#angelzai original.ᐟ

[angelzai]

drunk texts - osamu dazai . . . .ᐟ

cw: silly drunk dazai

reid: alright alright a little sneak peak considering how the poll’s doing………

. . . .ᐟ

#i’m drunk right now too. #i’ll start something full length once the results are in<3 #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd smau #dazai smau #osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #bsd dazai x reader #angelzai original.ᐟ

[angelzai]

Chuuya nsfw alphabet please

nsfw alphabet - chuuya nakahara . . . .ᐟ

NSFW CONTENT - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 2.2k

cw: gn!reader - no explicit anatomy mentioned, dom!chuuya, experienced!chuuya, nicknames (baby, doll, sweetheart), marking, unprotected sex, graphic descriptions of cum, cum swallowing, mentions of public/semi-public sex, mirror sex, praise, nipple play, finger sucking, teasing, dirty talk, references to overstim and light bondage

reid: your mind anon. this was so embarrassingly easy to write. for all intents and purposes osamu dazai is my pookie my snookums my dearest my darling my one true love but damn i do kind of want his boyfriend too. enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

a = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

a is for attentive, actually

chuuya’s a gentleman. it’s whatever you want. the whole nine yards.

you want cuddles? conversation? a massage? a shower? a towel? music? tv? your hair braided or played with? wipes? water? wine? a cigarette? silence? sleep? the first thing he says after he lets you ride out your final orgasm is always “what can i do for you, baby?”

if his busy schedule allows, he prefers most to settle in and be in silence with you, soak in your presence, and just breathe you in until you both fall asleep

b = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

probably his neck or his hips and waist, since those are where and how you pull him further into you; mark him up in these spots, please <3

he loves those parts of himself also because you can lock your thighs/calves/ankles around him so easily and wonderfully

that being said, chuuya worships your thighs. always grabbing them, squeezing them, clawing them, smacking them, kneading them, gripping them, kissing them, biting them. i am a thigh man chuuya truther

c = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

pretty and almost translucent spurts

lives and breathes to pump you full <3

please let him cum down your throat

will have you stick your tongue out to make sure you swallowed all of him (watching you do this will get him hard again instantly)

d = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

wants to fuck you in a meeting so badly

preferably one he’s heading

doesn’t want to bring it up for fear of making you uncomfortable, even if you’re okay with public sex - he doesn’t know how you’d feel about him taking you in front of people you vaguely know

but the thought of sitting you on his cock and making you try to stay quiet and still in a room full of his subordinates? unnnghhhhhsnnn

he cannot let himself think about it or he’s bricked immediately

e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

i think he’s got a good bit of experience! definitely not trying to push my manwhore chuuya agenda

doesn’t really know how many people he’s fucked, doesn’t really think it’s relevant information. what’s important is that he knows what to do with it

he’s the type to have a one night stand from months ago still trying to get his number. that’s how good he fucks

even if it’s casual or even if it’s rough, he has a way of making sex feel so comfortable and passionate

literally husband dick

f = favorite position (this goes without saying)

anything that optimizes how deep he can go <3 doggy, mating press, hot seat . . .

9/10 times there is a pillow beneath your hips

specifics aside, he just really loves having your legs over his shoulders

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

he is not goofy.

at least, not in a deliberate, ironic way. if you’re laughing in bed, it’s a breathless giggle because everything he does is so charming or dreamy or romantic

h = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

a true ginger call him fire crotch when he’s already mad and watch smoke literally come out of his ears anyway

he prefers to shave everything except for a little patch that connects to his happy trail <3

he doesn’t care what you do. man is thrilled to traverse the jungle if it means he gets to taste you

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

again, even if it’s just a hookup, he has a certain charm and natural way of making sex feel so special . . . so imagine what he’s like in a committed relationship. i’m foaming at the mouth

does he fuck or does he make love? how about both every single time. he just takes such good care of you, whether that means setting the bar for your wedding night or throwing you around and destroying your insides <3

extremely attentive to your actions and reactions. will come to understand the sounds you make almost like a language of its own and he is fucking fluent

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

looks so alarmingly beautiful while he does it.

long, languid strokes while he runs his other hand through his hair

his abs flex and twitch and sometimes his tongue lolls out a little while his mouth falls open and his head tips back to let the prettiest moans leave him

doesn’t masturbate often with you around; when he does it’s usually so you can sit across from him and watch while you touch yourself, too <3

k = kink (one or more of their kinks)

mirror sex

praise

nipple play

finger sucking

biting/marking

put it all together, and . . .

imagine the arc in your back while he fucks you from behind against the bathroom sink. you better not take your eyes off yourself, he tells you. and you can’t even protest to tell him he’s too gorgeous for you to only watch your own reflection because he’s got his middle and index finger pressing down on your tongue while his thumb holds your jaw firmly in place. his other hand reaches around you to alternate between your nipples - he tweaks them, flicks them, rolls them between his fingers and leaves it to you to hold yourself up while he does this, all while he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and groans all gravelly and hot into your ear about how filthy you sound, how good you’re being, how tight you feel, how perfect you are.

l = location (favorite places to do the do)

his office hands down

a little bit of an exhibitionist

it goes hand in hand with letters d and q - the looming threat of maybe getting caught balls deep in you drives him crazy

big fan of your/his bedroom too - allows him a pleasure that sex in his office does not, which is your loud and uninhibited moans and mewls <3

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

seeing you in any of the expensive clothes he buys you!!!

he of course keeps your taste in mind when he shops for you, but at the end of the day he’s buying you that high-waisted pant/button up shirt/platform shoe combo because he knows your ass is gonna look delectable in it

would also love to have you wear a chain with his initial on it - whether it’s a necklace, bracelet, anklet . . . catching a glimpse of it dangling off you from the right angle has him dragging you off to fuck so he can bite it between his teeth while he’s in your guts <3

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

chuuya will scarcely let you dominate him. he’s not completely opposed to it all of the time, but it’s a little more vulnerable than what he prefers. plus he likes his control, even - no, especially when he’s letting you think you have the reins

understands and values the psychological importance of aftercare - he never doesn’t do it.

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

chuuya loves seeing you on your knees for him.

loves making you suck his fingers like you would his cock before he actually lets you on him.

he doesn’t need to fuck your face - all he needs is your dedicated tongue on his tip, a hand on his balls, maybe a finger or two in or around his hole . . . ugh he busts so fast

referring to c - bonus points if you swallow every last drop of his cum <3

talks you through it deliciously

“that’s it, doll, wanna see you work for it.”

“eyes up here, baby, look at me.”

“you’re gonna swallow all this cum, ‘kay?”

he returns the favor eagerly, don’t you worry

an absolute animal when he’s going down on you. his nails in your hips, his hands gripping your thighs, his fingers playing with you when he’s not spreading you apart

eats you like he’s starving and will not stop even after you cum.

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

he’s all over the place.

he’s really good at slow and sensual foreplay, but when he’s actually in you or tasting you he can’t hold himself back

whewwww you both gonna be sweating.

tries to save slow, sensitive sex for special occasions . . . but he usually builds up to fast, frantic fucking anyway

passion on 100 regardless. he is going to take you to heaven

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

loves. loves loves loves loves loves.

loves sitting you on the kitchen counter and cumming in you before he leaves for work

loves sneaking away with you on his breaks to rail you in a supply closet

loves seeing how many times he can make you cum before the meeting he has to be at in twenty minutes

loves bending you over his desk like he doesn’t have a few of his subordinates on their way up to his office to drop off a report

loves bouncing you up and down on his cock in the car ten minutes before your dinner reservation

truly whenever he can. chuuya <3’s quickies

r = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he’s down to try anything once, period.

communication is the most important thing to him - experimentation and risks just need to be discussed beforehand

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

he can go three or four rounds at a time, each lasting anywhere from less than 10 to up to 30 minutes; he’s usually pretty impatient to see you falling apart on him <3

it��s a different story if he’s only going down on you. he can do it for hours. you’ll lose track of time, numbers, colors, your own name and birth date etc

t = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

chuuya definitely owns some high quality rope and a pair of thigh-to-wrist cuffs <3

for you, of course.

he doesn’t get tied up unless you really, really beg him

will occasionally let you tie his wrists while you ride him <3

u = unfair (how much they like to tease)

likes to tease you verbally more than he does physically.

he’ll try to hold off on making you finish, he really will! but most of the time he just can’t help giving you what you want.

what he’ll do is make you cum for a third or fourth time with hardly any effort and then throw it in your face - “so needy for me, huh?” “barely takes anything to have you squirtin’ all over me.” “think you can give me a couple more, doll?”

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

can’t help the fact that he whimpers.

so much pretty, breathy whining and cursing - it almost takes the bite out of his domineering sometimes . . .

(lots of “ah- ah! fuck, fuck, fuck fuck f- fuck! y- yes, ugh . . .”)

. . . but he makes up for it with how his voice drops almost an octave when he talks

big talker.

“swear you were made f’me.”

“fuckin’ take it, sweetheart. doin’ so good.”

“ngh, fuck- gonna make you cum all over this dick.”

so much of your name <3

w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

sometimes he’ll cum so hard he blacks out for a few seconds. that’s all <3

x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

thick.

like a fucking can of coke bitch.

6.5-almost 7 inches hard, curves upward the tiniest bit, pretty and tan with a sensitive red tip

v-line to fucking die for.

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

higher than a goddamn kite

he is down to fuck you 24 hours a day 7 days a week 365 days of the year for as long as you’ll let him

just. insatiable. so greedy. takes everything you give him every single time and eats it up. cherishes it like keepsake. burns it into his mind and thinks about it at work the next day and gets himself so horny he’ll have to jerk off in the bathroom and send you a picture with the tagline “look what you do to me”

z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

it just depends if he’s sleepy or not! he absolutely can stay awake, get up and moving, go back to work, whatever

but as mentioned before it is his favorite thing to do after - if he’s sleepy, you’re sleepy, and his chaotic life graces him with the time and peace, he will fall asleep with you in his arms so fast.

regardless, he’s so clearheaded after you make each other cum <3 he just adores you so much

#bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x reader #chuuya smut #chuuya nakahara smut #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs smut #angelzai original.ᐟ #devilzai hours.ᐟ #mdni

[angelzai]

Hi! I love your writing sm!!🥰 can I request a jealous Nikolai or Fyodor (nsfw pls) it doesn’t matter either one 🙏

jealous – nikolai gogol + fyodor dostoevsky . . . .ᐟ

NSFW CONTENT - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 1.5k

cw: explicit sexual content, gn!reader, language, dirty talk, brief mentions of ownership/belonging, toxic ass men. nikolai: mentions of injury/threats/murder, edging mention, oral (m!receiving), rough facefucking, wrist restraints, cum eating, nicknames (dovey, angel, sweetheart; kolya for him); fyodor: teasing, mild degradation, mild spanking, one religious reference, fingering, penetration, i love yous, nicknames (pretty, my love, whore, милашка/milashka=cutie; fedya, my only/everything for him)

reid: hey anon, thank you so much for the kind words uwu why not both?? inspo for this struck me as hcs/scenario format, hope that's okay <3 this is my first time ever writing for nikolai! he's so insane and he was actually a lot of fun to take a shot at. enjoy!

. . . .ᐟ

i can see NIKOLAI being easily made jealous.

even if you don't mean to provoke it, he's got a screw or two loose enough that his paranoia will get the better of him

and in true nikolai nature, he'll do some unhinged shit in the name of protecting his relationship with you.

he definitely maimed, shot, and mutilated a couple innocent flirters before you could really sit down with him and express how much you...disliked that methodology.

he does not play about you.

he gets better about it further into your relationship - no more murder on your behalf, you tell him, and he can manage that much! with this man, however, the unfortunate soul who fucketh around shall still findeth out.

oh, how he enjoys the look on the handsy stranger's face when he slinks up behind you to curl around your waist and portal-hold the tip of a blade to their chin

likes your reaction even more!

the way you squeeze his arm when you realize it's just your beloved jester behind you -

the blush on your face as you explain to the scum that this is your dear boyfriend (and apologize for the knife pointed at their face) -

the smooch you whip around to press to nikolai's cheek while he withdraws the weapon but never breaks eye contact with the stranger as they back away -

it all works like a charm!

what he loves most, though, comes later...

He's been edging himself with your mouth for god knows how long.

"If other bitches get to hear you talk, it's gonna be with that pretty voice wrecked," Nikolai groans, out of breath. "Feels- ngh, s'fuckin' good."

You can barely take it anymore. The blood's rushing to your head, first of all - it's been hanging off the edge of the bed practically since the minute you got home. Your jaw aches as Nikolai continues to use your throat. Most frustrating, though, is the pulsing heat between your legs that you can't even sate because your lover has bound your wrists up near your chest - all you can do is arch when, off and on, Nikolai reaches down to play with you while he fucks your mouth.

But he's getting needy, you can tell, because he loses himself a bit - he hasn't touched you in a good few minutes and his thrusts are getting greedier. He's long quit letting you come up for air. You think you've run out of tears - all you can do is breathe furiosly through your nose as he holds each side of your head and grunts from his chest as he ruins you.

You claw at him. "So good, dovey," he tells you, "almost done. Keep bein' good f'me- yeah."

You move your tongue how you can, hum around him when you can - eventually your dedication is rewarded when he pulls all the way out and strokes himself frantically over your tongue - and you cough a little, curling up into yourself.

You can hardly help your open-mouthed smile, however, when Nikolai releases the rough grip on your jaw to caress your cheek as he cums in thick spurts across your face. Your lashes flutter, he's moaning - "fuck, angel- angh!" - and you let out the garbled beginnings of a giggle as you lap up what makes it in your mouth.

You feel him scoop his load off your skin before his finger's in your mouth. Immediatley after you suck the rest of him down, he's bending down to kiss you sloppily and uncuff your wrists.

"That's my dovey," he affirms (more to himself than you). He peppers your face with kisses, his messy, snowy bangs brushing your face. "C'mere."

He works you upright just to lay you back down, more comfortably this time, finally and with fervor circling his fingers around your clenching hole.

"Kolya-" you rasp, sore.

"Took me so good, sweetheart," Nikolai shushes you, eyes alight with mania as he starts trailing kisses from your neck to your stomach. "Now that you remember who owns you, 'm gonna show you none of those motherfuckers could make you feel as good as I can."

. . . .ᐟ

oh, demon FYODOR.

i think he's less jealous than he is simply possessive.

he's not super concerned about people flirting with you, doing things for you, checking you out...in fact, he kind of likes watching those things happen! not that he doesn't expect it, you're perfect after all <3

because he knows, as you settle in his arms to whisper about the compliment you received or giggle at the person who offered to pay for your coffee, none of it will ever compare to the sweet words and pure love he showers you with, and he relishes in that fact. they can try anything they want, but you will never belong to anyone but him.

doesn't go needlessly far with expressing his jealousy when it does crop up - he's a tactful man, and he's not going to act out in a way that might put you off like nikolai will

he's patient, too. he's so composed around others. no one expects it - anyone who doesn't know better would assume the idiot who makes a pass at the demon king's beloved would get the whole room aired out in a matter of seconds

on the contrary, fyodor will sit with the closest he can get to a humorous grin on his face while he waits for you to make your way over and kiss him or sit on his lap or hook your arms around his waist

he'll tease you a little about it. "getting some attention?"

if you smile at him reassuringly, lean in, and tell him, "none that truly concerns me," all will be peaceful.

if you tease him back, however - maybe cross your legs away from him and shoot him a smirk and a quick "maybe so" - oh yeah, you're in for it.

He works you up, makes you a mess - then he throws it in your face.

"My gosh, милашка-" He doesn't take the Lord's name in vain even while he's drawing downright sinful noises from your body. "-listen to yourself. Shameless."

Fyodor's a patient man, as mentioned before; he uses it to his advantage in situations like this. He's stretching you out on his lithe fingers, slowly, almost painfully - his other hand traverses your thigh, landing a hard spank to the side of your ass each time you roll your hips unwillingly. You really can't help it either way - you have to watch and feel his pretty, pale fingers disappear into your hole, so it's either squirm and get smacked or whine and get mocked.

You're in a lose-lose situation, it seems. It felt amazing at first, the slow curl of his knuckles inside you, the gentle circling of his wrist, the concentrated sighs that left his rosy lips as he watched you relax into his touch, but now it's just torture. Now, you can only clench furiously and cry out please, please, just a little faster, Fedya, please!

Your eyes water when he finally gives in a little, moving fractionally faster.

"Do you deserve it, my love?" He cocks his head, looking at you as if he really values your opinion on the matter. "Or, my whore - since you're comfortable entertaining the advances of strangers."

You weren't, you must've sworn up and down ten times by now. You were being polite, you promise, but he shakes his head, his soft black locks waving as if mocking you too.

"Polite? You're lucky I haven't forced that filthy mouth shut. That's what got you here, after all," Fyodor explains excruciatingly. Sure, you got a little sassy with him after he accused you of being just that, a whore, after you'd flashed a humble smile toward the fellow restaurant patron who'd sent you a drink. And sure, that was tone deaf of them, considering Fyodor was very clearly holding your hand across the table and sporting your love bites on his neck, but you just couldn't be rude.

His eyes soften when a fat tear rolls down your cheek.

"Oh, pretty, don't cry." He shifts his legs beneath himself; his pace stays the same, but he reaches deeper inside you. "You remember who you're talking to, yes? You learn your lesson?"

You nod frantically. You whimper. "Of course, of course, Fedya, my only, ‘m sorry..."

You yelp like you've been burnt when he pulls his fingers out of you, but soon enough his hand is gripping your waist, his tip is teasing your entrance, and he's cooing into your ear, "Your only. You only love me, right? Say it."

You cup his face, grab at his shoulders, grind into him as you tearily reply, "Only love you, Fedya. I love you. You're my everything, please. My everything. I love you."

He knows you do. He just has to make you say it - make sure you know you do.

Fyodor's tongue finds yours as he thrusts into you - you're his everything, too, and he won't admit that, but he'll fuck you so good you know it's true.

"Relax, my love. Let me make you cum."

#bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #nikolai x reader #nikolai gogol x reader #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #bsd nikolai x reader #bsd fyodor x reader #nikolai smut #fyodor smut #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs smut #angelzai original.ᐟ #devilzai hours.ᐟ

[angelzai]

nsfw alphabet - osamu dazai . . . .ᐟ

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 2.1k

cw: gn!reader - no explicit anatomy mentioned, switch leaning sub!dazai, nicknames “pretty,” “honey,” and “babe” for reader, one instance of “daddy,” brief mentions of choking/spitting/slapping/marking/collaring/edging/dacryphilia, graphic mentions of cum, cum eating, CUM, degenerate!dazai my beloved

reid: no one asked for this i just be thinking uwu enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

a = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

it’s dazai - he’s lazy and kind of a princess. unless cleaning up is absolutely necessary (read: you both and the sheets are drenched in sweat and/or cum) he will just want to stay where you are and cuddle and be loved on

usually chatty afterward. loves to chit chat. if you’re too sleepy to hold a conversation, he’ll play with your hair and you can listen to him talk about the fall of the byzantine empire

b = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

dazai is aware that he has attractive hands. there isn’t a single part of himself he’s not at least a little conscious of, but he knows his hands are both pretty and skilled, so he might as well try to be proud of them!

can’t pick a favorite body part on his partner. it changes by the day. one day it’s your waist, the next it’s your hair, wednesday it’s your thighs, most fridays he prefers your hands, sometimes it’s your stomach, other days it’s your ass. . .

c = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

i know it tastes like sulfuric acid

cums so much. like an obscene amount.

he definitely has a thing for seeing you covered in his cum - whether it’s on your chest, face, back. . .

filthy nasty when it comes to cleanup. you made a mess on his fingers? he made a mess in your hands? your hole is dripping with his cum and yours? his mouth is on it. shameless

d = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

less dirty and more just embarrassing for him - he usually cries after make-up sex.

if you argue and then fuck it out, tears will be rolling down his face while he cums - he loves you so much! he doesn’t want a petty argument to ever make you rethink your relationship with him

if you notice this, no you don’t. to him it’s a fucking secret okay

e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

while i do think he probably hoed around toward the end of/after his mafia days, i don’t think he’s as experienced as anyone expects him to be.

liked the feeling but hated the vulnerability. it was a tradeoff he wasn’t willing to make anymore at some point. eventually realized he needs to build up a level of trust with potential sexual partners

once that trust is built up though. hooo boy

that genius brain of his isn’t just for detective work

he’s intuitive and a quick learner. absolutely knows what he’s doing.

f = favorite position (this goes without saying)

spoons.

lazy man loves to wrap one arm around your neck and play with you with his free hand while he thrusts into you from behind <3

really partial to any position that lets him bite your neck and kiss your face and groan in your ear (hopes you do the same to him)

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

can’t help the occasional one liner. he’s a natural comedian

dazai rather enjoys more playful sex where you both can laugh and talk throughout - sometimes it feels more intimate than serious, stone-faced sex

takes on a more serious air if he’s feeling jealous or insecure

h = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

will adhere pretty firmly to whatever your preference is!

if you have no preference, he just trims when he’s unruly - maybe once every two weeks or so

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

physically extremely sensual and aware of your body - little touches and breaths on your skin, lingering eyes, things that would get glossed over by anyone who isn’t a romantic at heart

tries (and succeeds) to swoon you verbally, too.

“need to feel you, please.”

“fuck- we fit s’ well together, don’t you think so?”

“‘m all yours, honey.”

“c’mon, pretty, fuck me like you own me.”

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

pillow humper.

he’s lazy! don’t get the idea that he’s above stroking himself because he’s not, but sometimes he just doesn’t feel like it

just imagine him in the first light of the morning waking up before his alarm with an unforgiving hard on. . .he was probably dreaming about you! and if you’re not there, what else is he supposed to do other than fold a pillow between his legs and grind on it until he cums in his boxers?

nnnnhhnmnmghshdhd pillow humper dazai <3

k = kink (one or more of their kinks)

choke. this. man.

whether he’s topping bottoming subbing domming whatever he cums 10x harder when your hands are anywhere near his neck

likes fingers in his mouth uwu since he’s confident in his hands, he’s definitely into you sucking on his fingers too

pry his jaw open and spit on his tongue. he will gladly return the favor, if you wish

slap him if you’re comfortable. he’s down for it. he usually hates pain, but if it’s supplemental to pleasure?

big fan of biting and scratching too, both ways if you’ll indulge him.

likes having matching marks <3

leash and collar this man while he’s on his knees and tell him it’s where he belongs. he’ll agree!

edges the hell out of you when he doms. maybe likes to see you cry a little bit <3

on the softer side, he adores being praised - bonus points if you can mix in some subtle and tasteful degradation. loves being told how good he feels, how good he’s letting you use him, how good of a boy he is. . .

l = location (favorite places to do the do)

he prefers the privacy of your bedroom so he can completely let go of his reservations

buuuuuut also gets excited about car sex uwu something about how the windows fog up, and how desperate and feral it can feel. . .

at the end of the day, he’s never met a flat surface he couldn’t fuck on. if he wants you, he’ll find somewhere to have you

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

when you get intense about anything. discussing something you’re very passionate about? someone or something is visibly pissing you off? you’re road raging? dazai’s ready to drop ‘em

oh lord about to get the works cited page going. next bullet point references this post by user cqthqrtic (not tagging as to not surprise them with random nsfw content in their notifs, however if you see this, legend, and want tagged do let me know!), who pioneered my favorite degenerate!dazai and i think about him OFTEN

so with that, on a less wholesome note than the first one, i fully agree that calling him names like sicko, perv, freak, etc. gets him going like you would not fucking believe. he lives for your half-disgusted little reactions when he whispers filth in your ear in public or proposes some depraved shit like eating his own cum out of you. god forgive me

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

heavy, intense degradation. he’s already hyper-convinced that he’s a piece of shit. keep it to the classics; he likes being your dumb slut, your fucktoy, your brat, etc. and mix it up with praise. he does not like being called useless, bad, good for nothing else, etc.

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

a real eater. a proud munch. so fucking smug about it too

his mouth + his hands? you’re seeing god

cannot however deny how much he loves your mouth on his cock. he’ll almost never ask for it, but he’ll also never say no to it.

might get carried away and fuck your throat a little - don’t worry, he’ll compensate you. ride his face til he can’t breathe

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

almost always wants to take his time with you! he’s got a lot of self control and he uses that to his advantage

he can’t get over how tender it feels to bury his face in your neck, wrap his arms around you, and feel your nails in his back while he’s fucking you deep and unhurriedly

he loves slow, sleepy, lazy sex where his hands can just roam every inch of your body.

don’t get it twisted - dazai will absolutely fuck you fast and rough if you just say the word

want him to go faster and harder? give his hair a good tug <3

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

not his favorite methodology, last letter considered.

won’t decline if it’s to get out of work <3 bring him lunch at the office and he might just bend you over the bathroom sink

r = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he’ll try just about anything once.

this man spent his most formative years in a front row seat to observe humanity at its filthiest - anything that happens with mutual consent and good intent between you two in the bedroom can’t be that horrible.

besides, he loves discovering new kinks of his with you <3

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

only one or two rounds, maybe three on a good day, but he manages his time well.

spends anywhere from 15-30 minutes on foreplay on the first go around

will let you rest between rounds but continue kissing on you and teasing you lightly so it all just feels like one dreamy and continuous round

with his insane self control he could easily drag a couple rounds of sex out for hours. many hours.

however, he won’t usually keep you longer than three or so hours; on the flip side, he rarely spends less than 45 minutes on you.

t = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

not opposed to you bringing toys to the table, but no, he doesn’t own any.

he can makeshift some handcuffs out of a belt so quick - what would he need to buy them for?

not a fan of having toys used on him, but he’ll go to town on you if you want <3

u = unfair (how much they like to tease)

oh brother

will hold off on cumming himself just so he can draw your orgasm out longer. sensing a theme here? when i tell you his self control is insane.

beg him all you want - he goes into it knowing exactly how long he’s going to edge you for <3

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

he can hold himself back and be quiet. . .does not like to, though!

high quality triple x this-shit-rated-porn ass moans, sighs, grunts, and whines coming out of him regardless of his position. he was meant to be LOUD. he likes to let you know how good you make him feel!

cusses so much.

whatever he’s babbling gets so breathy and growly when he’s close

“thank you thank you thank you fuck thank you” while he cums <3

w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

wanna make him bust on the spot? call him daddy while he’s in you <3

x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

average thickness but god he’s long

we’re talkin pushing eight inches

no curve, very few veins, blushy pink tip

sticks straight up and twitches when he’s hard <3

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

contrary to popular (?) belief, i think his sex drive is average if not a little lower

mostly just up for it whenever you are! you bring it up? sure, he’s game <3

about who initiates sex: 60/40, you/him respectively.

if he’s not in the mood will say some really lame and uncomfortably silly shit like “i think mr. pinky’s asleep right now babe” 👎

z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

no he wants. to. CHAT

has enough trouble sleeping at night as it is! kind of just wants to go back to snuggling and hanging out when you’re done

again if it’s bedtime and you’re sleepy, he’ll just talk softly about whatever until he hears you snoring.

might pick up a book for an hour or so before joining you in the dream world <3

always smooches you goodnight whether you’re awake or not.

#bsd dazai x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #dazai x reader #osamu dazai x reader #bsd x reader #dazai headcanons #dazai hcs #angelzai original.ᐟ #devilzai hours.ᐟ #mdni

[angelzai]

crush

good men die too, so i’d rather be with you

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 3.5k

cw: gn!afab!reader, bathing/washing, alcohol, mild hurt/comfort, fluff, implied/referenced self harm, implied/referenced substance abuse, post-dark era, intimacy, explicit sexual content, spitting, soft (ooc?) dazai

reid: this has been sitting a bit and i finally got around to fixing it up :,) sorry again for my absence i am unwell but surviving and i hope to keep sharing with you guys what i can. thank you for all your patience

. . .

He’s never admitted how much he delights in crawling back to your apartment after he’s been gone for too long — long enough to make you worry a little. It’s cruel of him, really, to keep you waiting around so much. But you’re going to be here waiting anyway! So, he figures, why not? It’s a few miles off Port Mafia turf, and you always have hot food and plenty of sake. Not to mention that your hands were the first to ever hold him so gently — to hold him like a lover — and that’s plenty to keep him coming, even if he sometimes takes weeks at a time to find his way back.

It’s always worth it to have Osamu half undressed in your bathroom. A decent meal and the humidity fogging up the tile walls usually melts his resolve just enough so you can work his crumpled white tee off without him sending you any sort of eyes; tonight though, the human spirit is unbreakable. You brush the small of his back as you lift his shirt and it has him hitching his hips toward yours.

He’s truly a sight.

His brown mop is greasy. Accumulated sweat is beginning to force the dramatic lengths of bandages to curl away from his skin. He looks little more than empty and tired, but there’s a shadow of contentedness in his sharp features — you’ve just fed him seafood boil and a couple of Tokyo Mules (heavy on the American vodka), after all.

You reach down and dip your fingers in the filling basin; scalding, how he likes it.

“Drawers off, please.” You poke his chest with a damp finger pad and disappear into the hallway in pursuit of linens.

Dazai sits naked (save for bandages) and curled in on himself on the edge of the bathtub when you return. You stack a change of clean clothes on the sink, and his ankles knock together as he waits for your attention to fall back on him. Your towels sling over the door before you turn to him with your hands tucked together. He looks uncharacteristically meek, not unlike a fawn before it first walks -– the way he only ever does before what happens next.

He holds his arms out, wrists up, and smiles like the sunshine.

You smile back uneasily, appearing much less enthused than he; you know that sunshine smile well enough to know it only ever comes out as a shield. You know no matter how many times you unwrap his dressings, he's always going to hate it.

So, you start with the butterfly clip secured at the crook of his elbow, and you talk.

"I have a slice of tiramisu in the fridge for after."

"From that place I like?" His eyes get wide.

"From that place you like," you sigh, grinning.

"You must've had a feeling I was dropping by."

You usually encourage him to reuse the strips of fabric when possible, sometimes going so far as to let him hide from the city while you take them to the laundromat with your own clothes, but these ones are far past help —barely white, significantly bloody in spots and dirtied in others, so you just ball them up and toss them in the trash. You're stocked anyway, and you reassure him of this by retrieving a few fresh rolls from under the sink.

"Maybe I did."

You finish one arm and move to the other. Osamu lets his marred, bare skin dangle in the air. The sunshine is gone. He’s zoned out. You know he’s protecting himself.

You push his hand down to rest in his lap and your mind selfishly drifts to later, where you hope he'll sleep without his bandages, too — he had traipsed into your apartment lined up to his fingers, and all you had wished for was that you could’ve felt his palms, his knuckles, his nails when he hugged you back. You take as much of him in as you can in these kinds of moments; it’s just the kind of person you are. Damaged or not, his skin is your favorite place to be. You’ve told him this, but it seems to come across much clearer when you look into his sad brown eyes like they’re the only ones in the world while your fingers trace the tracks across his thighs like they’re no one’s in particular.

“So pretty,” you mumble.

It’s so well received this time around that Osamu sinks into the water with barely a shred of apprehension. Granted, he’s still a bit glazed over.

He really snaps to once his shoulders are beneath the water and you’re lathering shampoo — the coconutty one — between your hands.

He speaks your name with an earnest that’s almost mocking. “What are you doing?” But he knows what you’re doing, or what you’re not doing, rather, and he’s not going to let you get away with it.

“What?” Your hands are sudsy and he has the audacity to be yanking at your shirt now. You bat him away as well as you can, flinging some bubbles at him in the process. “What?”

His bottom lip pokes out as his wet hands find purchase around your wrists. Dazai has manipulated a lot of people with nothing but the look in his eye, but it’s never this one; this specific look is reserved for you, and he figures it’s hardly manipulation if he knows you’d enjoy it too. “Get in with me,” he whines, drawing out his ‘e.’

You grumble something about your soapy hands, something about not wasting a perfectly fine handful of your good shampoo, but it just allows him to insist even more on helping you out of your clothes. You sigh, but really, it’s these silly idiosyncrasies about him that make you cry when he’s gone. So, you indulge him. You commence an awkward and wiggly dance in which his fingers stretch your sleeves over your hands with care. You kick your pants off and shimmy out of your undergarments, feigning annoyance as you give into his whims so easily.

The bath is still nearly boiling. You make peace with it by hissing hot, hot, hot, hot, hot (he chuckles at you) until either of your knees are nestled underwater on either side of him. You rub your shampoo hands together and — now that Osamu’s gotten his way for one of many times tonight, for the millionth time ever, never for the last time — he graciously lets you wash his hair.

You inhale all the little hums and sighs he gives you. He tastes like every emotion you’ve ever felt. Heaven is a bathtub in a crummy apartment.

“You smell much better. Let’s rinse.” You go to push yourself up after you’re finished with him, but Osamu grips you unceremoniously and by both of your ass cheeks, so you look sternly into his face.

“Wait, wait, wait, just—” he pleads.

You flick water at his eyes. “We’re wading in your filth, thank you. Get up.”

“Just a second, damn it.” He clutches you closer, hands clasped behind your back, and you settle with shattered resistance against his chest. He mumbles something about who you think you are, telling me what to do.

Not that you try all that hard with him anymore; you both know well he’ll get what he wants, and right now he’s intent on holding you in the cooling water, so you loop your arms around his neck, unable to help the kiss you press to the side of his jaw or the stifled roll of your hips against his.

He’s silent for a moment as he traces the expanse of your back. You hope his eyes are closed. You know they’re probably not.

“Thank you.”

It’s something Osamu says quite a bit. He doesn’t get terribly sentimental often, but it’s usually after you’ve rid him of those wrappings that he comes close. Although, he never says exactly what for. For bathing him. For feeding him. For loving him. You understand well enough.

He’s still a little shit. He squeezes your ass and bites the shell of your ear.

“That’s it,” you yelp. “We’re rinsing.”

His laugh is whole as you pull the drain and start the shower, dodging your (mostly) dry hair.

The promise of dessert lets you get him into a pair of shorts at the very least. Once again you return to him — you wait on him like he’s a prince, and he looks like one on your bed with the blankets pooled around him as he towel dries his hair.

It’s so unfair, you think, how angelic he gets to be no matter what he’s doing. It’s something so mundane; his scars are on display, he’s tipsy and damp and has your plush cat-printed blanket acting somewhat like a cape, yet he steals your breath as you enter your bedroom. To top it all off, he pretends not to notice your presence right away.

You fold your legs beneath yourself, unfinished bottle of sake in one hand, delicate plate of tiramisu in the other, and Osamu finally acknowledges you with owlish eyes, raised brows, and a grin that reprograms the pattern of your heartbeat. He tosses the towel aside, eager, and reaches out.

“This—” his mouth is full, “this shit is…God. Heavenly.”

“Share.”

“Should’ve brought two forks.” He makes a show of lifting the plate out of your reach. You grasp at it lazily, uselessly, and he laughs, taunting you. You’re tired so you hoard the sake in response, which he’s fine with only until the tiramisu is gone — you only got two bites in — and he goes for that as well.

“Greedy!” you accuse, but you can’t help your laugh. You’re warm — the few swigs from the bottle are doing their job, and you let Osamu know this by giving in; you steady his head with one hand, and with your other you press the bottle to his lips and tilt it up. He drinks like it’s cider, and comes up for air with a soft curse.

The way he licks it off his lips wants to draw a gasp out of you, but you’re trained like a skilled gunman when he gives you targets like these — you’ve built up trigger discipline, and there are some things, you suppose, that you don’t let him have so easily after all.

Nonetheless, it’s like Osamu reads this mechanism working in your mind and takes it as a challenge. The bottle is transferred from your hands to his somewhere in the searing kiss he gives you; you fully register a hunger buzzing between you both that has nothing to do with tiramisu as you reach out for him, fumble toward him until you’re in his lap — you almost overwhelm his lithe frame with your tenacity, but he catches you, bottle tapping your back as you engulf each other.

Osamu is sneaky, he is; he never executes even the smallest action without meticulous thought. The way you end up under him might’ve been planned out from the bath, or maybe even before he was on your doorstep — either way, you give way to his weight; the bottle’s in one hand, somehow your wrists are in the other, and his waist connects with yours.

If nothing else predicts what you say next, it’s his restless hand clutching your hip, pulling at your shirt, clawing up your side.

“Missed you,” you slip into his mouth. You’ve already said this over dinner, but it’s different, heavier, when you’re breathing him in. Osamu lifts away from you for a kiss from the bottle. In brief control again, you wring your hands.

He’s statuesque above you. You wish you could snapshot the seconds in which he tilts the bottle back, where his drying hair falls in those loose waves around his angled jaw and his eyelids flicker. You reach out to trace him. His severe collarbone to his lean shoulder, down the thin valley between his bicep and tricep. You ghost around the fingers suspended in midair and bridge the gap to end on his pretty waist.

The bottle disappears onto your nightstand. Your eyes are wide as he grips your chin. He holds his breath, plants an elbow by your head, thumbs your bottom lip — all a means to waterfall the sake into your open, waiting mouth.

Liquor drips off him, into you; how are you supposed to keep from the way your legs demand his hips toward yours? The way you grind into him from below? You’re a live wire and he’s fraying the hell out of everywhere you end and begin.

You swallow what he gives you before he pulls back. You’re breathless, and he’s laughing. He’s laughing. This is what he does — he gets you under him and he laughs, so beautifully that you can hardly be mad, and sultrily enough that you flush pink.

“You should see your face!” he exclaims. Osamu is truthfully at his most joyous when he’s catching you off guard. “Little too filthy for ‘ya?”

“Please,” you scoff, willing him toward you again as you recover, more from the sting in the back of your throat than anything, pressing all your love into each of his mangled wrists with your palms and fingers. “As if that’s the filthiest thing we’ve done.”

“Jog my memory,” he suggests as he puts his smile back to yours, and so you work him out of the shorts you just got him in less than ten minutes ago.

As for yourself, well — you’re only naked from the waist down before you’re working your own slick up and down on him, biting your lip with anticipation, all but pulling him into you. You don’t even care if it hurts, and you almost say it, but you don’t — everything you’re doing is saying it for you — you just want him in you right now, right now, and he touches you between the gasps you draw from him; he watches the way he slides into you like you’re meant for him, like he’s meant for you, and you dig your heels into him as you whisper his name.

“Baby,” he whispers back. Those sad brown eyes flicker, shut, open, find you. “Oh.”

He rocks into you softly, such a contrast from the urgency with which he was kissing you mere moments before. Osamu’s a natural at giving you whiplash, sometimes in ways you didn’t know him to be capable of. He’s concentrated; you watch him, the slightest bit confused as his lips purse shut. You want to hear him, he knows, but it’s all welling up within him, he can feel it on his lash line, so he tucks his face into your neck and hopes you won’t say anything. You don’t, not for bit. You just circle your arms around his neck and groan at the way he grips you, feels you all over; you clench around him and pretend you don’t feel the tears beading along your shoulder.

“Too filthy for you?” you finally tease, but gently; you cup his face in your hands, push his hair from his forehead, and kiss the wetness away. He half-laughs, half-sobs. He obviously wasn’t expecting this. “Oh, ‘samu. Honey.”

“Don’t know what the fuck’s going on.” It’s his way of apologizing. He sniffles and follows it with an explanation. “You feel so good.”

You know they’re not tears of pleasure, but you let him write it off as he fucks into you. “You- uhn- you feel so good,” you echo.

It’s not unusual for him to be vocal — he moans, he gasps, he gives you delicious noises to make up for the words he can’t ever find, but tonight is so different; you don’t know what it is, but he talks. He’s talking, and it’s not the lewd musings you expect from Osamu Dazai, much less while he curls his hands into your hair and begins to pound into you. Yes, it’s much different tonight.

“Missed you too,” he finally gives you. “Missed you. So fucking much- fuck- I’m- oh, fuck…”

“Stop leaving,” you say breathlessly. “Stop leaving me. Just move in.”

“Shit, I might.” His hair is your lifeline. You knot your fingers in it like you hope you become part of it. “Might just have to come home to this every day. Y’take such good care of me. Don’t know wh- hah- what I did to deserve this pussy.”

“Please, please, Osamu.” You’re begging for more than one thing. “Fucking stay.”

So he keeps his pace, staying in one way or another — at least he can say he’s done that much. Whether or not you’ll wake up next to him tomorrow morning doesn’t matter right now; right now he’s fucking you, right now he’s yours, right now he’s ripping himself open a little further to let you see his rotten soul and you’re giving him everything he could never ask for, everything he doesn’t think he deserves — it’ll be enough, you’re sure, even though it’ll hurt when he disappears again; at least you’ll know you opened up in return, reflected his rottenness in the way that you know how. You’ve made a place for him in your home. You’ve made a place for him in your heart. He knows you want him to take it. Take it.

“So pretty, my baby, takin’ it so good.” He looks at you with those wet eyes between pressing bruising kisses to your lips, chin, neck. “Y’feel like fucking heaven. God, fuck. Don’t know if I- don’t know if I deserve it. So fucking good. So good. So good.”

“You d- you don’t have to do anything to deserve it- just fucking stay, please,” you plead with him. You’ll plead with him until he understands. “Oh- Osamu- ah!”

Your hands flail for a resting place — his head is restless with his kisses, his calloused hands and ridged arms are moving too fast for you to keep up with, the expanse of his back isn’t nearly close enough amid his wild pace, so you claw into the peaks of his shoulders and give all your sound and breath back to him while he rains praise upon you. He’s almost frantic in his task, like he needs you to know.

“Need you to know how much I love comin’ back here.” Osamu grabs one of your hands and guides you to your clit. “Touch yourself, please- please- want you cummin’ on me, baby, give it to me. Please.”

He pleads with you until you do.

You’re well aware that everything you can give him might not be enough to convince him. Convince him he’s not rotten. Convince him he does deserve it. Convince him he’s worthy of love. You know the best thing you can do for him right now is rub yourself quick and hard in time with his heavy thrusts. You keep giving him what he needs — you give him all your moans, grunts, curses, and he reflects them right back — you match each other, sobbing, twitching, biting, heaving until the wave rolls over you and you’re collecting him, throbbing around him and telling him it’s all for him, he’s so perfect, don’t stop, it feels so good while he spills into you, fills you up in that familiar way you don’t think you want to live without for weeks at a time anymore. Osamu’s tense as he drags both of your climaxes out for as long as he can; you’re crooning out his name and Osamu’s panting out yours and he’s so beautiful as he cums, he’s so beautiful while he cries, he’s so beautiful when he’s raw and selfish and fucked out of his brain, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful.

“So afraid to hurt you, baby,” he mumbles into your cheek minutes later, half-asleep and tipsy and still pulsing inside you. “You don’t deserve my shit. Get caught up in my shit.”

You don’t care about his shit, is what you tell him in return. You want him. You want to show him all the wonderful things he does in fact deserve.

Like the picturesque breakfast you cook him after you do wake up next to him in the morning. Like the tender way you rewrap his dressings as the afternoon sun gleams in white columns through your window. Like the first day he spends completely sober and well-fed in a long time.

“I don’t know if I deserve it.” All this, he means. You, and how wonderful you are. He says it again and again.

“I don’t care if you don’t deserve it.” You secure the butterfly clip in the crook of his elbow and meet his eyes. Far off. Waning sunshine. “Wanna give it to you anyway.”

For a moment the sunshine returns, and for the first time in a long time, if not ever, you see it reach his eyes. They don’t look so sad. Big, brown, maybe hopeful. Maybe sweet with preemptive regret. You hug Osamu in the still air of your apartment.

“Stay,” you whisper.

He hugs you back, limply, like he’s scared to break you. He trembles out, “I will.”

#bsd dazai x reader #dazai x reader #osamu dazai x reader #dazai smut #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd smut #angelzai original.ᐟ #devilzai hours.ᐟ

[angelzai]

closer

i wanna fuck you like an animal!

NSFW CONTENT - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 1.6k

cw: switch!atsushi, d/s dynamics, gn+ada!reader, teasing, corruption kink, overstimulation, dry humping, mentions of edging and semi-public sex, dirty talk, name calling both ways (whore, slut, bitch, good boy, pretty, mine), spit, choking, unprotected sex, cum, everything is safe mostly sane and absolutely consensual just filthy and fucking nasty sorry

reid: what was supposed to be a <500 word blurb/concept turned into uh this. whoopsie! but come onnnnnn nnhggghsshnghhh sweet tiger boy i just wanna make him feral. lowercase intended

. . . .ᐟ

he’s so beautiful. he looks like an angel, with his silver hair and wide, pretty eyes. it’s hardly your fault that he caught your attention from the moment dazai dragged him into the office.

and he’s far from naive to the capacity this world has for destruction, dazai tells you. and yet, you watched the way he threw himself at that bomb so selflessly. the way he flustered at the barrage of praise for being so qualified, so compassionate, such a perfect fit for the agency.

you watch atsushi for weeks to come as he blushes at any physical contact or verbal affection from anyone. you watch the way he stumbles into your desk and knocks over a cup of pens. he drops a few of his papers in the process, begins apologizing profusely, and reaches to tidy up your space before worrying about his own things. he’s stuttering as you help. your hand brushes his and he seems to glitch before smiling and saying sorry for that, too. you say it’s okay and bite down on the inside of your cheek; it’s all you can do to stifle the amusement from creeping onto your face. he’s just so cute.

you want to ruin him.

you know that, despite that angelic exterior, he already knows depravity.

but the depravity that he knows - as you come to understand from talking to him, going on assignments with him, helping him acclamate to the office - is violent. neglectful. he’s had hostility misplaced upon him for as long as he can remember. the horror he’s been exposed is what made him so meek and obedient, you deduce, and it breaks your heart a little bit, because you know there's an animal underneath all that.

you want to show him the good - the pleasure - to be found in the depraved.

so it begins with your invitations to meet at the café before and after work. you have sweet conversations; you banter and flirt and talk about life with him and bat your eyes and he gets all blushy and tries to talk back, but he's just too inexperienced. he's never had someone care to get close to him quite like this! and even though he likes it, likes you, he can't deny that you make him nervous.

you make your way into his proximity at work by plopping yourself on his desk to toy with his fingers or kissing his jaw when you pass him in the hallway. he's enthralled - with the sparkle in your eye, your hand brushing his waist, the wink you send him when kunikida berates you both for slacking off - and it barely takes any time at all. you make it all just subtle enough that it leaves him squirming with this unfamiliar ache.

you soon catch a glimpse of a certain ferocity in him; dazai's making you laugh a little too hard one day, and something in atsushi snaps.

he takes care to clock both of you out exactly as your shift ends, neither of you lingering in the usual way that you would, before dragging you along behind him back to the dormitory.

“atsushi? are you alright?”

he doesn't answer, just yanks you inside his apartment. you don't have time to breathe before his lips are on yours, messy and unpracticed.

“i want you to be mine,” he gasps into your mouth, pressing his hips to yours.

he wants you to be his, huh?

you chuckle, more than happy to oblige. you tell him you don't know if he realizes what he's in for, and he says he doesn't care. he wants you.

and it continues with his increasing neediness. he needs to know you still want him, needs to know you still like him, needs to know he’s enough. and the cruelest part is that you work him up - you let him wonder.

you let him wonder until he can’t take it anymore.

you send him coy smiles. you teach him how to use his tongue while he kisses you. you stroke his thigh under the table at meetings, wrap your arms around him just to squeeze his ass, shamelessly plant kisses on his neck in public, and it has him painfully hard when he shouldn’t be. atsushi understands what you’re making him feel - what he doesn’t understand is how deliberately you’re doing it, or where he should go from here.

he’s late one day. he’s never late. he’s a good boy, always fulfilling his duties on time and with a smile, so it’s alarming for the others in the office (save for kunikida, who’s annoyed) that he’s absent without warning.

so you make your way over. his apartment’s unlocked; his coat’s crumpled on the floor beneath the rack next to his untied shoes, almost as if he went to leave but then doubled back for something he forgot. you hear . . . something coming from his bedroom, and you call his name before going to investigate.

and you find him face down in his futon with his hips grinding furiously against the comforter bunched up between his legs. what's more? he’s crooning your name.

and you grin. you’re one step closer to accomplishing what you’ve been wanting for weeks.

“feel good, atsu?”

the yelp he lets out is adorable. he scrambles to flip himself over, cover himself up; you lean against his doorframe, arms crossed, and he pelts you with apologies. he’s sorry! he’s so sorry you’re seeing this! what are you doing here? how’d you get in? why are you looking at him like that? he’s redder than you’ve ever seen him, his chest is heaving, and all you can do is tsk.

skipping out on work to hump his bed at the thought of you? how filthy he is, you tell him. as you approach him you take note of the concerning amounts of cum staining his blankets, smearing across his stomach and chest, dripping down his fingers.

“well,” you say, “don’t stop just ‘cause I’m here.”

he almost cowers under your gaze as the worlds tumble out of his mouth.

“please, please just help me!” he begs you, whining your name. “you make me feel so- so- you're the reason I'm- ugh, I can’t- I need you to t- touch me! please, it hurts so bad . . .”

so you do, disregarding the cast of waiting characters who will undoubtedly see through whatever excuse you come up with when you return to the office with atsushi, flushed and clinging to you, in tow.

and after the first taste, he’s insatiable.

"please, please please please make me cum, please . . . !" "I'm yours! I'm all yours, I'm your good boy . . . !" "want it s' bad, I want it s' bad . . . !"

he wants you on him all the time. everyone's going out for lunch? he'll look at you, begging you to stay at the office with him so you can ride him on the couch. he drags his hand across your desk on his way to the bathroom as his way of saying meet me. ranpo charges someone, anyone, with a snack run since he's too lazy to do it himself, and atsushi's burning holes into you with his gaze, silently pleading for you to offer to take him with you and go so you can find somewhere on the way to suck him off.

and for the most part, he's so good for you. he quiets down when you clamp your hand over his mouth and tell him to shut his whore ass up before someone hears. he accepts your edging and your overstim in stride, thanking you when you let him cum, biting back his complaints when you don't. he takes everything you give him; whether he's your nasty little slut or your good boy he agrees, he worships your body every chance he gets, he laps up the spit you dribble onto his tongue. he's a dream. he's an angel. and he's usually so good.

but when he's bad, he's terrible. and it's just as beautiful.

"this is your fault," atsushi growls into your mouth as he’s fucking his third? fourth? load into you, so overstimulated that there’s tears running down his sweet face but so entranced by the way his dick disappears into you that he can't stop. you dig your nails into his arm and stroke his face with your other hand and giggle through your moans because it is your fault. you made him like this.

he eventually realizes how easily he can overpower you. he realizes he can pull you in by your shirt collar and call you a needy little bitch just as simply as you can him; he's a smart boy, atsushi, and it takes him a minute, but he figures you out. you're choking him? he's doing it back, and he's got a shit-eating smirk on his face as he leans in again to kiss you, hungry and well-taught. he stops twiddling his thumbs and looking at you with the word please on his face and starts sinking his teeth into your neck when he wants, sitting you on his thigh when he wants, spitting in your mouth when he wants. he learns he's allowed to take, too, and this is when you know you've freed the animal from its cage.

"you're mine. you're mine, you're mine, I love you . . . !" "jus' like that, jus' like that, you're takin' me so good . . . !" "we're done when I say we're done, pretty . . . !"

and it repairs that crack in your heart to know that he feels loved and cared for enough to ask for what he wants from you. at the end of the day, it's debatable who has who wrapped around their finger . . . sure, you ruined him first, but he's more than eager to return the favor. <3

#atsushi x reader #atsushi nakajima x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #atsushi smut #bsd atsushi x reader #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs smut #angelzai original.ᐟ #devilzai hours.ᐟ #mdni

[angelzai]

This was coming and I'm sorry about it but-

I need some brain rot on Akutagawa so I wanted to ask if you could do the nsfw alphabet for him as well, please? you can also do just a few letters if you can't manage the whole thing <3

nsfw alphabet - ryuunosuke akutagawa . . . .ᐟ

wc: 2.7k

cw: switch leaning dom!aku, rough aku, gn!reader, spanking, cum eating, creampie, clothed sex, edging, brat taming, dirty talk, nicknames (angel, doll, darling, ryuu), light bondage/choking/impact play, marking, toys, mention of face fucking, inappropriate use of rashomon lol

reid: my lovely niko im so sorry about the wait! i wanted to do the whole thing for u ehehehe i hope you enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

a = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

soft sweetie

he’s not super intuitive when it comes to reading what you need, but he’ll ask

tell him, he’s on it

very apologetic if he was rough - he’s got his own little awkward way of being sweet and coming back down to earth with you

“you alright, angel? do you need anything? ‘m sorry if i got a little carried away. you were perfect for me, okay?”

b = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

ASS MAN

adores your ass <3

loves the way his fingers sink into the plush of your asscheeks. loves the jiggle whether it's big or small. loves holding you by your ass even nonsexually. it's just so grabbable, so smackable

he likes his own hands - let him finger you from behind so he can spank and admire your ass while he makes you cum

c = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

he thinks his cum is a nuisance

he’s nervous to cum in you, feels guilty cumming on you, kind of hates the feeling of cumming in his hand - it’s just something to clean up after, he’s indifferent to it.

your cum, however

he wants to drown in it.

your cum is the hottest thing ever to him. squirt on his stomach while he fucks you. make a mess on his fingers. cream on his tongue. he’ll lap it up like it’s nectar.

reassure him what you’re comfortable with when it comes to his - you insist you want him to cum on your face? well, okay, he’s gotta admit you look so pretty on your knees with your tongue lolled out and your lashes fluttering. anywhere else on you? are you sure? he doesn’t want you to feel gross. in you??? god, don’t even make him think about it - i think he’s partially afraid that he’ll find it so sexy and it’ll feel so good to fill you up that he’ll never want to stop. he can’t let you make him any weaker than you already have.

have a firm discussion about that shit and lock those legs around his waist in missionary. he’s a changed man after

d = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

he's very conscious of his body and will probably prefer to have sex with clothes on a lot of the time

not that he doesn't want to see your body - he absolutely does - he just doesn't want to make you feel awkward by insisting you be fully naked while he keeps his shirt on

you might be able to draw this out of him, but don't count on it; he'll probably write it off as a kink thing

(worship his body until he loves it as much as you do, please)

e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

V I R G I N

i know, i know. again. i know.

but listen. he just doesn’t really have time to focus on this kind of stuff! not that it never crosses his mind, but until he meets you it’s just something he doesn’t spare a passing glance at

he’s certainly had opportunities among the cohort of the mafia, but he’s just. . .not interested in other people

he’s interested in you, though <3

he gets off very quickly when you first start going at it - he’ll happily build up his restraint though (tie his hands behind his back and edge him til he cums untouched <3), especially if it means making you feel good

takes some practice and instruction, but everything you tell him gets burned into his mind. he can make you fall apart in minutes after a few weeks of getting to know your body

f = favorite position (this goes without saying)

missionary or doggy - he can’t pick because they’re both so different and have their own perks

missionary? he can palm your chest, hold your cheeks, bite your collarbones, kiss your lips, and watch the way your face grows more and more fucked out with each thrust

doggy? he can grip your ass, pin your arms behind your back, pull you up by your hair, trace the expanse of your back, and reach so deep in you

probably doggy, actually - he loves watching your ass jiggle while he's blowing your back out <3

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

not goofy, but sassy.

he's serious about it too - can you say brat tamer?

prefers you to alleviate the tension so he can run with his power dynamic <3 mouth off to him a little! make jokes! it makes it easier for him to put you back in your place and believe me, he enjoys doing it

“what was that? think you’re funny? we’ll see how funny you think you are when you can’t walk tomorrow.”

“try to talk back with cock in your mouth.”

“crying now? this is what you asked me for, angel.”

h = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

coarse black hair that he prefers to remove entirely, even if he’s not sexually active

it’s just a distraction/buffer from watching how deliciously he slides in and out of you

he’d wouldn’t ask you to remove yours if you really didn’t want to - i think he prefers a little hair on his partner anyway - but he likes how it looks and feels on him

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he’s a little unpracticed in romance and he loses himself easily - he can be rather rough and selfish when he’s chasing his own pleasure

when he slows himself down and puts his focus solely on your pleasure, however, it seems to come so easily to him that you wouldn’t think he’s all that inexperienced

he does call you by your name a lot during sex, along with a few nicknames <3 his favorites are angel, darling, and doll

goes out of his way every once in a while to set the mood super right just because it’s something he enjoys and feels like he should do for you. the whole shebang with candles and silk sheets! maybe some aphrodisiac chocolates or a surprise involving something you’ve mentioned wanting to try in the bedroom - when he pays attention you’ll feel like the luckiest partner in the world

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

doesn’t do it much - refer to the top of letter c.

when he does, though -

and okay, okay maybe this is my bias showing -

but i think we have another pillow humper here. . .

just THINK with me for a second about how pretty a sight it would be to walk in on him - he’s not usually so pent up that he can’t wait for you, but maybe you’ve been gone a few days on an assignment. you arrive back in yokohama early, but you don’t even check your phone because you’re exhausted; you just walk through the door of your apartment to hear heavy breathing and shuffling from your room

so you fumble to your bedroom doorframe. . .just to find aku on his knees, straddling your bunched up pillow

his button-up hangs open and you can see his stomach flex as he rides the pillow furiously, his dick leaking through his boxers - you catch a glimpse of his pretty, uninhibited face as he breathes your name into a moan

before he sees you and scrambles beneath a blanket, of course

all you can do is giggle and make your way over to him - sure, you’re tired, but you’ve kept your boy waiting so long! the least you can do is help him get off since he’s obviously so desperate for you, right?

“aww, ryuu, couldn’t wait for me? no, no, keep going, show me how you’d get off on my lap.”

you’ll get it for teasing him, but it’s worth it <3

k = kink (one or more of their kinks)

bondage!!!

impact play!!!

marking!!!

rashomon’s a big help here - you don’t need rope, and tying is easy!

tie him up, let him tie you up - he’s a fan of either - he could be a rigger or a rope bunny depending on both of your moods.

he’s not opposed to rope, though - the work and the sensuality that goes into it is often more rewarding. plus, he just thinks you look wonderful with a silk rope harness around your chest <3

when you’re not tied, don’t be afraid to smack him around a little. bite him, slap him, choke him, scratch him up. he’s tough, he can take it, and he won’t mind doing it back if you’re into it, too.

he’s a quiet guy, but he likes sound! the wet pap, pap, pap! of your skin against his while he fucks you is just heavenly to him

bigggggg big fan of spanking you as punishment <3 be bratty, get spanked

(he’ll always take care of your after)

(plus, he swears the marks you leave on him are darker, harsher, and last longer after he punishes you - just how he wants them <3)

l = location (favorite places to do the do)

at home, in bed. he’s a simple guy

optimal for privacy, optimal for intimacy, optimal for snoozing or cooking a meal after <3

(i think he also just enjoys being domestic with you. having sex in your home, cooking in your kitchen after, sleeping in your bed. . .)

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

seeing you in any position of authority

it’s odd because he prefers to be dominant. maybe it’s the thought of putting you in your place, or being the only one to have you at his mercy. he’s not sure but either way, he likes seeing his partner in charge and maybe a little frustrated or bossy <3

you’re heading a report? giving an assignment to your squad during a meeting? in charge of any sort of coordination? you’re getting fucked after. he can’t help himself - you’re so hot and you’re all his.

say his full first name. he knows it’s a mouthful, no pun intended, and he loves when you call him ryuu, don’t get me wrong. it makes him feel cared for a close to you, it’s so important to him

but when he’s in you, fuck - call him ryuunosuke and beg him for it harder. i promise you he’s trying not to cum right then and there

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

public sex

i think you could work him up to an empty-office, locked-door quickie but it’s absolutely not his favorite methodology and he won’t go any riskier than that

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

loves loves loves giving. there’s nothing he can find that he doesn’t like about it

in fact, it relaxes him

loves how you taste, loves how you sound, loves how you smell, loves fingering you and rubbing you while he does it to draw pretty whines out of you - it’s almost like stress relief for him

far from polite when receiving - he’s a face fucker, sorry y’all

he’ll always reward you handsomely after he uses your throat, promise <3

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

pretty rough, to be honest. it’s his nature - he’s done very few things in his life without violence and aggression, and he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t like the control it gives him.

he can certainly be gentle with you after you show him the ropes - otherwise, this is all he really knows

gentle or rough, he fucks fast. he comes to really love the lewd noises your bodies emit together that way <3

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

only at home, really. he’s not a fan of fucking where he could get caught

if you so please, he will split you open against your apartment door before you both leave for work

can’t deny how much he loves watching you disheveled, tucking your shirt back in, as you catch your breath before you lean up to kiss him and say you’ll see him later for more <3

r = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

not super down to get caught or be watched. he’s much more inclined to remind you you’re his in a place where you won’t be distracted by anything or anyone else

he’ll experiment kink-wise, especially with his existing kinks - if you let him use rashomon to bind your wrists, he only wants to see how much further you’ll let him take it from there <3

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

our chronically ill king, only one or two for him

his stamina isn’t great. but!!!

he can alternate between fingering you and eating you out for hours <3 and he often will

t = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

edge him with a cock ring on

just do it.

he’s impatient but he can’t deny how intense his orgasms are after you do this to him <3 he’ll bitch and whine and cry through it but he secretly loves it

will surely use toys on you if you’d like him to - i can’t see him owning anything other than maybe a plug or dildo he’s experimented with before (that’s a whole post of its own), so introduce him to whatever you’d like

u = unfair (how much they like to tease)

loves teasing, hates being teased.

he can dish it but he can’t take it. gets agitated and impatient when you’re dangling yourself in front of him and he can’t have you right away, but he’s nowhere near above flustering you in public, grazing his hands over your ass after you hug him, or tracing your jaw with a wandering finger for minutes at a time while he looks at you with bedroom eyes

he adores you when you’re worked up and unable to keep your hands off of him - aww, you want him? he won’t say this but it’s super cool ‘cause he loves feeling wanted. <3

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

he’s quiet on instinct - lots of silent screams and heaving breaths out of this one

only really moans when he’s ready to cum - this is part of the reason why edging him is so fun, because you can draw out sounds you’ve never heard from him before <3

whisper-mumbles to you through his climax

“fuck, that’s so good! s- so good, doll, thank you! fuck fuck fuck don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop i love you. . .!”

w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

on the topic of clothed sex - sometimes grinding through clothes is even hotter to him than penetration <3 there’s just something about how desperate it feels. . .

plop yourself on his lap to make out and grind on him desperately until you’re both cumming through your pants <3 nghhhh

x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

kind of hung and he doesn’t even realize it

girthy and almost 7 inches

two pretty veins that split off from each other on the underside <3

i think he curves up a little and gets a bit thinner at the tip

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

low to average - he doesn’t think about it all the time, and it mostly comes to his attention when you bring it up

regardless, he’s unlikely to turn you down even if he wasn’t particularly thinking of it at the moment. just because it isn’t consuming him doesn’t mean he’ll pass up an opportunity to be buried in you <3

z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

sleepy demon boy

he can bounce back from a blowjob, but after fucking you? whew now he calling me nyquil or whatever nicki minaj said

within minutes, baby

hold him and kiss him while he dozes off <3 he'll mumble and grumble about how much he loves you until he's out

#akutagawa x reader #akutagawa ryunosuke x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #akutagawa smut #akutagawa headcanons #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs smut #angelzai original.ᐟ #devilzai hours.ᐟ #reid’s angels.ᐟ #tehe this was fun i need to write for him more

[angelzai]

bitch

we do things a different way, it's up to you and it's up to me, i'm your bitch, you're my bitch . . . !

NSFW CONTENT - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 3k

cw: dom!atsushi, gn!afab!+ada!reader, dazai being an asshole, established relationship, teasing, nicknames (darling, pretty, bitch), use of cunt/clit/hole/cock/dick, begging, fingering, penetration, unprotected sex, rough sex, choking, orgasm denial, praise, creampie, cum eating, questionable confessions upon climaxing? FILTH FILTH FILTH

reid: my dazai shrine is more of a dazai and atsushi shrine at this point…oops anyway ENJOY hahaha

. . . .ᐟ

For as much affection as Atsushi holds for his mentor, the bandaged man is also the bane of his existence.

It's apparent in situations like this - ones where Dazai has once again made some sort of good-natured poke at your relationship with Atsushi, and the white-haired boy can't help but cross his arms and try to stay stone-faced while he blushes. The worst part is you always giggle along with his elder.

Not that Atsushi’s particularly embarrassed when it comes to discussing your relationship with your coworkers. Rather, what bothers him is the way Dazai and the others have ran with the narrative that Atsushi’s your loyal cat, you have him under your thumb, you wear the pants, blah, blah, blah.

He blames himself, partially. He let them go so far with the jokes and the teasing and his gentle, docile nature toward others. Everyone seems to assume now that it’s all true. Atsushi just doesn’t know how to dispel these conceptions, no, misconceptions that he alone is your pet, your baby, that he’s submissive to you somehow, without being vulgar or crude.

Because you both know that’s not always true.

But it’s no one else’s business, really. Sure, he brings you your coffee just how you like it every morning, and sure, your first instinct after stressful missions and assignments is to fold him into a hug and let him collect himself in your arms. Sure, you take good care of him and he likes to give that appreciation back. Sure, he picks up your extra paperwork when you’re just too tired.

But today, when Dazai looks up from stirring his coffee to coo and remark, “It’s just so cute that Atsushi’s your little bitch,” it stirs something in your weretiger that he doesn’t find appropriate to express at the table in the café, surrounded by his colleagues.

So he sits there and takes it like he always does. Sure, you never give into prodding at him quite like Dazai encourages you to, but you don’t deny it. You still laugh. Even while you’re pink in the cheeks too, you nudge your lover under the table and will him to play along.

And he does, for the most part. He sends you sheepish smiles while he taps his foot, tries to wipe the flush from his face, even laughs along to mask his irritation.

Until he can get you home and prove them wrong to the only person that really matters - you.

“God, my head’s starting to hurt so bad. Think I looked at the computer for too long today,” Atsushi says a little shakily. It’s true that it was an office-heavy day; whether or not his comment is a cop-out is lost on you.

You turn to him. “I’ll get you some water from the bar and we can head home, sound good? I’m actually pretty tired, too.”

The smile he flashes you is pure as can be. “I would love that, my darling.”

Dazai glances between the both of you as you usher Atsushi out of the booth. Your superior turns to strike up a conversation with Kunikida about how, yeah, his head hurts too! Why do you give us so much work, Ku-ni-ki-da-kun?

The sweet barista slides you a cup of water; you thank her and wave goodbye to your coworkers as the bell above the door sings your departure.

Atsushi tangles his free hand with yours as he sips his water intently. You swing your arms a bit along the slight breeze. “Good thing I just picked up some more tylenol. I knew we were running lo-”

“Dazai annoys the shit out of me sometimes,” your lover interrupts you. You blink a few times. It’s rare for Atsushi to be so forward with such a sentiment. Unless he’s really pissed. Or, unless-

“Yeah, he can be a little much with the teasing,” you agree, looking ahead. “If it’s uncomfortable, Atsu, I’ll tell him to tone it down, and I’m sure he would. He’s a dick, but he’s not that much of a dick.”

“No, it’s not that it’s…” He swallows, withdrawing a bit. “Uncomfortable, I just… don’t understand what’s with the, uh… you know.”

You quirk your head toward him. “The…?”

He groans a little. “The way they all assume I’m your bitch.”

You pause for a moment.

Then, you chuckle a bit. “Oh, that’s what it’s about.”

Atsushi whips his head to glare at you wide-eyed.

“Yeah, it is.”

You’re silent the rest of your walk. You’re silent as you jiggle your key in the lock to your dorm. You’re certainly aware that Atsushi can be dominant when he wants to. He knows you’re aware of this.

“Well,” you muse innocently as you rummage around in one of your kitchen cabinets as he shuts the door abruptly and pulls his shoes off, “I don’t exactly know how to tell them otherwise, Atsu. You wanna tell ‘em what we get up to?” You shake a couple pills into his hand - whether or not the headache was genuine is still beyond you until he backs you toward the counter, slams his meds and empty cup beneath his palms, and cages you into a feverish kiss.

No headache, you conclude. You lock your arms around his neck and smile into him.

There’s nothing humorous, however, in the way he scoops you up by your ass - you yelp because you’re always caught off guard by his effortless strength - and carries you until he can drop you on your back onto your futon.

Atsushi’s warm lips don’t leave yours for a second as he wedges a knee between your legs and presses into you hard without hesitation. Your gasp lets his tongue behind your teeth. Your eyes slip open as his hands work in the space between your hips and your shoulders and you realize he’s serious. He wants them to know the truth.

“Everyone thinks you’ve got me whipped. And they’re right,” Atsushi’s nearly growling into your mouth as he makes quick work of your tie and button up. “But sometimes it seems like you forget-” He captures your bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back to stare down at you. “-you’re just as needy for me.”

With that, he starts down your neck.

The kisses he presses there are more of bites - he laps at them, soothing each blooming red patch with his hot tongue. You grab at his hair.

“Gonna let me remind you of that, huh?” His fingers are undoing your belt, and he’s leaning back to look down at you.

Of course, you look gorgeous, nodding obediently as your hands fall back on either side of your head. Atsushi works you out of your pants. Already breathless, you reach for his clothes, too. You really could undo him with the simplest of touches, the softest of looks; he was determined, however, to live up to his words. He was going to remind you.

You barely get his shirt all the way unbuttoned before he’s circling your cunt with two fingers.

You gasp once more.

“So wet.” It’s an observation he makes almost every time; it makes you go red no less.

It’s really a sight, your weretiger so fiery and assertive. You understand why people tend to take him for a softie; they don’t know him like you do, though, and the thought makes you grin as he works you open on his hand. Your hands fly to your mouth as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and looks down at you wildly.

Atsushi’s so pretty with his hair mussed and his abs flexing in anticipation. His fingers sink into you with fervor.

“Atsu,” you croon out as he curls inside you. “Oh, fuck.”

He’s concentrated as he yanks his pants down and off with one hand and stretches you out with the other. His multitasking comes to a halt as his cock hits his stomach - you’re empty again, his fingers leaving you with a pop!

He lets you lean up to push his shirt off his shoulders, but the second you reach for him, he smacks your hands away.

“Nuh-uh. Gonna do it my way,” he tells you, grabbing you by the hips to pull you up and flush against his pelvis - with this, your back hits the futon again, and you’re breathless once more from his manhandling. His eyes are dark, dual-tone sinking like a sunset as he stares down your body like you’re a god.

Your knees have bent on instinct - Atsushi takes one of your ankles and hooks it over his shoulder before pressing his tip against your waiting hole.

You must make a face, because he grins wickedly.

“Already got your eyes rollin’ back and I’m not even in you yet.” It’s his turn to laugh, and his laugh is meant to mock you. Mock your laughing from earlier. Mock Dazai. Mock everyone who thinks you don’t completely belong to him.

He pushes his silver bangs back and grinds his cock against you.

Your hips roll. You can’t help it - there’s a sheen of sweat on Atsushi’s forehead already, and he’s rolling his bottom lip between his teeth again. He looks like an angel. Your other leg wraps around his waist in attempt to pull him closer, to get him inside you, but he just holds you by one thigh, one hip, and keeps grinding into your clit torturously.

“You want it, pretty?”

You nod furiously - he won’t not give it to you. He can’t hold himself back when it comes to you, you’re sure.

“Better say please.”

“Please,” you keen. “Want you to fuck me, please.”

He keeps grinding. He keeps looking down at you. He grips you harder.

“A- Atsu,” you continue. “Please. Please, please, please.”

But he just keeps looking at you.

“I want it, please,” you keep going, keep drawing milky noises from between you both in your pathetic attempt at friction, unsure of what he’s looking for.

Your weretiger’s jaw sets.

Among your frantic humping, you let everything you can think tumble out.

“Please, fuck me, Atsu! Claim me, please. ‘M yours, I’m all yours, I want it, I want it, just fuck me like you own me, please-“

That’s what he’s looking for.

It’s all he needs to plunge into you. He sets a brutal pace and you arch, your whining, moaning, and sobbing underscoring the rhythmic smack, smack, smack! of his hips against yours.

And he fucks you like this for what feels like forever.

Atsushi’s hands alternate between your waist, your nipples, your neck, your ass, your single calf and other hip, your clit, over the next twenty? thirty? minutes. It’s hard to tell how long he drills into you - after the first time he pulls his hand off your twitching clit to put your orgasm off further, time is far beyond your grasp.

He denies you thrice more, laughing through his groans. He’s looking at you in the most condescending way possible through the haze of utter love he feels for you all the time - especially right now - hoping he’s made his point as he tells you no, not yet, so good for me, gotta make sure you know whose you are, one more for me, you’ll cum when I tell you to, pretty.

Something about today must’ve really gotten to him - it’s undoubtedly the longest his patience has spread through his words and commands, some new, some old, some making you clench around him like a virgin.

“You’re cock drunk-” Atsushi pulls a hand off the calf next to his face and licks his fingertips before reaching down to play with you once more. “-every- hah- every time I’m in you. You love this dick.”

“Ah- ah- ah- ‘tsu!” You’re incoherent against his pace - you’re giving him everything you can, really. He’s relentless right now. “Y- yes!”

“That’s fuckin’ right. Hah-” He rubs you hard and fast while he impales you on him. ‘“Wanna hear you say it.”

There’s a tinge of a whine in his command - a tinge that, if he wasn’t fucking you out of your skin right now, would’ve made you smirk. His insistence that he can take control and keep it would’ve usually made you snicker, but right now Atsushi has one hand driving you steadily toward heaven, the other gripping your neck, and his two-toned eyes are burning almost completely violet beneath his creased brow as he awaits your response. All you can give him is strangled breath.

“Nngh- huh- ah!”

It’s like a switch flips for a moment. He circles his hips, trying to let you catch a break to speak, but his grinding against that one spot inside you coupled with his fingers on your pulse in two places barely gives you the chance - you claw into his biceps as he slows to a brief stop. Neither of you know if the whimper you let out is one of relief for a lull or pain at the loss of his thrusts.

You can tell he’s biting at the inside of his cheek before he slides his hand up to your jaw and hunches forward to kiss you fully and sweetly on the lips. The look in his eyes as he pulls back is chaste compared to how he’s still throbbing inside you.

“You okay, pretty?” He traces the shell of your ear with his finger. The flecks of green in his gaze sparkle momentarily. There’s the Atsushi everyone knows and loves.

You let out a final huff and squeeze his arms reassuringly before you answer. “More than okay. Just winded.”

The smile he sends you is alight with nothing but adoration.

Atsushi kisses you again, this time on the forehead where he mumbles a quiet good, and strokes your face. He shifts himself around a little, giving you a second while you mutter about how good he feels, how he should please keep fucking you, how much you want him to make you cum.

When he pulls himself upright again, the flecks of green are lost in the violet once more.

“Now that you got your voice back-“ His fingers still ghost across your cheek, teasing gently toward your lips. He lets out a single sigh, too. “-I said I wanna hear you say it.”

“Fuck it out of me,” you challenge.

Atsushi draws his lips together, shakes his head, and picks back up where he left off, angling as deep as he can reach. He’s entranced by the way your cunt swallows him, soaks him - your words ring in his head as he thumbs at your clit again.

“Say it,” he snarls.

You’re rocking madly against his hand and his cock - you’re close again, he can tell from the way you’re babbling anything but what he’s asking you to, if not from the way you rake your nails down his arms.

“I’ll let you cum when you say it.” Atsushi shakes your leg off his shoulder to push it back against you, along with your other one. “Need you to say it.”

“Love you, Atsu-“ you tease him. “Love you, fuck!”

“Say it!” He cries your name and doubles over, his elbow landing on one side of your head as he pounds you impossibly harder. “Say it, say it, say it, say it, please.”

Finally, you’re able to muster up that smirk. He can’t see it - his face is buried in your neck; he’s watching the way you ripple beneath the tight back-and-forth swipes across your clit.

You’re shaking - you want to hold off for as long as you can, get back at him for denying you so many times, but the feeling is too all-encompassing from the way Atsushi reaches your guts and abuses your clit and breathes into your shoulder that you have to - plus, he asked so nicely! You just have to let him get what he wants.

“I love this dick, Atsu,” you sob. “L- love this dick. Would die for this dick- ngh- Wanna- ah! Ah!”

“Fuck, th- thank you.”

Silver hair falls over your eyes. Atsushi’s hips stutter in time with yours.

A white-hot shimmer rolls over you as your weretiger pushes you over the edge - you thank him back, you tell him you love him, you curl your legs around his hips and swear you go blind for a moment as he fucks his cum into you, wet, warm, squelching.

“Fuck-“ Atsushi’s cursing between your name, “Fuck, you feel so good. So good for me. Fuck! Love you, love you, I love you-“

You feel a few tears in the crook of your neck - you know he was just as desperate as you - and Atsushi doesn’t stop moving until you’re glazed over and squirming numbly, kicking at him with what minimal strength you have left, pulling his face toward yours for a kiss.

His vigor is spent - his other arm supports him as you cup his face, tuck his single long strand of hair behind his ear, and press your panting mouth to his.

The kiss is long and sweet. Atsushi twitches inside you; you feel slick dripping down the curve of your ass toward your sheets, but can’t find it in you to care. You just kiss your man, gently, softly, breathlessly.

Atsushi finally pulls back, sits up on his knees. He dips two fingers in the mixture of cum leaking out of you and licks them clean.

He leans down to kiss you one more time; you taste both of you on his tongue. “Hope you know you’re my bitch just as much as I am yours.”

In all actuality, you scarcely need reminding, but you’ll happily crumble beneath him every time he asks because you love seeing him in the way he was minutes ago - sweaty, disheveled, knuckles white, jaw slack as he pumps you full of his cum and tells you you’re so good for him, you make him feel so good. It’s worth it to know he feels loved and cared for; it’s worth it to know he feels like he can give that back to you.

Even after all that, he’s still grinning wickedly.

Yeah, you’re going another round. Maybe this time you’ll really show him who he belongs to.

#atsushi nakajima x reader #atsushi x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #atsushi smut #angelzai original.ᐟ #devilzai hours.ᐟ #mdni

[angelzai]

the less i know the better

. . . a dazai x reader x atsushi smau .ᐟ

based on this prompt courtesy of @kyozalot (´ω`)

. . . in which you’ve fallen head over heels for dazai! but . . . maybe the one for you is actually watching from the sidelines?

CHAPTER I: coming soon . . .

CHAPTER II: coming soon . . .

CHAPTER III: coming soon . . .

CHAPTER IV: coming soon . . .

CHAPTER V: coming soon . . .

CHAPTER VI: coming soon . . .

CHAPTER VII: coming soon . . .

. . .

hi all! smau incoming! and based on such a lovely prompt! i don’t have a planned schedule for posting - i will likely simply post as i crank each chapter out since i am both studying and working full time. i kindly ask for your patience and that you please also bear with me as this is my first shot at a multichapter smau. hoping this will be a fun adventure for all of us! stay tuned and comment if you’d like to be tagged <;3

#dazai x reader #osamu dazai x reader #bsd dazai x reader #atsushi x reader #atsushi nakajima x reader #bsd atsushi x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd smau #bungou stray dogs smau #dazai smau #atsushi smau #angelzai original.ᐟ #reid speaks.ᐟ

[angelzai]

sweet

we don’t need to say it to each other, sweet

wc: 1k

cw: gn!reader, soft!chuuya, alcohol, cigarettes, the tiniest bit suggestive, pure domestic fluff

reid: a little chuuya love because truth be told he is precious too. enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

One of the easiest ways to break down his hardened exterior was with that nickname.

"Ginny," you called as the hall light flooded your living room with warmth. No sooner than it appeared did it leave, replaced by the shifting and rustling of shoes, a coat, a hat. The connected kitchen was dim with the stovetop light and nothing else. Your water was boiling. The smell of red sauce grew stronger the closer he padded toward you to wrap around your middle.

Either he was tired or the nickname had subdued him quickly enough because any typical grumbling about what an exhausting work day that was was foregone in favor of a soft, humming kiss to your shoulder. You decided you could turn away from your noodles for a moment.

"Ginny," you cooed again, tiptoeing in a half circle to face your lover. "Hi."

If Dazai was still around you'd never get away with that nickname as often as you did. Luckily, he was gone before he had enough time to taint it. It was derived, between both you and the brunette, from the constant poking-at of the color of his hair - ginger - but Chuuya would only let something like that fly if it was from you. (He found it endearing more than he 'let it fly', but you didn't have to know everything.)

It was true, he was tired, and if it weren't for the two empty glasses already in place at the table and the steam bubbling and popping behind you, Chuuya would've insisted you come lay down with him right now so he could dip into sleep amid a cathartic gripe about his day with your fingers in his hair. There were very few hypothetical circumstances, however, in which Chuuya Nakahara would turn down wine and Italian food, and coming home to his baby and a freshly-opened pack of Seven Stars set by the recently cleaned-out ashtray, tired as he may be, was not one of them.

Trapped in his embrace, you curled your arms around him and brought his head to your shoulder. Chuuya released a deep sigh into the side of your neck, closed his eyes, and let the tip of his nose pass along your jawline. You tilted in compliance, and one more "Ginny" left you, a whisper this time.

Chuuya punctuated the little moment with a kiss to your cheekbone. "I'll pour wine, yeah?"

A soft giggle left you; you undid the buckle securing the choker around his neck before tucking it in his pocket. "Yeah. S'almost done."

A little speaker stuttered out The Dark Side of the Moon - Chuuya was never a big fan of old American psychedelic rock or musical soundscapes before you, but here he was, lighting up to the clang of grimy change. After a little deliberation, he pulled a bottle of Lambrusco from the cabinet - the one specifically for alcohol and nothing else - and strode back to the table. On the way, he passed the sink where you were straining the pasta and tucked the cigarette between your waiting lips.

No sooner than he stepped away, you were following him, and "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" begged into the space of the kitchen. Between each of your movements was a sizzling charge; suddenly, he felt more awake. The transfer of energy you blessed him with always took him by surprise. You were just placing the sauce pot on a trivet, he was just pouring wine, but it was a little magic dance. He found himself with the cigarette again. Stevie and Tom were fading out of the room, you were settling into your seat across from his, and the same lighter you both used for the smokes sparked up the candle at the center of the table. It was all a bit magic and horribly romantic, and so simple and so sensical, and he loved it. He did love coming home safe to you.

And over dinner, he watched you. You swayed side to side under his gaze and at the taste of your own creation. Smoke lingered. The sparkle of the wine died between your teeth, and you giggled more, much more, and Chuuya's chest was warm. Chuuya's face was warm and red and he almost forgot what he had been up to less than an hour before. Of course, the vino stole away his newfound verve. The longer he looked at you, the more his senses wanted to fall into bed with you and never leave. The longer you looked at him the same, the warmer he got. Late dinner, his pleasant little time loop. My very special one, he thought in time with Moe Tucker’s voice.

He hated to admit that when he stood the room was vibrating, but that's what three-plus glasses and the crushing softness of your eyes did to him. "After Hours" was a going-home song, after all, so he snuffed out the candle with his gloved fingers and let you pull him by the belt loops to your room, the speaker still droning be damned. You just wouldn't close the door, so it'd be a nice white noise to sink into the dark behind.

Soft synths and wavy guitars undressed him, spilled kisses down his neck; he breathed in the air, and it tasted like you. And you kissed him. And you kissed him and you kissed him until he couldn't keep his eyes open.

"Ginny," you said one last time, not even a whisper but a feather-light musing into those fiery locks. "Ginny, I love you."

"I love you, sweetheart." Most notably, Chuuya's heart was warm, under both your palm and the thick comforter. His home was under your palm, he supposed. He would've given it more thought if the fatigue in his bones and the meal in his belly weren't lulling him to sleep, never mind the intoxicants (the wine and your touch). He slept, and he wanted to never leave.

#bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x reader #bsd chuuya x reader #angelzai original.ᐟ

[angelzai]

plastic jesus

i don't care if it rains or freezes long as i got my plastic jesus sittin on the dashboard of my car!

wc: 1.5k

cw: gn! reader, dark era, alcohol, smoking, canon-typical violence, dazai-typical suicide mentions/attempts, language, fluff, crack?

reid: kind of chuuya's pov? he is so done with you both. bless his soul. you may also find this on my ao3 linked in my pinned. enjoy :)

. . . .ᐟ

The only other one to have been plucked up out of the dirt by the demon prodigy himself was that brat, Nakahara.

Okay, he wasn't that bad. He was a brat, yes, but you and Dazai certainly played your part in influencing him, and it wasn't like he'd ever take your place. Reason number one on a long list: the kid couldn't hold his liquor.

Teikyuu, some PM-adjacent bar, was your agreed-upon (by you and Dazai; Nakahara tagged along with only half of his own consent) haunt for the night. The interior was dark and decently crowded, dingy but cozy enough to be homely through the air of bar-typical disgust; a speaker pumped out bass from somewhere or another - it was reliable, wandering eyes minimal. When Dazai insisted on a fourth round of shots of American tequila, Nakahara laid his fiery head on the bar, groaning.

"What's wrong, Chibi-chan? Chibi-chan can't hang!" Dazai took every opportunity he could to taunt him. He reached across your lap to shove Nakahara's head upward, outward. "C'mon, Chibikko. You're a fuckin' bummer." Three more shot glasses, packets of salt, and lime slices were dealt in front of you.

Chuuya swatted him away, catching you in the crossfire. "Fuck off, dude, 'have s' much shit to do tomorrow." But shit to do would have to be done violently hungover, judging from the ginger's current state. You wedged yourself between the two before they could embarrass themselves.

"Chu-chan, you're whining," you chuckled, and his face grew as red as his hair.

"Am not! 'M not fucking whining," he insisted, but it sounded even whinier than before.

"Then do this shot with me." You nudged the little clear glass toward him while Osamu took up his own. Chuuya grumbled out a fine. There was one problem: Chuuya couldn't shoot his alcohol no matter how hard he tried, especially when he was already drunk. He didn't understand what the hell it was you two saw (or rather, tasted) in the rancid liquid that made you so eager to down it so cleanly. Regularly, his shots dribbled from the corners of his mouth onto his shirt, or he'd only get halfway through it, and he'd receive a firm reprimanding from one or both of you about wasting the precious substance. He preferred wine, or if he was in rare form cherry schnapps, but no one goes to the bar to drink wine! The two of you would never let him hear the end of it, so he drank the god damn tequila.

The three of you toasted to "your mom," having dedicated your previous three toasts to "this dick" (Osamu), "being enemies of the state" (you), and "how fucking much the two of you make me want to choke on my own vomit and die" (Chuuya). By the time you had downed yours, face clean and unmoved, Chuuya was still looking at his shot contemplatively.

"If you don't want it-"

He took it.

"'Atta boy, kid."

Both you and Osamu watched expectantly, enthusiastically for the recoil. Chuuya's face twisted up, and you poked the lime in his direction. When he coughed and looked toward you with teary eyes and a red nose, you and Osamu giggled like children.

"'S not-" He coughed a bit more. "'S not funny, assholes!"

But it was very funny to you, and the two of you only laughed harder as he hailed a cup of water. Amidst your fit, you nearly tipped your barstool backward - Chuuya might've moved to catch you if you weren't being so goddamn insufferable (and his head wasn't whirling), but his stomach barely had time to drop as Osamu was clumsily wrapping you, chair back and all, in his lanky arms, so short of breath from cracking up that he was almost wheezing. After you were upright again you continued to laugh for such a long time that Chuuya, in his disoriented and half-dissociated state, thought perhaps you'd both finally lost your god damn fucking minds. He was going to have to find his way home, hammered and alone, all because you and Osamu were flaming inebriated morons.

And then you got quiet. And Chuuya grew genuinely concerned, because the two of you were usually anything but (he'd learned that well enough from living sandwiched between both of your rooms in that crummy ass apartment building for the longest three-week period of his life). But you were just being even stupider now - foreheads pressed against one another as you calmed back into the steady drone of the bar music, whispering some things back and forth that he wasn't meant to hear.

Chuuya gagged audibly, and it had nothing to do with the taste in his mouth.

An hour and three shots later, you slipped your poor bartender a generous stack of bills and stumbled your way into the street. It was beyond Chuuya how you two seemed to be able to maintain a straight line as you walked - he trailed a bit behind you, feeling like the unfortunate lovechild of a pair of teen parents. You stopped to light up a cigarette (also an American brand) and he ran into you. He wanted to push back at the way you snorted, but he realized you were only doing so because he was toppling and you were holding him up. He bit back his bitching. You were stupid, sure, but he did let you drag him along after all, and his blood felt too hot and his mouth felt too sticky for him to send shots right now.

"You want a hit, Chu-chan?" But he waved you away because nicotine probably would've made him yark immediately.

Not once in Chuuya's short visceral life had he ever seen someone fluster Osamu Dazai until you, and vice versa. It made him nauseous to admit it was sort of cute, but even further, he'd never admit it made him nauseous because, truly, the two of you found joy in nauseating people with how in love you were. Though he'd never heard those words out of either of your mouths, it was excruciatingly obvious that you were two sides of the same coin. You looped your arm around his, Dazai took the other, and he trotted along in his stupor with your help, sandwiched in between you once again (and equally as annoyed about it as he was before). The smoke never left your fingers but Osamu hit it often, lifted to his lips above Chuuya's head. You guys talked about something, but he could barely keep up. He was fucking obliterated. All he knew was that your words joined seamlessly with Dazai's, your banter flowed like dual-colored beads being strung alternatingly down a cord, and the warmth between the two of you made him feel kind of soft. He knew that later in the early morning he'd be hunched over the toilet - he could picture it vividly, you would be pushing his hair back, Osamu would be calling him a pussy but rubbing his shoulder every so often, and it would be horribly gross and embarrassing and he'd feel like hot garbage - and yet, he'd undoubtedly still get the sense that he was sitting in the backseat of a honeymoon car.

He looked up at you once in the blur of the a.m. and took note of how rosily you glowed, and when he turned toward Dazai, it was like a mirror. Chuuya was aware of that list, too, and none of you were idiots - no matter how much Mori pushed it, no matter what Twin Dark even meant, you alone were the sole complement to Osamu, the dead ringer, the only one fully cognizant of and attuned to his turbulent unpredictability. Perhaps that was why you were heading toward the water with him now.

"You fuck!" one of you called; he wasn't sure which. Chuuya was too busy crumbling to the ground in a puddle of himself, sweaty and pinching your cigarette between his fingers. When had that gotten there?

And you chased Osamu off the rocks into the river, current unhurried, undemanding against both of your bodies when you fell in. Chuuya didn't think too much of it when you bobbed under, because he knew you'd come back up connected at the lips - no, ever since you, Dazai hadn't really wanted to kill himself. Not yet. He knew it that day you all went to get high at the beach when you asked him to jump in with you and he hesitated for the smallest second. Not human? Chuuya wanted to laugh. Dazai had suffered, yes, but Dazai had loved. That conceded dissent in that beat of silence was the most human thing one could hope to achieve, and god damn it, Dazai had done it, with everything he was, in the face of the human he loved the most. He'd jumped in with you anyway, but there was no intent to die.

Without fail, you both walked him back home, drenched.

#bsd dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #dazai x reader #bsd dazai #osamu dazai x reader #bsd osamu dazai #angelzai original.ᐟ

[angelzai]

love/paranoia

i've heard those words before

wc: 1.6k

cw: drug use (xanax, ecstacy), bonten!sanzu, gn!reader, angst and fluff, mentions of sex, side effects of drug use including but not limited to vomiting/nightmares/irritability/memory loss, soft sanzu

reid: another one with a lot of projection regarding drugs. not intended to romanticize substance abuse. dont do drugs please. no explicit sexual content in this one i guess but i'd still prefer mdni thank u enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

He insisted that rolling would help it, and before you could oppose the intake of another substance, he revealed he’d already cut up a whole capsule and parachuted it before he drove back. You wanted so badly to cry and scream and hold onto him to make him feel how intensely you were trembling, but it wasn’t like he’d be receptive enough to an outburst to learn from it anyway, so you didn’t bother. Also too was the soft, sudden stillness of his restless eyes as soon as yours started to glaze over with tears (you hated when he drove fucked up). Gentleness never escaped his hands when he held you, no matter how high he was – maybe this was an indication that you were too docile, too understanding, maybe even enabling of his habits – but you never let his capability slip your mind. How exhausting it sometimes was to love someone who, no matter how receptive to your emotions, might become unpredictably far away from you, just for a bar or two. Instead of pushing him away or looking at him with misplaced disappointment, though, you brushed his pink bangs out of his eyes and led him to the couch, working him out of his dress shirt and belt along the way. After all, you knew better than anyone around him (not saying much) that recovery was not linear.

Cherry blossom locks now tucked into your neck, you stroked his face and willed him to relax the muscles in his jaw that clenched and unclenched against your shoulder. He whimpered every so often and seldom kept his legs still, probably not consciously. The conversation that was to follow in the morning probably would not be any easier than if it took place now because the it he was trying to help was the month-long Xanax bender he’d been on; even when he was sober, he was making an effort to focus on anything other than whatever physical side effect was fighting relentlessly for his attention, whether it be a splitting headache, curdling nausea, or auditory hallucinations that he could no longer distinguish as results of whatever he’d fed himself or the erratic loss of sleep. Benzos sent him up so high that he couldn’t really even recall how they made him feel. He knew two things: that the crippling emptiness was gone when he was up there, and that his being up there rapid-fired bullets through your heart. A third thing, perhaps: if you loved him any less, you’d be gone.

There were still glimpses of Haruchiyo, no matter how high or low. Haruchiyo, ever the chaser of extremes. Haruchiyo and his unwavering loyalty. Haruchiyo and his promise to himself that he would never, ever harm you. Not intentionally, of course. And yet, it would still be hard. He would still cry and bicker and argue, even in the closest thing to a right state of mind he could achieve. He would still lock himself in the bathroom (which you had emptied of everything down to the gummy vitamins) because he couldn’t deal with it. He would still complain when you’d pat his clothes down before he’d go out, both of you knowing damn well he’d score something, anything while he was gone. But he’d never tell you to stop. He’d never get physical with you like he did the rats and snakes and opposers of the syndicate or anyone who wasn’t you or the king who dared to get within a foot of him, really. He could be violently passionate without drugs; it was just a matter of which way he wanted to lose his grip on sanity, fry his brain. Sink into the mental of a cold-hearted murderer, or become a bioweapon against his own body and mind? Perhaps, he thought during fleeting moments of clarity before he’d wonder who he could hit up next, he was worse than both and always would be, even if he got clean, because he let himself slip to the point where both were very viable, uncomfortably pressing futures. Maybe they were realities already, and it was only a matter of time before they caught up to him in his muddled awareness and swallowed him whole. In an ideal world, he’d be able to leave Mikey and the rest of them to burn and go kill himself with you using nothing but red wine and the adoration that burned between the two of you. His penchant for destruction terrified him; you were the only thing he’d ever touched without yet ruining completely. The thought that you might be scared of him too was what made him want out; if only it were that easy to just do. You weren’t blind to this, having stood witness to the cracks in his mask, and each time they split a little further, and that was why you did your best to understand his rationale for popping molly to counteract the benzo hangover.

There was a glimpse of Haruchiyo in the way he clawed for your hand that rested on his cheek. In the way he shoved his lips to your palm. In the way he mumbled something largely incoherent into it (something he did long before he started using). (You caught “want you to know” and “after today” and “love you very, very much”.) Regardless of the gravity of the situation or what he had coursing through his system, you’d always giggle into his hair and tell him you love him back.

He didn’t not want your love. He was pretty sure he needed it. He was not convinced he deserved it.

Not when you were holding his hair back as he vomited into the kitchen sink. Not when you were massaging the ache of pins and needles out of his limbs. Not when you were kissing the tear tracks off his face in the middle of the night to wake him up slowly but surely from the delirious night terrors he was having. He thanked whatever was conducting the universe that he was still rational enough to recognize how wonderful you were. He looked at you like you could soothe even the worst of all evils borne of human selfishness. Oh, you were so selfless for him. He hated it, he needed it, and it was undoubtedly the reason he was still alive.

“Haru,” wisped your voice into his ear, and if it was possible for him to sink further into you, he would’ve.

He hummed in response.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

But the drone and flicker of the television in the dark living room was at just the right amount of subdued to feel serene and he was so warm in your arms already, so why move? It's not like he'd even gotten home that long ago. The only other thing he hoped for was maybe that you’d fuck him; sex always felt otherworldly when he was rolling, and he knew the sounds you loved left his throat that much more languidly when he was on E. And then he could sleep off the comedown - it'd be perfect. It was these thoughts that let you shift him to his feet. Never at any point did he unravel himself from you, knees knocking into yours, arms clutched sweetly around whatever part of you he could get a hold on, cheek pressed to your head or face or shoulder or wherever you'd let him end up.

"'M'want you," Haruchiyo all but whined as you pulled a t-shirt over him and wiggled him out of his pants. The clock by the bed blinked half-past three am, so it was true he had indeed arrived back home over two hours ago. It was also true that ecstasy claimed his time in a different way than anything else. You didn't help. Every second he spent with you was too short. All too soon he'd have to leave again.

"You should sleep," you shushed him, gently dodging the wet kisses he attempted at the expanse of your neck as you leaned back down to hold him close. At least he was still upright. "You have work tomorrow."

"Don't care. 'Always get it done, don' I?" His voice was a little hoarse, his breath smelled vaguely of one of the Dunhill International Reds Ran always kept inside his jacket, and you could sense his pout from beneath your chin as his arms dangled loosely around you. "Wanna feel you."

"Tomorrow," you said with finality.

He groaned. His lips were still wandering, his tongue was still prodding at your jugular, but with notable laziness. The cooling distress in your system had exhausted you anyway, and he was not unfamiliar with the sensation of you seeping into him. So, he let you melt into him and push him back gently, not even toward the head of the bed. (He didn’t realize, of course; he was just happy to be laying under you as he rolled to a stop.)

Love you, love you, love you was pressed repeatedly into your skin with his slowing fingers. Love you would be all he could think to say when he'd find his way to the kitchen the next morning to see you sitting at the counter, carefully cutting up a bar into tiny pieces for him to gradually chase off the withdrawal. You were better rehab for him than any institution Kakucho could threaten to throw him in. As much as he knew you hated to watch him destroy himself, you understood. There was a glimpse of Haruchiyo when he scooted his chair impossibly close to yours just to lay his head on your shoulder.

"Don't even want any right now."

You smiled to yourself. You will soon. "I'm proud of you, my love." Yeah, he was going to get better for you. For you, for you, for you. You loved him so much it made him want to love himself.

#tokyo revengers x reader #sanzu x reader #sanzu haruchiyo x reader #tr x reader #tokyo rev x reader #angelzai original.ᐟ

[angelzai]

ADA secret santa . . . .ᐟ

wc: 1.4k

cw: crack, everyone is a menace, no reader included, probably some ooc, language, alcohol, drug mentions, suggestive gifts but nothing strictly nsfw, this is really just silliness

reid: happy christmas to those who celebrate! this was fun to write and think about i hope you guys enjoy and get a kick out of imagining this chaotic group being a dysfunctional family as much as i do

. . . .ᐟ

first things first: who gets who?

just like everything else at the agency, it’s a fucking ordeal.

dazai writes down everyone’s names to draw out of kenji’s hat, but he’s given them all nicknames, some more horrendous than others, and kunikida’s standing at the whiteboard writing down everyone’s favorite colors and t-shirt sizes when naomi pulls a name and asks, “who is ‘bawss bitch’?”

“president fukuzawa, duh,” dazai chirps.

cue face-palms and eye-rolls around the room.

“naomi, draw again. the whole point is that no one else kn-“

“thanks, ranpo, we know the point.” yosano reaches into the hat for herself. “who is . . . ‘tightass’?”

everyone glances to kunikida, who freezes and turns slowly, threateningly, toward the bandaged menace.

dazai tries so hard to contain his laugh, but ends up snorting unceremoniously.

so, commence kunikida choking him out and demanding he write down everyone’s proper goddamn names so they all know what the hell is going on. atsushi’s on it, copying everyone’s legal, government-registered first and last name down onto one sticky note each, and the drawing restarts.

names are distributed. instructions follow. yosano lovingly requests the biggest bottle of tequila the budget will allow.

the office party will start on christmas eve at 6pm.

. . .

naomi’s forcing junichiro into the ugliest, most uncomfortable-looking matching sweater anyone in the office has ever seen in all of their days (it’s got glitter-hot glue balls and messily sown-in sequins all over it. it’s hard to tell if it depicts something festive or if it’s the cover of lil wayne’s 1999 studio album tha block is hot).

yosano has cracked into the bottle of wine she’s kept stashed under her desk all day and is drinking straight from it.

ranpo’s encouraging her to chug while he makes a sizable dent in the huge tray of cookies provided by fukuzawa.

atsushi’s on the verge of tears because he’s never celebrated christmas with anyone who cares about him before, and kenji’s doing a mediocre job at consoling him.

dazai has brought eggnog and announces to everyone, at the exact moment that kunikida finishes off his third glass, that it’s spiked.

kyoka’s dragging haruno toward the group, where she places a reindeer antler-headband atop the older girl’s head. kyoka smiles so purely at her. it puts the fear of god into poor haruno.

it is 6:08pm.

once junichiro’s in his sweater and thoroughly suffering and atsushi’s stopped hiccuping, fukuzawa summons everyone around the tiny office tree for secret santa.

and here’s who got who.

. . .

president fukuzawa has drawn ranpo’s name for the third year in a row. he always goes with some sort of snack, but this year he found these on etsy and couldn’t resist.

the boss lets out a chuckle. everyone is jazzed. atsushi covers kyoka’s eyes. ranpo sticks his tongue out at fukuzawa (but cracks into the bag immediately).

. . .

ranpo drew yosano.

yosano lets out an unhinged laugh and puts it on. ranpo, mouth full of gummy dicks, lovingly retrieves a bottle of tequila from hiding. already half a bottle of wine and two glasses of eggnog in, yosano throws her arms around the great detective for a siblingly hug. atsushi is covering kyoka’s eyes again. he wonders if he’ll have to do this for every present.

. . .

yosano got kunikida.

“sorry, I couldn’t find an actual prescription.” kunikida’s lips are pursed in disappointment, not out of lack of appreciation but for shame in her joke. everyone knows it holds weight. dazai is on his ass laughing. kunikida remarks how he’s been needing a back pillow for his desk chair anyway. atsushi has his head in his hands.

. . .

kunikida got junichiro.

dazai and ranpo are nodding solemnly. no one is laughing because it’s true other than naomi who insists kunikida really does have a sense of humor. wow!

. . .

junichiro drew dazai’s name.

“awww!” dazai croons, holding it to his chest before going to place it on his desk next to his nameplate. “tanizaki, I’m so glad you think so.” again, everyone knows it’s true and laughs because of it this time.

. . .

dazai got fukuzawa.

it’s extra funny to dazai at this point because the boss is such a cat guy and also he and yosano have already snuck off cousins-at-thanksgiving style outside to smoke whatever (all while he’s on his way to being plastered. yosano’s the resident alcoholic, yes, but no one can ever truly contain dazai’s festive substance use). fukuzawa laughs - it has to be an effect of the alcohol on him too, everyone thinks, because no way would the stoic man ever crack a smile at such a gift let alone actually use this fucking mousepad. dazai tells him he’ll cry if he doesn’t see it on his desk next week.

. . .

a break proceeds because kunikida swears something got fucked up in the drawing process now that half of them have looped around. yosano, dazai, and ranpo are doing tequila shots. haruno explains to kunikida that it’s fine - someone had to go first - and they should just pick someone to start the second round of gifts. kunikida’s scribbling in his notebook trying to figure out what they screwed up. kenji insists that they’re already playing the game, there’s no point in trying to rewrite it now as long as everyone has a gift! kunikida looks visibly intoxicated like he’s about to pop a vein in his forehead, so kenji just laughs nervously and takes the reins. he tells kyoka to go next.

. . .

kyoka drew haruno.

it’s in a pretty purple bag, christmas spirit somewhat lost upon the child. atsushi almost starts crying again (dazai’s been slipping him eggnog). kyoka’s already assembled and glued the flower together. haruno smiles appreciatively. it will go on the front desk.

. . .

haruno got naomi.

no one expects this from haruno but it’s a huge hit, especially juxtaposed with junichiro’s gift from kunikida. it’s a book cover over a blank notebook and the only thing she apologizes for is that it doesn’t say “sibling.” naomi is red in the face and forcing a laugh. dazai and yosano are a second away from hoisting the girl up on their shoulders like she just made a winning touchdown. atsushi’s head is in his hands again.

. . .

naomi got atsushi.

it’s him if he was a single-celled organism, kenji remarks. atsushi is wholeheartedly pleased with this gift and gives naomi an extremely awkward hug. he holds onto it like a lifeline for the rest of the night.

. . .

atsushi pulled kenji’s name.

he wasn’t sure how seriously to take the gift, but he thought these were fitting. kenji beams and jumps up and down and hugs atsushi so tight the older boy starts to go blue in the face.

. . .

and finally, kenji drew kyoka.

kyoka wants the spiderman one. kenji obliges.

. . .

new and old traditions alike arise; yosano and ranpo each gift each other $20. fukuzawa has given both of them the $20. it's a ritual they refuse to let die. dazai tries to get kunikida to do a shot out of his mouth which leads to shouting and beating. atsushi sits both of them down on the couch and forces them to drink water and be nice to each other. naomi, haruno, and junichiro pick out a christmas movie to project onto the wall as background noise; they settle on a cheesy musical hallmark movie suspiciously similar to the one they put on last year. kyoka and kenji join ranpo in raiding the dessert table. yosano is singing! she is trying to get everyone to sing with her. dazai is the only one who joins. he is wearing the i ♥️ cock(tails) hat. they start with silent night and end with skeeyee by sexyy red.

before long, drunken detectives fall into their chairs and couches with blankets and plates of sweets to get comfy for home alone 2. dazai wants a whole couch to himself but that's unfair, so he settles for stretching his gangly ass legs across kunikida and tanizaki. kyoka and kenji curl up on the floor in a pile of blankets; the girl looks on the verge of sleep. naomi and haruno squeeze into a chair; yosano finds herself flat on the ground, nearly finished bottle of wine in hand; ranpo's feet are kicked up on the nearest desk and he sits in his chair near fukuzawa, who overlooks his employees with tired satisfaction. atsushi glances around at his his colleagues, and for as unhinged as they are, he feels lucky to have a group of people so welcoming to call his friends. all is peaceful and happy, except for ranpo's incessant burping and yosano's eventual snoring. it's fine.

merry fucking christmas.

#armed detective agency #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd headcanons #bungou stray dogs headcanons #bsd dazai #bsd yosano #bsd fukuzawa #bsd ranpo #bsd kyouka #bsd kunikida #bsd kenji #bsd atsushi #bsd naomi #bsd junichiro #bsd haruno #bsd christmas #angelzai original.ᐟ

[angelzai]

drunk drivers/killer whales

but if we learn how to live like this maybe we can learn how to start again like a child who's never done wrong

wc: 1.9k

cw: gn!reader, post-dark era, pre-entrance exam, port mafia!reader, alcohol, guns, canon-typical violence, language, angst with happy(ish?) ending, implied relationships/previous relationships, implied depression, dazai-typical suicide mentions

reid: i love him and i love car seat headrest. can be read as a stand alone or part 1 to this. enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

The Port Mafia’s favoritism of big corporations over mom-and-pop businesses might’ve been one of the reasons you cited for staying at one point. Extorting a logo was one thing – holding a gun to the face of an old man running a humble, family-owned and operated enterprise was another.

You’d watched enough people cut off their own pinkies and present the severed protuberance to your boss to know when you were in a place you shouldn’t be, doing something you shouldn’t be doing. Maybe, at another point, you would’ve cited quite liking having all your fingers as a reason for staying.

You weren’t usually in Numazu on business. Actually, you weren’t usually in Numazu ever, but the train headed back up to Yokohama from Shizuoka had been halted for nearly four hours now due to an outage, and you were faced with nothing better to do than open your wallet while you waited. You weren’t worried about money – no, never worried about money – so who could it hurt to barhop a bit, you figured. Whiskey always brought you back a few years, and the world had been looking as bleak as it ever did. The main difference between now and when you first started drinking whiskey was the people you were with. The person, more specifically. Osamu Dazai, to be perfectly exact.

It was a bitch navigating the unfamiliar area under the influence. Bars like beacons of light beckoned you into their warm embrace on your aimless trails around the ward, so you went to them. The only other place you’d really rather have been was asleep in your bed.

You figured you were somewhat of a synesthesiac. A nice buzz always made the lights a little brighter, a little more saturated, and despite the properties of the alcohol, you were sure in your drunkenness that you wouldn’t remember this place so vividly later on if you weren’t swaying with the faint street music. It was instrumental – soft, with a flute in there, but also some electronic noises. It made you feel like you were on a side quest in a video game. Perhaps one that seemed insignificant now, but would be crucial to the conclusion of your plot.

The colors were never quite as bright after he left.

Being drunk with him was a deep, royal blue. Sometimes a bit of red. The overhead lights outside the particular establishment where you stood were sizzling piss-yellow. Same heavy feeling in your stomach, same vague burning in your chest and throat, but the colors looked different.

You stepped in on a stale atmosphere, fuzzy but lively in its own way. High and low tables alike hosted smatterings of bar-goers. All their conversations mumbled into one under the drone of the speakers – now a psychedelic pop tune was your backing track, a grumbling bartender hassling the sole patron on the row of stools the only significant cut-through. No dialogue box for your intoxicated convenience (not that your whirling vision would've served as much of a lens), so you ignored it as you took up a stool of your own, far enough from the one-sided quarrel to remain uninvolved but close enough to draw service.

You ordered your fifth – no, sixth whiskey sour of the night. The analog clock on the wall read 22:23. Still plenty of time to get obliterated, pass out somewhere, wake up to a running train, and get back with a brief report without raising too much suspicion.

You sat pensively. The bartender was back to pestering the guy at the end of the bar. Something about too long of a tab, he was going to call the cops, or something or other. Guy was unresponsive. Head down. Unconscious, maybe. You turned your head. How far had the poor motherfucker run up his tab? Could you cover it? You were a mafioso (one whose rank had been greatly discounted since the disappearance of that particular someone) but you weren’t heartless, nor were you above helping some poor shmuck out of the gutter at maybe one of the only places that brought him any solace. Hell, you’d been there.

He held a landline, and his face was a blustering red. I know you’re awake, kid, or something like that, and a tap bordering on violent to his head finally prompted some acknowledgment. As he lifted his head, you swore the exposure of the largely-brown room was tilted up a few ticks.

You couldn’t tell if you made a face or not. Dazai waved a hand, insisting the bartender piss off.

After a pause either no more than half a second or at least ten seconds, the bartender’s thick fingers flew to the receiver to dial, and you nearly spilled the rest of your drink as you moved, seating choice in vain.

“No, I got it. Tell me how much it is. I’ll pay it for him.”

“I don’t want your money,” the bartender spat, his attention splitting toward you. “Besides, someone like you shouldn’t waste money on a jackass like him. I want his money.”

Someone like you, in your well-pressed suit jacket. Someone surely no worse than Dazai himself. You wanted to laugh.

“Let me pay it. No need to get the authorities involved.”

“I’ll do-“

You reached inside your jacket, producing both your wallet and gun that had rested heavily against your side all evening. Cooly, you kept your eyes on his as you firmly set both of them on the glossy wood, threat and promise alike looming securely from under your grasp.

The rest of his insistence faltered a bit. “-whatever I please. You don’t even know this guy, so what’s-“

And in an instant, you were in fact holding a gun to the face of a small establishment owner, in defense of a defector no less. You’d forgive yourself for this, you supposed – this was your own petty selfishness. You weren’t ever in Numazu on business.

“Put it down,” you referred to the phone. And he did, slowly, not tearing his shocked, beady gaze from your imposing weapon. He went about printing a long receipt – four feet long, at least – before sliding it toward you with a sweaty palm.

Tucking your firearm back into safety, you examined the total at the bottom, fully and painfully aware of the owlish brown eyes on you.

A life in the mafia perfects a harsh resting face, so with no further reaction, you produced a sum of bills from your wallet – the entire tab plus enough to cover your own drinks and ample amount to keep him shut up about the gun. Ample amount to pull Dazai out of the bar and into the street uninterrupted.

“That was unnecessary, you know,” he chided you as you dragged him by his wrist.

“I don’t think you and the narcs would mix particularly well right now,” you said, stopping to face him at the bench outside. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He was obviously drunk, but he didn’t sound like when you would drink together before. He looked irritated at you. You ignored the crack that split your heart a bit as it occurred to you that maybe he was not happy to see you.

How would you answer? On my way back to the place you left me at? To the people that would probably kill you with no hesitation at this point in time?

“Trains are down.”

“And you are…coincidentally in the exact same part of the country as me?”

Hot tears started to well up at his accusatory tone. The last thing you wanted at this moment was to cry in front of him.

“Don’t give me that shit, Dazai, you-“

“What happened to first name privileges?”

Oh, he could never fail to give you absolute whiplash. Usually, it wasn’t so intense, but it was obvious he’d been messing with you by the way that god-forsaken smirk crept onto his pretty, pretty face. Nearly two years away from that whiplash had perhaps taken with it your accustomedness to it. You reeled for a moment. You hugged him the next. You told yourself it was solely to hide the wetness on your face.

“Missed me, huh?”

“You’re full of shit,” you croaked into the shoulder of his coat, but not letting up. Eventually, two strained hands made their way to the small of your back. A chin dropped onto the crown of your head. The light-polluted night sky was a little bluer. For this first time ever, you were suddenly very attuned to the idea that at many, many points in your life, you absolutely would have cited Osamu Dazai as your reason for staying with the Port Mafia. "You're absolutely fucking full of it."

"I know," he mumbled uncharacteristically. The last thing you would've expected was for him to agree, let alone so calmly and with such resignation; you wanted to shout so many things at him. All the same, you supposed you would like to drench the whole world in epoxy resin and keep it all like this forever. That'd be terrible for the environment, though, and you'd never get your answers.

The sanctuary of his arms began to unravel the moment you wished it never would. With you clung to his tiny waist - ever tinier - Dazai straightened himself out, cleared his throat.

He muttered your name. "Let me go now."

You shook your head violently. "What if I never get this again?" Whispered, intentionally, so it would be difficult to hear. (You knew better that nothing about you got past him.)

"You act like I'm dying."

"You still trying?"

"Always." He chuckled, but it wasn't funny to you. For a while, you thought maybe he had died, but the universe seemed to like to spite Dazai as much as he did it. If he was dead, you'd know. It didn't make his jokes any funnier.

He sighed. You knew he wanted to say something like you're ruining my buzz with your sappiness or something, and you weren't sure why he wasn't. Silence didn't go hand in hand with this man. Truth be told, you felt completely and unpleasantly sobered up, and cursed yourself momentarily for eating such a solid meal for lunch. Perhaps this would feel easier if you were dying.

Reluctantly, you pulled back to look up at him. He looked hollow. Gorgeous. Eye bandage gone. You could count on one hand the number of times you'd seen him in plain clothes before, and this was one of them. A brown and tan color-blocked sweater, black jeans, sand-colored hunting boots. So far from your Osamu. You didn't feel shy under his searching eyes. You never did. You both began to speak, words beginning with "wh-", at the same time.

"You first," he suggested, a thick gulp giving away the guise of the amused smile he put on. (He should've known better that the opposite was true, as well.)

I'm a pathetic shell of a human being without you. You left and I wanted to kill myself and I wanted to kill you and I wished more than ever after you were gone that I'd taken you up on that stupid offer one of those times. You left me. You left me to rot. I hate you. That's not true. I can't lie to you. You're the only good thing in my life. "What are you doing now?"

Another thing you noticed was that he didn't reek of blood anymore. You didn't doubt for a second that he couldn't say the same about you. Desperation was a sickening green color, but you'd always liked green quite a bit, and you knew he did, too.

"Nothing you can't tag along for."

He didn't have to hope for you to say anything.

#bsd dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #dazai x reader #osamu dazai x reader #angelzai original.ᐟ

[angelzai]

(joe gets kicked out of school for using) drugs with friends (but says this isn't a problem)

last friday, i took acid and mushrooms

i did not transcend

i felt like a walking piece of shit

in a stupid looking jacket

NSFW CONTENT - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 2.4k

cw: gn!reader - no explicit anatomy mentioned, post-dark era, pre-entrance exam, port mafia!reader, past relationships/implied relationships, dazai-typical suicide mentions, manwhore dazai, explicit sexual content, drugs, references to drugs, drug use, talking and doing drugs, dazai is on drugs, dazai has tried every drug under the sun, just so many fucking drugs. don't do drugs please!

reid: installment 2/? of me using car seat headrest songs alongside dazai fic. ooc dazai probably but i like breaking him not sorry. this is not intended to romanticize substance abuse. addict dazai is a concept very close to my heart this is wholeheartedly me venting also all my fanfic is just so self indulgent. please for the love of god do not do drugs just send them to me thanks. can be read as a stand-alone or a part two to my previous fic drunk drivers/killer whales. you can find me on ao3 @angelzai. enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

“What have you been doing? Since you…”

Left. You falter but Osamu Dazai knows that’s what you mean to say. Since you left. That wouldn't have taken a fucking genius, though.

Well, he thinks, he could be totally honest right now. There's no one to hide from anymore, just himself. The fact that you're sitting with him has some old walls going up - the rather generic ones that go up with everyone - and he's hoping you won't take it personally if he does decide to lie. It would just be easy to. Familiar to.

He turns your voice over in his mind, imagines himself weighing it in his palms, and while the question hangs in the air suddenly he's in bed again with the wench of the week about a month or four back - one he bummed a cigarette off at some club during a routine bender and struck up a conversation with about the conceptualization of incomprehensible units of measurement, like lightyears. Dazai remembers that she took him home and let him snort ecstasy off the small of her back before he made out with her for what felt like six hours. She'd obviously wanted to fuck but he was still thinking, albeit warmly now, about lightyears and space and how awesome it would be to scale the side of a faraway terrestrial planet like an ibex - those cool mountain goats - and look off into a volume of nothing to observe the dilation of time with his tiny, filthy Earth eyes. Yeah, he wasn't getting any of that acute empathy he seemed to gain for other human beings when he was on E, so he asked for more. Her skin had felt like a flannel bed sheet and it almost hurt when she pulled away. He licked this dose off her tongue, per her discretion. It would've been hot if he hadn't imagined what it might feel like to lick a flannel sheet and almost gagged into her mouth. He said, "Sorry, I thought about if your tongue was a flannel sheet." She giggled and he giggled back. He kissed her more. She was so warm. He still couldn't get hard. He just kept thinking. He thought so much about lightyears and flannel sheets until he could barely discern the difference between them. He would've liked to have been wrapped up in either. The last time he had felt this introspective was when he was peaking on nitrous, but it was obvious he was still coming up. He started feeling sweaty and cold. He told himself that wasn't abnormal for ecstasy. He was trying to imagine she was a flannel bed sheet. He was sweating so bad. She was a flannel bed sheet and he was a lightyear and his skin was starting to feel like it was rising off his skeleton. He felt like he'd pissed his pants. He'd pushed her off and bolted for the bathroom. The fan in there was too loud. The manicured hand combing his hair back was burning his scalp. The toilet was kind of grimacing at him all smug-like. He didn't know what a lightyear was. He knew this was bad E. He vomited for an hour straight and meditated briefly on how horribly unsexy he felt before passing out. He woke up with an icepick headache and bummed another cigarette and apologized for pissing his pants on her bed (which he didn't actually do, but this was only clarified after he expressed he thought he had). He insisted that it wasn't her, she was beautiful, she was great, it was just the drugs, it was his own fault, but he still didn't give her his number. He just took the train as close as it went to his apartment, smelling like the very unsexy kind of sweat. Instead of showering, he had popped a Xan and went to bed. It was 3pm. And that was more or less what he had been doing since he left the Port Mafia.

While he recalls this, he makes some vague hand motions and opens his mouth a few times, not unlike a fish, as if he's about to speak but doesn't quite have the words yet. It's not that he doesn't want to tell you. You've been around long enough to have seen him and others high out of their minds plenty of times before. He knows you'd barely blame him for the wretched financial hole he has himself in now that Mori isn't around to sugar-daddy all his substances for him. It isn't remotely about the drugs.

It's about the fact that you found him in a bar in Numazu by total chance and paid his weeks-long tab before even asking him any questions about where he's been. He's not sure why you did that.

It's about the fact that you paid for the hotel room he's sitting cross-legged on the bed in, in front of you. He's considering how deep the crescents beneath your eyes look.

It's about the fact that you kissed him once when you both were sixteen and it convinced him that he'd never kiss anyone else ever again. But then he left, and in the year and a half since he's last seen you he's had more meaningless sex with more meaningless people than there were freckles across your whole body, which had, by the way, meant everything to him at one point.

"Not really..." Dazai shakes his head. "Anything at all."

You light a cigarette even though it's a non-smoking room. You'll be able to foot the bill.

"Come on," you say out of the corner of your mouth, puffing smoke in his face. "Not really anything at all?"

He doesn't ask, just takes the smoke from your lips to put it between his own. "Drugs," he summarizes truthfully. "Mostly coke. There's nothing like it. I swear it's better than H."

You quirk your mouth in semi-disapproval, taking back your cigarette. "You did always like your blow."

"Been exploring academia too, I suppose. I'm learning calculus right now." He's trying to make up for it. He doesn't need to.

Now you really look at him like he's on drugs. "For fun?" He nods, pleased with himself. "I thought you didn't like pain." You finally smile a little bit.

"It's interesting!" he insists with his signature drama. "God, can I just have my own?" He's gesturing to your pack, and you indulge him, lighting it off your own.

You look like you want to say something else, sucking your cigarette down like it's a race. Dazai studies you. Prompts you with nothing but his eyes, just like he always has, and you understand. It's your turn to look for the words.

"I mean... like... what- what," you make the vague hand motions too, "what are you doing, though? How- how are you... not..."

"Dead?" he finishes. "Yeah. I struck a cute little deal with the government."

He doesn't like how you lean back from him, even if it's slight, even if he expects it. He doesn't like how your eyes narrow and you look at him with something he can only place as distrust. You almost want to get up off the bed, but you stay, gazing into him. You're not flustered so easily by him anymore, and he has to notice. He does. And regardless, he knows exactly what you're thinking before you say it. "I didn't take you for a fed, Dazai." He knows about the gun in your jacket, too, and that you're at attention now. Your use of his last name stings.

"I didn't sell you out," he says, mocking offense, pushing himself up on those gangly limbs to cut a line of whatever's in the little plastic bag he pulls from his back pocket. "I didn't sell anyone out. Ango's a double agent. You have to know." You shrug - you'd be ashamed to admit you hadn't a clue - and your apprehension melts, but only a little. "My record's expunged as long as I clean up and sign on at the ADA in about six months."

You look at him incredulously, but he's busy at the desk. He could've left it at calculus.

"And this is your idea of cleaning up?" you ask.

The response you receieve is a long sniff. Dazai straightens out, huffs, pulls another drag off his cigarette.

If you were anyone else it would definitely be unwise of him to give such information to someone very much still on the inside. As high up as you had been alongside Dazai, knowledge of who had their fingers in what organizations was never for you to have. Your rank has only fallen since he left. You've developed a nose for people - you must after so long in the mafia - and Ango, who lays so low, especially after Sakunosuke's death, isn’t exactly at the top of your list until right now. You briefly wonder how much the boss knows. Mori surely would've killed Ango for orchestrating the freeing of his most precious pet. Mori surely has people after Dazai. As a matter of fact, he might have people after you already, not even an hour after you found the former prince of the underworld slumped over on a bar stool, because you never really know who’s watching. At the end of all that, though, your thoughts snag on whether that's something Ango could help anyone with, or if it was only for Dazai. No snitching would be involved. You don't think you're qualified to be a detective, but certainly there's some community service you could do to mop up after yourself, right?

Dazai seats himself in front of you again. The rest of this conversation does not happen verbally - not right away, at least. Whether it’s the coke or the accusatory tone your voice carried, he looks a little emptier than before. He looks an entire world away from you. You don’t say this aloud but he nods numbly like he hears you. You dimly recall a conversation you had with him years ago in which he told you he’d never done anything in his life that made him proud. That he didn’t really view himself as a person, but rather a machine designed toward destruction. Machines didn’t feel proud - didn’t feel anything, and no more or less when they executed their intended function.

You’re struck with the awareness that you still seem to know him so vividly, despite how much he’s obviously changed. The parts of this machine are shinier as if they’ve been cleaned. Although it grows old, it works like new, given its context. You recognize exactly what it’s doing. What he’s doing. And you think, maybe if you just throw your hand into the gears - even if it hurts you, even if it takes a piece of you off and mangles it - maybe you can get it to stop.

He, too, selfishly considers that you could be his way out. But is it really selfish if he can admit he'd drop it all if you asked him to? Flesh thrown against a monstrous man-made creation. Even though you seem to have stayed so very much the same, he doesn’t assume he knows you like he once did. But these could be the right circumstances. Maybe he just needs some flesh. Just needs somebody.

“You just need somebody.” Your head’s on the pillow, you twirl his hair, and that’s what you say to him after you both fuck like two virgins. You don’t mean to imply that somebody could be yourself, but for what it’s worth, that’s how he takes it. He can’t remember the last time sex made him cry, anyway, so it might as well be you.

“Just fucking leave.”

Your eyes snap open as the words leave him. Leave? Leave the room you paid for? That was rich, considering the kindness you’ve extended to him tonight after he abandoned you. Your throat constricts around the fact that not even ten minutes ago you were entangled with him in a way that felt both familiar and new. You would’ve proposed another round and let him clasp his hands around your neck like he used to. He’d always insist you’d beg him to stop one day, but you never did. Ten minutes ago you were ready to wipe away his bloody nose with your hair if he asked. Now he’s asking you to leave.

You sit up and throw your legs over the edge of the bed. Your eyes burn with tears and you’re about to get up, get dressed, maybe unload the remainder of the clip in your gun into his kneecaps - but he grabs your elbow.

“Leave the Port, idiot.” You look at him. Concern isn’t an emotion that graces Dazai’s features too often, and here it is. “That came out horribly. Plus, you’re so nice and warm. Get back here.”

So you do. You do what you do best when it comes to Dazai - you crawl back, disregarding how he’s hurt you. Hurt himself. And you just cry.

You cry because you’re so relieved you just misinterpreted him. You cry because he gives you whiplash so goddamn easily. You cry because you don’t have to give leaving a second thought. You cry because a year and a half ago he obviously wouldn’t have insisted you follow him. You cry because he’s so out of character and you almost think you like it. You cry because you like how warm he feels, too. You cry because he’s on drugs. He doesn’t cry because he already did while you made him cum, and now his pupils aren’t so blown, but with you against his chest he doesn’t feel like he needs to get up to do another bump, and that’s plenty for both of you. For all intents and purposes, the walls are all down now. Maybe he really needed to find you. You know you really needed to find him. It’s going to be difficult and dangerous and there’s more to be said, but at least you’ve found him.

You’re sniveling. He’s kissing your hair. “You can teach me calculus.”

Dazai recognizes the laugh that rumbles in his chest as one he hasn’t felt since he’d last seen you. “We’ll get ahold of Ango in the morning.”

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