#Dazai was so sad he didn’t get a kiss and instead shoved this man in his crotch | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

straycat-writes · 4 years

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sword upon our hearts (dazai osamu)

summary: the world is always especially cruel to a pair of hearts in love, but when has anything about life ever been fair, anyway?

notes: written for the word prompt 'forbidden'. light angst, mentions of violence, guns.

Pulling your jacket tighter around your shoulders, you shoved your hands into your pockets and stepped out into the chilly night air. It was a stark contrast from the warm, buzzing atmosphere of the bar you had just emerged from, but it was already half-past midnight and with no one to drive you home, you were not in a position to get pissed drunk anyway.

You fished out your phone from your pocket. One new message.

Kunikda: Make it to the office on time tomorrow. We have a job scheduled.

Sighing, you turned it off and put it back without replying. You’d see him in the morning, or you won’t and get a little yelled at. It didn’t matter. It was an important job, one that the agency had been planning for weeks. If you were paying more attention, perhaps you would have retained some details about it too, but all you remembered was that it had something to do with the Port Mafia and one of their supply chains.

“Going home, love?” a silky voice said from behind you, “It’s really not safe this time of the night, you know?”

You turned around to see a young man leaning against the wall beside the entrance of the bar. There was a long, black coat draped over his shoulders, obviously too big to properly fit on his slight frame, and there were white bandages wrapped around his forehead, obscuring one of his eyes.

You frowned, “Thanks for the concern, but there’s really no need.”

He pushed himself off the wall, hands still shoved into his pockets and approached you. You stiffened, more out of instinct than anything else, and almost reached for the gun you had in your jacket. The disarming smile he gave you did nothing to ease your concern.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and if you didn’t know better, you would have mistaken the concern in his voice as genuine.

“Very.”

He lowered his head and smiled a little, and for some reason, that simple expression almost freezes your heart mid-beat. He walked around you, and not wanting to turn your back on him, you turn around too. But you had barely registered anything else when in one practiced, calculated movement, he swiftly swiped the gun from inside your jacket, pointing it at your head.

Fortunately for you, the split second it had take him to walk around you had been enough for you to catch sight of and swipe the gun tucked on the inside of his own coat.

He looked at you with a deadpan expression, as the both of you stood in the deserted alley, pointing guns that didn’t belong to you at each other’s heads.

“You and your colleagues at the Armed Detective Agency will call off the raid on our warehouse tomorrow, if you know what’s good for you, doll.”

“How touching of you to concern yourself with our welfare, demonic prodigy of the Port Mafia.”

He smiled wider this time, letting out a low, almost pleased chuckle. With the cold metal of death still pressed to your foreheads, you were both essentially at a stalemate. He would have no qualms about killing a mere agency employ, and if you were going to die, you swore you would take him down with you.

A few minutes later, however, you dropped to your knees with a dull thud, hands shaking and breathing uneven as you watched him turn back and walk away from you non-chalantly.

That was how you first met Dazai Osamu.

It is weeks later when you once again find yourself at that bar, trying to drink away the day’s failure. It was supposed to be a small job, easily manageable by one person, but had somehow went horribly awry. Someone had died.

The alcohol burned your throat as you unceremoniously took a big gulp, making your eyes water.

“I still have your gun, you know?”

You didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to, “And I have yours.”

You tensed up on instinct, but then relaxed a little. Surely, he wouldn’t cause a scene at such a public place. That would be counterproductive.

He took a seat on the stool just beside yours, and let out an amused laugh, “Keep it. I’ve never liked guns, anyway.”

“No?”

He shook his head, “Too messy and loud. Barkeep, do you have any bleach?”

The bartender didn’t even look surprised, “We’re all out.”

Despite the pounding ache developing in your head, you glanced at him curiously, “What are you doing here, Dazai?”

“Whatever do you mean?” He blinked at you, “I’m here to get a drink.”

“Sure…”

“I mean, this isn’t where I usually drink, but I figured I’d find you here.” And he went on to describe how drinks at his regular place were so much better, and how he preferred drinking with friends over drinking alone, and on and on and on.

You raised an eyebrow at him, “Talkative today, aren’t we?”

He smiled but didn’t comment, and you were fine with that. At least he provided you with a distraction, no matter how morbid. Something to do other than dwelling on your failures of the day.

It became kind of a regular occurrence after that. You’d go to the bar if you had had a particularly bad day, and more than half of the time, you would find Dazai there, looking at you with one keen uncovered eye, an amused but curious expression on his face. And you would talk about anything and everything, but never something that actually mattered, and you realized that the Port Mafia executive was actually half decent company when he wasn’t murdering people.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t have come to you as that much of a surprise when he kissed you one night. In your tipsy state, you kissed him twice as hard, pushing him into a wall aggressively and carding your fingers through his hair. You woke up in his bed the next morning.

“Dazai?”

“Hm?”

You were sitting on his couch, his lanky form spread out on the rest of it, his head on your lap. His apartment had started staying a lot tidier once you had started coming over, which is not to say that he cleaned it. You did.

You gently brushed some hair out of his eyes, “What will happen to us? If anyone were to find out?”

He sighed, looking up at you with his one exposed whiskey-coloured eye, “Well, if Mori-san were to find out…you’d be dead within a day.”

You didn’t flinch at his words; you had been expecting an answer like that. Instead, you tried to make light of the situation, “Wow, the most the president would do is fire me. Mori really needs to get his priorities in check.”

Dazai didn’t say anything, just stared blankly at the ceiling as you continued to run your hands through his hair. You sighed.

“Dazai?”

“Yes, doll?”

You hesitated, wondering whether or not to say what was on your mind. In the end, you did, “Leave this life.”

His face darkened a little at that, but he didn’t say anything. You frowned, “Please. I promise you there’s a place for you in the light, and we can – “

“There’s no place for me.” He interrupted you curtly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. He got up and wordlessly headed into the kitchen, leaving you sitting there on the couch. And that was that.

He disappeared soon after that, not leaving even a shred of evidence that he had ever been there at all. For two years, you heard absolutely nothing of Dazai Osamu. You knew something bad had happened, because the environment, the very air of the Port Mafia had changed. It was obvious in the way they clashed with the agency. You just had no idea what exactly it was that had gone wrong.

Knowing your lover, it wasn’t that far-fetched of an assumption that he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, having finally succeeded in his life’s goal. The thought alone had sent you into panic attacks multiple times.

But two years is a long time, enough for your emotions to go through a myriad of shades. From surprise, to sadness, to anger, to anxiety, to heart-shattering grief, and finally, to resigned acceptance. It was often in the early hours of the morning, when the sadness sat on your chest so thick that you couldn’t breathe, that you found yourself thinking that it was perhaps for the better. Maybe he had finally got what he had always wanted so desperately, and with the whole world as your enemy, how were the two of you ever supposed to work out anyway? If Dazai was dead, there was nothing to be done. If he wasn’t dead, then he didn’t want to be found. In either case, he wasn’t coming back. You told yourself you were fine with that, despite feeling like your heart was being ripped apart from the inside.

Which is why it was such a surprise when you turned up at the office one morning, trying your best to pretend that you hadn’t been crying most of last night, and found him standing there beside Kunikida.

He looked…different, somehow. Livelier, healthier, brighter. The tan trench coat suited him a lot better than the awful black one, and there was a peculiar kind of brightness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

When his eyes met yours, he smiled, and an involuntary tear slipped from your eye.

“Oh, good, you’re here, (y/n). Meet the newest member of our agency, Dazai Osamu.”

#dazai osamu #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #one shot #angst #imagine #scenario #bsd

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mnthpprt · 4 years

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Chapter 16: Secrets Of Sorrow

The walk to the market is peaceful, a welcome moment of calm after the ordeal in the coffee house. Arthur points out his favorite spots as we pass by them, and we talk about every topic under the late morning sun, the conversation peppered with his usual innuendos, at which I simply roll my eyes and laugh.

I already thought he was fun to be around, but I have now seen a whole new side to him under his nonchalant charm and flirty jokes. The way he rushed to help me has made me appreciate his company in a different way. Despite his predatory attitude, I know that he would never hurt me, that he cares. He showed me the goodness in his heart, and I trust him that much more for it.

We’re in the middle of passionately discussing one of Agatha Christie’s mysteries, which I just told him about, when we run into someone.

“Will,” Arthur greets him. They know each other.

“Lucky to encounter thee on this quaint day, Arthur.” The man speaks English, but he sounds so... old. Even for the 19th century. He turns to me, his mismatched eyes on mine as he reaches for my hand and bows down to kiss it. “Forgive me, my lady, but thou art so lovely I cannot help but admire thy beauty. William Shakespeare, at thy service.”

Well, that explains the antiquated way in which he talks. He stands straight again, and his long hair falls over one of his eyes. I forcibly shove my confusion to the back of my mind and decide to just go with it as I introduce myself, my hand still extended into his.

“Anaïs Bertran. Are you a friend of le Comte?” He nods, understanding the implication of my words. So he’s a vampire too. “How odd, I’ve never seen you at the mansion. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” There is something off putting about the way he smiles at me, almost as if he is plotting something. Regardless, I am intrigued by the glimmer in his golden eye. He finally releases his delicate hold of my hand and pushes his long hair behind his ear, revealing his other eye. The sunlight makes the red in it seem even brighter, the odd shade of pooled blood visible where his iris should be. I wonder how it got that way.

It is then that I notice how quiet Arthur has been and glance at him. The smile on his lips is tense, forced for the sake of politeness.

“We should go,” I say. “Sebastian must be waiting for me at the market. I don’t know how I’ll get back if I miss the coach.”

Arthur nods before putting his arm around my waist.

“Good day, William.” He seems eager to usher me away, but the other writer stops us before we leave.

“Wait,” he calls out. “A friend of mine will hold a ball this week. It would be my pleasure to invite thee, lady Anaïs. Thou mayst bring whomever thou wishest as thy companion.”

“Thank you, William, I’ll be there.” Unnerving as he is, the prospect of experiencing a party in this time period sounds appealing enough for me to accept. “You know where to send the invitation.”

As soon as I nod goodbye, Arthur begins walking away, discreetly pushing me along with him. Once we’re out of earshot, I turn to him.

“So, what did he do that was bad enough to get kicked out of the mansion and warrant this cold attitude from you? Come on, spill the tea.”

“You’re quite perceptive, dove,” he chuckles. “As you have already deduced, he was turned by le Comte, but by the time I arrived he was no longer a resident. I heard he left of his own accord. As to why, I cannot say.”

“So you just dislike him because he’s creepy?” I tease him, although I would be a hypocrite to deny Shakespeare gives me a weird vibe, too.

“No, dear. I dislike him because I do not trust him.” I raise an eyebrow at his answer, and he goes on. “Dazai and I meet with him sometimes to discuss our work, as fellow authors, but there are certain... creative differences that I cannot overlook.” Before I can ask him to elaborate, he changes the topic. “I am afraid I will be unable to attend the ball with you, darling. I am approaching a deadline with a publisher and I have work to do. You should ask the other residents, though. I’m willing to bet at least one would be thrilled to accompany you.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but ultimately buy his excuse. He must be using a pseudonym or something. I decide against pressing the matter any further. Instead, we go back to where we left off our previous conversation.

“What’s the name of that book again?” he asks. “You’re doing an awful job of explaining the plot, dear.”

“Murder on the Orient Express. Don’t blame me,” I laugh, “ I just don’t want to spoil the mystery, and it’s hard to remember exactly how all the clues were presented. Piecing them together is most of the fun. Such a shame that you can’t read it, it won’t be published until 1930... something. 34, maybe? Whatever, ” I turn to him with a smile, “just know that you are the one responsible for making this genre so popular. I’ve lost count of all the adaptations of Sherlock Holmes there are in my time.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because he frowns and looks away from me. I remember reading somewhere that Arthur disliked Sherlock Holmes, but I never really knew why.

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was such a sensitive topic.” I gently squeeze his arm, prompting him to face me again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He quietly shakes his head. For a moment, I am taken aback by all the pain harbored in his blue eyes. It is fleeting, and disappears so quickly it makes me question what I just saw, replaced by his usual smirk.

“We’re here, darling. Welcome to the market.”

I quickly spot Sebastian in the crowd. He is carrying a canvas bag, like mine, but the flaccid and empty appearance of it leads me to believe he must have done multiple trips to and from the carriage.

“Thank you, Arthur.” I stand on my toes to wrap my arms around him, pulling him into a hug. “For everything. I better go before I lose sight of Sebastian again.”

“See you at the mansion, dove” he winks, before promptly turning around to walk away. I take it as my cue to penetrate the mass of people, and slowly but surely, I eventually squeeze through to make my way to the butler.

“Hey,” I poke the back of his shoulder to get his attention, and he smiles when he turns away from the fruit stall. “It was a bit of an adventure, but I finally got the coffee. Also, I’m never doing that again, ever.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it on the way home,” he laughs. “I’m almost done here, Anaïs. You can go wait in the coach, it’s parked on the other side.”

Thankful for the option to finally put down the heavy sack of coffee creating indents on my shoulder, I nod and disappear into the crowd after calling a lazy “see ya” over my shoulder. The market stalls are nothing special, all of them displaying all sorts of foods and handcrafted items. The people browsing them, though, I find incredibly fascinating. Ladies in full skirts and big hats ponder which kind of artisanal soap to buy, while gentlemen clad in suits hassle with the vendors. Like in my time, people are just people, but observing their fashion and etiquette is nothing short of interesting.

I roam through, slowly making my way across the market, when something catches my eye. Near the exit, a stall selling herbal remedies and various plants has a bouquet of tall yellow flowers on display. They are a kind I had not seen in the gardens of the mansion, but my eyes widen when I recognize them.

The Saint John’s Wort is a sudden reminder of a very important thing I left behind when I was transported back in time. With everything going on, I have completely forgotten to take my antidepressants. Not that I could have, had I remembered, for I do not have access to that kind of medication here. Those small yellow flowers are the closest alternative.

I approach the stall and inspect the flowers, confirming that they are, indeed, Saint John’s Wort. Making a strong enough concentrate out of them will take me weeks, so I better get to work before the withdrawal symptoms start.

“I’ll take all of these, please,” I tell the vendor, a short man with a bushy moustache and a rounded belly. “Do you also sell tincture?”

He puts up his index finger, indicating me to wait, and digs around some boxes below the counter. When he emerges again, he puts a small vial by the bouquet.

“There you go, mademoiselle. It will be seven francs.”

“Merci,” I thank him as I hand him the required amount of coins. With the large bouquet in my arms and the vial safely inside my bag, I make my way outside, where the same carriage that brought us here awaits me and Sebastian.

When he finally joins me, I shuffle over to the side, trying to make space for him between all the crates of produce that cover the seats.

“Nice flowers,” he simply says. “Though if you wanted an arrangement we could have made a better one from the garden.”

“They’re not for decoration,” I explain. In part because I need it, and in part to illustrate my point, I fish out the vial of tincture from my bag and pour a drop into my mouth, which makes my face contort from the bitter taste. “They’re medicine.”

“Oh.” Sebastian’s brows join in concern. “Do you mind me asking what for?”

“It’s nothing serious, don’t worry. I’m not ill or anything,” I hurriedly reassure him. I have no qualms about telling him the truth, but I don’t know how he will react. Even in our time, prejudice surrounding this topic is still a problem. I notice he is still observing me, patiently waiting for an answer, and I turn my gaze to the window. “It’s, uh...” I stammer quietly, “for my brain. Can’t exactly get meds around here...”

“I am so sorry, I didn’t know,” his tone suddenly softens. I am relieved by the lack of judgement, but the pity... The pity is almost worse. “If there is anything I can do for you -”

“Sebastian, it’s fine,” I interrupt him. “I’m fine. I just... I get a little sad and a little anxious sometimes, that’s it.” That is a massive understatement, but I really don’t want to delve into it right now. “You don’t have to treat me any differently. Please. That would make me feel worse.”

He takes a deep breath and stares at me for a few seconds, as if pondering whether I’m telling the truth or not. After what feels like an eternity, he finally smiles.

“Okay, Anaïs. I will keep being strict, I promise.” He chuckles, breaking the awkward silence, and I smile too. “Alright, now tell me what happened with the coffee! I want to know!”

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