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Chuuya feels like she’s going to explode right there on the gravel.
“I-I just wanted to tell you that—”
Atsushi watches her attentively. Chuuya’s eyes dart to Atsushi’s. God, they’re beautiful.
“T-That I—”
Then her gaze drops lower to the smooth slope of Atsushi’s nose.
“I—”
Lower still, to the glossy sheen coating Atsushi’s plump lips. Chuuya’s brain short-circuits again. She wants to kiss those lips so fucking bad.
And then somehow her eyes drift even lower—
—to the slender column of Atsushi’s throat.
The pale skin there looks so soft Chuuya nearly loses her damn mind.
She wants to kiss there too.
Maybe bite a little.
Leave marks.
For fucks sake!
Say it, Chuuya!
SAY IT!!!
In one loud desperate outburst, Chuuya finally shouts.
“I WANT YOU TO JOIN MY CLUB!!!”
(Or: Five times Chuuya screws up her love confession to Atsushi and one time she gets it right.)
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Atsushi becomes painfully aware of everything at once: the way Dazai’s grip lingers just a second too long, the way their chests rise and fall too fast, the way his own heart pounds like it’s trying to break free. He doesn’t pull away. He can’t.
Because suddenly–
He’s here again.
Not just in this room, but in this moment. The familiar, dangerous closeness. How many times has this happened? How many missions ended with them pressed together in the aftermath, hands clutching at sleeves and collars like lifelines? How many whispered reassurances traded in the dark, hearts racing, breath mingling?
How many times has Atsushi wanted—desperately, achingly—to close the gap?
(or: Atsushi, a member of the Phantom Thieves, struggles with duty and love. Can he only have one, or can he have both?)
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Atsushi’s sunset eyes are wide and watery with panic, hands crumbling into fists where they cling to his pants, holding them up for dear life until his small knuckles turn white, lips trembling as if on the verge of a long wailing sob.
The fear and terror that take up every inch of this small child’s body doesn’t make sense to Dazai, almost as if the boy no longer knows who Dazai is....
It was reported that the ability user could revert people to a younger age…but they hadn’t heard any word about it also changing the mental mindset of the person as well…
(Or: Atsushi gets de-aged into a child and it's up to Dazai to take care of him.)
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Those eyes—blue, piercing, merciless—pin him in place. They are not just seeing him. They are stripping him bare, peeling him open, laying his insides out for inspection. For the first time tonight, Atsushi feels utterly defenseless, as though every word he’s rehearsed, every prayer he’s clung to, has dissolved on his tongue.
The man tilts his head, amused. His posture is effortless, but his presence is heavy, all-consuming, the kind of confidence Atsushi has only ever seen in saints painted on church walls. Except this man isn’t holy. Everything about him screams indulgence. His coat is sharp and rich, his shirt undone just enough to expose the hollow of his throat. He looks like sin sculpted into a man’s body.
And he is staring at Atsushi as though the boy in his white robe is a feast waiting to be devoured.
(Or: Atsushi Nakajima tries to prove his worth to the church by attempting to save some troubled souls.)
For Chuuatsu Halloween Event 2025 𝐃𝐚𝐲 3 - 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬
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It isn’t until he turns down a forgotten street, weeds breaking through cracks in the pavement, that he finds someone.
One figure, small and alone, sits on the curb near a boarded-up shop. The boy’s clothes hang from his body like rags stolen from a scarecrow, fabric torn and stained, collar slipping off one sharp shoulder. His legs fold awkwardly, knees hugged to his chest, and his head jerks left, then right, then back again—scanning, watching, as though he’s waiting for something that never comes.
Chuuya slows the car. His eyes narrow.
That kind of fear, that desperate searching—he knows it. He’s seen it before. The hunger inside him perks up, rumbles awake.
(Or: Chuuya is a vampire who feasts on runaway teenagers and Atsushi Nakajima is his next victim.)
For Chuuatsu Halloween Event 2025 𝐃𝐚𝐲 2 - 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬
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The great wind yokai, said to be larger than your average tiger, with fur as white as snow and eyes glowing like molten gold. The beast that had torn apart more exorcists than any blade or spell. The guardian of the mountains—or the harbinger of destruction.
Chuuya’s jaw tightens. He imagines the beast’s sinewy muscles beneath thick fur, claws like scythes digging into the earth. The way Byakko moves: swift, silent, unstoppable.
I’ll be the one to end it. His fingers curl tighter around the hilt of his ofuda blade. I’ll dig this knife deep into its flesh, sever its head, and bring glory to the village. Dazai won’t get the credit. Not this time
(Or: Chuuya sets off into the mountains to defeat the beast that's been terrorizing their village. It seems he might've bitten off more than he can chew.)
For Chuuatsu Halloween Event 2025 𝐃𝐚𝐲 1 - 𝐘𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐢
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RUN!!! (I Love It When You Hide~) by PastelNetwork
Fandoms: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
15 Oct 2025
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It’s common sense for people not to run away from an alpha in rut in fear of it turning into a mating run–a warning often given to omegas– but, in Atsushi’s defense, he wasn’t exactly thinking straight, not with the way the port mafia boss’s eyes honed in on him like he was a piece of prey he wanted to sink his teeth into.
(Or: Atsushi accidentally initiates a mating run with his boss.)
For Dazatsu Week 2025 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟓 - 𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐮
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He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to imagine. To swap the voice, the hands, the weight pressing him down. If he tries hard enough, maybe Chuuya’s grunts can morph into someone else’s—someone colder, sharper, untouchable. The boss. Dazai. The man who shaped him, broke him down and rebuilt him into a weapon with teeth and claws, the White Reaper who bends at his command.
It’s pathetic, Atsushi knows, but it’s the closest he’ll ever get.
(Or: Since Atsushi can't get with the object of his affections, he settles for the next best thing.)
For Dazatsu Week 2025 𝐃𝐚𝐲 4 - 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐔
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On the floor in front of him sits the man he’s just abducted—the Port Mafia’s so-called demon prodigy.
Dazai Osamu.
The ropes bite into pale wrists and ankles, his body lashed neatly to the rickety dining chair Atsushi dragged from the kitchen. Atsushi tied every knot with the same focus he’d use in battle, each tug on the cord tight enough to make his own arms ache. He expected a struggle. A fight. A curse. Something. Anything.
But Dazai hasn’t moved, not really. He’s been watching Atsushi with that lazy, half-lidded eye the entire time, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as if this whole thing is mildly amusing.
And he’s awake. Fully conscious.
That fact makes Atsushi’s stomach twist.
(Or: In order to help pay his rent, Atsushi goes the extra mile of kidnapping the port mafia's demon prodigy for ransom money. This works about as well as you'd expect.)
For Dazatsu Week 2025 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟑 - 𝐀𝐛𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
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Atsushi is being watched.
The young man came to this revelation a long time ago when he first entered Yokohama with nothing but a birth certificate and the clothes on his back. The coincidences that continued to pile up on top of each other, the feeling of numerous pairs of eyes watching him from the shadows, and the slight shift of trinkets inside his small apartment can all be amounted to one conclusion: he’s being stalked.
Is it because of the tiger hiding beneath his skin? Is he a threat that needs to be kept in check? Or perhaps they're waiting for the right moment to strike?
A thousand questions and yet not a single answer for any of them.
(Or: Atsushi slowly, one by one, becomes familiar with the people who are stalking him day and night.)
For Dazatsu week 2025 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟐 - 𝐒𝐰𝐚𝐩 𝐀𝐮
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When the last sock is tossed in the hamper, Atsushi turns—and almost collides with Dazai.
He’s standing right there. So close. His dark brown eyes shine with glee, whilst his grin turns sharp. Atsushi stumbles back a half step, heart hammering loud in his chest, threatening to break past the layer of bones and muscle and skin.
“What are you—”
Dazai cuts him off, lifting a finger like a professor about to announce a groundbreaking theory. “Secret lessons!”
Atsushi blinks. “What?”
“Secret lessons,” Dazai repeats, stepping closer until Atsushi’s back nearly brushes the desk. “If you’re that inexperienced, then I’ll teach you. Long story short, you’ll practice kissing me as if I'm one of your many, many admirers~”
The words sink in, and Atsushi’s face erupts in heat. “Y-you—WHAT?!”
(Or: Atsushi gets wrapped up in the suggestion of having secret lessons on kissing from his own senpai. Surely there'll be no consequences to kissing his eccentric, over the top senior, right?)
For Dazatsu week 2025 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏 - 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬
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Chuuya grips the stem of his glass and wishes–once more–that he was completely trashed. He’d be more relaxed with a buzz, but relaxed isn’t the same as sharp, and sharp is what he needs for the next month. Still… the temptation’s there.
Across from him, Atsushi clears his throat. “So, uh… have you been to France before?”
Chuuya’s eyes flick up. The kid is trying. He can’t even fault him for that, but god does it grate on his nerves. “Plenty of times,” Chuuya says shortly. “Business.”
“Oh.” Atsushi hesitates, then tries again. “Is it nice?”
Chuuya snorts. “Depends on the part. Depends on the company.”
(Or: Chuuya discovers the beauty behind the magnificent weretiger. This can be seen as either a good thing or a bad thing depending on who you ask...)
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Can You Keep A Secret? by PastelNetwork for the_moonlight_tiger
Fandoms: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
13 Aug 2025
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“Dazai,” Kunikida says, voice already teetering between disappointment and rage, “do you have any idea what time it is?”
Dazai blinks innocently. “Is this a trick question?”
“You were supposed to be here at eight.”
“I was on a secret mission,” Dazai declares, sweeping into the room dramatically like a man with nothing to hide. “Very confidential. Life or death. National security. Tigers were involved, y'know!"
(Or: Dazai Osamu is in a secret relationship with the boss of the port mafia: Nakajima Atsushi.)
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Atsushi laughs, none the wiser behind the feeling twisting around in Osamu’s gut. “Lucy’s inviting me to watch a movie. She’s on this whole mission to show me ‘proper’ Western cinema.”
Osamu hums, tilting his head. “And you didn’t think to come to me, the epitome of sophisticated taste?” He clicks his tongue. “I would’ve introduced you to Fight Club, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Synecdoche, New York... real soul-crushers–The good stuff!”
Atsushi chuckles. “She wants to start me off with Jennifer’s Body, Heathers, and Coraline. Something about feminist horror and ‘formative weird girl energy.’”
But Osamu’s not listening anymore. His brain conjures up the scene like a movie reel: the red haired omega sitting next to Atsushi in a dark theater, her hand slipping over his, her body leaning in, that smile she wears when she’s got someone hooked—
He hates it.
(Or: Osamu’s control, the one thing he prides himself over, unravels thread by thread thanks to his adorable alpha protege.)
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He downs the rest of his cocktail in one go.
His heart is racing, nerves coiled tight, but he forces himself to lift his head and meet Chuuya’s gaze. He interrupts whatever Chuuya’s saying next—something about Italian coastlines and silk robes—with a voice that shakes but doesn’t break.
“I–I wanna have sex tonight!”
The words drop like a stone in the middle of their table.
(Or: Atsushi learns what it means to feel cherished and adored by the one he loves the most.)
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“…No way,” Atsushi whispers, the blood draining from his face.
Mori Ougai walks forward with the unhurried grace of a man who owns every space he enters. Professor of Anatomy. Acclaimed surgeon. The same man who once gently guided Atsushi’s trembling hands through a dissection and told him, “Don’t be afraid of the human body—it’s just a map waiting to be read.”
Kind. Imposing. Wickedly smart.
And now—walking straight towards him.
(Or: what began as a way to pay off his debt quickly turns into something more when he finds out that the man Atsushi’s been calling his sugar daddy is actually his anatomy professor. )
Series
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Atsushi never knew himself to be anything more than just a blind useless waste of space within the village he grew up in. iIt was all he knew. the only thing that made sense to him in a dark, lonely world void of color.
Who would've thought meeting a yokai would finally bring life to the world he once thought of as cold and miserable?
(Or: A story in which Atsushi is more than just a blind human, but one who can 'see' Yokai. This saves him from a terrible fate in different universes.)
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Today was supposed to be a normal day of exploring the apartment Chuuya-san just gave them–complete with furniture, food, electronics, and a closet full of clothes–where Atsushi found himself staring with a gaping mouth, wide eyes, and scent going haywire.
Behind expensive high quality work clothes, lounge wear, casual clothes, tucked in the very back was something shiny, delicate, and fragile.
What, may you ask, was in the back of the wardrobe?
One word.
Lingerie.
(Or: Atsushi doesn’t know why the most dangerous alpha of Yokohama is spoiling him to oblivion, but he sure as hell isn’t gonna tell him to stop!)
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“If…if Mori is dead then…?”
–then who’s in control of the port mafia?
The question is left unsaid and thankfully—with the way the mafioso shifts uncomfortably against Atsushi—Ango hears it all the same.
A deep inhale fills Atsushi’s ears, as if Ango is preparing himself for Atsushi’s reaction—or perhaps his own?—until a deep exhale surrounds the two of them along with an answer to Atsushi’s question.
“Dazai…has succeeded Mori.”
…No fucking way.
(Or: it takes one night for Dazai to take over the port mafia and it takes six years for Atsushi to discover the reason behind Dazai's decision to become the Port Mafia Boss.)
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“P-Professor,” Atsushi blurts out, voice cracking embarrassingly. “Is—um, is there something wrong with my piece?”
Fukuzawa’s hand slips away from his neck, the absence of it almost a physical ache. But there’s nothing hurried or apologetic in his movements—he simply withdraws, as if the touch had been as natural as breathing.
“No,” Fukuzawa says, voice low and steady, brushing against Atsushi’s frayed nerves like velvet. His gaze dips down to Atsushi’s canvas, then back up to his face, deliberate and slow. “It’s good. You’re starting to see more than what’s in front of you. Keep going.”
He lingers for a heartbeat longer—just enough to make Atsushi’s skin feel fever-hot under his collar—before turning to move down the aisle between easels. His steps are unhurried, his hands tucked behind his back, as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
(Or: Professor Fukuzawa is unusually handsy with Atsushi and Atsushi–who has spent most of his life feeling pain–can’t help but chase after his fleeting touches.)
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