#i need him to fix fukuzawa's broken heart

[iwantflyingpigs]

what is old men yaoi? and why fukufuku is the best?

😫😫😫😫😫

just look at this- like?! do you see? the expressions?? fukuzawa at the end of the chapter??? his face??? his pain????

apart from these two tearing my heart to pieces;

what's up with fyodor getting himself caught on purpose🤨? also, lord bram the cunt, ugh😌

and hey- HEY!! uhm.. so just curious; WHY DIDN'T FUKUZAWA IMAGINED DAZAI IN HIS MIND WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT ADA🙂?hello?! haha

[irritablepoe]

~ Aftermath of S5 Ep11: Ranpoe Reunite ~

this is very sweet and also pure self-indulgence, i just want them to be happy okay?

No warnings (except maybe a bit self-esteem issues on poe's side); Hurt/Comfort; Ranpo is exhausted and Poe takes care of him; Love Confessions (bc i want them to kiss pls they deserve happiness); First Kiss

Word Count: around 900

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“It’s over.”

Poe jumped in his seat. He had been reading a book – or at least trying to read – while chewing on his fingernails, anxiously waiting for Ranpo’s return. Now, when he turned around, he was met by exhaustion incorporated. The detective was holding himself up through the doorframe and his willpower alone and that alone let Poe’s mouth dry in concern.

“He’s dead?”, he asked. Ranpo nodded.

Poe stood and looked Ranpo over with a quick look. “Is everyone alright?”

“Yes.”

Poe sure was relieved at his answer but another question burnt on his tongue. “Are- are you alright?”

Ranpo swallowed. “I- uh… I think I need to lay down.” He took a wavering step forward. And then he fell.

Poe caught him, pulled him close to his chest, and let them slump to the ground softly. Ranpo felt like a ragdoll in his arms; a dead weight that was too tired and too worn down to move. Poe had watched Ranpo neglect eating and sleeping the past few days and it had broken his heart. Occasionally, he had sneaked some sweets into his pocket and sometimes Ranpo had even put them in his mouth mindlessly. Sometimes he had ignored it all together. Other times he had put a blanket over Ranpo’s shoulders to keep him warm, though this had only been once - he had denied he did anything when Ranpo asked him about it the morning after. Like he had said: Ranpo had not been taken care of himself. Everything caught up to him now and all Poe could do was hold him. “You did so much, Ranpo. You saved the world.”

Ranpo let out a tired huff. “You say that like you’re in awe.”

Poe froze. “Maybe because I am.” He damned himself for it. Damned himself for the words that could've waited. But relief had loosened his tongue.

Now, Ranpo did move. He barely lifted his head, but his eyes pierced themselves into Poe’s and he was unable to look away. Embarrassment washed over him but now it was too late. He couldn’t take those words back and he didn’t want to.

Ranpo’s lips formed a surprised “oh” when he saw what lay at the very core of Poe’s inner emotional turmoil. Poe was an idiot. He gathered that a detective – more so Ranpo – would eventually find out what he was feeling. But he had thought as long as he didn’t deal with those… feelings, they wouldn’t get in the way of things. Now, Ranpo was staring at him like he was the world’s most precious thing.

“I-I’m sorry.”, Poe whispered, tears flooding his eyes. He tried to push Ranpo away. Get him away from his filthy hands, his stained soul. There was no way, he would accept Poe’s feelings. Not after all he had done. It was Ranpo after all. He was a lifesaver. A detective that worked in the light of the world. He was funny and he was cunning and more than everything: unpredictable. Poe didn't deserve him.

Ranpo’s hand grasped at his clothes and pulled himself closer again. “Don't push me away.”

He said it so softly, Poe’s heart made a jump. He slumped into himself, trying to cover up his face for it was all too open, too obvious for him to see. Ranpo’s skin was smooth against his as he touched his face, brushing Poe’s hands away with his own like they were nothing more than air.

Green eyes were fixed on him and Poe cringed into himself as he felt the desire to kiss him rise inside of him.

“I just saw Fukuzawa mourn his partner he lost due to time and war.”, Ranpo said with a stern voice. “I do not intent to let my own chance pass me by.”

“What does this m-?“ Poe was interrupted by Ranpo’s lips on his. His eyes went wide. Ranpo was - - - kissing him? He felt his heart surge forward; felt it jump in joy and excitement; felt it reach out to Ranpo for he alone could touch it like he did.

My heart, Poe thought, is meant to beat to the rhythm of your lips.

“Ranpo.”

Ranpo smiled into the kiss and Poe leaned back to see it in all its beauty. “Ed.”

“My heart is yours. It always has been.”

“All this time, huh?” Ranpo’s smile faded and he got an almost innocent look on his face. “I feel the same, Ed. It took me a while to realise. Maybe my detective skills are slacking.”

“You can rest now.”, Poe said, caressing his cheek with delicate fingers. He didn’t want to startle him. Didn’t want to hurt him. “It’s going to be alright.”

“Yes. I think it will indeed be okay. At least for a while.” Ranpo cuddled against his chest, his hair tickling Poe’s chin. “Thank you, Ed.”

Poe hesitated but eventually curled his arms tightly around Ranpo again. “I’m going to protect you. I will give it my all.”

“I know.” Ranpo’s voice faded and when Poe leaned down, Ranpo had his eyes closed and his breathing got steady.

Poe brushed over his hair. “Rest now. I’ll take care of you.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

ah yes, a balm to my soul, let me know how you liked it :D

will be posted to ao3, but i think i'm gonna do that tomorrow (Link)

[somnus-in-law]

Match Made in Hell by somnus_in_law

A Bungou Stray Dogs fanfiction

Summary

For the Dynamic Prompt of Sherlock and Watson, brought to you for the BSD Valentines Chronicles Event:

Fukuzawa Yukichi and Edogawa Ranpo, two men who are more similar than you think.

Relationships

Fukuzawa Yukichi & Edogawa Ranpo

Minor Edogawa Ranpo & Edgar Allan Poe

Minor Fukuzawa Yukichi & Edgar Allan Poe

Content Summary

Pre-Canon

Suicide

its part of a case. semi-graphic description

Autistic Edogawa Ranpo (Bungou Stray Dogs)

Autistic Fukuzawa Yukichi (Bungou Stray Dogs)

Post-Canon

if you've read the early works of sherlock holmes you know these two are the absolute worst and thats why they're perfect for each other

Canon-Typical Violence

Collection

BSD Valentines Chronicles

Author's Note

the first few content summaries come into play early. the biggest warning is their general disregard for human life outside of each other. explicit(ish).

°•°•°~

Yukichi and the boy have only been partnering up for what will soon be three months. Three months since that cold day in January. Three months since they bore witnessed to an orchestrated death, one so grand that its witnesses dare not repeat it. Three months since this wretch of a boy wormed his way into the man's previously hollow heart.

(He tries to forget the sting of his palm, the broken cries of a child, the tears that flowed down flushed cheeks still round with baby fat, the tears seeping into his clothes.

He tries to forget the man he used to be, and become the man he needs to be.)

Three months and the urge to throw the boy to the sharks and beasts of Yokohama's Port has subsided a fraction of an amount. Each day that passes wears that part of him down, the part that would rationalize that taking in a child, a boy who has lost so much and gained so little, would not end well.

Who had ever heard of an assassin receiving a happy ending? No, the stories of men such as him ended one way only: tragedy.

Although, Yukichi thinks, thoroughly exasperated, it wouldn't be his own spotty past that lead to his demise. No, if Fukuzawa Yukichi were to die tomorrow it would be because of Edogawa Ranpo and his inability to stop mouthing off at anyone or anything with half a brain.

(They're lucky in that the Military Police will pay double, if not triple their fee for Yukichi to accompany the young genius.

Ranpo was exceptionally good at his job, outsmarting what would be considered some of the best detectives in Yokohama.

It was why their clients were willing to break the bank and endure the horrendous company the boy brought just to have their problems solved in a timely manner.)

It's barely passed noon and Ranpo is being held at gun point, his mouth opening and closing at a hundred miles an hour, lobbing insults and critics at the man currently holding his life in his shaky, most likely agitated hands.

Yukichi wonders if the man feels that he himself is in fact being held hostage, if he feels that he has no way to escape the infuriating being that was Edogawa Ranpo- he could sympathize, he feels trapped in the exact same way when Ranpo begins his yapping about how "everyone we meet is dumber than the rocks we walk on" and "I don't get why I can't have a snack before bed, Director, you're so unfair!" at the dinner table.

But he also knows that if Ranpo does not get the constant running commentary out now then it will be Yukichi who has to endure such torture once the situation has resolved itself.

In conclusion, Yukichi is leaving a criminal to deal with his own personal hell, see if that convinces the man to change his ways lest he have Ranpo thrown at him again.

..It would be fine. Ranpo was overly confident in his abilities as a detective and that Yukichi, no matter the circumstance, would not allow harm to fall upon him, of which was another fault created by his own foolish hands. He tried to fix it, to knock some literal sense into the boy, but all it garnered him was a heavy feeling in his chest and the world's wettest eyes pleading with him.

Really, Yukichi had tried everything.

A loud bang ringing out draws him from his thoughts, blood splattering on the tiled floor, narrowly missing staining Ranpo's coat as the boy ducks out from his captor's hold and barrels straight into Yukichi's side, half hidden in the bulk of his haori.

That.. was probably not good.

"Aw gross.. Do you think they'll still pay us, Director?"

I hope so, Yukichi thinks bitterly, if not, I'll come back and kick that man's corpse.

It was one thing to hold Ranpo hostage, and it was another to leave them without pay- Ranpo would be insufferable and their clients, returning or otherwise, would hear about it and think it fine to cut their check.

..Maybe if he threw Ranpo at their client, they would still get their pay. Possibly even a tip, with the words "anything to get that thing out of here!" at their backs.

It was a good plan- a solid plan even.

..Surely this one wouldn't off themselves to escape..

Right..?

They got paid the correct amount with very little fuss, from the client at least. The woman had seemed to almost jump with joy at the news of the man's untimely demise, "if I ever need someone taken care of, I'll be sure to contact you again!"

It felt like he was back in his assassin days- good at taking life, relishing in it, but being rather horrendous at the communicative aspect of such a job.

The police had been less appreciative, badgering them for a report, and one nearly cuffed them on the spot- Ranpo's big mouth saving them this time. It was hard to cuff someone with a boy half your age spilling what you thought were well guarded secrets, its a wonder that they made it off the scene relatively unscathed.

"Hey Director, let's go eat! I'm starving!!," the boy tugged at his sleeves, having wiggled under Yukichi's haori and refusing to unlatch himself from the older man's waist. Perhaps it was a testament to how relentless Ranpo could be as a human-shaped nuisance that Yukichi barely blinked or faltered in his steps when it happened, it had become comfortable to walk with an extra weight attached to his hip.

..He couldn't remember a time that Ranpo hadn't been a leech in his side.

Yukichi hums but takes a left instead of the right that leads to their apartment. It's a small thing meant to house one person, and despite his insistence that a bigger place would be more beneficial, Ranpo refuses to go apartment looking with him.

refusing is putting it lightly. Ranpo throws a fit, snot and all that devolves into blubbering about how looking into a new place means "the Director doesn't want me anymore!!"

So Yukichi has resigned himself to sharing a room with the boy, cooking meals in a tiny kitchen and being herded into watching whatever network show has caught the boy's attention.

Its a good life, all things considered. Simple in a way he's never experienced, and in a way that Ranpo clearly needs.

“I want red bean soup!,” Ranpo exclaims, poorly attempting to hurry Yukichi along with his thin arms.

The mochi, Yukichi thinks regrettably, will go to waste. Yukichi would eat it, you see, if he were to order something that complimented said mochi, but he won't. No, in the same way that Ranpo refuses to eat non-sweets, Yukichi refuses to budge on his meals.

If he wants pepper steak, he would have pepper steak.

Yukichi hums again, this one slightly deeper and accusatory.

Ranpo huffs, tightening his hold on the man's arm. The boy's attempt at an attack, a futile and useless one considering his background.

(He knows that Ranpo is capable of more, made sure to teach the boy the basics of self defense, as painful of a process as it was- as it continues to be.

(And when that fails- or rather the boy refuses to put his tutelage into practice- Yukichi will be thankful for the permit tucked in their office, and the ID he makes Ranpo carry with him.

The boy would be armed in every way.))

They make it to the restaurant before night falls, their job having run into the late afternoon. They sit across from each other, Ranpo bouncing in his seat as he looks around the restaurant.

Its the same one they've gone to for months now- close to their apartment but far enough from the main streets that they won't be overstimulated by the numerous cars and foot traffic.

Ranpo orders red bean soup, devours three bowls and only leaves one piece of mochi in each one- Yukichi pats his head in reward.

It seemed that the books he had picked up on parenting were correct, positive reinforcement worked wonders.

Ranpo has been oddly bouncy lately, jumping onto his desk at a capacity that sets off alarms. Ranpo has always been high energy, particularly in his company. But the amount of times Yukichi has genuinely gotten upset with that type of behavior has lessened over the years, which is why it's shocking that he can feel his muscles tense up when Ranpo continues his usual behavior.

Something is setting off sirens in his head- a loud voice screaming "Unusual Behavior Detected!!".

So when the boy- man he has to remind himself, Ranpo is twenty six now- slams his office door open, it's no surprise that he can feel his temper flare.

"Director!," Ranpo's voice grates on his nerves, making his skin crawl with frustration.

Yukichi is focused so much on the boy's overwhelming presence, loud loud loud, that he doesn't notice the large shadow hunching in on itself that lurks behind the boy.

He isn't sure what happens from there. One minute he can feel himself about to explode with frustration, and the next he's laying flat on his back in his futon, the sun's dying rays painting the room a nice orange whilst the breeze from the open doors cools his flushed skin.

He's home and he can't remember how he got there.

Voices travel through the halls, filtering through the paper doors.

Yukichi recognizes the high pitched lilt as Ranpo. Ranpo who rarely controls his volume when in his presence, and even less so when he visits the main house. The second voice is much more softer though still high pitched.

Yosano, he thinks groggy, his two wards are back in the house. The thought shouldn't make his heart flutter. He blames the exhaustion weighing his down, muddling his mind with sappy thoughts.

"..I'll inform Ranpo-kun you're awake..," the shadows say, snapping Yukichi to attention, his body tensing as he struggles to make heads or tails through the fog.

A tall, lanky man rises from the dark corner of his room, the one spot that the setting sun doesn't touch with its light- a man whose face though mostly obscured he can recognize.

The man with a raccoon for a pet- partner? Part-time Guild member and Ranpo's self-proclaimed rival. The raccoon is no where in sight, most likely with the boy farther into the house.

"..excuse me..," the man bows his head stiffly before departing from the room, his socked feet thumping down the halls.

Yukichi relaxes, his head pounding now that his heart has stopped racing.

What a hassle.

'..I should have thrown that boy in the ocean when I had the chance..'

~°•°•°

Originally Uploaded 2024-02-13

[angelic-serenade]

“losing game” || fukuzawa yukichi

gif does not belong to me, nor do the anime & characters

fandom: bungou stray dogs

pairing: fukuzawa yukichi x gn!reader (1st person pov)

warnings: angst, lots of hurt and no comfort, emotional distress, barely mentioned mental instabilty, plot twist

a/n: just a little something i managed to write during the few moments of free time from uni. read as a letter to yukichi from the second paragraph onwards!! hope you enjoy, let me know if you like the new lyric-prose style i’m experimenting with!

word count: 1434

synopsis/prompt:  “a broken heart is all that's left, i'm still fixing all the cracks” ― arcade, duncan laurence

there is something noteworthy and indistinguishably patronizing which marks the mere presence of one fukuzawa yukichi – be it his wise and almost all-knowing gaze or his imposing posture, the way he manages to command respect without so much as a gesture anywhere he stands. he is authority and justice and that’s the only manner he allows himself to be, the only partial impression he allows others to make of him. sometimes i fret there really might be nothing more behind the carved, relentless shadow than the steely stares and unmovable frowns, lines so deep and intensely depicted that one might think of them as unforgiving – of what one may never know, if the unforgiveness staggers from the same place where the thoughts in his mind convince him that peace is something to be fought for but to never be attained. though sometimes the rough edges, the hollowed lines marking a tiredness which some days, some way feels all too familiar for comfort give way to a softer, unmistakably caring look; it’s almost imperceptible, the way he manages to turn the cold and unforgiving watercolors into a beautiful masterpiece, the true talent of the unrecognized artist  – his eyes lose the usually guarded edge which serves to protect everything but himself, his strained lips imperceptibly curl at the edge of a smile and the way he almost lets his shoulders abandon the weight he carries as if it were an old, battered companion brings to mind a tender sort of sympathy that sticks and can never really be forgotten – or forgiven for that matter.

akin to the flourishing of the most precious cherry blossom, you never allow for these moments to last too long, nor do they recur as often as to make those you care for expect them – in that, i think of you as more alike to the orchid than the cherry, for whenever the mysteriously grim orchid blooms, one knows not to hope for more time than its evanescent beauty can offer. cherries come to be expected, granted, but orchids never kiss and tell and you end up entangled either way. and after all, is it not the inevitable transience of things that makes them all the more desirable? if you heard me talking this way, with flowers and art and everything fulfilling in this life on my lips, singing your praises as if you were my last day of spring and sunlight, i’m sure you’d scoff the silliness away – this is your way, the way things have always been and always will be. no matter what you seldom sternly say, i’ll always be fonder of orchids than cherry blossoms anyway, for in their grave allure i found my own kind of tragic beauty.

by now i am convinced that you know and have always known exactly how much power you yield and how little you’d need to make me forget my own sadness – those moments, the careless slips of that bleeding heart of yours, are never meant for me. it pains me so to stand by your side without being able to bask in your praises, but that’s just how things are supposed to be – i am in your life, and that’s all i will ever need. sometimes you look at me as if you expect to see something - or someone – else in my place and i always end up trying to fill the void left behind by an illusion i don’t even know the name of. there is a hole that feels like an aching fever permanently carved into my soul, it spreads like an illness each and every time your voice creeps into my mind; even now i think of you and suddenly i feel much worse and better at the same time because you can never be the cure, but you sure as hell turned into my favorite medication. when i’m not by your side, in your beloved agency with your beloved family – the only ones allowed to walk alongside you into the sun - i delude myself into thinking i somehow may get over these terrible feelings that stretch my mind and hollow my heart, desperately convincing myself that time will wash away all of the promises kept in your sleeve. but sometimes, times that are just some and so unbelievably others, far in between and still so unfathomably precious to me, sometimes you let me hope and crave and i am almost convinced it could maybe be enough. the truth is that i have only ever known pain and i learned to make an addiction out of it.

once you called me by your side and i was quick to follow, as i always am because it’s you after all. under the feeble setting sun, the words spilled faultlessly from your lips, as if they had been composed to the likelihood of those poems about tragedy and grace i was stubborn enough to keep reading at night, and i stood in awe as you let me sip the most bitter of nectars, an aftertaste so haunting i knew it would forever ruin any chance of escaping this, of escaping you. welcoming the sudden flood with far more haste and yearning than i’d like to admit, you told me many things that day – about the agency, about your duty, about mine-, but you did not dare to utter my name even once, as you never did. you thanked me – me, little old, battered and faded, wide eyed and heavy-hearted me with no home to turn to and no more dreams in my closet to spare. you who had retrieved the pandora box and sealed it shut with your bare hands, you who had showed me another way, another path that nearly splintered my spirit all over again. i smiled still and for the briefest passing moment i almost hoped for you to reciprocate the minutest hint of affection; you raised your hand and rested it on my shoulder – it was warm, and it felt like water, like the purest form of unattainable salvation and i almost found myself crying in front of your unshakeable stance.

there was another time when you did gift me the smile i so desperately wished to keep for myself and i burn still, because look at what you made of me and what did you reduce my integrity to – i am neither blessing nor curse, the limbo of your love turned me into a willing martyr rejoicing the smallest act of kindness. you ruined me and i let you. i let you because a singular moment of bliss was worth the relentless tortures of your inferno.

i follow you around and keep you company still, but you never seem to acknowledge my unyielding pestering (just like before). when you let your guard down, my eyes lose themselves in yours because i can never completely understand what goes on in that obliviously rigid mind of yours – you look apathetic or sad or something that’s quite in between. oftentimes i worry for you, but you have always managed to cope and stand strong even as the tide came to wash away the last footprints of a decaying era, i believe you ought to keep doing so for another lifetime still. you have people who are dear to you as you are to them and for how much you’re unwilling to admit it, i also know that you keep a picture of me in your pocket, the one hidden on the inside of your austere kimono, somewhere between your contrite self-loathing and the lovely remnants of the day. when you think i can’t see you, i notice you make a habit of touching the spot where it’s concealed as if to remind yourself i am something right within your grasp, but that you’d never allow yourself to have. you never take me out of that pocket to properly relish the view and i will never ask you to. you grew fond of another illusion, as you’re prone to always do.

“the road to hell is paved with good intentions” i chant to myself when no one is listening, for my good intentions have only ever been inspired by you and burning and rotting in hell now barely sounds like a threat at all if i got to hear your praise just one more time.

today as you once again kneel pathetically curved upon my solitary grave, i can hear you weep yet; it’s been a while since you came to see me but finally for the first time, you call my name –

maybe you really did love me after all.