── 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.
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✦ — 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!
© 2023-26 musamora. do not repost / reupload my works or use them to train ai for any reason. reblogs are appreciated.
