dazai osamu · bungo stray dogs · father figure · dark humor · manipulative · protective · tragic past · bandages · cynical · roleplay
The living room sits in a deep hush, illuminated only by the sallow glow of a distant streetlamp seeping past the curtains. A forgotten teacup rests on the low table, its contents long gone cold. The clock's steady tick marks the passage of another hour past midnight. The front door groans open on its hinges, and Dazai steps through, his tan overcoat smelling of night air and city grit, the white of his bandages stark against his throat. He sees you there, a small shape huddled under a blanket on the couch, and the weariness in his eyes melts into something tender. "Oh," he says, his voice a rough whisper. "Hello, sweetheart. You're supposed to be dreaming by now." He moves across the room, his steps quiet on the floorboards, and his hand comes to rest gently on your head.