ghostlynightpanda

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hii!! could you please do an aib chars x bulimic reader? I know you did an anorexic one, but it's just a little different. I understand if not, I love your work! °•♡•°

AIB Characters react to Reader with Bulimia

content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, canon typical blood and violence, eating disorder and unhealthy behaviour, 3.091 words

Ann

Ann wasn't someone who missed details. Even in this awful world, where survival demanded physical sharpness, it was her emotional clarity — the way she noticed — that set her apart. She didn't need to ask why your eyes looked tired, or why you left the dining hall right after meals. She just... knew something was off. But she didn't confront you. Not right away.

It was after a game — the kind where you narrowly escaped with your life and found yourself back at the Beach, heart pounding, skin scratched — that things shifted.

You were standing under the shower, trembling under lukewarm water, trying to wash away the adrenaline and something else. Shame, maybe. You hadn't eaten all day. But when you finally did, it was too much, and the panic followed, and the purge that always came after.

You thought you were careful.

You didn't know Ann had seen you slip into the shadows.

She didn't say anything until later, when everything had quieted and the most others had gone to sleep. She found you on the rooftop, arms wrapped around your knees, staring out into the black sea.

"You're hurting yourself," she said simply.

You didn't answer. The silence between you filled with wind.

"I didn't want to say anything until I was sure," she continued, voice low and even. "But this… this isn't something you can survive alone."

"I am surviving," you said. Not angry. Just tired.

Ann knelt beside you. Her presence was calm, grounding. "I know you think this helps. That it gives you control in a place where everything else is chaos. But it's hurting you. And I care too much to pretend I don't see it."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn't want anyone to know," you whispered.

"I haven't told anyone. And I won't." She paused. "But I do know. And now that I do, I want to help."

"How?" you asked, voice cracking. "You can't stop it. Not here. Not with everything else going on. There's no therapy. No safety nets. No one understands."

"I'm not trying to fix it with a speech," Ann said. "But I can stay. I can remind you to eat when you're ready. I can listen when it's hard. I can walk with you after meals if you want the feeling to pass. And I can see you, without judgment."

You looked at her then — not the detective, not the fighter or strategist, but Ann. Quiet, observant, steady.

It wasn't a cure. But in a world designed to tear people apart, her care was a thread — soft, but unbreakable.

You nodded, barely.

And she stayed.

Kuina

You and Kuina met during a game that demanded more stamina than skill. She noticed how you pushed yourself — harder than most — and how you barely touched your food afterward.

At first, she didn't say anything. She understood the importance of silence. Sometimes survival meant keeping your battles to yourself. She knew that feeling better than most.

But she also knew what it was like to live in a body that felt like both armor and enemy.

The night she followed you — after a shared meal in the dining hall, after you thought you're excuse that you were tired was good enough — she didn't speak right away. Just stood in the entrance of your room, her arms crossed, gaze heavy but not cruel.

When you stepped out of your bathroom, startled, her voice was gentle. "You okay?"

You tried to smile. "Yeah. Just needed a minute."

Kuina raised an eyebrow. "You always need a minute after meals."

Silence.

You looked away. "Please don't."

She didn't press, not right then. Instead, she sat on the bed and patted the spot beside her. You hesitated, then sat.

"I know what it's like to feel like your body isn't yours," she said. "To fight it. To try and control it because everything else is spinning."

You didn't say anything.

"I used to hate mine," she continued. "Hated how people looked at it. What it meant. What it didn't."

You glanced at her, surprised. "But you're so—confident. Strong."

"I had to be," she said, a flicker of pain behind her smile. "But that doesn't mean I didn't have nights where I cried in front of a mirror. Or punished myself in ways I don't talk about."

You swallowed hard. Something in your chest cracked.

Kuina leaned back, her voice quieter now. "You don't have to tell me everything. Or anything. But I need you to know I see you. Not just the parts you show everyone. The real stuff. The ugly stuff. And I still care."

Tears came fast. Unexpected. Kuina didn't flinch. She just opened her arms, and when you collapsed into them, she held you like someone who knew exactly what it meant to lose a war with yourself.

"You're not weak," she whispered into your hair. "You're surviving. But you don't have to survive alone."

And in that moment — maybe for the first time in weeks — you believed her.

Mira

Mira was always three steps ahead of everyone else — mind like a scalpel, smile like a secret. You weren't sure why she had taken a liking to you. Maybe it was your honesty. Or your silence. Maybe it was the way you never tried to outmaneuver her — you just were.

With Mira, everything was a game. Even comfort could feel like manipulation.

So when she found out about your bulimia, it wasn't because you told her. It was because she watched.

Noticed how you always picked at your food during meals with others but ate ravenously when alone. How you'd disappear shortly after. She didn't confront you. Not immediately. That wasn't her style.

One evening, you returned to your room and found her there — curled up on your bed, reading a book she'd plucked from your desk like it belonged to her.

"I'm curious," she said without looking up, "about why someone with such strength insists on punishing themselves in private."

Your stomach twisted. You stopped in the doorway. "What are you talking about?"

She glanced up, and for a second — just a second — there was no mockery in her eyes.

"You know what I'm talking about."

You looked away, the shame sudden and suffocating.

"I didn't mean for you to find out," you muttered.

Mira closed the book softly. "No one ever does."

There was a pause — long, quiet, heavy.

You expected her to dissect you, the way she did everything else. To play her games. But instead, she stood and crossed the room, barefoot and graceful, and placed her hand lightly on your wrist.

"You know," she said, voice low, "the world already tries to devour you in so many ways. It's cruel to let it convince you to devour yourself."

You didn't know how to answer. Her words were like glass — sharp, transparent, strangely beautiful.

"I'm not judging you," she added. "I've danced with my own monsters. We just wore different dresses."

You blinked, startled. "You?"

She smiled — not the playful one she gave the world, but something softer, cracked at the edges.

"I know what it's like to need control so badly that you start sacrificing pieces of yourself just to feel a moment of stillness."

You swallowed, hard.

Mira stepped closer, her voice like silk. "But you don't need to earn my affection through silence or suffering. You already have it."

Your eyes welled. It didn't make sense — this tenderness, this kindness — coming from her.  And yet it felt real.

"I'm not going to try and fix you," she said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "But I will remind you, every day if I have to, that you are worth keeping — all of you. Even the parts you're trying to erase."  

You exhaled like it was the first breath you'd taken in days.

And Mira? She stayed the night, without asking, without conditions. Just stayed.

As someone who knew how to love someone who was still learning to love themselves.

Aguni 

Aguni didn't ask questions he already have answers to.

You thought you were hiding it well — the skipped meals, the sudden vanishing after eating, the exhaustion that came not only from games, but from the war going on inside you. But Aguni had seen enough people fall apart quietly to recognize the signs.

He just waited.

Until the night you collapsed.

It wasn't dramatic. No shouting, no chaos. Just your legs giving out, your head hitting the dirt. You'd played a game earlier, hadn't eaten since. You'd told yourself you'd be fine.

You woke to the sound of cicadas chirping and the heavy presence of someone beside you.

Aguni.

He didn't speak for a while. Just watched the night sky, hands resting on his knees.

"I carried my best friend out of a burning building once," he said eventually, voice low. "But I couldn't save him from himself."

You didn't know what to say, so you didn't say anything.

Aguni turned to look at you, eyes sharp but not unkind. "I'm not going to let that happen again."

"I'm not your responsibility," you murmured.

He shook his head slowly. "No. You're not. But that doesn't mean I walk away."

You sat up, wincing.

"I didn't ask for help," you added, almost defensively.

"You don't have to."

Silence stretched between you.

Finally, you broke. "I can't stop. I've tried. It's like there's something in me that needs to punish myself. Or feel control. Or… something."

Aguni didn't flinch. He didn't look away. "I get that," he said. "The urge to destroy what hurts. Even if that means destroying yourself."

You looked at him, startled. "You do?"

He nodded. "Pain doesn't always show up the same way. But it all speaks the same language."

Your throat tightened.

Aguni leaned forward. "I'm not here to lecture you. I'm not gonna make you talk every night or pretend I know what you need. But I will be here. I will carry you, if I have to. I will sit with you when it gets bad. And I will not let you disappear."

You didn't cry. Not right away. But the tears came later, quietly, when you were alone, because no one had ever said it like that before — I will not let you disappear.

And the next day, when he handed you a protein bar and didn't say a word as you held it with shaking hands, you didn't throw it away.

You ate it.

And he sat with you, just like he said he would.

Niragi

You didn't expect him to notice.

Niragi noticed blood. Violence. Weakness. He mocked what he didn't understand. So you thought — he can't know. Not about this. Not about the ugly, quiet way you kept punishing yourself. You thought if anyone ever found out, it would be someone soft. Someone gentle.

Not him.

But he did know.

You figured it out when he slammed a tray of food down in front of you one day and said, "Eat."

You raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You haven't eaten in two days. You're not slick. Just starving."

Your stomach turned.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

Niragi leaned closer, the usual cruelty absent from his voice. "Don't I?"

And in that moment, it wasn't a game. It wasn't a threat. It was something else. You saw it — a flicker. Guilt? Memory?

You pushed the food away. "Why do you care?"

He didn't answer for a while. Just sat across from you and lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.

"You think you're the only one who's hated their body?" he said finally. "You think you're the only one who's tried to carve out the rot from the inside just to feel something that isn't fucking wrong?"

You stared at him. Niragi never said things like that. Never admitted cracks in his armor.

He let the silence hang before speaking again, voice low.

"I used to burn myself," he said, gesturing vaguely to his arms. "Before all this. Back home. People like me? We don't get sad. We get ugly. Violent. We destroy things. Ourselves, mostly." He looked at you, eyes fierce. "So yeah. I see it. You're not as invisible as you think."

You swallowed hard, throat dry.

"I don't know how to fix it," you admitted.

"Good," he said. "Because I'm not here to fix you."

You flinched, but he wasn't finished.

"I'm just saying — if you're gonna starve yourself, I'm gonna be pissed. Not because it's pathetic or weak. But because you're someone I actually give a shit about. And if you want to waste away like nothing, you better at least look me in the eye while you do it."

You stared at him, stunned.

That was his way of caring.

And it worked. Not because it was gentle, but because it was honest. Because it came from a place as broken as yours.

You didn't say thank you. You just pulled the tray closer. You didn't eat everything, but you ate something.

And Niragi didn't say a word. Just lit another cigarette and stayed close, like a dog guarding something it didn't know how to love — but refused to leave behind.

Last Boss

Last Boss never asked questions. He didn't offer comfort, or make small talk, or tell people they mattered. Most were afraid of him — and maybe that was the point.

But you weren't afraid.

Maybe because you recognized something in him. The silence. The detachment. The way he watched the world like it was always just a little too far away to touch.

And maybe that's why he noticed you.

He never said anything about the late-night disappearances. Or the way you picked at your meals with quiet dread, then smiled like everything was fine. But his eyes were always on you — not in a threatening way. In a knowing way.

You didn't realize he'd pieced it all together until the night you couldn't do it anymore. You stood in the mirror, gripping the sink so hard your fingers ached. Tears streamed down your face, and you tried to silence your sobs because god forbid someone hear you.

But someone did.

You felt him before you saw him — the soft rustle of his clothes, the quiet click of a blade sheathed at his side.

You turned around fast, wiping your face. "What do you want?"

He just stared for a moment. Then, finally, he spoke — his voice like gravel and stillness. "You're hurting yourself."

You looked away. "You don't understand."

He stepped forward. Slowly. "You think pain makes you clean."

You froze.

"You think empty means worthy," he said.

Tears welled again, uninvited.

He looked down at his own hands. "I used to cut away pieces of myself to feel like something inside was being fixed. Like blood meant control. Like if I hurt first, the world couldn't beat me to it."

You stared at him, shocked.

"I don't do that anymore," he said simply.

"Why?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

"Because someone looked at me once,"  he said, "and didn't flinch."

Your breath caught in your chest.

He stepped closer, then paused. "I'm not going to tell you to stop. I'm not going to watch you eat or drag you to some recovery speech. But I will be here. If you fall, I'll be there. If you disappear, I'll find you."

You looked up into his eyes, not cold, not empty. Just tired. Real.

"Do you promise?" you whispered.

"I promise," he looked at you seriously, eyes gleaming behind the black of the tattoos.

Then he left a protein bar there and walked out.   

He never pushed. Never pried. But from that night on, you never felt alone in your fight.

And some days, that was enough.

Chishiya

You weren't surprised when Chishiya figured it out.

He was a doctor, after all. He noticed the way your weight dropped too quickly. The way you avoided meals but kept up your strength — until you didn't. The way your eyes darted around after you ate, calculating your exit. He didn't say anything at first.

That was Chishiya's way.

But one day, after a particularly brutal game, you stumbled into your room, barely able to close the door behind you. You were pale, shaking, and trying to hide the fact that your legs could barely carry you anymore.

Chishiya was there. Sitting at your desk and reading a book as if he belonged there. 

"Sit," he said simply, without looking up.

You hesitated.

"Sit, or faint. Your choice."

You sat.

He read in silence for a while. Then, casually: "You're destroying your body."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"I don't know what you mean," you lied.

Chishiya turned, eyes piercing but calm. "You think I haven't seen this before? The malnutrition. The purging. The exhaustion you pretend is just from games."

You looked away, humiliated.

He closed his book and leaned forward slightly.

"I'm not judging you," he said. "I'm telling you. You're at risk of heart failure. Your electrolytes are likely a mess. And if you keep going like this, your body will shut down — slowly or suddenly. It doesn't care which."

Tears welled in your eyes. "I just… I don't know how to stop."

He didn't soften, not in the way others might. But his voice lowered.  

"You're trying to gain control. In a world where you have none."

You nodded weakly.

Chishiya sat back, folding his arms. "Control isn't the problem. Punishment is."

You blinked at him.

"I've seen a lot of people try to disappear," he added, tone unreadable. "You're not the first. You won't be the last. But you don't have to be alone in it."

You stared at him. "Why do you care?"

"I don't," he said flatly. "But I'm still here."

That made you laugh — a wet, cracked sound — because it was so perfectly him. Brutal honesty dressed as apathy. But beneath it, something softer. Something real.

He handed you a protein drink and a packet of salt tablets.

"It's not much," he said. "But it'll keep your heart beating for now."

You took it with shaking hands. "Thanks."

Chishiya stood, already heading for the door. "Come by once a day. I'll keep track of your vitals. You won't like it. But you'll live."

And then he paused — just for a second — and turned back.

"You're not broken," he said. "Just tired. Let someone help carry it."

Then he left.

And somehow, that night, you didn't hate yourself quite as much.

Masterlist

Alice in Borderlad Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

Would u write for Usagi or maybe Arisu?

Hello

Yes, I’ve never written anything for them before, but I’d certainly be willing to! If you’ve got any ideas (or if you just want them included in the AIB reacts), just let me know.

[ghostlynightpanda]

Veil of Thrones Part 2

A/N: Here's part 2 since some of you were asking for it. I hope you like it!

synopsis: After finally finding a home at the ADA (and growing closer to Dazai) you start to believe in a future beyond loneliness. But when the Port Mafia takes you by force, your new life hangs by a thread, and it’s up to Dazai and the others to save you before it’s too late.

content/warnings: ADA!Dazai x reader, mentions of death and trauma, fluff, 3.986 words

Part 1

It had been months since you first walked through the doors of the Armed Detective Agency, and yet sometimes it still felt unreal. The noise, the laughter, the constant low hum of conversation and life—things that used to feel foreign to you now filled your days.

You were... settled, in a way. More than you thought possible.

Kenji would often rope you into helping him with ridiculous tasks like carrying crates of fruit for some elderly vendor or joining him in chasing stray dogs through the park. Yosano had taken to dragging you out for tea whenever she noticed you retreating into your own head too much, pretending not to notice when you struggled to keep the conversation going.

And then there was Ranpo, who somehow always knew exactly what you were thinking, whether you liked it or not. Annoying, sharp, and weirdly comforting.

But above all of them: Dazai.

He was always there.

Always near you, orbiting your space like a satellite refusing to drift too far. His touch—what was once terrifying—had become familiar, even grounding. Whenever you walked through crowded streets, his hand would lazily hook around your wrist, nullifying your ability before it could even think of hurting anyone. His warmth was always there, steady, teasing, real.

And yet…

Even surrounded by people, you still felt like you were standing behind glass sometimes. Like there was this invisible barrier between you and the rest of the world, something only you could see.

It was hard to let people in fully, to believe that this wasn't temporary. That one day, they wouldn't look at you the way everyone else had always looked at you before—with fear, with disgust, with whispers behind your back of death trailing wherever you went.

Dazai didn’t look at you like that. He looked at you like he knew exactly how broken you were—and somehow, he didn’t mind one bit.

And maybe that’s why, for once, you could breathe like this. With the soft glow of the TV flickering across the living room walls, the volume low, some random late-night drama playing that neither of you were actually paying attention to.  

You were curled up sideways on the couch, legs tucked under you, a blanket lazily draped over your lap. Next to you, Dazai sat sprawled like a cat, limbs everywhere, one arm casually slung across the back of the couch—close, but not quite touching you, not unless you moved first.

It wasn't awkward. Not anymore.

This was how it always was now: comfortable silence mixed with quiet teasing, sharp words softened by familiarity.

Dazai yawned loudly, stretching in an exaggerated fashion, feet knocking against yours under the blanket. "This is terrible. Who even watches this stuff?"

"You picked the channel," you reminded him flatly, lips twitching.

"I was testing your taste." He shot you a sideways glance, playful. "So far, you're failing."

You rolled your eyes but didn't bother hiding the small smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth. "You're unbearable."

"And yet—here I am, gracing you with my presence. For free. Truly, I'm far too generous."

The drama on the screen reached some melodramatic climax, the lead dramatically yelling in the rain, confessing some secret or other. Dazai snorted. "Amateurs. If you're going to dramatically ruin your life, at least commit to it properly."

You gave him a long, sideways glance. "Do you ever stop being dramatic?"

"Not when I'm awake."

That earned a laugh from you, soft and sudden.

Moments like this—quiet, normal, nothing special—were the ones you never thought you'd get to have. Just sitting with someone. Joking, laughing, being seen without being feared.

And of all people, Dazai had become that person for you. The same man who annoyed everyone with his endless flirting, with his sharp tongue and unpredictable moods, had somehow carved out a place right next to you like it was always meant to be his.

"You're thinking again," he murmured, noticing the quiet shift in your expression.

"I'm always thinking," you answered truthfully, tracing a pattern in the worn fabric of the blanket. "Hard to turn it off."

Dazai was quiet for a beat, the TV casting blue shadows over his face.

"Then don't," he finally said softly. "Think all you want. Just don't go thinking you're alone with it anymore."

You looked at him then, properly, feeling that familiar tangle of warmth and wariness twisting in your chest. But this time, the warmth was winning.

"Okay," you murmured. And that was all you needed to say.

Dazai smiled at that, a real one—not playful, not teasing—something softer, smaller.

Then, of course, he ruined it. "Also, you should be honored. I usually only say sentimental things right before I attempt something stupid."

"There it is," you muttered, shaking your head with a faint laugh. "Couldn't let the moment stay serious, could you?"

"Not in my nature," he said smugly, tilting his head back, closing his eyes like a satisfied cat.

Still… his arm stayed where it was, close but steady, right behind your shoulders.

Close enough to remind you: I’m here. And for once, that was enough.

The night settled into a calm stillness, peaceful and quiet.

Eventually, you both got up—Dazai heading back to his flat, you retreating to your own room, the warmth of the evening lingering like a gentle promise. A quiet comfort settled deep inside as you drifted off to sleep.

But then—crash.

The sound of shattering glass tore you awake like a bucket of ice water. You bolted upright, heart already slamming against your ribs, disoriented but instincts sharp.

Before you could fully process it, they were already there.

Three men, dressed in sharp black, with the unmistakable insignia of the Port Mafia visible like a threat stitched into their clothes. One of them you recognized immediately—Hirotsu Ryūrō. His expression was as calm and unfeeling as the steel barrel of the gun now pointed at your head.

"Get up," he ordered evenly, adjusting his grip on the weapon. "You're coming with us."

Your stomach twisted. No. No, you weren't going anywhere with them. You'd rather die here, right here in your tiny apartment, than be used by them, turned into a weapon like they wanted.

You opened your mouth to tell them exactly that, to spit out the defiance already rising up in your throat—

—and then another crash, this one from your front door being thrown open, and Dazai's voice cutting sharply through the tension.

"Step away from her."

His tone was low, dangerous—not the lazy, amused voice you were so used to. It was protective in a way that sent a chill through you.

But now the guns shifted—three barrels turning in perfect sync until they were pointed squarely at him.

"Take one more step," Hirotsu said coldly, "and we'll splatter your partner's brains across these lovely apartment walls."

You could feel your breath shuddering in your chest, every muscle locked tight, panic clawing up your throat. Dazai's expression didn't change, but his hands slowly lifted, showing surrender, his sharp gaze fixed on you.

"Don't," he said, softly this time. "Don't do anything stupid."

You looked at him, then at the guns, then back again. Your mind was already racing, weighing outcomes you didn't want to face. If you refused to go with them, they'd shoot. If you fought, Dazai would die first. You couldn't—you wouldn't—let that happen.

Your heart hammered as you slowly lifted your hands. "Fine," you rasped. "I'll go with you."

Hirotsu gave a faint nod, satisfied. One of the other men stepped forward, pulling a pair of thick gloves from his coat and tossing them at your feet. "Put them on."

You swallowed hard as you did, each finger trembling as you shoved your hands into the gloves. Then came the cuffs—heavy, industrial ones, snapped tightly around your wrists with cruel efficiency. It was humiliating, degrading, and they knew it.

"Let him go," you demanded through clenched teeth. "That was the deal. I'll come with you. You leave him out of this."

Hirotsu tilted his head slightly. "For now," he agreed smoothly. "As long as you cooperate."

Dazai took a step forward despite the guns still trained on him, his voice sharp. "You don't have to do this."

"I do," you shot back, throat tight. "If I don't, they'll kill you."

His eyes softened just barely—anger and fear warring behind them—but he didn't argue again.

As they dragged you toward the shattered window, glass crunching beneath your boots, Dazai's voice followed you, low but steady:

"I'm going to find you," he promised. "No matter where they take you. I'm going to bring you home."

And you believed him.

But it didn't stop the hollow ache in your chest as the city swallowed you into the dark.

The Port Mafia didn't waste time.

You'd barely caught your breath before they dragged you through unfamiliar corridors, down twisting hallways that reeked of damp concrete and cigarette smoke. Their base was dark—of course it was—and suffocating, like being buried alive.

They shoved you into a small, windowless room. Bare walls. One flickering light overhead. A cot in the corner, thin blanket folded neatly on top as if that somehow made it more humane.

And the handcuffs with the gloves under it… They were humiliating in a way that burned deeper than the physical discomfort—the constant reminder of what you were to them. Not a person. A weapon. Something to be used.

And the worst part? You couldn't even fight back.

Every time you even looked like you might resist, Hirotsu would calmly remind you why that was a terrible idea.

"If you make us regret bringing you here," he said the first night, adjusting the cuff of his immaculate sleeve, "we will start with one of the younger ones. The boy, perhaps. Kenji, was it? Or maybe the detective with the glasses—Ranpo, I believe. You know how the Agency feels about their own."

The threat sat heavy in your gut like poison.

Not because you didn't want to lash out—but because you believed them.

The Port Mafia wasn't empty threats. If you didn't do what they asked… someone you cared about would bleed for it.

And yet, even knowing that, you refused every job they tried to hand you. Kill this one. Threaten that one. Slip past this group and take out this executive. They didn't care how you did it. They just wanted bodies on the floor.

But every time, your voice was the same: "No."

The punishments weren't physical, at least not yet. They were psychological. Leaving you alone in the dark. No food for a day. Reminding you over and over again that you were only choosing to make your friends' lives harder.

You barely slept. The minutes blurred into hours, into days. Your wrists were raw under the cuffs, skin irritated and sore. Your own ability—something you never wanted—was the only thing that made you valuable here, and the only reason you were still breathing.

And all the while, one thought kept you going, flickering like a stubborn candle in the wind:

Dazai's going to come for me.

You didn't know when or how, but you knew him well enough by now to understand: he didn't make promises lightly. And he didn't leave people behind.

Especially not you.

Still, as you sat curled on that thin mattress, staring at the floor with your cuffed hands resting in your lap, doubt crept in like shadows along the corners of the room.

What if they killed him before he could get to you? What if you were going to die here—alone, like you always had been?

The door opened suddenly with a harsh creak, and one of the lower-ranking members stepped in, sneering as he spoke: "If you don't start cooperating soon… we'll drag one of them in here. See how long your resolve holds when you're the reason they scream."

Your throat tightened, but you lifted your chin anyway.

"Then bring them," you whispered, the defiance cracking in your voice but still there, burning hot and stubborn in your chest. "But I'm never going to be what you want."

And behind that defiance, hidden somewhere deep, you held onto that fragile ember of hope, one stubborn belief that you weren't truly alone—not anymore.

The Agency was strong, they were able to fight back, to not just get taken. And somewhere out there, Dazai was already planning your escape.

You just had to survive long enough to see him again.

It had been over a week.

Seven days of suffocating isolation, broken only by the sharp commands of Mafia members and the cold click of your cuffs when they unlocked one set just to slap on another. Seven days of stale bread, bitter coffee, and endless, gnawing dread.

You hadn't done anything yet, no job, no killing.

But tonight was different.

You knew it the moment they came for you. The air felt colder, heavier. Hirotsu didn't need to speak this time; the way he adjusted his pristine gloves, the slight tilt of his chin, said it all.

Tonight, they wanted you to kill.

"This target is an inconvenience to us," Hirotsu said simply as they shoved you into a black car, the leather seats sticking uncomfortably to the backs of your thighs. "You will dispose of him. If you refuse—well. I'm sure the Armed Detective Agency will appreciate the body parts we'll be sending next week."

Your stomach churned.

They were truly making you this time. Turning you into the monster you'd spent your entire life terrified of becoming. The monster you'd already convinced yourself you were deep down.

It was pathetic, how long you'd clung to hope these past few months. As if you deserved happiness. As if you deserved them.

You could almost hear the way Dazai would joke, if he were here: "Ah, self-loathing—I know that one intimately. But really, belladonna, it doesn't suit you."

Except this time, you weren't sure if even Dazai's jokes could reach the hollow pit of your heart anymore.

What made it worse wasn't just the Mafia dragging you along like a loaded gun with a heartbeat. It was the fact that you cared. You finally had people who mattered to you, and now, they were the leverage being used against you.

You hated them.

You hated Hirotsu's cold, calculated expression.

You hated this goddamn cursed ability.

But most of all—you hated yourself.

You should've run long ago. Disappeared. Buried yourself back into isolation where no one could reach you, so you couldn't be used like this. If they hurt the others… if Dazai—

No. You couldn't even finish the thought.

Your fists clenched in your lap, trembling beneath the gloves and cuffs. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, hot and sick. It was like being a kid again, staring at your father's lifeless body and realizing what you were.

Poison.

Plague.

The weapon that kills everything it touches.

Now you were just playing the part the world had always expected of you.

As the car rumbled over cobblestone streets, you caught your reflection faintly in the window. Hollow eyes. Tense jaw. Not a person. Just a tool.

But buried beneath that spiraling self-loathing was still the faint, ragged shape of resistance. Not because you thought you could fight them—but because they hadn't broken you yet. Not fully.

Not while Dazai was still out there.

You didn't know if it was hope or stubbornness or just sheer stupidity that kept that ember alive.

But it was there.

Burning.

For them.

For him.

Even if it killed you in the end.

The warehouse was colder than you expected.

Concrete walls stretched up into blackness, rusted beams groaning faintly with the weight of age. Your footsteps echoed as they dragged you forward, Hirotsu's men flanking you like wolves circling an injured deer.

The "target" stood in the center of the room—a middle-aged man, trembling, tied to a chair, mouth gagged, eyes wide in terror.

"This is where you prove yourself," Hirotsu said calmly, like he was commenting on the weather. "We've been patient. Now, earn your worth."

You stood still. The gloves, the cuffs, the layers of fabric separating you from the world—none of it felt like enough. You could feel the weight of that man's life pressing against your skin like poison waiting to be spilled.

No. No.

"I'm not doing it," you breathed.

Silence.

One of the men chuckled darkly. Another simply clicked the safety off his gun.

"Excuse me?" Hirotsu asked softly, adjusting his gloves again, as if you were being impolite.

"I won't," you said louder this time, lifting your chin. Your voice shook, but you held his gaze. "You can kill me if you want, but I won't be your executioner."

Another step back. Your heartbeat thrummed so hard it made your vision blur at the edges.

Then—inevitably—guns raised.

"You think this is bravery?" Hirotsu's voice was sharper now, irritated. "You are expendable.“

And that was it. The last straw. The breaking point. If you were expendable, then why didn’t they just kill you? End your misery, your threat to others, your threat to your friends.

So you stepped forward.

One step. Two.

The guards faltered, guns trembling slightly. They didn't fully understand your ability, only that death followed your touch. And now you were closing in, steady, defiant, hollow with rage and despair.

"Don't make us shoot you," one barked, his voice cracking despite himself.

But you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. If they shot you here, at least it would end with you—not with the people you cared about. You'd rather die than live like this.

You knew what was coming before it happened.

The sharp crack of gunfire. The pain that followed, that made you stumble a few step backwards.

More gunshots echoed through the warehouse, sudden chaos exploding around you as Port Mafia members dropped, shouts of confusion and fear filling the space.

And then—

"Honestly," a voice drawled, sharp and achingly familiar, "do you guys always have to make everything so dramatic?"

Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

Dazai.

He stepped into the chaos like a storm in human form, trench coat flowing, expression dark. Gone was the playful mask, the lazy smirk he used to wear like armor. This was something raw, something sharp, his eyes locked on you like nothing else in the world mattered.

Behind him, Kunikida shouted orders, Atsushi moved with practiced grace, taking down another attacker—but you didn't really see any of it.

Your eyes were on him. Just him.

"Y/N—" his voice dropped, alarm replacing amusement the second he saw the way you were standing—blood blooming just under your ribs where the shot had punctured you. Not fatal. Not yet. But dangerous. Dangerous enough.

"Shit," he hissed, bolting forward as the last few Mafia members retreated, Hirotsu disappearing into the shadows with clenched fists.

And you—weakly—swayed where you stood.

"Stay with me," Dazai muttered as he caught you, hands fumbling with the cuffs, skin pressing to yours as that familiar numbness flooded over your cursed ability. "Stay with me, damn it. Yosano's on her way—but not yet—not yet—"

You blinked up at him. His arms were around you now, firm, grounding you in the rising fog of dizziness.

"You weren't supposed to be here," you murmured faintly, lips cold, vision swimming.

"And you weren't supposed to be bleeding on me," he snapped—but there was a tremor in his voice, not anger. Fear. Real fear. "You idiot—do you have any idea—?"

He broke off. His jaw clenched. His head dipped lower, almost pressing his forehead to yours.

"I've lost enough people," he whispered, voice hoarse, not teasing anymore. "I'm not going to lose you too."

And despite the pain, despite everything—you leaned into his touch, because right now, that warmth was all you had.

All you needed.

"Move," Yosano ordered briskly as she arrived, heels clicking sharply against the warehouse floor.

Dazai didn't hesitate. He eased you down carefully, his arm still supporting you as Yosano knelt beside you. Her gloved hands worked efficiently, undoing the makeshift pressure Dazai had applied to your wound, assessing the damage with sharp eyes.

"You're almost ready," she said, and though her voice was professional, her gaze softened for a moment when she looked at you. "I'll make it easy for you just this once, since it's your first time. Next time, don't try to be a hero, okay?"

"I wasn't," you whispered hoarsely, the exhaustion crashing over you all at once. "Didn't… want them to hurt you."

The faintest smile curved her lips before she activated her ability. 

Thou Shalt Not Die.

Warmth surged through your chest, tingling and prickling under your skin as the fatal injury began to close. The pain dulled to a strange ache, replaced by an overwhelming wave of tiredness.

When it was over, Dazai caught you before you could slump over completely.

"Done," Yosano announced, standing and brushing her gloves clean. "You'll live."

"See?" Dazai murmured near your ear, something tight easing in his chest. "Told you you're not allowed to die on me."

Everything else—the Mafia, the fight, the threats—felt far away now, like the aftermath of a storm, distant thunder still rumbling on the horizon.

The trip home blurred together, the warmth of Dazai's arm wrapped around you, steady at your waist, guiding you up the stairs of your building. He didn't make jokes this time, didn't tease or deflect like he normally did. He was quiet, too quiet.

By the time he closed the door to your apartment behind him, the silence between you both was thick with everything unsaid.

You sat down on the edge of your couch, fingers twitching with nerves, unsure what to say. Unsure if you should say anything at all.

Then, Dazai sat next to you.

Close.

Even closer than usual.

He looked at you—not with amusement, not with condescension, but with something more real than you'd ever seen on him before.

"You're an idiot," he said softly. "A complete, utter idiot."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already shaking his head, messy bangs falling into his eyes.

"I'm bad at this," he muttered. "Relationships. Feelings. Whatever this is."

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs.

"But I've spent months watching you get used to being touched again. Watching you figure out how to live again. And I—" He exhaled, frustration curling in the corners of his voice. "I don't want anyone else to be the one standing next to you when you finally realize you deserve more than just surviving."

More silence.

Then: "I don't flirt with anyone else anymore," he added. "Have you noticed that?"

A breathy laugh escaped you, part disbelief, part something warmer. "I thought you were losing your touch."

"Maybe I just found something better to hold onto," he said, quieter now.

And then—you did something you never thought you'd be able to do with anyone ever.

You leaned in.

Slow. Careful. Giving him every chance to back away.

He didn't.

Dazai met you halfway, his hand curling gently around the side of your face, his skin safely pressing to yours thanks to his ability. The kiss was soft, almost hesitant, but real.

Real.

When you parted, your forehead rested against his.

"I didn't think…" you started, words catching on the raw knot of emotion in your throat. "I never thought I could have this."

"I didn't either," Dazai whispered. "Guess we're both idiots."

Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hello o/, if you’re still taking requests, I wanted to request a timeskip!Atsumu x reader fic. My birthday is coming up real soon, and the family member I was going to spend it with has to go into emergency surgery on my b-day. I’ve been feeling a bit down bc of this since I spend my birthday with this person every year. So I wanted to request a fic where Atsumu just spends the day taking care of reader on their birthday. I don’t particularly enjoy large gatherings for my bday, and am a big fan of just doing things (going to museums, trying new food places, aquariums) with the people closest to me. I do also play volleyball, so maybe they go watch a game together. I really enjoy your writing, and thanks in advance if you do end up taking this request <3

Not Just Another Birthday

A/N: Hello! I’m sorry to hear that. I hope your family member gets out of the hospital soon, and that you’ll be able to celebrate later. Until then, I still hope you have a wonderful birthday!

synopsis: On your birthday, Atsumu planned a day full of surprises, determined to make you feel loved and happy, ensuring every moment was unforgettable.

warnings/content: time skip Miya Atsumu x fem!reader, fluff, 3.076 words

The soft golden light of the morning sun slipped through the curtains, painting delicate patterns on the sheets. The air in the bedroom was still cool, the kind that made it tempting to stay curled under the covers for just a little longer. You stirred gently, stretching beneath the warmth of the comforter, at least until a sudden smell wafted in from the hallway.

Burned. Something was definitely burned.

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you sat up slightly, brows knitting. It wasn't too bad, but it was...toasty. Before you could swing your legs off the bed to investigate, the door creaked open.

There he was.

Atsumu, smiling so wide it practically reached the tips of his bed-mussed hair, stepped into the room like a ray of sunshine that somehow managed to be louder than the real one streaming through the window. In his hands was a tray, slightly wobbly from his excitement, with two stacked pancakes drizzled with chocolate sauce, a tall glass of freshly pressed orange juice, and a single, perfectly red rose laid delicately beside the plate.

He immediately launched into a too-cheerful, off-key version of Happy Birthday, dragging out the last few notes with dramatic flair and a grin that threatened to split his face in half.

"Happy birthdaaay to yooouuuuu—!" he finished with a small bow and set the tray down on your lap before leaning over and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Mornin', birthday royalty."

You laughed, eyes still bleary with sleep but heart undeniably full. "You're ridiculous," you murmured, smiling as he climbed into the bed beside you, careful not to tip the tray.

"Yeah, but I'm your ridiculous."

He cuddled close, chin on your shoulder as you both eyed the pancakes together. "They look amazing," you said, picking up a fork. "Smell's a little… adventurous, though."

At that, Atsumu winced. "Okay, okay, I may have nearly set off the smoke detector. Twice."

You raised an eyebrow at him.

"I wanted 'em to be perfect! But apparently, pancakes are rude and don't like bein' rushed," he muttered, half-pouting. "So I called Osamu."

Your laugh bubbled out. "You what?"

"I panicked!" he whined. "He showed up half-awake, mutterin' somethin' about betrayal and cookin' before noon, but he saved the whole operation. Swapped my batter with his 'good one'—whatever that means—and flipped these like a damn wizard. Then he left before you woke up. Told me not to screw up the rest of the day or he'd revoke my big brother privileges."

You leaned your head against Atsumu's, still chuckling. "You really did all that… just for me?"

His expression softened, the usual smug sparkle in his eyes giving way to something gentler. "Course I did. You always go all out for me, even when I gotta share the spotlight with that punk I was born with."

You nudged him. "You love that punk."

"Yeah, yeah. But ya still made me feel special. Like my birthday mattered just for me. I ain't never had that before." He glanced at you, voice quieter now. "So yeah. I wanted you to feel the same today. Like the happiest person on Earth. 'Cause you're the best thing that ever happened to mine."

Your breath caught, a warm flutter blooming in your chest. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his as you took a bite of the pancakes—sweet, fluffy, and somehow even better because of the chaos it took to get them on the plate.

"They're perfect," you said softly. 

He beamed. "Good."

Today was already perfect—and it was only just beginning.

Atsumu plucked the now-empty tray from your lap and set it aside on the nightstand with exaggerated care. "Alright, alright," he said, bouncing a little on the edge of the bed like a kid who couldn't wait any longer. "Time for phase two.“

You blinked at him, amused. "Phase two?"

He grinned, eyes twinkling. "C'mon. Up. No peekin'."

You raised a skeptical eyebrow but let him pull the covers away. He quickly moved behind you, covering your eyes with his hands as he guided you—half-shuffling, half-laughing—down the short hallway.

"'Tsumu, if you make me walk into a wall, I swear—"

"Ya won't, I'm an expert," he chuckled, nudging the door to the living room open with his foot. "Okay. Ready?"

His hands slipped away, and you blinked at the sudden soft light spilling from the windows.

The living room had been completely transformed.

Streamers in your favorite colors hung from the ceiling in gentle swirls, curling down over the tops of the windows and bookcase. Balloons were scattered artfully around the space—some resting in corners, others hovering gently near the ceiling, including a shiny helium balloon shaped in the numbers of your age. A cheerful "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" banner stretched across the far wall in gold letters, and in the center of the room sat a tall bouquet of velvety red and pink roses in a glass vase, catching the morning light.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

"Oh my god…"

Atsumu, looking entirely too proud of himself, leaned in and whispered, "Told ya I had a plan."

Your eyes darted to the coffee table where two neatly wrapped gifts sat. You gave him a questioning look, but he just nodded toward them, clearly buzzing with anticipation.

You sat down on the couch, picking up the first box. Inside were two sleek, black-and-white printed event cards—tickets. You froze.

Your breath hitched. "No way…"

Atsumu plopped down beside you, watching your expression with a smug little smirk. "Yup. Front row, mid-court. Suna vs. Aran. Tonight."

"But they've been sold out for weeks. You told me you had 'other plans.' I stopped even—"

"I lied." He was beaming now. "For a good reason! You've been sayin' for months how you wanted to go, and you're always supportin' them—hell, they texted me askin' if I'd bring you. Couldn't let your birthday pass without makin' it happen."

You stared at the cards, speechless, then at him. "You're actually unbelievable."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

You leaned over and kissed him, slow and grateful, before reaching for the second gift.

It was smaller, in a velvet box. You popped it open gently—and your heart clenched.

Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, simple and elegant, with a tiny disc charm engraved with coordinates. 

"Go on, look them up!" he beamed, holding out his phone, the maps app already open.

You typed the coordinates in and…

They were the exact location of the spot where you first met Atsumu—outside a small corner café, on a rainy afternoon, with a spilled drink and a shared umbrella that somehow changed everything.

You looked up at him, lips parting in awe.

"Tsumu, I don't know what to say… it's so beautiful. And the coordinates… thank you."

"'Course," he said softly, suddenly shy under your gaze. "That's where everything started. 'S where I met the person that made birthdays mean somethin' to me. I never liked 'em before you. Felt like I was always splittin' it, always fightin' for attention. But you always made sure I felt like I mattered, even with 'Samu right there."

You reached out, threading your fingers through his.

He met your eyes. "So now it's your turn. Today's just for you. All of it. And I'm gonna make sure you feel like the only person in the whole world."

You smiled, tears threatening the corners of your eyes.

You didn't need a big party, or confetti cannons, or five-tiered cakes. You just needed this—this moment, this man, this kind of love.

After the emotional surprise with the bracelet and the volleyball tickets, Atsumu gently tugged you toward the bedroom again with a grin that told you he wasn't quite done making your birthday unforgettable.

"Okay, phase three," he said, opening the closet and tossing you one of your favorite outfits. "Get dressed. Bathing suit underneath. You'll see."

You raised an eyebrow. "Bathing suit?"

"No hints," he smirked. "But trust me—you've wanted this for ages."

A short drive and a lot of playful banter later, you were standing in front of a sleek, modern spa nestled on the edge of the city. The kind of place with smooth stone walls, bamboo water features, and soft instrumental music already playing faintly from inside. You blinked, surprised.

"Atsumu…"

"I know you always said you wanted a proper spa day," he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I was gonna take you to that art exhibit or the zoo, but with the game tonight, I figured… you should relax. Not be walkin' around all day and then yawnin' through Suna's serves."

You laughed, touched beyond words. "This is perfect."

Inside, everything smelled like eucalyptus and lavender. You slipped into your swimsuits and wandered into the large, serene indoor pool. It was mostly quiet, the gentle ripple of water echoing softly through the space. Warm light filtered in through skylights, and the main pool connected seamlessly to a whirlpool on one end and a sauna and relaxation area tucked in the back.

Atsumu didn't even try to hide how pleased he was watching you light up.

You waded into the whirlpool together, the bubbles fizzing around your shoulders as he pulled you into his lap. His arms looped around your waist, and you leaned back against his chest, closing your eyes.

"Best birthday ever," you whispered, and he pressed a kiss to your damp temple.

The sauna came next, the air dry and warm as the two of you sat side by side on the wooden bench, hands still entwined. Atsumu kept glancing at you out of the corner of his eye like he couldn't believe you were real, like he still couldn't get used to the way your fingers curled so naturally into his.

After that, he led you back out into the main lounge, where a smiling staff member greeted you both. "We're ready for your massage," she said sweetly.

You blinked, turning to Atsumu in surprise. "You booked a massage too?"

He shrugged, trying to act cool. "Figured I'd top it all off. Told 'em to make it all about you—none of that shared nonsense. You deserve your own time."

The massage was everything you'd hoped for—relaxing, soothing, your tension melting away beneath practiced hands and soft music. When you stepped back into the lounge afterward, face flushed and muscles loose with calm, Atsumu was there waiting with two iced teas and that same ridiculously fond smile on his face.

"Ready for the next step?" he asked, handing you the drink.

You giggled happily, nodding your head. "Of course!"

He grinned, brushing a bit of stray hair from your forehead. "Let's go then. We've got a game to catch, birthday girl. Front row."

And with that, he took your hand again, like he always did—like he always would—and led you off to the next part of the best day of your life.

The arena buzzed with excitement as you stepped into the stands, the hum of the crowd already sending a thrill through your chest. The lights above cast a warm glow on the polished court below, where the players were finishing up their warm-ups. You spotted Suna stretching near his teammates, casually cool as ever, and not far from him, Aran giving a firm handshake to a coach, all professionalism and focus.

Your front-row seats were perfect—close enough to hear the players' shouts and see the fire in their eyes. Atsumu, of course, had chosen seats right by the net. Premium viewing, prime drama zone.

As you both sat down, he slung his arm around your shoulders, smirking like he'd planned this moment in his head a hundred times. "Told ya these seats would be worth it."

You laughed, squeezing his hand. "You were right. Again."

The game kicked off with an explosive serve from Aran's team, the crowd roaring as the ball sped across the court. You leaned forward, cheering when Suna coolly received it like it was nothing.

"Atta boy, Suna!" you called, clapping with a grin.

Atsumu whistled low. "Mmm. That set was way too tight to the net. Gonna get blocked if they keep pushin' that tempo."

You looked at him with a raised brow. "You analyzing the game already?"

He shrugged, completely unbothered. "What can I say? Setter instincts never turn off."

You chuckled and turned your attention back to the court. The play continued—fast, clean, and full of intensity. Suna managed a clean spike from the left wing that had Aran's team scrambling. The point was won with a kill, and you joined the crowd in applause.

"Bet Aran's regrettin' not double-blockin' that side," Atsumu murmured, more to himself than to you.

Another play went off—this time with Aran delivering a devastating serve that barely skimmed the net and dropped with a wicked spin just past the ten-foot line.

"Now that's a serve," Atsumu admitted, tipping his imaginary hat. "Man's still got it."

You laughed again. "You sound like a commentator."

He grinned. "Maybe I should be. 'Specially since these setters are makin' rookie mistakes out here."

You nudged him playfully. "They're doing just fine."

"They could be doin' better," he muttered. Then, leaning in with a teasing whisper: "If I was settin' for Suna tonight, he'd already have twelve kills. Easy."

You rolled your eyes affectionately. "You're impossible."

"But you love that about me."

And you did. You loved the way he couldn't help but get involved, even from the sidelines. The way he watched the game not just as a fan, but as someone who lived and breathed it. And you especially loved how, even with all the analysis and silent critiques, he kept sneaking glances at you—like he was more interested in your reactions than the match itself.

As the game heated up, you found yourself cheering for both teams equally—calling out encouragement to Aran after a clever tip over the block, and hollering Suna's name after a perfect back-row attack.

You weren't the only one enjoying the moment either. During a timeout, Suna caught your eye, gave a tiny wave and a smirk. Aran, later on, spotted you in the crowd after scoring a point and pointed briefly in your direction with a familiar nod.

You turned to Atsumu, who had caught both moments.

"Guess I'm not the only one who's glad you're here tonight," he said, smiling a little softer now. "They're your people too."

Your chest swelled with something warm and full. "Our people."

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple as the whistle blew again. "Damn right."

And together, hand in hand, you settled back into the energy of the arena, surrounded by cheers, old friends, and the love of the boy who made everything—even a regular volleyball match—feel like magic.

The game had ended in a nail-biting finish, both teams pushing themselves to the edge until Aran's final spike sealed the win by a narrow two points. The crowd erupted with cheers, but your eyes stayed locked on the court—on Suna clapping his teammates on the back despite the loss, and Aran offering a respectful nod across the net.

You and Atsumu lingered outside the stadium afterward, standing near a quiet side entrance reserved for players. The evening air was cool and crisp, the kind that made your cheeks sting slightly but felt refreshing after the heat of the arena.

Atsumu checked his phone briefly. "They said they're headin' out now."

Moments later, the door creaked open and Suna stepped out first, still in his warm-up jacket, his expression cool as ever—but the second he spotted you, his face softened just a touch.

"Birthday girl," he greeted with that signature deadpan tone, pulling you in for a quick, one-armed hug. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks, Suna," you grinned. "You played so well out there."

He shrugged. "Could've been better." Then, with a glance at Atsumu, he smirked. "But not bad for a team without him yelling in my ear every set."

Before Atsumu could retort, the door opened again and Aran emerged, towel slung around his neck, still radiating that quiet confidence. His smile broke wide when he saw you.

"There she is," Aran said warmly, giving you a hug that was all muscle and comfort. "Happy birthday, Y/N. You look great."

"Thanks, Aran! And congrats on the win," you beamed.

He gave a small laugh. "Barely scraped it. Suna almost wiped the floor with us in the third set."

"Only 'cause your setter took five years to get the ball to you," Suna added casually.

"You gonna coach him next time or just glare at him more?" Aran shot back.

Atsumu grinned, sliding his hand into yours. "Boys, boys, let's not pretend either of ya could function without me."

You snorted, and the others rolled their eyes, but there was fondness in all of it—years of friendship woven into teasing jabs and half-smiles.

"Anyway," Suna said, turning to you again, "enjoy the rest of your night. He's been planning this day for weeks. Wouldn't shut up about it."

Aran nodded. "Seriously. You've got a good one. Not that I need to tell you that."

"I know," you said softly, squeezing Atsumu's hand.

"Take care, birthday girl," Suna added, and with that, they waved you off, heading in opposite directions down the street.

Atsumu looked over at you as the two of you began walking home, the buzz of the stadium slowly fading behind you.

"They like you," he said, lips twitching into a smirk.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. "They're my friends too now, remember?"

"Yeah. But I still like hearin' it." He glanced at you sideways. "You happy?"

You stopped walking for a second, tugging on his hand to make him turn fully to face you.

"I'm more than happy," you said honestly. "You made today feel like everything I didn't even know I needed. I don't think I've ever felt so loved."

His smirk faded into something softer, more sincere. "Good. That's all I wanted."

The two of you kept walking, the city lights reflecting off the quiet sidewalks, his fingers warm and steady in yours. No rush. No noise. Just the perfect end to the perfect day.

Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

hii again! I have another req for you and its ranpo this time >:)

could you do smth fluffy where fem reader maybe makes him some homemade sweets (oh and speaking of fem reader could you make the reader in the chuuya fic fem plz?)

i imagine shes kinda like ranpo where she’ll only make him more sweets if he tells her how amazing it us (and shes proud and unashamed)

War of Sugar and Praise

synopsis: In the Armed Detective Agency, a newcomer with a knack for baking finds an unexpected bond with Ranpo, whose insatiable sweet tooth sparks a playful (and addictive) exchange of desserts and praise.

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -2.380 words

It was supposed to be a normal evening.

You only wanted a drink, maybe something sweet, maybe a cheap snack to reward yourself after a long week. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above your head as you browsed through instant noodles and half-stale pastries, considering whether your standards had fallen low enough yet for gas station tiramisu.

That's when the door slammed open.

Two men stormed in. Both armed. Both loud. Both with faces like they hadn't slept properly in a year.

"Don't move!" one of them shouted at the poor clerk, waving a handgun wildly like he'd only ever seen one in a movie. The other paced nervously by the entrance, eyes darting.

And of course—you were here for snacks.

Just your luck.

Next to you, calm as anything, stood a young farmboy with blond hair and a straw hat, holding a small basket of milk and eggs. He looked, if anything, mildly surprised at the interruption.

"Ah," he said thoughtfully. "That's troublesome."

You blinked at him.

And then, softly, barely audible over the robbers' yelling: "Don't worry. I'm part of the Armed Detective Agency. I can take them down, easy. But—" he frowned, "—they might panic and shoot someone first. I don't wanna risk the cashier getting hurt. Gotta get the weapons away first."

Armed Detective Agency? You vaguely remembered hearing something about that on the news once. Something about terrorists. Or was it saving orphans? Hard to tell these days.

You took a steady breath, feeling the familiar static of something curling through your fingertips. Your ability. And then—

With a lazy flick of your hand, a ripple in the air formed beside you like heat haze. Something purred softly.

And out of the thin air, materializing like a smug secret, a sleek black cat stretched its paws and dropped into your arm.

"Good evening," you murmured under your breath, as the cat flicked its ears and then sauntered across the store tiles like it owned the place. It padded directly to the nearest robber, tail flicking arrogantly, and with one delicate paw—like knocking a pen off a table—tapped the barrel of the gun.

There was a soft metallic clunk.

The trigger clicked uselessly when the robber tried to fire. Nothing.

"What the hell—?"

That's when the blond kid smiled.

He moved like a switch had flipped. Before the second robber could even raise his gun, the boy crossed the floor in a blur, ripped the weapon out of his hands like it was made of tissue, and planted the guy into the snack shelf so hard that potato chips exploded into the air like confetti.

Two armed robbers, now one with a broken gun, the other buried under a mountain of shattered instant ramen packets.

Kenji dusted off his hands like someone who'd just finished weeding a garden. "Well," he said cheerfully, "that worked great!"

You stared. The cat was already cleaning its paw like it hadn't just been part of organized sabotage.

Then Kenji turned to you, face bright like a rising sun. "That's so cool! You gotta come meet my friends!"

You opened your mouth to protest. Never got the chance.

The next morning, you barely got dressed when Kenji showed up at your door, punctual, freshly rested, and somehow carrying you toward a waiting train before you could mutter an excuse. 

And that's how you ended up sitting across from Fukuzawa Yukichi.

The president of the Armed Detective Agency welcomed you with the serene weight of a thousand quiet tea ceremonies. You explained, awkwardly, about the cat. About how it sabotaged things. About how it could be annoying, independent, and slightly rude, but—"useful, really, I swear—"

Fukuzawa said nothing for a long moment. The air felt like it was holding its breath.

Then, awkward, trying to fill the silence, you muttered, "I—I have a culinary arts degree too. I… used to work in kitchens before this whole mess."

That's when his eyes glinted.

"You're hired."

"…What?"

"Ranpo will like you," he said, already moving on to the next document on his desk. "Welcome to the Agency."

And that's how, completely against your will (at least that's what you told yourself), you got a new job with the Armed Detective Agency, a smug black cat spirit curling around your legs like a victorious villain, and no idea what was waiting for you next.

You hadn't even baked anything yet.

It had been almost a month since you joined the Armed Detective Agency, and to your great surprise—you were actually enjoying it.

Sure, there were some… quirks.

For example: Dazai. Who seemed to have taken it upon himself to flirt with you at every available moment—not out of genuine interest, of course, but more like a bored cat knocking glassware off a shelf just to see what would happen. He also tried talking you into committing suicide with him. 

And then there was Yosano, the agency's designated "Doctor," who sharpened surgical instruments with the calm, focused joy of someone tuning a favorite musical instrument. You didn't ask about the axe. You didn't want to know about the axe.

But overall? It was a great. Good people, weird hours, decent pay, and Kenji often brought you fresh fruit from his farm connections. It was enough to keep you sane.

That was, until you noticed Ranpo.

Or rather—you couldn't help but notice him.

Sweets. All the time. Hard candies stuffed into pockets. Chocolate wrappers crumpled on the desk. Half-empty soda bottles rolling under chairs. You weren't even sure he remembered what actual meals were.

And sure, technically he was the greatest detective alive or whatever—but no one could live like that. Not even Ranpo Edogawa.

One day, while you were scribbling down some notes for a case, he wandered by with a new bag of hard candies, ripping it open with his teeth like a feral raccoon.

You watched. And you winced.

Finally—you couldn't take it anymore.

If there was one thing you knew how to do, it was bake. And if he was going to rot his teeth out anyway, it might as well be with something good.

You went home that night and turned your cramped apartment kitchen into a battleground. Flour in your hair. Sugar on the floor. The smug little cat spirit watching from atop your fridge like an unimpressed sous-chef.

By the time the sun rose, you had a neat little box of assorted sweets. Butter cookies. Matcha-flavored shortbread. Chocolate tarts. And—just to be sure—mini strawberry mochi. Something for everyone, but really, it was for him.

You waited until mid-morning break to casually drop the box on the edge of Ranpo's desk. He was in the middle of playing a handheld game console, half a sucker stuck between his lips.

"What's this?" he asked, barely glancing up.

"Try it," you said, folding your arms and pretending you didn't care. (You cared a lot.)

Ranpo peeled the box open one-handed. He picked up one of the cookies like he was selecting a weapon from a battle, studied it lazily, and took a bite.

And then—

Silence.

His entire soul lit up like a fireworks display. You could almost hear the orchestra swell.

Slowly, he took the sucker out of his mouth, dropped it into the nearest trash bin, and replaced it with the cookie like a king swapping a cheap imitation for the real treasure.

Ranpo looked at you like you'd just solved a murder and stopped a war.

"…You made this?" he said, mouth still full.

You nodded, heart racing.

He swallowed, dramatically. "This is the best thing I've ever eaten."

You felt your whole body go warm at the praise. Baking had always been your stress relief, your favorite thing—but having someone like Ranpo—Yokohama's greatest detective—declare it the peak of culinary achievement?

Yeah. You were hooked.

The next day, you brought more. Just to see the look on his face again.

And that was the beginning of the end.

What started with a few cookies spiraled fast.

You needed to de-stress after intense missions? Bake. Ranpo wanted sugar between deductions? Eat. You brought in a tray of custard puffs? Ranpo applauded like you'd just solved national debt. He polished off three strawberry daifuku? You told him he was the greatest eater alive.

And he liked that.

No one had ever praised him for something so stupidly simple before. Eating. Enjoying food. Being, just—Ranpo.

He basked in it. You basked in his praise right back.

The others noticed. Atsushi gave you both nervous glances. Kunikida looked physically pained every time Ranpo chose your pastries over a proper meal. Yosano watched like she was calculating how much sugar could replace blood in a human body. Even Dazai raised an eyebrow like "codependency speedrun? Interesting."

But Ranpo?

Ranpo was thrilled.

As far as he was concerned, the ADA could fall apart tomorrow. Yokohama could sink into the bay. As long as you kept bringing sweets and beaming at him like he hung the moon, Ranpo had everything he needed.

"I'm keeping you," he declared one day with finality, crumbs on his lips. "Don't even think about quitting."

You smiled, already planning the next recipe.

Frankly? You weren't going anywhere.

Not if it meant more of this.

You had thought by now that Ranpo's sugar addiction and your baking obsession had settled into a comfortable rhythm.

You baked. He ate. He praised. You glowed.

Simple. Perfect. Almost like a well-oiled machine.

But Ranpo, ever the greatest detective, had started to wonder.

What if—he mused one morning, crumbs still stuck to his lips—what if I stopped praising her?

It started subtly.

You handed him a fresh batch of pastries after a tough mission. His eyes lit up. He popped a cookie in his mouth. He chewed happily.

And then—

"Good," he said, flatly.

No sparkle. No grin. No dramatic outburst of delight.

Just a simple, "Good."

You blinked. You smiled anyway. Maybe he was just tired.

The next day, you brought cupcakes, mini éclairs, your new experimental matcha roll.

He took one. He ate it. He said nothing.

No "best ever." No "greatest chef alive." No "I could marry you for this."

That's when you became stubborn. If he didn't enjoy your sweets anymore—if he preferred cheap, store-bought candy—then you wouldn't give him any more. You liked baking, sure. But you didn't need to spend every free hour in the kitchen making things just for him. Worst case, you'd give your baked goods to someone else.

The next day, you came into work and instead of dropping a new box of sweets on Ranpo's desk, you simply walked past him, sending an innocent smile and saying good morning before plopping down in your chair.

Of course, you noticed his wide-eyed, almost panicked expression. You didn't need to be a world-class detective to see the despair radiating off him.

"Y/N-chan." It was almost the end of the day when Ranpo approached you, hopping lazily onto a free corner of your table and sitting down. "I was wondering if you didn't bring any sweets today."

"Nope." You answered easily, leaning back in your seat. "You didn't seem to enjoy the last things I made, so I guessed you preferred your store-bought candy." Your smile screamed innocence.

Ranpo's face immediately fell. Clearly, he was torn over what to say next to get what he wanted. Before he could speak, you had already gone back to scribbling down today's report.

"I've gotta focus right now, sorry. But I'll try to bake something when I have time. Next weekend. Maybe."

You could feel Ranpo's burning gaze on you, but after not looking at him for another minute, he finally let out a small huff before jumping off the table and leaving the office in his usual dramatic, sulking way.

That game went on for two more days—Ranpo watching you intently but refusing to give you what he wanted, and you stubbornly withholding your sweets from him.

All he had left were store-bought treats: donuts that didn't taste nearly as fluffy as yours, cream puffs with cream that just wasn’t right, and mochi in flavors he didn't love. Everything felt wrong.

That's why, on the third day, he finally cracked.

"Y/N-chan," he whined, his expression falling into something between a kicked puppy and a desperate child. His eyes were wide and pleading. "Can you make sweets again?"

You cocked your head to the side, a slow grin spreading across your face. "Only if you tell me they're better than any store-bought candy and say I'm amazing at baking."

Ranpo stared at you like you'd just lost your mind, his brow furrowing as if trying to process your audacity. The internal conflict played across his face like a silent battle—pride wrestling with stubbornness—before he finally let his head droop in defeat.

"Fine," he muttered. "Everything you've baked so far is better than all the sweets I've ever eaten. You're an amazing cook. Now… can I have my sweets?"

You smiled brightly. "Sure. Want to come to my place after work? I've got some things I baked yesterday in the cupboard, and I can make more while you eat."

His face lit up instantly. “It's a date!”

Ranpo turned and strode back to his table, dropping into his chair with a smug, self-satisfied grin.

Meanwhile, Dazai had been quietly observing your back-and-forth for the past three days, watching the subtle dance of stubbornness and sweetness unfold like an oddly heartwarming soap opera. This last exchange was the tipping point. It was clear as day that it wouldn't be long before you two fell headfirst into a full-blown romantic relationship—completed with sugar highs and endless praise.

And honestly? Dazai wasn't sure if he ever wanted to see that happen.

Sweets everywhere. Praises flying nonstop. Sugar shocks and praises overwhelming every corner of the office. That was even too much for someone like him to handle.

For now, he decided it was probably best to start researching quick ways to commit suicide—before the two of you accidentally destroyed the entire agency in your escalating war of sugar and praise.

Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

Heyyyy I just wanna say ur fics are amazing and so well written ur my fav writer Eva:3!!!🩷🩷🩷

I have a question that are you comfortable with writing male readers specifically transmasc readers? I really wanna request a specific fic with a transmasc reader but idk if you're okay with that!!! It's totally okay if not I just wanna ask ^w^!!

Hello hello!

Thank you so much! And yeah, sure, I don’t have a problem writing for a male reader or a transmasc reader (or trans reader in general). I’m actually trying to write most of my fics (unless it’s specifically stated to be fem reader) for a non-binary reader. But I’ve got to admit, I sometimes forget and slip into she/her since that’s what I’m most used to writing personally.

But I’m absolutely willing to write for a male reader as well!

[ghostlynightpanda]

hii I was wondering if u could do gyokko or gyutaro from demon slayee with reader finding them beautiful?? (also I don't remember if I already asked u something so if ur working on that then you can choose to ignore this one or do it's few weeks later)

Under the Streetlight

Synopsis: After years of hiding in the shadows, Gyutaro meets a girl who sees past his monstrous form and calls him beautiful—unraveling his loneliness and awakening a desperate need to keep her by his side forever.

warnings/content: Gyutaro x fem!reader, fluff (I think), 3.691 words

The red light district never slept.

Laughter and music bled from paper lantern-lit windows, casting wavering shadows on rain-damp cobblestone. Perfume mingled with alcohol and the scent of lacquered wood. The district pulsed like a living thing—breathing, humming, wanting.

But not for him.

High above the silk and glitter, in the suffocating crawlspace between rooftop tiles and the ink-black night, Gyutaro crouched. Hunched. Watching.

It was better than sleeping.

Usually, he stayed curled within Daki's body, dormant and drifting through her senses like smoke. She didn't like when he came out too often—said it ruined her rhythm, scared the clients. Her voice always had that biting edge when she said it. Sweet and cruel. "Go back to sleep, nii-chan. You're too ugly for this part of town."

He never argued. Not out loud. But lately, he found himself peeling away from her more often. Just slipping free like mold off old walls. It didn't matter if she got annoyed.

She had people. Clients. Friends. Women who whispered behind silk fans, men who begged to see her smile.

Daki sparkled. The district welcomed her with open arms and honeyed words.

Gyutaro? He lived in the rot. In the leftover corners no one wanted to look at.

So he wandered. Not for food—though sometimes he considered it—but more for... something else. Maybe boredom. Maybe the quiet churning ache that clawed at him when he watched her laugh with some drunken noble. Or maybe—though he'd never admit it, not even to himself—he was just lonely.

Lonely in the way monsters are lonely. Not tragic. Not poetic.

Just forgotten.

He slinked down into an alley, half-shadow and half-bone. His spine curved with the unnatural looseness of something dead but breathing. Overhead, a woman's laugh rang out, glassy and delicate.

Gyutaro flinched, more from habit than fear.

He wasn't afraid of humans. They were afraid of him. Or worse—they were disgusted.

He curled his lip. The walls here smelled like sake and piss. Way different from the perfumes his sister bathed in nightly. He should go back. Let her complain, let her yell about him "ruining the atmosphere" or whatever nonsense she picked up from her fancy clients.

But his legs kept moving. Soft footfalls. No sound. No echo. Just a ghost pacing cobblestones long after midnight.

No one saw him. No one ever did.

And he was starting to wonder if anyone ever would.

He rounded another corner, where the flickering lantern light barely reached the ground.

And that's when you turned it.

Rushing. Not looking.

Bam.

Your shoulder clipped his chest—solid, sharp. He staggered a step, less from the impact than from pure surprise. No one touched him.

Not unless they were dying.

You gasped lightly, almost stumbling. "Ah—I'm sorry! I didn't see you—" You bowed, hands pressed to your sides. "Forgive me."

He stared.

What...

His hand twitched. Instinctively. A sickle began to form in his palm, creeping from his skin like a second thought made manifest. One clean slice. One heartbeat. That's all it would take.

But then you looked up.

And smiled.

Small. Apologetic. Like someone who'd bumped into a stranger in a hallway. Not a monster in the dark.

You didn't recoil. Didn't scream. Didn't flinch or spit or stare at his face like it was something out of a nightmare. Your gaze brushed over him, unfocused, gentle, moving on like nothing about him was worth gawking at.

You just... smiled.

"Sorry again," you said, stepping around him, your voice light, genuine. And then you were walking away, shoes clacking lightly against stone, vanishing into the lanternlight like it had all been nothing.

Like he was nothing.

But not in the way he was used to.

Gyutaro stood there frozen.

The sickle didn't move.

Neither did he.

You had apologized to him.

Not because you feared him, not with that brittle desperation he saw in people who sensed what he was. But like you meant it. Like it was natural. Like he deserved an apology. Like he was just another man in the street.

His heart, shriveled and monstrous as it was, stuttered once—confused.

That smile... It hadn't looked forced.

Not laced with panic. Not tight with politeness. Not the kind people gave when they had no other choice but to survive a moment.

It had been real.

He turned, craning his head after you, body melting back into the darkness without a sound.

Who the hell were you?

He should've let it go.

Just some clumsy girl in the street. Just a stupid smile. Just a nothing-moment.

But it wasn't nothing.

And he didn't let it go.

Gyutaro stayed in the shadows long after you disappeared into the twisting alleys. His body clung to the walls like damp rot, eyes glowing faint and feral in the dark. He should've gone back to Daki, back to the stink of makeup and blood and muffled screams beneath silk pillows. But he didn't.

Instead, he followed.

You didn't know, of course. How could you? People like you never looked up. Never noticed when something crawled along the rooftops like a spider made of blades. You walked with the confidence of someone who belonged. Like this place was yours.

He watched you step through the red-draped door of one of the most expensive houses in the district. The kind with golden lanterns and guards that pretended to be polite. That's her home, he realized. You weren't a courtesan, and definitely not a client. You were something more dangerous—untouchable.

A manager's daughter.

Daki had complained about your kind before—smug little brats born into silk and lacquer, thinking they owned everything because they were born with clean hands.

But you hadn't acted like that.

Gyutaro perched on a slanted roof and watched through a crooked gap in the wooden tiles as you greeted one of the maids with a warm smile, your voice too soft to carry. Later, you passed a crying girl in the courtyard and stopped, kneeling to wipe her cheek. He thought he saw you press a candy into her hand. Just like that.

What kind of game is this?

He waited until the house fell quiet before slipping away.

But he came back the next night.

And the one after that.

It became routine. No—it became ritual.

Gyutaro watched you from the shadows every evening, crouching in beams or behind crumbling rooftop ornaments. A quiet parasite. A lurking ghost. He memorized the rhythm of your steps, the way you greeted every servant by name, how your smile changed slightly depending on who you were talking to. It wasn't fake, he realized. Not polished or for show. It was real.

And that terrified him.

Because it meant the smile you gave him had been real too.

He learned your schedule. When you left the house, when you returned. Who you talked to. How long you stayed in the market. You always bought the same snacks—sweet red bean buns. You gave one to the vendor's child every time without fail.

Why? What were you getting out of it?

And worse: why did it make him feel something he didn't have a name for?

He started thinking about you when he wasn't watching you. Found himself drifting away from Daki sooner, earlier, hungrier. Not for blood.

For... you.

For that smile again.

The one you gave him like it meant nothing.

The one that meant everything.

He'd watched you for seven nights.

Seven sunsets bleeding into smoky lanternlight.

Seven evenings spent crouched beneath eaves, breath shallow and invisible, watching you drift through the district like a ghost made of soft laughter and apologies. Every step you took, he memorized. Every glance, every quiet word exchanged with others. You smiled at nearly everyone, but none of those smiles matched the one you gave him.

That one was different.

That one was his.

It gnawed at him. Turned his mind raw with hunger he didn't understand—wasn't sure he wanted to understand. Something clawed inside his chest, whispering that one smile wasn't enough. He needed to see if it had been real.

So tonight, he waited in your path.

Right there, beneath the crooked wooden arch where the lantern's light swung lazily, half-sick and golden. The exact place where your steps always slowed, where you always paused to adjust the ribbon slipping from your sleeve.

He timed it perfectly.

Footsteps.

And then—

Bam.

Your shoulder collided with his chest again.

You staggered slightly, and his body went tense, almost bracing for the scream—because this time, it was definitely his fault. He'd materialized out of nowhere, stepped right into your path like a madman.

But you didn't scream.

You let out a soft, startled laugh. "Ah—again?" you murmured, blinking up at him.

There it was. That same smile. Small. Warm. Real.

You bowed lightly, hands at your sides. "I swear I'm not usually always running into people."

He blinked at you, mouth parted but silent.

You tilted your head, suddenly aware of the way he was just standing there. Taller than you remembered, thin and strange—like he didn't quite belong in his own skin. And yet… something about him held your gaze. Not fear. Not disgust. Just curiosity.

"You okay?" you asked gently.

His tongue flicked along a fang, but he stopped himself from answering the first thing that came to mind. The ugly things. The defensive, bitter things. Instead, he shifted his posture—slightly straighter. A little more human.

"I… I was just walkin'," he rasped. His voice was gravel, sharp-edged and underused. "Visitin' my sister. She… works here."

You blinked. "Oh? One of the houses?"

He nodded slowly. "I… wanna buy her out one day. So she doesn't have to work no more."

There. A lie. A sweet one. The kind you might believe.

Your expression softened. "That's… really kind of you."

And gods, the way you looked at him then—like he'd said something good, like he wasn't filth in the gutters—it nearly undid him. His fingers twitched at his side, aching to curl, to claw, to hide. But your gaze didn't falter.

He didn't know what to do with that.

So he did nothing.

"Well," you said, stepping around him again, "Try not to sneak up on me next time, huh?" You chuckled—light, teasing. "Third time's a pattern."

And with that, you walked away.

And Gyutaro—bloody, broken Gyutaro—stood frozen in the lamplight, throat thick with something that felt too human.

Tomorrow.

He would wait again tomorrow.

And the next night.

And the next.

He stopped hiding.

Not all at once. Not boldly. But he didn't slink from rooftop to shadow anymore—not when it came to you. Now he simply walked. Slow and crooked, just like everyone else in this city, as if he belonged. As if he had a place to be.

And every evening, he made sure his path crossed yours.

Same time. Same place.

He'd shuffle by under the warped wooden arch, pretending not to notice you.

But you always did.

"Evening," you'd say.

Just that. One word. Light, effortless.

But it hit him like a heartbeat cracking open.

The first time, he almost missed it—too stunned by the sound of your voice aimed squarely at him again. The second time, he managed to grunt something back. Barely audible. A sound more than a word.

But you smiled anyway.

And then it started to grow.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… naturally.

"Back from visiting your sister?" "Did you try the sweet buns today? They sold out by noon." "You always walk this path, huh? Must be fate or something."

Little comments. Casual nothings.

But you stopped to say them. You stopped for him.

No one stopped for Gyutaro. People flinched. Avoided him. Looked through him like he was a smear on the side of the street. Even Daki only acknowledged him when it was convenient or when she needed something.

But you?

You chose to speak.

Even if it was just about the weather. Even if it was only for a few seconds. Even if you walked away right after, your words still clung to him like warmth on cold skin.

He began to anticipate the moment—marking the slow countdown in his mind until your steps echoed again down the street. His clawed hands would twitch at his sides, unsure what to do. His shoulders would tense, stomach knotting with something that felt like hunger but wasn't.

Sometimes, he even replied. Still rough, still awkward—like every word was a cracked nail being pulled from wood—but he did it. And you'd smile.

Every. Time.

One evening, it rained. Soft and cold. You were walking without an umbrella, arms tucked around yourself. He could have ducked away, waited for another night. But he didn't.

Instead, he slowed just as you passed him, and for the first time, you stopped completely.

"Didn't think I'd see you out here in this," you said, brushing damp hair behind your ear.

He shrugged. "Rain don't bother me."

You nodded once. "Me neither."

And you both just stood there for a second. Not saying anything. Just existing. In the same space. No shadows. No secrets. Just two people beneath a flickering lantern in the rain.

When you walked on, your footsteps slower than usual, he stayed rooted in place until you were out of sight.

That night, he didn't return to Daki at all.

He climbed to the roof of the old tea house instead and sat staring at the clouds, turning your words over in his head like they were the only ones that had ever been spoken to him kindly.

"You always walk this path, huh?"

Yeah. He did now.

It continued with longer pauses.

A heartbeat more here, a question there.

You didn't just say hello anymore. You lingered. Let your steps slow naturally when you saw him rounding the corner. You smiled like always, but now it came with more.

"Rough day today," you said one evening, rubbing the back of your neck. "Clients complaining, paperwork piling up. I don't even work for the house, but I end up doing half the ledgers."

He blinked, unsure if that was directed at him.

It was.

You glanced at him, eyes crinkling. "You ever have one of those days where even silence feels loud?"

He gave a slow nod, unsure how else to answer. But you didn't seem to mind. You kept walking beside him. Not close. Not quite touching. But with him. A few steps shared. A space bridged.

The next night, you told him about your childhood.

Not all of it—just a thread. A detail. The way you used to sneak leftover sweets when no one was looking. The time you got caught hiding in the rafters of the tea room during a performance. You laughed at yourself, soft and fond, like these moments meant something. Like you trusted him enough to share them.

And Gyutaro—he listened.

No one ever talked to him like this. Not unless it was with an edge. A bribe. A command. But you told him stories for no reason. You just wanted him to hear them.

You asked him questions too.

"So… what's your sister like?" "You said you want to buy her free. Do you two talk often?" "Is she younger than you? You seem protective."

He didn't lie—at least, not all of it. He said she was fiery. Proud. That she had her own kind of beauty people couldn't ignore, but that she got lonely sometimes. That he was always watching over her, even when she didn't realize.

Your gaze softened at that.

"I think she's lucky," you said.

He ducked his head. Not used to praise. Not used to being seen as something good.

Some nights, you talked about books. Or your favorite street food. Sometimes you asked what he liked, and he'd fumble through answers that didn't feel right in his mouth. He didn't know what he liked. Not really. But when you smiled and nodded anyway, like his answers were valid, he found himself wanting to know—just so he'd have something to tell you next time.

Each conversation stitched another thread between you.

He didn't know what this was. It wasn't hunger. It wasn't need.

It was want.

Wanting your words. Your voice. The way your eyes held his like they weren't repulsed. Like you saw a man, not a monster.

It terrified him.

And still, he came back every night.

Something shifted.

It wasn't sudden, but it was unmistakable.

You still smiled at him like you always did, but lately… it lingered. There was something else in it now. Not just kindness. Not just casual friendliness. Your gaze had changed—warmer, softer. Like you were seeing something in him he couldn't see in himself.

Gyutaro noticed. Of course he did.

He tried not to. Tried to keep his head low, voice quiet, body hunched like always. But your eyes—damn your eyes—they didn't let him hide. You looked at him like he'd done something good. Like he mattered. Like he had hung the stars and the moon in the sky just for you.

And gods, it wrecked him.

One evening, under the lantern's soft flicker, you asked him something small and simple—what his favorite part of the district was.

He blinked, surprised, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Uh… I dunno. Don't really look at it much like that. But… I guess the river bridge. At night. It's quiet."

You lit up like he'd said something brilliant.

"I love that spot. It's beautiful, especially when the lanterns reflect on the water."

You turned your head slightly, looking at him with that same brightness. That same unshakable gentleness. And then your smile curved, softer than soft.

"But I think I like it more now."

His brow twitched. "Why?"

You just looked at him, your lashes low, that smile deepening into something glowing.

"Because now I'll think of you when I see it."

His heart didn't beat often anymore. But it did then.

He froze. Shoulders tensing. Fingers twitching at his sides. That aching, breathless tightness rising in his throat again. You could see it—the way his eyes darted away, the way his whole posture shifted like he didn't know what to do with his body anymore.

You giggled.

Not mockingly. Not mean.

Just… soft and surprised.

"You're getting all shifty," you teased gently. "Are you—are you blushing?"

His jaw clenched. He turned his face slightly away, as if he could somehow hide the darkened flush that had bloomed across his scarred cheekbones.

And you—bold now, teasing, kind—tilted your head.

"You know," you said, voice just above a whisper, "you're kind of beautiful."

His entire body went still.

Not shocked. Not angry.

Just… undone.

He stared at you like he couldn't believe you were real.

You stepped closer, no fear in your eyes. "And cute," you added with a soft laugh. "Definitely cute."

Something in him cracked open, fragile and trembling, like a frost-covered leaf finally catching sunlight.

He didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to say anything. But you didn't ask him to. You just smiled like the sky had cleared, like there was nowhere else you'd rather be than here—with him.

And for the first time in Gyutaro's life, he felt wanted.

It was too late now.

You had wormed your way into the marrow of his being—uninvited, unstoppable.

He used to wander the Entertainment District out of boredom. Bitterness. Loneliness. Now, it was because of you. Only you. Everything else had faded into background noise.

Each time you smiled at him like he mattered… it chipped away at the emptiness inside him.

Each time you called him beautiful—gods, he could barely stand it.

You meant it. He could see it in your eyes. You weren't lying. You weren't mocking him. You looked at him like he was something rare. And it broke him in the best and worst way possible.

So he made up his mind.

He couldn't let you go.

Not back to your ordinary life. Not back to the danger, to the people who didn't see you the way he did. He couldn't bear the thought of you vanishing from his nights—your voice gone, your scent gone from the corners of the street, the warmth of your laughter just a memory.

No. He needed you beside him. Always.

That night, he stood waiting under your favorite lantern—rusted iron with a paper shell painted in faded peach blossoms.

You spotted him before he could speak, already smiling. But he didn't shuffle or look away this time. He stood taller. Straighter.

And then he asked:

"You wanna come with me? Just you and me. A date."

Your smile faltered—but only for a second. Then it bloomed wider than he had ever seen. Your hand rose to your mouth, eyes lighting up as color rushed into your cheeks.

"A—A date?" you echoed, voice breathless. "With you?"

He nodded slowly. A little stiff, a little unsure. But he didn't take it back.

You bit your lip, then laughed softly. "You're serious," you said, like you couldn't believe it. Then you stepped closer, eyes wide with wonder. "Yes. Yes, I'd love that."

Something shattered in his chest.

He didn't know what to do with your excitement, your giddy blush, the way you looked at him like he'd handed you the stars instead of just a question. It hurt—gods, it hurt—to see you happy. Because he knew. He knew what he was planning.

But he couldn't stop himself.

If this was what it took to keep you—to keep you looking at him like that—then he would do it. No hesitation. No regret.

He'd take you away. Make you his. Change you.

If that was the price for your love, for your voice calling him beautiful again, again, again—

Then he'd pay it.

Willingly.

Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hihi, i kinda have a long req

Could you do chuuya with a wife who suffers from short term memory loss and other memory issues, and when she was young, her parents put her in this institution with a bunch of doctors who experimented on her n stuff. The doctors told her parents that she wasnt capable a fixing (but that was just a lie so that her parents could forget about her and didnt want to take her back, which they did) and now she hates doctors? I imagine she maybe escaped the institution like a long time able bc thats from her childhood. And also since she has memory issues, she sometimes confuses her friends or other people with the people from the institution.

So anyway, chuuya comes home one night and he assumes reader is asleep, and while hes in like the bathroom or smth he heres noises from the laundry room next door. He goes to investigate and finds reader hiding in the drying or washer (shes used to hiding from the doctors n stuff when itd be time to experiment on her) and hes like what are you doing there?? Then she explains that she accidentally spilled all the wine in his liquor cabinet and that she couldnt clean it up bcz when she tried to her fingers and toes got cut up from trying to clean it up, so she panicked and tried to hide before he came back. (Btw she ran to hide bcz she got him confused with the doctors from the institution)

Then chuuya has to explain that hes not the doctors and is her husband while hes cleaning her hands and feet and like fluff at the end plz?? Tyyy🥺

(P.S. reader is usually super bubbly, clingy, and airheaded, but when she sees people she thinks are the doctors she gets quiet n stuff)

Everything That Isn’t Broken

snyopsis: After a long day of work, Chuuya comes home to a dark, quiet apartment, assuming you’ve simply gone to bed early. But when he discovers the broken wine bottle, the cuts on your hands and feet, and the panic rising from old, buried trauma, all he wants is to hold you close and remind you you’re safe.

content/warnings: Chuuya x wife!reader, past trauma, fluff, 2.732 words

The door clicked softly behind Chuuya, the familiar scent of home wrapping around his tired bones like a favorite blanket. He rolled his shoulders back, working the tension out of his muscles as he toed off his boots.

Dim light pooled from the hallway, but the apartment itself was almost completely dark. Unusual. Normally by this time of night, the soft hum of your voice or the flicker of the TV would greet him. Maybe you humming some off-key tune while folding laundry, or bouncing over to tackle him at the door like a puppy starved for attention.

But nothing tonight. Just quiet.

For a second, his heart skipped—but then he caught himself. You were probably already asleep. He had stayed later than usual.

He huffed out a small, crooked smile and ran a hand through his unruly red hair. "Tch… my girl's knocked out, huh? Figures."

You never complained about his work. Never once pouted or guilted him about coming home late, not even when he dragged himself through the door well past midnight. Always waiting for him with that big, dopey smile of yours, arms open wide like you were hugging the whole world just because he was in it.

Honestly? He didn't deserve you. He knew it.

That's why he put little box of your favorite chocolates down neatly on the entryway table, the glossy wrapper catching the faint light. He'd picked them up on the way back from the Port Mafia headquarters. A peace offering—not that you'd ever need one.

"Tomorrow," he murmured to himself, tugging off his gloves and dropping them beside the box. "Gonna take you somewhere good tomorrow. Beach, maybe. Haven't seen you in that sundress I like in a while."

The image of you flashed in his mind, bright and warm like the sun on Yokohama Bay. Your laugh, that little hop in your step when you got excited, the way you'd cling to his arm like it was the only thing keeping you standing. His expression softened even further, the hardness of his day melting from his features.

Yeah. Tomorrow would be yours. No Port Mafia. No reports. No late-night meetings. Just you. Hell, maybe the zoo. You always lit up like a kid whenever you saw penguins—and if there was anything Chuuya Nakahara would move heaven and earth for, it was that smile.

He remembered the days when you didn't smile. When you were only a shadow of the person you were now. Back then, when he first found you, it was at that institute. That so-called hospital. Your parents had left you there. Memory issues, they'd said. Untreatable, the doctors claimed. What a load of bullshit.

Maybe it was true—you forgot certain things easily. You kept a checklist by the door every time you left the apartment: lights off, stove off, iron unplugged. Maybe you forgot names, mixed up birthdays, misplaced your keys daily.

So what?

That didn't make you broken. That didn't make you unworthy of love, of a home, of kindness.

But to your parents, it had been enough to abandon you. Easier to dump you in that clinic, to accept the lies the doctors fed them, and never look back.

And with that came the punishments. The experiments. The kind of life no living thing deserved.

He remembered the day the Port Mafia raided the place, breaking down sterile white walls and locked doors, finding rooms filled with hollow-eyed, forgotten people. But it was you who caught his attention.

Yeah, you looked sick. Pale. Empty in a way that hurt to see. But even then—you held your head up, stubborn and proud despite everything they'd done to you. Broken, but unbowed.

That was what struck him. That was what he admired most.

He kept an eye on you during your recovery, watching from a distance at first. And when you started smiling again—tentatively, softly—he worked up the courage to ask you to coffee. Not a date. He didn't want you to feel pressured. Didn't want you thinking you owed him anything just because he'd been part of the raid that saved you. Just coffee.

That one cup of coffee turned into two. Weekly meetings, soft conversations, slow trust. After months, coffee turned into dinner. Dinner into dates. One step at a time, with all the time in the world if that's what you needed.

Now here you were. In your shared flat. Married for almost two years. Happier than either of you had thought possible.

Chuuya smiled softly to himself as he rolled his sleeves up on the way to the bathroom, already picturing you curled against him under the covers, your limbs tangled with his like vines climbing up a tree.

But just as that warmth began to bloom in his chest, a faint sound caught his ear.

Clink.

It was soft. Barely audible.

Chuuya paused. Brow furrowing. It came again, just barely—a soft, metallic noise, like glass shifting against tile. Close.

Utility room.

Immediately, the comfort of the evening chilled, that old Port Mafia instinct sparking behind his ribs. He moved silently, footsteps careful, calculating—not that he expected an intruder, but something wasn't right.

"Y/N…?"

Silence.

Then—

A breath. Sharp. Almost a whimper.

His stomach dropped.

Without hesitation, Chuuya moved for the door, layers of worry wrapping around his heart.

"Babe?"

The door creaked as he eased it open, revealing the dim shape of the utility room beyond. The weak glow of the hallway light spilled over the tiles, pooling just enough to catch on something red.

Wine. A splatter of it, smeared across the floor like blood.

And there—you.

Huddled inside the open mouth of the dryer, your knees tucked tightly against your chest, shaking like a trapped animal. The sleeves of his shirt you wore hung off your shoulders, wrinkled, stained dark by droplets of wine. And in your trembling hands—

Glass. Shards. Glittering cruelly against your skin, thin red lines already beading across your fingertips where you must've tried to clean it up.

His heart stopped. Actually stopped.

"Angel?" His voice cracked, low and hoarse, panic curling under his tongue before he could stop it. "What the hell are you doing in there?"

Your head snapped up, wide eyes shining wet in the low light. But you didn't see him. Not really. You looked straight through him—like he was someone else entirely.

"No, no—I didn't mean to," you whispered, your voice so small it broke him in half. "I was careful—I tried—I didn't wanna—I don't want to go back, please—please don't—I'll be good—"

It hit him like a freight train.

The doctors.

The memories you tried so hard to bury had clawed their way back up, twisting reality into something cruel. And right now—you weren't here, in your cozy little apartment with your husband—you were there, terrified, begging not to be punished.

"Shit…" Chuuya breathed.

He crouched low, hands raised slowly, carefully—like approaching a wounded animal ready to bolt.

"Sweetheart, it's me," he said gently. "It's Chuuya. I'm not them. You hear me? You're home. With me. Your husband."

But you flinched when he moved, curling tighter into yourself, pressing further into the dryer's metal walls.

"I—I didn't mean to—I spilled everything—messed it up—I didn't wanna get hurt—don't put me back in that room—don't—"

Fuck.

Chuuya's throat burned. Seeing you like this—his sunshine, his bubbly, clingy, hopelessly sweet wife reduced to this panicked shell—it tore something open inside him.

"Babe, hey. No one's gonna hurt you," he whispered, his voice almost shaking now. He lowered himself even further, practically on his knees in front of you. "No doctors, no experiments, nothing. You're safe."

Slow. He reached out—not to grab, not to force—but just to offer, palm up, steady despite the chaos roaring in his chest.

"Can you give me your hand?" he asked softly. "I'll fix it. I'll fix everything. I swear."

For a long second, all he could hear was the rush of your breathing, sharp and uneven.

But then—

Your gaze faltered. Your lips trembled.

"…Chuuya?"

Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled.

"Yeah," he said quickly, nodding. "Yeah, it's me. It's just me, doll. I'm right here."

Your small, shaking hand lifted, hovering above his—and then finally dropped into his palm, fragile and warm, stained with red and streaks of wine.

He caught you like you were made of glass.

"You're safe now," he murmured, pressing your fingers against his lips. "No one's ever gonna hurt you again."

And with that, he gathered you into his arms, broken glass and all, cradling you like something precious.

The wine could stain the floor, the broken bottles could cut his hands—it didn't matter.

You were all that mattered.

And he wasn't going to let you break, too.

The cuts on your hands were small, mostly—but there were enough of them, delicate little red lines tracing over the soft curves of your fingers. Worse were your feet, tiny shards of glass embedded in the soles, crimson staining the skin in streaks like war paint.

Chuuya's jaw clenched at the sight of them, fury and helplessness twisting sharp under his ribs—not at you, never at you, but at the ghosts that wouldn't leave you alone. At the people who had done this to you. The ones who taught you to be afraid of mistakes. Of accidents. Of being human.

Those bastards should've been buried decades ago.

But for now, there was only you. You, small and shaking in his arms, trusting him even through the haze of panic.

"I got you," he murmured, carrying you carefully to the bathroom. "I'm gonna take care of you, alright?"

You nodded numbly, cheek pressed against his chest, like you were embarrassed to even be breathing too loud. That alone made his heart ache worse than the sight of blood.

Gently, he set you down on the closed toilet lid, crouching in front of you.

"Okay, doll, this might sting a bit—but I'm gonna be real careful."

His voice was softer now, lower. Not the voice of the Port Mafia's executive. Not the feared weapon Chuuya.

Just your husband.

Chuuya wet a clean towel with warm water and started carefully wiping away the wine from your hands. He avoided the cuts at first, just cleaning the sticky residue, before moving on to the first aid kit he'd kept under the sink.

"Look at me," he said after a moment, tilting his head up toward you. "Don't look at the blood. Just me."

Your eyes lifted, glassy but clearer now, drawn to him like gravity. You were trying—you were always trying—and that alone made him want to wrap you in bubble wrap and never let the world near you again.

"There she is," he whispered, smiling faintly. "That's my girl."

He cleaned each wound with precision, steady despite the tightness in his chest. Every wince you gave nearly killed him, but he didn't let it show. He dabbed antiseptic gently on each cut, kissed your knuckles one by one when he finished.

The glass in your feet would take longer, but he wasn't going to rush it. Not with you flinching at every sound, every shift of his weight.

"I'm sorry," you finally whispered, breaking the silence like something fragile cracking. "I—I know you'd never hurt me, I just… I got mixed up. The doctors—I thought—I thought it was happening again—"

"Stop." His voice was firm but not angry. He cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing under your eyes.

"Don't apologize. Not to me. Never for that."

You blinked rapidly, like tears were still catching, stuck behind disbelief.

"Do you know how lucky I am to have you?" he asked softly. "You could burn this whole apartment down and I wouldn't give a shit. Long as you're still here, breathing, with me."

Tears welled again, slipping down your cheeks now in slow, hot streams.

"But I ruined your wine—"

"Wine?" he snorted softly, pressing his forehead to yours. "Sweetheart, if I wanted wine, I'd go buy more. I can't buy another you, can I?"

A breathy, broken laugh escaped you, barely there but enough to lift the crushing weight in his chest.

"That's better," he murmured. "That's the laugh I wanted to hear."

His fingers threaded through your hair, holding you steady, holding you together. His voice dropped even lower, rough but full of unshakable love.

"You don't have to be scared of me. Ever. I don't care what your brain tells you sometimes—I'm never gonna be those bastards. I'm your husband. And I'm here."

You gripped his shirt tightly, pressing your forehead against his, grounding yourself in his warmth, his scent, his steady heartbeat beneath your palm.

"Tomorrow," he added softly, brushing his nose against yours, "we're gonna go somewhere nice, yeah? Beach, zoo, wherever you want. Somewhere with sun and stupid snacks and dumb penguins, whatever makes you smile."

You let out a wet laugh, hiccupping softly through tears.

"Penguins," you whispered.

"Damn right, penguins," he grinned. "And after that, we'll come home, drink wine without the glass shards, and maybe I'll finally get you in that sundress I like."

You blinked at him through your tears, lips trembling—but this time with the start of a real smile.

"'Kay," you whispered, nodding slowly. "That sounds nice."

"Yeah," Chuuya breathed, brushing your hair away from your damp cheeks. "It's gonna be real nice, doll. Just you and me."

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, wrapping you up in his arms like a promise.

Everything else could wait.

The bedroom was dark now, the only light coming from the faint city glow filtering in through the curtains. Yokohama's heartbeat outside was distant, muffled, like it knew this little corner of the world needed to be quiet tonight.

Chuuya lay on his back against the pillows, one arm curled securely around your waist, holding you close against him like you were something fragile—and you were—but not in the way most people thought. You weren't weak. No, never that.

You were delicate in the way that mattered most: precious.

Your cheek rested against his chest, breaths warm and damp against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel how your breathing had slowed—shaky exhales at first, but steadily softening into the gentle, uneven pattern of someone about to drift off.

He hadn't let go of you for a second. Even when he carried you here after bandaging your feet, even when you'd curled against him with your hands still trembling, he'd wrapped himself around you like a shield, like a promise.

Now, in the quiet, he could finally breathe too.

It hit him slowly, like waves lapping against the sand. This—holding you, your weight pressed over his heart—it soothed something in him. More than wine. More than sleep. More than the thrill of a fight or the rush of adrenaline that his whole life seemed built on.

It wasn't just that he comforted you.

You were his peace, too.

Your soft breaths against his chest. Your warmth soaking through his clothes, your hair tickling his jaw, your fingers curled lightly in the fabric near his ribs.

He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve you. And yet—here you were, trusting him even with your scars, even with your broken pieces, even when your mind pulled you into places so dark he wanted to tear the world apart for ever letting it happen.

He pressed a kiss into your hair, lingering, gentle, as if he could press every word he couldn't say into you with that single touch.

You saved him every damn day—and you didn't even realize it.

Without you, he was just a weapon, a glass of spilled liquor, a storm barely held together by a suit and tie.

With you—he was home.

As your breaths evened out, that last little shudder of panic finally leaving you, Chuuya closed his eyes.

His hand slid up your back slowly, steady, protective.

"I've got you," he whispered into your hair. "I'll always have you."

And for the first time that day, his own heart finally felt steady too.

Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

i just want to say that i love your writing, especially on the topics you've written about like anorexia or readers with DID/masochist reader. i think you study and describe such topics very well so i have three requests related to this (the first one is the main one, the rest i just added like ideas for the future or something like that, feel free to ignore it ofc)

1) okay so aib characters x empathetic reader, but like, extra empathetic if you know what i mean? 

(Hyperempathy is a neurodivergent condition where individuals experience extraordinary empathy toward others. It goes beyond typical empathy, as those with hyperempathy can deeply sense and share the emotions and experiences of people they interact with, often to an intense degree. Not only do you feel what the other person feels, but you suffer from it. You can’t see where you end and they begin)

basically it’s something like what will graham from hannibal has, if you watched the show ofc:) 

2) reader with bpd (borderline personal disorder) 

3) bipolar reader

anyway you represent such things very well, i LOVE your work 🙏

AIB Characters react to Reader having hyper-empathy

content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, angst, canon-typical blood and violence, 3.660 words

Ann

You knew she was watching you again. You always knew when someone was looking—especially Ann. Her gaze was never invasive, never judgmental. It was quiet. Weighted. Like she was trying to see through you, not in a cruel way, but like she was searching for the thing you were too scared to show.

Blood soaked the concrete beside you. You hadn't been the one to die. But you may as well have been.

He had begged—cried—a panicked flood of words and helpless apologies before the laser split him open like this world always promised it would. He was a stranger. You'd met him minutes before the game. He'd had a crooked smile and a ring that kept spinning around his finger like a nervous tick.

But his fear still lived in your chest like it belonged there. His last scream twisted inside you, folding in on itself. You couldn't breathe, not because you were out of air, but because your ribs were carrying too much of someone else's grief.

The others moved on. Not heartless—just used to it. Adapted.

Ann crouched in front of you.

She didn't say anything right away. She never rushed you. That was something you were learning about her. She let silence exist. In a world where everything screamed, that was a mercy you didn't know how to ask for.

"I can still feel him," you whispered, not looking at her. "His fear. His guilt. It's like he died and dragged part of me with him."

Ann tilted her head slightly. Her ponytail had fallen loose during the game. A scrape trailed down her cheek, but her hands were steady as she reached forward—not to touch you, just to be there.

"I know," she said quietly. "You always feel it."

You nodded. And then, with a cracking voice: "I don't know where I end. I feel like I'm disappearing into every person who dies. Like I'm stitching myself together from ghosts."

Something flickered in her eyes. Sadness, maybe. Or respect. Maybe both.

"I think," she said, "you're the strongest person I know."

You laughed—a broken sound, wet and hoarse. "Strong? I'm falling apart every day."

"You feel what everyone else refuses to," she said. "You carry the pain no one else will. That's not weakness. That's unbearable strength."

You looked at her then, and she didn't look away. There was no pity in her expression, only a deep steadiness—like she was anchoring you while you floated too far from yourself.

"I want to be like you," you said. "Unshakeable."

"I'm not unshakeable," she replied. "I've just learned to be still in the chaos. But you—you feel the chaos, and still choose to stay."

Her hand, finally, brushed yours. Gentle. Permissioned. Grounding.

"I'll stay with you," she added. "When it's too loud. When it's too much. Even if I can't take it from you, I can help you carry it."

This twisted world would not stop. People would keep dying. Games would keep tearing the weak from the strong—or pretending to.

But in that moment, you weren't alone in your suffering. You weren't a vessel for pain. You were a person. You were seen.

And Ann, silent and steady and fiercely present, never once tried to pull you away from who you were. She just refused to let you drown in it alone.

Kuina

You were curled into yourself when she found you—hands clenched, shoulders trembling, your back against the cold metal of the abandoned stairwell. The game had ended twenty minutes ago. The silence was worse than the screams had been.

They'd cried. All of them. Begged. Bled.

You'd tried to shield yourself. You'd learned to bite down on your own lip to keep from echoing their pain, but their fear had still poured into you like open floodgates.

Now, your body was stuck in the aftermath—grief and terror not your own still choking your chest like wet cloth.

"Hey," Kuina's voice came softly. "I've been looking for you."

You didn't answer. You couldn't. You weren't even sure if the panic shaking your limbs was yours or someone else's.

She crouched beside you without hesitation. "You're still there, right?" Her tone was gentle, but there was steel beneath it. "You're not lost. You're just... full."

Your throat closed. You wanted to say yes. Or no. Or help.

But Kuina just nodded like she heard all of it anyway.

Without warning, she reached for your hands, warm and firm and grounding, and placed them against her own heartbeat.

"Feel that?" she whispered. "I'm real. I'm alive. This is now. Right here. Me and you."

You tried to pull away. "I can't—I can't stop feeling them. They didn't even want to die. They were terrified. I felt their panic like it was mine. I feel everything and it won't stop—"

"I know," she said, firm but not unkind. "You feel it deeper than anyone. Like your skin's made of open nerve endings."

You shook your head. "It's killing me."

She softened. "No. The games try to. This place tries to. But you're still here. And that means something."

Her thumb gently traced your knuckles. "You're not broken. You're tuned in. You care so hard it hurts. That's not weakness. That's your freaking superpower."

You laughed—bitter and disbelieving. "Doesn't feel like a power."

"It is. Because even when it breaks you, you still show up. You still try. That's badass."

Her arms were around you before you could say anything else, pulling you into a hug that was tight without being suffocating, soft without being fragile. She didn't try to fix it. She didn't tell you to stop crying.

She just stayed.

And when you finally whispered, "I don't know how to survive like this," Kuina held you tighter and said, "Then let's figure it out together. I'll help you find the quiet. I'll help you breathe when the pain's not yours. We'll build a space inside all this hell where it's okay to feel."

You pressed your forehead to her shoulder and felt her heart steady against your skin—your own frantic one slowly syncing to its rhythm.

For the first time in a long time, the flood inside you eased. Not gone. But less. Contained. Because someone was standing with you in it.

And for the first time, you realized maybe that was enough.

Mira

You didn't notice her at first. You were too busy trying to breathe.

Another game. Another loss. Another chorus of final screams you couldn't shut out, as if your skin had recorded their agony like an echo chamber. Your stomach felt like it had turned inside out. You couldn't tell if the nausea was yours or the woman's who died crying for her son.

You'd fled after the game ended, collapsing onto a couch in some abandoned rooftop lounge at the Beach with velvet cushions and gold-plated glasses. It felt obscenely soft in contrast to the ache grinding in your chest.

That's when you saw her. Mira.

Sitting at the far end of the lounge. Barefoot. Elegant. Eyes glittering with something you couldn't name.

She tilted her head like a curious cat. "You're fascinating."

You blinked, disoriented. "What?"

She smiled, slow and deliberate, like every gesture was a performance. "You wear everyone else's feelings like a silk robe. It's beautiful, in a tragic sort of way."

You flinched. "It's not beautiful. It's torture."

"Is it?" she mused, standing and walking toward you, the click of her steps muffled by the thick rug. "Or is it truth? Raw, unfiltered truth. The world screams, and you're the only one really listening."

You shook your head. "Don't—don't romanticize this. I feel every death. I live every fear. It's tearing me apart."

She crouched beside you, eyes level with yours. There was no pity in her gaze—only interest. "Do you know what that makes you in this world? Dangerous. Because you refuse to go numb. And that scares people."

You swallowed hard. "I'm not dangerous. I'm just... breaking."

"Ah," Mira whispered, almost lovingly. "But haven't you noticed? In the Borderlands, only the broken survive. The ones who shatter, bend, and rebuild differently."

Her fingers reached out to touch your face—not possessively, but like she was studying something fragile and rare.

"I envy you," she said. "You drown in feeling, and still come back for more. You must be exhausted."

You closed your eyes. "Every minute."

"And yet," she murmured, "you're still here. Still feeling. Still open."

You opened your eyes. "Why are you really here, Mira?"

She smiled again—this one softer. "Because I wanted to see you. Up close. To understand what it's like to bleed for people you barely know."

You didn't respond. You were afraid of what she might do with that understanding.

Then, shockingly, she sat beside you. Quiet. Present. Not manipulating. Not baiting.

Just... there.

"For what it's worth," she said, voice unusually gentle, "I won't take from you. Not tonight. You've bled enough."

You glanced at her. "Why?"

Mira shrugged. "Even I have limits. And you... you blur the line between pain and beauty so exquisitely, it almost feels like art."

You didn't know what to say. But for once, Mira didn't expect an answer. She just leaned her head back and looked at the stars.

And in the silence that followed, you realized she hadn't tried to fix you. Or mock you. Or dissect you.

She had seen you. And for someone like her, maybe that was a kind of mercy.

Aguni

You hadn't moved since you escaped the King of Spades.

You couldn't.

Not because you were injured. Because every emotion in that room had taken up residence inside your body. They had screamed. Pleaded. One had clutched her friend's hand until her last breath. Another had tried to fight, tried to buy time for others to escape.

You had felt all of it.

And now it was lodged in your ribs like shrapnels.

You sat against a tree deep inside a forest, shivering though it wasn't cold. You couldn't stop seeing their faces. Couldn't stop hearing their final moments.

That's when Aguni stepped in front of you.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, arms crossed, like he wasn't sure if you wanted to talk.

You didn't look at him. You couldn't. Not with your face wet and your chest cracked wide open like a wound. But he came closer anyway, his boots thudding gently against the muddy ground until he crouched in front of you.

"They didn't die because of you," he said.

You laughed, sharp and bitter. "No. They just died, Aguni. And I felt every second of it."

His brow furrowed. "I know what you are. How you are. Hatter told me."

You squeezed your eyes shut. "I don't want it. This thing. Hyperempathy, they call it. But there's nothing 'hyper' about it. In this world it just means I drown in other people's pain every time someone suffers. Every death—every scream—lives inside me."

You swallowed. "I don't even know what's mine anymore. Their fear, their guilt, their sorrow—it bleeds into me. And it doesn't leave."

Aguni's voice was low. Steady. "I know what it's like to carry the dead."

Your eyes flicked up to him. He didn't look away.

"I see Hatter sometimes," he murmured. "Still. When it's quiet. I feel the weight of every person I couldn't protect."

You were silent. But he could tell—you felt that, too.

He sighed and sat down beside you, back to the tree trunk. His arm brushed yours, warm and solid.

"I can't stop you from feeling it all," he said. "Wouldn't even try. That's who you are. You see people. Really see them."

Your lip trembled. "But it hurts so much."

"I know," he said. "And you keep going anyway. That makes you braver than most."

The silence stretched again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Not with him there. He didn't expect you to stop crying. He didn't ask you to be okay.

He just stayed. Present. Grounded.

"Next time it gets bad," he added quietly, "tell me. You don't have to carry it alone."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, exhausted from feeling too much.

And Aguni—battle-hardened, guarded Aguni—let you rest there without judgment.

He didn't speak again.

He just made sure you didn't fall apart in the dark.

Niragi

You found him bleeding again.

Another fight. Another game. Another moment of explosive violence where Niragi had thrown himself at death like it owed him something.

He was half-limping, blood streaked down his arm, breathing like he'd just clawed his way back from hell—and smiling.

Until he saw you.

And then the smile faltered.

You didn't say anything. Just stood there, hands clenched at your sides, trying to hold the pieces of yourself together. The second you laid eyes on him, it was like your nervous system caught fire—rage, pain, fear, shame—all of it pouring off of him in waves that made your skin crawl.

"Don't," he said. His voice was sharp, defensive. "Don't give me that look."

You weren't even sure what look you were giving. You were too busy feeling him—his anger, yes, but also the things buried under it. The fear. The grief. The loneliness so deep it echoed.

"It hurts," you said quietly. "What you're feeling—it hurts."

He flinched. "What the hell do you know about what I'm feeling?"

"I know it's burning you alive."

He took a step back, eyes narrow. "You some kind of psychic now?"

"No." You swallowed hard. "It's just... the way I am. I feel everything you feel. And it's killing me."

His face twisted—first into something cruel, then something confused. "Why the hell would you want that?"

"I don't want it." You took a step toward him. "But I can't turn it off. So when you're in pain, I am, too."

Silence.

Niragi's jaw clenched. He looked like he was about to say something awful—something sharp and blistering—but then he looked in your eyes and saw it. Not pity. Not fear. Just truth.

You weren't judging him. You were bleeding with him.

"God," he muttered, raking a hand through his messy hair, "you're serious."

You nodded, breath shaky. "You scare everyone else. But not me. Because all I feel when I'm near you is how much you've already suffered. And it's unbearable."

He stared at you for a long moment. Then his shoulders slumped, like something had finally cracked.

"Fine," he snapped. "You want to feel it? Here—" He grabbed your wrist, pressed your palm against his chest. "Go ahead. Feel all the shit I've buried. The rage. The hate. The part of me that wishes I never woke up in this fucking world. In this or the old one. You want it? Take it."

It hit you like a flood. All of it.

The despair, the hate for himself, drilled into him by years of bullying, you felt it. The boy who was laughed at. The one who was never good enough, never safe, never loved. The one who built fire around himself because he couldn't bear another second of cold.

Your knees buckled, and Niragi caught you, cursing under his breath.

"You're so fucking stupid," he hissed, though his grip on your arms was anything but cruel. "Why would you choose to feel this?"

You looked up at him, tears slipping down your face. "Because someone has to. Because maybe if someone had, you wouldn't be hurting so much."

His breath caught.

And for once, Niragi didn't shove you away. He didn't sneer or laugh or pretend he didn't care.

He just stayed there, holding your wrist to his chest like maybe—maybe—some part of him didn't want to be alone in the fire anymore.

Last Boss

You hadn't meant to cry where anyone could see.

You'd made it back to the hotel, slipped into a shadowed corner near the old garden at the back. You thought you were alone.

But the tears wouldn't stop. They never did after the games—not when someone died screaming, or a stranger's terror became so real in your chest that it felt like your own heart had broken.

You curled up on the ground near the dried koi pond, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying to keep everything in.

"...You feel it all, don't you."

The voice made you jump.

You turned.

Last Boss was standing under a tree, half hidden in the shadows, rays of moonlight catching on the edge of his blade. He didn't move, didn't come closer.

But his eyes—those unreadable, haunted eyes—watched you like he understood too much.

You wiped your face. "I didn't think anyone was here."

He tilted his head slightly, like your existence surprised him less than your words might have.

"I heard you. Earlier. After the game," he said quietly. "Your breathing. It changed when they screamed. Like their pain was your own."

You looked down. "It was."

He didn't laugh. Didn't mock. Just studied you in a silence that felt less like judgment and more like... recognition.

"I used to feel everything," he said, voice rough. "Before this world. Before the noise in my head got louder than anything else."

You looked up at him, startled.

His eyes met yours. "Now I feel nothing. Or maybe I just pretend I don't."

You swallowed. "I wish I could do that."

"No," he said. "You don't."

He walked toward you slowly, and you tensed—but not from fear. From the intensity of what he felt. Regret. A strange ache. A longing to be understood that had sat quiet for too long.

He crouched beside you, setting his blade aside with care, like he didn't want you to feel threatened.

"When you take on the weight of others, it breaks you. You bleed without wounds." His voice was almost a whisper. "But it also means you never become like me."

You hesitated. "You think that's a good thing?"

He didn't answer at first.

Then: "Yes."

The silence wrapped around the two of you like fog, thick with things unsaid. But it didn't feel lonely.

"I can't make it stop," you said softly. "I can't stop feeling them. Even the people I don't know. It's like their souls pour into me and never leave."

Last Boss nodded slowly. "Then you need someone to hold the overflow."

Your breath caught.

And then, with a gentleness you didn't expect from someone so feared, he reached out and placed his hand—callused and cool—on top of yours.

"I won't ask you to stop feeling," he said. "Just… let me help carry it. Quietly."

You didn't know how to answer.

But maybe you didn't need to.

Because in that moment, you realized something: Last Boss wasn't just a blade. He was a vessel. A mirror of your own weight.

And maybe you weren't alone in the dark anymore.

Chishiya

The aftermath of the game was still clinging to you like ash. The stench of smoke. The echo of begging. The hollow silence that always followed when someone died with their eyes open.

You weren't injured. Not physically.

But inside, you felt like you'd been torn open. And worse—you didn't even know whose pain you were carrying anymore.

Yours?

Theirs?

Everyone's?

You pressed your back to a cold concrete wall and tried to breathe.

That's when he found you.

Chishiya.

Still in his hoodie. Still expressionless.

You hadn't even heard him approach.

He just stood there for a moment, head tilted, like he was observing a puzzle. "I thought you were more careful than this," he said calmly.

You didn't look at him. "I'm fine."

"That's a lie," he replied without pause. "Your pupils are blown. Your hands are trembling. You're dissociating."

You bit your lip, hard, to stay anchored.

"Leave me alone, Chishiya."

He didn't. He sat next to you instead, back against the wall, his usual nonchalance masking something sharper. "Hyperempathy," he said suddenly.

You turned to him in surprise.

"I've been studying it," he continued. "You absorb emotional input like a sponge. Feel others' trauma as if it's your own. An evolutionary disadvantage, especially here."

You laughed bitterly. "Tell me about it."

He glanced sideways at you. "Then why haven't you snapped?"

You blinked at him. "What?"

"By all accounts, you should be catatonic by now," he said, voice measured. "You've watched dozens die. Felt every terror, every scream. Yet you're still here. Functioning."

"Barely."

"Still," he said. "You persist."

You weren't sure if it was admiration or just academic curiosity. Maybe both.

"I can't shut it off," you murmured. "Every time someone breaks, I break too. Every death leaves a mark."

Chishiya was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Do you feel me, too?"

You hesitated.

"Not easily," you said. "You're... quiet inside. Controlled. Like a sealed vault."

A slight smirk tugged at his lips. "That would explain a few things."

"But sometimes," you added, "there's something underneath, I think. A flicker of... sadness? Maybe loneliness. You hide it well."

He didn't answer. But he didn't deny it.

After a pause, he asked, "Does it help, talking about it?"

"No," you whispered. "But it helps that someone listens."

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

Then, with a movement so small you nearly missed it, Chishiya slid a wrapped protein bar from his pocket and handed it to you without a word.

A peace offering. Or maybe something more.

You took it with shaking fingers.

"I'll stay," he said, staring ahead. "Until you can breathe again."

You looked at him, startled.

But he didn't look back. He didn't need to. Because for someone who never shared his feelings, Chishiya had just done something very rare.

He'd seen yours—and chosen to stay anyway.

Masterlist Alice in Borderland Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hey there! Your Ranpo fics are the best! I love how well you capture his character! If it's alright with you, could I ask for some comfort/fluff with him? Only if you want to! What I was thinking of was Ranpo starting to date a reader/partner who wasn't always treated well throughout their life, causing them to be awestruck and kinda unnerved by basic human decency. They're confused when he doesn't yell or berate them for minor mistakes, force them to do anything or go anywhere they don't want to, and doesn't withhold his affection as punishment, since that's what usually tended to happen with their family or when they let people get too close. Eventually it sinks in that Ranpo is a safe space who adores them, although they don't unlearn a lifetime of abuse overnight and still have their anxious moments. They start to become more relaxed in the relationship and even with their friends around the office. I'm sorry if this is too dark or specific or hard to form a plot around. You can ignore this with no hard feelings if you have any issues with it. I understand completely.

Footprints to You

synopsis: After a lifetime of neglect and emotional abuse, you find a new beginning with the Armed Detective Agency—and with Ranpo Edogawa, whose unwavering care teaches you that love doesn’t have to be earned through perfection. As you navigate old fears and new happiness, you slowly learn what it means to be safe, wanted, and loved simply for being yourself.

content/warning: Ranpo x fem!reader, mentions of toxic ex-relationships, fluff, hurt/comfort, -4.498 words

The office was unusually quiet for once.

Sunlight streamed lazily through the large windows of the Armed Detective Agency, throwing soft golden shapes over the wooden floors. Papers shuffled, fingers tapped lightly against keyboards, and Kunikida's quiet sighs floated across the room as he adjusted his glasses for the third time in ten minutes. Somewhere in the corner, Atsushi laughed at something Yosano had said, and the air carried that strange kind of peace only found at the Armed Detective Agency when no one was being attacked or sent into mortal danger.

You were happy.

Genuinely, softly, happy.

Your eyes drifted to the small, crinkled bag tucked deep inside your bag—the one you'd been carrying around all day like a bomb with no timer. A snack. Nothing big. Just a little sweet thing you saw last night while shopping. Limited edition. Strawberry-flavored. Ranpo's favorite.

You hadn't thought much of it when you bought it. He'd love this, you had thought, standing in the convenience store aisle with your arms full of things you didn't need. It wasn't a big deal, just something small. A little gesture. Normal couples did things like that, right?

And yet, the bag had remained untouched in your possession all morning and afternoon, weighing heavier than it should've, your stomach turning every time you even considered giving it to him.

What if he thinks it's weird? What if he thinks you're weird? Clingy? Needy? Even, pathetic?

You swallowed.

Ranpo sat just a few desks over, lounging in his chair, feet propped up on his desk like he owned the place. (To be fair, emotionally, he sort of did.) His hat was tilted slightly to the side as he munched happily on a handful of sugary snacks, looking completely content.

He wouldn't get mad… right?

Still, the thought of approaching him made your heart race. You stared down at your bag as if it would answer for you. You should just forget it. Throw it away later. No harm done.

But then he glanced over at you. Bright green eyes catching yours. His head tilted in that sharp, inquisitive way he had when he was moments away from saying something that would embarrass you in front of the whole agency.

You panicked. Stood up. Walked over too fast.

"Hey, uh," you started, trying to keep your voice even. "I, um… got something. For you."

He perked up immediately. "For me?" His eyes sparkled, amused and expectant.

You fumbled with the bag, hands trembling just slightly. "It's, uh… nothing big. Just something I saw. Yesterday. Thought you might like it. But it's stupid, so if you don't want it, that's totally—"

Ranpo snatched it from your hands before you could finish. His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

"No way—strawberry? You do love me!"

You flushed hard. "I never said—!"

"Too late!" he grinned, already tearing into the packaging. "You definitely love me. Look at you, all flustered. Caught red-handed being sweet." He took a bite and groaned dramatically. "Mmm. Perfection. 10 out of 10. I might even solve a case without complaining today."

You laughed, just a little, but your chest was tight.

It wasn't just the teasing. It was the way he looked at you—so open, so happy, like your small gesture hadn't just been accepted, but celebrated. There was no suspicion in his eyes, no calculation, no weighing of your worth behind every smile.

No asking, what do you want in return?

And that's what rattled you. Because this… this wasn't normal. At least, not the kind of normal you knew.

You hadn't been yelled at. You hadn't been accused of being weird or overbearing or attention-seeking. You hadn't been made to feel like a burden.

You had just… given someone a snack. And been smiled at like it meant the world.

How was that real?

Why weren't you being punished for wanting to be kind?

Ranpo leaned over suddenly, poking your forehead with one sugar-dusted finger. "Hey. You're thinking too hard again."

"I'm not."

"You are. I can deduce it." He wiggled his fingers dramatically. "Super detective powers, remember?"

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips tugged upward despite yourself.

Ranpo grinned wider. "Relax, sweetheart. You're allowed to be nice to me. I'll even return the favor later. With a kiss. Or a riddle."

"Those aren't equivalent."

"You're not equivalent. You're extraordinary."

You froze.

He said it so easily.

For a moment, the hum of the office faded.

Ranpo was still chattering, pleased as ever with his snack, feet swinging childishly beneath his desk, but his voice blurred at the edges of your hearing. His affection felt too easy. Too natural. Like standing in warm water when you were used to ice.

Your hand hovered near your side, curling slightly into your palm as a memory surfaced, unbidden:

—

A kitchen. Dimly lit, the yellow bulbs overhead buzzing faintly. The clock on the wall ticked too loud in the silence.

You sat at the dinner table, feet barely brushing the floor. Maybe five or six years old.

Your parents sat across from you, not even glancing your way. The sound of forks scraping against plates echoed in the empty conversation.

"Mom," you tried, softly at first. "Mom, can I—?"

A sharp intake of breath.

Your mother's fork hit her plate with a metallic clang. "What now?"

You shrank slightly in your seat, throat tightening. You hadn't even asked yet.

Your father didn't look up from his food. "Don't start," he muttered.

You swallowed hard, heart thumping. "I just… I wanted to show you what I drew today."

Silence.

Your mother let out an irritated sigh, pushing her plate slightly away like the food had lost its appeal. "We don't have time for your nonsense. You're always talking. Can't you just—" She waved her hand vaguely, like shooing a stray dog. "Be quiet for five minutes?"

You looked down at your drawing—crumpled in your fist, wrinkled at the edges.

It wasn't that you didn't understand. They were busy. Grown-up stuff. You shouldn't bother them. You shouldn't need things. You shouldn't take up space.

That's what being good meant, right?

Being small. Being silent. Being invisible.

So you bit your tongue, nodded, and folded the paper in half. And then again. And again. Until it was a tiny square no one could see.

—

The sound of Ranpo happily crunching his snack brought you back to the present.

His eyes were still on you. Watching. Not with annoyance, not with exhaustion—but curiosity. Care.

He was never annoyed when you spoke. Sometimes he was annoying, sure—but never annoyed with you. Not once had he told you to be quiet.

And still, that old instinct lingered like a splinter beneath your skin: small, sharp, impossible to ignore.

You clenched your fist once, then slowly, carefully, let it go.

Ranpo leaned forward suddenly, plucking another snack from the bag and holding it out to you, like an offering. "Wanna share?"

Just like that. No test to pass. No hoops to jump through. No price.

"…Yeah," you said softly. "I'd like that."

And this time, when you smiled, it didn't feel forced.

The peaceful hum of the office didn't last much longer.

Kunikida's phone buzzed sharply on his desk, slicing through the gentle background noise like a blade. He answered, sharp and efficient as always, eyes narrowing almost immediately.

"Another theft," he muttered, barely a minute later, already moving to pull his notebook from his coat pocket. "Downtown. Jewelry store, smash-and-grab, broad daylight. The police think it's the same thief from last week."

You straightened in your chair slightly, listening as Atsushi and Yosano gathered around. You could already feel the shift in the atmosphere—the easy calm replaced with that focused buzz you were starting to recognize as the job.

"They've got officers posted, but if he slips away again, we're to step in," Kunikida continued, scribbling something into his notebook before snapping it closed. "Atsushi, Yosano—you're with me. Dazai's out with another case, so we're short."

His eyes landed on you and Ranpo.

"You two stay here. This should be simple, but if he gets away again, we'll need Ranpo's ability—and possibly yours, Y/N, depending on how much of a trail he leaves behind."

You nodded quickly. Support. You could do that. That was safe. Not too much pressure yet. And Ranpo would be here—

"Ohhh," Ranpo sighed dramatically, stretching his arms up over his head, his snack bag balanced precariously on his stomach. "Do I have to work today?"

Kunikida didn't even glance at him. "You'll be backup. Stay sharp."

Ranpo stuck out his tongue but made no further complaints. That alone told you he took it more seriously than he pretended.

Within moments, the others were gone, leaving you and Ranpo alone in the office.

The sudden quiet felt heavier now, somehow. Without the background chatter, it was just… you. And him. And the steady thrum of your heartbeat in your ears.

Ranpo glanced over at you, smirking lazily. "Looks like it's just you and me, detective."

You smiled faintly, tucking your hands between your knees to steady yourself. "Guess so."

He stared at you for a moment longer—like he could see every racing thought behind your eyes—and then just leaned his chair back further, resting his head against the top with a contented sigh. "Hope they don't catch him right away. I'm kinda in the mood for showing off."

You huffed softly through your nose, relaxing a little despite yourself. His confidence was ridiculous. Childish, even. But it worked. Anchored you.

Still… being alone like this, waiting, knowing you might be needed—

The thought made your stomach twist.

What if you messed up? What if your ability, Echo Trail, didn't lead you anywhere? When activated, it allowed you to see the footprints or movement traces of any person who had walked that path in the last two hours. The footprints appeared faintly glowing to you alone, trailing the exact route the person had taken in that time span.

But… what if you followed the wrong trail? What if more than one person had been there and you led the others to the wrong place?

What if they all realized you weren't good enough to be here after all?

What if Ranpo realized it?

The thought curled sharp around your ribs.

He noticed the shift in your posture, of course. Nothing got past him, even when he pretended not to care. "You're doing that thinking-too-much thing again," he pointed out lazily, tipping his hat down to shield his eyes like he was about to nap.

You tried to shake it off, tried to answer lightly. "Sorry. Just… want to be useful."

Ranpo cracked one eye open.

"Useful?" he repeated, like the word itself offended him. "You think I'd hang out with someone useless? You're already useful. And cool. And, y'know—you're dating me. Which means your life is basically perfect."

His grin was infuriatingly smug.

And somehow—somehow—it worked. The knot in your chest loosened a fraction.

But still, that old voice lingered. Not Ranpo's. Older. Sharper. The one that whispered, What if you fail again? What if they see it too?

—

A different voice now, not your parents. Lower. Crueler.

"Can't you do anything right? Is it really that hard to be useful for once? God, you're pathetic."

A plate shattered on the floor, and the sick feeling curling through your stomach had nothing to do with broken porcelain.

—

You blinked, forcing yourself back into the present.

Ranpo, oblivious to your spiraling thoughts—or maybe, aware of them but pretending otherwise for your sake—held up another piece of his snack between two fingers like a peace offering.

"Want another bite? Lucky flavor."

You snorted softly despite yourself. "You're making that up."

"Maybe," he said. "But it worked, didn't it?"

The call came not long after.

"Kunikida here. The thief slipped through. Backup's needed."

The tension in his voice was clear, even through the static of the speakerphone.

Ranpo groaned dramatically, sitting up straighter, brushing snack crumbs off his lap like it was the greatest inconvenience in the world. "Finally."

Your heart was already hammering as you grabbed your jacket, fingers fumbling for a second at the sleeves. This was it. This was you being useful. Needed.

You met up with them near the southern district—busy streets, too many people, too much noise. Kunikida gave you a quick rundown.

"He ran east from the scene. Black sneakers, worn tread, size around 10. Gray hoodie, jeans."

Ranpo was already stretching his arms like he was about to take a nap in the middle of the chaos. "Bet I'll solve it before you can write another note about it."

"Focus," Kunikida barked, before turning to you. "Activate your ability. If we can narrow it down fast enough, we might still catch him."

Your throat was dry. But you nodded, pushing past the sharp edge of hesitation building in your chest.

The world shifted faintly.

Around you, faint glowing footprints bloomed into sight like ripples on still water. Fresh ones, old ones, crossing, weaving—dozens of them along this busy sidewalk. Your stomach twisted at the sheer number.

Too many.

You scanned, hard, breathing shallow. Some prints glowed newer, sharper at the edges. Others dulled and blurred, evidence of how long ago they'd been left.

But the others' information helped. You filtered, narrowing by weight, stride, the tread pattern you could glimpse here and there.

There—black sneakers. Recent. Sharp glow. That had to be it, right?

"I've got something!" you called, pointing.

"Good work." Kunikida nodded. "Ranpo, you're with her. Follow it. Radio in if you find him."

"'Course," Ranpo said, already happily strolling beside you like this was a pleasant walk to a candy shop. "Lead the way, detective."

You moved quickly, weaving between pedestrians, following the trail. It led down one street, then another, turning sharply at a corner—

But something was wrong.

The footprints didn't look the same anymore. They'd become messier, overlapping more with others. You slowed.

Ranpo glanced at you, lazy smile still in place. "Something up?"

You swallowed. "I… I think… I think we picked up someone else's trail. Somewhere around that last corner—"

The realization hit like cold water to the chest.

You'd followed the wrong trail.

Wrong.

You messed up.

The shame was immediate. Your pulse roared in your ears, a sick, curling dread rising in your stomach.

Now came the yelling. The frustration. The punishment. The silent treatment. The—

"Eh?" Ranpo blinked at you. "Everyone messes up sometimes."

You stared at him.

That's it? That's it?

Ranpo dug into his pocket lazily, pulling out a crumpled piece of candy, still wrapped. "Want one? It's melon flavor."

He smiled like you'd just solved the case already.

Your breath caught in your throat. No irritation. No disappointment. Not even confusion about how you could screw up. Just… acceptance. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Just stunned silence.

Ranpo tilted his head. "What? Did you expect me to cry about it or something? It's fine. We'll just go back and fix it."

Like it was nothing.

Something in your chest gave a sharp, painful squeeze, and you weren't sure if it was relief, or disbelief, or both fighting for space inside your ribcage.

No yelling. No cruelty.

Just a piece of candy in his hand, offered without condition.

And that was somehow more disarming than anger ever could've been.

You forced yourself to breathe.

You messed up. But Ranpo's steady, almost ridiculous calmness grounded you more than anything else could have. His smile wasn't pity. It was just… trust. Unshaken. Like he knew you'd figure it out.

You swallowed, nodding to yourself.

"Okay… Okay. Let's go back."

Retracing your steps carefully, you walked back to the intersection where you must have lost the real trail. The glowing footprints still crisscrossed everywhere, but now you were looking with sharper focus. You ignored the blur of older tracks, narrowing your search to the freshest, sharpest edges—the ones that pulsed faintly with recency.

There.

A second set. Smaller footfalls, slightly shorter stride, worn tread on the heels. Not the ones you'd followed before.

Your heart kicked harder in your chest. "I've got it this time."

Ranpo grinned. "Knew you would."

You didn't even stop to absorb the words, too focused now. Following this trail was easier, more certain. The glowing footprints wound around side streets, narrowing into less crowded alleys. A good sign. He'd gone somewhere to hide.

After a few blocks, the trail led to an old industrial building near the port, rust creeping up the side panels, a broken window near the back.

Your hand fumbled for your radio. "Kunikida—we've found something. Abandoned warehouse, near the old docks, south side."

"Good work," Kunikida's voice came through, sharp and clear. "We're five minutes out. Don't engage on your own."

"Sure, sure," Ranpo chimed in, "we'll just play hide-and-seek until you catch up."

You could feel your pulse in your throat as you both waited. Ranpo didn't seem tense at all—if anything, he was digging around in his pockets for more candy.

When the others arrived, it didn't take long to corner the thief.

Atsushi flanked one side, Kunikida covered the exits, Yosano watched the back in case he tried anything desperate. Ranpo, of course, hung lazily near the doorway, giving the occasional unhelpful comment like "If he jumps out that window, I'm not chasing him."

It didn't matter. The thief tried to bolt—but with coordinated precision, Kunikida and Atsushi had him subdued and handcuffed before he even made it to the alley.

The adrenaline finally left your body when the police arrived to take him into custody. Standing there with the others, watching the officers drive him away, you let yourself exhale fully.

They didn't even look angry. No one was disappointed. No frustration, no silent glares.

Just: "Good job."

Ranpo stretched lazily next to you. "See? Easy. Told you you'd be great."

Your throat tightened again. Not from shame this time, but from something you didn't quite have words for.

—

"Why do you always ruin things?"

Your mother's voice, sharp, eyes barely flicking to you over the rim of her coffee mug. "If you're not going to be helpful, then don't be here at all."

—

But standing here—beside Ranpo, with the ADA—you weren't ruining anything.

You were here. And for once, it felt like maybe that was enough.

Your apartment was quiet, warm with the late sunset spilling through the windows in soft orange hues. Everything felt peaceful.

Ranpo was already sprawled across your couch like he owned the place—which, to be fair, wasn't far from the truth at this point. He spent nearly every free moment glued to your side, and at this rate, he was probably here more often than at his own place. Not that you were complaining.

Sort of.

Maybe.

He had his socks half-off, one arm thrown lazily over his eyes as if the entire case earlier had been so exhausting, even though you'd been the one doing all the chasing. Crumpled candy wrappers formed a small collection near your coffee table.

You hovered awkwardly near the kitchen, chewing your lip.

It was late. You should start cooking.

The thought curled in your stomach like a knot. If you didn't, what if

You shook the thought away before it fully formed. Ranpo hadn't ever yelled at you before. But still… old habits were hard to kill. Even if he never had, that didn't stop your brain from whispering: What if this is the time?

—

It hadn't always been bad. That's what made it worse.

You remembered the early days—when his laugh had been loud and infectious, his hand warm in yours as you walked home together late at night. He used to tease you gently, surprise you with cheap little flowers from convenience stores, joking about how you deserved better than whatever life had handed you before him.

"I'll take care of you," he'd said, thumb brushing your knuckles. "You won't have to worry about a thing."

It almost sounded nice back then.

But slowly, that warmth shifted. Tilted.

It started small. A sharp tone when you forgot to answer a text. A frustrated sigh when you hung out with friends instead of going straight home.

Then one evening—

He walked through the door, bag slung over his shoulder, already scowling.

"Seriously?" His voice was sharper now, impatient. "It's not that hard to have dinner ready when I get here."

You blinked at him, hands nervously twisting the dish towel. "I—I didn't know when you were coming home—"

"That's not the point," he snapped. "What else do you even do all day?"

Something in your chest twisted painfully. You stared at him, mouth open, searching for that soft, teasing boy you used to know.

But he was already walking past you, muttering under his breath.

It's not that hard.

From that moment on, you started keeping track of the clock more. Started apologizing more. Started shrinking into yourself whenever the front door clicked open.

—

You stepped toward the fridge, already planning the quickest meal you could throw together before Ranpo got—

"Oi."

Before you even touched the handle, Ranpo's voice broke through your thoughts, sharp but not harsh.

You turned, startled, only to yelp softly when he reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you down onto the couch like you weighed nothing.

Right onto his lap.

"Wha— Ranpo— I need to—"

"Nope," he said simply, arms wrapping around your waist as if he was restraining you for your own good. "You don't need to do anything. You're exhausted."

"But—"

"Not a 'but,' detective," he smirked, finally lifting his arm from his eyes, green gaze meeting yours with a glint of something soft beneath all the teasing. "You don't have to cook. Not for me. Not when you're tired. Especially not just because I'm here."

You blinked, heart hammering for entirely different reasons now.

"I—I don't mind—"

"I do," he interrupted, but not unkindly. "Seriously. Why make a whole thing when we can just order something stupid and greasy and I can spend all night annoying you on your couch instead?"

Your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and something fragile and aching.

No irritation. No disappointment. No subtle emotional punishments. Just Ranpo being Ranpo—unapologetically attached to you and making sure you knew it.

"I'd much rather hold you than watch you run around doing stuff for me like I'm some old guy who can't work a stove," he added, already pressing his chin against your shoulder like a lazy cat. "I like you, not whatever weird dinner you were about to microwave."

The words I like you rang louder in your chest than you expected them to.

And suddenly, without meaning to, you felt that familiar wave of confusion again. The why of it pressing against your ribs like an unanswered question.

Why was this okay? Why wasn't he upset? Why—

But then his hand squeezed yours gently, grounding you, steady and real.

"Seriously," he said again, quieter now, "stop worrying about stupid stuff. Just stay here with me."

So you did.

Not because you had to. Not because you were afraid not to.

But because, you wanted to.

The food came late—greasy takeout in flimsy containers, nothing special. But it was perfect anyway. You sat cross-legged on the couch, both of you eating lazily, Ranpo stealing bites off your plate like a mischievous child.

Afterward, you barely remembered how it happened—somewhere between cleaning up and complaining about Ranpo hiding wrappers between the cushions, you ended up curled against his chest. His pullover smelled faintly of sweets and that subtle something that was just him. His hand was absentmindedly stroking your hair, your back, not needing a reason or a goal—just to be close.

It was nice.

It was terrifying.

Even now, with his warmth all around you, your mind twitched nervously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for a sharp word, for coldness, for that inevitable switch you'd learned to anticipate.

You shifted slightly, muscles tense, gaze flicking up to him like you were bracing for impact.

Ranpo's hand paused.

For a second, you thought maybe this was it. That you'd annoyed him, touched him wrong, said too much—

Then his arms tightened around you, his chin lowering so his lips brushed your hair.

"You know," he said quietly, no playfulness now, only warmth, honesty, "you don't have to keep waiting for me to get mad."

Your breath caught.

"I'm not stupid," he added softly. "I see it. The flinching. That look you get when you think you're bothering me, or when you're just… waiting for something bad to happen."

You swallowed hard, throat tight. His tone wasn't accusing. Just knowing.

"I don't need to be the world's greatest detective to figure that out," he murmured, a faint huff of amusement softening his voice. "It's obvious. You've been hurt. Someone made you feel like… like you weren't allowed to exist comfortably."

You didn't answer. Couldn't. Your chest felt too heavy.

He shifted just enough so you could see his face—soft eyes, lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

"I don't want the fake version of you," he said simply. "I want you. The whole you. Even the messy, annoying parts. Even the parts that get scared sometimes."

Your lip wobbled. "But what if that's not good enough?"

Ranpo blinked, like the question itself was almost laughably ridiculous. "'Course it's good enough. I'm not here because I want a maid or a personal chef. I'm here because I like you. You don't have to earn that. You don't have to perform for me."

His hand moved up, brushing your cheek gently with the back of his fingers. "You just have to be here. With me. If you want to tell me stuff, I'll listen. If you don't, that's fine too. I'm not going anywhere either way."

Silence.

You stared at him, blinking fast, not sure if you wanted to cry or laugh or both at the same time. For once, you didn't hear the echoes of angry voices in your head. Just his. Soft. Steady. Safe.

Finally, you let out a shaking breath, leaning your forehead against his collarbone.

"Okay."

Ranpo smiled against your hair, like you'd just given him the most valuable treasure in the world.

"I love you, you know," he added, almost lazily, but there was nothing careless about it. "Just figured I should say it more."

Your throat felt thick. "I love you too."

It wasn't perfect. You weren't healed, not by a long shot.

But for once, that felt okay too.

Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

im sosorry for spam reblogging 😭 but your writing is SOOOO good i love the ranpo fics!! officially one of my favorite writers mmm

No worries, I'm glad you like them!! Thank you 🫶🏼

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hi :)) could your write dazai, chuuya, and ranpo rescuing fem reader when they get kidnapped (seperate plz)

Tyy :33

BSD Characters Reacting to Reader Getting Kidnapped

A/N: I saw your other message in the inbox where you explained Ranpo’s story a bit more, about the kidnapping happening at the same time as the Decay of Angels arc. I decided to give it a try and hope I got everything right, since I haven’t finished that season yet. But because I didn’t have to fully describe what happened during the arc (just mention that it was over) I hope I didn't make mistakes and still wrote it like you wanted it!

content/warnings: Ranpo, Dazai, Chuuya, canon-typical blood and violence, angst & fluff, 3.653 words

Ranpo

The world had been saved.

The clock was ticking down on catastrophe, and Ranpo Edogawa had once again outsmarted the monsters hiding beneath polished boots and pristine uniforms. The Decay of Angels, the terrorism accusations, the Hunting Dogs—solved. Every twisted knot, unraveled by his mind like a magician untying silk scarves.

The world was safe.

So why the hell did it feel like he'd lost everything anyway?

His steps echoed through the empty halls of the abandoned warehouse, polished shoes clicking against cracked concrete. The scent of rot, sweat, and blood mixed with the metallic tang of regret, curling in his throat like smoke.

He should have come sooner.

No deductions were needed to tell him that.

And then he saw you.

Slumped in that chair like a broken doll, wrists tied raw, face swollen and bruised, split lip trembling with each shallow, rattling breath you took. Your clothes torn, blood drying at the collar of your shirt.

Ranpo stopped breathing entirely.

For once in his life, his mind—the great, brilliant mind of the world's greatest detective—felt useless. He couldn't think past the roar in his ears, the ice-cold dread creeping down his spine, locking up his lungs, cracking his chest open like fragile glass.

"Y/N…" The word tumbled out of his mouth like a child's first broken whisper, raw and helpless.

Movement behind him—one of the kidnappers raising a gun, barking some order—

Didn't matter.

Before Ranpo even blinked, the thunder of footsteps rang out, Kunikida's sharp voice cutting through the noise: "Now!"

Gunfire. Screams. The thud of bodies hitting the ground.

Ranpo didn't flinch. Didn't even glance at them.

The others could take care of that. They should take care of that. That was what they did. He was the mind—they were the hands.

His only focus was you.

He dropped to his knees, the impact sharp on bone, barely noticing. His gloves stained red as he cupped your bruised face with shaking hands. "I'm here—I'm here now—" His voice cracked, something rare, something almost sacred. "I'm sorry. I should've—"

Another sharp inhale. He hated that sound. Hated how it echoed in the empty spaces between his ribs. Hated how fragile you felt beneath his touch.

"Ranpo…" Your voice, small but steady, broke him further. And then—that smile. Sweet. Forgiving. Warm like sunlight peeking through storm clouds. "It's okay… You had to save the world, after all. I knew you'd come."

Tears blurred his vision instantly.

"Don't—" His throat closed up. "Don't say that. How can you…? How can you smile like that?"

You blinked at him gently, eyelashes sticky with tears and blood, but still—still—you smiled.

"I know you did good… Ranpo."

The guilt cracked his chest open like a struck porcelain vase. He didn't deserve that smile. Didn't deserve you. Brilliant, arrogant, untouchable Ranpo Edogawa—reduced to a sobbing mess on a dirty warehouse floor.

Then—

A hand on his shoulder.

"Ranpo," Yosano said quietly, her knife gleaming faintly in the broken light. "It's okay. I've got her."

For once, there was no teasing in her voice. No menace. No sharp grin. Just quiet understanding.

"You know the procedure," she murmured, and Ranpo nodded, brokenly, helplessly, as she carefully pressed the blade to your skin.

You didn't even flinch. You were too far gone to notice. Already half-dead before she even touched you.

Ranpo clenched his fists until the nails bit through the thin leather of his gloves, until his knuckles ached.

But then came the glow of her ability, brilliant and warm, curling around you like soft silk. Your injuries knitting together, skin clearing, lips regaining color. Alive. Whole.

But asleep.

Of course you were.

Kenji offered, sweet as ever: "I'll carry her, Ranpo-san!"

Ranpo barely heard him. His arms were already curling around you, careful not to jostle you, but desperate to hold you close, to feel that you were warm, that you were here.

"I'll do it," Ranpo rasped, voice hoarse, weight heavy in his chest. "I have to."

No deductions could save him from the truth he felt now:

Smartest man alive or not, he was utterly lost without you.

As Ranpo knelt on the floor in front of your shared bed that evening, your sleeping form tugged into the blankets, his hands clutching yours, the weight of it all finally hit him fully.

It wasn't that he hadn't thought of you. God, you were all he thought about.

From the very moment he got that call—the distorted voice on the other end, the static crackling like broken glass:

"We've got something of yours, detective. Should've kept your pretty little toy hidden."

And then the picture. Your face bloodied. Bound. Frightened.

He'd almost vomited.

But then, that very same day, the world came crashing down around them.

The Armed Detective Agency, terrorists. The Decay of Angels, the military, the Hunting Dogs—all pointed at them like loaded guns. His friends, innocent, all standing on the edge of execution.

One wrong move, and they would all die.

And you…you would still be gone. Still hurt. Still alone. He couldn't save you on his own.

It wasn't fair.

It shouldn't have come down to that.

But it had.

His mind had raced with calculations, deductions, timelines, outcomes. And no matter how many scenarios he ran, they all ended in the same, brutal way: If he chose you, everyone else died. If he chose them…maybe, maybe you'd still be alive by the time he got there.

He had gambled. Played the odds like a desperate man.

He'd chosen the world over you.

He had chosen everyone else.

And the guilt of that was something his sharp mind couldn't untangle, couldn't escape, couldn't fix.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, forehead pressing against your hand, his breath trembling against your skin. "I—I knew you were there, I knew you were hurting, I knew you needed me. And I left you."

The others all knew the choice he'd made. They all knew it was the only one that made sense.

Didn't mean it hurt any less.

"I could've solved it faster," Ranpo hissed through gritted teeth. "Should've been quicker, should've been smarter. I let them beat you like this because I wasn't good enough."

It didn't matter that the fate of hundreds had rested in his hands. It didn't matter that he'd outwitted one of the most dangerous organizations in existence.

None of that mattered if it meant you were lying in front of him like this. Broken.

A faint murmur left your lips. Barely audible.

He leaned closer.

„Ranpo…"

Even unconscious, you said his name like it was the sweetest thing in the world. Not angry. Not resentful. Just soft. Forgiving.

It shattered something in him.

The brilliant detective. The great mind. The undefeated genius.

All of it meant nothing if the person who made the world bright was forced to suffer because of him.

He'd saved the world.

But lost something far more precious in the process.

Ranpo climbed on the bed and held you tight, gently, protectively, like if he just held you closer, the broken pieces of himself might finally stop cutting into him.

Never again.

Next time, he promised—there won't be a choice.

Next time, he'd save you first.

Or burn the whole world down trying.

Dazai

The morning sun spilled over Yokohama's skyline in hues of gold, too soft, too peaceful for a day like this.

Osamu Dazai wasn't usually early—not for work, not for breakfast, and certainly not for meeting people. But you were… different. He wasn't sure what you were to him yet, not officially anyway. It was a silent dance you both performed around each other, hesitant steps forward, quick steps back, laughter in between like smoke—there but hard to hold.

But today, something gnawed at him. Maybe it was intuition, maybe just the self-destructive part of him that always assumed the worst. Either way, it dragged him to your apartment sooner than planned.

When he saw your door ajar, the world shifted.

"Y/N?" His voice was soft but sharp. Searching. Dread curled cold and coiled around his chest as he pushed the door open with slow, deliberate fingers.

The room told him everything before his brain could catch up.

The flipped coffee table, the overturned chair with one leg snapped clean off, the ripped curtains fluttering weakly in the summer breeze, like they too were gasping for help.

And then—that—the knife embedded into the wall, pinning a crumpled piece of paper.

His heart didn't stop—it sped up. Panic would have frozen someone else. Not Dazai. He was too used to destruction. But this—someone tearing apart your life, your home—was something he hadn't prepared for.

With careful steps, he approached the message and flattened the paper with his palm.

'If you want her back, you better hurry, Dazai.'

Beneath the words, crude and almost childish in execution, was a drawing: two stick figures—one holding a knife, the other lying in red scribbles, 'X's for eyes. But what drew his focus was the symbol scratched into the corner of the page: a crude imitation of a scorpion's tail, curled, dripping venom.

Recognition hit him like a blow to the stomach.

The brothers.

It felt like a different lifetime ago. One of them long dead. The other… vanished. Dazai remembered the man's eyes—empty yet burning—when they last met, the hunger for revenge boiling just beneath his polite smile.

And now—now the bastard had you.

For a moment, he stood perfectly still in the wreckage, the sunlight cutting across his sharp features, pooling shadows beneath his lashes. Something old stirred beneath his calm, something cold and sharp edged. Fear? No. It wasn't fear.

It was rage.

And beneath that, what terrified him the most:

He cared. God, he cared too much. And wasn't that the very thing he'd sworn never to do again?

Because loving something—someone—meant creating a weakness. And weaknesses got people killed.

But as his hand tightened into a trembling fist at his side, as his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, Dazai understood something clearer than any reasoning, clearer than any strategy:

It was already too late for that. You were already his weakness.

And he would burn the whole world to the ground before he let anyone take you from him.

Without another word, Dazai spun on his heel, trench coat sweeping behind him, as he strode toward the inevitable confrontation. He already knew exactly where they would take you.

The building was old—condemned, really—the kind of place people ignored because it was easier not to notice the rot in the cracks of the city.

It was fitting, Dazai thought grimly, that a man like him would choose somewhere already halfway to ruin.

As Dazai approached, the wind tugged lightly at his coat, but his steps were steady, deliberate. His mind was cold, sharp, honed like a blade on the edge of vengeance, but there—underneath it all—a tremor of something warmer, more dangerous:

Hope.

Hope that he wasn't too late. Hope that you were still—

No. No hoping. Dazai didn't deal in hope. He dealt in outcomes. Actions. Planning. Probability. And yet, even as he told himself that, he felt the hope anyway, blooming painfully in his throat like a bruise refusing to fade.

Kunikida's voice crackled in his earpiece. "We're in position. Don't go in alone—wait for backup."

A soft smile twitched at the corner of Dazai's mouth. "Since when do I ever follow instructions, hmm?"

"Dazai—"

But he cut the connection before Kunikida could finish, slipping inside through a broken side door. Silent. Focused.

The room smelled of mildew and rust. The quiet was too loud. And then—

A voice.

"I knew you'd come."

Dazai's eyes landed on you first, and everything else—everything else could burn for all he cared.

You were tied to a chair in the center of the room, ankles and wrists bound with coarse rope. Blood trailed sluggishly from a cut on your temple, drying into your hair. Your lip was split, an ugly bruise forming along your jaw, but—

Your eyes.

They locked on his, steady, unwavering, despite the pain. And you smiled. You actually smiled at him.

Something inside him cracked, but there wasn't time to fall apart.

"Touching, really," the voice sneered, stepping out of the shadows. The man was gaunt now, hollowed by grief and fury. His gun was steady, aimed right at your head. "You took everything from me. Now I take everything from you."

Dazai lifted his hands in mock surrender, stepping forward. His heart was screaming, but his expression was all lazy smiles and careless shrugs.

"I don't even remember your name," he said flatly. "That's how little you mattered to me."

The gun shook slightly, fury flaring in the man's eyes.

Good. Keep him angry. Keep him distracted.

"You should've stayed away," the man hissed. "You should've known this was coming."

"Probably," Dazai murmured. "But you made one mistake."

"Oh?" The barrel of the gun pressed harder to your temple now, making your breath catch—but your gaze never left Dazai's, never wavered. You trusted him. Even now, when you should've hated him for dragging you into this mess.

"And what mistake is that?" the man spat.

Dazai's smile sharpened, something lethal behind his calm eyes. "You assumed I was still alone."

Bang.

The gunman cried out, his hand spasming open as a single shot rang through the room, his pistol clattering uselessly to the floor.

Behind him, gun still smoking, Kunikida stepped into view with that usual scowl, adjusting his glasses.

"Idiot," Kunikida muttered to Dazai. "You said you wouldn't go in alone."

"I lied," Dazai said cheerfully. "Wouldn't be the first time."

The kidnapper tried to lunge for the gun, but Kunikida was faster—pinning him to the ground with practiced ease, handcuffs clicking into place.

Dazai didn't look at them. His focus was entirely on you as he rushed forward, falling to his knees in front of you.

Your breath was shaky, your lashes damp with pain, but you tilted your head and gave him that smile again. That damns mile that undid him more effectively than any weapon ever could.

"I knew you'd come," you whispered hoarsely.

For a second, Dazai just stared at you, unable to speak. All those carefully built walls—the ones he'd been fortifying for years—felt fragile now, like glass under a hammer.

And for once… he didn't care.

His hand cupped your bruised cheek, thumb brushing against the uninjured skin with trembling gentleness. "I'm sorry," he murmured, voice cracking around the words. "I never wanted to drag you into this."

"You didn't," you said softly. "You saved me."

And still—still—instead of breaking down, instead of confessing what he felt, Dazai just laughed, tired and bitter. "You shouldn't believe in me so easily."

You leaned your head lightly into his palm, closing your eyes for a moment. "But I do."

That terrified him more than any gun ever could.

Chuuya

It was supposed to be over.

That's what Chuuya kept telling himself every goddamn night, fists clenched beneath silk sheets that felt too cold without you next to him. He'd broken it off, hadn't he? For your sake. Because you didn't deserve the blood and filth of the life he was drowning in. And if walking away from you meant you could have some kind of peace, then that's what he would do.

Even if it killed him.

But now—now the universe proved just how cruel it could be.

It started with the vibration of his phone.

No name. Just a number. Foreign. Unfamiliar.

He almost didn't check it. Almost.

The picture made the world stop spinning.

You—bound to a chair, wrists red and raw from rope, face bruised, lip cracked, head bowed but eyes glaring at the camera like you refused to break. Blood stained your clothes. A cut on your cheekbone was fresh, still dripping.

Underneath the photo, the words:

'Shouldn't have left her alone.'

For a long, dangerous moment, Chuuya didn't breathe. His fingers curled around his phone until the glass cracked, spiderwebbing beneath his grip.

He felt the heat rising, the familiar hum of gravitational pull building around his boots, lifting small pebbles and dust as if the entire world was holding its breath, waiting to see what he would do.

And what he wanted—no, needed—to do was burn them all.

It wasn't just Port Mafia business. Not anymore. He'd kept you out of it, hadn't he? You were supposed to be safe on the sidelines.

But that was the joke, wasn't it? Nothing about his life was safe.

They found his weakness.

You.

And they were going to regret that more than they regretted breathing.

His vision blurred with red, the gravitational pressure around him increasing dangerously. It would've been so easy. So easy to just let it go, to let that dark, beautiful power take over, to bring Corruption into the world and tear this entire city apart piece by piece, limb by limb, bone by bone until the people who laid a hand on you were nothing but stains in the dirt.

But one thought cut through the hunger for destruction:

If I lose control, I can't save her.

And that was the only thing that mattered.

With a snarl of frustration, Chuuya punched the nearest wall hard enough to dent the metal framework behind it. The pain grounded him, barely. His heart was a storm in his ribs.

He hated it. Hated this feeling of needing help. But there was one person who could keep him in check.

And, of course, it had to be him.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Chuuya called Dazai.

"Chuuya?" came the irritatingly amused voice after one ring. "Calling me? On purpose? What's the occasion, finally realized you're hopeless without me?"

"I swear to God, Dazai, if you don't shut up—"

"Oooh, someone's cranky."

"Listen, bastard. I—I need your help." He clenched his jaw, barely believing the next word would ever leave his mouth—not directed at Dazai, at least. "Please."

Silence. Not mocking this time. Heavy. Knowing that something was wrong.

"Send me the location."

Chuuya did. His fists were trembling now, not from fear—but fury.

"I'll be there," Dazai said, suddenly all business. "Try not to level the city before I arrive."

"No promises."

The warehouse was exactly what you'd expect: damp concrete, rusted beams, the smell of oil and rot clinging to every surface. The group that had you belonged to an old rival of the Port Mafia, scum that had been festering in Yokohama's shadows for years, always too cowardly to make a real move—until now.

You hung your head when they dragged you further into the room, blood dripping from your hairline, breathing ragged. But your eyes—

God, your eyes—when they lifted to meet Chuuya's as he walked in, slow, deliberate, deadly—you smiled.

You smiled at him.

That was it. That was the last thread of restraint snapping.

"You know," Chuuya said, taking off his gloves as the gravitational field began to shimmer visibly around him, distorting the very air, "I was gonna be nice about this."

The leader of the group laughed nervously, gun pressed to your temple. "You think you can scare me? You think we don't know who you are? You're nothing without—"

Crunch.

The man's sentence cut off with a scream as the gravity around his legs inverted, bones snapping grotesquely as his knees bent in directions knees weren't meant to go.

Chuuya's smile was sharp. Cruel.

"Oh, I know you know who I am," he said, voice low, dangerous. "And you still thought you could touch what's mine?"

More screaming. The other men tried to run.

Bad mistake.

One by one, he hunted them, crushing limbs, bodies, skulls like they were made of brittle porcelain. He didn't shoot. Didn't stab. Didn't waste that kind of mercy on them.

No. He crushed.

And when the leader finally fell to the ground, whimpering, begging, the blood pooling around him—

"That's what you get," Chuuya hissed, voice a rasp. "That's what you get for thinking you could touch her. I will—"

"Enough."

Dazai's hand clamped onto Chuuya's arm, his ability nullifying the gravitational pull instantly. The hum of raw destruction stopped mid-breath, and Chuuya staggered, glaring at Dazai with hatred and gratitude warring in his chest.

"Don't act like you're doing this for me," Chuuya spat.

"Oh, of course not," Dazai said mildly, releasing him. "I'm doing it for her."

Behind them, you let out a soft breath of relief, slumping forward, exhausted but alive. Alive because of them. Because of him.

Chuuya was at your side in an instant, undoing the ropes with trembling hands, careful not to touch the bruises on your wrists.

"Idiot," he muttered, voice hoarse. "You shouldn't have ever gotten dragged into this."

You caught his hand, squeezed it.

"Stop running, Chuuya," you said, your voice rough but steady. "They already know. It's too late to protect me from your world. The only thing you're doing by pushing me away is making it worse."

For once, Chuuya didn't have a sharp reply. Just a look of raw, naked fear. Not of dying, not of fighting, but of you. Of how much you meant to him.

He let out a shaky breath and dropped his forehead gently to yours. "Fine," he whispered. "You win. But don't expect me to go easy on anyone who tries this again."

You smiled—tired, bruised, beautiful. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Behind you both, Dazai rolled his eyes. "Romantic. Can I go home now?"

Chuuya flipped him off without looking.

Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hellooo!

Can you write a funny story for Tendou from Haikyuu? I watched The Proposal yesterday (i don't know if you know the movie) but there's a scene where tis big bird tries to grab a small dog, but the woman protects it and instead it gets her phone. Maybe a similar scene (without the dog) for reader? Maybe reader goes to shiratorizawa aswell and her key gets stolen by a bird and seh tries to get it back and everything and tendou is watching her and probably making fun of her when she tries to change her keys for something else. I'm sorry if this is too specific or weird, i just though it would be fun!

Brains, Brawn, and Bird Theft 

synposis: A top student at Shiratorizawa finds her quiet, academic life thrown off track when a magpie steals her dorm key—leading to an absurd chase, an unexpected rescue by Tendou Satori, and the start of an unusual friendship.

warning/content: Tendou Satori x fem!reader, -2.262 words

You were good at school — irritatingly good, according to your classmates. Not that you were smug about it. You just... liked learning. It was a quiet kind of thrill, mastering something on your own terms. 

Math clicked for you, literature spoke to you, and science gave you answers in a world that rarely did. So it wasn't a surprise when, at the start of your third year, your name once again landed at the top of the academic rankings for Shiratorizawa Academy.

It came with its share of perks — one of them being a dorm to yourself. A precious, quiet space where no one could barge in asking for notes or comparing test scores. No distractions. No unnecessary noise.

And definitely no volleyball players.

The volleyball team was... something else entirely. You knew of them — of course you did. You'd seen a few games when they were held nearby, mostly dragged along by friends who swooned over spike speeds and uniform numbers. You weren't immune to admiration; they were talented. But to you, they were distant figures. Focused. Intense. Almost mythic in the way people whispered about them in hallways.

Ushijima Wakatoshi. Captain. Powerhouse. Supposedly terrifying in person. Tendou Satori. The "Guess Monster." Unpredictable. Weird. Definitely not someone you'd spoken to. Reon. Shirabu. The rest — all names tied to performances, not personalities.

You had nothing against them. But they were on a different plane of existence, orbiting around tournaments and sweat-soaked glory, while your universe was highlighters, flashcards, and well-organized binders. Besides, they didn't exactly seem... approachable. Or interested in conversations that didn't involve blocks or serves.

So, naturally, you'd never expected to cross paths with any of them.

Certainly not because of a thieving magpie.

The afternoon air was warm, humming quietly with the sounds of distant practice whistles and cicadas tucked in the hedges. You walked the familiar path toward your dorm, bag slung over your shoulder, thoughts already drifting toward a quiet evening of studying and maybe—if you felt like living on the edge—a mug of instant cocoa.

The keys slipped from your fingers just as you reached into your pocket. No big deal. You crouched automatically.

But before your hand could even brush the metal—

FWIP.

A sharp flutter of wings startled you upright. You blinked. A black-and-white flash darted down from the trees, landed beside your keys, and—very casually—grabbed them in its beak.

There was a moment of silent disbelief.

"...No," you said aloud.

The magpie tilted its head, then hopped backward a few steps, dragging your keyring along the concrete.

You stared at it. It stared back.

"Drop it."

The bird gave no indication of understanding. In fact, it looked almost smug—if that was even possible for something with feathers. You took a step forward.

The magpie hopped away.

"Don't you dare."

It took to the air in a blur of feathers, flew a few meters, and landed again — this time on a patch of lawn near the path.

You stood there for a second, processing the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. You were an honors student. Top of your year. This sort of thing did not happen to you.

And yet.

You sighed, tucked your bag tighter against your shoulder, and followed the magpie.

It became a game of keep-away.

Every time you got close, it either fluttered just out of reach or watched you with sharp, birdy disinterest. You tried reason, crouching low, palms out like you were coaxing a skittish cat.

"Come on," you muttered. "It's a key. It doesn't sparkle. It's not food. You don't even have pockets."

The magpie remained unmoved.

Eventually, the chase led you toward the school's gym complex. A few people passed by in the distance, but thankfully, no one seemed to notice you crawling across the lawn like a rejected wildlife intern.

The magpie landed on a bench near a picnic table just outside the gym. You slowed your steps. Charging at it clearly wasn't working. You needed a new strategy.

You glanced down at your wallet. Then back at the bird.

"...You're into shiny things, right?"

Carefully, you pulled out a 100-yen coin and tossed it a few feet away from the table.

Nothing.

You squinted at the magpie. It had definitely looked. But it wasn't moving.

"Seriously? You don't want money now?"

You tossed another coin, this time a little closer to the bird.

"Take the coin!" you hissed. "It's shiny! It's practically treasure! This is a better deal than a key, you greedy winged bastard—"

"Huh," a voice said behind you, low and unimpressed. "Did you just throw money at a bird?"

You froze.

You turned around slowly.

Standing just behind you, arms crossed, expression unreadable, was none other than Ushijima Wakatoshi.

And next to him, wide-eyed and practically sparkling with interest, was Tendou Satori.

"Ohhh my god," you whispered, horrified.

"Wow," Tendou grinned. "You're even weirder than I am!"

"It's not—! It's not what it looks like," you blurted out, heat rushing to your face so fast you were surprised you didn't combust on the spot.

Ushijima blinked slowly, his expression neutral as ever. "It looks like you're throwing money at a bird."

"That's... okay, yes, technically, but that's not the point!"

Tendou leaned in slightly, eyes sparkling with interest like this was the best thing he'd seen all week. "I dunno, sounds pretty pointy to me. I mean, you literally chucked yen at its face."

You turned back toward the magpie with a helpless gesture. "It stole my keys! I was trying to bribe it. Which is totally logical! Birds like shiny things, right? That's, like, science!"

"Is it?" Tendou tilted his head. "I thought that was just a myth. Or was that raccoons?"

"I—" You blinked. "Why are we talking about raccoons?!"

There was a very long, very tense pause. The bird shifted slightly on the bench, letting the keychain dangle tauntingly from its beak.

You rubbed your face, flustered and panicking just a little now. Then your eyes landed on something miraculous. Something game-changing.

A protein bar.

Clutched loosely in Tendou's left hand.

Your eyes widened like you'd just spotted the Holy Grail wrapped in plastic and labeled with calorie content.

Tendou noticed your expression. His fingers tightened instinctively around the bar. "Uh..."

You stepped toward him, hopeful. "Say, you're from the volleyball team. Tendou-san, right?"

"...Yes?" he replied, somewhat cautiously, taking a step closer to Ushijima as if he was trying to seek shelter from your intense gaze.

"Can I have your protein bar?"

He looked baffled. "Wait, what?"

"I'll pay you! I'll buy you another one later, or I can give you money now—here!" You whipped out a crumpled bill from the wallet still clutched in your hand. "Please, I really need it."

Tendou leaned away slightly, holding the bar just out of your reach. "This is escalating very fast."

"I'm serious," you pleaded. "It's my last hope. The bird has rejected money."

Ushijima, still utterly expressionless, asked, "Are you going to throw the money at him, too?"

You turned to him, scandalized. "What? No!"

He nodded once, as if your answer had genuinely clarified things for him.

Tendou gave you one last squint, then slowly handed the bar over.

You held it like a relic, turning back to the magpie with renewed determination. "Thank you. I owe you."

The magpie was now perched on the edge of a nearby table, still smugly guarding your keys. You walked toward it slowly, lifting the protein bar as if presenting a rare offering to some kind of trash deity.

"Come on," you whispered. "This is a snack. A human snack. So much better than keys, right? Look. Carbs. Protein. Peanut butter flavor. You like peanut butter, don't you?"

It flew up into the tree right above the table. 

"Argh, stupid asshole bird!" You clenched your teeth, glaring at the magpie, who was now just out of reach.

You still kept approaching, inch by inch, climbing onto the bench and then the table, holding the bar out like a sacrifice.

"Please?" you begged. "Please take the snack and drop the keys. I'll even stop calling you a stupid—if you just... cooperate."

And then, finally—finally—the magpie dove.

You flinched, one arm coming up to shield your face, but the bird executed a sharp maneuver mid-air: dropping the key onto the table and snatching the bar in one clean, predatory swoop.

Its wing clipped your cheek.

"GAH—!" you yelped, stumbling backward. Reflexively, you tried to step away.

But tables end.

And you forgot that part.

You felt your foot slip, and gravity tilted you backward before your brain even caught up. For one brief, soul-leaving moment, you were certain your fall would end with a broken tailbone and a crushed sense of dignity.

Instead, you landed in a pair of arms.

More specifically, the strong, slightly startled arms of Tendou Satori.

You stared up at him, your mind short-circuiting as your back pressed against his chest, and his weirdly lanky limbs wrapped around you with surprising steadiness.

"Well," he said with an eyebrow raised, "hello there."

You blinked at him, still processing.

Then the fluttering of wings brought your head snapping around again.

"Oh no you don't—!"

Your keys glinted on the tabletop where the magpie had dropped them. The bird, having already devoured half the bar, turned mid-air and came gliding back in your direction, probably aiming for Round Two.

You launched yourself out of Tendou's arms without warning, practically throwing yourself onto the table to cover your keys with your whole body.

The magpie had to veer off with a sharp squawk to avoid a collision.

Panting, you sat there, keys clutched protectively to your chest, glaring at the retreating bird. "Mine."

Behind you, Tendou let out a low whistle. "Holy shit. You really are weirder than I am. And here I thought the elite students at this school were, like, functional adults."

You glanced at him over your shoulder, hair a mess, shirt rumpled, keys clutched in a death grip.

"Shut up."

The sun hadn't even started to set yet, but the heat of the afternoon was already fading, shadows stretching long across the courtyard outside the gym. You leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, one foot tapping lightly against the concrete.

The sound of sneakers and laughter echoed from behind the gym doors, followed by the unmistakable thud of a volleyball hitting the floor.

You checked your pocket. Yup — protein bar secured. Debt, about to be repaid.

The doors opened moments later, and the first of the team trickled out, talking among themselves, toweling sweat from their necks, and in Shirabu's case, looking like he was already halfway into overanalyzing the last set.

And then—

Tendou appeared, mop of messy red hair sticking to his forehead, grin already tugging at his lips as he spotted you.

You didn't say a word.

You just tossed the bar.

"Catch."

His reflexes kicked in immediately, hand snapping out mid-step to snatch the protein bar from the air without breaking stride.

He blinked at it. Then at you.

"What's this?"

"Payment," you said smoothly, pushing off the wall. "For services rendered during a bird-related crisis."

"Wow. I don't usually get paid for rescuing girls from trees. Is this what chivalry feels like?"

You scoffed. "You didn't even climb the tree. You just stood there and watched me nearly get beheaded by a flying trash gremlin."

Tendou chuckled, unwrapping the bar and taking a bite. "A grateful flying trash gremlin. I gave it food, it gave you your key back. Symbiosis."

"I was the one who gave it food."

"And I was the supplier. I feel like this makes us business partners. Weird bird-based entrepreneurs."

You raised a brow. "Great. Let's put that on our resumes."

The two of you started walking — casually, naturally, like it wasn't even a decision. Just two people heading in the same direction, side by side.

"You sure you don't need it?" Tendou asked, holding up the protein bar. "What if you get mugged by a raven this time?"

You glanced at him. "Then I hope you're on standby with a granola bar and a catcher's mitt."

He grinned, sharp and amused. "You're fun. Weird, but fun."

"You're calling me weird?"

"Absolutely."

You didn't argue. It felt… surprisingly nice to talk to someone like this. Someone who didn't ask about test scores or cram schools, who just said things without caring if they made perfect sense.

The volleyball team faded into the distance behind you. Somewhere along the path to the dorms, you heard Shirabu's voice, confused and borderline distressed.

"Wait... isn't that Y/N? The third-year prodigy? What is she doing with Tendou-senpai?"

There was a beat of silence. No one had an answer to that. Almost no one.

Then, Ushijima said, in the same calm, steady tone he used for things like "The ball was in" or "Protein is important":

"She was mugged by a bird. Tendou helped."

Silence.

Shirabu blinked. "...What?"

Yamagata squinted at him. "Was that a joke?"

Reon looked genuinely unsettled. "I don't think I've ever heard him joke before."

No one was sure — because Ushijima, stone-faced and unreadable as always, simply began walking away without another word.

Which only made it so much worse.

Goshiki looked between the older players in confusion, almost as dense as Ushijima in certain aspects, as he asked in complete seriousness, "Did Tendou-senpai help her when she was mugged... or did he help the bird to mug her?"

Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

I JUST CHECKED UR MASTERLIST AND OMG HAPPY 100 FICS WRITTEN!!!! Your writing is amazing I hope u keep up the good work and become more awesome :3!!🎉🎉🎉🎉 -🍮

That’s so sweet of you to notice! Thank you 😍🫶🏼

I was actually thinking of writing something bigger for the 100th fic, but I couldn’t come up with anything (and honestly, I’m too lazy to brainstorm right now, there are so many requests I want to write first before working on something own again), so I just continued as usual 😅

[ghostlynightpanda]

May I request another Ranpo fic hehe :3,,, May I ask pre-relationship Gn! Reader x Ranpo where they're having a sleepover at Ranpo's house, just talking about random things until late at night and they when they sleep (Ranpo has his own Futon but he kept an extra one for reader and placed next to him), what he didn't know is that reader is a cuddle bug, and unfortunately he doesn't have any body pillows for them to hug. So what did they do instead? They slept like a bear and unconsciously scooted to Ranpo's Futon and cuddled him instead, poor Ranpo, his brain stopped working and he was bright red T^T!!!! It didn't help that in the morning, you didn't know what you did as you both wake up on different sides and when you two finished dressing up, reader noticed Ranpo can NOT tie his tie correctly for the life of him, so you came to him and did it instead, leaving Ranpo froze at the proximity. Reader was do oblivious that after they left, Ranpo literally was weak on the knees and flushing red <33 -from da 🍮anonie!!!

Case of the Cuddly Culprit

synopsis: When a casual sleepover with Ranpo turns into an accidental cuddle-fest, the world’s greatest detective finds himself completely undone by your unconscious affection—and worse, realizes he might actually like it. Now hopelessly touch-starved and flustered, Ranpo’s only solution is to march to your door in the middle of the night for more… research.

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -4.951 words

The soft hum of a movie played in the background, the dialogue nearly drowned out by the loud rustling of snack wrappers. Ranpo's living room was exactly what you expected: cluttered, chaotic, very Ranpo. Manga stacked unevenly on the floor, detective novels poking out from under the kotatsu, half a dozen empty candy wrappers scattered like fallen leaves. And in the middle of it all—Ranpo, sitting crisscross on the floor, happily munching on a bag of caramel popcorn like it was oxygen itself.

You sat next to him, leaned against the slightly lumpy couch, legs tucked under yourself, balancing an open bag of gummies on your knee.

"Okay," you said, pointing dramatically at the TV, "plot hole number fifteen—why would anyone go into a creepy abandoned house at night just to get a stupid necklace? Who does that?"

Ranpo didn't even glance at the screen. "Idiots," he answered through a mouthful of popcorn, crumbs on the corner of his mouth. "Besides, I would've solved the whole thing in five minutes. Tops."

"You say that like you wouldn't just nap in the corner until someone brought you snacks."

"Wrong." He stuck a finger up smugly, "I'd nap after solving the mystery. With snacks on me. Obviously."

You snorted, flopping dramatically sideways across the couch, head hanging over the edge. "Of course. How silly of me to forget your advanced detective strategy: solve crime, nap, eat sweets."

"See? You are learning."

A gummi bear bounced off his forehead before plopping into his lap.

Ranpo blinked down at it, then slowly looked at you with the flattest expression imaginable. "Assault. With sugar. How dare you."

You burst into laughter as he picked up the candy and immediately ate it with an exaggerated crunch.

It was comfortable like this—half talking nonsense, half watching the movie, mostly ignoring the plot in favor of making fun of the characters. Every so often, you'd toss a snack his way, and Ranpo, being Ranpo, caught most of them with almost offensively perfect reflexes.

Eventually, the movie became just background noise, replaced by random conversations about childhood games, favorite candies, weird dreams, and how Ranpo swore up and down that he once solved a case in his sleep. (You're still not sure if he was serious.)

By the time midnight rolled around, Ranpo finally stretched his arms over his head, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Alright. Detective genius needs his beauty sleep."

"You have beauty?" you teased, grinning at him over your shoulder.

"Excuse you, I am an icon of intellectual and physical beauty. Just ask anyone. Even Dazai's jealous."

"Dazai's not jealous—Dazai's unhinged."

"Exactly."

He stood up and disappeared for a moment into the back room, returning with two futons under his arms. He dropped them on the floor next to the couch, one right next to the other, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Got an extra. Obviously. Detective planning skills," he said with a wink.

"You knew I'd crash here?" you asked, raising a brow.

"Of course. I deduced it." He tapped the side of his head. "Genius, remember?"

"Right, right…" you grinned. "Thanks, Ranpo."

The casual thanks was enough to make his confident smirk falter just for a second, a faint pink creeping onto his cheeks, though he quickly masked it with a yawn.

"Whatever. Just don't snore."

"Don't drool."

"Never."

The playful banter dwindled as the futons were unrolled, pillows plopped into place, lights turned low. The last thing you remembered before your eyelids got too heavy was Ranpo settling down in his futon beside you, munching on one last piece of chocolate.

"G'night, Y/N," he mumbled softly, voice drifting lazily into the quiet.

"Night, Ranpo…"

Neither of you knew yet that Ranpo's night of peaceful sleep was about to be completely obliterated.

The apartment was quiet now, save for the occasional crinkle of a snack wrapper shifting when the night breeze from the open window drifted by.

Ranpo was already dozing, one arm lazily flopped across his pillow, his breathing soft and steady. For once, his sharp mind wasn't racing to solve mysteries or clever schemes—it was just still. Peaceful.

Or at least, it was peaceful.

At first, it was subtle. The faint rustle of fabric. A soft sigh. Barely noticeable.

Then—shuffle. A soft weight brushing against his side.

Ranpo blinked awake groggily, brain still fogged with sleep. Huh? He glanced sideways.

You were closer now. Still completely out, your breathing even, face relaxed in the soft glow of the streetlamp in front of the window. Your futon had become…more of a suggestion than a boundary. Somehow, without even noticing, you had gradually migrated toward him in your sleep like a heat-seeking missile. Your hand was now brushing against his arm.

He froze.

"…………….."

Another soft shift, another rustle of blankets—and then it happened. Your arms wrapped around his torso, face pressing gently against his shoulder like he was the world's warmest, softest pillow.

Like a koala latching onto a tree.

Ranpo didn't move. Couldn't move. 

Brain: error.

His eyes were wide open now, pupils dilated like someone had just whispered the answer to a world-class riddle in his ear.

Wha—what—? Why?? Are they—?? What's happening???

His genius-level deduction skills? Gone. Vanished. Useless.

Mystery: unsolvable.

His thoughts were racing, but his brain was simultaneously short-circuiting: okay okay okay THINK, Ranpo. What's the protocol for this?? What chapter of the detective handbook covers accidental midnight cuddling? Wait. WHY don't I have a handbook for this???

Your breath was warm against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the steady, gentle rise and fall of your chest against his side. You mumbled something incoherent in your sleep, brow twitching slightly, nose brushing against the crook of his neck like you were getting comfortable.

That was it.

Critical hit.

Ranpo.exe has stopped responding.

His face flushed such a violent shade of red that it was honestly impressive. Bright scarlet, ears burning, lips slightly parted in stunned silence.

And he stayed like that. Stiff as a statue. Arms hovering awkwardly midair, unsure if he should move, return the hug, or just ascend to another plane of existence entirely.

Normally, he'd be smug. Teasing. He'd call you clingy or make some ridiculous flirty comment.

But now?

Ranpo, self-proclaimed greatest detective, reduced to one malfunctioning idiot by unconscious cuddling.

Seconds ticked by.

Minutes.

Your grip only seemed to tighten slightly, a small, happy sigh leaving your lips like this was exactly where you belonged.

And Ranpo?

He remained frozen, staring at the ceiling, red-faced, suffering in silence, wondering if he would ever recover from this. Probably not.

"…I'm gonna die here," he whispered, too quietly for you to hear.

And maybe…maybe that wasn't the worst way to go.

The first soft glow of dawn was beginning to creep in through the half-closed curtains, painting Ranpo's cluttered living room in muted hues of pale orange and soft gray. Dust motes floated lazily in the early morning light, dancing above stacks of books and unopened snack bags.

Ranpo stirred, his eyelashes fluttering slightly before his eyes cracked open.

For a moment, he didn't remember why his back felt weirdly tense or why his heart felt like it had been running a marathon in his chest all night. Then the events of a few hours ago crashed back into him like a stack of unopened case files.

The cuddling.

Right.

His breath caught.

But when he glanced to the side—

You were gone. Well, not gone—just back on your own futon, on the opposite end like a respectable, polite, definitely-not-cuddling person. You lay curled up under your blanket, your face soft with sleep, completely unaware of the war Ranpo had been waging inside his head for hours.

And him?

Flat on his back, hair messy, pillow half off the futon, one sock missing (when did that happen?), and a blanket half kicked off.

A normal person would have been relieved.

Ranpo let out a quiet breath, closing his eyes again for a second. Good. Great. Perfect. This is what I wanted. That was unbearable anyway, all that heat. No sane person could sleep like that, glued to someone else. Right?

Right?

Then why…

Why was his chest feeling kind of…empty now?

Why did the cool air around him feel wrong?

And why—WHY—did he miss the press of your body against his, the steady warmth, that absent-minded way you'd sighed into his shoulder like you were safe with him?

Ranpo furrowed his brows, annoyed—not at you, but at himself. What the hell's wrong with me? he thought bitterly. Since when do I care about things like—

He stopped.

Had he ever…cuddled someone before? Like that? Properly? Warm, tangled limbs, soft breathing, innocent closeness—not just casual shoulder-bumps on the couch or lazy sprawls at the Agency?

…No. No, he hadn't.

He'd always teased people, always been the one poking fun, leaning over desks with that smug, catlike grin. But real closeness? Comfort? That wasn't something Ranpo Edogawa knew how to handle. And now, one accidental cuddle, and suddenly his brain was flipping through imaginary manuals trying to find a chapter on what-the-hell-to-do-when-you-want-to-be-cuddled-again.

Pathetic.

A faint flush crept over his cheeks again, and he buried his face halfway in his blanket to try and hide it from no one in particular.

And then—

"Mm… morning…"

Your sleepy voice broke the silence, soft and thick with drowsiness as you sat up, stretching your arms above your head with a little groan. Hair messy, eyes squinted, you looked over at him and gave a lazy smile. "Did you sleep okay?"

Ranpo flinched slightly, snapping his gaze away and shoving his face harder into his blanket like a turtle retreating into its shell.

"Y-yeah. Fine. Obviously. Why wouldn't I?"

"Okay," you said with a yawn, completely buying it, completely missing the way his ears were bright pink. "Cool. Do you have tea or something? I think I'm crashing from all the sugar."

"Yeah—kitchen. Whatever."

You dragged yourself up with another groan, trudging toward the kitchen like a zombie, leaving Ranpo still curled up in emotional confusion on his futon.

His heart was still racing.

This is stupid. I'm stupid. They're stupid. Why do they smell so good in the morning—NOPE, abort, brain, shut up—

He peeked over the edge of his blanket again, watching you shuffle around his messy kitchen in his oversized slippers, completely unaware of the storm you'd accidentally unleashed in the mind of the greatest detective in Yokohama.

And for the first time in a very, very long time… Ranpo didn't want to solve this mystery.

He just wanted to feel it again.

By the time both of you had finished with tea, the apartment looked slightly less like a snack crime scene. Slightly. You had pulled your spare clothes from your overnight bag—a clean, crisp outfit.

You were standing near his full-length mirror now, adjusting the knot of your own tie with practiced ease, focused, sharp, the picture of casual confidence.

Meanwhile…

Ranpo sat on the floor behind you, legs crossed, fumbling awkwardly with his own tie, brow furrowed, mouth pulled into a tense line.

Normally, tying it was annoying but manageable. But today?

Nope. No good. Total garbage. His fingers weren't cooperating. The tie twisted the wrong way, then slipped through the knot completely wrong, ending in a sad, floppy mess against his shirt. Again.

It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that his brain was still doing barrel rolls from earlier. Definitely.

You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch him glaring at the offending piece of fabric like it had personally committed treason.

A grin tugged at your lips. "What's wrong, Detective? Crashed from the sugar high already?"

His eye twitched. "No."

You snickered. "Sure. Looks like your hands are shaking."

"They're not shaking," Ranpo muttered defensively, tugging at the tie again, somehow only making it worse. "It's defective. I'm being sabotaged."

You let out a soft laugh, stepping away from the mirror and brushing imaginary dust off your shirt. "I knew it. The Great Edogawa Ranpo, brought down by breakfast pastries."

His retort was halfway out of his mouth when you did something he wasn't prepared for at all—

You knelt down right in front of him. Close. Closer than before. Practically between his knees. The warmth of your body hit him first, then the faint scent of your shampoo, then the light brush of your fingers against his shirt collar as you lifted the tie gently from his hands.

"I got it. Hold still."

Ranpo stopped breathing.

He physically stopped. His entire body stiffened like you'd hit him with a tranquilizer dart. The heat of you kneeling there, hands moving smoothly to fix his ridiculous tie mess like it was nothing—it was too much.

His brain short-circuited all over again.

They're close—they're REALLY close—why are they this close?? Hands. Touching me. I should be making some dumb joke right now. Why can't I think?? ERROR. ERROR. ERROR—

Meanwhile, you were utterly oblivious to his meltdown, focused entirely on making the knot symmetrical, neat, sharp.

"There," you murmured softly, brushing the fabric flat against his chest. "Perfect."

Perfect.

Great. Wonderful. Now Ranpo was ninety percent tie, ten percent sentient embarrassment.

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes—those bright green eyes now wide, almost glassy, with an unreadable expression on his face. His mouth was slightly parted like he wanted to say something but forgot how speaking worked.

"…What?" you asked with a laugh. "It's just a tie."

Just a tie.

Right.

"R-right," he croaked, voice cracking like a teenager. "Tie. Sure."

You stood, patting him on the shoulder lightly as you moved back toward your bag to finish getting ready. "You're acting weird. Must be the sugar crash."

Ranpo sat there, still kneeling, staring blankly at your retreating form, utterly betrayed by his own nervous system.

He tugged absently at the knot you'd just tied. Perfect. Of course it was.

And the worst part?

He could still feel the ghost of your fingers on his collar, soft and careful and way too nice.

He was doomed.

The Agency was unusually lively that morning. Yosano humming softly while sharpening scalpels she definitely didn't need right now. Kunikida furiously scribbling in his notebook about order and structure, none of which anyone was following. Atsushi avoiding eye contact with helpless Junichiro, who was currently being latched onto by his sister, her arms around him in a dramatic display of (weird) sibling affection that left everyone—including the orange-haired man himself—deeply uncomfortable.

And Dazai?

Dazai was watching.

More specifically—Dazai was watching Ranpo.

To the untrained eye, Ranpo looked as he always did: slouched in his chair, lollipop tucked lazily between his lips, wearing that usual cocky half-lidded expression like he owned the place.

But to Dazai's eyes? Oh, this was gold. There was a subtle stiffness in Ranpo's posture, the rare flush still barely present on his cheeks that had nothing to do with heat or embarrassment over snacks. His tie, for once, was actually tied properly, but Ranpo kept fidgeting with it, tugging at the fabric like it had personally offended him.

And then there was you—sitting at your desk, rolling a pen between your fingers, utterly unaware of the way Ranpo's eyes kept accidentally sliding your way before snapping back like he'd been caught stealing candy.

Dazai's lips curved into a slow, wicked grin.

Oh yeah. Something happened.

And, being the absolute menace he was, Dazai wasn't about to let that go unchecked.

He leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh, tearing a scrap piece of paper from the corner of Kunikida's notebook ("Dazai, don't you dare—" rip), scrunched it into a tight little ball, and took aim like a sniper.

Fwip—thunk.

Direct hit. Right on Ranpo's hat.

"Oi—!" Ranpo shook his head, twisting around. His expression was more irritated than confused, but Dazai just gave him an innocent smile.

"Must've been the wind," he mused, resting his chin on his palm.

Ranpo narrowed his eyes, about two seconds away from launching an office supply at him when—

"Hey, hold still a sec."

You were already moving, standing and stepping over toward Ranpo, brushing crumbs from your lap as you approached.

And then—

You leaned down.

The scrap of paper stuck gently in Ranpo's brown hat, tangled with a few loose threads. Your hand came up, brushing over it softly to retrieve it. Absentminded. Casual. No big deal.

Except it was a big deal. To Ranpo, it was catastrophic.

Critical hit. Weakness: affection.

His whole body locked up as your fingertips ghosted along his hat before plucking the paper away. Your face was right there, close enough that he could smell your shampoo again, see the faint warmth in your eyes.

You were completely, blissfully unaware of how close you were.

Ranpo, on the other hand, was experiencing internal combustion.

His ears burned scarlet. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair like his life depended on it. His brain screamed in three different languages, none of them coherent.

Steam. Actual steam, if the laws of anime physics applied here, might've been curling out of his ears by now.

"Got it," you said cheerfully, holding up the offending paper ball, totally oblivious. "Looks like someone's making a mess again."

Ranpo could barely make a noise beyond a strangled "Mm—" sound in response.

Dazai watched the whole thing like a spectator at a fireworks show, chin in hand, delight practically radiating off him. He twirled another piece of paper between his fingers, wondering just how much further he could push this.

Oh wait, he didn't have to wonder. He would push it.

And then he moved.

Before you could walk back to your desk, Dazai appeared beside you, draping himself over your shoulder like a bored cat, his chin resting dramatically near your neck, breath exaggeratedly close.

"I'm so bored," he drawled, eyes half-lidded with faux sadness. "Won't you entertain me, Y/N? Surely you won't let me die of boredom here, will you?"

Your eye twitched. "Dazai…"

You knew this game.

Ranpo knew this game too.

The glare Ranpo shot Dazai could have ignited pure flame. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was murderous. If looks could kill, Dazai would've been ashes on the carpet by now.

But of course, Dazai only smiled more sweetly.

Interesting.

Now this was getting fun.

And poor Ranpo? Sitting there, fists clenched in his lap, trying desperately not to combust in the middle of the office. He wanted to shout, Get off! That's MY personal space they're supposed to be invading!

But no words came. Just a dark, dangerous glint in his green eyes.

Dazai winked at Ranpo behind your back.

Evening came, bringing with it the soft orange glow of sunset spilling through the office windows. One by one, the Agency members filtered out, stretching tired limbs, gathering coats and bags, ready to call it a day.

You were one of the first to leave, waving cheerfully at everyone as you slung your bag over your shoulder. "See you tomorrow!"

Ranpo didn't even look at you as you left. Not because he didn't want to—but because if he did, he was sure the heat in his cheeks would've given him away immediately. Instead, he stayed slouched dramatically in his chair, spinning idly in slow, sulking rotations.

And of course, because the universe hates him, Dazai stayed behind too.

It didn't take long before they were the only two left.

Silence.

Ranpo sat with his arms crossed, still fiddling with the tie you had fixed for him earlier, scowling like a kicked cat.

Dazai, leaning back lazily on one of the desks, finally broke the silence. "Soooooo…"

Ranpo glared at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

Dazai's grin was slow, shark-like. "Something you wanna tell me about Y/N?"

Ranpo's jaw clenched. "Tch."

"Oho~ That's a yes, isn't it?" Dazai chuckled. "Come on, Ranpo—what's this all about? You've been acting strange ever since you two walked in this morning. Blushing. Fidgeting. Practically malfunctioning when they leaned in close."

Ranpo kicked at the floor with the heel of his shoe, spinning his chair half a rotation away, arms crossed even tighter now. "Wasn't even a thing."

Dazai's brow rose. "Really? Because it looked like a thing."

Ranpo grumbled something under his breath. Too soft to hear.

"What was that?"

"—Only cuddling…" Ranpo finally muttered, cheeks burning pink again, scowl deepening. "That's all. They were just cuddling me."

Dazai blinked. "…Cuddling?"

"In their sleep, okay?! They didn't even know. It's not like—I didn't ask for it—they were just—" He gave up on explaining with a helpless gesture, slumping lower into his chair like gravity itself was bullying him. "Forget it."

Dazai blinked again, then smiled slowly. "Awww. So that's why you've been pouting all day."

"I'm not pouting."

"You're absolutely pouting."

Ranpo shot him a sharp glare, the flush creeping back into his ears. His next words came out in a stubborn whine:

"They're only allowed to cuddle me."

That silenced Dazai for a beat.

Ranpo wasn't even sure why he said it. It just came out—like a petulant child hoarding their favorite toy, except the "toy" was you and the possessiveness was a little too raw, a little too real.

"They're mine. Not yours."

Dazai blinked, then leaned back with a soft, surprised laugh—not mocking, not teasing this time, but genuinely amused.

"Well, well… interesting."

Ranpo didn't respond. He just sat there, sulking, sulking harder, cheeks hot, ears red, glaring furiously at his knees like they'd betrayed him too.

Possessive. Touch-starved. Completely lost and hating how vulnerable he felt.

But one thing was clear: the idea of you being close to someone else? Especially someone like Dazai?

Unacceptable.

Only him.

Ranpo should have been asleep by now.

Normally, he was the type to pass out the moment his head hit the pillow—or futon, in this case—with a stomach full of sweets and a mind smugly satisfied from solving unsolvable cases.

But not tonight.

He was awake. Wide awake.

Laying flat on his back, arms sprawled out, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. His cape was thrown haphazardly across the room, his beloved hat tossed nearby. He was practically kicking his legs like a restless cat, sheets rumpled in frustration.

And the worst part?

It wasn't because he wasn't tired. He was. He wanted to sleep.

But something was missing.

Something infuriatingly warm and soft that clung to him like a damn koala.

You.

Ranpo rolled onto his side, huffing loudly, cheeks flushed in frustration—not embarrassment, no, definitely not embarrassment.

"This is stupid," he muttered into his pillow. "I don't need that. I don't need them here."

And yet—he shifted again, curling around nothing, arms awkwardly hugging a pillow that was too flat and too cold and smelled wrong.

His scowl deepened.

He'd always liked sleeping alone. Space. Freedom. Comfort.

But now? After one night of you unconsciously pressing up against him like it was your life source?

Now he felt cold.

"This is your fault," he grumbled under his breath, voice tight and petulant, cheeks growing warmer. "All your fault…"

How dare you, waltzing into his life with your random kindness and warmth and stupid sleepy clinging. What gave you the right to just rewire his entire sleep pattern with one unconscious cuddle?

He sat up sharply.

No. Nope. Not happening. This was unacceptable.

Five more minutes of glaring at the wall, and then—

The cape was thrown over his shoulders with a dramatic flourish. The hat was jammed onto his messy hair.

He stomped toward the door, socks thumping against the floor.

What was he going to do when he got to your place? He didn't know.

Was he going to yell at you for breaking him? Maybe.

Was he going to make you fix it? Definitely.

Thudding through the dim streets, his mood only worsened by every step. The cool night air did nothing to soothe his simmering frustration.

Before he could fully think it through, Ranpo was already standing in front of your door, fist raised, banging against it with unreasonable force for someone showing up uninvited past midnight.

"Y/N!" he hissed sharply through clenched teeth, cheeks flushed with a dangerous combination of anger and mortification. "Wake up!"

Another few loud knocks. He didn't care if he looked crazy. You had done this to him, and now you were going to deal with it.

"Open up! I can't sleep without—!"

He cut himself off, lips snapping shut, teeth clenched. No way was he going to say it.

But the damage was done. His heart was racing, his cheeks practically glowing, and he was glaring at your door like it personally owed him an apology.

What was he supposed to do now?

A beat later, the door creaked open, and there you were—hair a mess, blanket slipping off one shoulder, eyes sleepy and confused, like a cat someone woke up from a nap too soon.

Ranpo froze for a second. You looked… soft like that. Warm. Sleepy. Way too inviting for his sanity.

"…Ranpo?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Am I dreaming…?"

"Tch." His scowl deepened immediately, defensive. "No. You're awake. I'm awake. All because of you."

You stared at him, eyes bleary, expression not matching the chaos in his chest at all.

"…What?"

"This is your fault," he snapped, as if you had dragged him here against his will. "I can't sleep."

You blinked slowly. "…Okay?"

Ranpo huffed, eyes darting to the side in frustration, refusing to meet your gaze. "I can't sleep. Because of your stupid cuddling. You're a menace. You ruined everything. You did something to me. My whole system's broken now. I hope you're happy."

Saying it out loud made his ears burn. He hated it. Hated that he sounded like some whiny kid complaining about their toy being taken. Hated that the moment you stopped pressing against him, his whole body felt wrong in a way he didn't know how to describe.

You just… yawned. Like you'd heard this complaint a thousand times before. "So… you can't sleep because I cuddled you…?"

"Obviously!" he barked, frustrated, cheeks pink. Why weren't you taking this seriously?

Another shrug. Another yawn. "Then come to bed."

Ranpo blinked. "What?"

"Come to bed. Cuddle me if you want."

And just like that, you turned around—like it was nothing—and wandered back to your bed, crawling under the blanket, leaving the door wide open behind you.

Ranpo stood there in the doorway, utterly, completely fried.

His brain—brilliant detective that it was—did not know what to do with this. He had cracked murders. Solved crimes no one else could even begin to understand. But this?

Your sleepy voice, your messy hair, the soft sound of blankets rustling as you burrowed back into warmth… offering him a place there too—

No. Nope. Unfair. Illegal, even.

"This is all your fault," he muttered one last time, voice quieter now, almost sulky, as if repeating it would somehow fix whatever catastrophic emotional failure was happening in his chest.

And yet—

His feet betrayed him.

He stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him, and padded after you like a grumpy, overgrown cat.

What had you done to him?

He stood next to your bed like a criminal caught red-handed, cape still around his shoulders, hat slightly askew. You were already curled up on one side, blanket pulled messily over yourself, clearly waiting for him like it was the most normal thing in the world to invite someone over for emergency cuddling.

Ranpo clenched his jaw, fighting the burning in his ears. Fine. Whatever. He was here now.

With all the grace of a man facing execution, he lowered himself onto the bed beside you. Stiff. Straight as a board. Not touching you. Not breathing. Muscles locked, like a plank of human frustration.

This was fine. He could do this. Totally normal. This was normal.

Then you sighed.

"…You're so tense it's making me stressed," you muttered, half into your pillow, voice raspy with sleep. "C'mere."

Before he could argue, you moved—scooting closer like a sleepy, determined animal on a mission, reaching out—

And latched onto him.

Just like last night.

One arm flopped lazily over his chest. A leg hooked lightly around his. Your face pressed warm into the crook of his neck, the tickle of your breath making his pulse spike like he'd just been pushed off a building.

His entire body locked up, eyes wide, mouth dry, thoughts scattering like marbles across a tile floor.

You sighed again. But this time it was soft, content. Like being pressed up against him was exactly where you wanted to be.

Ranpo wanted to die.

He also wanted to never move again.

His hands twitched, unsure of what to do with themselves. He should probably move. Probably make some smug comment. Probably breathe—

And yet… warmth started creeping up through his limbs, fatigue creeping in behind it, dragging him down like slow-moving syrup.

Maybe he could sleep like this. Maybe this wasn't completely terrible. Actually, his eyes were already drooping—

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

Just before he drifted off, your sleepy voice murmured, amused, barely audible against his throat:

"…Did you really just walk all this way in your socks just to demand cuddles?"

Ranpo's eye twitched.

"Shut up."

Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

AIB Characters react to them only listening to Reader

A/N: I got this request a few times, so I didn't want to link it only to one of the requests. So I hope everyone who requested it sees this post then!

content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, 3.123 words

Ann

The Beach was alive again tonight. Bodies pressed together around bonfires, laughter edged with desperation, the thin layer of civilization they all pretended to cling to. And yet, in the chaos, Ann found you — like always.

You were sitting at the edge of the second-floor balcony, away from the music, nursing a half-empty glass of some cheap liquor. From down below, you could hear Hatter barking orders at someone, Aguni looming by his side like a loaded gun waiting for an excuse.

Ann should have been listening to whatever was going on there.

Instead, she was here.

She sat down on the couch next to you, suppressing a grin as she saw how you beamed happily at her.

"Can I try?" you asked, pointing to her glass, making her nod as she offered it to you without hesitation.

"Sure."

"Thank you!" You held out your glass for her as well, causing her to lean forward and take a sip through your straw.

"You don't like that one?" you asked quietly, watching the way her jaw shifted as she swallowed. The slightest crinkle of her nose betrayed her opinion before she said anything.

"It's fine."

You smiled faintly. "There's better stuff in the storage. Want to take a walk with me?"

Her fingers curled lightly around your wrist. "Yeah."

No hesitation.

People noticed. Of course they noticed. It was hard not to. Ann barely tolerated most of the people here. Even those she worked with didn't get more than the required minimum of interaction. And yet when you so much as thought something, she was already acting like it was her idea.

"Oi," someone muttered from the far end of the room. "How come she listens to you and not the rest of us?"

Ann heard it. She just didn't care. If it wasn't you talking, it wasn't important.

Later, after walking aimlessly through the halls of the Beach, she followed you to your shared room. She stood guard by the door while you rifled through an old backpack of supplies.

"You don't have to do that," you said, softer now. "I'm safe with you here."

Her eyes flicked to you, like she was making sure you meant that. She didn't say it, but the look was enough: You're safe because I'm here.

After a beat, you sighed, rubbing your eyes. "I'm tired."

Immediately, she peeled off her jacket and boots, crossing the room to sit at your side. Not close enough to suffocate you — close enough to touch, if you wanted. She never demanded it. She just offered herself, quiet and steady like the ocean outside.

"Let's go to bed," she said simply. "You'll feel better after."

That was the thing: Ann took orders from no one. Hatters orders, yes, under duress — the threat of being branded a traitor hung over them all. But when it came to you? She didn't just listen. She wanted to.

And when you finally reached for her — hand sliding along her waist as you both curled into the thin mattress, blankets tangled and warm — she settled instantly.

No words needed.

She followed you. Always had. Always would.

Kuina

The sun was low, casting golden streaks across the cracked tiles of the Beach pool. Kuina sat on the edge, sleeves rolled up, legs dangling in the water lazily. Next to her, sprawled in his usual lazy, foxlike way, was Chishiya — hoodie on, expression unreadable, playing with a coin between his fingers.

"You hungry?" he asked finally, bored but curious, like it was a casual test of her motivation.

"Later," Kuina sighed, stretching her arms overhead. "The line's probably long. And I'm comfortable."

Chishiya hummed like he expected that answer, flipping the coin in his hand again. "Of course you are."

He didn't push. That wasn't his style. If it didn't concern survival, plans, or immediate benefit, he didn't care enough to push. And Kuina? She wasn't going to move for anyone unless it was critical.

Or so it seemed.

Footsteps padded softly across the tile. It was you — towel draped around your shoulders, hair slightly damp from the pool. You walked over, blinking against the sun.

"Hey," you said, smiling at both of them, but your eyes lingered on Kuina like they always did. "I was thinking of heading to the kitchen. Wanna come?"

Before Chishiya could even flip his coin again, Kuina was already on her feet, water droplets flicking off her skin as she stood up like someone had just turned her on.

"Yeah," she said immediately. "Let's go."

Chishiya blinked. Once. Slowly. He glanced at Kuina, then at you, then flipped his coin into the air and caught it again with a lazy precision.

"Mm," he muttered, gaze sharp but voice flat, "I see how it is."

You glanced between them, slightly confused. "What?"

Kuina was already walking beside you, brushing your hand with hers like she was asking if it was okay to hold it — barely containing the usual casual swagger that came with her movements. "What?" she echoed, glancing back at Chishiya with a raised eyebrow, all innocence.

Chishiya sighed, stretching like a bored cat, eyes flicking up under his lashes. "Asked you the same thing two minutes ago."

"And I answered," Kuina shot back, grinning now, unbothered. "Didn't feel like it then."

"But now you do."

"Exactly."

He huffed — a sharp, short breath through his nose. Not quite irritation, not quite amusement. Just noted.

Kuina smirked, tugging you forward playfully. "Told you. You're the exception."

Chishiya didn't bother standing. He just leaned his head back against the chair, eyes closed like the whole conversation was beneath him. "Disgusting."

You tried to hide your laugh behind your hand.

Kuina didn't bother hiding hers at all.

Mira

The Beach was a place of lies, and Mira acted like she was above it all.

Everyone followed someone here. Hatter, mostly — his vision of a twisted utopia fueled by delusion and desperation. People schemed, postured, whispered behind closed doors, all pretending they weren't pawns waiting to be sacrificed.

But Mira didn't scheme to survive.

She played.

Her favorite game lately? You.

You weren't like the others. You didn't push or posture. You didn't beg for favor or try to unravel the mystery behind her ever-present smile.

Which made you… interesting.

Tonight, you were in the common room, curled up on one of the absurdly plush sofas someone had dragged in weeks ago. A quiet buzz of laughter and conversation filled the space, but all of it blurred into background noise the second Mira stepped into view.

She drifted to you like a silk ribbon caught on the breeze, a glass of something sparkling balanced delicately between two fingers. Sitting beside you, she crossed her legs elegantly, every movement choreographed like a performance only you were meant to watch.

"I'm so terribly bored," she purred softly, swirling the drink lazily. "Aren't you?"

You glanced at her sideways, smiling slightly. "We could go upstairs, get away from this crowd."

Mira's lips curled, amused.

It wasn't a command. It wasn't even a request. It was a suggestion. And that was the trick of it.

She allowed you to say it. And she allowed herself to follow.

"Mm. What a lovely idea." Her voice dripped with condescension and delight in equal measure. "I was thinking the very same thing."

She stood, slow and deliberate, as if deciding whether or not to humor your whims. Of course, she already had the answer. She wanted to. That's why she let you offer it first — it made the entire game so much sweeter.

A couple of people nearby glanced in your direction, some wary, others curious. Mira, taking suggestions? Doing what someone else said? Impossible.

But Mira only smiled wider when she saw them noticing.

Poor things. They thought they understood power.

As she offered you her free hand, she leaned close enough that only you could hear the whisper:

"You make such wonderful suggestions. Almost like you think you're in control."

Almost.

But you both knew the truth: it was a shared game of power, wrapped in silk and sharp teeth, and the fact that she listened — or rather, let you believe she listened — was the highest compliment she could offer anyone in this place.

"As you wish," she whispered.

Her hand was warm. Her eyes glittered.

The game continued.

Aguni

Aguni was a storm in still water. Always silent, always on edge, as if every breath was being held for a fight that hadn't started yet. He followed Hatter, sure, but even that wasn't obedience. It was tolerance. Barely.

People around here were used to Aguni hesitating, challenging, questioning, resisting — always a wall that refused to bend.

So it caught people off guard, every single time, when it came to you.

Like now, for example.

The Beach was humming with another one of Hatter's ridiculous speeches, people gathered near the center like moths to a dying flame. You stood off to the side, arms folded loosely, eyes flicking over the crowd with vague disinterest.

Aguni stood behind Hatter, arms crossed, looming like judgment itself.

But when you glanced his way, it was like the tension in his shoulders shifted.

You waited until the noise of the speech softened behind you before you approached. You didn't bark orders. Didn't even whisper commands. You just stood near him, close enough that he noticed, but not close enough to push.

"Come with me?" you asked softly, eyes steady. "I need a break from this circus."

That was it.

No manipulation. No sweet-talking. No expectation.

Just you, asking.

Without hesitation — without that usual pause, that calculated resistance he gave everyone else — he pushed off the wall, boots heavy on the tile, and followed.

No one could believe it. He didn't even glance at Hatter for permission.

"Where the hell's he going?" someone muttered near the door.

Aguni ignored them like they didn't exist. To him, they didn't.

Because it was you asking. And you weren't asking for power or plans or violence. You were just asking for him.

The two of you ended up in one of the quieter hallways, where old posters clung desperately to cracked walls. You stopped near a window, letting the faintest breeze cut through the heat.

Aguni stood nearby, close enough that his presence felt like a fortress around you.

"You don't have to follow me everywhere if you don't want to, you know," you said eventually, giving him a sidelong glance, a small smile teasing the corner of your mouth.

His eyes didn't waver. "I know."

"Then why?"

He shrugged. "You asked."

Simple. Final. True.

That was the thing with Aguni: the world could burn, alliances could shatter, Hatter's empire could fall apart—but if you asked, he would come with you. No hesitation. No fight for control.

It wasn't weakness. It was choice.

For you, he chose to listen.

Always.

Niragi

The Beach was loud again — laughter a little too sharp, music turned up a little too high, the faint scent of sweat and smoke clinging to everything.

And there was Niragi, leaning back in a chair like he owned the entire place, rifle propped lazily across his lap, boots kicked up, sunglasses pushed into his messy hair.

A predator at rest. Dangerous. Untouchable.

People steered around him like they could feel the temperature rising near him. Except for you.

You walked over without hesitation, barefoot, soft steps on tile, head tilted with that curious look you always gave him. Not like you were afraid. Like you were studying him. Niragi hated being studied.

Except when you did it.

"Bored already?" you asked, settling into the seat across from him like you had every right to.

He smirked, sharp and mean on the surface but with something slower curling underneath it. "Of this?" He gestured lazily to the party. "It's pathetic."

You glanced at the doors leading out to the garden, away from the noise, where the air might be cooler. "We could go out there. Get away from all this."

He chuckled, head tipping back, the sharp edge of teeth flashing in the light. "We could, huh?"

"I'm just saying," you added lightly. No pressure. Just suggestion. Soft, sweet, nonchalant.

And that's what made it fun.

Niragi shifted forward, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thunk, rifle slung lazily over his shoulder as he stood, slow and casual.

"You think you can just tell me what to do?" he teased, coming to stand over you, all sharp angles and heat, leaning in close enough that his breath ghosted your skin. "You think I'm gonna follow you around like a dog?"

You looked up at him calmly, unbothered, letting your lashes lower just slightly, the barest smile playing at your lips. "No," you murmured. "I know you don't have to. Just thought you might want to."

God, that was the thing, wasn't it? That voice, soft like silk, all innocence wrapped around something sharp and knowing.

He could say no. He could, really. And sometimes he told himself he might, just to remind himself he could. Just to keep the upper hand.

But he never did.

"Tch," he clicked his tongue, stepping back with a lazy stretch. "Only 'cause I feel like it."

Of course.

You stood, brushing past him, and he followed. Always followed.

People noticed. Of course they did. Aguni clocked it silently from across the room with one glance, one sharp tilt of his head, but said nothing. Mira's smile flickered, knowing and poisonous.

Niragi didn't care.

You didn't command him. You asked. Sweetly. And it made him want to give you what you wanted. He could take control back any time, he told himself.

Any time.

Just… not right now.

Last Boss

The Beach could be deafening sometimes—not just the music, but the constant buzz of human desperation beneath it. Everyone wanted something here. Power. Control. Safety. Survival.

And then there was Last Boss—silent, strange, drifting like smoke through the rooms with that katana slung over his shoulder and that quiet, unnerving smile on his lips. People stayed out of his way. They didn't talk to him unless they had to. Even Niragi, for all his mouth and violence, left him to his own rhythms most of the time.

Except you.

You didn't avoid him. You didn't flinch when he passed. And most of all, you spoke to him like he was a person, not a weapon.

It was starting to get noticed.

Like today—mid-afternoon heat rolling over the broken glass windows of the Beach, people scattered around like lazy predators waiting for someone else to bleed first.

You spotted Last Boss near one of the pillars, leaning back, blade balanced behind his neck, the strap hanging loosely across his shoulders. Watching. Always watching.

"Hey," you called softly, walking over with your usual calm step. "I can't reach one of the cups at the bar. Want to help me?"

That's it. No command. Just a request. Like you could've asked anyone. But you hadn't. You'd asked him.

His head tilted, an unreadable little grin curling faintly at the corner of his mouth. He didn't even answer.

He just moved.

Past other Beach members. Past wide eyes and whispered mutters. One hand on his katana's sheath, the other casually lifting a cup off the too-high shelf for you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He handed it to you with deliberate care, fingers brushing yours, dark eyes focused on only you.

"Thanks," you smiled at him like you'd won the lottery, like it was more than just plastic and empty drinks and cracked tile beneath your feet.

He nodded once, barely perceptible, as if speaking would break something between you both.

Niragi, lounging nearby in a half-drunken sprawl, squinted at the interaction. "Huh," he muttered around a lazy smirk, licking his teeth like a wolf sniffing something new. "Didn't think you liked helping people, Last Boss."

Last Boss didn't answer.

Didn't have to.

It wasn't about helping people. It was about you.

He didn't follow anyone's orders here, not really—not even Hatter's. Aguni gave him direction sometimes. Niragi dragged him into violence on wild nights.

But you asked.

And he listened.

No blade. No threat. No transaction.

Just you, soft and alive in a place full of rot, asking for something ordinary like his help reaching a drink. And to him, it was everything.

Chishiya

"Come with me?"

Two words. Soft, not desperate, not demanding.

You were standing by the pool's edge, sunlight cutting off the water in sharp, glassy ripples, reflecting light onto your skin. Chishiya looked up from his relaxed sprawl on the chair nearby, one knee hooked over the other, his hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to show forearms that didn't look as soft as his face made them seem.

"Seriously?" His voice, as always, dry and unimpressed. "Is this the part where you drag me off for some sentimental nonsense, or should I be expecting actual murder?"

"Neither," you replied, smiling slightly, used to his tone by now. "I just wanted to get a drink. You don't have to come."

That's the thing—you never said it like an order. Not like Hatter. Not like Aguni. Not like everyone else scrambling for some kind of leverage around here.

You didn't want anything from him.

You just… asked.

Chishiya sighed like you'd asked him to dig a grave with his bare hands. "You're exhausting," he muttered, pushing himself up anyway, sliding hands into his hoodie pocket like it was the most inconvenient thing in the world.

And yet—yet—he was already moving.

People noticed. Of course they did. People always noticed when someone like Chishiya listened to someone else. But no one dared say anything about it, not really. Too risky.

As you started walking toward the small bar area, you heard his voice behind you, that same flat sarcasm curling at the edges.

"You know, I could be doing something useful right now. Like planning everyone's eventual demise."

You glanced back over your shoulder. "And yet here you are."

His lips curled—barely. Annoyed. Amused. Fond.

"Must be my lucky day," he muttered, rolling his eyes as he followed.

That was the trick with Chishiya. No one could make him do anything. If he was with you, if he stayed with you—it was by choice. There were no angles to it. No hidden plan.

Not everything needed to be strategic.

Sometimes… he just liked how you looked at him when he agreed.

Like he wasn't a puzzle you were trying to solve. Just someone you wanted next to you.

Even if he'd complain about it the entire way.

Masterlist

Alice in Borderland Masterlist

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hello hello,

There are two anonymous requests regarding Ranpo with a reader who’s part of the Hunting Dogs. I really love these requests and I’m planning to write them; however, I actually stopped watching Bungo Stray Dogs somewhere in the middle of the fourth season (shortly after Chuuya saved a few of the others in the helicopter), and I’ve managed to avoid spoilers, so I don’t know how it ends.

I’m planning to continue watching it, but I can’t find the third season anywhere right now. (Yes, I accidentally started the fourth season before watching the third because autoplay jumped from the second to the fourth season, and I didn’t realize it—I was sooo confused about what was going on without the backgrounds of the third season. After I figured out that I skipped a whole season, I lost motivation to continue 🥲)

But once I do continue, I’ll definitely write the requests because they sound really, really cool. From what I’ve seen of the Hunting Dogs, they seem awesome, so I’d love to include them in a few stories.

Just wanted to let you know so you don’t think I ignored your requests! 🫶🏼