How To Get Your Insides Rearranged By Your Professors: By Nakajima Atsushi
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“Hey Junichiro…” Atsushi begins hesitantly, his hands trembling in his lap as he lets his words take over.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I’m a terrible person for wanting Professor Akutagawa to fuck me?” He spits out in a hurry, ready to hear the words of judgment and sensibility from his friend and roommate.
“Meh, not really,” Junichiro answers offhandedly like the mere question wasn’t eating Atsushi alive.
The silver haired man exhales a sigh of relief, happy to find that this isn’t particularly unusual—
“It just makes you a shitty one with shitty taste.”
(Or: Atsushi’s professor probably wants to kill him. Why else would the man stare him down so sharply with those handsome–ah–EVIL eyes of his?)
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Atsushi shifts his eyes away from John and towards the entrance, excited to see who’d be teaching the class–
His heart drops to his fucking stomach at who he sees.
There, walking to the podium with a stack of papers and the confidence of someone who owns the world, adorning a suit almost as nice as the one he wore to Kyoka’s birthday party, is him.
Fucking Chuuya.
(Or: A one night stand turns Atsushi’s world upside down when he discovers that the man he slept with would be his sociology professor.)
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With trembling fingers, Atsushi picks up the notebook by the worn leather edges, two-toned eyes darting across neatly written words, each line more bewildering than the last.
And what does Atsushi see?
His name. Again and again, in careful, deliberate script, filling the page like an equation Kunikida had been solving for far too long.
(Or: After accidentally sneaking a peek inside his professor’s book of ideals, Atsushi finds that the older man’s behavior towards Atsushi is more than what it seems.)
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“Does professor Dazai ever respond to your emails?” Atsushi asks, half hoping Lucy won’t hear him so he doesn’t have to deal with whatever answer she gives.
“Yeah.” She doesn’t even pause. “Got a reply like an hour after I sent it.”
Atsushi freezes. “…Are you serious?”
“Mmhm.”
His eye twitches. He grips the edge of the table to keep himself from slamming his forehead into it.
“So just me, then?” he mutters. “Just me that he’s ignoring.”
Lucy finally glances up, unimpressed. “Probably.”
(or: With Atsushi’s professor refusing to answer any of his emails, the university student has no choice but to talk to the man after classes.)
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The Unpleasant Life of Professor Edogawa’s TA by PastelNetwork
Fandoms: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
15 Apr 2025
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By this point in the semester, no one gives him weird looks anymore. A few students passing by nod at him in sympathy. One even offers him a protein bar once, like he’s a soldier returning from war. Everyone knows who he is now. Or, more accurately, who he belongs to.
Atsushi Nakajima: college sophomore, forensic psych major, teacher’s assistant, and part-time servant to the one and only Professor Edogawa Ranpo.
(Or: being Professor Edogawa’s TA is something akin to torture, but hey–the pay is generous and the praise is addicting, don’t judge Atsushi!)
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“P-Professor,” Atsushi blurts out, voice cracking embarrassingly. “Is—um, is there something wrong with my piece?”
Fukuzawa’s hand slips away from his neck, the absence of it almost a physical ache. But there’s nothing hurried or apologetic in his movements—he simply withdraws, as if the touch had been as natural as breathing.
“No,” Fukuzawa says, voice low and steady, brushing against Atsushi’s frayed nerves like velvet. His gaze dips down to Atsushi’s canvas, then back up to his face, deliberate and slow. “It’s good. You’re starting to see more than what’s in front of you. Keep going.”
He lingers for a heartbeat longer—just enough to make Atsushi’s skin feel fever-hot under his collar—before turning to move down the aisle between easels. His steps are unhurried, his hands tucked behind his back, as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
(Or: Professor Fukuzawa is unusually handsy with Atsushi and Atsushi–who has spent most of his life feeling pain–can’t help but chase after his fleeting touches.)
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“…No way,” Atsushi whispers, the blood draining from his face.
Mori Ougai walks forward with the unhurried grace of a man who owns every space he enters. Professor of Anatomy. Acclaimed surgeon. The same man who once gently guided Atsushi’s trembling hands through a dissection and told him, “Don’t be afraid of the human body—it’s just a map waiting to be read.”
Kind. Imposing. Wickedly smart.
And now—walking straight towards him.
(Or: what began as a way to pay off his debt quickly turns into something more when he finds out that the man Atsushi’s been calling his sugar daddy is actually his anatomy professor. )
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