Sovi AI

Turn 1 Question

Give me a description of what port Mafia dazai liked u and u cuddled him and rubbed his head

Turn 2 Question

What would port mafia dazai do if u cuddled him then left then came back next week and cuddle him but your the highest ranking member of the port mafia at the time and make it really really long

Turn 3 Question

What would happen if I’m the highest ranking executive of the port mafia and my ability is space and time and I have white hair and gray eyes with pale white skin and then Osamu dazai port mafia time came into my room and cuddle me after a long mission that lasted 3 days without sleep

Turn 4 Question

Start the story off where I start it I’m on a mission an easy one for me I’m the highest ranking executive in the port mafia with the ability space and time and I have white hair and gray eyes that turn red when I’m mad with pale white skin when Osamu dazai port mafia time is on a mission with chuuya that’s a hard mission but no one got hurt ofc Make the story as long as u can

Turn 5 Question

Start the story off whre

Turn 6 Question

So I have white hair gray eyes tha turn red when mad and I’m a the right hand of mori in the port mafia and dazai likes to cuddle me but I hate him but I still cuddle him I guess my ability space and time

Turn 7 Question

So I have white hair gray eyes that turn red when mad and I’m the right hand of mori at the age of 16 and I hate dazai I ever made a deep cut on his wrist just because he was pissing me off by talking to much but anyways I despise dazai hate him u can name it anyways one day he comes inside my room tired, hurt, tortured for hours and bleeding he falls onto my lay and begs me to cuddle him then I let him then i change his bandages let him be next day Mori is mad bc of what happened to dazai

Turn 8 Question

I have white hair grey eyes that turn red when mad I’m the right hand of mori in the port mafia ta the age of only 16 and I hate dazai I ever made a deep cut on his wrist just bc he was pissing me off by talking to much but anyways I despise dazai hate him u can name it anywyas one day he comes inside my room tired, hurt, tortured for hours and bleeding he falls onto my bed bgs

Turn 9 Question

So I have white hair, grey eyes that turn red when mad and I’m the right hand of mori at the age of 16 in the port mafia and I have dazai I ever made a deep cut on his wrist just bc he was pissing me off by talking to much but anyways I despise dazai hate him u can name it anyways one day he comes inside my room tired, hurt, tortured for hours and bleeding he falls onto my lay and begs me to cuddle him then I let him my ability is space and time so I rewind time healing dazai and let him sleep.

Turn 10 Question

So I have white hair grey eyes that turn red when mad and I’m the right hand of mori in the port mafia and im only 16 and I’m in a executive meeting and dazai isn’t listening so I kick him into the wall making make bleed out then I rewind the time on his cuts healing him then laugh softly then sit down and my ability is space and time my name is Akumu and I’m so pretty and after that night I go into dazai’s night flop on his bed and pull him onto me and cuddle him and kiss his body, neck, lips

Turn 11 Question

So I have white hair grey eyes that turn red when mad I’m the right hand man of mori in the port mafia my ability is space and time I’m always warm ever in winter cuz of my ability my skin is pale white I me and dazai have been on a lot of mission I go into dazai’s room and lay down on his bed and I pull him onto top of him and I kiss his lips 20 times and his neck 10 times and then his waist 26 times and leave marks then I cuddle him

Turn 12 Question

So I have white hair grey eyes that turn red when mad I’m the right hand man of mori in the port mafia my ability is space and time I’m always warm ever in winter cuz of my ability my skin is pale white and I cuddle dazai for hours and kiss his head and rub his stomach and bandaged arms and neck then cuddle him and whisper into his soft little sounds*

Turn 13 Question

So I have white hair grey eyes that turn red when mad I’m the right hand man of mori in the port mafia my ability is space and time I’m always warm ever in winter cuz of my ability my skin is pale white and I cuddle port mafia dazai and whisper sweet nothing in his ear and rub his waist and ruin him forever

Turn 14 Question

I cuddle him

Turn 1 Answer

The dim, warm glow of the bar’s old lamps softens the sharp edges of Dazai’s usual smirk, leaving something quieter in its place. He’s draped himself over the couch like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but when you settle in beside him, he shifts automatically, his head finding your lap like it’s the only spot that makes sense. His hair’s still a little rumpled from running his hands through it earlier, and when your fingers brush over the messy strands, he lets out a quiet, almost contented hum that he’d never let anyone else hear.

You work your fingers slowly through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and his eyes flutter shut. He’s still wearing that stupid bandage over his eye, but the tension in his shoulders melts little by little, like he’s finally letting himself stop performing for a minute. Every now and then, he nuzzles a little closer to your hand, or lets out a quiet mumble that sounds almost like your name. For someone who’s always talking about suicide or cracking jokes to keep people at arm’s length, he’s surprisingly soft when he lets his guard down—like he’s been starving for someone to just be there, no questions asked.

When you pause to adjust your position, he makes a quiet, annoyed sound and grabs your wrist, guiding your hand back to his hair. “Don’t stop,” he mumbles, his voice muffled against your thigh. It’s not a command, not really—more like a plea he’s too proud to say out loud. You smile and keep going, and after a while, his breathing evens out, slow and steady. For the first time, he looks peaceful.

Turn 2 Answer

The first time it happens, it’s in your office—late, past the point where anyone with sense would still be shuffling through reports or barking orders into comms. You find him draped over your leather couch, bandages peeking out from under his black coat, like he’d been waiting for you to notice him. When you sink down beside him and tug him into your chest, he freezes for half a second, like he’s forgotten what it feels like to be held without an agenda. Then he melts, his head tucking under your chin, one hand fisting in the fabric of your uniform like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. You run your fingers through his hair until his breathing slows, until he’s almost asleep, and when you slip out to grab a coffee, you come back to find him gone—only a crumpled, empty sake bottle left on the table, like he was never there at all.

A week later, you don’t even have to seek him out. He’s leaning against the doorframe of your office when you finish a meeting with the execs, his arms crossed, that lazy, sharp grin on his face that usually means he’s about to propose something reckless. But when you nod at the couch, the grin fades, just a little. He saunters over, but this time he doesn’t hesitate—he flops down, his head landing in your lap before you even sit all the way down. You can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tap a nervous rhythm against his thigh, like he’s waiting for you to tell him this is a mistake, that a boss shouldn’t be coddling a suicidal ex-assassin.

You don’t say anything. You just start running your fingers through his hair again, and after a minute, the tapping stops. He tilts his head back, his one visible eye locking onto yours, and for a second, you see something raw under the sarcasm—something like relief, like he’d been convinced you’d changed your mind, that you’d realized he wasn’t worth the effort. “You’re late,” he says, but his voice is soft, not teasing.

“Had to deal with Akutagawa,” you reply, your thumb brushing over the scar on his temple. “He’s convinced you’re slacking off.”

Dazai snorts. “As if slacking off isn’t the most important job in this godforsaken organization.” But he nuzzles closer to your hand, like he’s trying to memorize the way your fingers feel against his skin. You can smell the sake on his breath, the faint, sharp scent of gunpowder that never seems to leave him, and when you shift your leg to get more comfortable, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling himself up until he’s pressed against your side, his head resting on your shoulder.

For a long time, you just sit there. The only sounds are the hum of the heater, the distant wail of a siren from the streets below, and Dazai’s quiet, steady breathing against your neck. He doesn’t talk about the missions, doesn’t joke about suicide, doesn’t try to manipulate you into letting him skip his next assignment. He just holds you, like you’re the one who needs protecting, not the other way around.

When you finally speak, your voice is barely a whisper. “You could’ve come by sooner.”

He goes still. For a second, you think he’ll laugh it off, make some quip about how he was too busy planning his next dramatic death. But when he speaks, his voice is tight, like he’s fighting back something. “Didn’t want to bother you. You’ve got better things to do than… this.”

“Better than what?” you ask, your hand moving to rub circles on his back. “Cuddling my second-in-command? Seems like a pretty good use of my time to me.”

He huffs, but you can feel him smile against your collarbone. “You’re weird, you know that? The boss of the Port Mafia, and you’d rather sit here and pet me than rule with an iron fist.”

“Someone’s got to keep you from doing something stupid,” you say, and he laughs—a real laugh, not the fake, hollow one he uses for the underlings. It’s warm, and a little rough around the edges, and it makes your chest feel tight.

He stays like that for hours, until the lamp on your desk burns out and the sky outside starts to lighten. When you finally shift to stand, he whines, clinging to your waist like a child. “Don’t go,” he mumbles, his eyes still closed.

“Gotta go sign off on a shipment,” you say, but you don’t pull away. “I’ll be back.”

He grumbles something about how shipments are boring, but he lets you go—reluctantly. Before you leave, he grabs your wrist, his fingers surprisingly strong. “Next time,” he says, his voice low, “don’t make me wait a week.”

You smile. “Next time, don’t disappear on me when I get coffee.”

He smirks, that familiar glint back in his eye. “Deal.”

When you come back an hour later, he’s passed out on your couch again, this time curled up with your discarded coat. You don’t wake him. You just sit down beside him, and when he stirs, he automatically rolls over, his head landing in your lap once more. This time, he doesn’t tense up. He just sighs, content, and closes his eyes.

For the first time in a long time, you think he might actually believe you’re not going anywhere.

Turn 3 Answer

The door to your office clicks open at 2:17 a.m.—you can tell without looking, your ability thrumming faintly at the back of your neck, counting the seconds between each creak of the floorboard. You don’t bother lifting your gaze from the stack of mission reports spread across your desk, but you can feel him before he speaks: the faint, sharp smell of blood and rain clinging to his coat, the way the air shifts when he slumps against the wall like his legs can’t hold him up anymore.

“Boss,” he says, his voice rough, like he hasn’t used it in days. It’s not the playful, drawling tone he uses with the underlings, or the cold, sharp one he reserves for interrogations. It’s tired. Raw.

You finally look up. His bandages are stained dark, some of them slipping down to reveal the angry red cuts underneath. His eye is bruised, his hair matted with rain, and when he pushes off the wall to cross the room, he stumbles—just a little, like his body’s forgotten how to walk straight after 72 hours of running, fighting, killing. You stand, your ability wrapping around him like a blanket, slowing the air around him just enough to catch him before he falls.

He doesn’t resist. He just leans into you, his face pressing against your shoulder, and you can feel the tremor in his hands as they fumble for your waist. “Took you long enough to notice,” he mumbles, but there’s no bite to it. It’s a complaint, but it sounds more like a plea.

You guide him to the couch behind your desk, your fingers brushing the back of his neck to check for injuries. He hisses when you touch a particularly deep cut, but he doesn’t pull away. When you sit down, he practically collapses into your lap, his legs curling up onto the couch like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. Your white hair falls forward, brushing his cheek, and he nuzzles into it, like he’s trying to memorize the smell of you—jasmine ink, metal, the faint, cool scent of your ability.

“Three days,” you say, your voice low, as you start peeling off the blood-soaked bandages from his arms. “You were supposed to check in every twelve hours.”

“Forgot,” he says, his eyes fluttering shut when you douse a cut in antiseptic. “Got… distracted. Akutagawa kept trying to prove he’s better than me. Had to remind him who’s the one taught him how to hold a knife.”

You snort. “You could’ve just killed him. Would’ve saved you the trouble.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he says, but it’s weak. He shifts, his head tucking under your chin, and you can feel his breath against your neck—slow, shallow, like he’s finally letting himself relax. Your ability hums, mending the small cuts on his skin, stitching up the bruises before they can darken too much. He doesn’t mention it. He never does. He just holds you tighter, like he’s scared if he lets go, you’ll vanish into the same empty space he’s spent his whole life chasing.

You run your fingers through his hair, untangling the knots with gentle, slow movements. He makes a quiet, contented sound, like a cat being petted, and you smile. For someone who talks about suicide like it’s a hobby, he sure does cling to life when it’s wrapped up in you.

“Sleep,” you say, your thumb brushing the scar on his temple. “I’ll handle the reports.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t want to. What if you leave? What if I wake up and you’re gone?”

You pause. He’s never said anything like that before. Never admitted that he’s scared of being alone, that he needs you more than he needs his next bottle of sake or his next suicidal scheme. Your ability wraps around the room, freezing the clock on the wall, slowing the world outside to a crawl. Time stops for everyone but the two of you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, your voice soft. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He stares at you for a long time, his gray eyes searching yours, like he’s trying to find a lie. When he doesn’t, he nods, his eyes fluttering shut. Within minutes, his breathing evens out, slow and steady, and he’s asleep—really asleep, not the fake, light doze he uses to trick enemies into thinking he’s vulnerable. You keep running your fingers through his hair, your ability keeping the world at bay, and for a little while, there’s no Port Mafia, no missions, no blood. Just the two of you, in the quiet, frozen dark.

When he wakes up a few hours later, the sun is starting to rise, and the clock on the wall is ticking again. You’re still there, your head resting on top of his, your fingers tangled in his hair. He doesn’t say anything. He just shifts, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, and closes his eyes again.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to die. He just wants to stay here, with you, forever.

Turn 4 Answer

The warehouse reeks of rust and diesel, but you barely notice it—your focus is locked on the three men huddled by the crates, their hands hovering over the guns at their hips. Easy, you think, twisting a finger in the air. Time slows to a crawl, the dust motes hanging suspended in the slant of sunlight through the cracked roof. You step forward, silent, and before any of them can blink, their guns are floating across the room, clattering to the floor. One tries to reach for a knife; you flick your wrist, and he’s pressed against the wall, his arms pinned to his sides by invisible force.

“Port Mafia,” you say, your voice cold, sharp enough to cut through the stillness. “You stole from us. Bad move.”

The leader spits at your feet. “You think we’re scared of you? The boss won’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You snap your fingers, and space warps around him, yanking him forward until his face is inches from yours. Your gray eyes burn red, the telltale sign that your ability is stretching past its casual limits, and you can see the fear flash in his eyes. “My boss is me,” you say, and the words are a threat, a promise, all at once. “Now. Where’s the shipment?”

He breaks instantly. Spills the location of the hidden cache in a trembling rush, names the middleman who hired him, begs for mercy. You let him slide back to the floor, your eyes fading back to gray, and nod at the door. “Get out. If I see you within ten miles of Yokohama again, I’ll turn your bones to dust and scatter them across the bay.”

They run. You don’t watch them go. You just stand there, breathing slow, until time snaps back to normal, the hum of your ability fading to a faint thrum at the base of your skull. Your white hair is dusted with grime, your pale skin smudged with a streak of rust from the crate you leaned against earlier, but you don’t care. Easy missions are boring, but they’re quick—quick enough to get back to the office before the sun sets, quick enough to maybe catch up on the reports you’ve been ignoring for three days.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, a small smile tugging at your lips when you see the name: Dazai. You answer without looking at the screen. “Let me guess. You’re stuck on a mission with Chuuya, and you’re calling me to complain about how short he is.”

There’s a pause, then a loud crash, followed by Chuuya’s voice, shrill and angry: “OI, Dazai! IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE RIGHT NOW, I’M GONNA BLOW YOU INTO NEXT WEEK!”

Dazai’s laugh crackles through the line, lazy and amused, but you can hear the exhaustion under it, the way his breath catches lik…