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helplesslypurple77 · 1 year ago

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AU Week: Detective AU(Dazai/Reader)

Summary:

“Remember Dazai.” You hiss in his ear, as the servant by the door rings the knocker for you. “As of now, I'm your wife.” “I know darling.” He says, giving you a reassuring pat on the back. Your stomach whirls to life, butterflies, leaping and bounding inside you. You don't know if you’ll survive the night, truly

Warnings: Smut~

Notes: I grew up with Nancy Drew, can you blame me? Also at some point the word count got away from me and i had to gloss over the actual mystery bits to get to the smut

then i also simplify the smut a little at the end but it got wayyyyyy to long

...

Even after so many years, the sight of dead bodies still made your stomach curl. You supposed it would never change, that disgusting stench of death, the quiet reverence that permeated the air as you stood before the body, the mangled body of a young woman, life cut much too short. And even though you loved your job, this was most definitely your least favorite part.

The grimy streets of London were as they usually were, dark and unpleasant. The streetlights scattered every ten feet did their best to cut through the blanket of fog that fell at dusk, hiding the surroundings from even the keenest eye. The rain fell in a mist, having been caught in the tail end of its fall. It always rained in London. You didn't mind, you actually liked the dreary atmosphere, as long as you weren't actually in the rain. You preferred to look upon it from inside a warm house.

“How tragic.” Dazai, your investigation partner says, reaching for another chip. He's holding a large bag of them, and as you eye them distastefully he crumples up the empty bag, tossing it into the garbage can. You take a deep, deep breath, letting it out through your nose in one big gust of air. Every day you come one step closer to simply ending it all.

Dazai Osamu is brilliant, that's obvious. Able to solve impossible cases with the barest bits of evidence, to track down serial killers and trick them into confessing. He’s so brilliant, you don't know why he even needs you to be his investigative partner, but he keeps you around, for some reason. You’ve never asked. Perhaps to field the questions he doesn't care to deal with. Or to foil his dumb antics. Or for comic relief.

“Let us investigate, my partner.” Dazai says, grandly swiping a magnifying glass out of his pocket. You take a deep, deep breath.

“Dazai, you shouldn't bring snacks to a crime scene.” You say, mostly for the benefit of the confused police officer standing in the back of the room.

“But that's so boring.” Dazai says loudly, attracting a few angry stares from the police officers scattered across the sight. You send them all small apologetic glances. It's smart to remain on good terms with these officers, because as soon as your small detective Agency loses the trust of the police, you lose cases, and when you lose cases, you can't pay rent.

The body is more gruesome up close, mangled in a totally unnecessary way. Her face is untouched, preserved perfectly in death, but her body is a mess. Her stomach is completely opened up, organs spilling onto the wet sidewalk, blood mixing with the pools of rainwater that run down the street, small red rivers, dashing away downtown. Why does it always rain, you’ll never know. But it always rains in London, that you could count on.

She’s dressed well, in a fine evening gown and sparkling jewels. Her handbag is lying a few feet away, strangely untouched. Dazai leans down, carefully inspecting her rain soaked face.

“Her jewelry is still on her.” You notice, probably stating the obvious. “You’d think the perp would have stolen it. Those are fine jewels.”

Dazai rolls his eyes in your direction. “Obviously, this was a crime of passion.” Dazai says, poking the dead woman's cheek curiously. He says the words like you should already know, and you fight back the urge to roll your eyes. Dazai can grate on the nerves, his assumption that everyone is as smart as him is egregiously wrong. You try not to let his tone affect you in any way.

“Is she wearing makeup?” Dazai directs this at you, and you lean down, carefully inspecting her face. This is one area that Dazai lacks, women's makeup and fashion.

“Yes, she’s obviously dressed for a social engagement. A date or a fancy dinner.” You say, stomach turning as you try your best to avoid the more disturbing area’s, like the stomach. You dislike this part immensely, looking at the dead bodies of people who were just like you once. It makes your thoughts turn dark, scary, and entirely unnecessary. You sigh.

“Wasn't there a ball this evening? A sponsored event I think.” You say, directing this at the police officers standing behind you. It's raining, and yet they stand there, scarily still. Their uniforms were wet with rain.

“A charity ball, sponsored by the Stonewall Corp, Ma’am.” The officer on the right, a handsome young man with a sad-looking face says. You shoot him a thankful smile, and watch as his cheeks flush a little. He’s cute, thin and pale with small eye bags under his gray blue eyes. If you weren't on a murder investigation and bogged down with unrequited feelings of love for your dumb(at least when it came to emotions) partner, you would flirt a little, maybe find the time to sneak off for some ‘fun time’ but alas that's highly inappropriate. Dazai coughs from next to you, still crouching near the body.

“Flirting at a murder scene is in bad taste.” He says, as if he was not just eating an entire bag of chips, in front of a dead body. You take a deep, deep breath, inhaling the smell of the wet london streets, and holding onto your patients with all your might. Dazai is a brilliant man, intelligent and kind but he was also tactless, rude, and a terrible flirt. And maybe it was because of your ill fated crush on him, but every time he criticizes you, every time you felt unwanted and useless, a deep well of sadness opened up in your heart, sucking at your soul and wringing out every ounce of self worth you possessed. It was tragic and pathetic and your patience was running thin. You had been feeling especially emotional and broken lately, and Dazai’s carefree attitude was grating at your nerves.

“Tell me oh so amazing detective, have you finished.” You say, tapping your foot insistently against the wet pavement. “Because I'm cold and wet and I want to go home.” You sound bratty and childish, but you can't bring yourself to care, not right now.

“Geez, cool your jets partner.” Dazai says, giving the body one last ounce over. “Fine, we can go. Hey you there.” He directs this part at the police officer standing behind him, an older gentleman who looks very, very tired.

“Send us an investigation into this woman.” Dazai continues. You shoot both police officers apologetic winces as Dazai pulls his brown coat closer around him, meandering away from the crime scene. You move to follow him.

“Wait Miss, let me walk you home.” It's the police officer from before, the handsome one with the gray eyes. He pulls out an umbrella, holding it over your head. You shoot him a grateful smile. It feels nice to be admired for ounce. He blushes, scratching the back of his head to hide it.

“It's dangerous this late at night.” He says, voice trailing off towards the end.

“No need.” Dazai jumps in, suddenly reappearing in between you and the cute officer rather rudely. The officer jumps back skittishly, giving a defeated little sigh as he tries to protest.

“At least take my umbrella Miss, it looks like it's going to rain.” He says, pressing the umbrella into your grateful hands. And with one last tip of his cap, he's gone.

“It always rains, it's london,” Dazai says, once again heading along the back street. You follow him, your heels clicking on the soaked pavement. The clicks echo about the empty street, accompanied by Dazai’s loud humming and truly unnecessary comments. You roll your eyes in Dazai’s direction.

“Would it kill you to be a little nicer? The police do their best, you know that.” You say, opening the umbrella with a click. The rain begins to come down in earnest, and Dazai ducks under the umbrella as well, crowding into you.

The two of you turn a corner, entering the shopping district. It's late, and most shops have already closed their doors. The only light comes from the street lights, casting rings of light onto the soaked pavement.

Dazai grumbles faintly, something you can't quite hear. You sigh.

“So, any ideas?” You say, extending a little bit of an olive branch. You really do appreciate your partner, and you love him as well, even though he can be childish and annoying. You value his time and intelligence greatly.

Dazai sighs out a great breath, as you turn the corner onto the street that houses your little detective office.

“Just a few things, we don't even know who she is yet.” He sounds tired, and a little depressed, and as the rain starts coming down harder than before the two of you sprint towards the office.

You lock the door behind you with a decisive click, you're not taking any chances. The office is dark, but you can make out the familiar shape of the secretaries desk, and the darkened typewriter. You make your way up the back stairs, Dazai on your heels and open the door to your warm apartment. You share it, to cut rent costs. It's also conveniently placed right above the office. There are two people already in the room, sitting by the fire.

Dr Yosano, one of the people you share the apartment with, is a very old friend of Dazai’s, and a great person to have around when one of you stumbled home, potentially very badly injured. She works as a doctor by day, and sometimes disappears at night. You don't ask her where she goes, she honestly scares you a little. But she’s a very kind woman, who’s known you for years now. She’s sitting across from the fireplace, a book in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other.

Atsushi is curled up in an armchair, textbooks and handwritten notes scattered out on the coffee table in front of him, little sighs gusting from his half parted lips. Atsushi is only eighteen, and studying to become a professor of literature one day. A good childhood friend of yours for many years, you considered him a little brother of sorts. You smile in Yosano’s direction, leaning down to press a kiss to Atsushi’s sleeping forehead gently. The poor boy overworks himself, always trying his best to keep up with some of the weirdos who go to his school. He’s a kind boy, good natured and handsome, and a bit oblivious. There's always a bunch of innocent college girls coming up to you, asking after him, yet he never notices.

“So, how was it?” Yosano says, her voice pitched low so as to not wake Atsushi. You sink onto the couch beside her, your skirts brushing against your tights. You're wearing darker colors, a dark navy blue and black striped walking suite. You love this particular outfit, and the dark colors match the dark weather. Your skirts rustle around your feet as you lean down, pulling off your black kitten heels. You take off your hat, placing it gently on the coffee table away from Atsushi’s notes.

“Gruesome. The body was mangled. Unnecessarily I might add.” You say, sinking back into the couch cushions with a sigh. Dazai hums behind you, hanging his brown coat on the rack.

“Obvious crime of passion. None of her jewelry was stolen. And her face was completely intact.” Dazai sighs, sinking into the armchair opposite Atsushi’s sleeping form. “She was coming from some sort of charity ball? High society and the like.” He scoffs, his opinion on the upper class as clear as ever. You close your eyes as you let your body sink back into the soft fabric of the couch. It's late, and you can feel sleep tugging at you, pulling at your limbs and urging you to fall deep under, into a quiet, peaceful, sleep. You wish to obey.

“Dazai? ‘M going to bed.” You murmur, taking a deep breath and slowly getting to your feet. You arch your back with a crack, and trudge towards the room you share with Yosano. He hums noncommittal in your direction, and Yosano sends you a small, tired goodnight.

☂☂☂

The next few days are filled with boring, boring interviews. Interviews with relatives of the poor girl, interviews with her slimy brother, and interviews with her weepy rich boyfriend. But you get a few good things out of it. One, Dazai solves the case. And two, you get a free vacation.

“She was going to attend this mansion party.” The boyfriend of the dead woman tells you, swiping at his nonstop tears with a soaking wet handkerchief. “At the digression of a billionaire.”

Her boyfriend is a rather ugly man, portly and balding but kind and sensitive. He hands you a small envelope sealed with a red wax seal.

“I just know she would have wanted you to have it. I'm entrusting it to you.” He says, bowing his head in thanks and standing up to leave.

The whole thing was a wash, a confusing mess of emotions and hidden words that you don't want to sort through, but as you and Dazai sit there, in the front office with that envelope in your hand.

“You know.” You start, sitting back against the hard wooden back of your chair, “I wonder if this is what it feels like to strike gold.”

Dazai spares you a small chuckle, before he stands up, stretching with a yawn. “Better get packing, partner.” He says, shooting you a smile. “We're going on a trip. And it looks like we're getting married.”

☂☂☂

“This place is huge.” You whisper in Dazai’s ear, gloved hand hooked in his elbow. You whisper the words, almost smacking him with the brim of your hat. You're wearing another walking suit, because it's raining, again, and you don't want to ruin your nicer dresses for this farce.

The dress is a pretty brown, trimmed in black lace and ribbon, and matches Dazai’s brown and white suit well, in a way that says ‘we’re married and get our clothes tailored by the same person’. Because as of now, as you step through the threshold of the massive ivy-covered mansion, you are married.

“Remember Dazai.” You hiss in his ear, as the servant by the door rings the knocker for you. “As of now, I'm your wife.”

“I know darling.” He says, giving you a reassuring pat on the back. Your stomach whirls to life, butterflies, leaping and bounding inside you. You don't know if you’ll survive the night, truly.

The door opens with a crack, an older man with hair as silver as a coin peeks out. His eyes are beady, suspicious and angry as he looks the two of you up and down. You try not to fidget, standing straight and tall like you’re supposed to be there.

“Mr and Ms Osamu Dazai? Your invitation.” The butler says, eyeing you suspiciously. You try not to fidget with your wedding ring, hidden under the pair of brown leather gloves you wear.

“Yes, here.” Dazai says, passing the invitation over. “I guess you were informed of the change?” He sounds as careless as ever, but in this situation, it actually works in his favor. He sounds just like a rich newlywed husband, taking his new wife on a fine vacation to the countryside. You clutch his arm tighter, nodding at the butler dismissively.

“I just really wanted to go, you know, and my darling Osamu managed to get an invite for me.” You giggle, playing up the young and in love. “Oh, you’re such a dear.” You simper, planting a lipstick kiss boldly on his cheek. His chest puffs up and he grins at you, sending the caretaker a side eye.

“Can you hurry it along? My wife is offly tired from the road.” Dazai says, and his voice portrays the air of someone who finds it very annoying to be doing something as tedious as checking identities. You reach up, adjusting the top hat that sits upon his head. The caretaker fixes the two of you with an unimpressed stare, but steps aside.

“Very well, i’ll show you to your room then.” He says, ushering the two of you inside. The door shuts with a slam behind you, and you're suddenly surrounded by eerie silence. The large hallway is empty, and cold with portraits lining the walls. Their grand portraits, of stern looking men and women, positioned so they are looking down upon each person that steps foot inside the mansion. You dislike each of them immediately, but a stern looking woman dressed in an unpleasant blue dress stands out to you. She seems to be watching you specifically, and you clutch Dazai’s arm tighter, turning away from the unpleasant painting.

The grand hall is big, arched ceilings support a large crystal chandelier that throws beams of light across every surface, be it the wooden paneled floor or the green wallpaper that lines the walls. The entire room is quiet, although faintly in the distance you can hear the sounds of a piano. You lean close to Dazai, whispering directly in his ear.

“This place is so spooky babe.” You stage whisper, eyeing the butler out of the corner of your eye.

“Don't be impolite darling.” Dazai stage whispers back. “Not everyone can have your suburb taste.”

“Welcome to the Crowley Estate, Mr and Ms Dazai. You’re our last guests to arrive.” The Butler says, leading you up a large twisting staircase, wrought iron handling and wooden steps. Your heels make loud noises in the mostly abandoned room. Every now and then you can catch the faint glimpse of a maid, dashing back and forth and then disappearing into one of the doors on the landing.

The Butler leads you down a hall, your footsteps vanishing into the carpeted floor. The doorknobs are silver, the many colored doors at odds with the green wallpaper. You eye them, taking note of any strange details.

“You guys are in room seven. Dinner is in thirty minutes. Do not be late.” The Butler says. And then he turns on his heel and leaves. You sigh.

“What a lovely man.” You say, turning the knob to room seven and stepping inside the room.

☂☂☂

The maid leads you and Dazai to the dining room twenty minutes later. You're still attached at the hip, and as you open the large doors with a creek, the panicked chatter in the room dies. There's a small circle of people in the room, gathered around something, obscuring it from your view. And because you’ve seen this exact scene go down a few to many times, you have a bad feeling you know exactly what happened.

Arm still hooked in Dazai’s, you walk forward, half dreading the sight you know you’ll see when you arrive. The half circle of eccentrically dressed people part like the red sea, and what you see in the middle makes you cringe.

The body of the butler, laying face down in the carpet with an axe buried deep in his back. You take a deep breath, and start your theatrics.

“Oh Hubby.” You say, turning dramatically and throwing yourself in your ‘husbands’ waiting arms. “It's a dead body baby. Oh that's so scary!” You say, your voice whiny and annoying even to your own ears.

Dazai pats you on the back reassuringly. “What is going on here? Can't you see, my wife is deeply disturbed by this?” He says, as you cry fakely into his jacket. “She has a very delicate constitution.” He informs the crowd of confused people that watch your theatrics. You clutch his shoulders, forcing real tears to ruin your makeup.

“Oh ‘Samu, our vacation is absolutely ruined!” You say, pulling away from his coat to stair beseechingly into his eyes. “And I was so looking forward to it. Whatever shall we do?”

Dazai puts on an admittedly convincing look, eyes suddenly glued to your lips. Your heart is in your throat, beating an unsteady rhythm as the two of you stand chest to chest, your matching wedding rings flashing in the lowlight. All you can see is his eyes, the strange expression that sits on his face, all you can hear is your heartbeat in your ears, all you can feel is him.

“Well.” Dazai starts, his voice all breathy and low. “I guess we’ll just have to make our own fun then darling.”

The world around you is gone. The other people in the room are simply gone. The dead body lying on the floor in a pool of blood is gone. All you can see is Dazai. His eyes lidded, locked on your lips. You pull your bottom lip into your mouth, chewing it lightly and he takes a breath in. And suddenly he’s moving closer. His eyes are still locked on your lips, and you feel your own eyes fall closed, your fingers notting in the fabric of his jacket and then—

Someone coughs, and you open your eyes, suddenly remembering that there is a dead body and six confused strangers in the room with you. You move away, flustered.

“Is this really the time?” A woman says. She's an older woman, maybe in her late fifties, dressed finely in a periwinkle blue dress and a silver animal fur of some kind. She hides her annoyed expression well, but you can still see it in her eyes. The other occupants of the room nod.

They are an odd group, all dressed in finery and dripping with money. Their wealth drips off them, and if you weren't busy throwing a kind of fit, you would cringe away from them. They give off the air of people who think they are very important, far more important than those ‘commoners’. But right now, you are those people. You take a deep breath, and continue on with the theatrics.

☂☂☂

“What a waste of time.” You say, closing the door behind the two of you. The minute the door shuts you sink down into a chair, the exhaustion clear in your body language.

Dazai chuckles to himself, hanging his brown coat on the coat hanger by the door.

“They're all annoying, but none of them are murderers.” He says, placing his hat on the coffee table and checking his watch.

You spent the rest of the evening in the room, deftly feilding the flying accusations that spun around the room, and doing your best to convince them that you’re a young and in love couple.

“You think they believed us?” You ask, turning your eyes on Dazai. He sinks down next to you, shooting you a wink.

“You were very convincing.” He says, siding closer to you on the couch. You tamp down the butterflies in your stomach, outwardly rolling your eyes. As much as you wish his flirting was only for you, you know that's to the contrary. Although for some reason, lately he’s really stopped his flirting. Maybe he finally got tired of being rejected. And it wasn't flirting, it was double suicide invitations. Somehow, even though the man annoys you to no end, the butterflies still whirl around your stomach, your palms become sweaty and your heart beats double time. You hate him, just because of what he’s reduced you to. But you know you love him.

Dazai stands with a groan, stretching his arms above his head. “Well my Darling wife.” He says, shooting you an exaggerated wink. “I'm off to bathe. Won't be long.” He says, yanking one of the fluffy towels that the maid had left and soldering off to the bathroom. You give a noncommittal hum in return, and when the door slams behind him you start the process of getting ready for bed.

First the outer jacket is taken off, folded and carefully placed in the dresser. Usually you would have a maid help you undress, but you were very suspicious of everyone in this house, be it staff or guests, and although it was hard you would rather just do it yourself. The outer skirt is taken off, then the thin layer of petticoats and the shaping pads and the pretty lace trimmed corset until you're left in just your silk and lace chemise. It was a pretty one, one of your favorites and unusually short, reaching about mid thigh. It was trimmed in layers of lace and the edges brushed your skin as you carefully picked up your pile of clothes, carrying them into the walk in closet. You're carefully placing them away when you hear the voices, people chattering just outside your room. You still, listening.

“Do you think those two are actually married?” someone, a man, speaks first. You freez, not making a sound as they continue their conversation. They can't see you, but they might be able to hear you.

“You think they are faking?” It's Margaret, the older woman from earlier, her haughty pompous voice full of disdain. She continues. “Then are they the perpetrators?”

The man coughs lightly before he speaks again. “I don't know, but I do know that when my wife and I were newlyweds we simply could not keep our hands off each other if you know what I mean.” You blush, still hiding in the closet.

“I suppose you're right.” Margaret says, and you hear something hitting the outside wall. She might be leaning against it. “Well it seems like the husband is taking a bath. Maybe they don't get along that well after all.”

They continue their chatting, walking down the hallway and soon Margarets door slams, and you can hear their conversation through the wall. They think you can hear them, you suppose. A plan forming in your head, you carefully finish putting the clothes away. The walls are thin, very thin. Earlier you heard Margaret through the right walls, loudly complaining to the maid for the thousandth time. It would be so easy to fake it, to moan just loud enough that she can hear, and so can your other neighbors. You smile to yourself, trying to calm your racing heart and the embarrassment lighting your face. Just in time, you hear the sound of the bathroom door opening.

You exit the closet in a rush, and turn on Dazai, advancing on him much like a predator. He smiles at you, with not a clue.

“I was waiting for you.” You say, purposely pitching your voice a little higher than the purr you would usually use to seduce men. You need the snoopers on the other side of the wall to hear you. Or hear you enough that their suspicions are eased and they leave the room in a hurry. Dazai eyes you, confused. You're upon him now, and you slip your bare hand into his, trying your best to caress the skin, to seduce him with touch. Still gripping his hand, you pull him towards the bed. He stumbles after you, his face still pulled into one of confusion.

“What are you doing?” Dazai asks you, a strange light in his eyes as you stop before the large bed. His eyes are locked on you, his hair still damp from the bath, droplets dripping down his neck and soaking the fabric of his complimentary bathrobe. The air in the room has changed, it's charged with electricity as he looks at you, his eyes jumping from the low lace collar of your chemise to your exposed thighs, to your lips. You smile, small and seductive. Maybe you're doing too much, it's not like the people on the other side of the wall can see you, but you can't help the faint hope that maybe he wants you, that maybe he loves you. You banish any thoughts like that from your mind and gently push him onto the bed.

His back hits the fabric with a sound, a soft sound that you know the snoopers on the other side of the wall can't hear. He props himself up, still watching you. You hear a creak near the door, and you sigh. More suspicions are flying it seems. Time to up your act a little.

“What are you…” Dazai tries, trailing off as you climb onto the bed, crawling forward on all fours, doing your best to employ all the seduction techniques you know. You don't stop until you're on top of his prone form, and then as you sit down, plopping yourself directly on his lap. He hisses, gripping your waist with a question on his lips and arousal in his eyes.

“Name, what are you doing?” He hisses, his voice urgent but low. You ignore him, slowly grinding down on his lap, and the hardness you find there. His protests die on his lips as you move, back and forth along the length you can feel beneath the fabric. Dazai grips your hips in a slight protest, hands trembling against your skin as you lift your chemise over your head. His eyes run to your boobs, his dick twitching against your bare pussy. You whimper a little as you grind harder, the stimulation ruining your sanity. But you must hold on, this is only an act.

“Why are you protesting babe?” You say, a little too loudly for the benefit of the watchers. “Are you too tired?” You grind down a little harder, and Dazai bites his lip. Hard.

You lean down, pretending to kiss his neck as you speak. Your voice is a whisper, a caress, your body still singing with arousal. “They're suspicious. They're watching.” You whisper, moving your hips back and forth, back and forth. It's all the words it takes. It seems Dazai’s brain isn't completely fried by arousal, because understanding flashes through his brain, followed by something you can't quite place. It almost looks like disappointment. You banish the thoughts, for it's impossible and only going to upset you later.

“You're quite needy today darling.” Dazai says, his voice heavy and deep. You do have to give him credit, it sounds oftly realistic and makes more heat pool in your gut. You bite back a whimper, fingers tracing the line of his bathrobe against his chest.

“I don't want that nasty body to ruin our vacation.” You pout, trying to conceal the obvious arousal in your voice. But you can't conceal your body's reaction, the wetness that spreads on his bathrobe. But, based on the hardness pressed against you, he can't control that either. It feels good to have at least this on him, it proves he's attracted to you in some way. It's a small consolation, but a consolation indeed. He chuckles beneath you, as you grip the ties of his bathrobe, pulling them undone and running your hands over the soft skin of his chest. He’s surprisingly built, with a faint abbs and a v-line running below the only part of his body still covered in soft white bathrobe. You giggle, running your hands along his body.

“You’ve been working out huh, baby.” You smirk. Dazai nods, hands tangled in the sheet as you grind down lightly, pussy leaving streaks behind on the fabric.

“Wanted to impress you.” He gets out, his voice sounding surprisingly wrecked. His face looks almost open, losing some of the guards he usually has in place around people, and if you didn't know he was making this up, you would totally be fooled. You have to congratulate him.

You grip his wrist, pulling his hand away from the sheet and bringing to you boob, giving him a permission of sorts to touch you. You want him to, in this case now and normally, and you wish he would take, take you however he wanted. You whimper as the rough pads of his finger come in contact with your sensitive nipple. If you strain your ears, you can faintly hear a commotion next door, what sounds like hushed conversation and the sound of footsteps, but the horny haze that surrounds your brain makes it hard to compute. You just need to control yourself until you hear them leaving, then you can go masturbate in the bath or something.

Dazai’s hand moves from your boob, once again gripping your hips and moving you, to simulate sex. You just close your eyes and let him, letting your moans leak out of your mouth and into the open air. You hope he thinks they're fake. You can hear faint little pants and grunts from him, and every so often he bites his lip red, his eyes locked on you and you grind. The expression on his face is something you don't think you’ll ever forget. Eyes locked on your face, dark with arousal and something that looks like amazement or disbelief, flushed cheeks and bitten lips, parted slightly with little pants into the already stuffy air of the bedroom. You know you don't look much better, face flushed, lips releasing moans into the air. You don't know if you will be able to hold on much longer.

And then, the sound you're waiting for. The next door slams loudly. “Oh, I must go downstairs.” Margaret exclaims loudly, and the sound of three sets of footsteps hurrying away is prelude to the end of this charade. You stop moving, still panting and quivering above him.

“They're gone.” You say, voice still full of arousal. Dazai staring at you. All this time, his eyes have never left you, your body, your eyes, your mouth. Their such a deep brown, the pupils dilated to almost black. There's a light in them, a light of disappointment, a light of desire. You don't know what to do from here.

Neither of you move, just frozen on the bed, you on top of him. It feels as if a spell might be broken, as if you are Cinderella and the moment you make a move to get up, the spell will break and the status quo will be back. The normal everyday you, and the Dazai that doesn't love you. You take a deep, deep breath, and prepare to move.

Dazai’s hands anchor you in place, his eyes narrowing slightly as you try to move off him. You frown. He grips your thighs, big hands anchoring you in place.

“Dazai…” You say, the word still full of arousal but tinged in confusion. He seems to be making a decision, weighing the pros and cons and as you sense his hands loosening around your waist you fall backwards. You spread your legs, fingers playing with your boobs and decide to take a leap of faith.

“Dazai.” You start, your voice certain. “I want you too fuck me.”

The effect is immediate. The emotions at war in Dazai’s dark eyes vanish, and suddenly he's upon you, gripping your waist and pulling you toward him, toward his dick. The bathrobe falls off, landing without a sound on the blanket and all you see is skin, pale skin, and dark eyes. They dont leave you as he lines up his hard dick inside you, pushing the head past your walls. The effect is immediate, you arch off the bed with a moan. Dazai smirks.

“You look so pretty like this.” He says, hands still slowly pulling you down on his cock. “You feel what you’ve done to me baby?”

His voice is rough as he slowly pushes in, hands gripping you so tight you're sure they’ll bruise. You whimper, hands gripping into the fabric beneath you as he bottoms out and starts to move. Your back arches off the bed with a moan, and as he sets a pace, fast and rough and oh so delicious, you grip his shoulders.

“Oh god Osamu.” You practically shriek the words, nails scratching his back. “Oh god i love you.”

You almost regret the words, but as he sucks possessive little marks into your neck, he murmurs the words into your skin.

“I love you too.” Dazai says, the words to tender and full of sincerity you nearly break. And then, he hits that spot inside you and you come with a scream.

☂☂☂

The atmosphere when you and Dazai enter the dining room the next morning, Dazai glowing and you limping and covered in hickeys, is one of many different emotions.

The maids are giggling, and even the butlers and some of the people at the large table are muffling laughter behind hands and napkins. Margaret sticks her nose in the air, as haughty as before.

And even though you have your work cut out for you, dealing with all these people and finding the killer, you find you are starting to anticipate the prospect. Dazai’s hand is still wrapped around your waist, supporting you as you walk around the table and you know he’ll be able to support you like this for a long time. It feels nice.

“What are you thinking about?” Dazai says, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You giggle.

“Oh nothing.” you say, taking a seat beside him. “Nothing at all.”

...

End Notes: been dealing with a nasty headache lately. Annoying as fuck. Btw i also did a little bit of research on the clothes but i am by NO means a fashion history expert. I just have google and sometimes that's wrong. Tried my best though.

on a totally unrelated note…Junko posing is coming back on tik tok and im terrified.

its lowkey fun though…

#bungou stray dogs #mariannacrxss #bsd smut #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #dazai smut #dazai x reader #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #helplesslypurple77

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helplesslypurple77 · 1 year ago

Text

~AU Week: Historical AU(Fyodor/Reader)~

Summary: But to be engaged to Fyodor. A small part of you was thrilled.But a much bigger and more practical part of you was worried.

Because he had always been a perceptive man. You were in danger of him very quickly figuring out your feelings and rejecting you, or even worse simply leaving you alone to your misery. You were sure to die a metaphorical widow.

Warnings: Smut, kind of mildly dubious consent??~

Notes: ok so uh this story is set in some ambiguous country in the regency era, so that kind of fashion. Please don't look too hard at the historical inaccuracies…

Also about the midly dubious consent in the warnings. It's kinda there?? The tiniest bit?? Dub con?? Not rly, the consent is muddy?? But reader is clearly really into it. Ok so there's a slightly dub con kiss, but no ones protesting at all

...

Lady Caroline was a total bitch. She stuck her button nose in the air and scoffed at all the other ladies at the tea party with the scorn of the only child of a new money family. You sighed, never losing your perfect poker smile.

“You see,” Lady Caroline continues, never one to measure her words. “My father had sent a letter to the Duke of Silverwall. He is sure to accept my proposal, as my family is known for our exceptional breeding.” She leans close, her obnoxious bright fan fluttering. “We have sired two former queens.”

She says the words conspiratorially as if they're a secret. As if she doesn't say it every chance she gets. You roll your eyes with a sigh. It's a bright sunny day, and several ladies are sitting around a small table filled with delicate desserts and colorful drinks. Autom has fully arrived, and the trees on Lady Cecilia’s estate are full to bursting with dry leaves. Red, oranges, and even some greens fall gently to the ground, covering the green grass with a crunchy carpet of fall colors. It's sunny, but a slight breeze floats through the air, the temperature pleasant.

The group of ladies are dressed finely, in browns and beiges and even some bright oranges and reds. Laughter and the clatter of teacups fill the air around your table. You take a dainty bite of a small fruit pie and savor the delicious flavors on your tongue. The desserts are the only reason you come to these. And the gossip. You do love gossip.

Your brown gloved hand reaches for another tart, and Lady Caroline looks at it distastefully.

“You’re so lucky Lady Name, I could never eat that much.” She says, her beady eyes shooting you a fake smile. She simpers, taking a sip of her tea. You sigh. Silence falls again.

Lady Caroline is an unpleasant woman, jealous and spiteful and sure of her own worth in life. And not to say anything unkind, but she’s a bitch. She puts other people down, throws her family’s newfound status around, and wears yellow. You hate the color yellow. It's unpleasant and far too cheery for such a gloomy woman.

Lady Cecilia, seated to your right, speaks up. “Well ladies, are you excited for the autumn ball?” Exited chattering fills the air at the change of topic. You shoot her a small smile. Lady Cecillia is a kind woman, with long blond hair pinned up into a fashionable updo, and pretty gold charms sprinkled throughout. Her dress is a gorgeous burgundy that compliments her blond hair and the golden accessories. Her father is a Marquess, so higher than Lady Caroline's father, a mere earl. You don't believe in status until Lady Caroline starts throwing her status around like it's something impressive. Then you are happy to flex your own high status.

Your father is the Duke of Somerset, standing opposite Lady Caroline's ill-fated crush the Duke of Silverwall. One of the only two Dukes in the country too. Lady Caroline likes to forget that in favor of her father, a mere earl. She’s annoying.

“Lady Name, you are to attend with your brothers right?” Lady Irina says, a breeze dancing in the cute pin curls that hang around her heart-shaped face. She’s wearing a lovely shade of deep brown, which highlights the brown pigments in her eyes. Apples and leaves and other things are embroidered throughout, catching the light in brilliant gold threads. You smile.

“Yes, that is the plan. I have set a tailor to come tomorrow.” You say. “My brothers are all without partners this year. I cannot imagine why.”

Lady Cecilia titters, hiding a blush behind a gloved hand. Lady Irina smiles. Lady Caroline simpers quietly behind her teacup.

“Yes, your brothers.” Lady Caroline starts. She’s dressed in a gray-blue, pretty silver accessories scattered throughout her hair and around her neck. The dress is the only pleasant thing about her. She continues, flicking that gray fan back and forth. “I hear they are still looking for finances, is that true?” She finishes, sounding less curious and more excited to say something snide and unpleasant. Her hair is done in an undo as well, but she refused to use the popular pin curls. You were sure she thought she was too good for them.

“Yes, that is correct.” You say, taking another lovely pie from the tray. “Although they have received several offers. Father says he is entering talks for me as well.”

The ladies at the table perk up, and Lady Caroline gets that expression on her face where she hones in on something, ready to pounce.

“Oh, how exciting!” Lady Cecilia says, looking sweetly, genuinely excited for you. Lady Irina nods, taking a bite of a small French pastry.

“Yes, I still remember when my fiance was chosen.” She says, getting that look on her face. Everyone knows the story of Lady Irina and her fiance. How they hated each other at first but fell madly in love soon after. You can't help the smile that carves its way across your face. Although you've heard it a thousand times, you still appreciate that Lady Irina has found someone she loves.

Lady Irina shakes out of her daze, taking another bite of her pastry. “These pastries are simply wonderful Lady Cecilia! I must have the recipe.”

“Oh yes!” You agree. Lady Cecilia nods. “Oh course, I'll send it home with you.” The three of you trade smiles. Lady Caroline coughs.

“So Lady Name, tell me. Who are you to be engaged to? It must be a lovely viscount I'm sure.” She says, her voice dripping with insincerity. You roll your eyes so far back into your head that you fear for a moment that they might simply get stuck there. Lady Irina joins your eye roll, but Lady Cecilia frowns. She opens her mouth, ready to speak but you raise a hand as you see your coachmen coming towards you.

Your coachman hands you a letter, the envelope a plain cream. The seal is familiar, however, your family's crest. You smile.

“Oh, it's from my father.” The ladies around you look up curiously, Lady Caroline grinning widely. She looks thrilled, like a vulture who just landed on a large dead carcass and is about to dig in.

“It must be news of the engagement. It seems they have completed talks already.” You say, using a butter knife to slice open the envelope. The paper inside is heavy, and your father's familiar handwriting greets your eyes as you skim. It only takes a few minutes to find the words you knew were coming, and while you personally aren't very thrilled with the outcome, you're still going to use it to your advantage. You place the letter back into the envelope, slipping it into your small purse. The three ladies look on curiously.

“Didn't go well huh?” Lady Caroline simpers. Her fake kindness makes you wince. You can barely hold in your anticipation as you start, schooling your face into a small smile.

“They went quite well, the engagement will be announced at the autumn ball in a few days.” You say, shooting the other ladies at the table sincere smiles. Lady Caroline's face falls slightly, but she recovers startlingly fast. “Well, I'm sure he’s a lovely viscount. Who is he?” She says, smiling insincerely. You bite back a grin.

“Oh, I'm not supposed to tell yet.” You say, pretending to be worried. Lady Irina leans forward curiously.

“Oh Lady Name please. We’re starved for gossip.” She says. Lady Cecillia nods excitedly. You give a decisive little nod.

“Oh fine then. You ladies aren't allowed to spread this around all right?” You say, just as a precaution at this point. They all nod. You do trust Lady Cecilia and Lady Irina, but you know Lady Caroline will blab the moment she gets the name out of your mouth. You would be stupid to unknowingly tell her information. But you're sure someone will find out anyway, you don't really have anything to lose.

You lean forward. “All right. Well im engaged to—”

“Name, it's time to leave.” your fathers familiar voice interrupts your words, and the ladies sink back in defeat. You stand, taking the small package of recipes Lady Cecilia hands you gratefully.

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait a couple of days then.” You say with a wink.

⚔⚔⚔

Your opinion of your fiance, the Duke of Silverwall could be better. Duke of Silverwall Fyodor Dostoeyvsky was, on the outside, a perfect fiance. He had succeeded his father at the early age of twenty, and had been running his entire estate for two years now. He was smart, handsome, and very, very wealthy.

You’ve known the man for ages, as your fathers were good friends and you had core memories of him pulling your hair and pretending it was your younger brother Philip. He almost got away with it but your other brother Ivan tattled on him. He had been a smart boy, he was always the one who came up with the mischief the four of you got into. He was also sneaky, always subtly shifting the blame to Ivan or Phillip when you guys got caught.

To his credit, he had never shifted the blame to you, but you were sure that one day you would have to take the fall. And while you weren't furious that he was your fiance(there were much worse options), you weren't thrilled either. Because you knew he would never love you.

You have loved him since a young age, an innocent crush that had developed into a deep love that you could never quite shake. But you knew that he simply saw you as a childhood playmate. He saw you almost as he saw your brothers, friends to go riding with, or to engage in philosophical discussions, but never as a woman.

You still remembered when he had accidentally seen you changing a couple years ago. You had hoped for a blush or something but he had simply left, closing his eyes the entire time. Your heart had broken, and you had simply accepted that he would never see you that way.

But to be engaged. A small part of you was thrilled. For you had dreaded seeing him with another woman for years now. You had awoken in a cold sweat from nightmares involving them dancing, kissing, or worse.

But a much bigger and more practical part of you was worried. Because he had always been a perceptive man. You were in danger of him very quickly figuring out your feelings and rejecting you, or even worse simply leaving you alone to your misery. You were sure to die a metaphorical widow.

You did your best to convince your father, of course not mentioning any more embarrassing facts, but he was steadfast. There was simply no convincing him. So, you put your other plan into action. Convincing Fyodor.

⚔⚔⚔

“Convince your father to dissolve the engagement.” You say. Fyodor raises an eyebrow in your direction as he escorts you around an especially muddy patch on the path. You're walking in the park, down by the duck pond that's always surrounded by wildflowers and away from prying eyes. There are no wildflowers this season, the grass is covered in leaves of different colors. They crunch under your feet as the two of you speak under your breath.

“Well hello to you to, Name.” Fyodor says, chuckling in your direction. “Yes, I'm in exceptional health, thank you for asking.”

You roll your eyes, pinching his arm beneath his white coat. You're wearing white today as well, a pretty white chiffon that hovers just far enough above the ground to avoid staining. A white fur ruff covers your shoulders. It's cloudy out today, the temperature nippy as the days before the Autumn ball shrink. The autumn ball is the day it's all irreversible. The day society becomes privy to the engagement between the two dukedoms. The day your fate is sealed.

“Can you please convince your father to dissolve the engagement, Fyodor?” You ask, your voice a whisper. Although the surroundings appear to be empty, you never know who’s servant is hiding in the bushes, on the hunt for gossip.

Fyodor heaves out a little sigh, as the two of you turn the corner of the pond. “Why Name?” He chuckles a little. “Is it that unfortunate a fate to be my duchess?”

It's not, in fact it's a dream. But not in this way. You dodge the question. “Well, you don't want to be engaged to me right?” You chuckle, pulling him to a stop as you stare out across the pond. A few ducks alight on its surface, ripples flying across the formerly pristine surface of the lake.

Fyodor chuckles, notably not answering your question. “But in all seriousness Name. Our fathers are quite set on this engagement, and the unification of the two families under the crown will be huge news.” He says. “Your brothers are now free to marry below their status and our substantial family resources are now pooled under one estate.”

You frown, disliking how correct he sounds. “I know.” You say, as the two of you leave the duck pond behind. “Fine, I guess my fate is sealed then. Oh yes,” You continue, an afterthought occurring. “Come over tomorrow, the tailor's coming. Father says we need to match.”

Fyodor gives his assent. And your fate sealed, you clutch his arm tighter and finish the rest of your walk in companionable conversation. You always have gotten along so well.

⚔⚔⚔

“Congratulations my lady.” Your head Maid Olga says, twisting your hair into a complicated style with her sure hands. Olga is a kindly older woman who has been your maid ever since you were a baby. She was your mothers maid before you. You smile at her in the mirror, applying light makeup to your face and cheeks.

“Thank you, Olga.” You say, lightly swiping some rough on your cheeks. Your maid nods at your dress in the corner. It's a brilliant white, silver and lavender thread embroidered the length. Your family's crest, along with birds and fruits and other things. A silver tiara set with amethysts sits to your left, and Olga braids golden threads into your hair as well. You put on your silver and amethyst matching earrings as your maid speaks again.

“You’ll be able to buy a wealth of dresses, mistress.” She says, winking at you. You giggle with excitement. “I know, that's the best part.”

“And of course Mistress.” Olga leans forward, whispering the next part into your ear. “Finally get to experience the pleasures of married life.” She winks at you through the mirror, and you blush, giggling.

As much as you wish you could, you're sure he won't touch you. You had learned of those types of pleasures from the forbidden section of your parents library. You had been back there playing hooky from your math teacher, when you had stumbled on the hidden erotica section of your family's plentiful library. You hated to admit it, but you had indeed had fantasies about your fiance. Dirty fantasies that warmed your body and made a strange feeling build in your stomach.

You were no longer a virgin. It was not such a big deal anymore, and you had lost your virginity at seventeen to the handsome butler your parents had employed for a while. And while you came with a cry you had imagined Fyodor, imagining clutching his shoulders and screaming his name to the heavens for mercy. But you knew it never was to be. You just resigned yourself to being an old maid, alone and sexless for all eternity. You sigh, and hold your gold mesh shawl close to your shoulders, heading downstairs.

You hate how handsome Fyodor looks. His long hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, strands falling around his face in a flattering way. The white suit compliments his dark hair and pale skin, the lavender and silver accents glowing under the light. He’s wearing a circlet, matching one to your large tiara.

The coach ride is loud. Your entire family is sitting on one side, and Fyodor’s mother and father and little brother sit on the other. You're sitting next to your fiance, smashed against the wall of the carriage and his warm body and absolutely combusting. Every so often he whispers in your ear, the words hardly mattering. All you can feel is his hot breath on your neck, tickling your ear. You shiver each time and are far too excited as he helps you exit the carriage.

You're practically vibrating with excitement as you and Fyodor stand behind the grand entrance. You're late, on purpose. For today is the announcement that seals your fate, but also the day you get to metaphorically punch Lady Catherine directly in the face. And because your fate is already sealed, you're looking forward to the pleasure Lady Catherine's shocked face will bring you.

The grand doors open with a slam, and the chattering in the ballroom below ceases as the two men by the door announce your arrival.

“Duke of Silverwall, and his Fiance, the Her Grace of the Somerset Dutchy.” The men shout, their voice bellowing out over the hall as you stand there, face smiling, back tall and proud.

You start down the long staircase, your train trailing behind you, your hand on Fyodor’s steady white-clothed hand. The mix of faces below you is just as satisfied as you had hoped. Shock, some faces scream it. Others seem to say ‘i knew it’ while you receive the jealous stares of some prettily dressed ladies. Your white gown stands out among the sea of reds and browns, and the telling matching suit your fiance is wearing is also a dead giveaway. It takes a minute or two to get to the floor of the ballroom, and by then the rest of the people have turned away, and the music has resumed. Everyone still eyes you discreetly, however, and you know they're waiting to ambush you with questions and interrogations. You can't erase the grin from your face.

“You look very happy indeed my dear,” Fyodor whispers to you, as he leads you onto the dance floor. It's a waltz, a slow dainty one that you know by heart.

“Did you see the look on Lady Cathrine’s face?” You whisper, your feet stepping the familiar pattern of the waltz you know by heart. You learned this dance with him, two teenagers being yelled at by your scary dance instructors, your first true dance as fiance’s should be this one. I'ts quite fitting after all, although your sure he's forgotten those dance classes. You try not to read into it at all.

Fyodor chuckles, leading you into a spin. The white of your gown spins around you, a cloud of spinning white and brilliant silver. You know you look stunning, a lily in your pale white among the autumn roses. The air of the ball is starting to affect you. The bright lights and the stares, jealousy and admiration alike, fill your heart, making you more tipsy, more risky than the fine wines ever could. You can feel his eyes on you, those dark, brilliant eyes. Intoxicating and luring you into their depths. You feel risky, and just the slightest bit horny. His hands are on you, around your waist, his gloved other clutching your own. Perhaps that’s why your lips are loose.

“I was so thrilled when I heard about her little crush on you.” You say, hands winding around his neck. You're closer now, closer than proper. You don't feel the stares around you. “She’s a truly unpleasant woman you know.”

Fyodor smiles, humoring you. “I have heard you say so only a thousand times my dear.” The nickname makes you dizzy with love, cheeks delightfully flustered. You pull away, bowing as the waltz ends and you come down from your strange high.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” You start. You can see Lady Cecilia and Lady Irina waving you over frantically out of the corner of your eye. “I have some catching up to do.” and then, in a moment of boldness you stand on your tiptoes, pressing a short kiss to his cheek and whirling away. You will not stand beside him long enough for him to bring it up.

⚔⚔⚔

It was a long night. When you weren't being interrogated by Cecillia and Irina you were being passive-aggressively insulted by jealous mothers, or congratulated by families, or taking a toast from the pleased queen or avoiding dance requests from other men.

The only men you dance with are your brothers, your fiance, and your very close friend, the Viscount Perry, who everyone knows is your good friend.

You barely speak in the carriage, leaning against the window tiredly but you're wide awake as Fyodor leads you inside his castle. You forgot. Tonight was the night the two of you moved in together. You calm your face as you walk through the familiar halls, heels clicking on the marble floors. The pretty arched ceilings of the main entrance halls, the gorgeous artwork and stained glass in the main hallway, it's all very familiar scenery you know from your childhood. You would run these halls with the boys, until you were older and didn't want to dirty your dresses. You had always been a so-called ‘girly-girl’.

Your fiance has been strangely silent, and it's not until you're sitting at your new vanity, carefully stowing your earrings and tiara that he speaks.

“Who was that man you danced with?” He says, his face turned away from you as he hangs his coat. You start undoing Olga’s complicated hairstyle as you speak.

“You mean Viscount Perry? Oh he’s a good friend.” You say, scratching your scalp as your hair tumbles down around your bare shoulders. You're clothed only in your shift, and you would be flustered but you know Fyodor doesn't see you as a woman at all. You hate how it hurts you, that fact.

“So he was the reason you were so…” He pauses, a certain quality in his voice when he finishes his sentence. “…Hesitant to marry me.” The end of his sentence is nothing like you were expecting. He almost sounds, well, jealous.

All your wasted thoughts, your sureness that he could never like you like that, all of it is breaking apart, much akin to a shattered mirror. Suddenly you can remember stuff, stuff you had missed. The fact that he had never thrown you under the bus like your brothers, his constant pestering when you were younger. And even his red ears as he exited that room, the room you were changing in. and even just the other day, as he masterfully dodged the proposition you had thrown at him, the demand you had said. ‘Ask your father to dissolve the engagement’. You're practically vibrating with joy as the revelations pour over you. He likes you, just like you like him.

Your mind is running a mile a minute, but Fyodor, blind in his jealousy, takes your silence as an acceptance. And as you turn, you find him standing next to you, gripping your arm tightly.

“Is that why? You love that man? You wish to marry him instead of me?” His usually immaculate poker face is gone. His eyes are narrowed, his mouth curved into a sneer, the anger and jealousy carved clear across his face. You find it dangerously attractive. Your dazed silence is again, taken as an affirmative and before you can actually get out an emphatic no, his grip slides from your wrist, and then he’s kissing you.

It's a brutal kiss, the possessive bruising of lips that ruins you inside and out, driving you mad with arousal and a strange kind of happiness. You melt into his frame, and his big hands grip your lightly clothed hips, the heat of them sinking into your skin. It heats your insides, that familiar cocktail of heat that is arousal. You love it.

“Fyodor.” You try, panting around searching kisses. “Fyodor—”. His hands get rougher, searching for purchase on your hips, hands gripping and tugging naughtily. You moan into his mouth as he sucks your tongue, naughty slurping sounds filling the walls of your chamber. He kisses to dominate, and you easily surrender control with a moan, your poor cunt clenching under your silk chemise. He channels his anger and possessiveness into the kiss, as if aiming to suck your soul and love out through your mouth so that Viscount Perry can never have them.

“Fyodor.” you say, your voice a moan as he noses at your neck, sucking possessive hickeys into it, trailing down to the low neck of your chemise. You whimper and he chuckles.

“That's right, say my name.” Fyodor says, a hint of his accent coming thickening his words. The accent he had possessed for many years had faded four or five years ago, but never quite faded away completely, always lining his words. It sometimes became thicker when he was angry. It came back in times like these too. You whimper, gripping his dark hair in your hand, fingers weaving into the locks, tugging it gently. He chuckles against your collarbones, getting dangerously close to the neckline of your chemise, and the wealth beneath it.

“Tell me name, did that Viscount Perry ever see you like this, undone and moaning?” Fyodor says, breath ghosting across your collarbones. You shiver, moaning out a response.

“No, oh god, of course not.” Your voice is a whimper, underlines of tight sexual tension lining all the words. He chuckles proudly against your chest, mouthing at your nipples over your chemise, leaving a wet spot behind him.

“He never gets to see you like this.” He sounds so proud, so vindictive, so attractive. “You're my wife, never his. Mine.” The possessiveness should not turn you on, but it does, and you rub your thighs together, desperate for some kind of friction. You want him, more than you think you’ve ever desired anyone, let alone him.

“Fyodor,” You speak his name as a whisper, a prayer to your god, begging to feel him inside you, running you with his possessive corruption. “Oh god Fyodor, I need you so bad.”

Your hands tear at the loose fabric of his shirt, yanking it over his head and discarding it somewhere, anywhere, you don't care. His skin is pale, thin with just a bit of muscle tone, and you mouth at his collarbones. Fyodor hair has been knocked from its neat ponytail, and it falls around his face, a sexy mess. His pale skin bruises easily and everywhere you kiss you leave a trail of red behind. You love the marks you leave upon him. He grips the silk of your chemise, yanking at the delicate fabric until it rips, falling into pieces around you. You grip his shoulders with a groan as he hoists you up, laying you on the bed. Your feet hang off the edge, your ass in the air, your toes just brushing the ground.

You feel his hand on your ass, smoothing over the cheeks until they find their way between your legs.

“You're so wet.” Fyodor says. His voice is a tease, a taunt. And yet as his fingers spread your pussy lips and play with your clit, you can hear the pride in his voice. You grip the silk sheets in a death grip, your mouth opening in a moan, drool collecting on the sheets. Fyodor chuckles, his voice rough his arousal as he slips a finger fully inside you.

“We were always destined to be engaged, you know.” He purrs, his accent deep and thick and deliciously sexy. You love his accent, his voice, the way he twists his words, taunting you, praising you, rejoicing you. He continues with his words, scissoring his fingers inside of you as you moan into the silk sheets. “I knew you loved me, and I loved you too my darling. I thought I could be complacent, I could await the days when we would be married. And yet, you were stolen from me.”

The anger in his words, combined with the thick fingers scissoring your hole open, drive you nearly insane. But you're still able to process the words. He knew you loved him, and he loved you in return. You were destined, predetermined by fate. Your heart clenches with joy, even as the walls of your pussy clenched around his fingers. He chuckles, a light slap hitting your ass.

“A mere viscount has stolen your affection.” Fyodor’s words are low, angry, possessive. He accompanies it with a slap, a harsher one on your pussy. You whine as he removes his fingers.

“Oh god Fyodor, want you. Fuck me!” The profanities are not befitting of a lady, but you could care less. The man behind you, the man you have loved for years and years, has informed you he loves you back, and he is reducing you to aroused tears on the mattress you will sleep on for the rest of your life together. You want him, want his hot cock ruining you, draining away the rest of your sanity.

“You beg for me.” Fyodor says, the statement full of pride and arousal, and thick with that accent. “You beg for me over this viscount. And I shall obey your every command, my wife.” The sentence is whispered, almost reverent, and full of so much awe and yet equally measured with arousal that you nearly lose it right there. You're a mess, panting and quivering on the mattress and as his hot cock penetrates your insides you cum with a cry on the mattress.

Your walls clench, your hands gripping the silk until it crumples, your cries muffled in the silk of the sheets. Fyodor shelves himself inside you in one fluid stroke, his cock bullying your walls apart with equal parts pain and pleasure. You're soaking wet, your arousal dripping out of your pussy and soaking a ring on your thighs, but Fyodor is big, biggest you’ve ever taken by far, and tick to.

It takes a while for the orgasm to subside, but Fyodor gives you no rest, fucking your through the overstimulation reletlessly as you moan his name helplessly, hands still tangled in the sheets.

“You're such a pretty slut for me.” Fyodor coos the praises leaking into your ears as the pleasure returns, as you move back and forth on the mattress, your toes just brushing the ground. He leans over your prone back, balls slapping your ass with each hard thrust inside of you. The words are degrading, the word ‘slut’ not befitting of a lady, but you love it. You love the way he says it, the possessive nature of the words, ‘for me’. That's right, you're his slut, his slut forever. His wife.

You can feel another orgasm welling up, and you cry it into the spit-soaked sheets beneath you. Fyodor returns the cry with the same words, the promise that you’ll come together. And as you reach your peak, as you tumble over the cliff with your soon to be husband right behind you, you let the words slip past your kiss-swollen lips.

“Oh, I love you, Fyodor.” You moan, as you fall over the edge. His hips stutter, his cock filling you up one more time as he hears the words, the words he was longing to hear so desperately. And he returns them, whispered in your ear as if they are forbidden.

“I love you, my darling,” Fyodor says, flipping you over and shoving his cock right back into your hole, the squelching sounds of his cum and your arousal mixing as he fucks it deeper inside you.

...

Endnotes:

whenever i write au’s the characters tend to run away so sorry if this is ooc. Also man, Fyodor and Ranpo are so annoying to write because their a little like all knowing gods…so they always end up a little more dumb in my fics, or maybe dumb to emotions

Dazai’s a little easier because he actively acts like a dumbass all the time

#bungou stray dogs #mariannacrxss #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor x reader #bsd fyodor #fyodor dostoevsky bsd #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs smut #helplesslypurple77

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