#dazai angst

[tvvigjuice]

Do you like BSD? Do you like Harry Potter? Do you like angst?

GO READ “Magic and Mystery” by Allegory_for_Hatred on ao3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23969512/chapters/57651625

[smoresxd]

does anyone have any dazai angst fic recommendations? preferably not with too many chapters ^^

[tiredmickeymouse]

i suck ass at stylized cartoon drawings so i guess this is my art style now.

anyway here’s dazai being illuminated by unresolved trauma and a bar sign.

[tiredmickeymouse]

Happy birthday dazai!

he used to wonder if he’d live to see tomorrow.

now he’s wondering what to do with all the tomorrows that followed.

[ua-8-thatbuilding]

Parallels of Shin soukoku but it's Dazai finding his better qualities in Atsushi and his worst traits in Akutagawa.

Atsushi has a lack of self worth but still manages, even strives, to live to the next day. He protects his friends fiercely or at least with all the courage he can muster up. Atsushi brings Kyouka into the agency and into the light like Dazai did with him.

But Akutagawa? Akutagawa is all that he tried to leave with the Port Mafia. Unyielding violence and needless cruelty, the dark coat he once wore, and a known deadly ability user. Akutagawa is everything that Dazai has sought to leave behind. Akutagawa is not the kind soul bringing others into the life, he's the boy brought under the curtain of night like Dazai was all those years ago.

Dazai prefers his 'new boy' because he doesn't think his past, Akutagawa, could ever amount to the same as him now, Atsushi. Does he realize the hypocrisy in it all? Would he insist otherwise or declare with finality that he's nothing like Akutagawa?

I couldn't tell you, but I can tell you that in Bsd we are all told to treat our past selves kindly and... Dazai just refuses to do so.

[ravencincaide]

The Meursault

Summary: Severed bodyparts, a meeting with Dazai and the meaning behind Belladonna. ..

Pairing: Mafia! Osamu Dazai x Fem! Reader  Author Note. This is Part 4 to: If only you’d hold my hand and continuation of Foot In Your Mouth Work count: 1.8K Warning: Dark content including angst, violence, mention of pregnancy & abortion, cursing and toxic relationship, hint at self-harm, You’ve been warned, And with those words: Enjoy!

One, two, five.

You counted at least five severed limbs through a crack in the door leading to the backrooms of the abandoned French clinic. You didn’t need to open it and go in to know the massacre inside consisted of broken bones, shattered skulls, and deformed bodies. The kind of morbid display only a wrong date with gravity would create. Quick, often painless, but disturbing enough to leave a vivid message for anyone daring to go inside. Survivors? You knew Chuuya better than that. If there was a survivor, it’d be someone mangled just enough to give the illusion of being salvageable, the kind of injuries where the person dies on the way to the hospital, reminding doctors, police, and lawyers why the Port Mafia was never to be trifled with.

No mercy for those who cross its path.

You doubted your shaken nerves and uneasy stomach could handle the sight, and you’d rather not be associated with crimes you didn’t commit. Instead, you closed the door, wiped your fingerprints from the handle, and headed back the way you came. Your mind counted: steps, breaths, and random numbers just to keep moving. You had to get back to the hotel before Dazai returned and-

Your thoughts cut off as the stench of cigarettes hit you. Pungent, strong shit that no one but the dirt-poor mine workers smoked. And Chuuya. When he was stressed, angry, and murderous, that is. And he did look about ready to gnaw the cigarette between his teeth to dust, shifting the half-burned butt just enough to puff out smoke like an orange-coloured locomotive. He leaned against the driver's side of the sleek, loaned car. The passenger door was wide open: an obvious invitation for you to get your ass in and not cause more trouble.

You contemplated saying no, especially after what he had said, calling you nasty things like 'suicidal' and 'stupid'. But the more rational part of you held back from flipping him off and going your own way. Even you realized you needed to get out of there as soon as possible. You could, of course, call a cab and hope no one had called the police while Chuuya slaughtered a clinic’s worth of people. On the other hand, a cab driver was a witness, and there was no guarantee a mortal would drive you back fast enough to reach the hotel before Dazai. And then there was Chuuya: a guaranteed, safe ride. With no witnesses but a load of shitty company and even shittier air.

You felt drained. 

The kind of drained that came with realizing you were fucked no matter what you did. The type of exhausted that made you struggle to set one foot in front of the other. You barely made it, collapsing into the squeaky vinyl seats in an awkward mess of limbs and exhaustion. As if it was your first time sitting in a mafia-run car, you barely stopped yourself from jumping and hitting the ceiling as Chuuya kicked the door shut a little too violently, leaving an unmistakable shoe-shaped dent in it. A moment later he got in, after tossing the rest of his smoke into the street and almost immediately pulling out another.

The idiot clearly didn’t care if the French police caught him. Cocky, self-centered, know-it-all-

-the bastard actually lit another smoke as if the speeding car was some kind of gentleman's club. You gagged and covered your face with your hands. You swore you heard him chuckle and mutter something about you being a troublesome brat as cars swarmed and blasted their horns at his god-awful driving. The kind of driving that send you tumbling around the backseat like an unsecured bowling ball.

“You know, I’d raise that brat inside you like my own,” Chuuya said so quietly you practically missed it, just as the car came to a jerking halt that sent you flying forward, bracing against the front seats to avoid hitting the dashboard. You stayed there for a second, noticing he had taken you to some kind of pier with grey water sloshing at the edges. Dazai leaned against the railing, face buried in his phone instead of being at the book signing hours away. You had about thirty seconds to process that odd image before your stomach twisted again and you flinched back from the front seat. Two steps out of the car and you were doubling over.

“Fuck’s sake!” Chuuya cursed. He was out of the car in seconds, his hand gripping yours to steady you. You felt him slip something into your pocket, a tracker of some kind? A ploy to make Dazai jealous?

The second you could, you pushed yourself away from him and went towards Dazai. The last thing you needed was for Dazai to jump to conclusions and assume you left the hotel to be with Chuuya, a thought that made you want to gag all over again. “Dazai—”

“I’m disappointed in you.”

You felt your cheeks flush red as shame and anger swelled inside you. Dazai was not using a pet name, not even your name, as if you were some common member, meant he was angry. No, he was fucking furious. And over nothing. “It’s not what you think, yes I left the hotel room and I’m sorry—”

“—I think it’s about time to reevaluate your usefulness to the Mafia.”

“What?”

“I need a subordinate with a clean sheet, so you will go to the port police and introduce yourself as the right hand of the Port Mafia, and admit to 138 murders, 312 cases of extortion, and 625 cases of fraud,” Dazai stated, not once looking at you. He just briefly raised his hand, his finger pointing towards the police escort at the end of the docking area, before placing his hand back on the railing.

It took you a full thirty seconds to realize where you actually stood: on the riverbank leading out to the deep waters surrounding the lonely island fortress of the Meursault. The Meursault. Not just a funny French name, but the kind of prison that made Alcatraz look warm and homey. The list of crimes, though, made you laugh. Murder was not your style.

Your laughter died quickly as you realized Dazai was serious; this wasn’t a spat between lovers but an order from boss to subordinate. “And why would I do that?” Your voice was loud, half an outrageous laugh, half disbelief.

Dazai’s lips pulled up into a half-amused, condescending smile that made you want to slap him. “You could, of course, walk away,” he said extremely slowly, as if you were too dumb to understand unless he stated the obvious. “But the Mafia doesn’t take kindly to attempts on the life of one of our own. A million or two is a decent bounty for harming the next Executive.”

He glanced at you just then. No, not at you, but at your stomach. At the child you were positive was growing inside you. Damn him for meddling with your care. Fuck him for already planning for the unborn child to be in the Port Mafia. To surpass him. A done deal in his mind without even consulting you.

You gaped at his audacity; Dazai looked back over the waters before you could argue. “I heard Meursault offers decent prenatal care. Unless, of course, you get the chair. But your Port Mafia rank and the list of crimes you’ll claim should keep you relevant enough to be merely locked up. Consider it my parting gift.” Dazai pushed himself off the railing, dropped a file at your feet like some dog barely worthy of scraps, and walked past you towards Chuuya and the car.

“No! Wait, you can’t do that!—” The words died in your throat as you saw him get in the backseat. Chuuya shut the door behind Dazai and then got in the driver's seat. Neither looked at you, as if you hadn’t spent your entire youth with them. As if you weren’t Dazai’s lover, Chuuya’s fixation, and one of the only damned Mafia members who could get away with pretty much anything.

Not this time, a nasty voice in your head whispered. You ignored it, watching the car pull away with a sinking, gut-wrenching dread. You had two options, and neither guaranteed a human quality of life. Not for you, not for your child. Running would mean disobeying Dazai and ultimately facing every Port Mafia member you’d lived with, grown up with: subordinates you trained, newbies you teased, superiors you admired. People who knew your thoughts and weaknesses would be tracking you down for the bounty on your head and the possibility of appeasing Dazai. But surrendering to the police for possible protection went against every fiber of your being; not only that, but it would require the level of guessing and mind games that were on Dazai’s level. To keep yourself relevant enough and lie about crimes you didn't commit just to stay alive until you had a better plan—

But maybe Chuuya would still help. He had offered. Right he put something in your pocket, you were certain. Maybe he slipped a tracker or a list of safe houses you could go to. He offered to take care of you, of your child. Maybe it still wasn’t too late to take him up on his offer and—

In your hand lay a handful of berries. Black, puckered, sweet-smelling, with a small leaf attached. You knew exactly what they were, and your heart dropped to your feet. Chuuya’s final mercy for you wasn’t shelter or another offer of warmth; it was to expand your options and offer you another means to play Dazai’s games.

You just didn’t know whether you had the heart to do it or not.

—-

It was silent in the rental car. Chuuya’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly the leather creaked with every turn. He was desperate for a smoke, several. Desperate to use his ability, or at the very least to beat some sense into Dazai.

He did nothing of the sort. Not with Dazai’s sharp eye staring at him through the rearview mirror, as if considering whether to shoot him on the spot or not. “Didn’t expect it of you Chuuya, to give her belladonna. Clever. Almost poetic,” Dazai said as the car finally came to a stop outside a flashy-looking casino. Dazai didn’t miss the way Chuuya’s hands tightened further on the wheel, the leather cracking under pressure. Chuuya didn’t speak, not with Dazai’s gun trained on his back far too casually. “But there won’t be a second time of you getting into my private business, right Chuuya?”

The gunshot barely startled the hectic crowd outside: smokers, casino-goers, and party people waiting for a good time. Dazai exited the car and slowly walked into the bright lights, towards money, and dancing girls as if he hadn’t just shot his best friend.

As if Chuuya wasn’t doubled over, gripping his side from a not-fatal but hurts-like-a-bitch wound.

And as if, every time since that day, whenever Dazai called a girl ‘Belladonna,’ he didn't bring up memories of you. Didn’t raise questions for himself or Chuuya about what happened to you. As if ‘Belladonna’ wasn’t a way for  him to keep Chuuya on a short leash, a reminder of what would happen if he tried to get mixed up with Dazai’s private business and another Belladonna, again.

Though the last part is a story for another time.

Author note: Merry Christmas & Happy New Year to everyone who's come across this chapter and everyone who still follows this blog <3 A bit dark start of the year but I still hope you enjoyed it!

For my part, I am happy to say that this is the ending that I envisioned for this mini-series and it's a relief to start the year with having the final chapter I was so scared of writing and publishing finally out. With that 'Where the name Belladonna comes from' is finally complete. Whoop Whoop!

Pro Tip: If you wanna know when my next update is, view my updated blog in the website view. At the bottom there is a timer set for the next fic.

𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆 | 𝑨𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑹𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏 | 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔 | 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔

All fics are unique works by ©raven-cincaide 2026. Do not copy/repost/translate , AI alter my works or spread my work(s) without my explicit permission. If you see any of my work(s) reworked/reposted/copied anywhere, please inform me!

[somehowliving37]

I’d like to imagine Dazai’s little harem of boyfriends just another symptom of his healing process. Like sure, He’s saving orphans and giving himself a second chance, but he’s still selfish. Right after he joins the ADA, he’s only fucking Kunikida to make himself feel better about abandoning his twins flame. He starts cheating with Ranpo because their overwhelming smart-assery can only be quelled by each other. Fyodor? He likes the obsession. Sigma? He makes Dazai see himself in a genuinely healthy light, and they aren’t even having sex. Dazai is draining all the best qualities of the men around him without even really realizing it because it’s just the sacrifice he needs to make to heal, like Odasaku told him.

[somehowliving37]

Just posted another Dazai-centric fic where he’s a certifiable asshole. Might post it here too when i actually figure out how the fuck the formatting on this app works.