Dazai And Akutagawa Make Me Sick Too (though I Discovered Today That I Had Food Poisoning And Did Not,

infinity aria ; prologue

fyodor dostoevsky x gn! reader. synopsis: two souls inexplicably intertwined, only for one to kiss death again and again, and for the other to stand witness. throughout the lifetimes, he watches you seek him out, curiously watching you seal your fate. read on ao3

warning : canon typical violence, mentions of death

author's note: holy SHIT i'm doing a series for once. this fic is set in the past, but eventually will become canon compliant. this is a reincarnated! reader fic. the chapters will be considerably longer (i'm aiming 2.5-3k words everytime, but this one will be short because it's a prologue. 

Unnerving.

  That was the first word you could think of to describe the feeling that seemed to crawl like a spider up the webbings of your veins when you entered the hall; this giant, grotesquely adorned opera hall with ceilings high enough to make one feel infinitely small, the arches too high to properly glean at the painted reliefs on them. The marble floor of the hall remains empty save for a few groups of guests. The linen note you received yesterday crumples in your tight grip. It states clearly in cursive, inked with clarity— that this was, or rather, should be the correct time and place for you to be here. With your best attempt, you try not to look lost, not keeping the eye or conversation of anyone for long enough to be able to feel the full weight of their gaze. Unremarkable people in their own right, yet the stateliness that their haughty gazes carried made their gaze a weight that rested heavily on your shoulders. Somehow, their superimposed, silent pride had made it a lot harder to freely move, every action carefully noted and judged, as if they were the sole authority worth doing so. Tonight only, they were all birds of a feather.

  You usher yourself into an adjacent room, pushing a heavy door on the far right side of the hall. Pinching at the hem of your opera gloves, your velveteen fingers lock the door behind you. When you turn around, you see the sender of the note in your palm, with his hands clasped in front of him. A pale young man, gracile and willowy in build, with unreadable yet deep eyes and pale pink lips curled in a sardonic, yet cordial smile. He was dressed in the fashion of the times; a violet cravat neatly tucked into his shirt, matching to the dim shade reflected in his eyes, a small brooch in the shape of an angel’s wings. Owing to the harsh weather, a winter overcoat was draped over the fineries, lined with fur— understated and respectable, yet not standing out. A glint of silver shines under his sleeve, hardly noticeable; not that of a watch or a bracelet, but the tip of a dagger.

  You have no reason to believe that the reveal is not intentional. 

  In your life, you have only ever met Fyodor Dostoevsky four times in person; your correspondence has been limited to perfumed letters that are burned soon after they are read. The first time was in a chapel, his form sitting in a pew with unmoving tranquility, like that only ever found in placid, glacial lakes—counting the beads of his rosary although his mouth had not once moved in prayer. You do not recall why you spent so much time watching him, yet he seemed to command your attention with not so much as a word. He could keenly feel your observation, but for some reason you could not tell, he only glanced at you with a knowing smile, whispered a morning greeting, and left.

  The second time, it was in midst of the crowd that followed a public execution, though you remember not what misdeed had led that young man to the scaffold, barely of age. A short drop; you saw the deadly tie placed around that man’s neck, the force not immediately snapping his neck, but rather slowly cutting off his breath, leaving him hanging limp off the rope. You did not wait long enough to see him pass away, but you heard the man next to you mumble something about how 'there's no hope for them, there's no hope for any of them…’ Rather than sadness or contemplation, there was a tone of cruel, self aware irony in his intonation.

  Fyodor had stayed behind, observing the condemned man a few minutes more. 

  The third time, it was through an associate of yours. While you could not fathom why a seemingly devout man would associate with criminals, especially those that specialized in the matter of political assassinations, you did not question your new patron much. So long as he provided his support, it would be unwise to question generosity out loud. It would not be the first time people wore religion like a disguise for their actions, a pretty accessory that could be discarded at will. It wasn't until the past three months that he started becoming more actively involved in these…projects of sorts, and while you could not help but wonder how he seemed to convince your usually suspicious and steadfast superiors so quickly, he had still not given you a reason to question him. That first night you had worked with him is only a fuzzy memory now. By the time you had even reached the location, he was already leaving. When he closed the door behind him, he only expressed formal concern about the late hour and your return home, suggesting that he shall fetch a coach for the both of you. 

  While his back was turned, your fingers reached tentatively for the doorknob, silently opening it. In the dim candlelight, the glimmer of still warm blood shone on the floors, the limp bodies of around five men with their eyes blown wide lay scattered around the study. You were no stranger to bloody sights, however, the reason your mouth had become dry and your head felt heavy was not the slaughtered bodies of those targets, but rather the one in the centre. 

  Fyodor Dostoevsky, laying decidedly dead, with a bullet lodged in the middle of his eyes. 

  You closed the door the moment you caught a glimpse of that sight. Perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you. It had to be, for the man you know to be Fyodor was currently not too far ahead of you, standing on the edge of the road and talking to a coach. You wondered why he hadn't locked the door after the deed was done. If he had intended for you to see what you had. The ride home had passed in silence, and you bid him a quiet farewell, head swirling from the events of the night.

  Tonight is the fourth time you have laid your eyes upon this strange man. One who has strangely made himself a recurring thought in your mind, an unwitting parasite. Usually, you had no choice but to curb your curiosity regarding certain people, given that asking too many questions could at best result in a stern rebuke or at worst, pointed violence. In that way, the new patron’s serene demeanor was disarming, yet could not entirely dispel the suspicion you kept close like an old friend. Before you could lose yourself in your silent perusal of his character any longer, the sound of his voice brings you back from your musings. 

  “Punctual, good. I trust you know what we're here for, so let us begin. Have you brought the vial?”

  The glass sits cool near your skin, and with a quick reach from your pockets, you produce the item. The liquid inside was clear, smelling like nothing in particular; the vial itself was shaped like those typically used to store smelling salts; slightly darker in color. A blend of arsenic and atropa belladonna distillates, or so you have been told. The vial he had given you looked worn, your thumb could feel the scratches on the glass and an weathered old apothecary label that read an year and initials. For F.D, 1606.

  These details remain in your memory, but they are like some sort of eccentric joke; disjointed and without meaning. Fyodor takes the vial, inspecting it for a moment, before giving it back. “It’s not full…but it will be enough for our task. Our guest will be in the box owned by his family, number five if my memory serves me. It will be high enough for no one to see you. The poison will take about an hour to act, and by that time the after party would have begun. Escort him down to keep up appearances, then lead him to one of the greenrooms. They will be empty at this hour. Wait till the body drops, and then meet me in the gardens with the corpse.” 

  You nod, movements a little exaggerated to combat the stiffness in your limbs. The stubborn feeling that accompanied the onset of missions like these; an ache in your head that felt as though someone was tightening an imaginary cord round your head. The feeling of bile in your throat that won't yet rise; no, that was reserved for after the body is buried. The danger makes you nauseous with anxiety, always has. Yet even as you hear the details of the disposal of the body, repeated by the man in front of you in a clinical tone, you hold yourself well. Back straight, looking at him directly, words uttered only with deliberation and no syllable empty when you discussed the details with him further; this is what you were made for.

  Your composure is admirable, he thinks, if only you knew who exactly you were attempting to fool. 

  “Are you nervous?” He asks, without pity or mockery.

“No. Does something make you think so?” 

“You are to kill a man in front of half the city, I would expect you to be nervous.”

You shake your head. “It’s what must be done.”

“I wonder if you say so with duty, or with compulsion?”

  You run the words you are about to say carefully in your head, numerous times. Conversations were not a means of amusement to you, but rather a delicate game. The most convincing lies are poisoned by truth. 

  “They're one and the same.”

Fyodor's expression shifts, the slight mocking lift of the corners of his lips disappearing. There is sympathy where the lights meet the cold violet in his eyes. Not the kind of sympathy that results from care, but sort of a cynical disappointment that communicates that he was expecting something different; you recognize it, for you have seen it in several places. In your friends, in the eyes of confessional priests through the wood mesh, in the men you work for. Where expectations die. “I must say, it is regrettable that you think so. But for a person in your situation, it was unsurprising. For the time being, this will suffice; now, head to the box hallway, the overture should begin soon. One last thing…”

  “Yes?” You pocket the vial, ready for your cue to leave.

  “... Your hands are trembling. It is unsightly, see to it before anyone else notices.” 

  The tremble of your velvet fingers stops once you begin to think about it consciously. Slightly embarrassed, you place your hands behind your back, clutching one with the other. It’s a strange feeling, for it's not the trembling that bothers you, but the fact that he could notice that small detail when his eyes seemed to be trained on your face the whole time.

  “Understood. Goodbye, then, I’ll see you once I’ve administered the poison.”

“I hope you'll be flawless in your execution this time as well. Good evening.”

  He gives a solemn nod, walking to the exit with light, fluid steps; movements as subtle and quiet as that of a ghost. As his back turns to you, your fingers itch to reach for the dagger on your thigh and thrust it into his neck, then twist and twist until you no longer feel seen in such an uncomfortably raw way. Till the discomfort of the moment fades and you no longer feel eyes in the back of your head even as he has walked out that door. When it shuts once more, you are left to quell the sudden rage that simmers under your skin, remembering what you are here for. 

    Unfortunately for you, Fyodor’s presence seeps into the mind like poison and sticks on it like honey.

office siren ango lives rent free in my head

give this man some cunty bayonetta glasses please i beg

i need to squeeze this creature like a lemon i need to GRRRRRRR

🍊Squishiest baby in existence

he gets it

Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

wanna write a deftones based fic so bad but idk what character would go with it ughhhh

a writing competition i was going to participate in again this year has announced that they now allow AI generated content to be submitted

their reasoning being that "we couldn't ban it even if we wanted to, every writer already uses it anyway"

"Every writer"?

come on

Hello! May I request some pre-relationship/crush headcanons with Kunikida, Atsushi and (ADA) Dazai (all separate) with a reader from the port mafia? How would they realise they are in love? How would they handle it etc etc. I love love love crush headcanons with all my heart<33

heart to heart — crush hcs!!

author's note: i'm an idiot who wrote this fic almost exclusively in hours 2-4 am. my eyes are in pure suffering. an unhealthy amount of fiona apple and unreleased lana del rey songs went into writing this. idk how to write headcannons so this ended up kind of like a fic with bullet points lmao 

— KUNIKIDA

• Working with the Port Mafia is something he is (unfortunately) no longer a stranger to. Still, an extended mission was a bit too risky for his tastes. But everyone said that he was fine, so he should be, right? If only he knew what novel sort of trouble he would face once he took the job.

• For the mission, he was partnered with you. You must've been of a different unit, because he is sure he has never seen you in person before. Except for being mentioned in passing by Dazai in his inane conversations, there was little he knew of you.

• At first, he was skeptical. Not sure whether he could truly trust a person with your affiliations to not double cross him in some way. However, you proved yourself capable soon enough. You worked with decisive efficiency, and even with his rather ridiculously timed schedules, you seemed to have no trouble keeping up with him.

• Needless to say, you two got to know each other fairly well over the course of a month. By now, you were acquainted atleast a little of his likes and dislikes. The late night sessions to plan out the routes and inspect the case files over and over; your friendship sprawls over late cups of coffee, the impatient scratching of pen on paper, and the files scattered on the table while you both worked.

• This was still professional; he'd reason with himself. So what if he's had a few drinks with you once in a while? So what if you've been spending a little too much time at his home lately?

• Dazai’s endless teasing on the matter did not help. At all. As he grows more and more defensive, he wonders if he has grown a little too attached to his new partner.

• Kunikida isn't an idiot. Even he can see how much you've made an impression on his life. He simply isn't ready to admit that this could possibly be romantic in nature. After all, you fit none of the ideals he's decided for his supposed future partner. In some form of pointed irony, the pages of the notebook that carry said ideals are also filled with the random, little things he's noticed you need; chapstick, switchblades, pens— all for them to be ready when you inevitably reach for them.

• Nor can he help stealing a little glance when said chapstick swipes so elegantly along your lips.

• Absolute gentleman, with or without a crush. Opens the car door for you on the other side, makes sure you have your seatbelt on, makes sure to watch your back while you both do field work. It’s just a nice thing to do, he reasons, but feels your touch like it was branded into his skin where your hand accidentally brushed on his elbow.

• The weeks that follow after are drawn out, confusing. As time goes on, he cannot help but read into your every action, taking note of all the little details that outline you as a person; from your tastes to little quirks. While you seem blissfully unconcerned, he could not help but feel the weight of the tension between your conversations. It is not these emotions that scare him, but their intensity. His hands tremble as they once again bandage your wounds from the day’s work, mouth dry as he looks at the gashes you think nothing of—and he wonders since when he started caring so much.

• Kunikida may be a man of his ideals, but he can be honest with himself when he needs to be. And whether he says it aloud or not, he’s already known the effect you have on him. He's known it for a long time.

• When he inevitably confesses to you, there is nothing special about it. It's another evening at his house discussing work, and when you both take a break from investigation, he brings it up to you. He isn't expecting the sentiment to be reciprocated. In fact, he is not sure he even wants that to happen. He says it to be honest. With himself and with you. You deserve to know. And perhaps if he said it out loud, the feelings would subside, even for a little while; with a definite answer, he’d have a reason to put out the growing ember.

• Nothing could've prepared him for the shock of learning that this troublesome feeling could possibly be mutual. And nothing could have prepared him for the coy kiss on his reddened cheek after.

— ATSUSHI

• someone help this poor guy

• no, he's really hopeless with it, but let me explain

• When he was asked to collaborate with the Port Mafia once more, he expected to be paired with Akutagawa once more. You were a pleasant change of pace. At first, he was only met with your suspicion; something that drove an initial rift between the two of you. You weren't sure whether you could truly trust this weretiger you've heard so much about to hold up his end of the deal, and neither could he rely on this complete stranger who regards him so frigidly. However, you both were indebted to your respective organisations—it had to be worked out.

• Your staunch independence, and the confident countenance that carried with it an understated superiority, no doubt the effect of years of experience; at first it irked him. It made him taste a little of the helplessness that trailed him like a shadow all those years ago. He attempted to chase away the feeling; biting back at your subtle digs at his skill and experience, trying to keep up with you as best as he could. You matched each other surprisingly well when you both were at your most competitive; the combination of your finesse and his strength was lethal in the most satisfying of ways.

• Over the weeks, you both get to know each other a little better. The small talks on the way to station were something that he was, despite knowing better, looking forward to. He always seemed more affected by your banter than you were by any retort he could possibly throw at you; and when the sly curve of your lip made him feel the strangest sensation of a sort of rush in his veins, he made no notice of it.

• After that morning, this strange feeling had been growing worse. Steadily through the days, but even so he could point out that the emotion that seemed to sit just beneath his chest was unfamiliar. Sometimes he had to force himself to look away from you just to get it to stop and actually be able to hear what you were saying over the erratic beat of his heart. It was blatantly obvious to everyone but him, and despite the constant teasing and prodding by Dazai on what’s got him so nervous, he still assumed it was merely admiration. Perhaps he was simply in awe of your abilities. For weren't you so impressive when you dispatch your targets so effortlessly, or when you execute such flawless plans with an ease in your mien that makes it look oh so simple?

• But then that begs the question as to why he still stares in a daze when you're doing nothing, just catching your breath in the wall crack you had pulled him into to throw off the people chasing you both; his back hitting the wall and you the only separation between him and whoever was at your tails, stalking the alleyway outside. Breaths held, not making a sound; if you both got caught, this was over, and you both understood the stakes better than anyone. He definitely knew just what was waiting for the both of you out there, and that just made the situation far more frustrating, because then why is he so absorbed in how pretty your jelly-like gaze is, or how cool you looked back there when you silently felled that patrol guard? He feels like his brain has melted. Or atleast the still working part of it, because it's not even the first time you've had that effect on him.

• Your hand tentatively shifts, and for a moment he snaps out of the daze. There is abject fear in his eyes, because what the fuck are you doing when the both of you are one slip up away from messing up this mission you both worked so hard on? Yet your fingers, trembling with the rush of adrenaline and the fear of death, wipe the blood on his cheek, observing a rather deep cut inflicted by the serrated edge of a dagger. He could take a hit, but for some reason worry seemed to claw at your mind relentlessly until you could make sure he was okay.

• Perhaps he'd stopped functioning right there and then, because when the footsteps receded and the coast was finally clear, he could barely hear you say that it was safe to come out. Instead, his first move is to hold his heart and take a deep fucking breath. Not just to calm him down from being chased like that—for he's already been chased so many times—but to stop thinking about that brief, soft touch that reasonably, should not even affect him.

• At this point, he's kind of convinced he's going crazy. And like so many problems in his life, there's only one other person to hear it. Coincidentally also the worst person to go to for that kind of counsel.

• Dazai.

• Bastard laughed for fifteen whole minutes before explaining in broken wheezes what Atsushi was possibly afflicted with. Then immediately began sighing and bemoaning about having to help his coworker with silly love problems once he finally stopped cackling like a witch.

• After this… enlightening conversation, Atsushi promptly decides that he's never going to be able to look the man in the eye ever again.

• Now, he's got a whole slew of new problems going on. This mission, you, the fact that he just embarrassed himself in front of his coworker, and that he had no idea how to even face you after this realization.

• Naturally, he wants to avoid this situation. Atsushi doesn't even consider telling you. He wants to, so badly. His throat feels tight when you look at him so sharply, and he can't help but feel that if he sticks around you for too long, you'll look straight through him and somehow find out. But he has every reason to think this won't work out. Every reason why it won't work out. It wasn't the time for love, not even in the small moments of respite between the constant violence you two had to deal with.

• This distance he's been keeping from you…there is no doubt that you feel it too. He can see as much. The disappointment in your gaze when he keeps on pushing you away; it hurts. And he knows with the way your hands are curled in fists now that you're at your breaking point.

• But instead of the argument he thought this would inevitably lead to, you simply pull him into a corner. In the most sincere tone he's ever heard you speak in, you ask him if you did something wrong. Between your deliberate words, your hands on the collar of his shirt that hold him in place with nothing but gentle firmness, and the emotions that he tried so hard to stifle for the past few weeks; he confesses. Leaves nothing unspoken, even if he consciously knows that this is a bad idea. Knows he shouldn't hand you that kind of power over his heart.

• Yet he doesn't regret it a single bit when he feels your hands leave his shirt collar and wrap around his shoulders, your silent answer that kills the bitter uncertainty left in his heart and replaces it with relief.

— DAZAI

• Your history with the brunet was brief, but not something he has ever forgotten. He’s not quick to forget faces in any case, but yours remained in his memory still.

• You both worked together fairly often some three or four years back, the timeline is blurry in his mind now—in those days, your presence seemed like it would be a permanent fixture in his life. Something to count upon. Perhaps he had hoped for the fact, until an year after when he finally decided to leave this life in the dust, and you with it.

• At the time, Dazai had dismissed those feelings as puppy love; the sort of infatuation that comes with simply being of that age where every emotion feels so amplified in intensity. You were one of his first friends, it was only natural to want to cling on, wasn't it? Only with time it became easier to ignore the hold your presence had on him, his mind too consumed with the ongoing chaos in his life to think about that craving he had during initial weeks of your separation— thumb trembling over the call button.

• A few years after, seeing your face stirs nothing in Dazai. A feeble sense of regret is all that remains, and within a few seconds even that dies off. You've changed, definitely; rough-hewn edges from mafia life, knife-hand no longer trembling when it goes for the kill. Decisive, swift movements, a certain confidence in your words that comes from experience. How the glimmer that used to be in your eyes has long since been clouded over. In a way, it makes him feel closer to you, that your soul is being slowly chipped away, just like his.

• Initially, you regarded him like any other professional acquaintance. Not daring to breathe a word of the past, even when you wanted to demand an explanation out of him so desperately. Anything to make the memories of your shared past more bearable. You know better than to give into those whims. If only for the sake of your mission, the past had to be put aside. Between the both of you, there seemed to be a mutual, unspoken understanding for the need to let go. Your slates are cleaned, and you both once again end up in the same place you started; Yokohama’s shipping docks.

• Over the weeks, being around you feels easier. You both work well into the nights, but it's a little more bearable around your company. The banter is easy between the both of you. Lips curved into a cheshire grin at his antics, you always seemed to be more amused with his actions than annoyed.

• Even now when he decides that diving head first into the sea would've made for a perfectly delightful method of suicide, a knowing sigh leaves your lips, painstakingly pulling him out of the fishnets with a firm grip on his beige coatsleeve. Of course, the effort is in vain when you lose your footing and end up falling into the water with him too. Splash!

• Somehow, even when he's walking home, sopping wet in the winter breeze, he feels strangely warm as you chide him, observing how your lips twitch as if to hide a smile.

• It’s your fault, really. Perhaps if you both didn't fit together so well, if it wasn't so effortless to be around you, he might have avoided feeling the same way around you again. It's not lost upon Dazai, how comfortable he's getting with your presence, especially when he knows it's a temporary one. A fact that he is compelled to face again and again everytime you both end up in the field.

• The danger they were facing were still very much real. Despite how confident you seem to be in your ability, your tight shoulders and shaky breaths betray you in the heat of the moment. Through your hesitation to follow through his plans, you still trust him at his word. He can't help but wonder why.

• Your actions hold a certain carefulness—he doesn't want to call it care, for when it comes to you, he finds it hard to tell what you're thinking—that he doesn't understand. As you wrap the gauze around the wound on his arm from a bullet graze, fingers touching his skin with a kind of gentleness he's only ever known from you… Dazai wonders when you'll finally tell him what you're really after.

• The brief thought occurs to him, no doubt, that maybe you do these things simply because you want to. That perhaps you still care too much, like you did all those years ago. But he knows better than to count on something as fickle as the kindness of people’s hearts. He was never that naive.

• Even so, as the long days and even longer nights pass by, he can't help but once again start feeling as he used to in the distant past, only that this time he has no excuse for it.

• Dazai doesn't blush and his heart doesn't race when he sees you. Instead, it's something far more sickening and confusing. With you, it's easier to drop the delicate layers of pretense that seem to obscure his true thoughts and emotions like delicate gauze. There is a sort of ease of being around you, a sense of belonging. In the delicate moments of the late night hours with you, humanity doesn't simply feel like a cloth to wear to hide the rotten core within. You touch him like you know him, even when he knows that the blood staining his hands is far darker than yours.

• You don't even have an inkling of how he feels, and Dazai believes that it's for the best. He’ll tell you in the future, if he can grow to trust you. He wants to say it when he can be sure of it, in a more peaceful time. Even if he doesn't want you to slip through his fingers again like he did in the past, he wants to wait.

• But right now, all he can see is your bloodied fingertips trembling in the aftermath of the day’s chaos, barely having escaped with your lives. In the silent night, neither of you mention how he holds your hand silently on the walk home, bandaged fingers holding yours with deliberate care.

your stitches are good, but not the best - your hands are twitching to the beat of your heart. but they're going to be perfect soon, whether you want them to be or not.

WHY is this fuckass doodle the top post on my blog i love tumblr

i like to think chuuya's eyes do the cat thing where if you look at them in the dark they look freakishly red instead of blue

upside down chuuya with terrifying blue flash eyes for the realest bat vibes

i can't art for shit so i made this on my phone with my sausage ass fingers

Party mean girls shit talking everyone in elvish