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aureatchi · 3 days

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⋆ 𖤓 𓂃 ࣪˖ BUT CAN YOU SEE IT TOO? THE WAY THE SKIES ARE TURNING BLUE . . . ft. OSAMU DAZAI

⟢ SYNOPSIS. a dream constantly on repeat…you wake up in the arms of your lover after weeks gone by not spending time with each other, greeted by the serendipity of the blue hour and his content, honey-bathed gaze.

ᡴꪫ a/n. schedule changes have caused me to wake up so early. + i haven’t been able to rest well lately so i dread getting up, but the one i do like is the calmness of deep-blue tone light seeping through the windows. :)

ᡴꪫ info. fem!reader. fluff; a pinch of angst. sleepy mornings. reuniting. poetic, yearning dazai. ﾉ wc. 1.3k+

Lately, the land of fantasies had appealed to you the most. Busy days without a moment of quiet serenity ravaged through your schedule unannounced, and before you knew it, half the month already passed.

The only way time stopped was in your dreams. Places where your life didn’t have to be so chaotic—you could control the fact you didn’t have work on a day; you could control if you wanted the weather to shower the blossoming flowers or have not a single wispy cloud in the sky.

“I have a cheat code to lucid dreaming. I’ll only explain if you promise to take me with you, though.”

Above all, you could assure Dazai Osamu was always by your side. That he did not have to leave for days—weeks on end for missions, risky missions. In dreams, he would never have to gamble his life again. Never would Dazai have to feel the level of heartache he was so familiar with.

However, not one soul could stay in the land of fantasies forever. You were soon forced to open your eyes to the empty space in your bed. Another morning without your lover and another lingering thought of being unknown to what he was going through.

So, you longed for the day you would instead wake up in his arms.

…

You were aware you were in a moment between unconsciousness and awake. Lazily, you shifted positions into a more comfortable one, but instead, you landed in someone’s embrace.

“Osamu.”

It was not framed as a question. Your eyes were closed, but you recognized his touch—the way his hands lovingly cuddled you, slipping under your pajama shirt to warm your back amid the bedroom’s intense air conditioner.

“Good morning, ‘bella,” Dazai said.

Oh, how his drowsiness affected his speech. His voice was noticeably a few notes lower than usual.

He moved his fingers up to your face to move strands of hair away from your features. With that gesture, you slowly opened your eyes.

A good morning indeed. You were not blinded by bright sun rays, but rather coaxed into soft, relaxing blue hues of aurora.

And Dazai’s charming face. He looked like a prince, even just woken up. Your faces both reflected the cerulean light in the room, except his caramel eyes that contrasted against it. You kept his gaze for a few undisturbed moments before he spoke.

“‘Guess beauty-rest is a real thing. You look beautiful.”

You giggled before replying. There was no way—you thought you looked like a mess whenever you got up.

“And you look handsome.” The brunette’s wavy hair was even more disheveled than usual, yet he somehow looked more attractive.

“Only because I’m here with you. I got my beauty rest because of you.”

He gently nudged his pointer finger on your chest to empathize. Meanwhile, a sensation of warmth suddenly flowed through you—a mix of bittersweet joy and affection.

“You were able to sleep?” you whispered.

“Yeah,” Dazai replied and then held up his finger to his mouth, as if he wanted you to keep the fact a secret.

He had been gone for almost a week this time. Who knows how long he hadn’t had the opportunity to sleep?

Dazai shifted, and for a second, you thought he was getting up to leave. In a moment of panic, you tugged down on his shirt to keep him down.

“Wait-”

“‘m going nowhere ‘bella, don’t worry,” Dazai chuckled, amused. He laid your head on his chest, where you were calmed by the soft beats of his heart.

“It’s far too early to, anyway. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.”

You slowly nodded. “What’s the day today?”

“It’s the weekend, darling,” he replied. “Even if not—I’d make sure you’d miss work.”

“I wouldn’t plan on going,” you smiled. How could you miss a precious day with your favorite person?

“How was your week? Any stories for me?”

“Lonely. It was pretty uneventful, too. I just missed you,” you replied. You inched closer to Dazai despite already being pressed onto him, nuzzling your face into his neck.

“How about yours?” you asked as his fingers ran through your hair.

“Don’t worry about that.” He couldn’t see your frown. “Just the typical mission.”

Still, he sensed your unease. He gently kissed your forehead. “I promise I wasn’t in danger. You forget how strong I am sometimes, hm?”

You pulled back so Dazai could see you roll your eyes. “Strong enough to beat all the big bad guys,” you responded, a statement he constantly repeated to jokingly lecture you.

“Exactly!” he winked. “To protect you, of course.”

He held up your hand and clasped it between his, once again making you re-realize the indigo light of the morning.

You turned towards the window whose curtains had been drawn away probably earlier in the foreday. The view was completely uniform in color—the sun had not yet arrived to paint the sky with various shades.

…

“If our love had to be described in a specific hour of the day, I’d say blue hour.”

You turned back to see his eyes on yours, slightly squeezing your hand. You had zoned off for a few minutes in relaxation.

“Why do you say that?”

“Multiple things,” Dazai smiled. “Such as the deep blue stretching across the entire horizon representing the depth of our love. And how the calmness of the hue reminds me of the way you never fail to give me peace when I’m with you,” he responded.

“How poetic,” you teased, but you couldn’t hide how touched you were by his unexpected sentiment.

“I have more.” His blush did not go unnoticed. “This time of the day is rare to catch. Only appearing in dawn and dusk and only lasting minutes—you’d be lucky to come across it. I’ve stumbled across the most gorgeous girl in the world; I’d had to have some luck. She’s more beautiful than the sunrises and sunsets, and I’ve never met anyone like her.”

Dazai lifted you up, and you straddled his waist. He moved his face towards yours until your noses were touching.

“And finally, in this hour, we are in between night and day. The moon is still visible, yet the clouds are too. Helios has still yet to wake, but there is enough light to point out all your divine features.”

He stole a quick kiss on your lips before continuing.

“A dream surpassing the boundaries of night. One that I haven’t woken up from. You remind me of this very moment.

“Do you know why I asked you to take me with you in your dreams?” he asked.

You cusped his face in adoration. Of course, you knew. He seldom slept, and in turn, he hardly experienced life’s gift of reverie.

“I want to be by your side wherever you go. In every universe, in every moment of time. Not a second goes by when I’m apart from you where I’m not reminded of you.”

You’ve had this dream many times before. A longing for Dazai told your mind to conjure him at a peaceful hour of the day, in the warmth of his arms. You’d repeated this scenario so many times that you’d sometimes forget it wasn’t actually real.

However, you were hit with a realization that, for the first time, this was real—Dazai was home; you would not be woken up to an empty side of the bed.

You knew this because, just as you recognized his touch, you felt seeps of rare vulnerability through his kiss. His human emotion of yearning your consciousness couldn’t single-handedly recreate—the warmth of his body and heart as Dazai pulled you close.

You remind me of this very moment, Dazai had told you once. Whether in dream or the present moment before you, there was something extraordinary about your souls. He knew every experience with you.

Dazai found wherever you were among the cosmos. He transcended night and day—space and time, until he would see your face once again.

He did not need to visit the land of fantasies. You were one already real, his solace and love.

i heard dazai cuddles w/ you in bed if you rb; reblogs are appreciated, they are what support me the most! <3

#𓂃⋆·˚ seen this yet?

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aureatchi · 3 days

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⚕ ᡣ𐭩 . ° . AND IF THERE WAS A PLACE I HAD TO CHOOSE…IT’D BE IN YOUR ARMS TONIGHT. (bedroom session) ft. dazai, chuuya, fyodor, akutagawa, sigma

— how the bsd men treat you when you’re sick. (& more)

a/n. started writing when i was sick djsjsja. tagging my moots who were under the weather anytime this month <3 to them & anyone else unwell, feel better soon !!

info. fem!reader. fluff. established relationships. light angst & hospital in akutagawa’s. chuuya plays the guitar. you play the piano in fyodor’s. sigma’s a chef. some inspo from RED for dazai & fyodor’s (our hcs!)

DAZAI will cuddle with you anyway, even when you are buried under bundles of blankets. he still thinks you need a little more warmth…and you look just too cute wrapped up in what resembles an igloo to not nuzzle with you! however, don’t be surprised when he blames you for making him sick once you recover, as if it wasn’t his fault.

“A-choo!” Your eyes were watery, you felt too cold for your liking, and it was harder than usual to breathe through your nose. Your sneeze made you sit up in discomfort, and you hastily pulled the covers toward you.

“‘Bella? Are you alright?” Dazai sat up next, meeting your eyes as you turned your face toward him.

He noticed how flushed your cheeks were and how watery your eyes were as you frowned—no, the first thought Dazai had wasn’t Oh no! You’re sick!

“Aw, love! You look so cute!” And he tackled you back down.

“Osamu!” you shouted as he lay practically atop you, squeezing you like a teddy bear.

“‘Samu!” you repeated once more. “You’re going to suffocate me!”

“You feel so cold, though, darling!” His reply was muffled as he buried his face into your neck.

“It’s like you’re trying to get yourself sick!”

He sat the both of you back up.

“H-huh? What’d you mean? Why would anyone willingly get sick?”

“Oh, I’m not sure either!” you exclaimed. “Maybe so you can use it as an excuse to skip wor-“

You sneezed again, interrupting your statement, seeing through Dazai’s plan.

“Bless you ‘bella!” he replied, a bit too excited. “What were you saying?”

“I. Was-” you sneezed again. And then twice. And then thrice.

“Aw, my poor baby!” Dazai spoke in his infantile voice. “Looks like you’re super sick…don’t you worry your pretty head about that. I have a solution.”

“Yes, please,” you responded—as best as you could with him pinching your cheeks—thinking Dazai would finally get up and bring you medicine so you didn’t have to do it yourself. That was, in fact, a terrible assumption.

“You trust me so well you didn’t even wait for me to tell you!”

“Uh-”

He then proceeded to pepper your entire face with kisses.

“Get-well kisses! They work better than medicine, trust me. Because these ones are made from lo-ove~.”

“Osamu!” you shouted. “You’re really going to get sick!”

“Do you really think I care, pretty?” He moved his face so his nose was touching yours. “I’ll tell you a secret. I know why I’d get willingly sick. So that I’ll be taken care of by my favorite girl in the world-“

“You’re so stupid!” you facepalmed. “You see being ill as a reward?”

“Yeah, I’ll make you believe so by the end of the day,” he winked. “I’m not going anywhere.”

…

Thankfully, Dazai did give you medicine to clear your stuffy nose. And then he told you to stay in bed while he would prepare you…breakfast.

“Oh no,” you said, knowing well that you mostly cooked the meals for a reason. Dazai was good at many things, but there were exceptions. He wasn’t the worst cook, but he certainly wasn’t the best.

“Wait, please trust me on this one!” he pleaded before you could get up. “I promise you I won’t burn the house down.”

The brunette was staring at you with dramatic puppy-dog eyes, and you were too tired to object any further.

“You have to make sure it’s edible, too,” you glumly replied.

…

It felt like almost an hour passed. You started to get worried—was he really struggling with cooking you something? You imagined the kitchen would be a chaotic nightmare by now, and it was enough to make you want to check on him.

But the moment you decided to get up, the door opened with Dazai bringing in a bowl of hot soup. Surprisingly, you could smell the aroma—and it was good.

“You really underestimated me, ‘bella?” Dazai smirked as he placed the bowl on a portable bed tray. “Bon appétit!”

“I haven’t even tried it yet,” you smiled back. “It might be the worst soup I’ve ever had.”

It wasn’t bad. You hated to admit it, but it tasted delicious.

“The virus must’ve affected my taste buds, too,” you chuckled. “Because for someone whose forte isn’t cooking, this tastes really good.”

Dazai wiped his head with a phew! “I actually…put in a lot of effort. I wanted to make sure I did it all right for you. Sorry it took so long.”

You wanted to hug him. You found it so adorable that he had really taken his time to make you something.

“Awe, thanks, Osamu,” you responded. “This was really sweet.”

“So…do I get a few kisses and back rubs as a thank you?” he asked.

“Sorry, back rubs? I’m the one sick; you should be the one giving me them!”

…

Dazai ended up giving you the massages in exchange for continuing to cling to you without complaint. You accepted and were defeated at this point—the man really wasn’t going anywhere.

He continued to stay with you until you felt better, and very unsurprisingly he spoiled your recovery celebration by becoming sick himself.

“Heh…” he mumbled as you looked at the thermometer with a frown. Contradicting was Dazai with a large smile, despite just finding out he had a fever.

“Your turn, ‘bella!” he exclaimed. “I already called Kunikida saying I’m going to be out for another week! This almost beats a vacation.”

“Osamu!”

“What? Any time spent with you feels just as amazing. And this is just a result of how well I’ve taken care of you.”

CHUUYA wants to make your recovery as comfortable and entertaining as possible—he doesn’t want his darling feeling mopey the entire time. after all, enjoying something distracts one from the botherations of being sick, right?

You hadn’t done as much as you would’ve liked today. Unfortunately, you were sick, but not to the point where you had to visit a doctor or were stuck in bed. It was an inconvenient gray area, where you were still able to do things but accompanied by the mild symptoms of a cold.

“Nah, doll, you’re just a workaholic.”

Chuuya laughed as you pouted while trying to do your laundry. Just because you were sick didn’t mean you should skip your chores. You would probably still go to work the next day, too—as long as you weren’t dying, you’d be alright.

You sort of felt like you were, though. You were overcome by a haze of debilitation, whether you wanted to admit it or not. But you couldn’t just sit around all day.

“I’m fine though, Chuu,” you replied, but a contradicting sneeze immediately followed.

“Your nose is saying something different,” he replied, handing you a tissue. “If you’re so bored, how ‘bout we do something actually fun? And won’t exhaust the life out of you?”

“Well, what are you thinking?” you asked, curious as you wiped your nose.

…

Chuuya had you sat by the table with a bowl and a box of cornstarch.

“Out of all people, it was Q who showed me this.” You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, baby, it’s not dangerous. It’s weird, but I can’t deny this entrances me.”

Chuuya poured some cornstarch into the container and added a cup of water. “It gets a little messy, but…” he started combining the contents until it became a gooey mixture.

You started giggling. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it definitely wasn’t the sort of crafts experiment you did as a kid.

“Chuu, this is quicksand. You’ve never made it before?”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Quicksand? Nope. But look—if you play around with it, it becomes solid—isn’t that amazing? But if you let it go-“

“It turns back into liquid, yes,” you replied before you sneezed again.

“It’s so weird! What kinda manipulation is this?

You couldn’t help but laugh at how the Port Mafia executive was captivated by such a simple science project. You watched as he played around with the oobleck.

You realized you could live this day simply as well. You proceeded to make your own cool mixture as well.

“You got some on your face,” Chuuya said a little after you were finished with your venture and were washing your hands.

“Where?” you asked, about to touch your head.

“Right here,” you felt his thumb gently rub your cheek and then move around your neck to tug you closer.

“Just kidding.” He stole a kiss in its place.

…

Chuuya sat down on the edge of the bed with his guitar. It was late afternoon, and you decided for once a very needed nap. But not before your lover entertained you with one more thing.

“I’m gonna give ya a little performance.”

He strung his guitar several times and ensured everything was correctly tuned.

Your widened eyes in curiosity made his heart warm. You were so enamored with everything he did—just as he was utterly obsessed with you.

He started playing a familiar tune. Your favorite song. You immediately smiled despite your oncoming headache.

“One day, I think I’ll write my own song for you,” Chuuya said. “You work so hard, how couldn’t you be the inspiration of a ballad?”

You cherished times like these. Even though you were sick, you had the company of the soft, sweetheart side of the Mafia Executive.

FYODOR is full of surprises, and you falling ill is no exception. unexpectedly, he decides to let go of his schemes and responsibilities for the day, to make sure you’re feeling better.

He could already tell by your unusual exhaustion yesterday evening. You didn’t do anything that required more exertion than usual, and it was too frigid in the year for you to feel so hot.

Fyodor already knew you wouldn’t feel so good when you woke up the following day. Your cheeks were flushed, and your head was pounding. It even ached to sit up. It was the worst combination.

Feverishly, you sneezed. A tissue was immediately placed over your nose.

“Blow, milaya.”

You looked up at Fyodor, who was standing by the bed. His amethyst gaze fell upon you—his usual amalgam of tranquility and complacency looked a bit different today…was there a hint of concern shining through his eyes?

You took the tissue from his hands and blew your nose.

“You’re supposed to be at work, no?”

You tried your hardest not to get sick because of this reason. You would be another hassle on Fyodor’s list of endeavors. You hated the thought of contributing, especially when he was already stressed and occasionally neglected his own needs with what he already had to do.

“You would really expect me to when I had to carry you to bed last night?”

The previous evening was a blur. Sometime after dinner, the weather immediately flew over you, and all your energy just drained out.

“Ah.” You sneezed again into the tissue. “Well, I think I’ll be fine on my own. I know you have a lot on your hands. I can take care of myse-“

“Please believe me. You’re not being a burden,” Fyodor cut you off and directly addressed the point you had been dancing around. His hand found yours and started to massage your fingers. He felt ice cold against you—or perhaps, you were on fire.

“Is your throat sore? I’ll make you some tea.”

…

He didn’t leave you alone for too long. Fyodor returned with a cup of hot ginger tea that you immediately took, desperate for some relief for your throat. Your nose was quickly soothed by the warm, sharp aroma of the ginger as you held the mug close to your mouth.

If there was one thing you learned, there was a type of tea for every occasion. Fyodor had an entire cabinet dedicated to those beverages—all precisely arranged.

“Is it alright?” Fyodor asked as you sipped, the liquid alleviating the soreness in your throat.

“Yes, of course,” you replied. “Maybe after I can try to get up…” your voice trailed off as you struggled even to shift your position.

“What’s wrong?” Fyodor moved beside you again as you frowned.

“I feel really sore. Like I ran a marathon without stretching at all yesterday,” you dryly chuckled, even though that had not been the case at all. Your whole body ached; it felt uncomfortable to move anything, and you felt awfully weak.

Fyodor didn’t respond for a moment, thinking.

“You can still entertain yourself without moving. Do you want to read? I’ll bring you to the living room.”

You curtly nodded your head and picked out one of the many books on the large shelf before Fyodor carried you to the sofa in the next room.

“Stay on my lap,” he said, holding you by your waist when you tried to move away.

“I don’t want you to get sick too,” you replied, confused.

“I won’t, don’t worry. Besides, I’m doing a favor for you.”

He motioned for you to enjoy your book and not pay attention to him. So you did as he said—you flipped to the page you left off on and tried to immerse yourself in the plot.

It got easy to do so and lose track of reality because Fyodor started to massage you—hands moving in circular motions on your shoulders to ease and relax the pain on your joints.

You felt both too hot and cold alone on your bed earlier. But here, in the embrace of your lover, you could see the end of your little tunnel of fever.

“Thank you, Fedya,” you whispered sometime after.

…

He got up to do something on his own a little later, but not before tucking you into the softest blankets you owned on the couch. He admired you for a moment right after—a touch of amusement in his eyes.

“What’s so funny?” you asked with a pout. You felt like you were made into a burrito.

Fyodor had thought the same.

“Milashka,” he simply smiled.

You thought he went away to attend to the business he was able to at home—Fyodor was infamous for being a workaholic after all, but you were surprised once again when amidst your reading, you heard a melody coming from the other room. Rich and resonant, you realized he was practicing his cello.

You placed your book down and freed yourself from the warm blankets before making your way over to the next room, disregarding the dull pain that still accompanied you.

Fyodor didn’t pause as you entered and sat down on the piano’s stool. You opened the cover and placed your fingers on the keys before smoothly joining in with the composition you had secretly been learning while he was away so you could play with him.

He probably suspected it anyway, but you still smiled and felt a little pride as you harmonized with him without error—and while sick.

♬♩♫♪

There was a moment of silence after the final note. You felt at peace. The tune made you sleepy.

Fyodor stepped towards you, and you lifted your head to meet his gaze.

“You played it perfectly, lyubov,” he said before kissing your forehead. “How about a nap now as a reward?”

…

After a glass of water and an adjustment of the heater, Fyodor tucked you back under the covers. He checked your temperature with the back of his palm, and he was appeased to find that your fever had noticeably gone down.

You suddenly giggled, catching Fyodor off guard.

“Why are you giggling?”

“I had an observation,” you chirped. You wanted to tell him it was evident he had been stealing physical affection from you throughout the day and that he wasn’t sly, but alas, exhaustion had overcome you again.

You took his own hand in yours. “Wash your hands after,” you whispered before placing a kiss on his fingertips. “This was nice. I feel better because of you staying.”

AKUTAGAWA feels that the roles have been reversed because it is usually him who is sick, and you helping him get better. however, this time it’s you, and so he wants to repay all the care and love you showed him. for once, not to prove something, but to show proof of your adoration towards him.

You didn’t want Akutagawa to visit you that day. You had sent him a text earlier that you were sick—your pneumonia was so severe that you were admitted to the hospital. He immediately rushed over right after.

You told him he didn’t have to—truthfully, half of your heart didn’t want him to because of his already weakened immune system and his tendency to get sick easily.

Yet he still showed up at your bedside with a “get-better” box and pink tulips, a mask covering half his face.

“Ryu, I appreciate this so much,” you told him, a cough accompanying your statement. “But I promise you don’t need to stay—I don’t want you to get sick too.”

He didn’t respond before striding over to the sink as if he were in his own house, grabbing a vase and filling it with water. You watched him trim your flowers, place them in the container, and then putting it on the counter.

“Ryu…”

“You’re in the hospital. Do you think I could just go about my day like my girlfriend isn’t sick?”

Even though his tone was straightforward, his hand gently brushed away the hair covering your eyes.

He was visibly bothered. He hated seeing you in the hospital gown, lying on the bed. He hated the IV line attached to you and the distant beeps! of your vitals. Akutagawa went through this experience more often than not, and if not painful, it was always irritating and unpleasant.

He would never want you going through this, even once.

“Are you comfortable? Should I move you to one of the VIP rooms?”

“That’s not necessary, thank you though,” you replied. You noticed the exhaustive distress in his argentine eyes.

“I’m going to be okay, Ryu,” you reassured him. “I promise. Just don’t touch me for now.”

Akutagawa nodded. “Are you hungry? Is there anything you’re craving?”

“I want…something sweet,” you bashfully replied. “All the hospital food was savory…they missed a dessert.”

You could see the corners of his mouth slightly lift up—an unlikely smile, especially in a place like this. “No explanations are needed. I’ll be back.”

…

He returned with one of the sweets you always picked up whenever you went grocery shopping and a couple of figs for himself. Akutagawa didn’t like sugary things that much, but this fruit he could eat for days. He indeed ate one a day—you were able to observe how long he would be gone on a mission based on how many figs he brought with him.

Akutagawa had brought two today. Was he planning to stay with you overnight? You knew he hated the hospitals—he would never willingly go to one.

Yet here he was, pulling up a chair by your bedside.

“I brought a book,” he said. “Can I read to you?”

“Of course,” you replied. “I didn’t feel like using the TV here anyway, so nothing’s been entertaining.”

The onyx-haired pulled out a book from his coat.

“Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest,” he started.

When Akutagawa was sick, you often read him children’s stories to combat his restlessness. He was calmed by your voice and fell asleep faster than any over-the-counter medication ever worked.

The first time you had found him in the hospital before you were even in a relationship with him, you introduced him to The Little Prince. At first, he scoffed and turned his back the other way, pretending not to listen. But his furrowed brows relaxed, and his frown lifted as you continued with the story—the theme of the openmindedness of children compared to adults, loneliness, love, and loss all gave him something to think about.

Eventually, the book became a source of comfort and light to Akutagawa, and now he had his own copy.

"‘And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.’” By the time Akutagawa had gotten to that part, you had dozed off into a nap.

…

When you finally awoke, the curtains were closed, and the only source of light came from an ambient lamp on the nightstand. And in this night, you also felt a soft pressure on your legs—Akutagawa’s head. He had fallen asleep too, with the book still flipped to a page.

You felt both adoration and woe in your heart. He was sacrificing comfort and possibly his health for you. You desperately felt the need to stroke through his white-tipped raven hair, but you didn’t want to heighten any more chances.

You fell asleep again after minutes of watching your lover’s chest delicately rise and fall, just as he carried his true self without his violent front.

…

Akutagawa stayed until you woke up the following day. He went out to do some errands and then returned with a small gift for you he picked up during the day. That was the routine he followed for the next three days, always content to find you better than the previous day until you were all better.

A nurse came in with a final evaluation and discharged you. You changed into new clothes Akutagawa had brought you before running up and embracing him.

He hugged you back tightly, relieved that you were finally out. He turned to the vase of the pink tulips, which were starting to wither.

“Just in time,” he said.

“The get-well-soon flowers,” you giggled, taking your first good look at them. You loved how he knew of flower symbolism.

“Let’s get out of here,” Akutagawa said, holding out his hand for yours to take. “I despise dwelling in this place any longer.”

SIGMA is worried sick, even though you’re the one sick. how could he not, especially when he isn’t with you? are you feeling alright? drinking enough water? eating well?

“You’re sick?” Sigma asked over the phone.

“Is it my fault? I mean, I was feeling unwell last week, but I got better in a day, so I didn’t think it was that serious…”

“No, it wasn’t; please don’t worry,” you replied. You hated when your lover blamed your problems on himself. “But yeah, it sucks. I even lost my smell! I can’t smell anything.”

“Really?” You sensed his worry through the call.

“Do you need to go to a doctor? I can pick you up and take you there—or I can call the doctor to your house if you’d prefer that-“

“No, it’s okay! It’s not that serious; I’ll be fine in a few days,” you said. “I just wanted to let you know because I won’t be able to see you for a week. But don’t worry about me. I’ll update you.”

“Oh, I see,” Sigma responded. “Alright then.”

Firstly, Sigma was most definitely worried. Secondly, you couldn’t smell? He knew how much you loved the dulcet scents of the desserts he created and the delicate fragrances of your favorite flowers. You must’ve been even a little upset when you realized that sense was gone.

Of course, he wasn’t going to leave you to battle the viruses alone, despite you having just said you didn’t plan to see him until you got better. So, the part lilac, part pearly-haired immediately set out to plan a sweet surprise for you.

…

The next day, Sigma showed up at your front door with a homemade bento box and a few bags of groceries.

“What are you doing here?”

“I at least have to check if you’re eating well.”

One thing that hadn’t changed since meeting Sigma was the butterflies in your stomach feeling. He always showed nothing but ultimate consideration and compassion towards you, treating you like royalty.

“I’m trying,” you replied honestly. “Everything tastes the same. I can’t smell any of it.”

“Maybe it’ll be more appealing if the food looks nice.” With that, he walked to the dining table.

“You haven’t had lunch yet?” You nodded, expectably to him.

“Sit down, love.” He pulled out one of the chairs. You followed him, taking a seat as he prepared your meal—putting a placemat on the table and setting the bento box on top.

You opened the container, and you were revealed with an assortment of the prettiest foods. For the first time this week, you were hungry.

The ones that caught your eye the most were the rice balls decorated to look like chibi versions of you and Sigma. A part of you didn’t want to ruin something so cute.

“What—this is so cute, Sigma! You’re so creative,” you complimented him. “It’s like you cook with magic.”

You noticed Sigma’s cheeks tint a rosy pink. “T-thank you. Go ahead and eat while I prepare your dessert.”

“Dessert?” you asked as you eyed the remaining grocery bags he was holding.

“You’re going to bake here?” You weren’t complaining, but you wondered why he didn’t decide to do it at his place.

“Yeah. That way, it’ll taste the best. Everything tastes the best when it’s freshly baked.”

…

You ended up eating everything. Sigma’s cooking never failed to impress you, even for a previously sated stomach.

“I finished!” you exclaimed, earning a smile from Sigma in the kitchen.

You hadn’t paid attention to what he was making in the meantime. He had put the tray of mystery into the oven a few minutes ago, so you were unable to see what it was.

“It’ll be done in twenty minutes,” Sigma said, walking over to you and taking your hand. “Was it good?”

“Very tasty; I’m full now,” you replied, looking up at him. His ashen eyes shone a gleam of fondness once he made eye contact with you, causing him to fluster again. He was so cute—at times, Sigma still acted like a schoolboy with a crush on you.

“You know your body makes room for dessert,” he noted coyly.

He guided you to stand up, and as you did, a familiar scent softly breezed past you.

The smell of your favorite muffin—and the smell of Sigma’s kitchen. It was faint, but it was there. Your eyes widened in wonder.

“Wait, Sigma—I can smell this!”

Even though it was a bit dramatic, you were cheerful to finally be able to smell any thing after a couple of days. You spun with Sigma around the room in delight. Surrounded by the aroma that made you feel truly at home and the sunrays through the windows, you started to dance together.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked, a bit concerned you were spinning around while feeling unwell.

“Yes,” you reassured him, drawing Sigma into an embrace. “I’m just thrilled right now. I think you’re cooking does have magic.”

…

The muffins were out and looked mouthwatering. Sigma took the first one from the tray and peeled down the wrapper.

“First taste is yours,” he said, taking your palm and placing the pastry in your hand.

“Today, I’ll be Sigma’s food critic,” you joked among the two of you. “He’s baked my favorite muffin—I’m rea-ally picky about this dessert, for your information. So I’m going to be really harsh on this review…”

Catching him off guard, you ate the entire sweet in one bite. You started laughing when Sigma abruptly gasped.

“Mm! That was delicious!” you declared, trying to sound like you were trying this for the first time. However, it contradicted the way you were reaching for a second one. Sigma had made this for you hundreds of times before—there was never one time you refused a muffin from him.

“Eleven out of ten!”

“And so are you,” Sigma added, bopping you on the nose. “If my cuisine does involve magic, then I hope that the food works better than medicine.”

bea’s acoustic songs are always so calming & pretty; in my mind, this is what chuuya plays for me. <3

i saw you said you were sick on the dash this month, i’m glad you’re feeling better by now/feel better soon, this is for you <3 @lovedazai @cheriiyaya @chuuyrr @osaemu @atlasnessie

i heard if you rb, your fav will give you get-well kisses until you feel better !! reblogs are cherished; they are what support me the most <3

#𓂃⋆·˚ seen this yet?

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aureatchi · 3 days

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ᰔ 𓂃 ࣪˖ FOR ONCE, I WAS THE MUSE IN THE ARTIST’S EYES; I WAS THE POEM ON THE POET’S TONGUE. . . ft. FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

⟢ PRÉCIS. it only took a singular person to make you feel like, for once—in a sea of murals and sculptures, you were the one sought after. OR, after months of admiring the other in silence, it is on your birthday when someone finally makes a move—on a rainy day in the heart of renaissance history.

. ࿓ a museum date with fyodor dostoevsky.

ᡴꪫ a/n. little late but…written for my birthday! plain self indulgent djsjjw.

ᡴꪫ info. fem!reader. bestfriends to lovers. pining. soft fyodor. light angst; fluff. confessions. kissing. reader overthinks a lot. you’re on vacation in florence, italy. history/art rambles-mentions religious imagery & greek mythology. sly…fyodor pulled many strings here. you both do art. mention of implied dazai. save this for ur bday :-). ﾉ wc. 3.7k+

“How do I explain it? I feel…I’m always the artist, always the poet. Never the muse, never the poem—that sounds dismal, I know…I have friends, people who care about me, and have fallen in love before, so I know I can love. But that’s me. Most times, I’m the photographer, I’m the giver, I’m the lover—never in pictures to be cherished, never the receiver of love letters: never the beloved. It probably doesn’t make sense to you, but-”

“You must also think you are perceived, never understood?” The keen ravenette sitting beside you listening added to your homology.

“Yes. Does no one wonder about the artist? No one notices that they long to be adored, too? Or perhaps I am projecting—maybe it’s just me. Sorry for my babbling, Fedya. My mind is all over the place right now.”

“...Do you fancy someone currently, by chance? That’s causing the negativity of your internal monologue to surface?”

He was always too straightforward. Yet somehow, he also always nailed the target of your distress.

“Sort of. He would never reciprocate, though.” You dryly chuckled. “The thought has me feeling lonely overall, unfortunately. And before you tell me I’m dramatic, I’ve had feelings for him for quite a while.”

“Hm.” Violet eyes focused on your glowing frame until now cascaded to the candle that illuminated the both of you. “If it’s that brunette you’ve been around lately, I’m sure he’d feel the same.”

“What?”

“I’d actually hope it’s him—I feel he’d make you happy.”

You simply sighed. “And this is why.”

“Why, what? Do you doubt he would reciprocate your feelings because he would fulfill your happiness? You’re self sabota-”

“Nevermind, let’s just change the subject. Please.”

…

It had been months ago since that chippy conversation was spoken within the walls of your apartment. Like the dusk of the room at the time, the words you said to each other had also been left in the dark.

However, even though the question of what you meant that night was never brought up again, the entire dialogue replayed like a film on loop in your head every other night you tried to fall asleep.

You honestly didn’t know what to call Fyodor. He was everything a best friend, but that title didn’t acknowledge and frame the emotional dynamic you had with him justly.

It was odd. He was always there for you—since university when he first showed up as a transfer and quickly made it apparent he was challenging you for the top of the class. It wasn’t intentional at first—until he found out you wanted to outsmart to beat him.

Your intense rivalries and teasing eventually settled down into a close friendship, and you’d grown to admire him. Lies—you admired him the moment you saw how well the foreigner spoke your language so well.

Fyodor had seen you at your worst. Through your breakdowns due to school, when you got sick, and whenever you just needed to talk…you didn’t hide anything from him. It didn’t feel like you could because no matter how many times you expressed aloud that no one could understand you, he did.

He grasped onto your emotions like strings that grounded you back to reality. He being there let you feel not so lost in your head and sentiments. It was as if he knew your entire soul by a single glance. That was the true reason why he became the prince in your reveries and the fixation in your unsent journal entries.

Though, he never talked heartrendingly himself. He never showed even a fourth of the vulnerability you let him access so freely. And that’s why Fyodor would never reciprocate, even if he also hadn’t plain-out said you would be a good match with someone else, sealing proof of his uninterest.

He wasn’t the best person in the world—you knew he had grandiose plans that were morally questionable, so sometimes you wondered if you were simply a step in his achieving them, nothing more.

Knowing if so, why did his face still cover your sketchbooks and prose?

…

You were woken up by the faint vibrations of your phone.

Happy birthday!

How fast time passes! Birthday messages were sent in by friends and acquaintances. You would be celebrating with them this weekend, but for now, you were halfway across the world.

Sporadically, you were on a solo trip to Florence, Italy. A few weeks ago, the airline rewards program you were a part of emailed you saying you were eligible for an entirely free trip to the country with an exclusive ticket to the Uffizi Gallery.

Although it was entirely out of the blue, it was a lovely surprise. It was no shock you loved art—you and Fyodor both.

“You draw?”

“Yes. Did you think I was not the type of person to?”

“I’m not sure,” you replied. You were still in university at the time—it was well past midnight, and everyone else had left the library you were at but you and Fyodor. You had noticed him take out a sketchpad, standing out from scholastic books. “I could never see you taking an art major, but you’re also practically able to do everything, so it’s not even shocking.”

He simply smiled. “I’m probably not as refined as you.” Fyodor stopped his sketching and then looked at you. “But you never show me your own drawings.”

You averted your gaze. You couldn’t show them—not when almost half of them starred him.

“Show me yours first,” you spoke.

“Someday," he smiled.

…

The special ticket to the museum allowed you to skip the line—and the crowds too. You would be let in early morning so that you could enjoy your first couple of hours admiring the paintings in serenity.

Ring!

Someone was calling you, not through your cell phone but the telephone. You stood up from the bed in your Airbnb—the company had even given you a vacation rental that was more than enough for one person. You swore you won some secret lottery for this to happen. Multiple rooms, a balcony—you walked through them all. Except for one, it was locked. It was likely storage for the owner.

“Hello?” you picked up the phone.

“How was your rest?” a recognizable voice chimed.

“...Fedya?”

“Are you up yet? Would you mind doing me a favor?”

“Uhm, sure?” you responded, bemused. How did he know you were staying here? You had told him you were going to Italy, and he had even helped you clean your home before you left, but you didn’t specify everything about it.

“Go to the dresser from across the bed and open the first drawer. There should be something inside.”

Okay, now this was weird.

“Did you plan this ou-”

The phone suddenly hung up before you could finish your question. For a moment, you just stood in the room, still lost. You moved when another buzz went off on your phone, a text message from Fyodor.

Would you meet me at this cafe in thirty minutes? Bring an umbrella, it’s raining.

And your suspicion was confirmed when he sent the address. He, too, was in Florence, and the cafe was close to the Uffizi Museum.

I’ll be there. :)

You walked towards the dresser and opened the drawer that Fyodor instructed. There was only one thing—a silver key necklace.

I guess this is his birthday present. You smiled to yourself, clasping the jewelry around your neck. He played with your heart so fondly. Did Fyodor not realize how much he was driving you crazy with the sweet things he did?

Or perhaps he did. And you were foolish for feeling this way when you knew he did not feel the same.

…

“Buongiorno dolcezza.”

“Showing off your linguistics?” you playfully scoffed, sitting in front of Fyodor by the window. You could hear the faint pat-pat-pat sounds of the rain outside, even through the buzz of the cafe.

“I said, ‘dobroye utro,’” further rousing your response with a smug smile. You had allowed his ego to speak.

"Good morning," he said, you thought. “Good morning, Fedya.”

“Was everything alright so far? Your flight?”

“You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“Hm?” In the slightest way, it was almost like he was taken aback.

“This is so elaborate. I’m truly grateful, please don’t get me wrong, but you did all this for me—and it’s not like I’m that special. It’d be more appropriate for someone you were dati-”

“Hello miss, would you like anything to order?” A waiter stood before you, cutting you off. He spoke in Italian—you could barely understand him.

Fyodor responded for you—In Italian, too—and you were able to pick up your usual order and something about “…mia amata.”

“Grazie,” you said after the waiter had taken your order. Compared to Fyodor, your vocabulary was laughable because of how limited it was.

“So, you were saying?” Your eyes moved back to Fyodor.

“Oh, nevermind.”

“Someone I was dating? Well then…could we go on a date?”

“What?”

The waiter came back to you with a cup of your favorite hot liquid. You sat agape, eyes still fixated on Fyodor as your drink was set down in front of you.

“Oh, did you not hear me? I asked could we-”

“I could do a date.”

Gosh, that sounded so reluctant and backward. Truthfully, you would more than love to—and not just one, either. But that was so unlike him. He was only doing this for the sake of the statement you had told him, or perhaps he was just fulfilling one of your wishes because he knew your feelings and wanted to give you a taste of something you could never have.

His expression was momentarily unreadable before Fyodor pulled out a small ticket and smiled.

“Let’s go soon, then.” A second ticket to the Uffizi Gallery lay on the table.

…

Luckily, the rain had stopped for some time. Even so, there was already a line forming by the museum—tops of umbrellas covering the heads of all the people there.

It wasn’t opening time. Yet you followed Fyodor, hand holding onto his arm to not lose him, pushing through the crowd of people right to the front door.

“Wait, Fedya.” You tugged on his coat as soon as you made it past everyone.

“Hm? Yes?” He stopped, looking back.

“There’s about an hour until we can go in. I thought we came early so the line wouldn’t be too long—why did we just cut everyone?”

“What time does your ticket say?” Fyodor asked.

You glanced at your ticket, then a watch on Fyodor’s wrist, and then at his lovely face himself, who smirked at being correct.

“Oh…just about now.”

What strings did he pull for this? It felt unreal as you were let through security, ahead and excluding everyone else who waited outside. You pieced together that this man probably hacked your airline company’s website to get your flight and stay, but this was an entirely different matter. How did he get you not only early but private access to the institution? Bribes? Connections? It was useless pondering—he would never tell you.

Just as he would never tell you the true feelings of his soul.

A historic ambiance encapsulated the air as you stepped into the gallery. Classical-style architecture embodied the halls from ceiling to floor, and your enamored eyes scanned the place in wonder.

Your footsteps echoed throughout the open corridors and checkered floors. You somehow felt like royalty. It was so empty, so quiet—just two hearts who had an eye for both art and understanding. Fyodor watched as you eagerly fluttered around, running up to any statues in sight to absorb knowledge about them. You became as hyper as a little kid—you ran back and forth and back to Fyodor to swing him around.

“Woah-” It was a rare sight. He was caught off guard by your action, and for once, his violet eyes widened in surprise. Pleasant surprise. A moment after, he joined your movement, spinning the both of you around. You smiled in joy, and he did too, seeing yours.

The first hall you entered was Niobe’s Room. It was beautiful—the ceilings were elegant and accented gold, the largest canvases of the gallery looked even more surreal in person—paintings depicting war stretching almost from one wall to the other, and the thirteen statues were wondrous, which you were desirous of rambling about…

“The sculptures all show different ways of them being killed. This is the Greek myth of the murder of Niobe’s children. She was the wife of the king of Thebes, and she had bragged of being a better mother than Latona, who, ironically, is the goddess of motherhood itself. So, she punished Niobe by sending her two children, Apollo and Artemis, to slay the fourteen kids she had.”

You walked toward Niobe’s statue as Fyodor watched with total interest, gone unnoticed by you. “The myth ends by saying that Niobe never stopped weeping, and her tears turned into an eternal fountain.”

“How tragic,” Fyodor replied. “To think this could’ve all been avoided if she kept her mouth shut.”

You were suddenly overcome by self-awareness and felt embarrassed. Maybe you were speaking too much as well. He probably didn’t even care-

“I wouldn’t say the same for you, though. You carry fascination in your words, and it translates to your explanations. It’s always been that way. I enjoy listening to you, especially the things you are passionate about.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that, even more so when his eyes dwelt on yours a bit too long.

…

“The Uffizi was actually not intended to hold the Medici family’s artworks and sculptures,” Fyodor started a little later. “The literal name means ‘offices,’ and the Duke of Florence wanted the complex to unite all administrative departments under one roof.”

“There you go with your intelligent rambling,” you chuckled as you walked into the Tribune despite having just done the same. This was the room you wanted to see most. A table was set in the center, and off-white sculptures were scattered throughout. “Next, you’re going to explain that this room…” you spun around the eight-sided space—“is octagonal because the number eight is considered the number that draws near Heaven, according to Christian tradition.”

Fyodor smiled. “I would already expect you to know. However, there are also literal sentiments—there is a lantern outside the dome doubling as a sundial. It teaches those unfamiliar with the movements of the celestial bodies.”

You only nodded.

“You knew that too?”

“No. I was also waiting for you to say the second thing. You mentioned more than one idea.”

“Unfortunately, you pick up on all my words.” You were confused by his statement, even more so when he stepped forward. You stepped back until you hit the table behind you, losing your way of escape.

“The room repeats its theme of drawing near to Heaven through the symbolism of the design and the cosmos. I would argue it must be true because…there’s also an angel right here.”

Your mind couldn’t stick to one thought as you tried to process what Fyodor meant by his words. And the recognizable complex scent as intricate as his individuality that followed him you could smell. He was so close now—you weren’t sure why you felt so nervous. How was this any different from the other times your friend broke personal space?

Though, he had never called you a term of endearment before, right? Doesn’t matter anyway. He probably only said that for the sake of a date.

But could you still say that when he closed the gap between you? And when he asked, “What do you find most beautiful about the museum?” and you were barely able to respond with “The frescoes you are greeted with when you look up towards the skies.”

And when he said, “You’re as beautiful as the frescoes,” intertwining your hand with his.

He embraced you. It felt so different from all the other ones he gave you—they were always so friendly, but this one felt almost ardent. When he pulled back, it almost looked like he would kiss you. But he completely withdrew.

It’s just for the sake of a date.

You were reminded a little later that the museum didn’t only belong to you. It had opened to the public, so you started seeing a few people around. That didn’t hinder your visit, though—you went to Michelangelo’s Room, saw Leonardo’s works, and Raphael’s—all the Renaissance artists.

And even though the Doni Tondo and even the Birth of Venus prevailed before Fyodor, he was not found admiring the Holy Family or the undressed Greek goddess of love and beauty. He stared at you instead in a way that made it seem like you were more breathtaking than any mural.

You stayed for a few more hours until you were content with everything you’d explored, and the rain had picked up again.

…

“I swear I locked the door.”

“You did,” Fyodor said, jingling a pair of keys.

“What?” Confusion flashed through your face as you checked your pocket for your own set of keys. He had not stolen them—you held up an identical pair.

“I own this apartment,” he jested, motioning for you to walk in before following behind.

“No way you actually set up everything!”

“Don’t deny it; I did it this way because I know you’re enthralled with my schemes.” You rolled your eyes in response, though you did not object.

“Point out what you found enigmatic here.”

You furrowed your brows while you thought of any mystery in the flat. Then, you walked up to the locked door.

“What’s behind this?”

“Unlock it, milaya.”

You looked at him for help as Fyodor joined you beside the door.

“But how-”

His hand brushed your neck before tucking your hair behind your ears and readjusting your necklace.

Ah.

“Smart girl,” he smiled as you unclasped your necklace and unlocked the door. You felt your cheeks become warm.

“Unfortunately, this was really creative,” you admitted sarcastically, a reminiscence of your rivalry.

“You haven’t seen it yet.” He waited for you to go in first—it was not a storage closet like you’d expected, but a hallway to another room.

It was silent as you walked to the end, where another door stood before you.

“Another one?” “Open it.”

You pulled down the handle and entered. Natural light seeped into the room from all sides, and you realized it was a sunroom.

Even though it wasn’t sunny, the room was swaddled with something empyrean—something more beautiful than the frescoes on the museum ceilings.

You fell to your knees—in surprise, in emotion, and in that, your heart was about to explode with that feeling of love. Those months ago since that chippy conversation spoken within the walls of your apartment…

“Does no one wonder about the artist? No one notices that they long to be adored, too?”

In truth, those words should’ve been taken with a grain of salt by anyone. You were just speaking your head—you were being theatrical over secret feelings you had for the person listening to you.

But someone had seemed to take them literally. He had your favorite flowers and plants growing in the room. And there were paintings—canvases stood by each other depicting the same person, you. There were sketches and polaroids of you on the walls without windows—some of them including him—and all picturing your happiest moments that year. Some of them had captions written on papers below them, too. They looked more like letters because their descriptions were detailed and lengthy.

It was like your very own museum, where you were exactly the muse in his eyes.

Fyodor, who had been standing in the doorway, walked and stood in front of you.

…So sometimes you wondered if you were simply a step in his achieving them, nothing more.

Could it really only be that way if he stooped down too, kneeling on the floor and cupping your face in his hands?

“I really feel like you don’t realize. You know…mi piaci molto, right lyubimaya?”

“Huh?” you asked as he stood the both of you back up in the center of the room. He was confusing you so much with everything, and more literally with his combination of Italian and Russian.

“Ah, I apologize, it’s hard to verbally—may I just?”

Fyodor leaned in a little closer, his arms around your waist and his eyes on yours.

Your mind would label it the definition of perfect serenity. The sounds of raindrops beating on the windows outside were distant and calming, while the sounds of heartbeats shared between you and Fyodor were close and warm.

You shyly nodded and closed your eyes, giving Fyodor his answer. He kissed you tenderly. So softly at first, as if you were fragile. But then, you moved your arms around his neck, drawing him closer.

You kissed him back, growing more passionately as your unsure doubts gradually dispelled into dust. He was so pretty—more charming than any of Michaelangelo’s sculptures. For his violetto eyes glowed at your presence, standing out from fair skin and dark hair. God knew not to put him in a museum where he would overshadow and be envied by all.

You only drew back to catch your breaths. And even so, Fyodor took your hands in his and started to play with them.

He was avoiding your gaze. Even though he was looking down, fidgeting with your fingers in attempt to hide it, you could see that his cheeks were flushed.

And you became flustered at the sight, too. You had never seen him look like that. You started to giggle. He finally looked at you with another new facial expression. Confusion.

You laughed even more, even when he asked what the matter was.

“The Fyodor Dostoevsky, going shy from a kiss,” you teased, poking him.

He scoffed. “Meanwhile, you’re stupid. You didn’t get the hint I was…am fond of you. At first, I thought you really had your sights on someone else…” he trailed off for a bit, “but then, I stumbled across some things while helping you clean your room…”

Sketches. Journal entries. Unsent letters. He had seen them in your drawers.

“Hey! Have you ever heard about privacy?”

“I respected your wishes. It said, ‘If Fyodor somehow sees this, read it.’”

“Damn.”

It was his turn to chuckle. Then, he kissed you again on the forehead.

“Happy birthday, darling. You are more beautiful than every piece of artwork that exists on this earth. Because you breathe—words and thoughts and interpretations, and that is what fascinates me with you. You are not just to be perceived on the walls but to be understood by another heart. My heart.”

fun fact: the real dostoyevsky really did art. he liked to sketch!

you are so lovely if you read this. reblogs are cherished; please indulge me in your thoughts through rbs, they are what support me the most! <3

#𓂃⋆·˚ seen this yet?#rb’ing works to get back on the writing grind

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aureatchi · 4 days

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fyozai, and the rest is up to you (guess who)

hello anon

#𓂃‧ ෆ˚ art gallery #fyodor bsd #dazai bsd

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aureatchi · 5 days

Text

time for volume three… :’)

#📷 reverie bsd!beast documentary #not the lupin trio </3

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aureatchi · 6 days

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BIGGEST LIE I EVER SAID . . . you finally pick up one of chuuya’s drunk phone calls.

ft. chuuya + f!reader, exes to lovers, implied blackout, taking care of hungover chuu, making up / out, 2.5k w.c.

chuuya is more used to loneliness than he’d ever admit. it came with the nature of his ability and his line of work, but it had only taken a few months with you to completely change his world, years of defense mechanisms overwritten by your soft touches and sweet words. now that it’s over, he can’t find it in himself to break his newfound habits, stubbornly clinging to their familiarity and basking in the fleeting warmth of the embers of your relationship.

even now that he goes to his favorite bar alone, he still covers the seat next to him with his jacket. it’s the one to his right; he always chose the seat closest to the door between the two of you, just in case.

he can still imagine the lipstick mark that would be left on his glass when you’d steal a sip, and he takes one pretending he’s pressing his mouth around it. he frowns as he swallows; was there anything left that wouldn’t remind him of you?

he downs the rest of what’s left in his glass, licking the stray scarlet drop that curls onto his bottom lip. his gloved hand is numb to the chill of the wine bottle as he pours himself another; it’s the last of it. today was hard, dozens of his men needlessly dying due to one subordinate’s laziness. all he wants is to hold you and let you make him forget all about his shitty day; you would’ve threaded your fingers through his hair and rubbed his scalp, letting his tension melt away off his shoulders, and then, he would’ve kissed you until it was all out of his system. instead, he’ll stumble home and spend the rest of his night in his empty penthouse, stress sitting in a tight knot in his stomach, mixed with the queasiness of too much alcohol and the ache of longing for you that never seems to go away.

god, he fucking misses you.

he pulls his phone from his pocket with one hand, the other still carefully cradling his wine glass. he lazily presses on your contact, still saved to his favorites. his eyes trail over your photo: it’s from when he brought you out to shizuoka. your hair is windblown and knotted from the motorcycle ride there, but you’re beaming at him, cheeks dimpled and eyes closed. his black jacket is draped over your shoulders, a stark contrast to the gold and peach of the setting sun behind you.

his thumb hovers over the call button. he only does this when he’s just drunk enough to ignore how bad of an idea it actually is, and to hear the sweet sound of your voice through your mailbox. it’s always after midnight when he calls, when he knows it’s too late for you to be awake and you won’t pick up.

good. he hopes you’re sleeping well.

he finally presses down on the call button, listening to the line ring. the leather of his glove is smooth against the glass as his finger traces the curve of his cup.

one…

he counts the buzz of the rings in his head. it always took five.

two…

he thrums his fingers against the bar’s dark wooden counter in a lazy rhythm. he wonders if you’re wearing that cute pajama set he loved so much tonight, with those tiny shorts that drove him crazy. maybe you fell asleep with your light on again, the way you used to when you’d wait for him to come home.

thrー

“hello?”

everything stops: his fingers, his thoughts, his heartbeat. he pulls the phone away from his ear, making sure this is actually happening, and he wasn’t hearing your voice in some alcohol-induced hallucination.

“...chuuya?” it’s muffled, and when he brings the phone back up, he can hear your sheets ruffle as you sit up in bed, your voice slurred in a sleepy rasp. “is everything okay?”

the room feels like it’s tilting, the dim lights of the bar haloing and growing fuzzy. he thinks he’s saying something, but he isn’t sure what. he feels sick, like his stomach is twisting itself and trying to crawl up his throat; he’s about to spill his guts out.

then he wakes up.

he only opens his eyes slightly before he squeezes them shut again. everything is too bright, and his head pounds in that special way that means he’s hungover or just used corruption. he groans, rolling over and burying his face into his pillow. it feels softer than he remembers, brain feeling like it’s full of static, disoriented and half awake. he swears the sheets smell just like the perfume you used to wear.

you.

he forces his eyes back open, lifting his head. that’s your dresser in the corner. these are your sheets, and there’s you, sitting on the other edge of the bed, typing on your phone. your hair is pulled back, and he can see your profile perfectly, just as gorgeous as he remembered. you see him move from the corner of your eye, looking up and meeting his groggy gaze.

“you’re up,” you stretch over to your nightstand, handing him the bottle of water there. it’s cold, small beads of condensation dripping down the sides. “finally. drink this.”

he downs half of the bottle in one go, the chill coating and soothing his aching throat. his voice is still raspy when he speaks, deeper than usual. “what am i doin’ here?”

“you don’t remember?” you tilt your head, smiling teasingly. “i guess you haven’t changed much. you’re still a lightweight.”

“gimme a break,” he grumbles into the mouth of the water bottle, taking another big sip. he’d let you get away with poking fun at him when he felt so shitty just this once. he tells himself it’s only because your cheeky smile looked so pretty in the daylight flitting through your curtains. “i was wasted.”

“i know,” you get up from the bed, moving toward your closet and shuffling around. he watches the way your legs strain as you reach on your tiptoes for something. you are wearing those shorts he loved so much, and he tries not to stare too obviously at the way they ride up your thighs.“i’m the one who picked you up when you were half unconscious.”

he hears you sigh and the soft sound of fabric as you push shirts around until you finally pull something off a hanger.

“here,” you’re holding a white button-down, and he recognizes it immediately; he has identical ones, pressed and dry-cleaned, lined in his closet. “you’ll feel better after you take a shower.”

“you kept this?” he pinches the fabric between his fingers; silky smooth, just how he liked it. your eyes widen, hand stiffening as you grip the shirt a little tighter. “thought you said you were gonna burn all my stuff.”

“whatever,” you sigh, rolling your eyes and tossing the shirt into his lap. “it was too expensive to get rid of. you already know where the towels are.”

he does know. his favorite part of his days was coming to your place after work, and he still remembers how warm he felt when you gave him a key so he could sleep next to you on nights when mafia work ran into the early hours of the morning.

he moves sluggishly when he gets out of your bed. he grabs a towel from the little shelf in your bathroom before he turns the water on, waiting for it to get warm and looking over your counter; you still have that expensive face mask he bought for you on an overseas mission, and he remembers how he’d stood between your legs as you sat on the counter, hands smoothing the curve of your hips as you brushed it onto his skin.

he takes his time in the shower, scrubbing himself clean lazily, muscles fatigued and sore. the white tea scent of your body wash soothes him the same way it would when he’d bury his face against your neck before he fell into another dreamless sleep.

when he comes out, dried off and dressed, you’re in front of the stove, the familiar smell of miso soup lingering through the hallway. he nearly wraps his arms around your waist out of the familiarity of it all, but clenches his fists at his sides to stop himself.

there’s a bouquet of flowers in the center of your small dining room table, a bundle of camellias and baby’s breath resting mockingly in a vase filled halfway with water. he glares at them as he sits down, thinking about what asshole could’ve bought them for you. did he write you poems on the card like chuuya did? he’d bet his own money he didn’t.

“by the way, those fell out of your jacket pocket,” you break the silence, nodding your chin towards the table; it's his cigarettes, one of the corners of the cardboard box bent. “you’re smoking again?”

“yeah,” he crosses his arms, fingers digging into his biceps. “i needed a new stress reliever. guess you found one too, huh?”

“what?”

“the flowers,” he mumbles. “is he treatin’ you good?”

you turn away from him and back towards the stove, but he can picture the look on your face when you speak, voice soft and tinged with a smile. “i bought those for myself.”

“oh,” he sits up a little straighter, sulk faltering as he clears his throat. “they’re nice.”

your socked feet are quiet as you approach the table. your hands are carefully cupped around the warm bowl of soup, and his eyes catch on your freshly painted nails. you must’ve gotten them done recently, and he tries not to think about how you used to love showing them off to him, or how nice it would feel when you’d drag them up and down his skin until the hair on his arms rose. you place it in front of him, full of steaming broth, kombu, and tofu floating serenely around slices of green onion.

he catches glances at you as you join him at the table, slurping his soup quietly. he didn’t think he could ever feel so unnatural around you, but tension clouds the air, awkward and uneasy. he stares into his bowl, like it could tell him what to say to fix this when you break the silence again. “do you remember what you said to me last night?”

he cringes; the last thing he remembers is that final glass of wine and your pretty voice on the other end of the line. he sighs through his nose, almost scared to hear your answer. “what did i say?”

“you said you missed me,” you brush your finger across the lone, pale pink flower petal that fell onto your table, tracing the curve of it, not meeting his eyes. “you asked me to pick you up and take you back home.”

you knew what he really meant: take me back to your apartment. it’s barely half the size of his penthouse, but it always felt like more of a home than his place ever did. there were signs of life dotted everywhere he looked, from your sink of dishes from last night’s dinner to your favorite candle in your living room, nearly burnt down to the bottom.

“you call a lot,” you finally look at him, voice quiet. “you don’t think i notice?”

“i know you do,” he whispers. “i only call so much ‘cause i miss you.”

you blink stubbornly, eyes watering. your lips tremble as you press them together, trying and failing to hold yourself together. he doesn’t hesitate to cup your cheeks between his palms, like it was an instinct.

“c’mon,” he sighs. “don’t do that. you know how much it breaks my heart.”

“i miss you too,” your voice shakes. “i really, really miss you, chuuya,” you melt against his chest the same way you always used to, arms wrapping around his shoulders and your forehead pushing against his neck. “i just want to stay like this for a few minutes,” you whisper pleadingly, words warm against his skin.

he could almost laugh; he’d stay with you for the rest of his life in your little dining room, holding you against him. he’d break the world in two for you if you asked him to.

“you’re still the best thing that ever happened to me,” he presses a kiss to your shoulder, and his heart flutters when you don’t push him away. he holds your waist, rubbing his thumbs against the small of your back. his cheek rests against your hair, and he inhales deeply. “i mean it.”

he isn’t ready to let you go when you lift your head off his shoulder all too soon, arms still solid around your waist when he feels your lips brush against his. you pull away just as quickly, but he cups your jaw before you can get too far. you fall back into each other like you were never apart, shakily exhaling in relief as your lips slot into perfect place against his own. chuuya loves you with every part of himself, and once he started, it was ingrained in him forever; loving you became a fundamental part of who he was.

you practically crawl into his lap, seating yourself on his thigh and wrapping your arms tighter around his shoulders. his tongue traces along your bottom lip, and the noise you make drives him fucking crazy; his breath stutters as you whimper against his mouth and melt between his hands. he caresses your sides with a tenderness only reserved for you, trailing down to the plush of your ass from muscle memory alone.

the edge of the table presses into his side, painfully prodding at the edge of his ribs, but all he can feel is your soft lips, parted and pliant against his, and the tip of your nails, scratching against his scalp and down his nape.

this is what he meant when he said he wanted to come back home.

“i won’t fuck it up this time,” he pulls back to look into your eyes. “it’s you and me. got it?”

you nod, cheeks wet against his palms, lips curled upward as you press a kiss to the slope of his nose.

“there’s that smile,” he grins, thumb stroking beneath your dewy lashes. “i missed it.”

“i missed you,” you press your hand against his the toned skin of his chest, feeling the heavy pound of his heart beneath your palms. “i’ve wanted to kiss you like that again for so long.”

“oh yeah?” he smirks, nose brushing against yours. “you stay up at night thinking about me or something?”

your fingertips are warm against his cheek as you shove his face away, scoffing as you slide off his lap.

“where do you think you’re going, baby?” he tugs you back, kissing the corner of your mouth. “don’t think i’m lettin’ you go again.”

BSD MASTERLIST

#˚ 𐙚 ˖ stamped for rec.#oh my gosh mai :’) :’)#something abt the way you write is so mesmerizing !! 😭#like i fr was going thru my tbr & decided to js continue later but i read b4 the cut on this fic #‘n unintentionally kept going jdjsjsj #wow the way all the scenes were written was so creative & lively #you never fail to make it seem realistic #chuuya listening to the voicemails :<#him getting a lil jealous of the flowers </3 #i’m so glad we gave him another chance #chuuya x reader

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aureatchi · 6 days

Text

SIXTY-FOUR EQUALS SIXTY-FIVE!

RANPO EDOGAWA ⋮ BUNGO STRAY DOGS

premise. ranpo loves to give you all sorts of little riddles, but this one might have you stumped the most out of all of them.

story notes! fem!reader. fluff! reader works as part of the ADA office staff. animated dividers by @/cafekitsune!

love, misa ‹3 if you know what the title is referencing, ily! also, reblogs, comments and interactions are vrie appreciated!

“. . . Pardon?”

Ranpo looks to you with a pointedly smug grin playing on his face, hands relaxedly folded behind his head as he leans back in the ADA office’s chair. It creaks beneath him as he plants his feet atop the mahogany desk and swivels around slowly, a sign that you should probably get the seat oiled soon.

“It’s simple, is it not?” He asks and you slowly shake your head no, mouth slightly agape when he starts to sigh, repeating his prior statement.

“Sixty-four equals sixty-five, and that’s that!”

You blink a few times, hoping that the information sinks in a little more inside of your beain just long enough that you can even begin to process whatever he means.

The words play back in your mind like an old VHS tape, abruptly coming to a halt when you can’t fall into a proper, conclusive or logical answer that would make sense in any normal situation.

“That’s . . . false,” you begin to argue, albeit a bit unsurely as you have no idea what to even say in the moment. Your mouth moves faster than your brain as you tell him the only logical thing you can think of.

“If sixty-four equalled sixty-five than it would be sixty-five and not sixty-four.”

Ranpo lets out a laugh, only telling you that “You’re wrong,” and for a second you look around the ADA office wondering if there were any cameras filming the two of you. You find that the other office clerks are merely seated at their own desks though, watching the spectacle between you and Ranpo go down, and a little amused at your bewilderment.

You’d think that for a man who is labelled as the greatest detective in all of Yokohama (and quite possibly the entire world once you took into account his inherent genius and lack of an ability), that much would make sende for someone like him.

Surely he couldn’t have said a more incorrect statement than that with such confidence in himself.

But no, of course not.

It’s Ranpo you’re dealing with, and he says a lot of odd little phrases and sayings just to mess with your head sometimes. It started since your first day with the ADA, it’s been years now and he’s still going too.

He doesn’t show any signs of stopping soon either.

(“You just look so funny with your face all scrunched up in thought!” He once told you after a particularly difficult riddle that had you stumped for hours on end until the end of the work day, afterwhich you realized the answer was unfathomably easy once he had revealed it to you.

Nobody else in the ADA could’ve gotten it though, so it saved you at least some of your dignity.)

You assume that this must be another one of those cryptic riddles he’s thrown your way, maybe a test to see if you’ve somehow managed to improve from last time. An inkling of hope swells inside your chest, hoping that today is the day you finally manage to answer correctly to one of Ranpo’s mysterious riddles.

Setting down the bowl of candies in your hands on his desk, you stand in thought for a moment, scouring your brain for anything that could relate to the riddle as Ranpo delightedly digs into the newfound treats, appearing blissful to the mental agony he loves to put you through sometimes.

The little dish clinks against his fingernails as he searches through the pile of sweets for his favourites at the bottom, the sound of the plastic unwrapping in tune with the beat of the ticking in your brain while you think over his words from earlier.

He gave no set up, no punch line, no nothing at all. There wasn’t any indistinguishable context to the riddle-like words that you could recall, it was only—

“Sixty-four equals sixty-five . . .” Ranpo hears you mutter underneath your breath, and his lips curl up in delight as he munches on a decadent chocolate truffle, filled with sticky caramel and generous bits of toffee.

The caramel sticks to his teeth, with the toffee clinging to the sides of his tongue and the roof of his mouth as he chews away at the treat, patiently watching while you continue to talk to yourself, still thinking over his words from earlier.

“Could it be a math riddle? No, that’s not possible though if we’re going by technical math terms and rules . . . Maybe something to do with physics? But how could anything simultaneously be sixty-four and sixty-five?”

Ranpo’s mischievous grin only continues to grow as you remain oblivious to his watchful eyes, and his gaze scans over your features, wordlessly taking in your appearance.

Your knitted brows, the way you subconsciously pout your lips whenever you’re in deep thought, your crossed arms, all while unknowingly talking to yourself as you piece together the clues.

Ranpo sees it all as clear as day. And he finds it unbelievably cute.

“Maybe it’s about hex codes from the colour wheel, since one colour can look different depending on the background it’s placed over. It could have less to do with the numbers themselves than the meaning or history behind them—”

“Are you done yet?” You’re brought back to reality by the sound of Ranpo’s voice interrupting your thoughts, head perking up as you’re met with the sight of his nougat stuffed cheeks. All puffed out and full of sugar as he holds back a laugh once he sees how quickly your face softened from it’s previously hardened features.

“You were taking forever to solve that one! And it’s really not that hard to begin with!”

“Speak for yourself,” you scoff, taking one of the chocolates from the bowl and unwrapping it for yourself. The plastic crinkles beneath your fingertips, you stuff the wrapper in your pocket before popping it into your mouth.

The caramel sauce encased in the hard chocolate shell explodes when you crunch down on it, a sweet little victory to make up for the quizzical hurdles you’re put through on a regular basis, courtesy of the man sitting right across from you.

“You’re Yokohama’s greatest detective, it’s obvious that these sorts of riddles come naturally to you,” you wholeheartedly confess, savouring the light cocoa and sweet, subtly coconut flavours that coat your tongue. “I’m not like you, Ranpo. Nobody in the ADA is, what takes us twelve weeks to solve you can answer in twelve seconds.”

“Awee, really?” He giggles, swiping more of the little candies from the bowl on his desk. He seems to have missed the original point entirely by now, as he motions for you to continue, “Go on, tell me more about how great I am!”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him, maybe you shouldn’t have gassed him up so much during your little acknowledgement speech. Though with the cases he’s solved in his repertoire, you really can’t argue against that title of his.

“No, you’ve had enough of that from Kunikida and Atsushi just this morning alone.”

A small pout graces Ranpo’s lips as you sigh, ignoring the kicked puppy eyes he gives you while walking back to your desk, continuing to mutter underneath your breath the same words that will probably leave you stumped for the next few days on end.

“Sixty-four equals sixty-five?”

Ranpo cranes his head as he eats away at the rest of his candy stash, watching you immediately turn to one of your co-workers from his own work space to ask them the same question Ranpo gave you, inquiring about any clues they might have as to the answer.

“No, there’s gotta be an answer,” he overhears when your colleague shrugs their shoulders, simply telling you that whatever Ranpo says is probably just a load of gibberish meant to mess with your mind.

“Just— just give me anything you can think of, okay? I’ll solve one of his riddles one day.”

The sight has Ranpo smiling behind the back of his hand, eyes crinkling at the corners with glowing cheeks when you sees you bring out one of your notepads from the desk drawer’s, clicking your pen as you begin to write down any guesses you might have to tell him later.

Truth be told, unlike the rest of the spontaneous mind games Ranpo pulls on you— this one has no actual meaningful answer. At least, not one that you’d understand at the moment if he were to tell you it’s solution.

But despite that looming factor always casting it’s dark shadow onto you, the thought of Ranpo giving you a riddle truly impossible to solve has never really crossed your mind.

Otherwise, you would very easily give up solving them after just a moment of contemplation.

Ranpo’s noticed though that you tend to wallow on them for days at a time unless he comes clean and tells you the answer in it’s entirety, letting his silly and easily misconstrued words stew inside your head during your lunch breaks and slow times at the ADA where you’ll maybe sometimes bound up to him excitedly with a guess as to what you think the answer is.

It’s charming how much thought you put into your solutions, and admittedly you’ve gotten quite close a few times to figuring them out all on your own. Ranpo’s always impressed with whatever you come up with, even if it’s outlandishly ridiculous or nowhere even close to the actual answer itself.

It’s really your explanations and logic behind them that he likes, with some of the ideas you bring up for splutions are those that he hasn’t even thought of beforehand until you ask him if they’re right.

(Sometimes he wants to cut your little game short and just give you the win for once if your guess is creative enough.

But where’s the fun in that?)

He’ll give you more of these up until the day you leave the ADA (though he hopes that’s not anytime soon) if it means he gets to see that delightful little confused but hopeful expression you make while deep in thought.

Your persistence in finding out the answer on your own until you’ve been truly worn out by him is also admirable.

Because while you’re always just a bit confused by all the different riddles, puzzles and play-on-words he hounds on you each day, he finds that you’ve yet to actually reject his proposal to solving them, never even considering walking away from his absurdity unlike with most people he knows if he asked them the same.

He prays it’ll stay that way too.

Otherwise, who else would he have to fawn over in secret?

Ranpo deduces that while you may be clever (anyone who works at the ADA is, it’s basically a requirement when working with ability users such as them), he’s always just a few steps ahead of you.

It’s not an insult towards you on his end in any way either. Your way of thinking is totally different from his own, but he reasons out that he can make arrangements to improving your logical deduction abilities once he finally figures out how to convey his feelings for you.

Properly, and not through a series of complex paradoxes and logic puzzles.

The most complex riddle of them all though that the ADA office staff asks themselves each day while witnessing the two of you has to be:

Whose logical reasoning is really being tested here again? Yours, or Ranpo’s?

The ADA believes that Ranpo should use less of his time giving you intrinsically methodical puzzles and focus more of his energy on realizing his blooming, lovesick crush.

#˚ 𐙚 ˖ stamped for rec.#oh my gosh !! ^_^#LOVELY this was the cutest thing ever misa !!#the world rly needs more ranpo content i’m so happy you write for him #i love this concept sm him giving riddles & mentioning the reason behind it #how he fawns over you !! <3 & over your many solutions #ending tied it up wonderfully it was so satisfying #i smiled multiple times bcz of how fluffy this was !#ranpo x reader

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