s private garage thankfully opening without delay. He wished for nothing more than to return home. Malaise crept in the shadows of his footsteps, halting with him as he spotted someone in the distance, messing with the top box of his motorcycle. His feet found flight like a second wind, rushing toward them.
“Hey!” His hands itched to tear them a new one—verbally or physically, he hadn’t decided yet—only for the wind to hit back at him as he met the familiar eyes of the woman he was dying to see. “Babe? What the hell are you doing here?”
You smiled, barely bothering to register how suspicious you looked as you closed the lid of the box, inching your way towards him.
“Hey, hun. How was your day?”
His eyes narrowed, flickering between you and whatever you were hiding.
“Fine. What’s going on?”
You were planning something—those eyes couldn’t hide mischief for long. He struggled to maintain a stoic facade as his annoying heart thrummed beneath his chest. You always managed to do that—he loathed it. One look, and he felt like a teenager all over again.
“I actually wanted to ask—can you drive us somewhere?”
His hard stare weathered. “I mean, of course I can. Where do you need to go?”
“It’s a surprise!”
And just like that, the stare returned. Chuuya had rarely experienced a nice surprise. They’d either been terrible on their own or followed by something worse, like the reaper kept a debt he couldn’t estimate. Even the word surprise left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Doll,” he sighed. “You know how I feel about surprises.”
“I know, I know,” you replied, confidence waning. “It’s a nice one, though, I swear. Very laid-back.”
He knew you had good intentions—he really did. His mind feared the pattern outlined in his footsteps, but he knew, truthfully, he couldn’t say no to you. Chuuya Nakahara was a man who’d rather experience a brief moment of happiness over a lifetime of wondering what-if.
He was a whipped man. If anyone else saw him like this, they’d never believe he was a member of the mafia, much less an executive.
With a browbeaten look, he surrendered. “Alright.”
It took some time to reach your destination, the bike a speeding bullet as it weaved through noisy, rush-hour traffic, escaping into the outer stretches of the city. He’d rarely been in the countryside, completely disoriented as the road shifted from concrete to rock, forced to rely on your directions alone as the path took multiple winding turns. You finally stopped, sat within an unremarkable patch of trees.
“Okay, I’m lost,” Chuuya said, removing the helmet you’d insisted he wear. “Where the hell are we?”
“You’ll see,” you sang, hopping off the bike and removing your own gear before snatching his hand as he dismounted. “Follow me.”
The trees were thick and dense, so he hadn’t expected the intense block of light that pierced through the leaves, forcing him to squint as he blocked it with his other hand. His eyes adjusted, he blinked, and the sight before him stole his breath.
“Damn.”
The hills of Yokohama quietly offered the best view he had ever seen, capturing the skyscrapers and the setting sun in a single scene. None of the hustle and bustle of city life could be heard from here, muted by the wind as it mixed with the flustering leaves and grass around it.
“I used to come here a lot when I was younger.” His eyes strayed from the city, breath ceasing entirely as it became restrained in the tranquil image of your face. “I thought you’d like it.”
There was a time, when you first started seeing each other, when he questioned if you could be any more beautiful. He thought it impossible, but it seemed his past self was a fool. Here, you were in your element, face cradled by a warm sun, the sky a frame around the canvas of your figure.
You were fucking ethereal.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” you said, dipping back behind the trees.
He was a weak man; he knew—had to be, if just your absence alone put such a monumental strain on his heart.
You returned, carrying what he assumed to be the items you’d not-so-sneakily placed in the top box.
“We have this—” In one hand, you raised a bottle of one of his favorite Bordeaux wines. “To ourselves for the next few hours. I’ve got a ride scheduled and everything, just in case we indulge ourselves a bit too much.”
He scoffed, too charmed by the proud look on your face.
“How’d ya manage that?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Flopping onto the ground, you set the basket from your other hand down, prying it open to dish out an impressive number of finger foods. You almost forgot he was even there, stomach growling as you snatched a pastry from its container. It was only halfway through a bite that you’d realized he hadn’t joined you in the grass yet, eyes darting between him and the dessert, patting the space next to you since your mouth was occupied.
He tried not to crumble at the sight of sugar smudged across your lips.
“Sweetheart,” he said, settling on the ground at your side. “You’ve got a little something on your face.”
Your hand swiped across your lip, only managing to wipe a small portion of the mess, brow furrowed in the most endearing act of concentration he had ever witnessed. If he fell over now, dead from the sight, he would be okay with that.
You blinked, looking at him expectantly. “Did I get it?”
He allowed himself to drink everything in for a moment longer, a thought rolling around in his head. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip, only working to smear the mess further.
“Oh! Thank—”
His restraint snapped, diving in for a bite. Jam mixed with the taste of your lips in an exquisite blend, satiating a vacancy he once thought could never be filled—one that had burned since the day he gained consciousness. He drove you into the soft grass, hands moving with their own goal, stealing the noise from your throat as he took in each tempered breath like it was his last meal.
“What did I possibly do to earn you?” he groaned, fingers varnishing your lashes as watercolor eyes blessed him once more.
He sank back in, shivering at the way you breathed his name.
“I thank the gods you’re mine every morning.” The words escaped his throat like a man in prayer as he parted your lips with his tongue. “Couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else getting to have this.”
Your hands cupped his face, and he knew he was forever changed by the unrivaled fondness of your eyes, looking at him the same way he looked at you.
“You deserve it. Even when you don’t think so. Especially then.”
He let the air circle around you both as passion waned into contemplation. You knew trouble when you saw it, especially when it circled the blues of his eyes, reflecting a trouble not yet justified by the alcohol forgotten at your feet.
“We’ve got a couple hours to kill, right?” One of those traitorous hands toyed with the trim of your shirt. “I think I’d like to taste something else.”
✦ — 𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐄𝐕𝐒𝐊𝐘
Tears poured from the sky in a symphony of thunder and lightning, crackling against the earth without care for rhythm or melody. Pious men claimed it to be God, maddened at the ill-deeds of a forgotten, immortal son. The son—a demon—knew it was just a reminder. That there will always be two sides to a coin, whether that be sun and rain, good and evil. He was simply there to ensure balance between both.
The damp, underground labyrinth that served as Fyodor’s temporary hideout did little to soothe his stiffened joints. It was not the best place for someone of his fragile constitution, but he’d lived in far worse conditions with far worse company.
Not that his subordinates counted as such.
They nodded or waved as he passed, and whether it was from respect or fear, he didn’t care; many slipped by as their work concluded for the evening. None of them would serve any use if they didn’t receive rest, after all. He didn’t need them sharp. He needed them capable. This brought a thought to his mind, stopping a man before he slinked by.
“Where is she this evening?”
It didn’t matter whether he said a name or not—anyone with a brain could decipher who the Demon referred to.
“She’s in your office, boss,” the man replied, trying to hide his nerves to no avail.
“My office?” Fyodor raised a brow before waving the man off with a nod. “No matter. Thank you.”
The familiar path to his office echoed as people cleared from the halls, his footsteps racketing against an unforgiving metal that announced his presence. A rumble returned the unspoken greeting in kind, the clicking of keys crescendoing from the illuminated figure inside.
He squinted as he crossed the threshold, eyes adjusting to the bright screens in front of him.
“Welcome back.”
The smooth timbre of your voice was a balm to the cold, like a false, warm summer heat; the perfect antithesis to the storm outside.
“Good evening, my dear,” he replied, stripping himself of his hat and coat before settling them onto a nearby rack. You didn’t stop typing, another hand leading the mouse across the screen as it expertly sorted through multiple operations.
He waited, and then struck.
“I’m quite surprised to see you out of your normal hiding spot. Is your office not to your standards anymore? I’m certain I can find a solution to whatever it is you’re lacking.”
The mouse stilled. Caught in the trap.
“You’ve got more screens than I do.”
The statement was weak. At best.
“It’s helped me get more work done.”
He hummed, a smirk etched into the wintery paleness of his cheeks. “Is that right?”
You’d never admit you were here solely because you missed him—you both knew that well. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t relish the thrill, stringing you through a maze of his own design, enthralled at the possibility that he would one day hear the truth from your lips.
“The mission went well, I assume?” you asked, changing the subject. “I know it was supposed to start raining. Hope you didn’t get caught up in it.”
“It was barely a drizzle when I arrived. The mission itself went just according to plan.” He trapsed across the room, equally too stubborn to admit he had longed to see your face after a week’s absence. “All thanks to you, of course.”
Mellow eyes met his against the vibrant light.
Your shoulders rested, a smile perched on your lips. “What a flatterer you are, lyubimyy.”
It took more willpower than he’d ever, ever admit to another living creature to suppress the quiver that ruptured from the vacant cavity in his chest.
But it was the sight of you that almost destroyed him entirely, swaddled up in his spare coat, legs tucked to your chest as you huddled beneath the makeshift blanket. The gap between the coat and your body exposed the indecent slip you wore underneath. He would’ve commented on the lack of proper attire, around your subordinates specifically, if the mere sight hadn’t utterly entranced him.
What a cruel strike to the heart was the sight, seeing you tucked away and content in the small world he’d crafted. Safe from the storm outside. That was his purpose, too, he supposed. To keep balance meant to protect the sacred. And if the divine took mortal form, would it not be you?
But he was still a demon, wickedness in his blood. A tempting thought came to mind.
“Now that you’ve mentioned it,” he mused. “You look quite cold yourself.”
You shifted from content to confused, eyes flickering down to the coat.
“I guess a little bit.”
You yelped as frigid hands hoisted you from the seat. Fyodor planted himself down, taking his rightful place, before spreading you across his lap as if it were yours. He drank in your wide eyes and parted lips, stealing your warmth as his fingers glided across the underside of your jaw.
“Oh, dear,” he said, voice a mockery of concern. “You still look cold.”
Your eyes scrambled, looking anywhere but him. “I-I’m fine.”
But, like a shepherd, he guided you back.
“Don’t lie to me.” You knew you were doomed, ensnared by the squall of his stare. “You never have been able to. It’s alright.”
It released you for a moment, turning downward, but the breath you took was another trap.
“I know just the way to warm you up.”
He pressed his lips to yours—gentle, at first. Like someone knocking at a door, waiting to be let in. But it wasn’t long before the door was barged down, rendering your mind useless in a tremor of curses and sighs, uncaring as he methodically pried you apart. He wanted everything you gave. The warmth of your body burned, and he played your spine like a taut string, trembling beneath an expert touch before calloused fingers smoothed at the nape of your neck.
Still cold, it seemed. That wouldn’t do.
Your arms snaked around his neck like vines of ivy, and part of him—the man that remained despite the years that weathered away at him—wondered what it would feel like if they squeezed tighter.
“Fedya,” you pleaded, and he knew you were both damned.
You didn’t know what you wanted. Only knew that he’d be the only person you ever wanted to give it to you.
“Shh, milaya.” His hand returned, firm against your back, pressing you closer as his other hand plucked at the thin fabric pooled atop your thighs. “I’m not finished yet.”
Your breath surged as his touch sparked earthquakes across your skin, chest heaving, arms shaking. You couldn’t find the strength to look him in the eyes, tucking your face into the exposed skin of his neck as you attempted to calm the pounding drum of your heart.
“Are you warm now?”
If you didn’t love him so unbearably much, you’d have punched him at the first chime of that insufferable, cocky tone. You took another moment, strategically, an eye of the storm, before grabbing his face. You searched for something amongst those deep, ocean-like eyes, widened ever-so-slightly, pushing him down once you found what you were looking for.
“Not yet.”
part one of bungo stray dogs has finally concluded! how was the chapter? this was queued prior to its drop, so i can only imagine (in horror) the events of the current update.
i also had a funny realization while making this piece. it's been over a year since i've written anything for fyodor. feels like i've returned home after a long journey away. hope you enjoyed!
i’ve been seeing these bingo boards across twitter (or x, whatever tf it’s called), so i decided to make one of my own. so here are my little chapter predictions! i can’t wait to see how absolutely wrong i probably am (๑'ᵕ'๑)⸝*
i’ve been seeing these bingo boards across twitter (or x, whatever tf it’s called), so i decided to make one of my own. so here are my little chapter predictions! i can’t wait to see how absolutely wrong i probably am (๑'ᵕ'๑)⸝*
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𝑳𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺 & 𝑺𝑶𝑪𝑰𝑨𝑳 𝑮𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑬𝑺 — interaction etiquette.
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𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑫𝑰𝑶 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑺 — about my writing.
my writing is primarily sfw, occasionally brushing into suggestive territory. however, i have written 18+ content in the past, and there will be no surprises on this blog—mature works will always be tagged.
at present, i mostly write for bungo stray dogs. spoilers for content beyond the anime are always labeled so you can browse at your own pace.
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content. f!reader. sfw, pre-perfect crime arc, discussions of terrorism, feelings realization, doa!reader. not proofread. 1.2k+ words.
⟶ features nikolai gogol.
summary. nikolai never liked to be predictable. so, what happens when someone manages to see right through him?
would you like to see more content? fill out the taglist!
The coarse, faded brick of the clock tower clashed against the smooth concrete of the apartments encircling it. Towering high, it stood as a landmark—admired, but poorly maintained. That was the problem with symbols: people venerated them by mouth but never appreciated them by hand. Its clock face yellowed with years in the sun; mortar cracks allowed the rats to slip through.
Only one peculiar man—a friend of the rats—bothered to journey inside.
Gears clanked to the beat of his footsteps as he climbed a rickety ladder towards the clock room. It smelled of mildew and metal, but it was home. Birds burrowed into corner nests, shielded from the harsh wind outside. It smelled of mildew and metal, but it was a sanctuary to many nonetheless.
The peculiar man was a bit disturbed by his attachment to the place, but now wasn’t the time to pull something explosive. Not yet, anyway.
He had a plan to follow—the very idea sat sticky on his tongue.
But curiosity killed the cat, and perhaps the bird, too.
The ladder squeaked. Footsteps clawed from the floor below. An unexpected guest, much to his delight. He hid behind a crate, watching as a figure opened the hatch. What trick could he play? He snaked in from behind, only for familiar eyes to catch him in their snare.
“Well,” he exclaimed. “If it isn’t my dearest friend.”
“You were quite the hassle to find, you know,” you replied, climbing to your feet. “What happened to meeting at the rendezvous point?”
You winced as he racked a knuckle against your skull. “I knew you’d find me! You’re supposed to keep your mind sharp, remember? The next stage of the plan requires a crafty mind.”
“You and I both know Fyodor isn’t aiming to put our minds to much use. You’ve met some of his subordinates.” You shivered. “Goncharov still gives me the creeps.”
He couldn’t help but agree. Goncharov was able to achieve everything Nikolai had ever dreamed of—but at the cost of becoming Fyodor’s loyal dog. Exchanging one cage for another.
The thought made him antsy.
“Anyways, I’ve got your things.” You heaved a dress bag from the crumpled pile on the floor. “One uniform, fit to your likeness.”
He eyed its contents as a smirk formed. “And how did you happen to obtain such items?”
“Don’t remind me,” you moaned, pushing the bag into his arms. “You’d think we’d have a much easier time getting our hands on one uniform, but apparently they’ve switched materials in an effort to ‘prevent terrorist infiltration.’ Fyodor’s fault, no doubt.”
He pouted—he never did like being the second person to pull off a prank.
“Couldn’t I have dressed up as something different? Something a bit more…unique?”
“After all the work I did to score this?” You huffed. “Absolutely not.”
“And what work was that? I’m dying to know.”
“Guess you’ll have to die then.”
“Ha-ha!” He snatched your arm before twisting you around into a spin. It was either by sheer luck or skill that you didn’t crash into the gears around you. “You’re so fun, you know that?”
“Oh god,” you groaned, stumbling as he slowed down. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Your frazzled expression was priceless, eyes blown wide and mouth heaving. He liked you this way. Settling back onto stable feet, your scowl could stop the clock from ticking. He decided to acquiesce.
“Alright, alright.” He hoisted the bag over his shoulder, sneaking back behind a crate. Only his mismatched eyes poked out from the top. You met eyes, and he screamed.
“Don’t look!”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
The clock’s tick dominated the silence. It agitated the wooden floorboards beneath your feet, growing worse with each passing minute. Nikolai was certainly taking his time. You took the time to plot for the inevitable moment he ripped that damn uniform—only God himself knows how much you’d endured to obtain that thing. More than it was worth, you’d say.
“Boo.”
Your shoulders bunched at the draft of cool air, swallowing the squeak stuck in your throat. The fruitless effort only served to amplify his amusement, showing his new outfit off like a ridiculous peacock.
“What do you think? Blue might be my new color.”
To your dismay, he looked good in blue. Really good, in fact. The color brought out the cool tone of his left eye, always focused on everything and nothing at the same time. His shirt and pants fit his broad frame perfectly. It seemed your hours of tailoring were successful, after all. The only issue was his hair, almost blinding against the dark navy of his police hat. He already stood out in normal clothes, so this could be an issue. But damn, that didn’t mean he didn’t look good.
He chuckled, and you wanted to smash your head into the wall.
You’d been staring.
“Do I really look that good?”
“You look adequate.”
He didn’t seem to believe you—you didn’t believe yourself—and your eyes scrambled to search for a way out.
“Hold on,” you stepped close, pulling his tie. It was lopsided. Like he tried to create a balloon animal out of fabric. “How is someone gonna believe you’re a cop if you can’t even tie this properly?”
You resisted the temptation to strangle him as you retied it. It was difficult, but you managed, and you had to pat yourself on the back for that, at least.
“There.” You patted it down, tucking it back underneath his vest. “Now you look like a real one.”
He remained silent. You frowned, and almost flinched when you saw those sharp eyes zeroed in on you. “What? Do I have something on my face?”
He was rarely a man left speechless.
The brush of your hands alone had his brain stuttering. You didn’t even touch his skin! It was the thought that you’d willingly, and so easily, come near him. Lips pursed as you concentrated on fixing his tie, proud of yourself once you stepped away. It was adorable—and he hated it. Hated the mechanical acceleration of his heart as it beat in time with the clock gears; the act of moving with something, rather than against it.
You were dangerous.
And the worst part was, you had no clue.
He smiled.
“It’s right there,” he said, pointing to a vague point on your cheek.
You wiped the area with your thumb, perturbed to find nothing on it. “Did I get it?”
“Nope.”
You scrubbed harder.
“Now?”
“Not in the slightest,” he replied, before cupping your jaw. Your deer-in-headlights expression was quite a spectacular sight, watching you watch him as he swept the nonexistent smudge from your face. His lips curled as those pretty little eyes remained on him, frazzled as he refused to pull away. “There. What am I gonna do with you?”
Oh, this. This was dangerous.
“You’re so messy, my dear.”
Shaking your head, you swatted his hand away, eyes darting from him to the hatch door.
“Just…head to the police precinct. I’ll see you if you don’t mess this mission up.”
You refused to turn to wave goodbye, but that was all right with him. If you had, you’d have seen the fond look on his face.
content. f!reader. sfw, hurt/comfort, kisses, panic attacks, discussions of injuries, established relationships, not proofread. 1.3k+ words.
⟶ features chuuya nakahara.
summary. when a mission goes awry, chuuya is forced to confront the idea of losing you.
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Cellophane buckled under the hold of his fist as the stench of alcohol burnt his nose. Nurses paused in their duties as he passed, faces framed in a professional mask of pity. It had unnerved him once. Now he was used to it—hated it. Like they knew something he wouldn’t admit.
The door was familiar, and he knocked without the expectation of an answer. It was more ritual than functional. The room was dark, but he wouldn’t dare turn on the light. Didn’t need to, anyway.
The flowers perched on the table stuck out like a sore-thumb. He grabbed them by their stems, chucking them into a trash can. It didn’t matter that he took his anger out on some innocent flowers—there was no one to call him out for it.
You always teased him whenever he handed you a bouquet. It wasn’t his fault your previous lovers had no class! And there was something about the smile you tried to hide under fragile arguments: “They’re gonna run out of flowers at this rate!” But you loved them, arranging them around the apartment with care, a mournful frown dotted on your brow as you were forced to throw old ones away. It was then that he decided that you’d never be without fresh flowers. It was the least you deserved.
Even now.
Breathe. He braced against the table like a lifeline—couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t bear to look at you. The call haunted him. He had never run so fast, but not fast enough. Finding your body beneath the rubble was a consequence of his failure. He should’ve known it was a trap. Instead, his last memory of your face—pained and scared—would torture him for the rest of his days.
He almost lost control of himself.
That scared him, too.
The room was quiet, his only company the sound of an electronic heartbeat. He was sick of hearing it, yet simultaneously found comfort within it. The contradiction brought an ache to his fingers. Life stopped at the door. Footsteps and chatter didn’t dare breach beyond the threshold. It was a reminder. Everything he’d ever lost. Everything he could lose.
He didn’t know what he’d do if you—he couldn’t continue the thought. He’d faced loss before, but he was faced with the terrifying realization that no person had ever ingrained themselves within him the way you had. The uncertainty alone drove him crazy. How could he ever be without you?
“Are those for me?”
His fingers, drumming into indents on the table, stopped. He hesitated to turn. But he did.
“They’re lovely,” you said, eyes tired. Your smile formed an oasis in the eye of a drought—voice hoarse and sore from disuse. It slipped through his ear like a whisper in the wind, almost left unheard.
But it wasn’t.
He once imagined this in short moments of hope before erasing the thought entirely, reminded of the chance it wouldn’t happen. To run. To hold you and feel you hold him back. Everything he’d say, words he had never been brave enough to utter.
Those plans shattered as he fell to his knees.
“Chuuya!”
Something foul crawled up his throat, paralyzing him from the inside. Tears pooled, stinging his eyes. He choked on every breath, like the ribs around his lungs caved in. His arms trembled beneath him, and he had to ask—why could’t he move? Why couldn’t he do anything right?
The sound of fabric heaved from a broken body became an anchor in the sea. Panic climbed to a peak as his eyes met yours, attempting to clamber out of bed despite the obstacle of tubes, chords, and strained muscles.
“No—shit, baby, don’t get up!” he yelled, barely able to stand as he scrambled toward the bed, almost knocking down the machines around you as he kneeled at your side, head buried in the warmth of your lap. He almost sobbed when your fingers brushed through his hair with a love he no longer believed he deserved.
“Are you okay?” Your voice was laden with concern.
He couldn’t even laugh at his pitiful state, the noise coming out strangled. “Focus more on yourself, sweetheart.”
“Not when you look like you’re about to keel over.”
His spine curled at the stern sweetness of your voice, holding you tight. To think he’d never hear it again—feel the warmth of your body or the touch of your hands.
“I almost lost you.”
Your hands stilled.
“I’m not leaving that easily.”
You didn’t receive the laugh you wanted, Chuuya lifting himself from your lap to note your scattered injuries. Despite being unconscious for a week, many of your injuries remained intact. Blemished speckled your skin with a cut on your lip and a bruise on your cheekbone. Your complexion was puneish, and your eyes were bloodshot. The worst of it was the scattered blistering around your temple, creeping back into your hairline. You were an absolute mess.
But you were breathing and alive, and that’s all you needed to be beautiful.
His hands were gentle, cupping your face like you were the most precious thing in the world—you were to him, at least. You followed after, prying his gloves with your fingers before intertwining his calloused hands with your own. He couldn’t help himself from tracing the ridge of your palm before meeting your wrist, thumb steady against your pulse as he counted every beat.
His lips pressed to your arm, rough and fervent like he was trying to leave a mark—but whether it was on yourself or him, you didn’t know. He was especially careful around your injuries, combating the urge to kiss every inch of skin he could see. Instead, he settled into ghost-like touches, like there was nothing there to begin with. But you both knew.
It wasn’t long until he had mapped your entire arm, traveling up your neck before claiming your lips with the intensity of a man scorned.
“You can’t”—he spoke between panted breaths—“leave me like that. I couldn’t stand it.”
Your hands fastened to his shirt, breath stuttered. “Chuuya, calm down! You don’t know if—”
A creak echoed into the little room. The nurse shared your horrified expression as you tried not to die once more from sheer embarrassment. The worst part was Chuuya—not an ounce of shame written on his face. Honestly, he looked a little smug, only tilting his head to glance before matter-of-factly stating, “She’s awake.”
Thankfully, the nurse decided it was not the time to prod, slipping out of the room like a rabbit caught carrot-handed—or pawed, really.
“Really?” you said, unimpressed.
Yeah. He wasn’t the least bit ashamed.
“Come here, baby,” he replied, deliberately neglecting to answer as he settled you into his lap. And you would’ve teased further—the public display quite an out-of-character moment for the normally chivalrous mafioso—if not for the aching sigh that escaped him as he brought you back into his arms.
His silky red locks were matted and tangled, his complexion pale as he sagged against you. He looked like he’d had a battle with death itself.
“You’re as white as a ghost.” You traced the dark circles that lined his eyes. “When’s the last time you slept?”
He scoffed. “Couldn’t tell ya’. The chairs here ain’t shit when it comes to back support.”
Your brow furrowed.
“Why didn’t you go home?”
He looked at you like the answer was obvious.
“I am home.”
Your heart stuttered. This soft-hearted man would be the death of you, if not anything else. For a moment, nothing else was exchanged but the breath between you. And that was enough.
“You scared me, you know?” He pressed his head against your own, taking you in. Words trembled with the realization that you truly had another chance, one in which he would never take a second for granted. “I’m not leaving you. Not ever. But if I’m not leaving, you can’t either.”
The gentle press of your lips to his skin was more than enough to break the dam welling behind his eyes.
