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tetsustation · 3 years

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( STRAY SCHOLARS — A COLLABORATION )

A BUNGOU STRAY DOGS UNIVERSITY AU where writers take on the canon divergent persona’s of their favorite bsd characters in relation to you! this was a closed of collaboration, inspired and tailored by some of my mutuals on here (a proper thank you to them is listed at the bottom). below you can expect to find a masterlist of all the blurbs and their respective characters x reader along with the writer who wrote the piece—please enjoy!

AUTHOR’S NOTE this masterlist is incomplete and subject to change as writers publish their work; titles and synopsis’ are also subject to change. please be patient with our writers and check back regularly until completion. thank you, and enjoy!

STATUS eight of ten completed

“COLD COFFEE„ — by @nameless-shrimp

SYNPOSIS — atsushi has taken a liking to one of the students in his class, which turned out to be you. when realizing that your study spot was in the campus café, he does his best to make the most out of the time he can to have you notice him.

OSAMU DAZAI — classics professor

“TSUNAMI„ — by @aitarose

SYNPOSIS — secret relationships were never known to end well, especially when that fellow member is your classics professor—whom held your heart in his bandaged hands, despite feeling nothing but lust for you, yourself.

KUNIKIDA DOPPO — mathematics professor

“WHISKEY BLUES„ — by @kazudon

SYNOPSIS — you had hoped that things would change behind closed doors. you also should’ve known your colleague’s old habits were hard to break.

RANPO EDOGAWA — comp sci major

“SHUTTLE BUS„ — by @tetsustation

SYNOPSIS — campus is big, but your loathing for your classmate is bigger. and yet, you still find it in your heart to help him navigate the shuttle system—why is that?

JUN’ICHIRŌ TANIZAKI — nursing major

“KISS OF DEATH„ — by @maisbunny

SYNOPSIS — it’s just a needle, or so you were told. if you knew that such a needle would leave you faint on the floor of your best friends dorm room, you never would’ve offered to help with his overdue anatomy project.

CHUUYA NAKAHARA — economics major

“ANYTHING BUT STOCKS„ — by @tetsustation

SYNOPSIS — the dorm room is virtually empty, and yet chuuya insists on investing his minimal funds into stock. pillow talk with your best friend is anything but charming, and yet you adore it.

RYUNOSUKE AKUTAGAWA — music major

“THE SOUND OF SILENCE„ — by @whorefordazai

SYNOPSIS — a moment in which you steal a kiss from the gifted violin prodigy, leaving your ghost touch tainted in his mind.

SAKUNOSUKE ODA — literature major

“DEVOID OF INSPIRATION„ — by @nameless-shrimp

SYNOPSIS — odasaku tends to keep his head in the books, wishing he could find inspiration for a novel he desires to complete by the time he graduates. however, when you're the library assistant, he ends up finding some inspiration.

ANGO SAKAGUCHI — accounting major

"BET ON IT„ — by @kazudon

SYNOPSIS — according to ango, the probably of you two clicking is slim to none—but you’re seat mates, and the numbers won’t stop spinning behind your eyes. somehow, you convince him to defy the odds.

FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY — history professor

“FIRE AND ICE„ — by @kazudon

SYNOPSIS — work and love were never meant to intertwine, but mistakes happen. now, in the wake of such, you’ve been reported for misconduct, by none other than your colleague (and ex-lover)—who just so happens to be the history professor in room 440.

THANK YOU — for your time, effort, and patience <3 @aitarose @kazudon @maisbunny @nameless-shrimp @whorefordazai

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2021 ; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

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tetsustation · 3 years

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jokingly insulting them — bsd

pairing :: port mafia boys x reader (platonic)

genre :: smau, crack

warnings :: swearing, crude behavior

notes :: this is so fucking stupid goodnight

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2021 ; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

#pushing the greasy dazai agenda :/#THIS IS SO FUCKING STUPID BYE.#written.bsd #fandom.bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #dazai osamu x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #akutagawa ryunosuke x reader

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tetsustation · 3 years

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( ANYTHING BUT STOCKS )

pairing :: chuuya nakahara x f!reader

synopsis :: the dorm room is virtually empty, and yet chuuya insists on investing his minimal funds into stock. pillow talk with your best friend is anything but charming, and yet you adore it.

word count :: 1.2k

genre :: university!au (no abilities), friends with benefits/friends to lovers, economics major!chuuya

warnings :: suggestive & implied nsfw, mentions of alcohol, swearing

notes :: this is essentially a crack fic about chuuya being a pretentious econ student

STRAY SCHOLARS COLLAB MASTERLIST

curtains have no use if they aren’t blackout. however—the standard dorm set up doesn’t include such a luxury, so alas, you’re awoken to a diligent and unforgiving sunlight. the streaks are long and slice through the white of the bedsheets, despite dawn only surpassing the horizon minutes, if not moments, ago.

there’s hair in your mouth, and you pray to god that it’s yours, because there is very well a chance it might not be. still, you don’t stir—instead deciding to squint in irritation and pout to keep your tongue from moving the strand that dances on your lips. ignorance is bliss, perhaps.

the scent of last night still lingers on your skin, heavy and thick like an expired lotion, and yet you are very comfortable. part of you knows it’s from the company you’re in, as opposed to the century old mattress you’re laying on, and the stiff hand-me-down travel pillows that are clearly brought from some home.

chuuya nakahara’s dorm room is, for the most part, bland. there are no posters or photo booth strips, nor are there any useless knick knacks crowding the desk and dresser space—only standard furniture and an overflowing hamper of laundry that desperately needs attending too. you can only tell him to invest in some extra lights so many times before it becomes akin to talking to a wall.

a very short wall, but a wall nonetheless.

with your head over his shoulder, you can feel the light shuffling of his opposite arm occasionally swiping somewhere above you. from the few moments you’ve spent conscious, you can deduct that chuuya is also awake, as his heart beat is relatively quicker than yours, and he is most likely checking the news (or some other boring task) on his outdated smartphone.

you know this much because it’s what he does every morning, and while you don’t spent every morning with him, the one’s you have included this specific and periodic factor—leading you to believe that it is a constant in his life. tightening the arm you have draped over his waist, you curl inwards without really thinking about it.

from the morning’s you’ve spent next to chuuya nakahara, in his insanity-inducing dorm, you know he always enjoys it when you hold him a little closer.

the concept of friendship is held to a very different standard within the walls of this room, because while your banter is typical most anywhere—the secrets you share in between his thin sheets and kisses captured while on top of him, carry traces of something a little heavier than typical friendship.

still, he’s your most beloved confidant, and you are his—so for now it’s all right not to hold him by the restraints of a fickle label.

chuuya hums quietly, you can feel the tilt of his head against your temple, as his attention pulls downwards. he hasn’t been awake that long either, from what you can gather.

“no good morning?” his knee hits your own, and you only groan as you try to shake away the chill of the air conditioning vent above you.

the shirt on your back is his—the rest of your body is a different story (that story being unwritten, as there’s not much else hugging your skin except for the blanket).

opening your eyes in flickers, you look at the device in his hands, being held up by suspended palms, one of which you’re tempted to drag down to grip your own side.

his fingers are long, on the thinner side, and extent beyond the parameters of the case—they look warm to the touch under the crisp sun, but that very well might be a trick of the light, as your fingertips are cold to the touch. blinking, you finally see what’s taking up his attention.

“not this again, chuuya‚” you roll over dramatically. contrary to your belief, he’s checking his stock—which is so much worse than the news.

chuuya isn’t a boring person, he’s anything but—there’s a bite to his bark and he never moves without purpose. assiduous to his studies and attentive to his social life, he accomplishes more in a single day than you do in three. however, you cannot fucking stand it when he talks about his stock.

like many economics major’s, chuuya is quick to learn the in’s and out’s of a market you categorize as ridiculous in your brain—alongside the concept of space travel and, reluctantly, money production. thus, whenever he mistakes you for someone who cares about his long term investments, you all but grow physically nauseous.

“what did i do?” he parts his hands defensively, looking to the side (you learn that the hair in your mouth, luckily, does not belong to him—as the part of his hair falls to the opposite side of the bed).

“who the fuck is checking stock at,” you blink to assure the analog clock doesn’t deceive you, “seven in the morning.”

“plenty of sane people, thank you.” he retorts, tossing his phone back on the nightstand.

then placing a cold foot against his calf, you curl up this time into none other than yourself, “you are absolutely shit at pillow talk.”

across the way, there’s a desk—chair slightly askew from being bumped into one too many times. from the lopsided glance you give it, you can make out the prism of a box wine you split yesterday. a memory flickers, and you can nearly hear chuuya telling you, just wait ‘til i graduate—then i’ll get us something better than that grocery store crap, followed by the clinking of plastic cups.

the thought of such a thing achieving fruition makes you warm and fuzzy inside, it almost thaws your cold feet—in more sense than one. if chuuya can see a future in which you get drunk on the finest of wine together, who’s to say he doesn’t see more—more than spur of the moment, intoxicated kisses?

a mild grunt consumes your right ear, as he turns over and melts into the curvature of your back, melding to match your frame—always trying to get closer, as if sleeping beside one another simply isn’t enough. his chest serves as your own personal radiator, encapsulating and radiant all at once.

his warmth is something brighter than dayglow.

and his presence forever embodies an unattainable dusk.

somehow, you miss a sigh as it slips past you.

“i’d rather you bet on horses, honestly.”

you can feel the rasp of his laugh somewhere behind your neck, moving the air as the sound creates a pleasant rupture in the serenity of the morning, “well, i’d rather bet on you.”

audibly, you laugh, craning your neck over to relish in the drowsy smirk on his face. chuuya’s eyes are shut, body still chasing a long-gone sleep—but his smile creases his face in a most adorning way—sweet and innocent. something about it makes you feel lucky.

flipping over entirely, you place a hand on the side of his face. the feather of your touch comes down one finger at a time, followed by your soft palm. chuuya sighs through his nose, and you can feel the fan of his breath on your eyelids. with the caress of your thumb against his temple, sweeping stray strands of fiery chrysanthemum aside, you coax his heavy eyes open.

the dilation of his pupils mask the blue shell familiar irises, and words no longer hold any power over you—as the true nature of your relationship shines through; everything and nothing, all at once.

“coffee?” you mumble, barely audible.

“hm. please.”

and as you get out of his bed you think, stocks are fake—but chuuya nakahara is very much real.

✿ REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2021 ; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

#i’m really proud of this one <33 #chuuya gulps so hard #</3 #written.bsd #fandom.bsd #bsd #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #chuuya nakahara #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara x you #chuuya x you

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tetsustation · 3 years

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“how did you even do this?”

over your shoulder, ranpo is resting his head, allowing his neck to mold to the cliff of your shoulder as he wallows in the heat radiating from your back. there’s a hand hovering over the base of your spine, but does nothing more, as his downcast expression goes to show that his mind is elsewhere.

he shrugs, “they fell out of my pocket.”

craning your neck to left, and straining your eyes to look at his features, you wonder if that’s really how his most prized possession broke, like he’d just let the refined frames slip out of his pocket without noticing. it was virtually impossible for him to have missed it, your mind jumps to conclusions but somehow miss your lips. you turn back to the glasses in your hand.

“well,” you start, “are these prescription?”

in a moment of comical confusion, he stands to his full height. the furrow in his brows is unbeknownst to you while tilting the frame to the side to get a closer look at the—since cracked—lenses. everything was intact besides the glass, and frankly, you could fix it in an hour tops—still, you don’t put it above yourself to let this opportunity slip away.

“i—yes they’re prescription.” he knows you can fix them, you know you can fix them, and yet the game of cat and mouse goes on out of ranpo’s inherent stubbornness, as he near refuses to fix them himself.

you sigh dramatically, “if that’s the case, it’s going to be a few weeks, love.”

“oh bite me.” he near scoffs with no malice intended, taking the glasses from your hands. any squalling done on his behalf as a way to heed your dexterity is long gone—and has since been replaced with snark. “are you going to fix them or not?”

the pad of your finger lands on your temple as you pretend to foresee a future where you do fix them for him, no questions asked. you take a page out of his book, and using your own deduction, you conclude that there is next to no fun in that—so you decide against it.

“i dunno.” you kick an imaginary pebble and skip ahead of him—leaving him in the dust of your refusal.

ranpo decides that if you won’t give him your help, he’ll just have to take it. in a moment of great haste, he lunges forward, and before you can slip away his hand is wrapped around your wrist. the tug of his upper lip is instinctive as he pulls you back towards him with the force of a whip.

you can’t help but use his shoulders to soften the blow, as you near fall forward into him, as he raises your conjoined hands high above your heads. if you knew any better, you’d pull the hat off his head and take off running, or something of that nature—but you don’t—not when he’s looking at you like that.

a deer caught in headlines, he figures, watching your eyes widen as he smiles innocently—as if he didn’t just steal the air from out of your chest and replace it with a depleting ozone.

“so,” he speaks lowly, “know if you can fix them yet?”

ranpo’s glasses are back snug in his pocket in approximately forty-eight minutes.

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2021 ; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

#DOWN SO BAD.#👻👻 the love of my life #ranpo kissing me when #fandom.bsd #written.bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #ranpo edogawa #ranpo edogawa x reader #edogawa ranpo x reader

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tetsustation · 3 years

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“nikolai, i don’t like this anymore.”

glancing over from the shelf of dried vegetables and other feed, he smirks at you, “what do you mean?”

still, he knows exactly what you mean. it’s hard to miss, really—especially when the reminder is resting on your shoulder, head to claw in red and blue feathers. it’s been maybe thirty minutes since you picked him up, and yet your already regretting adopting such an exotic pet, as it nibbles at your ear gently.

“i think he’s trying to tell you something,” nikolai snorts, watching you crane your neck away. however, you soon learn the parrot is more flexible than you are, and quickly closes in no matter how much distance you try to put between you two.

frankly, you blame your boyfriend. if it wasn’t for the impulse pit stop, you wouldn’t have a bird on your shoulder right now, purchasing feed and other supplies to bring home with you—to an apartment where you aren’t even sure if birds are welcome in the first place.

“it kinda—,” you duck slightly, “—kinda hurts.” you grumble, in an attempt to sway him into helping you. however, nikolai seems to be content in just watching you struggle, standing up straight and tucking both hands into the pockets of his cargo pants.

so you weren’t an animal person, you made that very clear when he tried to bring home a stray dog last summer. still, you assumed a bird wouldn’t be so bad—they’re contained, and you convinced yourself they’d have less of a reliance than other animals did. however, you were quickly learning that you may have been fed the wrong information.

glaring at him, you attempt to tickle his empathy, though he doesn’t budge. he tilts his head to look straight at you, in all your strained glory. with your hands held up, you wonder if maybe you should touch it, or if it’d get mad. nikolai can practically see the gears turning behind your eyes, but to no avail.

it’s almost pitiful, so he laughs. sticking his pointer finger out in front of you, and whistling to the parrot. it cheerfully detaches itself from the tip of your ear, and hops onto his finger. you straighten only when he pulls his finger back towards himself, eyeing the bird as it settles in against him.

“see, that wasn’t so hard.” he remarks, leaning down to make eye contact with the animal. he wags the opposite finger teasingly, watching it attempt to teethe, only to pull away at the last second. at least one of you is having fun.

“nikolai.” you start, “are we going to be able to do this?”

he looks up, “hm. what do you mean?” you smile, at the unintentional parroting of his past self.

now knowing what to do with your hands, you circle the bird—motioning to it in all of it’s plumosity, “this—with the bird and all.”

then, with a small smile, he silently leans forward. only when he’s inches away from your face does he speak, “follow me.”

lowering and lifting his pointer finger once again, you catch on and do the same to yours—hesitantly bringing your extended hand in front of your face. nikolai has to wait for your hands to stop shaking momentarily, before he presses his knuckle against your own, creating a small bridge for the bird to walk across.

a hum slips from his lips, and the parrot treads lightly from nikolai’s finger onto your own. softly, you inhale, holding the air in your chest in fear that the parrot will fly away if you so much as blink. his smile only grows as you eye the claws that delicately wrap around your finger.

both of you are still for a few moments, and once you seem settled, he pulls back—watching your eyes widen as you become accustomed to the sensation. the self satisfaction you can feel radiating off nikolai is seemingly contagious, as a small smile finds its way onto your own face once again.

he’s well aware you’re not an animal enthusiast, not really one for creatures with so much energy and free will, and yet you put up with him each and everyday. if you can get used to him, you can most certainly get used to a bird (it’s far cuter than himself, anyways).

“we can.” he put it’s simply, “i know we can.”

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2021 ; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

#NOT THR NIKOLAI BLURB.#DOMESTIC????????2?2?$474 #ADOPTING A BIRD WITH NIKOLAI!3?2892 #uhm. not canon. ooc. self indulgent😵‍💫#tears in my eyes #written.bsd #fandom.bsd #bsd #bungo stray dogs #nikolai bsd #nikolai gogol #this is embarrassing frankly #nikolai x reader #nikolai gogol x reader #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #rats in the house of the dead

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tetsustation · 3 years

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"your stupidity is astounding." it tumbles out of your mouth. glancing back out the window, you notice the morning light pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the detective agency. the quintessence of autumn is well in full swing, and yet the sun kisses you with the tenderness of an august sky.

"hm." dazai notes, lowering the coffee cup from his upper lip, "there's at least one positive adjective in that sentence."

it's hard to imagine working without dazai, these morning conversations wake you up more than the mediocre joe they serve in the break room, and lord knows ranpo's sharp whine is anything but pleasant any hour of the day. still, sometimes the things he suggests are absolutely appalling.

yet, you can't help but go along with every single one of them, because he makes entertaining his spontaneity sound much too appealing compared to the foreseeable consequences.

this morning, the two of you are leaning against his desk for a change. it's closer to the window, and there’s less papers on it today than there are on yours—though you're convinced he snuck some of his work onto your pile when you weren't looking.

a way's away stands atsushi, hunched over slightly as he explains something insufferably simple to kenji, who always has that dumbfounded look on his face (though, you'd be a liar if you said it wasn't adorning). dazai is staring him down like prey, about to hunted by a fairly lanky bobcat.

both of you are nursing your coffee in the same way, at a similar pace, yet he drinks his relatively faster than you do. it's not a race, but at the same time it may as well be—everything is a silent tournament with him.

perhaps that's why you tend to trail after his unfinished thoughts like the cat to his mouse—nevermind, that sounds much too unappealing and prompts a scowl somewhere on your face.

"he's not going to listen," you taunt, "atsushi's all the way over there—and besides, he's not as naive as he seems to be."

dazai shrugs halfheartedly, glancing at his shoes and rubbing the tips against one another, "maybe, but I think wild animals do as they please." he then looks up at you, teasingly, "or do we need to have another national geographic viewing?"

this time you laugh with your chest, thinking back to when he badgered you to watch a nature documentary, only to fall asleep on your couch minutes after it started. that was the last time dazai stayed over your house, and you have a feeling it wasn’t the last—so you blacklist the channel until further notice.

"you didn't retain a single thing from that program, and don't try to use our newest member—who you recruited, might i add—for your sick little animal experiment."

"maybe they should put you in a zoo." you conclude, smirk ever present in your voice.

dazai joins you in laughing this time, and you can hear kunikida clearing his throat in your general direction down to your left, following the column of desks and spinning chairs. you quiet down, dazai reluctantly follows.

a moment of silent, and then a newfound determination fizzles off his speech like overflowing soda pop, "i'm gonna do it." he whispers, leaning over to reach the shell of your ear.

in an attempt to sound indifferent, you barely acknowledge him—yet subconsciously you lean in.

craning his neck forward, dazai cups the side of his mouth with a free hand. with the roof of his mouth, he whispers rather loudly, and you wonder if such an approach defeats the purpose or not, "psst psst psst!"

following the expected silence, you remind him that his apprentice is indeed more human than feline, "it's not going to work—,"

"hello?" atsushi is speaking in dazai's direction, but not looking directly at him—yet even from a distance, you can see his pupils continue to widen as his flicks his gaze every which way. only when kenji taps his forearm lightly does he blink back into the conversation.

in utter disbelief, you stare. there's no possible way he could've heard the borderline degrading cat-call, and yet it seems atsushi’s sense’s had gone into overdrive. staring straight ahead, you can feel dazai's self-satisfied energy radiating off of him. still, you refuse to give him the gratification of your gaze as you process the fact that (once again) he won.

"looks like i'm a cat-whisperer after all!" he remarks with glee, only to shift to a state of convoluted deviousness the next, "now pay up."

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2021 ; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

#hey everyone! i wrote something utterly ridiculous again!#here’s your crumbs! <3 #written.bsd #fandom.bsd #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #osamu dazai #dazai osamu #osamu dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #osamu dazai x you #dazai osamu x you #dazai x reader #dazai x you

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tetsustation · 3 years

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[ LOOSE TIES ]

pairing :: osamu dazai (bsd) x f!reader

synopsis :: ex-coworker and “friend,” osamu dazai, has always been a man you could relate too, being one of the only people to make your heart and mind race. finding him again after years of separation, however, proves to be more difficult than you’d initially figured it to be.

word count :: 2.8k

genre :: coworkers to lovers, friends to lovers, lovers to enemies, reminiscing & angst, reader is a part of the port mafia

warnings :: gun violence, murder, blood, mentions of suicide, nihilistic/apathetic behavior, miscellaneous violence, typical bsd content warning, swearing, suggestive speech—please read at your own risk!!

notes :: had a little writing break but i think i’ve gotten my touch back—this is my first swing at a long(er) bsd fic, dedicated to @maisbunny i hope u don’t cry

The ring finger dancing on the curve of the trigger was one that you recognized as your own. The weight of the gun was familiar, something you’ve grown accustomed to seeing more than most other things in your narrow life. However, context was always key—you’ve learned.

Mere years ago, you dreamed of placing a band around the same finger—something light and dainty, perhaps gold, if you could manage. Maybe then, you’d have something more flattering resting around your fingers, as opposed to the chilled steel.

That dream left you along with the man in front of the barrel—through grim silence, and gone before you could even think to miss it.

“It’s nice to know you’ve climbed the ladder.” You scowled, even in the face of death his voice dribbled down like honey, “I always knew you’d surpass me one day.”

Only when you pressed the heel of your shoe into the pit of his abdomen did he groan, his elbows pressing farther into the shattered pavement—rubble digging into the fragile skin. Personally, you hoped he’d’ve bled through the bandages, a bloody death was something you often envisioned for him—if nothing else.

“You never know when to stop talking—do you, Dazai?”

A sharp hiss that held more than figurative weight slid off his tongue, “Ah, why must you resort to such formalities with me? You never did when—,” another groan.

With a swift kick to the upside of his chin, before returning back down to hold him in place, you had shut him up before he could spout whatever nonsense came to mind, in an attempt to stall the inevitable.

“Take this as a gift from me to you,” you lowered yourself slightly, hovering over him in a way that felt all too familiar, “Today, you’ll finally get your death wish.”

...

Frankly, you never wished to meet Osamu Dazai—or rather, you never wanted to. As a child, your mother always taught you that to live was to love, you took it with a grain of salt and with time, such a saying slipped between your small fingers.

On the outskirts of the city, your parents ran a ramen shop—it was a hole in the wall, with scuffed white tiles that cracked easily under pressure. On Sundays, you’d be asked to scrub the grout—but years of degenerate dirt (among other things) built up, and thus, refused to let up no matter how hard you brushed.

There were four tables, a faux marble countertop, and a backroom you were never allowed to go into. The curtains were thin, but the hallway behind it was long, from what you gathered. The small list of people permitted to pass the curtain were few in number, but broad in stature.

Almost always, would they sport a shiny gun—usually a pistol—in a belt holster. From your eye level, that was the first and only thing that resonated.

Up until age thirteen, you had never held a gun in your life—didn’t plan on it either. Yet, plans change in the most dire of circumstance, which was why when you returned from errands one morning only to step in your mother’s blood on the way in—you picked up a familiar pistol from the ground and proceeded to shoot the guilty man in front of you.

With bloodied hands, you became an orphan—and the white tile permanently gained a vermillion tint.

That day you mopped, because there was not much else to do. Afterward you proceeded to refill the napkin holders and wash the dishes. You prepped the shop for a dinner rush that never came, and stepped around what you later learned to call a corpse, until the broad-statured men arrived.

They did not accept the menu’s you offered, and instead left abruptly only to return with their numbers tenfold—and a small boy only a year or two older than yourself lodged at the front of them. The only thought in your mind being, there aren’t enough menu’s for this type of crowd.

The boy smiled at your craftsmanship, tapping your mother’s shoulder with the tip of his dress-shoe, only to be met with a small plop back against the ground,

“You did this?” He asked calmly, a limp finger pointed downwards. You nodded meekly and the bandage on his left eye shifted with the raise of his eyebrows, “Fascinating, very clean.”

He examined the wounds a little closer, “You must know your way around a gun.”

Osamu Dazai placed his hand on yours that day, the other one cradling your conjoined palms from underneath—you could feel the tips of his overcoat tickle your wrist, and it was all you could focus on as he spoke to you about an offer you didn’t care about all that much.

“—and the Port Mafia will take of you.” He concluded, only then did you look up at him with wide eyes.

“And what will happen to the shop?”

Upon seeing a small frown etch itself onto your, otherwise soft, face, he chuckled to himself, “We’ll take care of that too.”

...

There was no reason as to why you needed saw him again, in fact, you came to perfect terms with his disappearance and didn’t give it much of a second thought. Long ago, you made a mutual agreement to not get attached, and always a stickler for promises, you followed through religiously.

Though, you were never a spiritual person.

The small portion of your life before the Port Mafia was not something very interesting to you, so you chose not to hold onto majority of it. Instead, you held onto the things that make your blood run rampant—it’s an amusing way of living, if nothing else.

Competing with Dazai is one of those things.

For that reason, you’ve decided to finish on top. Bending over, you swept the hair off his forehead gently with a knuckle, before delicately balancing the barrel on the skin beneath. He always had soft hair, and you had half a mind to run your hand through it, but you didn’t want to give him the luxury of feeling your fingertips rake through his locks—your pride standing in the way of any and all pleasantries.

“What are you doing on Port Mafia territory?”

Narrowing his eyes, and uncrossing them after watching you place the weapon, he looked back a you. The subtle smirk that lifted his lips was aggravating, and you wondered if strangulation was worth the trouble of straining your hands.

“Took a walk in the park. Got lost. Think you could show me the way home?” A beat, “I always felt safer with a pretty woman on my arm.”

Stunned at his utter gall, you scoffed, “And how about now? Do you feel safe?” With your knee pressing into him, and your favorite gun pressed against his head, it wasn’t too hard to predict his answer. Still, you asked—since he seemed to crave conversation oh-so much.

He hummed in thought, as if you’d just asked him his favorite color, and entirely too nonchalant for the predicament at hand, “Get a little more comfortable on top of me, and I’ll consider it so.”

A harsh slap against the apple of his cheek was how you responded, and unsurprisingly enough, it was not the first time you’d slapped him for a comment of that nature.

Momentarily, you questioned his submissiveness. He knew your next move, your next expression, your next thought before you’d even had the time to think it. So why does he remain so still?

So obedient?

...

Plunging your foot into grey water, the unwelcome feeling of a wet pant-leg against your skin was almost instantaneous.

“Fuck me!”

“Promise?”

The back of your hand met his head before you could swear a second time. As he rubbed the spot of impact in faux offense, you eyed him down with malicious intent. Only when he put his hands up to feign innocence did you continue walking past him.

The slap had echoed off the walls of the tunnel, and you were tempted to laugh at the way the sound had ricocheted dramatically, but you maintained a poker face and kept going. Blame it on your superiors for partnering you up with a sixteen year old boy, of all people.

With nothing else better to do, you had joined the Port Mafia after the... untimely death of your mother, and the murder of your father. It was that, or an absurd prison sentence that made you want to choke on mechanic degreaser.

Unfortunately, your recruiter became your superior (despite his age), and your only goal in mind was too surpass him. One mission after another, that desire only became more prominent in your behavior, as he constantly teased you for your lack of a gift among other things.

The only thing that kept him tethered to his senses when it came to his rather reckless commentary was the ace up your sleeve—your undeniable skill for armed weaponry—specifically, pistols.

Humble as ever, you’d called yourself a fast learner, but being double jointed is a genetic trait from what you’ve heard. You can only thank your bloodline for your quick fingers and flexible joints, you might not be alive with it. A good pair of eyes never hurt anyone either.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

“Why? Scared of the dark?”

Good grief, you’d shove your gun down his throat if it’d make him shut up. You didn’t ask again, and instead followed the bounce of his black trench coat reluctantly as he skipped ahead. If only you held the power he did, you would’ve reached your destination already, subordinate or not—you were simply a better directioner than he was.

“Thinking you’re better than your superior will get yourself killed.” He sang, without turning around nor stopping.

Your eyes widened as he vocalized your thoughts, “And what if I am? I’m supposed to surpass you, aren’t I?”

He held up a hand, pointing upwards dramatically, as if he were passing down a generational truth, “Nothing is guaranteed in this life darling, never forget it!”

Before you could retaliate such an insufferable endearment, there was a rattling from above you, to which sounded like the cement lining of the tunnel was about to fall directly above you. Jumping out of the way, you knocked into Dazai, to which he requested an ‘accommodation to his personal space.’

The guards of the same man you were following appeared in front of you, and in a moment of great haste, you tossed him the spare pistol you held for his disposal.

“Make sure you hold it in the right hand this time.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

That much was true, because as unbearable as he was, Osamu Dazai always listened to you.

...

Hesitation was not a word in your vocabulary, you found no need for it. Alone, in an alleyway, in the city’s underbelly was one of, if not the best, place to blow him to bits—get the revenge you didn’t know you were craving. Though, the craziest part of this was, you weren’t craving it at all—in fact, you felt empty.

If you let the gun slip out of your hand right now, what would he do?

Probably straighten out his overcoat, clear his throat, and wish you a good night. With the gun to his head, however, you reminded yourself this was exactly what he did—burrow in your skin, until you got so itchy you had no choice but to let him slip past, back into the shadows from whence he came.

Though, Osamu Dazai didn’t deserve the luxury of living after what he’s done—or so you’ve heard. While he’s never hurt you personally, you’ve heard the tone he’s taken with his subordinates, the commands he’s given to officers with nothing written between the lines—a clean slaughter—on more than one occasion.

The relationship you have, or had, with him was always one of a fleeting nature, momentary thrills looser than gravel. Still, there was no doubt you cared about one another—that care, however, was estranged in the sense that it could be turned on and off like a switch.

And oddly enough, Osamu Dazai seemed to have a bright light bulb hanging overhead.

Gritting your teeth, you circled your brain for any synonym that could justify what exactly it was you were doing right now, that didn’t sound or feel like hesitation. If it was true that you felt so entirely numb with him underneath you, there was no logical reason to stall any longer—you weren’t him—you could end this without the bloody entrails.

There was an itch in your brain that made you twitch if you thought about it too hard, the opposite of love was not hate—but indifference—and if you were so indifferent to his being or not being outside of the Port Mafia, there was no love between you.

Right, there was nothing stopping you—but you moved the gun from his forehead to his right rib.

...

People were always a hassle, building parasitic relationships with any and all hosts that could satisfy their selfish, short-lived, desires. Living itself was not the issue, instead, living amongst others was the root of your frustration.

The thing with Dazai, however, was he did not have enough will in him to engage in such symbiosis with you—or anyone else for that matter—because his issue with living lied in just that, and frankly, it was easier for you that way.

Dazai often served as a stimulant, a stealthy conversationalist that bounced your thoughts back and forth with ease—he was truly the only person you’d allow to break your periodic isolation—and he felt comfortable in the fact that he could do that much.

Still, the nature of his words could sometimes sound similar to the spouts of humans, in which you were quick to level with him on.

“You’re so dramatic, suicide is such a hassle—just wait to be killed on the job,” you scoffed, spitting the pit of your cherry over the railing of the pier.

Howling in protest, he dropped his shoulders like a denied child, “That’s so painful. I hate pain.”

“Too bad,” you popped another sweet berry between your lips, “You know, I have to do all your paperwork if you choose suicide.”

A shallow gasp, “Aren’t you going to grieve me?”

Truly, you could laugh at him, “No time, someone’s gotta take up your dirty work.”

“How sacrificial.” He brought a hand to his chest, before taking one of your cherries for himself, and popping it in his mouth whole.

“Poetic?” You wondered aloud.

“No—,” It’s muffled, as he made work with the stem in his mouth, “Poeticism is made up by people—who can’t understand themselves.”

“They look for answers where there aren’t any, it’s all fake.” He then sticks his tongue out in punctuation to reveal a tied stem resting on the tip. It was elegantly maneuvered, something you could never figure out how to do for yourself.

Sometimes you wonder if your story with Dazai was poetic, as you deliberate existentialism with him, over a bag of cherries, at twilight. It seemed to be so, or perhaps it was all made up, like he said. It made the most sense, because when the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, he always left you alone again.

...

Thus, it was all for naught. One could even go as far to say that it never happened at all. Speech was nothing but vibrations riding the air, that disappeared in seconds—you always knew Dazai would leave—and you had no qualms when he did.

This was not a problem, it shouldn’t be a problem, exactly why it won’t be a problem—you tried not to listen when he spoke again.

“When did you stop caring?” His voice was uncharacteristically soft, though his body language read mischief, “Don’t tell me you believed all that nonsense about meaningless affection, did you?”

As your patience ran thin, he sped up his speech, “You know, the word ‘meaningless’ in and of itself holds meaning, making it an oxymoron.”

“I had no reason to not believe you,” You denied him.

Osamu Dazai was an estranged man, you always knew that much, even more so as he continued to contradict himself, “Personally, I, myself never stopped caring the way I promised too.”

“Then you were just shitty at your job.” You pressed the gun harder into his ribs, “I wish I could say the same.”

Pressing down on the trigger with ease, the shot rang in your ears, but dulled slightly as it dug into his skin. Strangely, you wanted to smile, but the tickle in your throat was undeniably pushing emotions of another nature. As you stepped back following the recoil, you watched him slump, hissing as he held down the wound.

How dramatic, he’ll survive.

You walked away quickly, trying your best not to trip on the raised sediment. Flinging your neck backwards, you took in any and all air that would fit into your strained lungs—it had been a while since a shot felt like this. Sighing, you continued back out into the street, refusing to look back or give it any afterthought.

A gun always looked prettier around your ring finger, anyways.

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2021 ; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

#I DON'T KNOW IF I LIKE IT.#can i get aewa aewa for intense denial #yeah <3 #written.bsd #fandom.bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #osamu dazai #osamu dazai x reader #osamu dazai x you #osamu dazai fanfic #guns tw #violence tw #suicide tw #blood tw #murder tw

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