#network credentials | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chuulyssa · 1 month ago

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──── fuck it i love you !

teaser . . . new to the armed detective agency, somehow admitted in without the usual examination protocol, you blend in almost fine. except, it's not fine, as you find yourself becoming a victim of dazai's charms.

starring . . . dazai osamu x reader

genre . . . fluff, angst, a bad mother, jealousy, a misunderstanding, a bomb explosion too i think, injury, smut, 18+

somnophilia, light (?) choking kink, loadss of praise, dazai is a little shit, and also very horny

final rating . . . r, MDNI (minors do not interact), strictly 18+

duration . . . 8k words

director❜s notice . . . yes, yes, i did combine 4 asks each a year old at least to write this.

It was supposed to be a one-day event. A keynote speech, a few panel discussions, awkward mingling, and then finally back to your lonely apartment and cheaper-than-it-looks instant ramen. You had your speech notes tucked into a sleek black folder and your voice prepped with honey water and too much nervous rehearsal. Your boss had called it a “great networking opportunity”, though it was only bearable for a night.

Technically, the symposium was prestigious. Big names and bigger egos. You were one of the youngest speakers invited, which your boss made sure to remind you of in front of others, always with that half-laugh that made your skin crawl. “They wanted you, huh? Well, don’t blow it.”

And thankfully, you didn’t. In fact, your talk on crisis communication strategies during high-pressure negotiations went off without a hitch. You even got a few nods of approval — which was better than what your co-workers had. Before thanking everyone and leaving the podium hurriedly, your eyes scanned the crowd once more. There were so many people in there; a woman with violet eyes, a man eating candy during your entire Q&A session (rude, but somehow endearing?), a man in a dark trench coat, bandages up to his neck, who didn’t clap, didn’t nod, and didn’t react — just watched you hawk-eyed.

In the middle of the post-event reception, while you were debating whether to try some of the sophisticated hors d'oeuvres or just fake a phone call and escape, a tall, silver-haired man approached you.

“We’d like to offer you a position at the Armed Detective Agency,” he said calmly, like he was inviting you to tea.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“A position at the Armed Detective Agency.”

No preamble. No small talk. No explanation. The fuck?

You blinked. “Why?”

He didn’t answer, nodding towards the agency’s table. And there he was again, the bandaged man, with his elbows on the table, cheek in his hand, watching you.

“I thought your agency had an entry exam,” you said slowly, still trying to process his invitation. Who the hell comes up with that as a conversation starter? Plus, would your boss even let you go this easily? You shuddered at the thought of him finding you speaking to the famous Agency’s President (he’d probably ramble about how you were trying to escape his company).

“We make exceptions,” Fukuzawa replied.

Why?

That night, you couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t excitement. It was something colder, tighter, lodged under your ribs like a sliver of glass. The next morning, your boss called you, and told you not to come in.

“Why not?” You asked, perplexed.

“Oh, you know, organizational restructuring. It’s best for everyone…” he said, and hung up on you.

Was it even possible to get fired on a phone call?

You stared at the phone in your hand, then out the window of your apartment. Slowly, you got up to unpack the bag you usually took to the office. What had you done wrong, or right, or whatever mix of both got you noticed?

Then your mind drifted to the President from yesterday. Were you being traded? Thrown out? Or, you wanted to laugh, hand-picked? None of it made sense, and no one was telling you anything either.

Two weeks later, you stepped into the lobby of the Armed Detective Agency with a suitcase, a folder of credentials. The receptionist smiled politely, leading you into the main office. There was the same woman with violet eyes there, Yosano, as she introduced herself, complimenting you on your skin (though, judging by the look on her eyes, it might’ve been a threat).

“Oh, you made it! Was starting to think you’d ghosted us.”

You turned around, and there he was again; the bandage man, Dazai, you learned. Your eyes drifted from his neck to his arms. Was he always this injured?

Kunikida didn’t like you.

He never said it, but you could tell. In the way he’d glance at you over his glasses like he was still trying to figure out what category to shove you into — and failing. The way he excluded you from mission briefings unless absolutely necessary, or left you off group messages and claimed it was an accident.

He was structure, incarnate. A man made of rules and order and iron-spined ideals that he recited like prayers. Everything in his world had a purpose. Everything earned its place.

You, on the other hand, had skipped the evaluation.

No trial run. No paperwork anyone could seem to find. Just a quiet invitation from Fukuzawa after a symposium went sideways.

You might’ve laughed about it if it didn’t feel so... personal. Like being let in through a door you weren’t supposed to notice, only to find yourself standing in a room full of people waiting for you to prove you belonged there.

“Don’t mind him,” Ranpo said one morning, already laying across your desk like he owned it. “He’s just bitter you got in without jumping through the hoops.” He started poking at your pen cup. “Got any lollipops?”

“I don’t keep candy.”

Ranpo blinked. “Why not?”

You hesitated. “...Personal trauma.”

He paused for all of three seconds. “Diabetes?” Then he stole a paperclip and vanished.

You did not have diabetes.

Yosano, at least, was genuinely warm. She didn’t speak to you like you were a new recruit or a fragile thing. Just offered you tea sometimes and invited you out with her when she went shopping. You found yourself saying yes more often than you expected, although the others would run and hide whenever she needed someone with her on a shopping spree.

Atsushi was kind too. But it was like someone had told him to be nice to you and he was still working out why. Kenji gave you radishes, and you weren’t quite sure what to do with them, so you just kept accepting them with a thank you and a soft smile.

And Dazai?

Dazai was strange.

Sometimes he’d flirt — shamelessly, lazily, like it took no effort at all. He’d lean in close while you worked, so close you could smell his cologne (clean linen, faint citrus). His arm would brush yours casually, too much so, like he wanted you to think it didn’t mean anything.

“What are you working on, pretty thing?” he’d murmur, voice low and velvety, with just enough edge beneath it to make you question if the sweetness was real. Sometimes he’d tap a finger against your notes or circle a word in your planner just to leave a trace, a little ghost of him.

It wasn’t fair, the way he played affection and indifference with the same mouth. Because other days? Nothing. Not a glance, not a smirk. You’d walk in, say good morning, and he’d brush past you like you weren’t even there, like you were just background noise.

The first time it happened, you thought you’d done something wrong. The fifth time, you stopped pretending not to care. He kept you guessing, and because of that, you kept looking.

You were composed, always. You remembered everyone’s names. You offered to help Yosano sort case files even when your own inbox was full. You kept pens in a little organizer, color-coded by function. You took notes in meetings with clean margins and underlined dates. You laughed when appropriate, smiled when expected, and didn’t ask why Fukuzawa had offered you a job without so much as a trial run.

It felt like a test you hadn’t studied for. But you still passed. You always passed.

One afternoon, Dazai wandered into the break room while you were making tea. you offered a polite smile, the kind you practiced in the mirror when you were trying not to give anything away.

He didn’t return it, just stood there silently, watching you stir your cup.

“…Need something?” you asked.

He tilted his head like a cat. “You always look so calm.”

You blinked. “Is that a bad thing?”

He didn’t answer. He reached past you to grab a sugar packet and left without another word.

Other times, he lingered. He would sit at your desk when you were in the middle of emails, eating pocky or flipping through some file you’d left open. Once, he made a paper crane out of your post-it note, then set it on your keyboard like a gift.

“You’re too neat,” he said once. “Like a doll someone put together just right.”

You looked up. “and you’re too loud, like a talking microwave.”

He grinned. “Touche.”

The worst part was — you liked the attention. Even when it confused you, even when it made your stomach twist in weird ways. There was something about him that felt… inevitable. And you were trying. God, were you trying not to slip away in his current — trying and failing.

So you stayed busy. You wrote mission reports, edited proposals, and kept up with logistics and meetings and strategy calls until your head spun. You were always the one with the answer. always the one people came to when they needed a plan.

Still, some days, you caught yourself watching the door, waiting to see if he’d glance your way.

Just once.

And when he didn’t, you went right back to your notes quietly, like nothing had happened.

—

You hadn’t meant to say it.

You were curled up on Yosano’s couch in your sleep shirt and someone else’s hoodie, a half-empty wine glass sweating on the coffee table and a bowl of strawberries between you. Some old movie was playing, neither of you really watching it. Your legs were tangled over hers lazily, socks mismatched. She smelled like lavender shampoo and clove smoke, maybe.

It had started out normal. She asked how work was, you groaned. She asked if kunikida had said anything rude again, and you nodded. She asked if dazai was still acting weird around you and—

You hesitated.

She didn’t miss it, though.

Yosano turned down the movie with the remote, then leveled a look at you. “You’ve been blushing when he teases you lately.”

You blinked. “I have not.”

“You have. You also smile at your phone after reading his texts.”

“I smile at everyone’s texts.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You smiled when he sent you a photo of a sock he found on the sidewalk.”

“...He said it looked like a sad little ghost.”

“Mmhmm.” She sipped her wine. “Just admit it.”

You stared down at your knees, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “It’s not a thing,” you said, quietly. “It’s just — I don’t know. I might have a tiny crush on him. maybe.”

She was silent for a second. then, “Finally.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands.

“Hey.” she tapped your knee with her toe. “It’s not a big deal.”

“No, I know, I just… saying it out loud makes it real.”

“Do you want it to be real?”

You didn’t answer right away, you didn’t know how to. You just sat there for a bit, letting the question settle. Yosano didn’t push.

Eventually, you said, “I like how he listens. Not always seriously, but… he remembers things. Like the way I take my tea. The author I mentioned once in passing. When I get quiet, he doesn’t try to fix it. Just sort of… makes space.”

Yosano gave you a slow smile. “So you like like him.”

You groaned again, sinking deeper into the couch. “God, I’m twelve.”

“You’re not. You’re just human.”

You didn’t say anything. You were smiling, though — small and stupid and full of something warm you didn’t know how to name.

Outside, the rain started. Yosano passed you the wine bottle. “He’s lucky,” she said. “Not that I’d ever tell him that to his face.”

You took a sip and laughed. For the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like a stranger inside your own skin.

---

You were having a decent morning.

Tea brewed just right. A clean inbox (a rare blessing). The sun came in soft through the office window, painting warm lines across your desk. Kenji had brought in those little red bean buns again. Atsushi smiled at you in the hallway. Even dazai hadn’t done anything weird yet today.

And then your phone rang. The name on the screen made your stomach twist.

Mother.

You could’ve let it go to voicemail — you should have. But you didn’t. You never did.

“Hi, mom,” you answered, voice already two decibels higher than usual.

“Finally,” she huffed. “I was starting to think you’d gone completely off the grid. Are you still at that detective place?”

“Yeah, the Armed Detective Agency. I’ve been there for a while now, remember?”

“Hmm.” a pause. you could hear her lighting a cigarette. “They paying you properly?”

“It’s fine.”

“Fine,” she echoed, like it was a disease. “You always say that. Fine isn’t good enough, sweetheart. You’ve got a brain. Use it.”

“I am using it.”

“Well, good. Then maybe you can send some money this week. Your brother’s tuition’s due.”

Your heart pinched. She always said your brother when she wanted something. Never his name.

“I just paid for your new phone.”

“So? You make more than me. And you don’t even have kids, or a husband, or rent that’s worth the walls you’re stuck in.”

You closed your eyes, rubbed your temple. “Mom—”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

The question came fast, a feather that could turn into a brick if you answered wrong.

“Um.”

“Because I saw on the news,” she continued, breezing on like she hadn’t just left you spinning, “that that port mafia guy with the hat is hot now. Are you into that sort of thing?”

“What? No. Absolutely not.”

“Well, he’s rich. Dangerous, sure, but sometimes that’s the price of stability.”

“I’m not dating a mafia executive, mom.”

“Then who are you dating?” she pressed, syrupy now. “Come on, you’ve got to be seeing someone. You were always so pretty in a quiet way. Mysterious. Men love that.”

And you panicked. You could’ve said no. You could’ve ended the call. But the word tumbled out before you could stop it:

“I’m… seeing someone from work.”

Silence. Then a delighted gasp. “Finally. And?”

“And… it’s new,” you mumbled, eyes darting to the hallway like someone might catch you in the lie. “So. not really a big deal.”

“Is he rich?”

You paused. “…What?”

“Rich. Does he have money? Benefits? A good apartment?”

“I don’t— I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Sweetheart, ask. How else are you supposed to secure your future? God, do I have to coach you through everything?”

You winced. “he’s… stable.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“He’s…” your brain scrambled. “He’s clever. Funny. Good at his job.”

“That’s lovely, dear, but you can’t eat charm.”

You almost laughed, and she sighed dramatically. “Fine. at least tell me he comes from a decent family. Does he dress well? Tall?”

“He wears bandages.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Uh— he’s tall.”

“Hmm.”

Another long drag of her cigarette. The sound made your chest tight. Like being twelve again, watching her get ready in the mirror, listening to her tell you how to hold your face just right so you wouldn’t end up alone.

“Just don’t waste your prime years,” she said. “You’re not twenty forever. No one wants a tired woman with opinions.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“You’re right,” you said softly. “I’ll ask.”

“Good girl.”

The call ended. You set the phone down like it weighed a thousand pounds. Your tea had gone cold. The light from the window had shifted. Your inbox had filled with new requests while you weren’t looking.

You pressed a hand to your chest and breathed. It wasn’t real. You had no boyfriend. But for a moment, you’d almost made yourself believe it could be. Dazai flashed in your mind, all lazy smiles and unreadable eyes. The way he watched you sometimes.

“God,” you whispered. “I’m insane.”

“Talking to yourself now?” came a voice from the doorway. You jolted. Yosano leaned against the frame, arms crossed, amused. “Bad call?” she asked.

You hesitated. “…My mother,” you admitted.

Her expression softened. “Want to go out tonight? Drinks on me.”

---

It took you all day to work up to it.

You didn’t even have a plan, really. No strategy, no elegant phrasing. And that wasn’t like you at all. You were usually composed, clear-headed in conversation, good at making your words count. That was what they hired you for, right? Communication and persuasion.

But this? What the hell was this?

You walked into Dazai’s shared office after pacing the hallway twice and pretending to look for a misplaced file. He was sitting at his desk, chair tipped dangerously back on two legs, eyes half-lidded like he was halfway to sleep or pretending to be. He cracked one open when you entered.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and warm. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You cleared your throat. “Hey. Um. Do you have a minute?”

“For you?” he smiled, letting the chair drop back onto all four legs. “Always.”

You hesitated in the doorway, then stepped inside, closing it gently behind you.

“So,” you started, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “This is going to sound really weird. And random. And probably kind of unhinged.”

“My favorite kind of conversation,” dazai murmured.

You looked up at him. His expression was amused but open. You inhaled. “I was just wondering... how much does the agency pay?”

That got a blink out of him. “Ah?”

“Like, on average. Monthly. For agents. You don’t have to tell me your salary,” you added quickly, “I just— my mom was asking. And I guess it got me thinking. I never actually asked when I joined.”

He tilted his head. “So your mother’s the one who wants to know how much I make?”

Your ears burned. “Not— specifically you, just in general. I mean, I told her I was seeing someone here—”

You froze.

Dazai smiled, slowly. “Oh?”

You waved your hands. “Fake! I panicked! She was asking invasive questions and I just— I don’t know why I said it, I just did, and now she thinks I have a boyfriend who works here and is maybe rich, and—”

“And you came to me,” he said, resting his chin on one hand, eyes glinting. “Specifically.”

You stopped, lips parting like a rebuttal might come out. But it didn’t.

He chuckled. “Well, that’s flattering.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, covering your face. “This is so embarrassing.”

“No, no, I'm honored.” He leaned forward. “So? Am I rich?”

You peaked between your fingers. “I don't know. are you?”

He grinned. “Depends who’s asking.”

“I just said who’s asking.”

“Ah, but are you asking? Or is this for your mother’s fantasy boyfriend spreadsheet?”

You groaned and slumped into the nearest chair. “You’re so annoying.”

“I've been told.”

There was a beat of quiet. His gaze softened. “You’ve really never looked at your salary slip?”

You shrugged. “It's automatic. I try not to think about money too much.”

“How noble.”

“Thanks.”

He studied you a moment longer. “So... are you planning to quit?”

You looked at him, surprised. “What? No.”

“Then why the sudden curiosity? Assuming you chose to listen to your mother when she told you to ask me for my salary,” he said, tilting his head again, like he was gently dissecting you. “Has the ramen finally broken your spirit?”

You snorted. “Maybe.”

“Or maybe,” he continued, standing slowly and crossing the room to you, “you’re looking for something.” He leaned against the desk beside you, arms folded, gaze flickering down your face. “Security, perhaps? Answers? Affection?” His voice dropped a notch. “Me?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Do you ever answer questions directly?”

“Do you ever ask questions just once?”

“I asked how much you get paid.”

“You did,” he agreed, tapping his lip thoughtfully. “But that’s such a boring thing to talk about when there are far more interesting mysteries in this room.”

You sighed, fighting a smile.

“I'll tell you this much,” he said, voice soft now. “The agency doesn’t pay in riches. But it gives you something else. Something worth staying for.”

“Like what?”

His eyes met yours, suddenly serious. “A place.” You blinked. “Somewhere to be useful,” he added. “To belong. To be... seen.” Your breath caught.

He held your gaze for one more second, then straightened and stretched, all lazy elegance. “And also health insurance.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re weird,” you said.

“Thank you.”

You stood, brushing off your pants. “I'm telling my mom you’re rich.”

“Ah, I knew it,” he said brightly. “You do have a crush on me.”

��No, I don't.”

“You do.”

You opened the door. “Goodbye, Dazai.”

“Tell her I drive a nice car.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“She doesn’t have to know that.”

You shut the door behind you, heartbeat way too loud for how dumb the conversation was.

---

The agency was empty except for you and dazai. It was well past working hours, but neither of you seemed to mind. You had half a case report open on your screen and he had half a cup of coffee going cold on your desk, his feet kicking up on the corner like he owned the place, like he always did.

“Working overtime again, sweetheart?” he asked, grinning, like the nickname wouldn’t make your face heat.

“Maybe I like the extra pay,” you shot back, eyes still on the screen.

“The pay? Tragic,” he sighed dramatically. “If you’re staying for that, I might need to stage an intervention.”

He leaned in close, chin nearly touching your shoulder, as if he needed to read what was on your screen. He didn’t. You knew he didn’t. He knew he didn’t, too. You leaned slightly away, only for him to mirror you with a little smile, like you’d just proven a theory he’d had all along.

“You know, you could always marry rich,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Let some poor fool fund your late-night workaholic habits.”

“I thought that’s what you were for,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He blinked, and then laughed.

“Well, well. Someone’s growing teeth.”

The door opened.

“Y/N?!”

You froze. Dazai straightened, watching as a woman you hadn’t seen in months strode into the office like she owned it. Her heels echoed against the wood loudly. Your mother.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice cracked. You stood, too quickly, knocking your chair slightly out of place.

“I was in the area,” she said breezily. “I thought I’d check in on my darling daughter. This is your new job, huh? A bit shabby.”

She scanned the room with barely hidden disdain. Then her eyes landed on Dazai.

“Oh? and who’s this?” she said, already smirking. “Is this the boyfriend you were too shy to tell me about?”

Your soul briefly left your body. You opened your mouth to say no, to correct her, but Dazai, of course, was nothing more than your—

“That’s me,” he said smoothly, rising from his seat. He offered a hand, not expecting her to take it. “Her boyfriend. Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“He’s skinny,” she said bluntly, as if he wasn’t in the room at all. “Probably not much money.”

“You wound me,” dazai replied, handing over his heart. “I do alright.”

“Doesn’t look like much of a provider,” she muttered.

“He’s not,” you hissed under your breath. “He’s not my boyfriend. Please don’t—”

“Tea,” she said suddenly. “Make me some. Or is that too much to ask for a daughter who never visits?”

“You don’t have to do that, honey,” Dazai said, grinning curling up at the corners. You shot him a glare.

“It’s fine,” you said through gritted teeth. “I’ll make it.”

You fled to the agency kitchenette, boiling water and biting the inside of your cheek. Your hands shook. You hated that she could still make you feel like you were just twelve years old.

But when you came back, she was gone. Dazai was sitting on your desk again, eating a piece of chocolate from your drawer.

“Where’d she go?” you asked.

He popped the rest of the chocolate into his mouth and shrugged.

“Muttered something about not being welcome here and left,” he said.

“You didn’t say anything to her, did you?”

“Nothing too rude.”

You narrowed your eyes. He held his hands up in mock innocence.

“Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“You remember!” He smiled, nudging the tea tray you’d brought in closer.

“So. You gonna let me take you out for dinner now, or what? Boyfriend duties and all.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t. He just smiled.

“Want me to get you a cab?” Dazai’s voice was light, like the whole thing hadn’t happened. “I'll pay. Don’t worry about my wallet — I’ll just skip breakfast and lunch for next week.”

You blinked at him. “…You don’t have a bike or something?”

He gasped, mock-offended. “Do I look like a man with reliable transportation?”

“You don’t even look like a man who eats breakfast.”

“You wound me.”

You snorted — just a little — and nodded. “Fine. Thanks.”

He grinned, that slow-lidded fox grin that made you feel like you were standing too close to something dangerous.

In the taxi, you sat side by side. City lights smeared against the windows. You held your bag in your lap like a shield. He slouched beside you, one arm casually draped over the backseat, fingers inches from your shoulder.

Your phone buzzed. One look at the sender made your stomach drop.

Mom: He’ll break your heart. He’s just like your father. You can’t trust someone like that. Do not get attached!!

You stared at the screen. Then slowly, as if automatically, you locked your phone without an answer, tilting it away from you and into your lap. Instead, you turned to Dazai.

“So,” you said softly, “What do you usually eat for breakfast? When you’re not skipping it for charity cab rides.”

He blinked. Then he smiled, warm and real.

“Coffee and half a banana if i’m lucky,” he replied. “And you?”

“Uh. toast,” you murmured, suddenly self-conscious. “Or those sad little triangle sandwiches from the corner store.”

“Gourmet,” he teased. “We should go out sometime. I’ll find the worst breakfast place in yokohama. Really make it a miserable date.”

You laughed, surprised by how easy it came. “Deal. As long as you’re paying.”

“Ah, the betrayal,” he said, clutching his heart. “Using me for my zero yen net worth.”

You smiled into your lap.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was soft. You looked out the window, watched neon signs flicker in a language only 2am could speak. Dazai didn’t say anything else, just let you be.

---

The basement cafe was warm that afternoon. The kind of humid, sleepy warmth that comes from too many machines running at once. Espresso steam hung low over the counter, fogging the narrow windows. You had come down because Ranpo had forgotten his snack tin again, and Yosano had very pointedly asked you to be the one to retrieve it. You didn’t question why. You didn’t really need to.

Besides, you’d seen Dazai slip down there earlier.

Not that you were following him, not exactly. More like — you had an idea. A hope that maybe he’d be there, that maybe he’d look up and smile when he saw you, maybe lean against the counter with that lazy charm and say something dumb like “If i’d known you were coming, I’d have ordered two.”

And you’d laugh, and maybe call him an idiot, and maybe mean it affectionately.

You liked this version of him. The version that lingered around your desk and asked you things he already knew the answers to, just to hear you speak. The version that smiled crookedly and poked fun at you for bringing extra pens, then borrowed them all. The version who once called you sweetheart in a voice so low and unexpected it rewired your brain for an entire afternoon.

Today, though, he wasn’t alone.

She was pretty. Of course she was. Tall, sleek, with a subtle perfume and cheap lipstick and even cuter boots. He leaned in close to her across the small two-seater table by the café’s far wall, her hand draped in his like it belonged there.

You froze halfway through the doorway.

The laugh she let out was bright but practiced. Dazai smiled — not the lazy smile he gave you, the one that meant I’m bored, entertain me — but a different one. It was charming and dazzling. When he spoke to her, his voice was low and flirtatious, tinged with amusement.

“You don’t have to be so harsh,” he said, thumb brushing her knuckles. “We’re practically old friends, aren’t we?”

You didn’t hear her answer. You didn’t want to.

Some part of you kept standing there, as if the longer you looked, the less real it would become. As if the moment would shift and correct itself.

But it didn’t.

He didn’t even look up.

Something bitter lodged itself in your throat. Your stomach sank, slowly, like it was learning gravity all over again. Your hand curled tighter around Ranpo’s tin.

And then you turned, walking back up the stairs like your shoes were filled with cement.

—

The ignoring started small. You didn’t say good morning. You didn’t answer when he asked what you were working on. You passed him in the hall with your eyes fixed ahead, fingers brushing your ID badge like it was a tether.

He noticed. Of course he did. Dazai was annoying like that, perceptive, in all the wrong ways.

“Cold wind today,” he muttered once, falling into step beside you. “I should've bought a coat.”

“Then bring one next time.”

He blinked, then smiled almost nervously.

“Have I done something?”

“I wouldn't know.”

And then you were gone, ducking into Yosano’s office and shutting the door behind you before he could follow. You didn’t cry. You wouldn’t give yourself permission. Not after realizing your mother might’ve been right for once.

Then, some time later, he stopped lingering.

No more hovering near your desk. No more flicked paperclips and whispered jokes. No more hot coffee on your desk with a sticky note that said ‘not poisoned (probably).’

It hurt. it shouldn’t have, but it did. More than it had any right to. And still, you kept your head up.

You worked harder. You filed everything on time, you even helped Kenji reorganize the records room. You were chipper during meetings, helpful during missions, and entirely made of steel when you passed him in the halls.

If anyone noticed the shift, they didn’t comment.

Maybe Yosano knew. Ranpo definitely did. Maybe Atsushi looked at you with too much softness some days. But no one said anything. Least of all him.

Dazai tried, in his own way. He left candy on your desk once. Not a note, not a smiley face. Just a small, strawberry-wrapped piece, the kind you’d once mentioned to him reminded you of your childhood.

You threw it out. Later, you pulled it out of the trash. Later still, you found yourself staring at it in your drawer for almost an hour.

You hated him.

Except you didn’t.

The others joked.

“You’re getting popular,” Ranpo said once, nudging you with his elbow. “Mr Heartbreak himself looks like a kicked puppy whenever you ignore him.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” you said, eyes on your work.

“Hm.”

He never pushed. But Dazai did. Not with words.

With glances. With hesitations. With the way he stood in the doorway of your office sometimes, just long enough for you to notice, before pretending he’d come for something else.

With the way he waited after missions, just out of reach.

With the way his eyes searched your face like a question he didn’t know how to phrase.

The days are blurred. The pain dulled, but never disappeared.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself he was always like that. He flirted. He charmed. He seduced. It meant nothing. It was a game to him, a performance, a way to get through the day.

You told yourself it was better this way. You told yourself you didn’t care. But some nights, when the office was empty and the moonlight pooled silver across your keyboard, you’d think of that smile he gave her. It was etched into your brain, in a way that made you want to crack your skull open so hard it bled.

The warmth in his voice. His hand in hers.

And you’d feel it again, that bitter weight in your chest. That slow, dragging ache that said you had hoped for more.

---

The morning was heavy, overcast — an inch‑thick cloud pressed low over Yokohama. You and Dazai stood side by side at the ADA’s entrance. Briefing had been chaotic: a bomb threat, scattered victims, a risk analysis. Something in the planning had set you on edge. Dazai sensed it, but you refused to meet his eyes.

At 7:42 a.m., you stepped inside the site alongside Dazai. You were assigned perimeter sweep — find the device, secure civilians, evacuate — while Dazai monitored exits and coordinated with field agents. You ignored him. You walked ahead, shoulders rigid. You were angry — angry at him for hurting you, at yourself for caring, and at Kunikida for pairing you two for this mission.

He caught your arm once during the walk-in. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?” You jerked away and kept moving. He followed behind you gently. You pretended not to know he was there. He blinked at you.

You said, “I said I’m fine.”

He looked away and didn’t argue.

Inside, alarms buzzed. The yellow tape crinkled as civilians backed away. A device sat nestled under a fallen signboard — you could already see the blinking red light. The air smelled of overheated electronics and panic. Dazai crouched next to it, fingers hovering. You watched through the lens of your training, heart locked on the device.

You spoke quietly into your helmet mic: “Bomb is live, prime threat. Evacuate east side. Two minutes.”

You stepped forward to help him set timers, defuse circuits. He gave instructions sharply. You obeyed, begrudgingly. Then, just as you were about to unclip a wire—

BANG!

“Daz—” Kunikida’s voice from the radio cut.

Dust exploded everywhere. You staggered back, ears ringing. Dazai grabbed your arm, and dragged you toward a side exit.

“Wait! There are still people there—”

“It doesn’t matter now. Come with me—”

“No! What is wrong with you—?”

A child was crying. A man collapsed. You stopped.

“Are you crazy? You’ll die if you stay here for long!” Dazai shouted.

“Then go!” You spat. “I’ll do it by myself if I have to.”

The main structural beam cracked. You knew what it meant. You knew what was coming. He stared at the ceiling, breath hitching. You reached for his hand. He froze.

The beam cracked again, louder. Death hung in four tons of concrete.

You had one choice.

You grabbed the crying child and handed her to him. He opened his mouth. You pressed harder. “Go.”

He shook his head as another crack split the air. His voice cracked too: “No—”

You whispered, “Just go, I’ll see if the diffusion was worth it.”

Behind him, the civilians fled, trusted to safety. He looked like his world was fracturing.

You made the final decision. You locked eyes. You said, barely louder than his own quickened breathing, “I love you. Now go.”

He stared at you, mouth open, betrayal and fear. He didn’t move. So you shoved him. Wolfed half into the crowd. His hand slipped from yours. He stumbled. You saw panic in his eyes.

Behind you, a deafening rumble sounded. And your world collapsed.

You were buried in the dark. The beam pinned your leg. Dust choked your lungs. Your arms ached too deeply to move. You squeezed your eyes shut, blood warm behind your ears. Your last thought wasn’t fear, though you tasted it. It was his eyes when you said “I love you.”

A weight lifted. You felt a palm against your cheek. His fingers brushing dust out of your hair.

“Hey,” Dazai whispered. He pulled, stone and torn hands working like they were ripping pieces of earth from your world. Your breath was a broken thing and you coughed. “Y/N,” he repeated. “You passed.”

You blinked. “Passed? Like, passed away?”

He forced out a ragged laugh. “That— that was the test.”

Your stomach lurched. You saw his face, inches away. It was covered with sweat and tears and ash.

“I didn’t know the test could actually hurt you,” you choked out. “I thought I was done for.”

“If you didn’t, you would never have said what you said, hmm?”

“Shut up,” you gasped. A new weight pressed you down. Dazai froze suddenly, panic racing back. He knelt next to you, hands trembling.

“Y/N,” he whispered. “Hold on. Please. Don’t close your eyes, okay?”

Who were you to listen to a heartbreaker?

---

You woke to the scent of antiseptic and pine.

Light slanted in through the cabin window, filtered by Yosano’s dark lace curtains. You blinked, slow, like you’d just remembered what it meant to be alive. Your limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, but your chest still rose and fell. The breath was a little ragged, but it was yours.

You shifted. A sharp ache bloomed in your ribs. But you were alive. That must have meant something.

Yosano looked up from a clipboard across the room. She was still in her uniform — blood on her sleeves and smudges on her cheek. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was real. “Don’t move too much.”

“What… happened?” Your voice rasped.

“You took a beam to the back like a damn romantic hero. We barely got to you in time. Dazai brought you out. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch you. Carried you all the way here.”

Your chest tightened.

Yosano sat down beside your bed. Her voice softened, uncharacteristically gentle. “I haven’t let him in here yet. He wanted to. But I figured… maybe you’d want space.”

You stared at the ceiling, heart warring with something you didn’t have a name for. He’d carried you?

“It’s okay,” you murmured, after a pause. “Let him in.”

She nodded, stood, and opened the door.

He stepped in like he’d been holding his breath all day. The moment his eyes found yours, they softened, something breaking in him slowly. He looked like hell. His coat was rumpled, shoes scuffed. His hair was unbrushed, as if he’d been pacing too much to bother.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Yosano rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile.

He closed the door behind him, took two steps forward, and stopped. “I thought I’d lost you.”

You swallowed. Your throat ached. “I didn’t mean what I said. When I snapped. I was just…”

He shook his head. “Don’t. You were right. You saw something and I didn’t make it better. I made it worse. I didn’t want you to go without hearing me say it—”

He moved closer, tentative now, like you were something divine and fragile. You blinked. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes.

And then he kissed you. Soft. Like a secret he’d kept for too long. Your hand found his sleeve. Clutched.

But still, that splinter of memory. That woman. Her laughter. His hand around hers.

You pulled back. Just slightly. “I saw you,” you whispered. “That day. With her. Holding her hand.”

He stilled.

Your voice trembled. “I thought — maybe my mother was right. That I was just another game to you.”

Dazai stared at you. Then — without a single word — he sank to his knees. He clasped his hands in front of him like he was praying.

“I’ll stop,” he said. “Flirting. With anyone. With everyone. I’ll stop. Please. Just let me be yours.” You stared down at him. “Let me be your husband someday. Whenever you’re ready.”

You blinked. “Marriage?”

He smiled, crooked. “Yeah. I’ve decided. You’re the one I’d give myself all up for. ”

Your laugh was thin, watery. “My mom hates you.”

His smile turned feline. “Oh, she does, does she?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Dazai.”

He shrugged. “I’ve taken care of it.”

“Taken what—”

“Nothing illegal,” he said quickly. Then added, not quite convincingly, “Probably.” You stared at him. He only grinned wider. “She won’t be bothering you anymore.”

You sank into the pillows, laughter escaping you in a broken puff. “You’re insane.”

He leaned forward, resting his head on your thigh. “Yeah. But you’re stuck with me.”

Your fingers drifted into his hair. You’d never seen him this still.

---

Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room as Dazai lay curled behind you, spooning you close. One of his hands was on the headboard, another on your waist. His face was buried in your hair. Despite the peaceful scene, a different kind of tension thrummed through his body.

He could feel himself poking your ass from behind. It was aching now, still, he tried to ignore the persistent hardness. He tried focusing on the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft rhythm of your breathing, the way your breasts heaved up and down—

Fuck.

What was he doing? You looked so innocent lying in his arms, a huge contrast to the thoughts of you circling his mind. But as much as he wanted to be a gentleman, Dazai’s baser instincts won out.

Oh, god.

Slowly, carefully, he slid a hand beneath your top, fingertips grazing the smooth skin of your stomach. He nearly moaned. You twitched a little in your sleep at the ticklish feeling, but eventually calmed back to sleep.

Your slight stir only seemed to encourage Dazai further, his fingers trailing higher to cup one of your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra. He squeezed it gently, thumb brushing over the hardened nipple. Leaning in closer, he nuzzled the back of your neck, inhaling deeply. Your scent filled his senses, making his cock twitch with need.

With a low groan, Dazai shifted position, pressing himself more firmly against your ass as he ground his erection against you.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful when you sleep,” he whispered huskily, breath hot against your ear, even though you wouldn’t hear him. His other hand slid down to palm your thigh, fingers creeping ever closer to the hem of your shorts.

With a stealthy move, Dazai slipped his hand beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing against the delicate skin of your inner thigh. He stroked upward, teasingly close to your most intimate area without actually touching it yet.

“Wonder how many times I can make you cum before you wake up, hm?” he murmured.

His hips rocked against yours, the rigid length of his cock sliding between your legs as he sought friction. Dazai's free hand found its way to your breast again, giving it a firm squeeze. He pulled your bra off gently before rolling the nipple between his fingers, tugging lightly until you let out a soft whimper in your sleep.

Emboldened by your response, Dazai slipped a finger to tease your slick folds. He circled your clit with the pad of his finger, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm against him.

“Oh, would you look at that? So wet for me already,” he purred, feeling your arousal coating his digit. He pushed deeper, sinking a finger into your heat as he began to pump in and out slowly. His other hand released your breast to grip your hip, holding you steady as he worked you open with his skilled fingers.

Dazai leaned in to nibble at your earlobe, sucking it gently between his teeth.

“Wanna fuck you awake, baby.”

Dazai added a second finger to your entrance, scissoring them to stretch you wider as he picked up the pace. His thumb joined in, rubbing relentless circles around your sensitive clit.

“So tight and perfect,” he groaned into your shoulder. He leaned up to watch your face for signs of pleasure even as you remained lost in slumber. His fingers grew more insistent, chasing your impending orgasm.

“Come on, babe, let go for me,” Dazai coaxed, nipping at your neck and shoulder.

Just as he sensed you teetering on the brink, he withdrew his fingers, leaving you empty and aching. Dazai pulled his own boxers off before sliding your shorts off, stretching your panties to the side just enough to make it work. He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at your slick opening.

Using two fingers to open you gently, he pushed in soft and slowly. You moaned, eyes fluttering open. Dazai kissed your shoulder. His other hand came to your face to cover your sight as he shushed you back to sleep.

“Shh, baby, not yet,” he cooed soothingly. “Let me take care of you, yes?”

Dazai held his position, cock throbbing against your entrance as he waited for you to drift back to sleep. Once your breathing evened out again, he gave a slow, deliberate thrust.

You felt incredible. He gasped, savoring the sensation of being buried deep within your warmth. Dazai paused for a moment, relishing it, before starting to move.

Dazai set a languid pace. Your slick walls gripped him as he slid in and out. He placed a hand on your hip, guiding you to meet his thrusts as he picked up speed gradually.

“So responsive, even in your sleep.”

He turned your head around and leaned down to capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. Dazai’s free hand roamed your body, tracing the curves of your waist and ribs before settling on your breast once more. He continued rutting inside you faster now.

“Mine, mine, mine, mine,” he declared, punctuating each word with a particularly deep thrust.

“‘samu—” you moaned, half asleep but still feeling the way his cock humped in and out of you.

Dazai felt a surge of pride and desire. He loved knowing he could evoke such reactions from you, even when you were barely conscious.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s it,” he encouraged, picking up the pace even more as he thrust into you with renewed vigor. “Let me hear those sweet noises, darling.”

Dazai captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your whimpers of pleasure. He broke away only to trail open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down the column of your throat, tasting the salt of your skin.

“Ooh, you wanna come?” he murmured, holding your throat gently, and you nodded, eyes still closed. “Do it, do it, come on.”

You spasmed, eyebrows knitting together, face contorting from the pleasure. Your toe curled against his leg, and you tried moving away, or towards him, or anywhere else. You whined louder, coming undone on his cock.

“Fuck, gonna come too—” he groaned, holding you tightly to keep himself grounded.

“‘samu— pull out,” you babbled, and he put his hand on your mouth next.

“What’s that, honey? Didn’t quite— fuck — catch that—”

“‘samu—” you huffed.

“Hush, it’s okay,” he whimpered in your ear, and you felt all the air get knocked out of you. He held your hips tightly, cock still inside you, before coming in. You felt his stickiness coat your cunt, and your head began to spin. A few seconds later, you felt his cock soften inside you, and he pulled out away from you to lie on his back.

“I told you to fucking pull out, you idiot,” you muttered, turning to him and putting your head on his chest.

“Love you too.”

. . . credit rolls

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