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deaddovejuicee · 1 year ago

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ᡣ𐭩 YOUNG GOD

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: after an agonizing two weeks, dazai finally returns to you and a much needed conversation takes place. {wordcount: 11.6k; fem!reader, sfw, romance}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: WOW I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE AT INSTALLMENT 5 ALREADY!!! this is so bittersweet i'm literally about to cry, i hope you guys have enjoyed badlands and i hope y'all join me for unreal unearth next week!! i got to add one of my favorite quotes in this chapter hehe you guys get extra points if you spot it. reblogs definitely appreciated!! i’ll reblog with the taglist as soon as it decides to show on the dash & in the tags!

WARNINGS: explicit mentions of past suicide attempts + past self harm & scars

SEE: BADLANDS SERIES MASTERLIST READ: UNREAL UNEARTH SIDE B (coming april 5th!)

Dazai is exhausted. His ears ring and his bones ache, his feet are unsteady beneath him and his body pleads for him to rest. Around him, the other members of the Agency are ecstatic, he thinks he’s gotten more hugs in the past hour than he’s gotten in his entire life. A part of him feels warm—he feels like he belongs, and his place in the Agency has always been one that he’s questioned. On bad nights, he used to think that the last place he truly belonged was on one of those three bar stools all those years ago, that being a member of the Agency—more than just in name, actually being a member—was nothing but an unattainable dream, because how could he possibly belong amongst people who are so unfailingly good that it makes his tainted heart stick out like a sore thumb?

But now, Atsushi cries in relief at the sight of him and Yosano wraps him in a hug so tight that his already brittle bones threaten to snap; Kunikida’s throat spasms as he squeezes Dazai’s shoulder and Kenji and Kyouka throw themselves into his arms. Naomi and Haruno cling to his hands, while Tanizaki tears up in front of him with balled fists as he tells him that he’s missed him. Ranpo shoots him a wild grin and a salute and Fukuzawa pats the top of his head telling Dazai that he’s proud of him, and Dazai thinks he might cry because he feels like he’s finally found a home.

An incomplete home, but a home nonetheless.

Because even as he recounts his side of the story, watching hazily as Kunikida writes it all down, his mind is barely connected to his own body. His body feels prickly and his mind is muddled with fatigue, his brain throbs so painfully that he thinks he might actually be dying. He’s overwhelmed and anxious—the strain that the constant games of misdirection and manipulations with Dostoevsky has placed on him is finally becoming too much for him to handle. He’s on the verge of collapse and he needs to be somewhere he feels safe before that happens, and there’s only one place—one person—that fits that criteria.

You.

He doesn’t even register what’s happening as Kunikida, Yosano and Atsushi help Dazai out of the office and into the back of Kunikida’s car. Atsushi sits with him in the back seat as Kunikida and Yosano take the front—they’re driving him somewhere, but Dazai isn’t even entirely sure where, and his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth for him to even ask. Atsushi is talking to him, he might even be telling Dazai where they’re going but the words sound like a distant hum and as he tries to read the boy’s lips, it all just seems blurry and unfocused.

He doesn’t even know if you’re okay.

Queen captured.

The words ring in his head over and over again as they have since the moment Dostoevsky uttered them aloud, but he doesn’t know what Dostoevsky’s capture of you entailed. He doesn’t know if you were killed. You could have been killed. If Dostoevsky had a lover, a weakness that Dazai could target, then they would have been the first person that Dazai aimed to take out to throw the Russian off of his game, and he would show no mercy. You could be dead, for all he knows; no one in the Agency had mentioned whether or not they knew if you were okay, or if they had, Dazai hadn’t heard it.

You could be dead.

Dazai’s vision spins again, his stomach lurches as Kunikida takes a turn too wide—he can’t keep himself grounded no matter how hard he tries. He wants to tell Kunikida that he needs to see you, he needs to get to your apartment complex and make sure you’re there, and if you’re not, he needs to talk to your neighbors and make sure you’re at least okay. Until he does that, he can’t rest, no matter how much his body begs him to give in.

He loves you. He’s sure of it now. He knew it before he left you two weeks ago. He thinks he might have known it all the way back then on the night you rescued him at the shore, when you woke up in the middle of the night and sat with him on the couch after making him hot chocolate. He thinks he fell in love with the bright smile that lifted to your lips when he took a sip of the drink you made him and you realized he enjoyed it—no one has ever looked so happy to see him happy with something before, no one has ever cared enough about him for that.

He is so completely and irrevocably in love with you that Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to live in a world without you. The thought alone makes his skin crawl and his chest cave in. Before he met you, he had long accepted that he was destined to be alone, that he wasn’t a human but instead a thing caught between monster and man—he had accepted that he was incapable of loving, and even more so, that he was incapable of being loved.

You had changed his perspective on everything, you had changed it so absolutely that Dazai doesn’t think there’s any going back to how he once viewed the world, how he once viewed himself. He’s started looking forward to sunrises, if it means he could watch them with you. He’s found himself looking around Yokohama and seeing places to take you rather than scouting out places for possible attempts. God, he’s even saving his money—Dazai Osamu has never saved money in his life because he hoped that each day would hopefully be his last. He’s blow it on alcohol and food and stupid trinkets that he didn’t need, but now, he’s caught himself putting aside some of his paychecks so he can save up for a nicer apartment that the two of you can live in together.

Dazai thinks that he can’t breathe, his throat feels swollen and he brings one of his hands up to tug at the collar of the white sweatshirt he’s wearing, tugging at it as if it’s the reason that he can’t breathe properly.

Dazai can’t go back to a world without you. He can’t.

Next to him, Atsushi is reaching out to him, as if trying to get him to calm down and Dazai doesn’t even want to know what the expression on his face might be right now. Everything is crumbling and tunneling around him—Atsushi, Kunikida, and Yosano are all dissolving, the car doors are fading away, the buildings and the streets and all of the scenery is just disappearing.

Shit, he thinks, trying to figure out how the hell to ground himself. Shit, shit-

The car comes to such an abrupt stop that Dazai would have gone flying into the seat in front of him were it not for Atsushi throwing an arm across his chest to stop it from happening, the brakes screeching loudly and the car skidding. Yosano is pointing wildly, shouting something and Kunikida is shouting something back, something along the lines of her nearly causing him to get into an accident, but Dazai can only follow to where Yosano is pointing too, gaze dragging across the woman’s arm in the direction of the beach to the left of the car.

He wonders if he’s hallucinating.

His fingers are shaking violently as he reaches out to push open the car door, squirming out of Atsushi’s protective hold. He flings himself out of the car desperately, nearly crashing hard onto the concrete—the fresh air is almost dizzying as he inhales it, pushing himself to his feet as quickly as possible. His broken leg screams in protest, but Dazai ignores it, vision blurring for the sparest moment before it focuses in on the figure standing on the beach in a familiar long, tan coat.

His lips part to call your name but no words leave them—he’s not sure if it’s because he’s still half out of it or if it’s because he’s scared that if he calls your name and you don’t respond, it’ll confirm it’s just a hallucination.

But he doesn’t have to say your name, whether it’s just by chance or if you heard the brakes of the car screeching, you turn in his direction.

You’re wearing his coat; it’s too long on you—the tan edges are dragging against the sand and whipping around you as the wind picks up. But you’re wearing his coat and you’re beautiful; your expression shifts into one of recognition and then shock as soon as you see Dazai in the near distance, the sun is starting to set over the horizon and the soft orange glow casts an unearthly glow over you, and Dazai thinks everything about this is entirely unreal. He thinks that you might be some sort of angel, or some other type of divine being, and he thinks that he doesn’t even deserve to look at you, much less consider you his.

As he makes his way toward you, he can’t even put together all of his thoughts in a coherent manner. You’re alive is the first thought that rings through his head, the relief is almost debilitating. All of the days he spent with his heart in his throat, unsure of whether or not his decision had gotten you killed, have finally come to an end. The next thought that runs through his head is god, because he’s imagined this moment dozens of times since he first had to leave you. He’s imagined running to you, scooping you into his arms and swinging you around, holding you close and refusing to let go because Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to let go of you again.

Except that’s entirely how it doesn’t go.

Dazai barely makes it to you before his legs are giving out on him, as much as he tries to ignore the pain, it evidently becomes too much for his body to handle. He’s collapsing into you the moment he makes it to you. His head is still throbbing, his leg is screaming, his body is aching, but your hands are instinctively grabbing him to break his fall, his knees crashing against the sand, and Dazai just can’t bring himself to care about the agony. He doesn’t care that his body is coming apart at its seams, he doesn’t even notice as you lower yourself down into the sand with him.

“Osamu.” His name leaves your lips in a breathy whisper, one that’s riddled with disbelief and longing—something else too, but Dazai can’t decipher it in his muddled state. “You’re here.”

He tries to say your name, but he’s pretty sure it comes out garbled and unintelligible. Distantly, he can feel his fingers twisting into the fabric of his jacket, trying to clutch onto you as best as he can in spite of the numbness that still threatens to consume him. Then, your grip on him shifts from the instinctual grab into your arms wrapping around his waist, one hand splayed across his back and the other sliding up to cradle his head to your chest as you hold him close, and Dazai thinks all is right in the world again. He doesn’t want to move, he doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to do anything but just let himself melt into you.

The feeling of your touch for the first time in weeks is enough to chase away the creeping numbness and anxiety, and everything still hurts but all of it dulls in comparison to being in your arms again. Dazai’s breath is shaky, he teeters over the edge of collapse now that he’s finally with you, his weary brain betraying him as it uses the comfort of your arms as an excuse to finally surrender. His vision swims—he’s not sure if it’s from relieved tears or exhaustion, maybe both—his nose is flooded with the scent of you, the scent of home.

“You’re here,” you whisper again as if you can’t believe it; Dazai can’t even blame you because a part of him still fears that if he lets go of you, you’ll disappear, a cruel trick on him played by his treacherous mind. You pull away from him and Dazai’s fingers instinctively cling to you harder, trying to get you to stay in place, but his body is far too weak for it to be effective.

You lean back and bring your hands up to cup Dazai’s cheeks and it takes all of his willpower to not just let himself fall limp. Your expression twists a bit, he’s not sure what you see—nothing good, definitely. Yosano splinted his leg and cleaned up the wounds on his face, but his ability canceling hers prevents him from getting the wounds healed quickly, so his face is bruised and swollen, cuts litter his skin from when the elevator had crashed to the bottom floor.

He thinks he must look disgusting, he doesn’t even know how you can bear to look at him. But he supposes that’s not a new thought to cross his mind, he’s never understood how you can look at him the way you do.

“What happened to you?” you breathe out, and Dazai’s lashes flutter as your thumb ghosts over his cheekbone, eyes searching his for an answer to your question. Dazai doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t, leaning into your touch. “God, Osamu, you look like you’re about to drop dead.”

“Are you calling me ugly?”

Even in his objectively terrible state, Dazai is able to croak out the five words, although he’s sure the playful lilt is lost in his fatigue. You stare at him for a moment, as if you didn’t hear him properly, but then your expression shifts into one of disbelief and your hand flies to your mouth to smother the laugh that he’s missed so desperately the past two weeks.

“Can you walk?” you ask after a moment, hand lingering on his cheek before dropping down to his forearm, squeezing gently.

Dazai winces at your words, shaking his head—he barely even made it to you, he’s not going to make it all the way to your apartment complex.

You let out a puff of air caught between a laugh and a sigh. “Guess we’re doing this again,” you say, a teasing cadence dancing in your tone. Dazai’s brows furrow a bit in confusion, but then you’re grabbing his arm and trying to heave him to his feet. “At least you won’t be pretending to be unconscious this time.”

Dazai struggles to help you as you do your best to get him onto your back; a nostalgic feeling sweeps through him as he remembers the first time the two of you met, waking up after a failed suicide attempt to find you cursing and complaining as you try to haul him back to your apartment. He wonders if you knew what you know now back then, if you would have still stopped to help him—but that leads him to a line of questioning that he doesn’t want to approach yet.

Do you know where he’s been?

Do you know his past?

Do you know everything he’s done?

He pushes the thoughts away.

As if the gods above remember the event and want the two of you to reenact it as close to the original as possible, he feels a few drops of rain splatter against his face.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He hears you complain as you finally get him settled on your back. “Keep your gangly legs to yourself this time, I don’t need them knocking into me this time.”

“... I was purposely trying to trip you, you know?” Dazai admits, voice hoarse and weak and the smile curling to the edges of his lips is lazy but it’s real for the first time in what feels like forever. “I thought it would be funny.”

You gasp loudly. “I knew it! You’re such an asshole.”

Dazai laughs, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck—he wants to bask in the light feeling that’s replacing the emptiness in his chest, but a part of him can’t help but feel like this is only the eye of the storm.

Back in the car, Kunikida looks a bit worried as you struggle to get Dazai onto your back.

“Should we go help her?” he asks quietly, glancing over at Yosano.

But Yosano doesn’t respond to him. She has an uncharacteristically soft expression on her face as she watches you laugh loudly at something Dazai says. He finally looks somewhat coherent again now that he’s with you, still in pain but that detached, disconnected look in his eyes that had been terrifying Atsushi is gone.

“No.” Atsushi is the one to respond to Kunikida, smiling lightly as he finally drags his gaze away as he watches a genuine smile twitch to the corners of Dazai’s lips as you nearly trip and fall under his weight. “Let’s head back to the office.”

Dazai has been sleeping for hours.

You let out a soft puff of air as you idly comb your fingers through his hair, eyes tracing his face. His right eye is completely swollen, his lip is split, you can see bruises littering his neck that disappear beneath the bandages he wears, his leg is broken and splinted. Despite all of that, he still somehow looks at ease as he rests in your lap.

You’re not as at ease.

Well, a part of you is, against all of your common sense. Having Dazai back in your arms is far more comforting than it should be, with the conversation that needs to be had looming over you. The sight of him sleeping peacefully in your lap, the feel of his heart thrumming beneath your hand, the sound of his steady breathing, it’s all enough to alleviate your body and mind of the stress and anxiety that has been crippling you for the past two weeks.

He’s alive. He’s okay. He came back to you.

You find consolation in the thoughts—in the few days you were detained by the Hunting Dogs, all you could do was think about Dazai. Your mind raced with worst case scenarios and crippling fears. In spite of all of the allegations placed against him, you still love him—you’d known it well before he left and the relief you felt seeing him again before was enough to confirm it.

You think it’s dangerous, and maybe a bit stupid; a part of you knows that you should run for the hills, the crimes that Jouno Saigiku listed out are nothing to scoff at, and even putting aside morality, his former position as an executive of the Port Mafia should be more than enough to have you fleeing, if only because that puts you in danger too. No one gets to the position that he supposedly obtained without gaining masses of enemies and no one leaves it alive without doubling said enemies.

But you’re not running for the hills—not because of his crimes, and not because of the risk of being with him—and that scares you a bit. You’re having trouble reconciling the Dazai you know with the one you’ve been told exists. Even when you recall all of the times you woke up to find him staring out your window with an unsettlingly detached expression, eyes too still and too black to be normal, as if they absorbed all sound and light around him; when you recall all of the man’s strange idiosyncrasies that just don’t line up with the front he puts up; when you recall that night in Kyoto where he refused to divulge what his previous job was, you just can’t.

The logic fits, your brain can see it and piece it together, your heart just won’t accept it.

Your knuckles graze the side of his face, a conflicted expression crossing over your own.

You don’t know what to do.

A part of you doesn’t want him to wake up, because you know that when he does, you’ll be forced to have the talk that you’ve been dreadfully anticipating since you learned about his crimes and imprisonment. You don’t know what you expect from the conversation, you don’t know how to approach it, you don’t know what you want to know nor why you want to know it, you don’t even know if you should continue with your relationship with him and you don’t even know why that’s still a question in your mind because obviously you shouldn’t continue a relationship with him.

Your brain feels like it might implode.

You take a step back.

As you always do when you’re faced with conflict and feel yourself getting overwhelmed, you try to take a more logical approach. First, you make yourself a chart: pros and cons, always a favorite of yours, centering around Dazai and your relationship with him. Then, you make a list: everything else you need to know to properly weigh into each of the pros and cons.

Pros:

Dazai makes you happy. (An important pro, you think, maybe it’ll outweigh all of the rest.)

Cons:

138 counts of conspiracy to murder.

You pause.

Distantly, you wonder what your life has come to—making a pro/con chart with one of the cons being 138 counts of conspiracy to murder. You press your hand against your mouth, staring ahead as you reconsider every action you’ve taken to lead to this moment. Promptly, you decide to scrap the pro/con chart and move right on to the list of things you need to know.

What do you need to know?

First off, you need confirmation over whether or not the allegations are true—if they’re not, then you’re spiraling for nothing and you can move on happily in your relationship with Dazai.

If they are?

You swallow thickly. You need context—you’re not sure what type of context would justify those crimes, you don’t think there’s any justification for them, honestly, but there must be a reason as to why you cannot reconcile the Dazai that you know with the one you’ve been told exists. You like to believe that you’re good at reading people—although you’re definitely questioning it now—so there must be some context that you’re missing as to how the “alleged Dazai” became the “known Dazai.”

And maybe—just maybe—if you can understand that, then maybe you can still move on in your relationship with him. Because even if his crimes aren’t justifiable, people can change and it would be beyond you to scorn someone trying to do their best to become a better person. It’s not like you’re some squeaky clean, paragon of virtue anyway: your university and grad school is mostly being paid off by your brother’s blood money from the underground rings, and yeah, it doesn’t really compare to being a former executive to the most dangerous gang in Yokohama but it definitely narrows your room to judge.

You glance back down at Dazai.

Your eyes meet wide, tired brown ones that immediately shut as soon as he catches you looking at him, as if pretending to still be asleep.

“Dazai Osamu, we are not playing this game again.”

Dazai reopens his eyes with a sheepish smile but he doesn’t say anything for a moment. Slowly, his expression shifts, the corners of his lips furling downward as a mixture of realization and resignation pools in his eyes.

“You know.”

The two words are so unassuming yet so damning, your heart lurches and your stomach churns. Dazai isn’t looking at you anymore, he’s staring up at the ceiling, waiting for you to speak.

Is that confirmation? Just like that?

“I don’t know anything until you tell me,” you decide to say, your voice a bit tighter than you intended for it to be.

Dazai’s eyes draw back to you, studying you carefully. He looks conflicted—over what, you’re not sure. You think if he tries to blow this off rather than explaining it to you, you might lose your mind. You’re giving him a chance to explain on his own terms and if he doesn’t take it-

You reach out instinctively as Dazai starts to push himself off of your lap into a sitting position, fingers brushing his back worriedly.

“You shouldn’t be moving around,” you tell him quietly.

He only shakes his head, finally speaking, his voice so quiet that it’s barely audible. “Let me take you somewhere.”

S. ODA

The four letters engraved into the headstone before you have been weathered by time, you can see lichen creeping across the slate and stone flaking at the edges—enough for you to put together that whoever has been put to rest here has probably been gone for a few years. Questions itch at the tip of your tongue but you bite them, waiting for Dazai to say something instead so that he can lead the conversation.

He has yet to say a word. From the moment that he slid into the passenger seat of your car, the only words that he’s spoken have been directions to the cemetery. The conflicted expression that had been etched onto his face has finally disappeared, smoothing out into an eerily blank one that you can hardly stand to look at because you know only dark thoughts must be racing through his head.

You wrap your arms around your waist as another chilly wind whips around the two of you, grateful that you’d thrown a jacket on before leaving your apartment. Dazai is only dressed in his trench coat, too thin for the cold but he refused to wear anything else. You’re not sure why, but you have caught him burying his nose into the collar and inhaling, memorizing your scent as if it’s about to disappear.

“I officially joined the Port Mafia when I was fifteen,” Dazai finally says. You raise your eyebrows a bit, wondering just how much autonomy a fifteen year old has to willingly choose to join the Mafia, but you don’t voice your thoughts, waiting for him to continue. “I met Nakahara Chuuya, a current executive of the Mafia, that same year and we earned the moniker Double Black for being the most lethal pair in Yokohama’s underground. At sixteen, I was put in charge of the boss’s personal covert ops unit and I was promoted to executive for all of my accomplishments, youngest underboss in the Mafia’s history. I’d eliminated countless rival organizations, opened numerous new distribution channels for all of their illegal trades, and had a hand in planning nearly all of the major operations both within and outside of Yokohama.”

His voice is void of any emotion, a cold monotone as he speaks the words like a bland recitation of a prewritten speech; his eyes are too empty and far too still as he stares ahead at the grave in front of the two of you. It’s unnerving; somehow, you think you like it even less than the actual matter of what he’s saying.

“Until I was eighteen, I continued to be the driving force behind the Mafia’s rapid growth and ironclad control over Yokohama; while I was an executive, no foreign organization dared to try to usurp control over any of our territory. They’d give up their territory if they knew I was the one heading the expansion operations, because they were scared of me and because they knew it was a lost cause trying to defend against me. Whatever you heard about me, it’s all true and probably way worse than you could ever imagine.”

The silence between the two of you following his words is damning—the wind is too loud and the distant sounds of cars honking and brakes screeching is jarring. You can hear your heart thudding in your ears, you can feel your gut twisting, your fingers tremble from where they’re stuffed in your pockets. Dazai is a statue next to you, his eyes haven’t budged, his limbs are stiff. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think him a corpse

Your lips part to speak but no words leave then. You take a moment before trying again. “How did you end up with the Mafia?” you ask, your voice is much weaker than you intended for it to be.

Because that’s what you need to focus on—the context, that’s what you’d decided before he woke up and that’s what you’ll stick to, not what he’s done, but first how he ended up there and then why he left. You can’t imagine a fifteen year old willingly choosing to join the Mafia, so you think there must be more to the story.

For the first time since the two of you arrived at the grave, Dazai moves—it’s subtle, a twitch of his fingers and a tug at the corner of his lips but it’s gone in an instant, you almost miss it.

“I tried to kill myself when I was fourteen.” Bile rises to your throat almost as soon as his words process, you finally turn to look up at him but his expression hasn’t shifted at all. “The doctor tending to me ended up becoming the new leader of the Port Mafia. I was kept around as an insurance policy, and partly by my own volition, but I joined willingly at fifteen after turning him down several times.”

“Why?”

“I… thought something would happen. For so long, I just… couldn’t feel anything, and I didn’t see the point in living because of it. I thought that maybe the more extreme emotions—violence, death, desire—all of the things that are found in abundance in the Mafia… I thought that if I could be around people who display all of these things so plainly, that I would be able to see and understand what makes humankind human. I thought that maybe it would help me feel more human, and find some sort of reason to keep living.”

You exhale, eyes sliding shut for a second. You feel nauseous—hands lighty trembling as you desperately try to digest the large pill he gave you as quickly as you can because you still have more questions but god, what type of fourteen, fifteen year old feels so empty inside that he turns to the Mafia to try to feel something?

“You were a kid, Osamu. You’re not some incarnate of evil for ending up where you did, you were failed by all of the adults in your life,” you finally say quietly; you’re the one staring ahead now, and you can feel his eyes on you but you don’t dare to turn to look at him because you know that it’ll make you crack and you need to continue. Clearly something else happened when he was eighteen that led to him leaving the Mafia but what? Your gaze trails back to the grave in front of you, a sinking feeling in your chest. You take a deep, steady breath before asking your next question: “What changed at eighteen?”

“I didn’t leave the Port Mafia because I had some great epiphany as to the immorality of my actions,” Dazai snaps. His voice is tight and borderline antagonistic, emotion finally seeping into the monotone, as if he’s trying to convince you that he is what you claim he’s not. “I-”

He cuts himself off abruptly, his voice cracks, you lift your gaze to his face and your throat spasms when you notice the black pits have been replaced with the warm brown you’re used to, a vast array of emotions swimming within them, too many for you to pinpoint a single one.

“He was my friend,” Dazai finally says softly. “My only one, maybe. When he died, he told me that if both sides are the same to me—evil and justice—that I should become a good person, I should save people. So, do you understand? Nothing about me has changed since back then, and the only reason I’m on the side of the ‘good’ is because someone else asked it of me, not for any altruistic reason. I’m still the same now as I was then.”

“... I don’t think that’s quite true,” you tell him after a few seconds of silence, and you can feel him look at you and you can practically hear the bitter ‘what do you know?’ that he’s about to let out, so you force yourself to continue before he can. “I think that if someone had told me all of this a few weeks ago, I would’ve laughed in their face. I never once-”

Dazai scoffs. “So, you don’t understand,” he says, voice reverting back to that empty tone you hate, but his body is tense and he’s looking anywhere but you. “I’m good at putting up fronts, wearing masks depending on who I’m around; it’s how I learned to blend in with people. The man you know doesn’t exist. I’m a fraud, my blood runs black; when I’m pushed into a corner, I invariably fall back into old habits. I’ll never leave the dark and I don’t belong-”

“I think you’re wrong,” you interrupt him, recalling Yosano’s words from two weeks ago—he’ll never believe it himself. “I don’t think you’ll ever see yourself from an objective standpoint. I don’t think you want to believe that you’ve changed for the better, but I think you have. I’m not stupid, Osamu, and I’ve never been one to fall for people’s acts, no matter how good they might be. I’ve known something was up with you since that first night when I woke up and found you staring out the window, and still, I have never once doubted that you were a good man.”

“I killed people to get out of Meursault, I was willing to torture people to get information when the Guild showed up in Yokohama and then again when the Decay of the Angel arrived, I’ll manipulate anyone and everyone around me to see my plans through, I…”

Dazai is still listing off all of the reasons why he’s still a bad person, and maybe you should be listening but you can hear the way his voice is becoming increasingly more tinged with desperation, as if he’s intent on convincing you to change your viewpoint on him. You wonder if he thinks you’ll run, and then, you wonder if he’s trying to make you run—each sentence he speaks becomes more descriptive than the last.

He’ll find himself sorely disappointed, because you’ve already decided that you won’t run. You’re still not convinced that this is the smartest decision on your part; Dazai is dangerous and being with him is dangerous, not because of him himself, but because of the threats that still linger from his past, but you suppose love always drives people to do stupid things in its name anyway. Even now, as he lists off all of these terrible things, you can’t imagine your life without him—you think a life without him will be dull and gray, and you’ll always look back to the time you spent with him as the happiest you ever were, regretting the decision you made here.

You’re not the type of person to live a life full of regrets.

And whether he sees it or not, you think he has changed. You’re not the only one—Yosano, Atsushi, all of the members of the Agency see him in a similar light as you, but he’s so blinded by his past that he refuses to see himself in the present. Even the things he says now, all of it was done in the name of protecting the people he cares about, and that’s not something you’re going to condemn him for.

“I think he’d be proud of you.” You cut off his tangent with seven quiet words and Dazai goes utterly still and utterly silent next to you. “I didn’t know him, of course, but I think he’d be proud of the man you’ve become, Osamu. Change doesn’t happen overnight, you were surrounded by the dark for so long, and from such a young age, that it might take decades to remove its influence over you, but you’re trying and you’re saving people. I wish you could see yourself the same way I see you. I think he would be proud.”

You wonder if you pushed too far, sparing a glance his way. His brows are furrowed so intensely that you can’t hope to try to imagine what might be going through his mind, brown eyes flooding with emotion as he looks down at his friend’s grave.

“I’m not someone that was born to be with people,” he finally croaks out. “Romantically or platonically. I’m not right in the head. Manipulative, constantly trying to kill myself, prone to jealousy, pettiness and casual cruelty. There are so many people trying to kill me that I stashed guns in your apartment when you weren’t home just in case they came after me while I’m there—I don’t care if they get me, but they might go after me when I’m with you, or even go after you to get to me. Sometimes, I regret leaving the Mafia because I feel like it’s the only place I actually belonged because it’s the only place where I was actually good at what I do.”

You don’t speak, instead letting him list off everything that he thinks is wrong with him, laying out bare all of the things that he tried so hard to hide from you over the past few months. He can’t look at you, eyes trained ahead and you can see the way his fists are clenched in the pockets of his trench coats. He lowers his face into his collar again, burying his nose in the fabric before continuing.

“During really bad slumps, I can barely get out of bed even though I can’t sleep; sometimes I won’t eat for days unless someone notices and forces me to and if they do, I usually get nasty with them; and I’ll do just about anything to die. Atsushi-kun has had to fish me from more rivers than I can count, Kunikida-kun has had to drag me to the hospital after trying to overdose on pills or drink various types of poisons, Yosano-sensei has spent days watching over me because she didn’t trust me not to try again once one of them saved me.”

His voice has mostly returned to that cold monotone, but there’s a hint of emotion clinging to the edges that he just can’t wipe away, something caught between desperation and pleading. Your throat feels tight and swollen and you think that your heart might be shattering a bit with how he’s so set on pushing you away and convincing you that he’s simply too horrid to be loved.

“I can’t cook. I don’t clean. I hardly shower. I’m more often drunk than I am sober. I can barely go a week without trying to kill myself at least once. I suck at saving money because I figure I’m going to die soon anyway, so I don’t see the point in it. I have an awful lifestyle and more unhealthy habits than I can count. I've tried to change it but I always fail. I don’t know how to comfort people and when I’m confronted with conflict by people I care about, I’ll avoid them until I can act like nothing's wrong. I’ll be more of a bother than anything else, really.”

“I still want you,” you finally say quietly, watching as a distressed expression sweeps over his face.

“You really don’t,” he protests weakly. You wonder if he’s trying to convince himself of it, or you—maybe both.

“I do. I’ll take care of you.”

“It’s rotten work,” he breathes out, a last ditch attempt to persuade you away.

“Not to me,” you tell him firmly. “Not if it’s you.”

“I don’t deserve this.” Dazai shakes his head, voice so quiet that you can barely hear him. “I don’t understand—everything I told you and you’re still… I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you.”

“I disagree, but regardless, that’s hardly relevant,” you say absently, finally reaching out to loop your arm in his, resting your head against his bicep. “Do you want this? Do you want me?”

“Yes.” His voice is so hoarse and so low, as if he can barely bring himself to say the words out loud.

“Then it’s yours. I’m yours.”

Dazai’s jaw is clenched so tight that you’re worried he’s going to damage his teeth, he brings his hand to his eyes as if to cover the upper half of his face. You squeeze his arm a bit, comforting, eyes sliding shut.

“Everything I touch withers and turns to ashes,” Dazai rasps. “Anything I never want to lose is always lost. I’m scared that by being with you, I’m also killing you.”

“I’ll take that risk, if it means I can be with you,” you tell him, watching as he shakes his head, still refusing to look at you.

“You’re so damn stubborn,” he exhales quietly.

“You love me for it,” you tease lightly.

“I do,” he admits, and your eyes shoot open a bit at his words. You glance up at him, but he’s looking ahead, expression downcast. “And I’m sorry about that.”

“Are you apologizing for loving me?” you ask, a bit incredulously.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Osamu…”

Your voice is soft, you’re not sure what you want to say but you falter when Dazai suddenly looks down at you. His eyes are so exhausted, he looks like he hasn’t had any rest in years—his shoulders sag and his arms hang limply at his sides. You think that maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to all of this when he’s still recovering, but you also think that the fatigue is not just physical.

“I’m so tired,” Dazai suddenly whispers, resting his forehead on the top of your head. His voice cracks a bit over the word, you slip your arms around his waist, letting him lean into you.

“Then let’s go home, yeah?”

“... Yeah, let’s go home.”

When you get back to your apartment, it’s still dark but you know dawn will break soon; as Dazai stumbles over to your bed, you make your way to the window. You close the curtains so that Dazai will be able to sleep easily even after the sun rises, and then move over to your nightstand to turn on the dim lamp so you can at least see a little bit.

Dazai drops his coat onto your desk chair before he takes a seat on the edge of your bed, feet planted on the floor as he stares ahead at the wall. He looks lost, conflicted; you don’t know what to say to draw him out of it, so you decide not to say anything. Instead, you make your way over to him and take a seat next to him—your thigh brushes his, arms ghosting each other’s, and Dazai immediately leans over to rest his head on your shoulder, eyes sliding shut.

You lift your hand to cradle the back of his head, fingers idly carding through his dark locks. You feel him let out a shaky breath, the air hot against your skin, and you turn your head to the side, pressing your lips to the top of his hair, lingering for a moment before resting your head against his.

“Lay down and get some sleep,” you tell him softly. “I’ll stay with you.”

Dazai exhales, but he doesn’t budge from where he’s leaning heavily against you. “... I need to take off my bandages,” he finally says quietly. “They’re drenched in sweat and blood, haven’t had a chance to change them since I left… I don’t want to get in bed with them on.”

You pause and then ask, “Do you want me to go grab the new roll I bought? I can step out.”

“I don’t have the energy to put them back on,” he finally murmurs, and then a bit more hesitantly, he adds: “Can you help me take them off?”

You think your heart is in your throat. In the months you’ve been with Dazai, the only glimpse you’ve gotten of his body beneath the bandages was that day he showed up at your doorstep bleeding out and you had no choice but to cut through some of them to patch up the wound, and even then, you only saw the sparest bits of his body, only what was necessary to stop the bleeding. He’s been so careful to keep it hidden from you and now…

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Of course, I can.”

You shift a bit so that you can kneel behind him on the bed, fingers curling around the hem of his white long sleeved shirt. You tap his arm gently, a silent ask for him to raise his arms, and when he does, you slide the thick cloth off of his body, leaving him in his pants and the bandages that cover every inch of visible skin besides his face and hands.

He was right, they do look disgusting—most of them are yellowed and frayed at the edges, as if they’d been drenched with water and dried several times over. There’s blood staining the bandages on his side and a black tarry substance clinging to the bandages wrapped around his waist. You lean forward and press your lips against his shoulder, over the somewhat clean bandages that are covering the skin there, and you can hear Dazai let out a sharp, shaky breath in front of you.

“Ready?” you whisper, fingers grazing the clip fastened to the bandages on his neck, holding them in place.

He only nods, so you press another soft kiss to him, this time to the crook of this neck, and unfasten the clips to unwind the bandages from around his neck. To your credit, your fingers don’t falter when a rugged, discolored scar is revealed, looped around his neck; it’s mostly faded, but it’s still rough beneath the pads of your fingers. Your eyes linger though, there’s no question as to what caused the scar and your mind instinctively draws back to all of the offhand comments and jokes that Dazai has ever made about ceiling beams and nooses and your throat feels a bit tight.

You dip your head down to press your lips against the nape of his neck, right over where the rough skin crosses. You can hear his breath hitch, you can feel the way he shivers, but you don’t say anything as you continue to unwind the bandages around his chest and torso. You’ve seen most of the scars that litter his back from when you’d had to patch up his bullet wound, but it’s different seeing them without the fear of him bleeding out fogging your brain.

They look much harsher against his pale skin now—the worst is still that deep, jagged one that runs from his shoulder to the corner of his hip, but you can’t help but notice that there are more that you hadn’t noticed that day. Most of them are various types of cuts and slashes, some deeper than others, and healed bullet wounds, your gaze is particularly drawn to the most recent one on his upper back. It’s fresh compared to all of the others, still red and easily agitated—your fingers brush over it for a moment before you lean in to press another kiss to his shoulder blade, right over where the worst of the scars begins.

You shift from behind him to sit at his side, dropping the bandages that had been covering his chest, torso and neck haphazardly onto your bedroom floor before reaching out for his right arm.

Dazai withdraws immediately.

His expression is guarded, you think that his eyes seem a bit glassy but you can’t tell with the dim lighting. You don’t say anything, and you don’t reach out again; after a few moments of him studying you, his shoulders slump and Dazai moves his arm so that it’s back in your lap. Your eyes trace his face one last time, making sure he’s okay, before you lift your fingers to start unwrapping the bandages, starting at his bicep.

The skin of his bicep is mostly clear—there’s one light scar cutting through its side, as if a bullet had grazed him. When you move down to his forearm, Dazai is stiff and you can see the discomfort on his face, but he doesn’t pull away, so you continue.

And you falter, because as you loosen the bandages to remove them, you catch sight of the deep scars lining his wrist and forearm. The skin is uneven and discolored, there’s hardly an inch of visible skin on his lower arm that’s not covered by the vertical scars. He’s staring at you, dark eyes heavy and inspecting your every reaction—he’s looking for something, and you don’t know what, but you just decide to do the same thing you’ve done every other time you finished taking off a set of bandages and lean down to press your lips against his pulse point, moving over to do the same to his other wrist after unwrapping the bandages there too.

Your gaze flickers down to his legs, where you can see the bandages on his ankles peeking out from the white pants he’s wearing, a bit too short for his long legs. You pat his thigh gently and say, “C’mon, let’s get you out of these ugly things.”

Dazai shifts up just enough for you to help him slide the loose plants off so you can toss them off to the side, leaving him in his briefs and the bandages wrapped around his thighs and calves. You move to kneel in front of him, instantly getting to unwinding them, starting at his ankle.

“Do you remember what you told me back then?” Dazai asks quietly, looking down at his lap instead of you. “The day we met?”

“I told you a lot of things that day,” you say lightly as you glance up at him, careful as you unwrap the bandages around his calves. You kiss his knee. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You said you’d change the trajectory of my life,” he murmurs, twisting his fingers absently.

Vaguely, you remember the words, smiling a bit in amusement.

“About the hot chocolate?” you question, laying a kiss to his other knee before shifting up to unwrap the bandages on his thighs; you make sure not to let the pain show on your face when you notice that his inner thighs are as littered with scars as his wrists and forearms, all of them dangerously close to his femoral artery.

“Yeah.” He lets out a puff of air akin to a laugh, but when you glance up at him, you see there’s very little amusement on his face. In fact, he looks more wistful than anything else. “You really did, you know? Not with the hot chocolate, obviously, but just… you. You did.”

You sit back on your heels as you look up at Dazai, taking his hand into yours before lifting it to your lips, kissing his knuckles softly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly. When he continues, his voice is hoarse, bordering on a plea, “Don’t ever go somewhere I can’t follow.”

“Somewhere without you?” you ask, a teasing lilt to your voice as you kiss the palm of his hand before letting go so you can move to unwrap the bandages from his other leg. “Sounds dreadful, I would never.”

He lets out a noise as if he doesn’t entirely believe you, as if it’s some inevitable fate that the two of you will face. So when you finish unwinding the bandages and push them off to the side with the rest of them, you lean up on your knees to cup his cheek, pulling him down a bit to you so you can press your lips to the corner of his.

“You’re stuck with me.”

“I think it’s the other way around,” he croaks out, and the wry laugh he lets out falls flat.

You squeeze his hand again before you rise to your feet, and when you do, Dazai’s throat spasms as you stand in front of him, looking down at him. He’s stripped bare in front of you now—physically, emotionally, and he looks at you with an expression that lets you know that you have the power to utterly ruin him. He’s trusted you with his heart, handed it over to you on a platter after having guarded it so desperately and carefully for so long, and you can see the vulnerability in his dark eyes as he watches you restlessly, waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

You lean forward again, pressing your lips against his forehead softly and then to his own, a chaste, innocent kiss that lasts no longer than half a second.

“I love you,” you tell him quietly.

Humans cannot live without a heart, so if he’s to give you his, it’s only fair that you give him your own—though realistically, yours has already been his for a long time. Your heart beats in his chest now, and his in yours, and you wonder if he understands the gravity of what that means but you think he does, if the way his expression crumbles has anything to say about it. His hands fly to your waist, dragging you down onto his lap. His fingers bite a bit too deeply into your skin for it to be comfortable, but you only wrap your arms around his shoulders and let him bury his face into the crook of your neck.

“I think I might’ve been born just so I could meet you,” Dazai admits, words thick and throaty, muffled against your neck.

You smile lightly, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, turning your head to the side to kiss his temple. “I feel the same,” you whisper, because there’s no way anything but destiny led you to Dazai Osamu on that beach—one way or another, you were fated to be with him.

Dazai pulls his face from where he’s had it tucked in your neck to press his lips to yours; he kisses you desperately, hands rising to cup your cheeks. In one swift motion, he has you pinned down on the bed, hips and chest flush to yours, hand slipping behind your head to tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and you’re reeling at his sudden switch up, struggling to keep up with him. His tongue traces the inside of your lip, deceptively gentle compared to the way he has body pressed against yours.

Your hands fly to his waist, sliding over his bare skin, over all of the rough ridges of his scars and his body shudders against yours violently, unused to the feeling of someone touching him without his bandages as a barrier. He pulls back, tugging at your bottom lip softly before moving just far enough away for your lips to be brushing, sharing the same sliver of air. You can feel his breath fanning across your lips, it smells of the peppermints you have littered across your desk and distantly, you can’t help but wonder when he managed to steal one, but the thought is only fleeting. It’s dizzying, hot, so intimate that you think your heart is about to fly out of your chest.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” Dazai breathes out, dark eyes searching yours as he speaks.

“Me neither,” you agree, and then you smile, leaning up to steal another kiss from him, and then another, and then another. “Good thing we have the rest of our lives to try.”

Less than a week later, you stand in the chaos of the Armed Detective Agency as they argue over a new case—and by they, you mean Yosano and Kunikida with Dazai occasionally making antagonistic comments to try to make Kunikida blow a fuse. You don’t really know what you’re doing here, you suppose the Agency doesn’t really care and you have nothing better to do anyway —you lost your internship at the Ministry of Defense, obviously, with all of the chaos that went down and classes have yet to start up again, and Dazai begged and pleaded for you to come with him to work because he ‘can’t stand having to look at Kunikida-kun’s ugly mug all day,’ but you figure it’s only because he wants to sneak off to you whenever Kunikida is distracted.

Like now.

Dazai has flopped onto where you’re lounging on the couch as he watches Kunikida and Yosano go at it, head resting on your chest, giggling to himself as Kunikida’s face goes red and Yosano looks increasingly more entertained. You’re idly playing with his hair as you scroll through your phone, distantly listening to the argument that you’re pretty sure Dazai instigated just so he could slink away from his desk.

It’s only a matter of time before Kunikida notices Dazai’s scheme and drags him off of you, but it’s nearly the end of the day anyway and you and Dazai are going to the theme park in the Kanagawa prefecture once he can leave work, so you’re excited. You think you’re going to ask Atsushi, Kyouka and Kenji to come along with the two of you, even if Dazai pouts and scowls over it, because they’ve spent most of the day talking to you when Kunikida was forcing Dazai to actually do his work.

“Ranpo will be here soon,” Yosano goads Kunikida. “We’ll see what he says.”

Kunikida’s eye twitches and he parts his lips to speak but before he can, the door to the Agency flies open and a familiar dark-haired man comes bounding in, snacking on a bag of sweets. Tanizaki follows behind him, looking exhausted if not a bit relieved to be back.

“Tanizaki got us lost three times,” Ranpo complains, making his way through the reception area toward the interior. Tanizaki looks disgruntled, as if he doesn’t entirely agree with Ranpo’s statement but is beyond arguing about it. Ranpo pauses next to the couches where you and Dazai are lounging. “It’s you.”

Your eyebrows raise a bit when you notice the thinly veiled irritation in Ranpo’s voice. Dazai looks up, eyes a bit narrowed, and both Yosano and Kunikida pause from where they were about to bring their argument to Ranpo, sharing a look with one another.

“Ranpo-san, don’t be ru-” Dazai starts to complain, although you can tell there’s a hint of tightness to his voice.

“First, everyone in the Agency ignores me when I tell them not to take this case; then, I go out of the way to warn you about the Hunting Dogs and instead of listening to me, you throw yourself into the heart of Yokohama and make yourself easy pickings for them,” Ranpo rants. “I don’t even know why I try.”

Realization strikes fast, your face feels a bit hot. Dazai sits up from where he’s laying on you, looking between you and Ranpo, a bit confused.

“... You were R,” you realize sheepishly, wondering how you hadn’t put it together sooner.

Ranpo all but sneers. “Aren’t you supposed to be an honors student at Waseda? I swear, sometimes I think I’m the only person in my life with brain cells.” he says snidely, pointedly raising his chin and looking away from you as he adds: “I suppose your arrest wasn’t entirely a bad thing, though—made the police force more willing to open their eyes with their wives and family members going off the deep end about the Hunting Dogs. But still, after all the effort I went through to get that warning to you…”

He finishes with a loud scoff, but you’re more focused on the aghast expression on Dazai’s face as he looks at you, and you brace yourself for the conversation that’s about to come, wondering how the hell you’re going to get out of it.

“You got arrested?” Dazai blanches, eyes wide and face a bit pale.

You wince, laughing a bit sheepishly. “Yeah… ha, look at us, in jail at the same time! Couple goals, huh?”

Dazai doesn’t look half as amused—a mix of disbelief, guilt and a hint of anger all visible on his face. You don’t know where the guilt is coming from, but you figure he must blame himself for it somehow, which you think is a bit ridiculous because it was your choice to let yourself get arrested when you had the chance to flee. You think that your trip to the amusement park is going to be tainted now, because you know that as soon as Dazai gets the chance, he’s going to bully you into an interrogation over what happened, so to salvage the night and spare yourself the headache, you finally make your move.

“Atsushi-kun, Kyouka-chan, Kenji-kun, Osamu and I are going to the amusement park later, you should join us!”

The look Dazai gives you is nothing short of betrayal, but luckily, Atsushi, Kenji and Kyouka, who’ve all lit up at your words, excited, can see it from where they’re sitting. You smile sweetly up at Dazai, leaning up to steal a kiss; he is disgruntled, narrowing his eyes at you.

“Oh? The one in Kanagawa?” Yosano suddenly asks, interested. “We’ll come too.”

Dazai buries his face in your chest, letting out a muffled groan. Yosano tosses you a wink, seemingly having forgotten about her argument with Kunikida as she throws her arm around the man and gives him a sharp look.

“Won’t we, Kunikida?” she asks with a terrifying smile. Kunikida looks as if he’s going to protest but before he can, Yosano’s arm around him tightens. “Won’t we?”

“Fine,” Kunikida bites out, looking none too pleased. “I need to hurry and finish this report then, so let go.”

Ranpo points at you. “You’ll fund my cotton candy for the night as an apology for the unnecessary headache,” he declares and you let out a huff of laughter in agreement.

“Can Naomi and I come too?” Tanizaki asks, a bit hesitant as he glances at you and notices the way Dazai has slumped into your chest, defeated. “We’ve only been once when we were kids. It’d be fun to go back.”

“‘Course,” you agree easily. “Dazai and I are gonna head out now though, I have to run to the store before we go.”

Kunikida only waves you off—he probably doesn’t even register what you asked, too focused on getting his report done—so you push Dazai off of you and rise to your feet, stretching because your back has become a bit sore from lounging around all day. Dazai nearly topples onto his ass, shooting you an accusing look before standing up straight.

You hold your hand out to him, he takes it, looking a bit mollified.

“See you in a bit,” you tell the Agency, and you get various different goodbyes as you leave the office.

As soon as the door shuts behind the two of you, Dazai is scowling at you. “You’re devious,” he claims. “Inviting them all to avoid a much needed conversation. Diabolical.”

“Learned from the best,” you coo, leaning into him and nudging his arm with your shoulder. He rolls his eyes, you grin. “Please, you and I both know you would spend the whole night trying to talk about it if we go alone and it would piss me off. We can talk about it when we get home.”

“And now.” The smile that Dazai gives you is all teeth, you grimace. “How did you get arrested?”

You just shrug. “They asked me for information, I refused to give it. I figured if they were going to come after me one way or another, it’s better that it happens in public—people don’t really take kindly to watching someone get arrested for associating with an organization that they’ve all associated with at some point or another because they’ll get scared that they’re next.”

Dazai looks at you, distinctly impressed. “You are devious.” He sounds proud, your cheeks heat up a bit, but then his expression drops again. “But still reckless. You could’ve been killed.”

“But I wasn’t.” You wave him off and then absently bid goodbye to the cafe owner and his wife as the two of you leave the cafe and make your way down the street to where you’d parked this morning.

“But you could’ve been,” Dazai stresses the words, he’s a lot more tense than you expected, his jaw is tight. He catches the way you’re looking at him and shakes his head, letting out a puff of air. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask, brows furrowed.

“It’s my fault,” he tells you, and you immediately scoff, rolling your eyes. “It is, you don’t understand—I was with Dostoevsky in Meursault, I had to make a decision-”

“Shut up,” you tell him, irate. His mouth shuts instantly. “Stop acting like I have no autonomy. I knew what I was walking into, I chose to do it anyway. That’s the end of it, stop blaming yourself for every little thing that goes wrong, Osamu. You’re only human, you can’t control everything.”

You can tell that Dazai doesn’t believe you, but that’s an argument for another day. Luckily, Dazai doesn’t look too keen on pressing the subject anyway. Instead, conflict sweeps over his face as he studies you.

Finally, he asks quietly, “You never doubted the Agency?”

You let out a sharp laugh. “Are you kidding? There’s no way anyone’s going to convince me that the people in that office building are terrorists. That’s absurd, I figured there was something supernatural going on, just didn’t know what.”

Dazai looks at you, disbelief painted on his face. You’re not sure why until he lets out his own laugh, shaking his head. “The Decay of the Angel had a reality altering book,” he explains, eyeing you as the two of you continue down the sidewalk. “And you managed to somehow subvert the reality they created with it.”

You can’t tell if it’s a question or not, and for some reason, you feel distinctly seen as he looks down at you with an indecipherable expression. So you just shrug. “They shouldn’t have written such a ludicrous reality, then,” is all you say, a bit awkwardly.

Dazai only laughs again, slinging an arm around your shoulder. You lean your head into him, smiling softly. You bask in his presence, letting the warmth of the setting sun wash across your face as you share a few moments of silence.

As the two of you reach the parking garage you’d parked in, Dazai suddenly stops, looking down at you. “Do you believe in fate?” he asks quietly, uncertainty in his eyes as he watches you for a response.

“Yeah,” you tell him. You’ve always believed in fate, and you believe in it a bit more after meeting Dazai, because somehow you know that you were always destined to meet him, that your fates have been intertwined since the moment the two of you were born. You simply cannot imagine a life without him, not in this world or any other. “String theory, multiverse, I think the world’s a lot bigger than just ours. Why?”

You glance up at him curiously. “You do?” he asks a bit distantly, leaning down to ghost his lips against your forehead. Then a bit more hesitant, he continues, “If you think there’s more worlds like ours… do you think we’re together in all of them?”

You snort, which is obviously not the reaction Dazai expects from the way he jolts, but before he can take offense to your reaction, you speak.

“Definitely,” you say so confidently that he almost looks taken aback. “I’ll find you in every universe, you can count on it.”

You think he looks beautiful right now as the sun finally sets over the horizon, the pale orange tints of the coming dusk making his skin glow, his eyes soft and fond, full of longing as he looks down at you. You’re struck with a distinct urge to kiss him, but he looks so divine in this moment that you can hardly bring yourself to move, spellbound as you admire him.

“Yeah,” he finally breathes out, “I will.”

i don’t even really have words guys 🥹 i’m literally about to weep i can’t believe it’s over

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deaddovejuicee · 1 year ago

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deaddovejuicee · 1 year ago

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The Greatest Fraudster

Ft: Nikolai x Reader

Warning: Non-con, pwp, stalker!Kolya, somnophilia, fingering, unprotected sex, mentions of stalking behaviour, Kolya sneaking into reader's room, Kolya is the definition of red ocean not a red flag lol, etc. This is very much NOT a healthy relationship.

Notes: I'm sorry if it sounds rusty I'm struggling to get out of Writer's Block Swamp 😭😭😭

Word counts: 2695 words

Inspired from @/cherikolya 's stalker!Kolya!!

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The silver moonlight pierced the window, lighting up your room, revealing a figure hidden in the shadows. It wasn't the first time he made his way into your bedroom like it's his house, you've grown used to this, he would sit by the bed, watching you sleep with a sickenly sweet delirious gaze, doing absolutely nothing, and he would left before you woke up when the sun rises. Albeit there were occasionally times when you woke up mid-night and were almost startled by his too-much-of-a-loving eyes.

Who's to say that he doesn't have his dark desires? Nikolai is, a man after all. And he could not helped himself but let his gaze trails further down you body, watching your vulnerable form, mismatched eyes lingered a little too long on your heaving chest or on your private parts, how he would imagine his rough, calloused hands on your porcelain-like skin, caressing your body while his cock nestled deep inside your pussy.

The desire to ruin you runs deep inside his veins the first time he saw you at the fair, and all those nights when he took the advantage to crawl into your bed, laying there right beside you, feeling your breath against his skin was enough to send him through the clouds. He wanted to wait, he wanted you to come to him voluntarily, he wanted you to fall for him. All the nights where he couldn't come to see you himself, he would watched you over the cameras that he planted in your room, no, your whole apartment, and he would resorted to his hand to ease the pain in his pants. Oh how Nikolai wanted to see your cute face stained with his cum, lips slightly parted and teary eyes after sucking him off.

Patience is a virtue, but the man never deems himself as a virtuous person. Hence the reason he's finally, finally taking a huge step further in this relationship as he slowly taking off your nightgown, pulling down the straps to reveal your bare chest, the sheer sight is already making him shivers in excitement.

Nikolai kisses you in a very careful way, as if he was treating a doll made out of glass. But of course, you wouldn't wake up that easily after a rough day at work. Yet in his little wretched mind, it was a sign for him to keep going. A soft sigh slipped past your lips as his fingers danced on your chest, before lightly squeezing your breast, causing you to wince in your sleep.

As his mouth descended and latched onto one of your perky nipples, your body quivers with each touch, further exciting the man. There were no signs of you waking up, so he took that as your body was reacting to him even when you're unconscious, a twisted smile hanging on his lips as he let go of your nipple with a "pop" sound.

Fingers dipped into your panties as Nikolai noticed you were getting wet, "Are you accepting me already~? That makes me so happy, sweetie, see, we're improving our relationship!", he deliriously whispers in your ears as his fingers slipped into your aching cunt, rowing them slowly, testing the water before he began to move them in a scissoring motion.

The sloppy sounds of his fingers fucking your innocent hole were like music to his ears, and as much as the sight of you moaning unconsciously makes him wanted nothing more but to ram his cock into that sweet, tight pussy of yours, still, he endures it, taking his time to loosen you up, or else the pain might wake you up. Now isn't he nice? He's prioritizing your needs!

Your insides were clenching onto his fingers ans before you knew it, he's already had three fingers inside you! And as his middle finger grazed a certain spot, your breath hitched, he knew he'd struck gold. Adding the pressure from his thumb pressing on your clit, you soon reached your first orgasm of the night. Slowly and carefully, Nikolai pulled his fingers out before sucking on them like they were the sweetest nectar he'd ever tasted.

He unbuckled his belt in a haste, dropping both his pants and boxer down, freeing his cock that were dripping with pre-cum. His breath were getting fast as he could not contained the excitement anymore, he wanted to take you right here and now, to claim his dearest dove for himself, to violate and ruin you until you were too much of a cock-drunk to think of anything but him and only him. Ah, just the thoughts of it were enough to make him cum on the spot~!

"Are you sure you don't want to wake up~? If this continues, I'll ruin you, dear. Or is it that you want me to ruin you?"

Of course, he couldn't get an answer from a sleeping person. And in his sick little mind, it's you who let him do this. Silence is agreement, no? Slowly and gently, he pressed the swollen tips against your entrance, rubbing it a few times before finally, sink himself in one thrust, making you jolted up. His heart dropped, his blood almost frozen as he saw your reactions, he didn't want you to wake up yet, no, not now, not when he's just started. He wanted you to sleep a little longer, the most ideal scenario in his head was that you would stay unconscious for the rest of the night, as he fills you up again and again, painting your inner walls white, staining your body with his seeds, and he might make you suck him off afterwards before cleaning you up to rid away all the evidences of such a night.

But he was just worrying too much, as you were still sound asleep, not knowing a single thing about your stalker is now balls deep inside you and is ready to fuck your brains out. Nikolai lets out a sigh of relief as he saw your eyelids shut tight, chest heaving up and down, showing no signs of waking up just yet. It took him every ounces of reasons to not thrust into you like an animal, instead, he started of with a slow yet deep pace, rowing his hips against yours carefully, after all, he wouldn't want you to wake up just yet.

Small sounds slipped past your unconscious form, and with the look on your face, something inside Nikolai snapped. He began to pick up the pace little by little, your tight walls convulsed around his cock as he fucks you hard and fast, throwing any reasons he had left out of the window and desperately chasing his high. The squelching sounds of his balls slapping against your ass and skin slapping against each other, with your unconscious mewls on top of it were like an orchestra played just for him. The thought of using protection not once crossed his mind, as he was now busy pounding into your sweet little pussy, all his and only his.

Nikolai soon came inside you with an ecstatic moan, maybe a little too soon, but who's to blame when to him, being able to fuck you like this and cumming inside you was his long life dream. Sadly, that dream would soon turn into a nightmare as he noticed your eyes fluttered open. And as you were trying to take what was happening, the man could only feel his blood runs cold. Why now? Was he too hard on you? Damn it, he should have taken things slower, but honestly, how do you expect him not to lose control when your walls were gripping onto him like a vice and your slick juices overflowing, so much to the point he could feel it on his balls each time he thrust?

"Kolya..? What are you doing?"

Your voice laced with sleepiness as you stared at the man on top of you, wondering what shenanigans is he up to this time staying on your bed like this. It's not that you aren't against of this, it's just that you were far too familiar having Kolya in your room like this, especially after that certain night where things took a twisted turn.

Nikolai finally snapped out from his train of thoughts as his gears working, if you're awake, does that mean he have the rights to do whatever he wants now that you can reply to him? It doesn't matter if you don't want to, he would just do it anyways~

And with a swift movement, you were now on top of him, his cock still buried deep inside your dripping cunt as he beams a smile towards you, but his eyes were not smiling at all. "I'm sorry that I woke you up, my dove. But I'm glad that you're up now, this way we can continue our love-making!"

For one second you thought you misheard him when he said 'love-making'. It isn't until you noticed how he was balls deep inside you that you could comprehend the situation, but it was too late anyways, as Nikolai began the second round with a rough and deep pace from the start, and the new position allows him to reach even deeper inside you, the tip grazing your cervix with each thrusts. One of his free hand pulls you into a sloppy kiss, his tongue slid past your lips, tasting every nook and cranny as you moans into his mouth, eyes shut tight as pleasure blurs your senses and reasons.

The obscene sounds of skin-slapping filled the room, your moans muffled by the kiss you two were sharing as Nikolai's mismatched irises stared at you lovingly, his hands were everywhere, caressing your back then gripping your hips with one hand while another was teasing your nipple. It wasn't until he felt the lack of oxygen catching up to him did he finally broke the kiss, a thin silver string connects you two. When he isn't kissing you, he would be biting and nipping anywhere he could, from the nape of your neck to your ears, random patches of your shoulders to your breasts, and he even left marks on your hand! You were gone too far in pleasure to notice that he'd bitten right there at your left ring finger, maybe a little too harshly but who cares? You'd have to cover it up with an accessory, and it's the perfect occasion to make you wear his ring!

Your head were still hazy from waking up so suddenly and the next thing you know was that Nikolai was fucking you like there were no tomorrow, pleasure overwhelming your mind to the point you could only make out broken syllables of his name and told him to stop, but at this point, he'd already been too much of a pussy-drunk to reason with you. To him, you were just shying away, that your 'no' means 'yes', and 'stop' means 'more', a twisted way of taking things, and all is to blame his 'love' filter. They say people can do all sorts of things when they're in love, indeed they can.

"T-too deep..! Kolya~!" you cries out as he relentlessly hitting your sweet spot, his fingers intertwined with yours as an act of kindness, contrasting everything he'd done as Nikolai teased you, "Ahaha! What are you saying, dove? You're the one who's been shaking her hips, using me like your expensive dildo, didn't 'cha?"

You shook your head in embarrassment, but some of his words were true as you were unconsciously grinding against him, meeting his thrusts as you two chase your high desperately. It didn't took long for you to came undone around him with a loud cry of his name, your pussy gripping him tightly like a vice as he emptied himself into you, filling you up with ropes of thick, hot cum. Nikolai slows down his pace, thrusting a few more times before slowly pulling out, the gravity making some of the remnants leaks, dripping down the once pristine sheets as he lies you down on the side with him.

To Nikolai, this is his dream come true, he was ecstatic, even more so now that he knew he'd 'made love' to his precious dove. To you, it's an absolute nightmare, your stalker, whom you've barely known had just forced himself on you while you were sleeping, and the worst part is that somewhere inside you, you actually enjoyed this. You disgusted yourself just by thinking of it. But he didn't let you rest for long, as he suddenly sat up, nudging his erect cock staining with your mixed juices against your soft lips, "Clean me up, my dove. I want you to taste both of us."

You were hesitant, but judging the fact that even if you don't agree, he'd still force it onto you somehow, you decided to be obedience and parted your lips, slowly taking him inside your mouth. Starting with gently kitten licks at the tip, almost as if you were teasing him, to long licks alongside the length, you could indeed taste yourself and him as you continue, feeling the veins a little bumpy on your tongue, inadvertently longing for more, for him to ravage you again.

You took his cock inch by inch in your mouth, trying your best to take as much as you can, but alas, everything has a limit to it. You could feel the tip hitting the back of your throat already and there's still quite a bit left, so you decided to stroke it with your soft, delicate hand. As you began to move your head up and down, making dirty, lewd noises as you suck him off like he wants, you look up to met with a Nikolai who were shutting his eyes as he groans, his hand found its way to your hair, gripping it as gentle as he can, before he tries to push a little deeper, causing you to have a gag reflex, your hand fumbling to tap his inner thigh, a sign that it was too much for you to take.

As much as he wanted to fuck your throat, Nikolai still knew that if he broke you too soon, he would be left with nothing again, so he tries to endure and let you take things at your own pace. You appreciate that, really. As you bobbed your head up and down to match the rhythm of your hand stroking him, while the other free hand went to massage his balls, hollowing your cheeks and moaned with your mouth full of his cock, the vibrations when you moan added in another layer of pleasure. He was pleased, not only that his dove was playing right into his hand, but because she's acting so obedience, so good, just for him.

As you were focusing on pleasing him, all of the sudden, Nikolai stops you, pulling his cock out of your mouth, leaving you dumbfounded. Didn't he tell you to suck him off? He loves the idea of cumming directly in your throat, making you drink them all without wasting a drop, or maybe you could drop them, since he'd have a reason to punish you later. But he only wants you to clean him up so he could devour your cunt again, hence the reason why he's switching position, towering over you once more. He was holding you close to him, at a glance it seems like a loving act of intimacy, yet it was the opposite, Nikolai only wants to cage you in his arms so you won't be able to run away from him. Yes, he hates being caged, but he still cages you, truly conflicting, don't you think?

You know that you will be sticking with him for a long ride as his hard cock nudges your pussy lips once more before he sheathed himself whole in a single movement.

"It really does feel like we're lovers, my precious dove~ Why don't we make love some more?"

After all, the night's still young. And there are many, many more nights to come.

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deaddovejuicee · 1 year ago

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I suck his dick, it's big, it's very-very big! ᝰ.ᐟ✮⋆˙

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd make you cockwarm him while he works, the door unlocked, his dick so close to your g-spot but he wouldn't let you move! hands keeping your waist in place as his dick keeps you all stuffed n warm.

“I'll be done soon, sweetheart, you can wait a little more right? So, be a good girl n stop movin’ so much.”

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd praise you for sucking him off so good, tears forming at the corner of your eyes as you try not to gag on his huge dick. Guiding your tongue on his dick, gently holding your hair, shooting thick ropes of cum in your mouth.

“God, your mouth feels so good, my sweets. Keep goin’ alright? looking so pretty f’ me.”

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd taunt n insult you while you gag on his dick, roughly grabbing your hair and making you take him fully. Your mascara n lipstick all ruined, eyes rollin’ back when he cums in your mouth. :(

“You look like some cheap whore like this, y'know. I bet you're getting wet from me degrading you, hm? As expected.”

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd fuck you in a mating press, his big cock stretching your insides, hitting your womb. Pressin’ his hand on your tummy to feel his dick in you, making you whine. Your tummy already full from how much he cums, you definitely can't go for another round.. + he's gonna fuck you till you need a wheelchair.

“It won't fit? Don't worry, darlin’. Gonna make your cunt remember my dick, don't worry! Even if it does forgets, I'll just fuck ya again.”

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd fuck you till your dumb n can only think of him and his dick if you do decide to act all bratty or he'd just tie you up n put a vibrator on your clit and watch as you squirm around trying to get a release, but he turns off the vibrator just when you're gonna cum. :(

"Should've thought before being like that, what did you expect, princess? acting all flirty with that random guy, trying to make me jealous."

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who’re either super experienced from sleeping around or just fucking virgin losers, walkin’ around with that big ass dick in his pants.

— FYODOR, Leona, Dazai, NIKOLAI, Beel, Chuuya, Diavolo, SEBEK, Lucifer, Malleus, MAMMON, Jack, Blade, Neuvillette, Sampo, IDIA, Zhongli, Scara, CHILDE, TOJI, Jing yuan, Gojo, Sukuna, NANAMI, Dr. ratio, Wriothesley, ALHAITHAM, CATER + your favs.

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deaddovejuicee · 1 year ago

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A debt, recurrent.

A sequel to A debt, repaid.

BSD Ogai Mori x fem!reader

NSFW 18+ MDNI

Authors Note: I had previously skirted around the idea of writing something that directly involved Elise, just because her existence is like— one of the major icky points of this character, but I had a request to do like a nanny!reader x mori, and I was like “how can I do this in cannon universe while making it make sense while also making sure it isn’t gross.” And this is what popped out. In this story, it is implied in this that Mori does not actively use Elise in any sexual activities, even though I have no idea if that’s been confirmed or denied in the manga/show. I just prefer the thought that he hasn’t. Makes me sleep better at night. That being said, I still don’t condone any actions associated with this character/the entire Lolita-loving trope, but being able to interact with things that have caused me trauma in the past in a Safe space makes me very horny happy. and I am so uncomfortably horny for this old man.

Word count: 5k

Synopsis: Mori needs to go to a meeting, and needs someone trustworthy to watch Elise. She chose you, much to your displeasure, and you spend the evening catering to her every whim. Mori returns home to find you in a vulnerable state, and who is he to refuse such a gift?

PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING! DARK CONTENT WARNING! READ RESPONSIBLY!

CW: technically non-con somnophilia.(sexual actions while one party is asleep) Reader is into it, even though she tries to deny the fact that she is at first. Mori has very dark and possessive thoughts towards reader, reader doesn’t wake up until Mori is actively (p in v) fucking her. Touching, oral (fem receiving) fingering, very little vaginal prep, creampie, dirty talk. Mild aftercare, though it’s implied that he’s not actually done. ELISE IS NOT INVOLVED IN ANY NSFW CONTEXT, AND IS ACTIVELY TAKEN AWAY AND TUCKED INTO HER OWN BED BEFORE MORI DOES ANYTHING TO READER

You flinched at the sound of the door to the lounge swinging open, and very light footsteps accompanied by heavier, slower ones.

You were just trying to have lunch with your coworkers, and you certainly weren’t expecting to interact with the boss today, or his… ability.

”hmm…” the little girl seemed to tap her foot in thought, and you kept your head down, though if you looked up and to the side, you could see her shoes in the corner of your vision. You could see his shoes too, standing directly behind her.

“I want to play with… that one!” She said with a demanding tone that really grated your nerves. It’s not that you disliked children, you just despised spoiled brats, and Elise was notorious for being just so, which was exactly what Mori wanted from her, the sick bastard.

”Are you sure, my dear? That one has a bit of an attitude, I don’t know if she’d make the best playmate for you tonight.”

Your heart sank into your stomach. There were only two women in the lounge today, yourself and another young recruit who was well known for keeping her nose down and following orders without question.

Is it too late to throw yourself out a window? You're only on the fourth floor, it should be fine, right?

“I said I want that one!” The girl, if you can even call her that, stomped her foot with furious impatience. “Did you not tell me I could have whatever I wanted today, Rintaro?”

The boss of the port mafia sighed, the smile reading through his voice— you could hear it in his tone, though you refused to look up, still staring blankly at your sandwich as if you could disappear into it if you tried hard enough.

“Yes, that I did, my darling.”

Mori called your name, making everyone in the lounge snap their gaze to you.

If you weren’t so pissed off, you might’ve felt your cheeks heating up.

You stood, setting your sandwich to the side as you made your way to stand in front of your boss, back straight and eyes forward.

“Yes, boss.”

“Come with me, I have an assignment for you today.”

The entire walk to his office was silent, save for Elise whining about not wanting to see another tailor for another year. The girl seemed adamant about having enough dresses to last the rest of Mori’s life, and even threatened to cut that life short if he pushed her any further.

Could she even do that? Could an ability kill its user? You almost hoped she would actually try it.

When inside Mori’s office, he sat, gesturing for you to take the seat in front of his desk—which was strange, as most of the time his underlings would just stand to receive their orders.

Elise just wandered off, sitting in the corner with her pencils and paper.

“I’m going to be out for the rest of the day, well into the evening, and I need you to entertain Elise for me while I’m gone.”

You knew this was coming, but it still felt like a lead brick was sitting in your stomach.

“Why can’t you take her with you?” You hissed.

“I’m going to neutral ground for a very important meeting, where the usage of abilities will be prohibited.” Mori rested his head on his folded hands, his dark eyes flickering between yours, face unreadable.

“Then why can’t you just send her away?” You said, eyes flitting to the side as you kept your voice low, not wanting her to throw a fit because you were talking shit. “Just… release the ability, or whatever?”

Mori smiled, his head tilting to the side. He reminded you of a venomous snake. Beautiful to look at, dangerous to let close.

“It takes a lot of energy to reform her once she’s gone, you know. I have to be at peak condition in case of emergencies. Why else do you think I keep her around, give her a room on my floor of the building, and take her with me wherever I go?”

Because you’re a fucking pervert.

“Because you’re sick in the head, Rintaro!” Elise voiced your thoughts aloud, chucking a crayon across the room that smacked your boss directly in the side of his head with an audible thwack.

Huh. Maybe the kid wasn’t so bad after all.

He merely smiled, as if he was as happy as he could possibly be.

“So you see, I need someone to watch over her, someone trustworthy, and entertaining.” He said, looking at you from beneath his long lashes. “And she just so happened to choose you.”

“You think I know how to keep a kid occupied? I’m probably the least entertaining person on the fucking planet.” You hissed, white knuckling the arms of the chair.

“I don't know,” he said, voice low and teasing. “I find you very entertaining.”

You certainly felt your face warm that time, and you couldn’t necessarily blame it on anger. You were pissed, sure, but it couldn’t be that hard, could it?

“Fine.” You said, crossing your arms across your chest. “But you owe me.”

He raises a sleek brow at you, as if surprised by your words.

“I owe you?” He said, voice light and airy. Deceptive, poised. Ready to strike. “What makes you say that? Am I not your employer? Do you not take your orders from me, from those above you in rank, little one?”

“Babysitting isn’t in my fuckin’ job description, asshole.” You hissed, somehow not afraid of the consequences. “So you owe me one.”

What, do you think he’ll give you special treatment because you let him fuck you?

Surprisingly, that almost seemed to be the case, as he merely relaxed back into his chair and smiled, his tired eyes roaming your body without a care in the world, as if you weren’t paying attention.

“Very well. If I’m satisfied with Elises care, I’ll owe you one.” He said.

Suddenly, his eyes turned very dark, his smile a tad more menacing. A snake in the grass, showing its colors.

“However, if she is displeased with your performance, I’ll have to implement some kind of corrective action, yes?”

You glanced off to the side, looking at where Elise was sat, scribbling on the paper in front of her like it wronged her somehow.

“Deal.” You said.

How hard can it be?

————————————

Mori must've said something to the staff on his level, because once he left, Elise dragged you to a floor of the base that you’d only ever been to once before, and all the guards simply ignored your presence entirely.

They opened doors for you and the girl, closing them behind you, but otherwise there was no acknowledgment that you might’ve been somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Completely unlike the last time you snuck in here, having to wait until the guards were switching shifts to sneak in unnoticed.

Elise was bratty, demanding, borderline unbearable. But you squared your shoulders and muscled through, just like you would any other job.

After dragging you around aimlessly for what felt like hours— she wanted a tea party, but you had to follow the dress code to enter, as per her rules. Which means you had to drag her all the way down to your apartment so you could bring that stupid fucking dress you’d bought upstairs, changing into it in one of the many bathrooms lining the halls.

Elise seemed satisfied though, and spent time putting little clips and bows in your hair, lining your wrists with bracelets and your neck with a couple little necklaces.

She requested sweets, and real tea, though you weren’t entirely sure if you brewed it properly, but she didn’t complain, only sipped it from her pink tea set and poured her gigantic teddy bear another cup.

“Do you really have to keep up the act even when he’s gone?” You asked, though you kept your voice small, as not to offend her.

“I am what he desires me to be.” She simply said, eyes closed, prim and proper as she sipped her tea, like a little girl pretending to be a princess.

“Were you always like this?” You asked, cringing a little.

“No.” She said, huffing. “People change, but Rintaro’s always had a few screws loose, so it only makes sense.” Hearing her speak such words in such a tiny little voice almost made you giggle.

”I suppose he’s lucky he has you, or he’d probably be in prison.” You rolled your eyes, then realized what you said, finally laughing a bit. “You know, for things besides being the boss of the port mafia.”

To your surprise, she let out a snort, sitting down her teacup as she giggled a bit.

“I’d like to see him locked up.” She said, “He wouldn’t last a day in there without me!”

That made you snort too, picturing your boss without all the luxuries of his rank was certainly amusing.

Your sick curiosity got the better of you, and you weren’t sure if she would answer, but you really wanted a reason to hate Mori, to get over the strange, twisted feelings that had been brewing in the pit of your stomach, so you tried to ask anyway.

“Has he ever…”

Her eyes thinned, and it didn’t look entirely like anger, but she certainly wasn’t giggling anymore.

“If your ability conjured the perfect knife to cut up strawberries for cake, would you turn around and try to use it to brush your hair?” She asked.

Your brow furrowed, trying to wrap your head around what she was saying.

She rolled her eyes, scoffing at your confusion. “I am a weapon. Whatever form I take is irrelevant to my use. You would want your knife to suit your own personal ideals, would you not?”

She didn’t outright answer the question, but you think you get the point. Considering your strange and mixed feelings towards your boss, it's probably best if the answer to that question remains an inferred ‘no.’

Such complex thoughts coming from such a tiny looking girl kind of made you laugh again though.

“Enough talking!” She suddenly stood up, stomping her foot. “I want to watch a movie!”

It turns out, she didn't want to watch a movie in her own room, or the living room, but instead demanded that you watch the movie with her in Mori’s room, which apparently had the “big big TV.”

The sun was setting, and you were exhausted from following her every whim all afternoon and evening, so instead of getting flustered and trying to convince her the living room was a better idea, you just gave up, stripping off that stupid dress and chunky jewelry and crawling into the bed with her in your shorts and undershirt.

You felt embarrassed crawling into his bed after what you’d done here weeks ago, but the sheets were different, and the blankets smelled fresh, so you could delude yourself into thinking it was an entirely different bed.

She picked Spirited Away, saying she liked the ‘no face guy’, and how hungry he was. She giggled and said that the parents deserved to get turned into gross pigs for being so stupid in the first place, and that might’ve disturbed you if you weren’t so tired.

The last thing you remember is the feeling of Elises head falling on your shoulder, and wondering what you did to get on her good side. She’s a nightmare. She actively terrorizes the other members of the Port mafia just for her own amusement, and she’s just falling asleep on your shoulder? Do abilities even need sleep? But sure enough, her breathing was even, and her eyes were closed.

You smiled, realizing you can’t have done too shitty of a job if she was so relaxed.

———————————

When Mori peeks his head into Elise’s room and doesn’t see her sleeping form in her frilly pink bed, he worries a little.

Not much, maybe mostly for you, in fear that she’d have you strung upside down and dangling from the roof somewhere in some midnight game to amuse her, but he’d told her to behave, so he hoped all was well.

Mori thought that perhaps he should get out of this ridiculous suit and change before he goes looking for Elise, that meeting had been far too stifling, so he at least needs to hang up his jackets and get more comfortable before he can go on any longer.

When he steps into his room, the first thing he notices is that his TV is on, its large screen illuminated with the ending credits of some cartoon, and then he looks into his bed, and his heart stops.

Elise is cuddled up right next to you, snuggled in with your arm wrapping comfortably around her little waist as you both sleep peacefully beneath his luxurious blankets.

The soft part of him wants to coo and take pictures to torment Elise with later. Another darker, more urgent part of him is eyeing you, your tiny, tiny shirt riding up your waist, your hair sprawled out on his pillows, a few stray bow clips still caught within, your arm around such a treasured piece of him— like you valued it just as much as he did.

He eyes that frilly little number you wore for him those few weeks prior, just sprawled out, lying on his floor; and surmises that Elise must have demanded some kind of dress up game, the little tease. She probably did it just to annoy you, not thinking you’d actually have something to suit her criteria.

He rounds to the side of the bed that Elise is on, carefully and slowly prying her from your hold. He very gently takes her down the halls to her own room, tucking her into bed. Any other night, he might have stayed, maybe woken her up to talk with her about her day, tease her a little about how good she must’ve been today, but he had far more pressing things to focus on, like the little one he’d left still sleeping away in his bed.

After all, if you’d done a good enough job that Elise fell asleep comfortably in your arms, then he owed you one, didn’t he?

Keeping his steps light, he made his way back to his bedroom, standing at the side of the bed to observe you once more.

Your brow was soft, face passive and serene, so unlike your waking moments where all you seemed to do was stare ahead with that tortured look on your face— like you hated everything and everyone around you.

How he craved to see you lost in yourself again, falling apart at his touch and untroubled by the burdens of your life. Having that kind of power over you sends his mind reeling, and ever since that last evening in this very room— his fingertips twitched at the mere mention of your name.

The crushing desire to claim, to take and mold you into a perfect little doll, just for him— it was overwhelming.

But he resisted.

After all, it was that fiery spark that drew him to you in the first place. If he were to break you of it completely, that would ruin the entire appeal.

Perhaps just in these private moments then, he’ll train you to let go slowly, but give you enough leash that you may still keep that delicious fight in you.

He saw the way your eyes trailed over him whenever he was in your presence, no doubt remembering the way he pulled you apart and pieced you back together over and over again that night. He knew you hadn’t been going to any of your little friends anymore, your evenings spent alone in your apartment, or so his people tell him. You still wanted him, that much was evident.

So surely you wouldn’t mind if he helped himself? You seemed to be begging for it, placing yourself so sweetly on this silver platter of silk sheets, sweet and ripe for his taking.

He removed his jackets and scarf, setting them on the desk chair before unbuttoning his dress shirt and crawling slowly into the bed behind you.

You stirred slightly, making him pause, but you simply rolled onto your back, hand twitching against his pillow.

“Heavy sleeper?” He whispered, a grin spreading like a wildfire in a dry field. “Or did my little darling just tire you out?”

He lay on his side, still observing you like a hawk, watching for any change of breath or movements that may indicate your return to consciousness.

He allowed himself to indulge a bit, dragging a fingertip up the soft skin of your stomach, raising your little shirt even further until it was tucked underneath your perfect breasts. He swirled the pad of his index finger along the center of your torso, watching the goosebumps raise as he circled around your navel softly.

He dipped lower, toying with the hemline of those itty bitty shorts you were wearing, the spandex clinging to your form deliciously.

He pushed the blankets down just a bit further, below your knees, not wanting the change in temperature to startle you awake if he removed it completely.

He watched your eyebrows twitch ever so slightly as he ran his fingertips along your covered core, just a tease of a touch, simply for his own amusement.

Then he pressed a bit harder, enjoying the little groan you let out.

“Even in your sleep, you’re still so responsive.” He whispered, licking his lips.

He brought his hand up to toy with the hemline of those shorts again, watching your stomach dip at the touch of his fingers slipping beneath.

“I wonder if you’ll let me slip these off, hmm?”

He slowly rose to kneel beside you, hooking his fingers into the sides of the spandex, shimmying them down slightly to gauge your reaction.

You were as still as stone, breaths even and eyes closed, save the occasional twitch of your fingers.

“So good for me,” he mused.

He continued sliding them down your thighs, exposing you fully as he realized— much to his satisfaction— that you wore no panties underneath.

He grinned at the slight glisten to your folds, stopping the pull of your shorts right above your knees to admire the sight for a moment.

Still, you slept, completely unaware and unbothered. He slipped your legs free from the blankets, fairly certain that he could be a little less cautious than before, and pulled your shorts off completely.

He sat your legs back down, a little more spread than before, and kneeled between them to admire you closer. He ran his hands up your delicious thighs, loving the way your skin prickled as he went.

He saw the way your nipples perked beneath your shirt, smirking to himself as he pushed the little scrap of fabric further up your chest, exposing your breasts to him completely.

“A little cold, are we darling?” He whispered, running a finger along one pert nipple.

As much as he desired to toy with your breasts a bit further, he did not know how long this glorious window of uninterrupted play would last, and wanted to enjoy himself to the fullest while he was able.

Pushing your thighs to spread completely for him, he laid down on his stomach to watch up close as he spread your folds, using his thumbs to pull you apart and gaze at the glistening treasure you kept so guarded from him.

He gingerly lapped a firm strike from bottom to top, eyes watching your face for any changes as he savored your taste.

“You taste just as delectable as I remember, little one.” He whispered against your clit, flicking it with the tip of his tongue and enjoying the sleepy little whines that poured from your throat, still lost in the throes of slumber.

He indulged himself further, licking and suckling along your core and pressing his tongue shallowly into your little hole until you were absolutely dripping for him, his cock twitching at the way you whined softly in your sleep.

He removed his gloves and tossed them aside, gingerly easing an index finger into your waiting hole, your juices easing the slide.

In your sleep, you were so soft, so pliant. Your walls gave a little clench at the intrusion, but he was very amused at how unrestrained you were. He added a second finger, marveling at how easily they slid in, your walls so accommodating, so plush.

“You know, darling,” he whispered, pulling back to kneel up and work his belt open, uncaring of the wetness along his fingers. “Like this, I don’t even think I need to work you open for me.”

Unbuttoning his pants, he finally pulled his aching cock free of its confines, having been neglected from the very beginning in favor of the mental satisfaction of such activities.

“I think you could take me just like this,” he said, stroking himself as he watched your chest rise and fall, unfettered, head resting beautifully on his pillows.

He pulled a spare pillow from the opposite side of the bed, gently pulling up your lower half to place it under your ass, hoisting you up to a proper height.

You squirmed, mumbled a bit as your eyes rolled beneath their lids, your hands twitching and thighs shifting.

He paused for a moment, almost worried you’d wake before he got to the best part, but it really didn’t matter when you woke up, you’d be taking his cock so sweetly for him either way.

After you settled back down, he thumbed over your clit once more, enjoying the way your sex clenched and glistened for him. Stroking himself a moment longer, he finally gave in and leaned forward, rubbing the head of his cock along your folds, reveling in the way your wetness coated him.

With one hand supporting himself in the bed beside your waist, and the other guiding his cock, he finally, finally pushed against your entrance, groaning at the warmth parting so deliciously for him, wrapping him in your hot and pliant embrace.

He was right, your walls graciously sucked him in, still snug, but the lack of preparation didn’t seem to matter. As he pushed further into your welcoming softness, he shifted, placing his hands beside your head to lean down and press open mouth kisses along your neck, sucking marks in plain sight, where everyone could see.

He wanted to own you. He technically did— given his rank compared to yours, but he wanted more. He wanted to consume you entirely.

He didn’t care anymore, in fact, he wanted you to wake now, to wake to the feeling of him inside you, fucking into you like you were his to do with as he pleased.

With a rough snap of his hips and a nibble beneath your ear, he finally pushed in fully, his hips slapping against yours.

You gasped, eyes finally popping open as your head rose from the pillow, a rough moan ripping from your throat as he started a rough and steady pace.

“There she is,” he groaned in your ear. “How nice of you to finally join us.”

Your walls clenched tight around him, your eyes wide as you pressed against his shoulders in a half hearted attempt to push him away.

“B-boss?!” You stuttered, your brow furrowing in confusion, in worry. “What are you— Mori!”

You moaned as he grabbed your thighs, pressing them into your chest as he threw your calves over his shoulders. The motion left your little white socked feet dangling uselessly behind his head as he brutally angled each thrust against your g-spot.

Your hands moved to grip at the loose shirt hanging by his collarbones, fingernails digging in but not hitting his pale skin. He almost wanted to shift positions to remove his shirt, maybe let you rake those blunt nails down his back so he too could wear marks of this moment.

But the way your eyes rolled back and you pushed your head to the side was too good, it was like you were trying to hide from him, hide how much you loved this.

“Where are you trying to run, little darling?” He breathed, a wicked smile ghosting along your cheek as you flinched, biting back moans that made your lips bruise.

“I… why are you—“ you couldn’t form proper words, let alone a sentence, and he shuddered at how far gone you already were, your mind still blurry from your slumber, body reacting to him so beautifully.

“You were so pretty in my bed, laid out for me like a little treat.” He bit at the sensitive flesh of your throat, groaning when you squeezed around him. “I simply am just taking a bite of what’s mine.”

You cried out at that, squirming under him as he felt your walls twitch and tremble, your slick forming a ring around the base of his cock, the filthy, slick sounds making his head spin.

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” He said, bringing a hand to your face to force you to look up at him, your big doe eyes wide and wet with unshed tears. “That's what you desire to be? Mine?”

You bit your lip, and he could feel you tense, trying to stave off your orgasm, as if he would ever not succeed in making you cum.

“Say it,” he hissed, thumbing your bottom lip from between your teeth. “Tell me what you are, hmm?”

His hips continued to slam into you, and he could feel himself nearing his own limit, but he knew you were right there— right at the precipice.

You were so stubborn, and oh how he loved that about you. How he throbbed when you shook your head, refusing to speak even though you clung so tightly to him, even though he could feel your walls pulsing with the need to release.

“Tell me.” He nearly growled, his pace never faltering despite the burn of his own orgasm being held back. “Who do you belong to?”

You looked like you were going to deny him once more, but he saw that sparkle of need in your eyes, so he wrapped his hand around your throat, applying delicious pressure at the sides, restricting the blood flow to your pretty little head.

He was reminded of how small you were like this. How easy it would be to snap your little neck if you were an adversary. Instead he was delighted when your eyes rolled back once more as he growled down at you.

“Who do you belong to?”

He released his hold, and you gasped as your walls fluttered, your release crashing into you like a train, moaning and babbling up at him in your pleasure.

“Mori! I’m yours! I’m yours— I wanna be yours, I wanna belong to you—!”

He groaned, letting himself go as you continued your babbling, feeling his cock twitch against your still fluttering walls, the pressure of you squeezing him so tightly was almost unbearable.

“That’s it,” he moaned. “Mine, all mine.”

He felt himself tip over the edge and leaned down to bite at your throat again.

“Now take what I give you, take it all.”

You cried out as he spilled into you, his hips finally stuttering with each pulse of his hot cum into your cunt. You gripped him tightly, keening as he panted in your ear.

When he was finally done, you fell back, arms spread wide as you stared lazily up at the ceiling.

“Did you enjoy your evening?” He grinned, pulling his softening cock from your leaking core, enjoying the way a little dollop of his cum oozed at your entrance.

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You groaned, throwing an arm over your face.

He tucked himself back into his pants as he chuckled.

“After all that you still have the energy to be so acrimonious?” He teased, getting up to retrieve a cloth from the en suite.

“You’d be pissed off too if someone woke you up by shoving their cock in you!” You shouted from your place on the bed, clearly spoiled rotten from the last time he fucked you, knowing full well that he intends to clean you up before letting you sleep.

He rolled his eyes to the side as he made his way back to you, waving his hand dismissively to tease you. “I wouldn’t be pissed, per se. Perhaps a bit startled, maybe murderous, maybe indulgent. Depends on how nice the cock is.”

He grinned as he watched you get flustered, tugging your shirt down and crossing your arms over your chest.

“Salacious, depraved, idiot old man.” You grumbled, and he laughed.

“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy yourself, little one?” he leaned down to wipe the sweat and juices between your thighs, and watched with keen eyes as you relaxed, letting his cum pool out of you and onto the waiting cloth.

His spent cock twitched in interest, and he flashed his eyes back to your face, gauging your reactions.

You were red, still indignantly looking at the ceiling as he cleaned you up.

“I’m not saying that, don’t put words in my mouth.” You said, pouting like a spoiled rotten child.

Oh, how he enjoyed you. He was going to soak in every second of your time. He wouldn’t let you run away again and pretend like this wasn’t happening, like you didn’t want him. No, you were stuck this time.

His cock swelled again, watching you grumble and pout.

“You’re right, darling.” He said, pulling away to undo his pants once more, reveling in the way you chewed on your swollen lips, your thighs clenching together. “I have better things I can put in your mouth.”

—————————————————

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deaddovejuicee · 1 year ago

Note

Overstimulating dazai but lovingly, continuing to kiss and pepper him in kisses — whilst your preoccupied hand continued to stroke his rigid leaking shaft, it’s been a good few hours. Denying him of entering but when you do, he tries to buck up pathetically :3

🎀anon??

18+ mdni, handjob, slight ‘just the tip’ moment, mentions of princess and baby.

no but like he so would start to beg after about like two minutes of your hand slicking him up with lube. and once it becomes over an hour, he’d cry out your name with a needy whine to it– trying to desperately get you to let him cum or like bury himself inside you... whatever happens first.

not to mention that your cunt nearly wanted to swallow him up with every agonizing stroke, your thighs flush against his on the bed as you hovered over him. you wanted to just sink down and ride him already...

“y/n– baby please, it’s been over an hour…” you heard him grunt against your ear, his breath warm against it as he tried his best to keep his voice steady. instead of answering him, you kissed right behind his ear– peppering small hickeys and feather light presses there with a dainty hum, shushing him quietly and reassuring him you’d take care of him soon enough.

dazai let out another groan, his body quivering against you with his breath hitching in his throat– a telltale sign he was dreadfully close– and you stilled your hand meticulously.

“shitshit– no, fuck!”

in truth, it’s been a few hours and you just wouldn’t let up– your hand carefully sliding up his cock as you calmed him down with a kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth lazily. he was already so fucked out, his eyes glazed over as he looked you over once before a quiet gasp settled in the pit of his lungs when you continued your movements.

his cock felt so hot in your hand– in your palm that had become so sticky and wet with his precum. you looked between your thighs to see how much he was leaking, at how his cock was practically drooling for you and decided to go easy on him.

until…

you took a good look at his face, his eyebrows furrowed and his nose scrunched as you let him fuck up into your palm now– his hair tousled within your grasp and a red blush tinting his cheeks as his eyes nearly rolled back from the sheer pleasure of your grip. his bandages were still intact across his chest, but just barely as they threatened to unravel with how much he moved underneath you, his head thrown back in pure ecstasy with his chest heaving breathy moans.

and then you decided you needed to see him like this more… you needed him to whimper out your name… you needed his thighs to tremble every time you swiped your thumb across his tip of his cock– across the swollen slit that blurted tiny spurts of white everytime he got close– until you proceeded to jerk your hand away or still it with a squeeze around the base of his shaft.

a broken moan flew out of his mouth as you let your entrance ghost over the tip, his hips bucking up quickly to try to bury himself inside you.

“fuck– princess… need you already… you’ve tortured me enough–”

a/n: fueled my insatiable urge for dazai... (i'm so normal about him i swear)

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deaddovejuicee · 1 year ago

Text

Girlboss and malewife

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deaddovejuicee · 1 year ago

Text

ᡣ𐭩 COMING DOWN

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: something is up. you know it. dazai is being far too romantic and you're absolutely not buying the excuses he keeps giving you. it's whatever, you think, you'll enjoy the fancy dinner and fancier hotel, even with the imminent threat of the looming bomb about to drop. {wordcount: 13.4k; fem!reader, romance}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: here is part 4!!! i can't believe we're already so close to the end of this one, i'm so excited for side b you guys have no idea, i'm almost done writing part 4 of side b and then part 5 is going to be a beast in itself, PUN INTENDED. i'm going to be posting a poll a bit later on that i'll need your guys' opinion on concerning part 4 of side b, so please keep an eye out for that!

IMPORTANT NOTE FOR 17 & UNDER FOLLOWING THE SERIES: i was conflicted as to how to go about this because as per tags on masterlist, there was always going to be smut in this series. i'm not going to ask y'all to not interact/read a whole 13.4k chapter just because there's like 2-3k words of smut, but i am going to say here the smut is in the FOURTH scene. there is very little, if any, plot development in the smut itself, so i ask you guys to respectfully scroll past it. i'll make the sentence when the smut starts red like this so you know that's when it starts, and then you can continue reading at the next divider. thank you for understanding! i'll summarize the little plot development in the smut at the end of the chapter for you guys.

SMUT WARNINGS: mostly vanilla-ish, fingering, dazai has a dirtyyy mouth, a bit of edging, mentions of f!masturbation, pussy drunk!dazai - he's a bit pathetic HAHAH, unprotected sex. i think that's all, if i'm missing anything please let me know!

SEE: BADLANDS SERIES MASTERLIST READ: UNREAL UNEARTH SIDE B (coming april 5th!)

You’re a bit alarmed when you wake up and realize that Dazai is nowhere to be found. Usually, you wake up to the warmth of his arm draped over your body, his tall and lithe form curled around you and his face buried in your hair. It’s a process trying to get out of bed, because even in his sleep he clings to you tighter whenever you try to free yourself, and he always lets out muffled noises of complaint and displeasure at the slightest disruption to his sleep.

Normally, the man wakes up hours after you—and even then, you still have to drag him out of bed so he’s not abysmally late to work—so this is… strange to say the least. He’s gotten better the past few weeks, sometimes he wakes up early to join you at the beach to watch the sunrise and usually it’s a bit easier to get him out of bed even when he wants to sleep in, but he never wakes up before you unless he just doesn’t sleep, but you know that he slept last night because he fell asleep while you were finishing up some emails to prospective employers for your summer job.

You’re suspicious when you slip out of bed and stretch, curious to figure out what he’s doing—you wonder if he had to get up early to get to the Agency for a mission, but you’re pretty sure Dazai would rather face a raging Kunikida and death by fire than wake up before dawn for work. Still dressed in your night clothes, you make your way out of your bedroom and into the main room of your apartment.

He’s standing there in your kitchen, brows furrowed and already dressed in black slacks and a button up and tie—not his typical attire, you can’t help but note, and your suspicion grows. He looks handsome though, and you would spend a few moments just admiring him but you don’t like the way he’s staring at your stove so you decide to speak up before he can do something destructive.

“Dazai,” you call his name, still half-asleep, watching as his eyes shoot open as he turns to face you. “What’re you doing up so early?”

Dazai doesn’t even respond. Instead, he snatches something from the counter and makes his way over to you—you draw back a bit, confused and increasingly more alarmed but too out of it to effectively dodge his rapid approach, and you part your lips to ask him what the hell he’s doing and why he’s acting so weird but he only takes the opportunity to shove an unwrapped protein bar into your mouth. You choke a bit in surprise, trying to chew on the bar, but you’re reeling as he presses his hands to your back and pushes you back into the bedroom.

You’re barely registering what’s happening as you finally take a bite of the protein bar and remove it from your mouth—watching as he strips you of your pajama top and shorts in abject horror. You want to ask him what the fuck he’s doing but you’re still trying to chew through the thick bar, almost gagging on it.

You watch, standing there in your panties, braless and topless—you want to complain because you’re cold but you’re more occupied with watching Dazai Osamu, a man clearly on some sort of mission as he snatches the dress hanging on your closet door. You’re certain that you hadn’t left it there, in fact you don’t even remember picking it up from the dry-cleaners, so he must’ve picked it up on his way home from work yesterday and you just didn’t notice when you were focused on finishing up your emails.

“Up,” he says, motioning for you to raise your arms and you just stare at him in disbelief, absently raising your arms.

Without hesitation, he slides the dress over your body, adjusting it so that it’s laying against you nicely—and then he shifts to stand behind you, zipping it up. Usually, he would linger for a bit, press a few kisses to the crook of your neck and wrap his arms around your waist, but this time he zips it up and darts back off to your closet, where he’s evidently also laid out a pair of heels for you.

He snatches them up and kneels in front of you, grabbing your ankle to lift your leg and slip your heel on—he fastens the buckle, and this time he does linger a bit, dipping his head down to press a chaste kiss against your ankle before shuffling over a bit to do the same for your other foot.

“Dazai, what is going on?” you ask, voice riddled with disbelief and confusion as you stare at him, taking another bite of the protein bar he’d given to you.

“I’m taking you somewhere,” he says, as if that isn’t obvious enough.

“You’re dressing me.”

“You’re taking too long.”

“You didn’t even give me a chance,” you protest, scowling down at Dazai, but he only looks up at you.

He props his chin on your abdomen as he looks up at you, a soft expression on his face.

“Sweet bella,” he sighs dreamily, “not even the millions of stars in the sky can compare to how brilliantly you shine. The most beautiful being I’ve ever had the fortune of laying my eyes upon. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

You roll your eyes—no matter how often Dazai gets all poetic and theatrical, it never fails to fluster you, but you know he’s only trying to dodge your interrogation this time. You tug a lock of his hair and he hums softly, turning his head to kiss your palm before leaning into your touch.

“I need to do my hair and makeup,” you tell him. “Where are we even going?”

Dazai leaps to his feet instantly. “Nope!” he says loudly, and your expression twists in irritation, watching as he bounds over to your desk, grabbing… your make-up bag? “Do your makeup and hair when I get to the office, I have to stop there for a few minutes before we leave. I put everything together for you.”

“Where are we going?” you repeat as you try to reach for your makeup bag but Dazai holds it above his head so that you can’t get to it. You squint and you have half a mind to jump up on him to try to pull his arm down but from the way his eyes are glittering, you have a feeling that he wants and expects exactly that.

So instead, you let out a pointed sigh and turn your head away. Dazai pouts, but you figure either way it was a losing decision for you because his pout disappears in an instant as he grabs your hand and drags you out of the bedroom.

You’re all but stumbling after him, trying to keep up with him in the dark heels he’d dressed you in, and Dazai is merciless, not slowing down for even a second until he skids to a stop at your door, grabbing the keys to your car that you left hanging next to your jacket.

He turns to you, giving you an expression that’s more fitting of a wet dog than a human being, not wanting to give up the keys. You close your eyes and sigh.

“Answer my question,” you finally say.

“I can’t,” Dazai complains, “it’s a surprise.”

“Dazai,” you warn, voice low.

“It’s a surprise,” Dazai repeats instead, frowning slightly as he looks down at you, and you can see the earnestness in his eyes as he looks down at you, lacing your fingers together as he squeezes your hand gently, as if begging you to not make him ruin it.

Again, you sigh.

“Do not get into another accident, Dazai.”

His face lights up.

You regret everything.

“Dazai, I thought you were-”

“Shhhhhh!”

You’re a bit amused as Yosano Akiko holds up her hands in mock surrender from where she’s lounging at one of the booths in the cafe beneath the Agency. Dazai looks thoroughly distressed, waving his own hands and panicking at Yosano almost giving up his top secret plans.

“I’ll be back down in a few minutes,” he says to you before turning to squint at Yosano. “Don’t say anything.”

“I won’t,” Yosano promises, holding her hand to chest as if to convey her honor.

Dazai’s eyes narrow a bit more, as if he doesn’t trust her, but then he glances at the clock and flees up the steps to the Agency without another word.

As soon as you hear the door slam upstairs, signaling that Dazai entered the Agency, you make your way over to where the other woman is sitting, propping up your phone against the wall to use as a mirror before unzipping your makeup bag. Impressively, Dazai managed to make sure he got all of your everyday makeup and even the ones you keep to the side for special occasions, you hum a bit in appreciation before getting started.

“Can you give me a hint?” you ask, eyes flickering up to Yosano, who’s studying you with a fond expression as you start shifting through your makeup bag, looking for a particular concealer.

Yosano’s lips curve up into a smile. “He’s actually been working the past two weeks to make sure Kunikida can’t complain about him taking time off for this—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excited for something.”

Your chest feels a bit warm, a smile itching at the corner of your lips as you pause from where you’re applying your makeup. “Yeah?” you ask, eyes lingering on her for a bit longer before you go back to looking back down at your phone to continue doing your makeup.

Yosano lets out a quiet noise of agreement. “Honestly,” she says quietly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as happy in general as he’s been the past two months, so thank you. I’m glad he has you.”

You falter a bit, glancing up at Yosano as you recall Atsushi’s words from back when Dazai got shot: “I’m really glad that Dazai-san has you. He’s been a lot happier the past few weeks.”

“You think so?” you ask softly, twirling your mascara wand in hand as you look down at the table.

You wonder what exactly Dazai was like if now two of his coworkers are mentioning how much better he’s been since meeting you. You have your own suspicions, just from knowing how the two of you met (twice) on top of his flippant attitude regarding suicide, but that’s all you have: suspicions.

“Know so,” Yosano corrects absently, taking a sip of her coffee mug—although you can’t help but notice that it doesn’t look like coffee in there. She sighs, tilting her head back against the booth. “He’s good. He doesn’t believe it himself—probably never will—but he is. He deserves this… I doubt he’ll ever believe that either though. Be good to him.”

“You guys are all really close, aren’t you?” you note, half to yourself.

“Like family,” Yosano confirms with a grin and then pauses before saying, “... we are family.”

You smile a bit wistfully. “I’m almost jealous,” you admit, “but it makes me happy to hear that he has you guys. Sometimes he just seems so…”

Lonely, you finish quietly.

On nights where he can’t sleep and you happen to wake up, you sometimes find him staring out the window just like you did that first night you met. He always looks lost and alone—he tries to hide it when he notices that you’re up too, masking it with a smile that never reaches his eyes. You think his mind haunts him a lot more than he lets on—well, you know it does, you remember how you met him and you remember his chilling, offhand comments, but you think it haunts him even more than that, to the point that no matter how many people care for him, it’ll never allow him to see it.

“Yeah,” Yosano agrees quietly, you don’t have to finish what you’re trying to say for her to know what you’re getting at. She lightens up after a moment though. “Make him bring you around more, you’ll be part of our ragtag little family in no time.”

You smile brightly. “I think Dazai would have a heart attack—did you see him at the event last month?”

Yosano’s smile is sharp and dangerous. “That’s the point.”

Laughing loudly, you nearly mess up your mascara, and as you open your lips to respond, you pause when you catch sight of a familiar, suspicious face poking around the corner of the doorframe leading up to the Agency. As soon as you catch sight of him, he tries to disappear and pretend that he isn’t there.

Your eyes narrow. “I saw you, Dazai,” you say loudly and Yosano whirls around to look over the booth just as Dazai reluctantly steps out into view.

“Dazai, you damn creep, were you eavesdropping?” Yosano accuses, throwing a stray teaspoon in his direction.

“Yosano-sensei,” Dazai complains, “can you blame me? I see my two favorite women laughing, of course I’m going to be curious.”

You snort as you finish up with applying your lipgloss—the strawberry one that Dazai loves so much that you’ve caught him trying lick the wand when you’re not looking. Rising to your feet, you put your makeup bag back together before looking back over at Dazai, who finally made his way over to the table.

There’s a soft, adoring look in his eyes as he looks down at you; you think that it’s a bit unwarranted because you’re pretty sure your makeup must look terrible from how quickly and half-assed you'd done it, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d think Dazai was looking at someone glammed up for the red carpet.

It almost makes you feel a bit flustered.

“You look beautiful,” he says quietly, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I haven’t even had a chance to brush my hair yet,” you counter, looking up at him through your lashes with a half-smile.

“And you’re beautiful still,” he teases softly, leaning down to press his lips to yours in a chaste, deceptively innocent kiss.

“God, you two are gross, get a room,” Yosano grumbles, throwing a packet of sugar at the side of Dazai’s head.

Dazai tosses Yosano a wink. “Oh, we will,” he leers and Yosano dramatically gags.

You smile lightly, but then your mind starts to drift because you’ve been with Dazai for two months now and the two of you have hardly gotten further than heavy petting and kissing. Not for a lack of trying, and it’s kind of become a borderline taboo subject between the two of you, because he always stops it before it can get too far. You don’t know why, and you’re afraid to ask because you’re beginning to get anxious that there’s something wrong with you because why else would he constantly pull away whenever things start to heat up between the two of you? You know damn well the man isn’t a saint from what you’ve heard from his coworkers and how grateful they were that you reigned in his “womanizing” tendencies, so why are you different? It’s been two months, why won’t he touch you?

Your thoughts start to spiral, as they always do when you think too hard on the topic. You can feel him give you a concerned look but you only turn to Yosano, bidding her goodbye as Dazai leads you out of the cafe and the woman raises her arm in a lazy wave in response. Once you guys are out the door, you turn to Dazai before he can interrogate you on what’s wrong.

“Where are we going now?” you ask, nudging your shoulder into Dazai’s side as the two of you make your way back to your car. Dazai slings an arm around you, pulling you into his side and dipping his head down to kiss the top of your head.

You feel his lips curl up into a dangerous smile against your hair. “The train station.”

You turn your head to look up at him as soon as the words register, eyes a bit wide. “The train station? Where are we taking a train to?”

“Mhm,” he agrees, not fully answering your question, eyes glimmering as his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer into him. “We’re spending a night away from here.”

“I didn’t pack anything,” you say, a bit panicked. “Daz-”

“I packed a change of clothes and pajamas,” Dazai grins. “Relax, I’ve got you, bella. Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course, I trust you,” you scoff immediately, noting the way his grip around you falters a bit as soon as the words leave your mouth. “But I also know you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dazai laments. “You hate me.”

You roll your eyes. “I definitely don’t hate you, Dazai,” you murmur, resting the side of your head against his bicep for a moment—three words threaten to burst from your lips, you swallow them.

As if Dazai can sense the sudden change in mood, he leans down to kiss the top of your head again—this time softer, and he lingers longer. As he does so, he reaches to swing open the passenger door to your car.

“Shall we?”

Kyoto.

He brought you to Kyoto. You’ve never actually been despite having wanted to visit for years, too busy with college and then preparing for graduate school. Dazai has spent the entire day bringing you from place to place, letting you play the gawking tourist as he drags you everywhere from the botanical garden to the shrines and temples places throughout the city. He’s spent the entire day embarrassing you, one way or another, by announcing in public that his ‘darling wife is pregnant!’ so that you’re flooded with older women cooing over you and making loud and poetic proclamations of love and distress in Nishiki Market, pretending to be a scorned lover bemoaning the cruelty of the woman he loves.

You can’t even find it in yourself to be angry about it, because you remember Yosano’s words about how excited he’s been and you can see the way his eyes shine brightly whenever he sees the dread rise to your face as soon as you realize he’s about to do something shameful.

Now, the two of you are sitting in a rooftop restaurant of a luxury resort that you know damn well neither of you can afford, and you’re not even sure how Dazai had managed to book a reservation at it—you’re not even sure if he had booked a reservation at it. The whole situation is honestly a bit weird. The hostess seemed to have recognized Dazai’s name as soon as he gave it to her, rushing to seat him at the best table in the restaurant, and once you’d been seated, the owner had come over to greet Dazai.

You wonder if Dazai secretly comes from old money, generational wealth—you think if he does, you might kill him, because you can’t even count the number of times you’ve had to spot the asshole for coffees and snacks. If he was sitting on piles of money the whole time? You swear that you’ll rip into him.

You tried to ask him about it already, but he waved off the question with a non-answer and a charming smile that doesn't quite work on you anymore. When you tried to press, you got the same dismissal, so with much restraint you finally let it rest so you could enjoy your dinner.

“Are you going to tell me what the occasion is now?” you finally ask, taking a sip of the after-dinner martini you’d ordered as you watch Dazai carefully.

“We’re celebrating,” Dazai grins, reaching across the table to take your hand into his; he brings yours to his lips, kissing your knuckles before laying both of your hands over the table.

“Celebrating what, exactly?” you tease, tilting your head to the side as your fingers lace through his—he’s gotten a lot more touchy the past few days, you’ve noticed

“You finished your finals, obviously,” Dazai says, as if it were obvious, “I can’t believe you didn’t figure it out yourself.”

Your fingers tighten around his hand as you let out a puff of laughter. “Really?” you ask a bit doubtfully. “All of this because I finished finals?”

“My sweet belladonna thinks I’m a liar,” Dazai complains, head falling back dramatically. “You’ve been so stressed the past few weeks, I wanted to do something nice for you.”

Although you can’t help but notice that his fingers tense against yours, as if he’s not telling the full truth, you decide to leave it and press later, instead smiling softly and squeezing his hand.

“Oh yeah? You could’ve just brought me out to dinner back home, spend the night at some cheap hotel that we can actually afford,” you snort, looking around again at the extravagant rooftop restaurant the two of you are eating at. With the dim, romantic lighting and luxurious furnishing, you think this might be the fanciest place you’ve ever been. “... How are we going to afford this, Dazai?”

“When are you going to start calling me Osamu?” Dazai pouts as if to try to avoid the question.

You ignore the way warmth bubbles at your chest, instead correcting, “How are we going to afford this, Osamu?”

His name tastes frighteningly familiar on your tongue—as if you’ve said it a million times before—and you can see from the way that his eyelashes flutter it seems to have affected him just as much as you.

“You won’t tell me what you and Yosano were laughing about, so obviously I’m not gonna tell you about this,” Dazai teases, thumb circling the back of your hand. You roll your eyes, so he continues with, “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, that’s for me to handle”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” you drawl with a side smile. “Unless you’ve been hiding some secret wealth from me—which if you have, we’re going to have serious problems, I’ve paid for you too many times for that—we’re going to be washing dishes at this place for the rest of our lives.”

“You have no faith.” Dazai pushes his bottom lip out even further. “You said you trust me.”

“I do trust you,” you say and you can see from the way he squints that he knows there’s about to be a ‘but’, “but-”

“Dazai-sama.” The waiter that has been diligently tending to the two of you bows deeply to Dazai—you give Dazai a pointed look, as if saying, see!, but he only winks at you. “Is there anything else that you and your fiancée need? Or shall I get the two of you the bill?”

Fiancée, you think to yourself a bit surprised, shooting Dazai another sharp look, noting how his cheeks flushed a bit after hearing how the waiter addressed you.

“Charge it onto the usual card,” Dazai tells the waiter, who nods and bows again before rushing off.

You stare at Dazai as soon as the man leaves. “Dazai Osamu, who are you?” you ask, a bit jokingly, a bit not jokingly because he really has thrown you for a complete 180 with this whole extravagant date.

His smile falters, as if you asked a question that he doesn’t want to answer, but you think he was stupid to bring you on this date if he didn’t want you asking questions about it. You wish that you had some idea of what the answer might be but you don’t, and it worries you a bit, because there’s clearly something he’s hiding from you and he’s anxious about how you’re going to take it.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says quietly, holding his arm out to you.

You sigh a bit as you rise to your feet after finishing your drink, looping your arm into his. He tugs you a bit closer, and you watch, hawk-eyed, as the waiters of the restaurant nod their head in respect to Dazai and the owner himself bids him a brief goodbye and a ‘it was good seeing you again, Dazai-sama’ before the two of you reach the elevator leading back down into the hotel.

As soon as you’re within the closed doors, Dazai turns to you, bringing his hand up to brush his knuckles against your cheekbone. You lean into his touch, looking up at him, eyes wide and a bit imploring, asking him to explain without verbally voicing the words.

He sighs. “I came here a lot for my previous job, before I joined the Agency,” he explains quietly. “We brought… associates here a lot for business.”

“You’re going to charge our date and stay here on your old boss’s card,” you ask, a bit horrified at the prospect, not even thinking to ask what his previous job might be in your panic. “Daz-Osamu, are you crazy?”

“Trust me,” Dazai grins as he says the two words you’ve been hearing all night from him. “He won’t do anything about it.”

The words sound a bit ominous, you don’t really know how to take them, so instead you shake your head and rest the side of your head against his bicep as you wait for the elevator to open up on your floor—a penthouse suite, naturally, one that you’re sure must cost at least one to two hundred thousand yen a night.

After a few moments, you ask quietly, “What was your previous job?”

Dazai stiffens beneath your touch. You glance up, watching as his face closes off and his throat spasms beneath the bandages covering it. You can feel his fingers dig a bit deeper into your hip from where his hand had been idly resting against you.

He doesn’t want to tell you, you realize—you don’t know why he doesn’t want to tell you, you know deep down that it must be something that he’s ashamed of, or it’s something he thinks would make you think differently of him. A part of you wants to assure him that nothing would change how you care for him, but Yosano’s words still ring through your head: “he doesn’t believe it himself—probably never will.”

So instead, you hook your arms around his waist loosely, leaning up on your tiptoes to press your lips underneath his jaw.

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, resting your head on his chest and letting your eyes slide shut. “You don’t have to tell me now, I hope one day you feel ready to share it with me.”

You hear Dazai let out a breath from above you. “I don’t understand why you’re so patient with me,” he murmurs, leaning his head down to rest his forehead on the top of your head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “Because I care about you, Osamu. A lot. Nothing you tell me would ever change that.”

“... That’s not true,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you.

“It is.” You only tighten your arms around him and then continue with, “Are you going to click our floor or are we just going to sit in the elevator all night?”

Dazai’s face flushes. “Click our floor,” he says sheepishly

You laugh, Dazai leans over you to click the button before draping himself over you. You feel warm again, but there’s still a cold hole still spreading through your chest: even with the implication of his previous job, and the realization that it might just be something unsavory enough for him to fear you changing how you see him, you just can’t seem to brush away the feeling that there’s something else he’s hiding from you.

“I lied before.”

The admission comes bluntly and quietly from Dazai, who’s laying next to you on the massive king-sized bed of the nicest suite in the hotel—you think you’ve never stayed in a more comfortable bed, all the two of you have been doing for the past few hours is lounging around watching shitty movies and sharing kisses.

You’re still resting your head on his shoulder, eyes idly tracing the television screen where a girl is crying over a boy she’d just met the other day before you turn your gaze up to him.

“About what?” you ask.

He’s not looking at you, he’s staring up at the ceiling instead with a conflicted expression; he opens his mouth to say something but nothing spills from his lips. Finally, he sighs, “I didn’t do this just to celebrate you finishing finals.”

Your heart drops a bit, inhaling sharply. You don’t look up at him, wrapping your arm around his waist and settling against his chest, bracing yourself for whatever he’s going to say. “I figured,” you say, your throat feeling a bit tight. “It was a bit… too grand of a gesture to just be for celebrating finishing finals.”

Neither of you speak for a moment, and you wait for him to explain, eyes sliding shut as you listen to the sound of his heart beating steadily in his chest to ground your creeping anxiety.

“I’m going to have to leave for a while, I think,” Dazai says softly. “Things are… going to get bad. I don’t know how it’s going to go down yet, I don’t know when I’ll be back—I don’t know if-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, cutting himself off before the words can fall from his lips. He doesn’t have to, you know exactly what he was going to say—he doesn’t even know if he’ll be back.

Your throat feels tight as you stare ahead at the wall. “That’s okay,” you say, your voice sounds a bit stronger than you actually feel. “I can wait.”

From the corner of your eye, you see his head snap in your direction and you don’t have to look at him to know that he probably has that twisted, conflicted expression on his face. He starts to say, “But I don’t know if-”

“I know,” you interrupt him because you don’t want to hear him say it out loud. “I know. I can wait. I’ll wait for you.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything in response, you don’t know what’s running through his head—you’re not sure if you want to know, or you suppose that’s not really true. You’d kill to understand what exactly goes on in Dazai’s head, you want to understand him better, you want him to rely on you like you do him. You want him; you want him for all that he is, no more masks and no more hiding. Just him.

You’re not given the chance to linger in your thoughts. Dazai moves closer to you, lifting one hand to cup the back of your head and turn your face toward him; he doesn’t waste a second before pressing his lips to yours, they’re chapped and familiar, you’ve kissed him hundreds of times since that party but this one feels different. It feels desperate, as if he’s afraid to forget the taste of you or the feeling of your touch.

He shifts his body closer to yours, pushing you back gently until you’re laying flat on your bed with him hovering on top of you—his lips don’t move away from yours for even a second. It’s dizzying, honestly. He kisses you like he wants to consume you, like you’ll disappear at any given second; his tongue brushes against your bottom lip and your lips part instinctively for him.

His body slides on top of yours, narrow hips slotting between your thighs—there’s no space between the two of you, you can feel the heat of his body radiating against yours, you can feel his fingers intertwining just a bit too tightly into your hair, causing a pleasant sting to spread through your scalp, you can feel his bulge pressing against your pelvis.

Oh, you think to yourself, sighing into his mouth as his tongue traces the inside of your lips, as if trying to create a map of your mouth. It’s soft and gentle, you think he might be tracing letters on your tongue but you’re so hazed out that you can’t concentrate enough to figure out what they are with the added feeling of the fingers of his free hand tracing up and down your side.

And then, as if he’s had enough of the slow pace, he deepens the kiss. You think there’s something distinctively filthy about the way that Dazai’s tongue drags against the roof of your mouth before he separates your mouths so he can trail wet kisses along your jaw, the gentle traces on your side becoming a much more firm grip on your hip as he hooks one of your legs around his waist to tentatively roll his hips against yours.

Your body aches at the feeling of his bulge nudging up against your core, the friction setting all of your nerves on fire. This isn’t the first time that the two of you have started to take the next step—kisses becoming just a bit too heavy, touches becoming just a bit too desperate—but every time he ends up withdrawing, and god, you think you might die if he does now too. His lips drag down your neck, he’s reckless with his teeth as he scrapes them against your skin, tongue tracing patterns down to your collarbone where he sucks at your skin hard, drawing a choked, breathy moan from you.

His fingers bite into your skin as his lips trail down lower—lower than they ever have before, down to plump flesh of your breast, to the low cut line of your dress—your lashes flutter and lips part and you want to beg him ‘please, don’t stop’ but you don’t think you’re capable of speaking right now, mind fogged with desire. He keeps the pressure on your cunt with slow and lazy rolls of his hips, each movement putting more and more friction on your clit and-

And he’s stopping??

Your breath catches when he suddenly rests his forehead in the crook of your neck, catching his own breath as his body stills and you can feel his arms tensing as he prepares to push himself off of you.

You don’t let him.

With the leg you still have hooked around his waist, you flip the two of you over. His pupils are blown wide as he stares up at you, a surprised ‘oof’ escaping his lips. You think he’s beautiful. You really do. His lips are pink and swollen and wet with spit, his cheeks are flushed, hair an unruly mess haloed around his head; you lean down to press your lips against his, taking the lead yourself now, and you relish in the muffled groan he lets out into your mouth as you grind your hips down against his clothed cock.

It’s a short kiss for how sloppy and debauched it is, tongues sliding against each other’s and lips clashing messily, hips rocking in sync—hot, blood curdling, but you have questions that need to be answered before you continue. He chases your lips when you pull away, a distressed noise forming in the back of his throat.

“Why don’t you want to fuck me?” you finally ask the words that have been plaguing you for almost two whole months.

Dazai stares at you as if you’ve grown two heads, and you’d be embarrassed at asking the question if the past two months haven’t been weighing so heavily on your shoulders. He looks pointed down his body, to where his cock is hard, straining painfully against his black slacks, and then he looks back up at you as if to say, what are you talking about? But you aren’t letting it go that easily.

“Don’t give me that,” you snap, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders through his dress shirt, wrinkled now from your time lounging about and indulging in one another. “You know what I’m talking about. We’ve been together for two months and every time we’re about to take the next step, you stop it, you were about to now too, weren’t you?”

Dazai grimaces suddenly and that’s all of the confirmation you need. You pull back, a bit hurt, but before you can withdraw completely, his hand darts out to grab your bicep, stopping you.

“It’s not… you,” he finally says, voice a bit hoarse—you don’t know if it’s because of the way you’re caught in a position where you’re still half grinding down on his cock or if it’s because he doesn’t want to have this conversation, but you’re instantly rolling your eyes.

“Okay, if you’re going to hit me with the ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ we’re going to have problems, Osamu.”

The grin he gives you is wry, his eyes still half-lidded as lays back against the bed again, letting out a sigh. He lets go of your bicep, hand falling down to your thigh to rub absent circles with his thumb as he stares up at the ceiling.

“I…” he trails off, as if considering his words, and you’re patient because you can tell he’s trying to be open and honest with you, vulnerable in a way he rarely ever is. “I’ve slept around a lot, and I know that you’ve probably heard that from the rest of the Agency and even if you haven’t, we’ve ran into a few… uh… we’ve ran into a few ex-acquaintances of mine while out on dates. I’ve never actually had a relationship. I don’t really know what I’m doing, I just don’t want you to think I only wanted you for sex.”

Your eye twitches.

“Dazai Osamu,” you say with a heavy sigh, leaning forward to cup his cheeks with both of your hands. He looks up at you with those big brown eyes that you can never say no to. He leans his face into your hand as his lashes flutter, you stroke his cheekbones gently with your thumbs. “For someone so intelligent, you really are the stupidest man I’ve ever met.”

You don’t give him time to get offended by your words, leaning down to kiss him again. This kiss is slower, just as intimate but not quite as depraved—lips gliding against each other’s, tongues teasing in a slow dance. His hands rest carefully on your hips and yours stay cupping his cheeks, you kiss him until your lungs scream for air and even then, you kiss him longer, reluctant to separate from him.

When you finally do, you rest your forehead to his, eyes fluttering shut as you share a thin sliver of air, dizzy from the feeling of breathing in one another’s air. Your thumb caresses his cheek, fingers intertwining with his dark locks, you press one more kiss to his lips, this one short and sweet, and then you say, “I want to have sex with you. Please fuck me, Osamu.”

He’ll deny it later, but the noise that slips from his lips is nothing short of a whimper as his grip on your hips tightens and he leans in to steal another kiss. He doesn’t move to switch your positions, seemingly content to stay beneath you, so you press him back down until he’s laying flat against the mattress, hands sliding down from his cheeks to rest against his chest as you tilt your head to the side to deepen the kiss, letting out a pleased hum against his lips when you feel one of his hands play with the hem of your dress, fingers dipping beneath the cloth, teasing. You kiss the corner of his mouth, and then down to his jawline, nipping at the sensitive skin and feeling him shiver.

“You’ll wait for me?” he asks suddenly, voice soft, biting back a groan as you roll your hips against his. He sounds hesitant, as if he doesn’t entirely believe you.

“Yes,” you tell him, lifting your head from his jaw to hover over his face again, fingers tracing his cheekbone, leaning down to press another chaste kiss against his lips. He tries to chase after your lips as you pull away, but you only give him a playful smile before leaning back again.

“Why?” Dazai asks hoarsely—he looks at you as if he’s desperate to know the answer, and the words linger dangle off of the edge of your tongue.

Because I love you.

You think you love him more than you’ve ever loved anyone else in the world—he makes you laugh when you can’t even bring yourself to smile, he makes you feel light when you swear you have the whole world weighing down on your shoulders, and he does it even though you know he struggles himself. And you want him to let you be there for him the same way that he always is for you, but he always closes off when you try.

Except now.

“Because you’re worth waiting for,” you say instead of those other three damning words.

“I’m not.” Dazai shakes his head, and it almost sounds like he’s trying to warn you, but you only cup his cheeks again and force him to still.

“Don’t tell me what is and isn’t worth it,” you say, giving him another teasing smile before adding, “I decide that for myself, and you are.”

“I’m really not,” he stresses, “I-”

You don’t let him finish, instead leaning down to cut him off with another kiss—he barely kisses you back, but you don’t really care because you only meant to stop him from talking anyway.

“You are,” you murmur, your lips graze his jaw again and you can feel him shiver beneath you again.

His fingers tighten around your hips and he’s flipping you onto your back in an instant. Your vision spins, a gasp pulling from your lips, and he gives you no time to regain your bearings as he bunches your dress to your hips, lips finding yours as his fingers fumble to push your panties to the side before he slides his middle finger and ring finger deep inside you, without all of the practiced ease you expected from him, more akin to a nervous boy who’s terrified of making a mistake.

Your jaw goes slack, head pressing back against the pillow, back arching up. Dazai’s lips move to the next available part of your body when he loses your lips: sucking at the skin on the underside of your jaw. As soon as he hears the choked gasp of his name, sees the way your body reacts to his touch, he seems to instantly lose his nerves. You can feel a wicked smile edge at his lips against your skin and as he presses soft kisses to your skin in lieu of the harsh sucks, he makes up for the gentleness there by fucking you with his fingers so brutally that your lips part but you can’t even make a single noise.

“This what you wanted, bella?” he purrs, but his voice is rough, exposing just how affected he is as he watches you writhe under his touch. “To think, here I was trying to be good and all you were thinking about was when I was finally going to split you open on my cock. How long did I keep you waiting, hm?”

You don’t respond. You can’t respond. All you can focus on is the drag of his long, lithe fingers against your walls, the sudden stretch, the sloppy sound of his fingers driving in and out of your cunt. It’s wet and filthy and you can barely even breathe, much less speak.

You wanted this. You wanted this so bad. You remember all of the nights you’d spent desperately fucking your fingers, trying to pretend they were his but yours aren’t nearly as long, they can’t hit all of the places his do. You remember coming home with your face on fire, body itching with desire from the casual advances he made but never acted upon. You remember throwing yourself into bed, careful to keep a hand pressed to your mouth or your pillow over your face so he can’t hear from the other room as you let out muffled whimpers. You’ve wanted this so bad, you’ve imagined it so many times before but it pales in comparison to actually having him. His fingers feel so much better, dragging against your walls and pushing back inside of you hard. He’s so much prettier, dark hair matted to his forehead, pupils blown wide and lips still swollen and puffy from kisses; his voice is edged with so much wanton need that you could probably get off from it alone.

The heat spreads through your body fast. Your head feels all light and hazy. Your abdomen twists and coils and god, there’s no way you’ll cum just from this, there’s no way, but your breath becomes quick and pitched, your lungs start to burn and-

And he stops.

“I hate you,” you sob when he purposely stills his fingers inside of you after hearing you reach the edge, feeling the way your walls were starting to clamp down on him. “Osamu-”

He clicks his tongue, lifting his face from your neck to hover above you. His eyes are suddenly mirthful and cruel, his smile is sharp and dangerous—a monster, you’d unleashed a monster.

His free hand comes up so he can brush his knuckles against your cheekbone, fingers tracing the contours of your face before coming to land on your bottom lip, plump and wet from all of his kisses.

“Answer my question,” he says as he traces the outline of your lips. “How long? Fuck, you’re so wet, sliding in like it’s nothing, could probably fuck you as you are right now but I wanna feel you come apart on my fingers first. Tell me, how long have you wanted me to fuck you?”

You don’t even know what you’re saying, forcing something out about your date at the Sankeien Garden two months ago and you remember the way he’d looked so pretty beneath the sakura blossoms and you felt so dirty because all you could think about was dragging him back to your apartment and having him in every way possible. His eyes widen when you admit the date, breath hitching and lips parting.

“That long?” he whispers, eyes searching yours as if to make sure you’re not lying and you think he’s stupid because you hardly have the headspace to think much less lie. His smile widens, teeth looking distinctly close to knives under the dim lighting of the penthouse suite of the resort. He leans down to graze his teeth against your neck. “Well, far be it from me to keep you waiting any longer.”

He lifts his head again before he continues the thrusts of his fingers, so he can watch you, surely—not as harshly, this time he’s precise and steady, each stroke has the pads of his fingers rubbing up against that soft spot inside of you, forcing your head into the clouds and your eyes to roll back.

“Did you get yourself off to the thought of me?” he breathes out, pupils blown wide, you try to rock your hips in time with his fingers but his free hand comes down to your pelvis, pinning you down with that deceptive strength of his. “Press your hand to your mouth to cover the noise, fuck yourself with your fingers while I was sitting in the next room over before we started sharing a bed?”

A broken sob spills from your lips, Dazai’s thumb presses against your clit when you don’t respond. Your thighs tense and tremble, instinctively going to clamp down on his hand but Dazai’s knee wedges between your legs before you can, forcibly keeping them spread. You think you should be embarrassed, you sound so wet, so sloppy, each thrust of his fingers and you can feel the slick splattering across your inner thighs, if you were any more coherent you’d be humiliated but Dazai looks absolutely reverent.

“You did, didn’t you?” he laughs breathlessly. “I heard noises sometimes, I thought maybe you were having nightmares, was tempted to go in and check on you sometimes. Good thing for you I didn’t then, yeah? Would’ve caught my dirty girl fucking herself to the thought of me, wouldn’t that have been a sight?”

Spots dot your vision, your nails claw at the sheets of the bed and you press your face halfway into the mattress as you desperately try to push away your rapidly approaching high, not wanting to cum so quickly, but it’s a losing battle with Dazai’s filthy words ringing through your ears and his fingers splitting you open.

“You must have been so desperate when we started sharing a bed, couldn’t even get yourself off at night anymore. Poor baby, if you’d have just said something I would’ve buried myself between your thighs from sunset to sunrise,” Dazai coos, and you don’t even have to look at him to know his grin is suddenly much more lecherous. “... Unless you just waited until I fell asleep. Did you ever get yourself off while I was laying asleep next to you? Tell me.”

You won’t tell him. You won’t tell him. He’ll never let you live it down but you’ve lost control of your body, your mouth moves before your brain can tell it to stop: “Once,” you choke out, “only once.”

And Dazai moans, it’s unabashed and wanton, eyes fluttering shut as soon as your words register and then he’s picking up the pace of his fingers, precise and ruthless and you don’t even know what you’re trying to say but it doesn’t matter because the only noise that spills from your lips is just another moan, garbled between his name and a please. Distantly, you think the bandages on his wrist and his expensive slacks must be ruined, the lewd sound of his fingers pushing in and out of you drowning out all other noise.

“I’m gonna-” you try to gasp out to warn him, head tossed back and hair matted to your forehead, they’re the only intelligible words to leave your lips but Dazai gets what you’re trying to say, of course.

“Yeah, you are,” he rasps, watching with the devotion of a disciple to his god as your back arches and cries of his name escape your lips.

He scissors his fingers inside of you, presses down hard on your clit, and you’re gone, you cry his name so loud that you think you should be embarrassed because there’s no way the other resort guests can’t hear what’s happening but in the moment, you’re too fucked out to care. You think you might be dying, your heart thudding in your ears, your body on fire, you don’t think you’ve ever cum so hard in your entire life.

Your body spasms, trembles; he rides out your high, fucking his fingers slowly into you, watching the way you whimper and writhe, you think tears might be spilling over your cheeks, reeling from the intensity of your orgasm, and your thoughts are confirmed when Dazai leans over you, tongue dating out to lick away the tears.

Your breath hitches and your thighs quake, a jolt spreading through your body when he finally pulls his fingers out of you, your walls still convulsing around the digits. He sits up straight again, thighs straddling your hips and you can feel his cock pressing against your pelvis and you feel insatiable because you just finished and it’s not enough. Even as your body screams with sensitivity, not ready for anymore stimulation, your lashes flutter at the thought of his cock stretching you out, fucking so deep into you that you can feel him in your belly, thicker than his fingers, longer.

He brings his fingers up to his lips, sucking them into his mouth and you watch as a low, muffled groan escapes his lips, eyes rolling back as he sucks your cum right off of his fingers, not letting a single drop go to waste. Filthy. He’s so filthy. Utterly shameless. And god, do you need him.

As if he can read your mind, his hands fall to his belt, fingers fumbling to undo the buckle and pull it off. He flings it over to the side haphazardly, and you reach up, grabbing his dark tie and pulling him down to kiss him again. He moans into your mouth, one arm coming to rest on the mattress by your head to prop himself up and the other still stuffed between your bodies, desperately trying to unbutton and unzip his slacks.

God, he kisses you like you’re about to disappear, as if any moment could be your last. His tongue flattens against yours, sweeping against the roof of your mouth, mapping it out until it’s scorched into his memory; you can hardly do anything but lay there and let him, fingers fisted weakly around his tie.

When he finally does get his pants unbuttoned and unzipped, he doesn’t even bother to pull them off. He shoves them down just enough to free his cock, and your breath hitches when you feel the way it slides against your lower stomach. Your dress bunched up to your chest, you can feel the precum smearing against your skin—he’s so long, you can tell without even looking and for a split second, you wonder if you’ll even be able to take him all the way.

Dazai hardly gives you enough time for the fears to fester. His fingers wrap around your panties to pull them off but the material is thin and lacy and it only tears under his frustrated yank. You don’t even care, you can’t bring yourself to—you’ll make him but you new ones. He won’t complain about that of all things, in fact, he’ll probably have the time of his life.

As soon as your panties are out of the way, Dazai is lining himself up with your cunt—he doesn’t fuck you, not yet, and you think he’s evil for the way he rolls his hips slowly, letting his cock slide between your folds, pelvic bone grinding against your clit. You let out a whine—a whine, you’ve never whined before in your life but you don’t know how else to describe the noise that escapes your lips. Dazai can’t even tease you for it, though, because his whole body shivers at the feeling of his cock slipping between your folds, breath shaky.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes out, and then he free hand curls around your thigh, wrapping it around his waist, and he finally thrusts his hips forward, pushing inside of you.

The stretch burns, it burns so good even with how thoroughly he prepped you with his fingers and Dazai lets out such a pornographic moan that you think you might cum just from the sound of it. His lashes flutter, pink dusts his cheek, he rests his forehead against yours, breath so shaky that you think maybe he might be about to cum.

“Feels so good,” he gasps, next to your head, his fingers twist the sheets of the bed until his knuckles are white. “What’re you doin’ to me?”

His words hardly register, but when they do, you’re perplexed.

“What d’ya mean, Osamu?” you breathe out, and the way his body shudders above yours at the sound of his name leaving your lips is fucking heavenly.

“I’ve never-” he chokes over another moan and your throat feels dry when you realize he really might just be about to cum, “it’s never-”

“Hm?” you press when his voice trails off and his eyes half back. You tilt your head up to ghost your lips over his jaw, nibbling over the bandages covering his Adam’s apple. It bobs beneath your teeth and he lets out another shaky noise.

“It’s never felt like this,” he pushes out, the words sound like a near slur. “I feel so-”

“So what?”

“So good.” God, his voice comes out close to a sob, broken and cracking, and when you try to move your hips, desperate for him to finally move, he lets out a panicked sound: “I’ll cum. I’ll cum. Don’t move yet, don’t-”

You still if only out of sheer shock of how worked up he already is. His whole body is trembling, he’s gnawing at his bottom lip, you can feel his cock twitching inside you, as if begging for release already. And your body is aching, your tummy is hot and your head is fuzzy, but it pales in comparison to the sight of Dazai crumbling above you just from the feeling of being inside of you. All of smooth talking and filthy words are gone, leaving behind only a man on the brink of falling apart.

“Feel like a virgin.” This sounds distinctly closer to a sob now, and you can’t help but notice that his cheeks are red and hot, his lashes are wet as they flutter shut—you wonder if he’s embarrassed. “S’tight, and-and wet. Fuck, fuck, what’re ya doing to me, bella? ‘s never happened before.”

Your hands slide up his body to cup his cheeks, dragging his face back down to press your lips against his, and when he moans into your mouth as soon as your lips are touching, he’s finally rocking his hips up into you. The pace is harsh and erratic, as if he’s already desperately trying to chase his release, and you can’t breathe, you can’t think. The tip of his cock bullies so deep inside of you that you think you might die, you think he might actually be splitting you open.

Your lips part in a noiseless moan, your head spins, Dazai fucks you harder, faster, so deeply that it almost hurts because each thrust has him brushing closer and closer to your cervix, hips slapping against your ass and thighs so roughly they’ll probably be bruised tomorrow; it tears the air from your lungs, you think you might pass out because you can’t seem to catch your breath. All of his finesse and touches driven by practiced ease are long gone; there’s something about this so carnal, driven by sheer lust, that it has your head in the clouds. And Dazai is always loud, he fills every silence he stumbles upon, but he’s especially loud now as he moans your name and claws at the sheets next to your head, gasping and panting and cursing each time he feels your walls convulse around him.

You don’t even realize it when you cum. There’s no build up this time. One thrust sends you over the edge as his cock presses up against that soft spot inside of you and his pelvic bone grinds just right over your clit, and instantly you’re spasming beneath him, your nails dig into his dress shirt and your body arches against his, head tossed back against the mattress and vision going spotty. Your lips are moving but you don’t know if screaming his name or if there’s no noise leaving you at all.

All you do know is that as soon as you’re cumming on his cock, walls tightening around him, Dazai’s eyes are rolling into the back of his head, hair matted to his forehead as he tosses his head back, jaw falling slack. There’s no warning when his hips still against yours and he’s suddenly pumping you full of his cum.

He slumps on top of you, body limp and shoulders still trembling in the aftershocks of his orgasm. You’re desperately trying to ground yourself again, trying to catch your breath and slow your heart rate, Dazai’s face is buried in your neck and you can feel how his back rises and falls rapidly as he tries to catch his own breath.

“So embarrassing,” you hear him slur from where he’s pressed against the crook of your neck still. “‘s never happened before.”

You can’t help the giggle that spills from your lips and he groans against you.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he complains, rolling off of you so he can pull you into his chest. Your eyes flutter shut as you rest half on top of him, letting out a soft sigh. “Next time, I’ll show you. You’ll regret laughing.”

“I’m sure,” you say, more to placate him than anything else, and he grumbles but doesn’t respond.

The two of you bask in each other’s presence for a few moments before he finally asks again, “You’ll really wait for me?” His voice is so soft that you might not have heard it if you weren’t so close to him.

You turn your face to the side to kiss his chest, smiling against his skin. “Only if you promise not to forget me while you’re gone.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, tilting his head down to kiss the top of your head. His voice is hoarse and stripped bare to of his unbound emotions for the first time as he says, “The thought of you will be the only thing that gets me through this.”

However bad that Dazai might’ve thought the weeks without you were going to be, it’s been worse. Only sheer willpower and the image of you waiting for him back home is pushing him through the trials and tribulations that Dostoevsky continues to push him through.

At first, the mind games and taunts and the puzzles of misdirection and manipulation were fun; Dazai has never conversed so long with someone who can keep up with his every thought and every plan. Fyodor Dostoevsky is impressive, Dazai can’t deny that, but the fun of the games is swiftly coming to an end the longer he has to stay in this wretched cell with even more wretched company.

He doesn’t have much to do—he has around four square meters to move around in, which is barely enough for him to comfortably stretch. All he does is lay in bed all day, waiting for Ango’s signals as he tries to anticipate Dostoevsky’s each and every move. His brain throbs and aches, having been placed on overdrive for weeks without rest because he knows one mistake on his part will lead to the fall of the Agency, the death and ruin of the few people he might actually consider friends.

The rare moments he allows it to rest, he thinks of you. He wonders what you’re doing back in Yokohama—maybe having coffee at that cafe near your apartment building, or meeting some of your friends from university for drinks. He wonders if you’re holding true to your words, if you’re actually waiting for him or if you moved on the moment he disappeared—he hopes that you are, because the thought of you, and getting to be with you again, is the only thing that’s keeping the gears of his worn out, exhausted brain turning.

A part of him wonders if you know what’s happening. Well, he knows that you must have some inkling—the Decay of the Angel’s plot has been a vastly public one, and you’re typically on top of current events. He wishes that he knew your thoughts on it. He wonders if you’d fallen victim to the Book, believing that the Agency are the terrorists that they’ve been written to be. He wonders if you were able to fight against the Book’s influence, because he knows that the Book can’t possibly be infallible—nothing is, there will always be cracks for exceptions to seep through. He hopes that you’re one of them.

He wonders if his crimes had become public knowledge too.

The thought makes his stomach churn uncomfortably, regret creeping through his chest because if you were going to learn about his past, it should’ve been from him, not from a random news outlet that’ll make him out to be the treacherous monster he really is, the one he’s taken so much care to hide from you. At least if he’d been the one to tell you, he could’ve framed it in a way of his choice—though he’s not sure how exactly he could frame something like that in his favor, it at least would’ve been better than the news.

He wants to ask Ango, but he knows that he can’t—not when the more pressing matter is the Agency and clearing its name. His own personal matters have to be pushed to the side until that’s handled, no matter how much his heart screeches at him otherwise.

This is why he hates emotions.

“Dazai,” Dostoevsky suddenly says and Dazai is immediately ripped from the brief respite he’d allowed his brain, although it wasn’t much of a respite considering he spent the whole time anxious about you. A smile graces Dostoevsky’s face that Dazai instantly doesn’t like. “Let us switch chess boards for a moment.”

Dazai’s eyes narrow. “To which one?”

“Yokohama,” Dostoevsky says absently. “... Knight from D5 to E3.”

Dazai stares for a moment—Knight from D5 to E3? The move is somewhat appalling in Dazai’s mind, but only because he can’t put together the reasoning behind it. It’s a dangerous push onto his side of the board, and for what reason? Most of Dazai’s pieces are setting up on the opposite corner of the board for an attempt to take out Dostoevsky’s bishop, which is what Dazai expected Dostoevsky to focus on protecting.

Dazai sits up in his bed, unable to hide the way his brows furrow a bit as he visualizes their chessboard, eyes darting around to each piece, trying to figure out what exactly in this game has slipped past his weary brain, lost in the dozens of chess games that he’s currently playing against Dostoevsky. And as he looks from piece to piece, he begins to understand.

There are only two pieces left vulnerable to the play that Dostoevsky is about to make.

Dazai’s expression hardens, Dostoevsky’s smile widens.

If Dazai doesn’t continue with his plan on the opposite side of the board, the opportunity will be lost and the Agency will not get another like this. Dazai clearly underestimated just how little Dostoevsky cares about his pieces—he doesn’t care whether or not his bishop is captured—he has a greater aim anyway.

The chessboard of the game he’s visualizing begins to crumble before his eyes and his vision starts to tunnel, a chill spreads through his chest, to his arms and to his fingers.

He needs to contact Ango, but Dazai’s heart is racing on its own now and he can barely control himself enough to send a message to the older man. In one move, Dostoevsky will be able to position his knight in a way that will have Dazai’s king in check and his queen left vulnerable. And Dazai will be left with no choice—allowing Ranpo to be captured by the Hunting Dogs is not an option, everything will fall apart. He needs to contact Ango. But he realizes that even if he does get the message through, he doesn’t know if Ango will receive it or if he’s too busy with plans at the Sky Casino. And even if he does receive it, Ango might not even be able to do anything.

“Dazai, dear, you’re taking quite a long time with this move—don’t tell me I have you in a corner already. It would be very disappointing, I expected better from you,” Dostoevsky’s faux-congenial voice mocks him from the other cell, and Dazai wants blood.

“Rook from B5 to F5,” Dazai’s voice sounds hollow and cold to his own ears as he continues forward with the plan he had set in motion at the cost of the one person Dazai doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle losing. The tips of his fingers feel numb as he waits for the inevitable.

Dostoevsky’s teeth are like knives.

“How callous and cold-hearted of you. I must say, I’m impressed—I really didn’t think you had it in you, you truly are the prodigy they all claim you to be. Knight from D5 to E3. Check to King at F1.”

“King from F1 to F2.”

“Knight from E3 to D1.”

And just like that, the one piece that Dazai has refused to touch the whole game falls. His ears ring and his brain throbs painfully, his throat feels dry and scratchy but he refuses to give Dostoevsky the reaction that he’s waiting for. The Russian finally speaks the words that finalize the play:

“Queen captured.”

“138 counts of conspiracy to murder. 312 counts of extortion. 625 counts of assorted fraud. Numerous other known crimes, countless unknown crimes. A former executive of the Port Mafia known as the Demon Prodigy, the youngest underboss in the history of the Mafia.”

You think it’s ridiculous. Or, you want to think that it’s ridiculous. You want to condemn the words as ludicrous as the idea of the members of the Armed Detective Agency being terrorists. These whole past two weeks have thrown you for a loop—you were sitting at your laptop watching a reality show to pass time when you got the notifications on your phone regarding the terrorist attack on the Ministry of Defense, the very place you were supposed to start working at soon.

You’d been watching with your heart in your throat until they were finally unveiled, and the moment they were, you were caught entirely off guard because what on earth? You saw it with your own eyes, but you still can’t bring yourself to believe it because what do you mean Mister Fifty-Eight Ideals with a moral high ground taller than the peak of Everest, Kunikida Doppo, is a terrorist? Tanizaki Jun’ichiro, the sweet boy who joins his sister down in the cafe with you when you’re waiting for Dazai to finish getting scolded by Kunikida, buying you a coffee and pastry? Izumi Kyouka, the young girl who looked at you with stars in her eyes when you brought her a crepe from the bakery near your apartment? Yosano Akiko, the woman who loves so hard and so deeply even if she does hide behind a rough facade, taking you, a stranger, in without hesitation just because of how happy you make Dazai?

There’s no way. You live in a world where men can transform into tigers and women can bring people back from the brink of death—there has to be something supernatural going on, you can’t bring yourself to believe that this is reality.

But are you equally as sure about the allegations against Dazai?

You try to make sure that the conflict doesn’t show on your face as your mind races—you remember the night in Kyoto when you asked him about his previous job and how he reacted to it, you also remember how the waiters and the hostess and even the owner had treated him. Your heart sinks and your throat tightens a bit, you have to force yourself to focus on the conversation at hand.

The young man dressed in a burgundy military uniform sitting before you has a smile that can only be described as cruel, the red tips of his hair brushing his chin as he tilts his head to the side. “I do hope you understand how critical it is for us to obtain as much information as possible. We are authorized to go to any lengths to prevent the deterioration of this situation—if someone is suspected of giving refuge to any of the terrorists, or assisting them in any other way, they will be charged with conspiracy against the government and the aiding and abetting of global terrorism. We have full power to act on our own discretion and take in anyone who presumes to be uncooperative to our questioning.”

“Is that a threat?” you finally ask, absently circling your coffee mug.

There are people looking at you—you’d chosen to sit outside of the cafe, and the streets are busy. You recognize two elderly women who frequent the cafe giving you concerned looks; three high school students sharing intrigued looks as one of them starts to video the encounter, knowing that any footage of the famed Hunting Dogs and the ongoing international crisis is a quick ticket to going viral; a businessman and his wife meeting for an early lunch before he goes back to work.

Good, you think.

“Only if you have something to hide,” the young man, who introduced himself as Jouno Saigiku, replies easily, smile sharpening a bit. “Do you have something to hide?”

“Why would I have something to hide?” you ask instead of replying, eyes narrowing.

“You tell me.”

“I have nothing to tell you.”

Distantly, you can hear the chatter of passerbyers walking down the sidewalk, the screeching of brakes as a car comes to an abrupt stop a few blocks down, the soft music coming from inside the cafe, but your gaze is tunneled on the young man sitting in front of you. His face is deceptively calm, eyes turned up and expression smooth, but you can see how the corner of his lip is pulled taut. More people begin paying attention to your conversation—you recognize some of them as regular patrons of the cafe who you’ve spoken to multiple times.

“I think you do,” Jouno says idly. “Even if it weren’t for the way your heart is racing… this is damning enough, isn’t it?”

You raise your chin as Jouno slides over a manila folder to you. You don’t move to look at it for a moment, eyes lingering on his face before you finally flip it open, lips pressing together tightly. Dozens of pictures of you and Dazai lay within the envelope, pulled from CCTV tape all around the city—most of the pictures are innocent enough to pass off as two acquaintances having a cup of coffee, but there are a few questionable ones.

And god, you miss him. Just seeing his face is enough to make your heart long for him, it’s only been what? A week and a half? But it’s been hell going from seeing him every day to not even knowing what happened to him until now… with all of this, learning about his crimes, finding out he’s imprisoned in the highest security ability user prison in the world, as you’re being interrogated by a member of the country’s most elite military unit.

It’s too much, you think. What the hell are you even supposed to think of it all?

You don’t even have time to think, not with this rabid dog sitting in front of you ready to leap for your throat at the first sign of weakness.

“How so?” you ask after you get your head back on straight, flipping the folder shut. “I’ve met with Dazai Osamu before. So have dozens of people in this cafe, hundreds of people around the city. Misaki-san, the older lady over there, has lunch with Kunikida-san twice weekly. Sayuri-chan, the high-schooler sitting two tables over, goes to Yosano-sensei for check-ups because her parents are hardly around to bring her to the doctor’s office. Takeuchi-san has tea with Fukuzawa-dono every Wednesday. Half of the city is intimately connected with the Armed Detective Agency, in one way or another—they’re active citizens, frequent faces around the streets, always helping when given the chance. Are you going to interrogate every citizen who has ever spent free time with a member of the Armed Detective Agency? Accuse them of conspiracy against the government and the aiding and abetting of terrorism?”

Your words cause a bit of a subtle shockwave across the eavesdroppers—a range of emotions from anxiety to indignance crossing faces, just as you hoped would happen. You figured that there would be no way of you really getting out of this, but you hope at least to trigger a bit of unrest. You know that a lot of the city’s civilians haven’t been fond of how the Hunting Dogs are handling this situation, despite them having authority from the Prime Minister to go to any lengths to regain control over the crisis.

And it’ll hit them hard seeing an upstanding, regular civilian being targeted for vague affiliation with a group that thousands of people in the city have had a vague affiliation with. Because if it happens to an upstanding, regular civilian, it can happen to any upstanding, regular civilian, and if it can happen to any upstanding, regular civilian, it can happen to them. You think most of the civilians in the city have been biting their tongues out of fear of the escalating terror, but once any civilian that’s ever affiliated themselves with the Agency becomes at risk for being under suspicion, under threat, then they’ll be forced to voice their discontent lest they be targeted next.

“So, we’re going to do this the hard way then,” Jouno notes pleasantly, his smile is tight and there’s a tinge to his voice that you can only decipher as a threat. “Good, I was hoping it turned out this way.”

You remember the warning you’d gotten the night before: ‘The Hunting Dogs will come after you next, get out of the city - R’ and a part of you wishes that you’d taken the warning more seriously and gotten the hell out of Yokohama in the middle of the night before you could be interrogated. You’ll lose your internship, it might affect your standing in your university. You wonder if your brother would be disappointed, he spent his whole life trying to build a better one for you—sacrificing his happiness, morality, and eventually his life—and here you are about to throw it away.

Are you really going to do this?

You swallow thickly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You think of Dazai—you think of the chilling list of crimes and his current imprisonment, you think of the promise you made before he fell off the face of the earth, you think of the nights you spent together, you think of the past few months you’ve lived with him. You realize that they’ve been the happiest you’ve been in your entire life, and you think that your brother might understand, because more than giving you a better life, he wanted you to have a happy one.

Yeah, you’re really going to do this.

You’ll get your answers from Dazai himself. You know in your heart that something bigger is going on, there’s no way that the members of the Agency are the terrorists that the world claims them to be and you don’t know if something else could possibly be going on with Dazai and the allegations against him as well. You think you know deep down that there’s likely some semblance of truth to them, but you owe it to him—and more importantly, to yourself—to hear it directly from him.

Until then, your loyalty stays with him.

“I guess so,” you agree softly, before turning your gaze up to Agatsuma Misaki, who’s looking increasingly more distressed by the whole situation. “Misaki-san, would you please let Hotaru-san and Hideyoshi-san know what happened here? I’m sure they’ll be worried when I don’t return home tonight, I don’t want them to lose any sleep over me.”

Agatsuma Misaki clutches her necklace to her chest as she nods, her wrinkled face bunched up in concern, and the woman sitting with her looks equally horrified. The three high schoolers sitting two tables away are sharing wide-eyed looks with each other, whispering under their breaths as they point to the one boy’s phone, still evidently recording. The businessman, Takeuchi Isamu, is watching with hawk eyes, but his fingers are tapping away at the phone he’s hiding beneath the table.

Jouno Saigiku rises to his feet, smile sharp and bordering on malicious as he says your name and then:

“You are under arrest for conspiracy against the government and aiding and abetting the Armed Detective Agency in their terrorism against the State of Japan and the entire world.”

— the only development in the smut scene itself is reader very briefly acknowledging that she loves him (internally, she doesn't tell him) and dazai acknowledging that he's avoided any intimacy because he's been worried that she's going to think he only was into her for sex because they've had encounters with ex flings of his & she's heard about him sleeping around from the rest of the agency. so a bit of openness from dazai and a brief acknowledgment of real feelings from reader.

#bsd #dazai.bsd #rb

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deaddovejuicee · 1 year ago

Text

ᡣ𐭩 I WALK THE LINE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: an easy day of studying is interrupted when your boyfriend—yes! boyfriend!—shows up at your doorstep bleeding out. you think he's an idiot. you think you're even more of an idiot for falling in love with him. shit, did you really just think that? {wordcount: 8.2k; fem!reader, sfw, romance}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: part threeeeeeeee, starts off a bit abruptly at the start of the cannibalism arc, but i really didn't want to rehash the entire scene. HAHAH. the last scene IS my favorite scene actually, i just finished writing the uu parallel of it im so excited for you guys to read it! reblogs definitely appreciated!! i’ll reblog with the taglist as soon as it decides to show on the dash & in the tags!

SEE: BADLANDS SERIES MASTERLIST READ: UNREAL UNEARTH SIDE B (coming april 5th!)

“Your vitals weren’t hit because you still have a part to play in telling the Agency about the upcoming clash with the Mafia.”

Dazai’s fingers bite into the pavement, pain webbing through his body as the shock of the bullet wound laid into him by Dostoevsky’s sniper begins to fade away. It takes all of Dazai’s will to push himself onto his elbows, chest heaving as he gives him a moment’s pause to try to recuperate before rising to his feet.

“You and I are similar, you said,” Dazai says, voice deceptively strong compared to the blood pooling around him. He forces himself to his knees, pressing the palm of his hand against the wound to slow the bleeding. No matter how much he may have expected Dostoevsky to pull something like this, he could never prepare for the pain that came along with it. “Certainly, we’re of the same kind, but we differ in one way—people are sinfully stupid, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Dostoevsky looks over his shoulder, a hint of surprise washing through his face. “You… Did you know that the sniper was there? And yet you purposely came here to get this information?”

Dazai smiles pointedly, confirming Dostoevsky’s question without even answering. He ignores the blood that dribbles from the corner of his lips. “What do you want with the Book?”

“Hm,” Dostoevsky says, that impassive expression returning to his face as he turns to leave. “I’d like to use it to make a world without the sin of ability users.”

Dazai barks out a laugh, his chest screeches in protest at the action but still, he forces out: “Please, give that a go—if you even can, that is.”

The look that Dostoevsky casts over his shoulder is lethal, Dazai’s smile sharpens, but his mind is becoming muddled the longer he allows himself to sit here in pain, he needs to get to a hospital. He can barely breathe as he forces himself to his feet. He holds his hand to the bullet wound tearing through his chest, keeping pressure on the wound to slow the blood flow—it went all the way through, which is a good thing because at least he won’t have to deal with someone digging it out of him, but the pain is excruciating. His mind feels foggy and his body is pleading for him to rest but he knows he can’t, not yet, at least, he needs to warn the Agency before the Port Mafia attacks.

His eyes are cutting as he turns his attention back to Fyodor Dostoevsky, who evidently has had enough of him considering he’s walking down the alley away from Dazai. Dazai glares after him, mind racing as he tries to figure out how exactly he should get back to the Agency, but even as the thought crosses his head he hears:

“Dazai-san!”

The panicked voice comes from a nearby street, a bit aways from the alley. He recognizes Atsushi and withholds a sigh of relief, realizing that he just needs to wait for the boy to sniff out the blood and track him down.

“Ah, before I forget.” Dazai barely refrains from grimacing as the Russian’s voice rings through the alleyway. Fyodor Dostoevsky looks over his shoulder, an eerily amused expression on his face as he smiles thinly down at Dazai—Dazai instantly feels his blood go cold, knowing he isn’t going to like whatever leaves the man’s lips next. “I met your lover earlier today. She was quite… enchanting. She had interesting views on the world, I was very intrigued. It’s a shame, I would’ve liked to speak to her again.”

“What?” Dazai’s voice is hollow even to his own ears as he stares after Fyodor.

“We’ll meet again in the promised land, Dazai.”

“Dazai-san! Where are you?”

Fyodor disappears from view as he turns out of the alley and Dazai leans against the wall trying to hold himself up, eyes wide and breath heavy. He tries to force himself to move forward, ignoring the way his wound screams for him to stop jostling around. His mind is on overdrive, panic beginning to consume every cell of his body as Dostoevsky’s words echo through his head. A part of him wonders if it was just a way to throw Dazai off, but Dazai doubts it—if he knows Dostoevsky even half as well as he believes, then he knows that there’s likely at least some truth behind his words, and that means that Dostoevsky had some sort of contact with you today.

And that thought terrifies him.

But he pushes away the panic, evening out his breathing as he focuses on getting to Atsushi and then to you, but he finds his knees buckling as another wave of pain hits him, squeezing his eyes shut as he waits for it to pass.

But it doesn’t pass, and as much as he wants to try to grit his teeth and keep moving forward, spots start to swim in his vision and he’s forced to stop moving because he can’t afford to pass out before he warns Atsushi about the virus and tells him to bring Dazai to your apartment. He doesn’t even know if you’ll be there; he doesn’t even consider that if you’re not there, he’ll probably bleed out. He needs to know you’re okay.

He doesn’t know how this happened. He told himself over and over again that he wouldn’t let himself get attached to you, a part of him still wants to try to convince himself that he’s not attached even though the thought of denying it at this point is ludicrous. Evidently even Fyodor Dostoevsky has come to figure out how much you mean to him, which is exactly what he had come to fear the more he spent time with you because now you’re in danger just for your proximity to him.

Atsushi turns the corner and Dazai watches as his eyes widen—Kunikida is with him, luckily, and Dazai can barely hear himself speak over the sound of his heart thudding in his ears as he doesn’t even wait for them to ask what happened or if he’s okay, pushing out the words to explain what Dostoevsky had said to him and ask them to bring him to you, all the while his mind is flooded with thoughts of you.

One kiss turned into two, two turned into three, three turned into a dozen, and a dozen turned into Dazai having an insatiable appetite for your strawberry chapstick and soft lips. Dazai has all but moved in with you, he can’t remember the last time he slept at the Agency’s dorms—weeks ago, probably. He hadn’t actually noticed how attached he’d become to you until now, fearing that Dostoevsky had targeted you as a means to get to him.

He lets out a weak breath as Kunikida wraps an arm around his waist to help him make his way to his car. The other man is still saying that there’s no way they’re not going to bring Dazai to a hospital but-

Past tense.

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks as Dostoevsky’s words echo through his head one last time. He’d been speaking in past tense about you.

You were enchanting.

You had interesting views on the world.

He would have liked to speak to you again.

Ash fills Dazai’s mouth, leaving it dry and heavy, his words crumbling as the entire world stills around him. He thinks that this is Odasaku all over again—that every person he ever comes to care about ends up dying. He thinks his touch is rotten and corroding, killing everything he touches. He needs to get to you, he needs to make sure you’re okay, because he can’t let this be like Odasaku again.

“Bring me to her apartment or so help me, I’ll rip open the bullet wound so badly that not even getting me to the hospital will save me,” Dazai suddenly threatens, voice rough and so sharp of a command that Dazai is almost drawn back to the dark memories of his time with the Mafia, that it has both Atsushi and Kunikida staring at him with stunned expressions. Dazai hates pain, but he has every intention of following through with his threat if the two don’t do as he says.

“... I hope you know what you’re doing, Dazai,” Kunikida finally says tightly as Atsushi helps Dazai into the back seat of the car, keeping pressure on the bullet wound. “Repeat again what Dostoevsky told you while we drive.”

His eyes feel heavy and his body feels sluggish, he knows that Kunikida is only telling him to repeat himself to try to keep him from passing out but he can hardly think of Dostoevsky anymore, mind focused on you because he thinks that if Dostoevsky did something to you, Dazai might never forgive himself for ever inserting himself into your life and putting you in danger. Every time his eyes slide shut, he can picture your smile and the way you’d roll your eyes whenever he goes off on tangents about double suicide and fated lovers, he almost wants to hiss at Atsushi to leave him be whenever the boy shakes his shoulders to prevent him from falling asleep because every time he does, the image of you fades away.

His words are slurred as he explains to them what Dostoevsky had said again, and what it means for the Agency, all the while directing them to your apartment. He wants to sleep—he’s exhausted and in pain, but he knows that he can’t. Not yet. Not until he knows you’re okay. Once he knows that, he can allow himself to rest.

Kunikida gets to your apartment complex in record time. If Dazai was any more coherent, he would make a gibe at the man for breaking the law by speeding but in his half-conscious state he can hardly even stand much less formulate an articulate thought. He isn’t even sure if either of them understand what he’s saying as he fumbles out your apartment number, but evidently they’re able to make it out as they haul him up to the second level and rap at your door loudly.

Dazai thinks that it feels like eternity waiting for the door to open. He thinks that if you don’t answer—if Dostoevsky did something to you because of him—then he deserves to bleed out here at your doorstep, because there’s no world in which he should live when you die because of him.

The door to your apartment finally opens, his eyes meet yours, and the relief that washes through him is debilitating enough to finally make his body give into the lull of the spreading numbness throughout his body.

Your breath catches as Atsushi and Kunikida fumble to grab Dazai before he slumps over unconscious, fingers trembling as you open your door wide to let them through, motioning to the couch in the center of your room as you rush to the bathroom to grab the first-aid kit that you have stashed away beneath your sink. It’s been years since you’ve had to use it, and the familiar weight of it in your hands makes your throat clog and your heart ache from wounds that never properly healed.

“What happened?” you ask as you leave the bathroom and rush over to the three of them. They had placed Dazai on the couch, his blood seeping into your gray cushions, and your mind is drawn back to all the long nights you spent as a teenager with your brother in the same position and-

You take in a deep breath, a gulp of oxygen to clear your head before you move forward closer to the couch—you can’t afford to allow yourself any room to spiral. Atsushi is on the verge of tears—or, well, he is crying, actually. He’s sniffling as he rubs at his eyes while Kunikida kneels next to Dazai, keeping pressure on the wound. You exhale the breath you’d taken in and motion for Kunikida to move over so you can kneel in front of the wound.

“He was shot,” Kunikida says, voice tight, and you want to hit him with an obviously, but you’re more preoccupied with trying to roll Dazai over so you can figure out whether or not the bullet went all the way through. Kunikida obviously recognizes what you’re trying to do so he helps you roll him onto his side, you exhale in relief when you realize that it did, having Kunikida help you take his trench coat off before letting him rest back on the couch, wincing when you notice that he’s grimacing in pain even while unconscious.

“And you brought him here?” you ask, voice a bit louder and more hysterical than you mean for it to be but in your defense, the last thing you expected when you finally sat down to study for your upcoming finals was for your boyfriend—boyfriend, you still think giddily, as if he hadn’t formally asked you out almost three weeks ago and isn’t currently bleeding out on your couch—to show up at your door with his coworkers with a bullet wound.

You slip on a pair of gloves and fumble for the sanitizer you’d brought with you out of the bathroom and Atsushi hands it to you when it falls on the ground. You let out a quiet thank you before dousing your hands in it—it reeks like shitty tequila and it nearly makes you gag.

Kunikida looks frustrated. “Take it up with him,” the man says sharply, eye twitching. “He threatened to open up his wound even more if we didn’t bring him here.”

You give both Kunikida and Atsushi odd looks. Kunikida is scowling and Atsushi gives you a helpless shrug, but you only shake your head as you force yourself to focus on the issue at hand. You hesitate for a moment before unbuttoning and sliding off his shirt as best as you can. The bandages covering his torso and chest are soaked with blood and frayed—you hesitate, because even though you and Dazai have been together for weeks, you’ve never seen what’s beneath his bandages. He’s always careful to keep them on, only changing them in the bathroom, and from the way Atsushi and Kunikida are both averting their eyes, they realize what you have to do and also feel uncomfortable.

It’s for the sake of saving his life, you tell yourself before taking the scissor that came with the first aid kit and cutting through the bandages. You try not to stare—you really do—but it’s hard not to when you realize that his entire chest and torso is covered with scars, big and small, jagged and clean. Instead, you again make yourself focus, reminding yourself that the longer you take, the more at risk Dazai is to bleeding out—the wound isn’t bleeding profusely, it must’ve been a clean shot, missing all of the major arteries luckily, but you don’t want to risk it.

You grab a gauze pad and douse it in the saline solution you’d bought years ago—you hope the solutions don’t expire, that would be bad. But you gently dab it onto the wound, doing your best to not cause him anymore discomfort. As you do so, your eyes trail down from his chest to his abdomen again and your mouth feels a bit dry, wondering how the hell he managed to get all of these scars.

You turn your attention to Kunikida. “Can you clean here?” you ask quietly and Kunikida doesn’t respond, rather he just takes the gauze pad from you to mimic what you were doing, and you reach for a cloth, turning your attention to wiping the rest of the blood staining his skin so that when you’re done cleaning the wound and dressing it, you can wrap him back up.

“You’ve done this before,” Kunikida finally says, and you can’t help but notice that he’s still not looking down at Dazai’s body, eyes trained on you as he dabs at the wound—he must have the self-control of a god because you can tell from the way his eyes are twitching that he must be curious to see what’s beneath his bandages. Atsushi, too, has his back to the couch, as if not to tempt himself to look.

“Mhm,” you agree idly, a lump in your throat, eyes flickering up to the picture you have set up on the wall on the other side of the room. “My brother… he got involved with some underground fighting rings to make us money, he used to come home injured a lot, it was dangerous. Never had to deal with a bullet wound but I mean, I know the basics.”

Kunikida lets out a noise of acknowledgement and you motion for him to move again once you feel as though his torso and chest are clean enough to at least be able to bandage without instantly ruining them. You grab the dressing pad and apply it over the wound, layering it a few times just in case the blood starts to soak through before taping it to him.

“Help me sit him up so I can clean his back,” you say, grabbing your supplies and shifting places with Kunikida so that you can tend to his back.

You don’t say anything else as you begin to repeat the process on his back, cleaning the wound with a gauze pad before wiping away the blood staining the rest of his skin. You think that his back might be even worse than his chest and abdomen—there’s a jagged scar from the corner of his shoulder to his opposite hip, deep and painful-looking, and countless other smaller ones littered on every inch of visible skin.

“Your brother… he got out of that life?” Atsushi finally speaks up, he’s still not facing the three of you, and the twinge of hope in his voice makes your heart plummet.

“He tried,” you tell him after a few moments of silence, taping another dressing pad to his back before reaching for the roll of bandages that came with your first aid kit, scowling when you pick up one that’s practically already empty from the number of times Dazai has reapplied his bandages after showering at your place.

You grab another one, a new one, and then begin the arduous process of ensuring that every inch of Dazai’s torso and chest is covered in bandages again—you’ll have to get him to the hospital, you doubt your own sloppy patch-up will be good enough, but it’ll do until you get him there.

“Oh,” Atsushi says softly.

“I’m sorry,” Kunikida murmurs, voice a bit more gentle and genuine now that Dazai’s wounds have mostly been handled.

“He knew what he was getting into,” is all you say in response, making sure that bandages keep enough pressure over the wound to keep the bleeding slow and to a minimum. “He’s going to have to go to a hospital. This should be good enough for now but he needs actual medical attention.”

“We can’t stay,” Kunikida tells you, a twinge of regret in his voice as his eyes rake over Dazai now that you have him rebandaged. “The President is in danger, we have to go warn them before the Port Mafia acts.”

The Port Mafia, you think, a bit chilled by the thought of them, but you only nod at Kunikida. “He’ll be okay,” you say, trying to reassure yourself as much as them. “I’ll take care of him.”

Kunikida nods and then motions to your phone, which haphazardly had fallen onto the ground in your panic. “May I?” he asks quietly and you pick it up to unlock it for him, passing it over with a curious look. “I’m putting my number in, text me which hospital he’s admitted into and the room number so we can come see him as soon as things calm down.”

“Gotcha,” you whisper, resting Dazai back into a lying position. Your eyes linger on his face, bringing your hand up to wipe away the blood dribbling down his chin with your thumb, a heavy feeling settles in your chest—you think he’s too pale, his breath is too shallow, you’ve never seen him look so weak.

You glance back up at Kunikida when he doesn’t immediately leave, questioning. He looks as if he wants to say something, face conflicted, but instead he shakes his head and turns to leave, calling for Atsushi to follow. The boy does immediately, but he hesitates in front of you before nodding his head down a bit in an awkward show of respect.

“I’m-” he begins awkwardly before clearing his throat and saying, “I’m really glad that Dazai-san has you. He’s been a lot happier the past few weeks.”

Atsushi doesn’t say anything else before rushing after Kunikida, shutting the door to your apartment behind him. You let your gaze stay on Dazai’s face for a second longer before you lean down and press your lips to his forehead in a soft, lingering kiss. You let out a sigh against his skin, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment before you finally reach for your phone and dial for an ambulance.

Dazai wakes up in a hospital room, the pale walls and the scent of antiseptic burn his nostrils unpleasantly. His throat immediately tightens as a wave of rage sweeps through him because of course, Kunikida couldn’t do the one thing he asked of him. Some unwelcome mixture of fury and panic spreads through him instantly, it takes all of his self control to maintain the steady pace of his heart so that the monitors attached to him don’t go off and alert the nurses that he’s awake—what happened to you? Are you o-

His train of thought screeches to a halt as he sits up, disregarding the pain in his chest, intent on finding his phone to call you only to catch sight of a figure slumped over on the couch next to his hospital bed.

His lips part in a silent breath of relief, all of the heat rising through to cloud his head dissipates immediately when he sees you curled up on the couch next to his hospital bed, and he indistinctly remembers being dragged to your apartment, and the image of your alarmed expression looking down at him as he finally lets himself collapse after learning that you’re okay. Your laptop is open on the table near the couch and one of your textbooks is haphazardly dropped onto the ground near where your hand is hanging off the couch, as if it had fallen from your hands after you drifted off to sleep.

The sun is setting outside, the kaleidoscopic red and orange and yellow colors casting a fiery glow over your resting face—you look exhausted, there are bags beneath your eyes and your brow is furrowed a bit even as you sleep. Not for the first time, Dazai is utterly enraptured by you: the way your hair looks beneath the sunset, the ethereal radiance it gives to your skin, he thinks if you were awake, your eyes would have him entirely entranced.

He can hardly drag his eyes off of you even though he knows he needs to reach out to the Agency, figure out what’s going on and how long it's been since he was shot so that he can properly help them. It takes all of his self control to drag his eyes away from you and search for his phone—yours is laying on the couch next to you, but Dazai doesn’t think he can sit up and move to grab it. But his own phone is right on his nightside table anyway so he doesn’t need to.

He grimaces as he reaches over to grab his phone from the nightstand, pain shooting through his chest, but just as he’s able to dial Tanizaki’s number, a voice clears their throat from the door to the room. Dazai’s gaze lifts to a stern, older nurse standing in the frame, staring at him, he withers.

“No phones after surgery, Dazai-sama. Rest quietly,” she scolds, arms crossed.

“Ah, but it’s an emergency-” he tries to throw the woman off with a charming smile, but her frown only deepens, dark eyes sharpening.

“No exceptions,” she says tightly, and Dazai sighs as he leans back against his pillows again, realizing he’ll just have to wait until the nurse leaves to try again, or until you wake up. His head falls to the side at the thought of you, dark eyes dragging over your body again. “You have a good girl, Dazai-sama. She has been by your side since she brought you here, refused to leave. Argued with the department head for two hours when he tried to get her to.”

Dazai swallows thickly—he doesn’t respond to the nurse, but he also doesn’t look away from you. He doesn’t quite think he’s ever experienced the light feeling that spreads through his chest, and he’s not sure why he’s feeling it or what it is, he thinks it’s uncomfortable but he doesn’t think it’s uncomfortable in a bad way, but he also hates it.

It’s been three and a half weeks since he brought you to that event where he kissed you for the first time and since then, he’s faced an increasingly more dangerous storm of new and uninvited feelings whenever he’s around you. Dazai usually has stringent control over himself—his physical self and mental self—but it’s thrown out the window when he’s with you. He finds his heart racing and his lips unconsciously twitching up when the two of you talk, and now he has this feeling, where he feels like his heart is in the clouds and his mind is fogged with fondness.

He doesn’t even notice when the nurse leaves again, his throat clogged and his eyes half-lidded as he looks over you. He thinks his attachment to you is dangerous, and if he was a good person, he’d leave you—save you from his fucked up life because so long as you’re associated with him, you’ll be in trouble, whether it’s because of old enemies from his time as a Port Mafia executive, new enemies as a detective for the Agency, or himself, because Dazai is self-destructive and his own fucked up mind is usually his worst enemy.

But Dazai is not a good person. He is selfish. He is greedy. He is irresponsible. And you’ve made the mistake of showing him what it’s like to be cared for, why should he refuse it? Why should he push you away when you made the choice to give it to him? It’s easier to blame it on you, convince himself that you brought this upon yourself the moment you agreed to be his date to the event, as if you had any idea what sort of sick and fucked up person Dazai really is.

“You’re awake.”

It’s your voice that tears him out of his thoughts, drowsy and thick with sleep. Dazai hates how the sound of you quells the storm inside of him, eyes rising to meet yours as you throw him a sleepy smile.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he teases, even though the sun is setting.

“I think I should be the one saying that.” You let out a laugh, but then your smile falters as you look over him and ask, “Are you good?”

Dazai wonders if you’re a fucking mind reader or something because how the hell do you always know when something is up with him? It’s starting to disturb him, honestly, he prides himself on being able to masking himself from people and your existence just casually shreds that pride.

“I got shot,” Dazai says dryly, tossing you a charming smile.

“Not what I meant,” you respond, just as dryly, but you don’t push—you never do, he’s grateful for it. “How long have you been up?”

“A few minutes,” Dazai tells you, watching as you stand up from the couch and stretch, letting out a yawn before shuffling over to take a seat the chair closest to Dazai’s bedside.

Dazai’s heart is lodged in his throat when you reach out to intertwine your fingers with his—the action is so offhand and so thoughtless that it genuinely throws him off. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the casual intimacy that you show him, no one in his life has ever touched him in the way you do: gently, without fear or concern. He’s used to anxious looks, he’s used to discomfort, he’s used to people giving him a wide berth; even after leaving the Port Mafia, not much has changed regarding that in the Agency. Not because they fear him, or are anxious because of him, but because his ability is uncomfortable, no one likes the feeling of being stripped of the one innate defense that they have.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, peering up at him carefully.

“Like I got shot,” Dazai repeats, winking at you. You roll your eyes, so he continues with. “I feel fine, they must have me on plenty of pain meds right now.”

“I’m sure they do,” you say dryly. “Since you’re feeling okay, let’s talk.”

All of the air whooshes from Dazai’s lungs.

“You know what, I think I’m feeling a bit tired again, I’m-”

“No, you’re not.”

“I really kind of am-”

“No, you are not.”

Dazai withers under your stare and he thinks that this is it—most people would run after something like this happens, so he shouldn’t be surprised that this is your final straw. A part of him wants to fight it, his fingers instinctively tighten around yours, as if to physically hold you in place, and he thinks again about the blurry line between obsession and love, and your ever-wavering place on either side of it.

His throat spasms as he swallows, trying to brace himself for the inevitable words: you breaking off the relationship, because why the hell should someone like you—with a promising future and a good heart—risk everything for someone like him? It would be on track for him, because every time Dazai finds something that he might genuinely want, it’s always lost the moment he obtains it.

But instead of the ‘I think it would be best if we didn’t talk anymore’ or ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ you hit him with, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Dazai stares at you, he blinks once, and then says a bit hesitant, “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, there’s a lot of things wrong with me.”

Evidently, you’re unamused, your lips flatten and your eyes twitch. Dazai is a bit alarmed. “Why on earth would you ever come to my apartment when you’re bleeding out? What if I didn’t have the right supplies to patch you up? What if I didn’t know how to patch you up? You would have died, Dazai. You would have died in my fucking apartment, on my fucking couch—which is stained with your blood, by the way, you’ll be cleaning that—and I would’ve only been able to watch. What is wrong with you? Why did you tell them to bring you to my place?”

Dazai’s lips part to respond but no words leave them, which clearly irritates you even more, so he forces out, “I thought you were hurt. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You were bleeding out, Dazai,” you stress, your voice rising in frustration—his grip tightens on your hand, thumb rubbing circles over the back of your hand in an attempt to calm you down before the nurses come back. “You could’ve died, getting yourself help should’ve been the priority.”

“It wasn’t,” Dazai tells you tightly, watching as your expression shifts into one that he cannot read and that severely unnerves him. “I was bleeding out and all I could think about was you.”

You go quiet after that—that indecipherable look is still on your face but there’s something intense swimming behind your eyes that makes him swallow thickly.

“Why?” you finally ask him and Dazai grimaces as Dostoevsky’s words ring through his head again. “Why were you so worried about me that you-”

You cut yourself off and look away. Dazai doesn’t think that he’s ever seen someone look so visibly distressed at the thought of him dying. He isn’t sure how that makes him feel—warm, maybe, but also nervous. He’s not used to it, and he doesn’t like things he’s not used to.

“Did you meet someone today?” And then he questions whether or not it’s even the same day as when he got shot, adding a: “yesterday?”

“Yesterday,” you say idly. You’re frowning as you look over him—distantly, Dazai thinks that he really should try to get in contact with the Agency soon. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

There’s a wry smile on your lips as you mimic the same words that he told you just a few moments before. Dazai’s smile is half-hearted, unable to muster the energy to actually smile back—you seem to be able to sense his exhaustion and Dazai’s eyes fall to where your hands are connected as you begin to trace his fingers. The motion is comforting in a way that almost throws Dazai off, he watches as you slowly drag your finger along the length of each of his fingers, nearly forgetting to explain his question.

“His name is Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Dazai finally says, voice taking a more serious tone—recognition flashes in your eyes, Dazai hates it.

“The Russian from the teahouse,” you note. “I played a game of chess with him. Lost. We talked for a bit… he’s dangerous?”

Dazai lets out a huff of laughter that is very much not amused, intertwining his fingers with yours again and lifting your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. His eyes flutter shut a bit as his lips linger there, and he thinks that he jinxed himself before by claiming that he was too tired to talk because the sleepiness is hitting him again.

“Very,” he says softly. “I thought he killed you. I-”

I thought that it was like Odasaku all over again—that thought echoes through his head again, but he doesn’t speak it out loud. You don’t know who Odasaku is anyway, so it would be meaningless to you. His thoughts darken a bit at the reminder of his old friend. He thinks that Odasaku would’ve liked you, if given the chance to met you, and there’s a pit of longing in his stomach for a life that he would never live: being able to bring you to Odasaku, introducing you as his girlfriend, having to sit and endure hours of torment from him and Ango as the two of them regale you with embarrassing tales of his youth.

Dazai thinks that he might throw up, so he promptly turns his thoughts elsewhere.

“Next time, take care of yourself and trust me to handle myself,” you tell him after a moment, voice quiet—Dazai wants to tell you that there’s no way in hell that will ever happen, but he doesn’t want to argue about it right now, and he still needs to get in contact with the Agency, so instead he focuses on the other part of your statement.

“Next time?”

You furrow your brows at him, as if unsure as to what he’s asking.

“You know,” Dazai says, feigning a joke to hide the insecurity still tainting his mind, “most people would run after something like this happens.”

“Please,” you say with a snort, as if the idea is entirely ridiculous. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Dazai thinks that it’s absurd how one short sentence from you can entirely shake his world. He lets out a breath, trying to hide the way that your words affect him. A few moments pass where the two of you just enjoy each other’s presence, you’re beautiful beneath the sunset and your skin is warm and comforting against his. Dazai feels at peace for the first time in his life, he thinks, and it’s so dangerously deceptive because he knows the world outside is at war and the Agency is in danger. Even knowing that, he thinks he would stay here forever, if given the chance—that thought also scares him because he’s never been one for any sort of commitment like this.

But he can’t stay here forever, the Agency needs him—and the way his phone is incessantly buzzing on the table next to the hospital bed is proof enough of that.

He sighs and then he looks over to you as an idea sparks in his head. You’re already looking at him, your brows are furrowed and your eyes are narrowed, as if you already know he’s about to say something that you’re not going to like. A mischievous smile dances at the corner of his lips, your expression worsens.

“Wanna do me a favor, sweet bella?” he coos.

“... What is it?”

“Help me get out of here?”

Your eyes shoot open, you pointedly look down at Dazai’s chest and then back up at his face.

“Are you insane?” you ask irritably, and then your face twists as if you already know the answer to the question—it nearly makes him laugh.

“Please?”

“... I hate you, Dazai Osamu.”

Dazai does laugh now—wild and carefree and utterly genuine in a way that he rarely allows himself to be.

“We both know you don’t mean that, bella.”

“Up!” you say, kneeling on the bed next to Dazai as he sleeps. You know he’s going to let loose a string of complaints and pouts—he’ll use his recovering injury as an excuse, even though he claims that it’s healed whenever it’s convenient for him. “Get up, Dazai!”

Dazai groans, throwing out a hand and lazily trying to push you away, rolling over onto his stomach to bury his face into your pillow. You are relentless, grabbing his shoulder and rolling him back over, and he gives you a look that’s nothing short of withering as he finally cracks one eye open to look at you.

“I’m wounded, let me sleep,” he grumbles at you before pulling the covers back over his head. You yank them off and he groans, flinging his arms over his face. “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you,” you say immediately, grabbing his wrist and promptly trying to pull him out of your bed. He’s as uncooperative as possible, laying still as a log as you do your best to get him up. “If you get out of bed and come with me, I’ll tell Kunikida that you’re sick on Monday so you don’t have to go to work and won’t get yelled at for it.”

Dazai’s eyes shoot open, and you know that you’ve got him—you think that being with Dazai is a lot like having a child, with the bargaining and negotiation, but you will happily leverage the fact that his coworkers don’t trust him to not lie about being sick over him because they do trust you not to lie for him. Their mistake.

“Fine,” he agrees, rolling out of bed, albeit still tired considering how he nearly stumbles into your dresser.

You snort out a laugh and he scowls at you, but when you reach out to grab his hand, his face immediately smooths. His fingers lace with yours instinctively, and he rubs at his eyes with his other hand before asking, “What are we doing?”

“Going outside,” you tell him, dragging him out of the bedroom and into the main room of the apartment, tossing one of your sweatshirts at him before grabbing one for yourself.

He slides it on and then squints as he looks out the window as he pulls on a pair of slippers. “It’s still dark out,” he gapes, horrified, “What time is it? You’re evil.”

You grin at him, tugging your sweatshirt over your head before flinging open the door of your apartment. “Come on.”

Dazai lets out a sigh of utter suffering before following you, you shut the door closed behind him and immediately start making your way to the steps leading down out of the complex. It’s cool outside—the chill of the night still hangs in the crisp air, the moon only just beginning to set over the horizon. There’s still another ten minutes to sunrise, so you have plenty of time to get to the beach.

You startle out of your thoughts as Dazai lets out a noise akin to a shriek, turning to catch sight of him nearly slipping down the steps, the heavy dew making the steps to the second level of the apartment building slippery. You barely muffle the loud laugh that pushes from your lips, hand flying to your mouth to physically stop yourself because the last thing you need is your neighbors whispering even more about the two of you.

Dazai looks at you, thoroughly betrayed and incredibly insulted, but you reach out to intertwine your fingers with his again and he looks partially mollified, swinging your arms theatrically as the two of you walk out of the complex and down the road.

“What’re we doing outside?” he finally asks, absently lifting his arm and spinning you beneath it as you continue down the street. You look up at him with a smile as you pull him onto the path that leads to the beach—he still looks tired, but there’s a soft look in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Bringing me back to the beach to finish me off right where you found me? Oh, bella, you know the way to a man’s heart.”

“We,” you begin—this time you lift your own arm and Dazai’s lips curve up as he ducks his head down to spin beneath your connected arms, sand flies beneath his feet as he does and distantly, you think you should’ve worn sandals even though it’s a bit chilly because you’re going to have to deal with sand in your sneakers, “are going to watch the sunrise.”

Dazai squints instantly. “You woke up at this unholy hour to watch the sunrise?” he accuses loudly, throwing his head back in annoyance but you can see from the way his eyes are crinkled at the corners that he’s only teasing. “I’ve seen hundreds of sunrises.”

“But have you really?” you press, swinging your legs around in front of him and grabbing his other hand so that you’re holding both of his and standing before him, forcing him to look back down at you.

Dazai lets out an exaggerated sigh as he turns his head back down to look at you, hands tightening around yours as he pulls you a bit closer. He bends his head down, hovering his face over yours before whispering, “I’m going to throw you in the water after we’ve watched your sunrise.”

“Dazai, I will destroy you,” you instantly threaten.

His smile sharpens, he winks at you and says, “Sexy.”

“You’re gross,” you complain and then free one of your hands from his to continue dragging him closer to the water.

In the far distance, you can see the light of the sun beginning to peek over the horizon.

“Come on! We have to settle before the sun breaks the horizon, it’s the best part!” you say hurriedly, getting as close to the water as possible without being hit by the push and pull of the sea and sitting yourself into the dry sand, dragging Dazai down with you. You’ll have to shower before you leave your apartment for the day, but you don’t mind—you’ll have to replace your first aid kit soon though because you’re pretty sure all of your bandage rolls have been entirely used up and Dazai is going to shower after this too and have to rewrap himself.

Dazai plops onto the ground next to you, but instead of sitting shoulder by shoulder, he shimmies down into a laying position and drops his head into your lap, looking out toward the sea.

“Pet my hair, bella,” the sleepy brunette sighed, half-lidded eyes looking up at you pitifully. “Pleeeeease.”

“If you fall asleep, I’ll cry,” you tell him, because you can’t deny him when he’s looking at you like this. He only lets out a noncommittal hum, a pleased smile on his lips as soon as your fingers start combing through his soft hair.

You think he’s a lot like a cat, honestly, with the way he’s curled in your lap—if he was capable of purring, you’d think he’d be doing just that right now, soft sighs escaping his lips every time your nails scratch gently at his scalp. His eyes droop shut but he never allows them to close, keeping his eyes trained ahead on the horizon—one of his hands comes up to rest on your leg, thumb idly rubbing circles on your thigh, and you wish you could freeze time in this moment because you feel so at peace that you never want to return to the real world.

Dazai’s lips part to say something—you wonder if he’s going to complain about it taking too long, but the words seem to falter on his lips as the sun finally breaches the horizon and paradise arrives. You think you should be looking at the sunrise with him, admiring the sea of fire that the sun releases onto the surface of the water, ingraining the image of the endless pink clouds and orange skies into your brain because you love sunrises—you think there’s beauty to the fact that no singular sunrise is ever the same as another, and you’ve made it your life’s goal to etch the image of as many as possible into your brain before you die.

Instead, you find yourself watching the sunrise through Dazai’s eyes—watching the reflection of the burning sun through wonderstruck dark hues, watching the ethereal glow that the golden rays cast over his skin. His wide eyes are pools of melted honey and molten gold and you can watch in them how the colors shift and intensify as the sun rises. If there’s beauty to the individuality of every new morning’s sky, there’s an even greater beauty to Dazai in this moment—you think you’d much rather replace the image of each new sunrise with how each new sunrise reflects in his eyes, and distantly, you wonder if it’s possible to convince him to wake up at this time every day.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so at peace—it’s almost childlike, the way that his eyes sparkle and shine, entranced by the way the morning sun distorts the world into a scene worthy of the heavens. His thumb has paused in the steady circles that he’d been tracing on your thigh, his entire body and mind consumed with absorbing the picture of the sunrise.

You smile to yourself as you continue carding your fingers through his hair. You speak softly so as to not disturb the moment, “I thought you’ve seen sunrises,” you tease gently.

“Not like this,” he whispers after a few moments, breath catching a bit over the words, “it’s…”

You’re still looking down at him when you say, “… beautiful.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, breathless, eyes lingering on the scene for just a moment longer before he turns his head to look up at you. Emotions you’ve never seen before race through his eyes—a million thoughts, a million questions, but he only asks one: “Why did you bring me here?”

You think he might be looking for a particular answer, but you don’t know what it is, so you answer honestly and hope for the best.

“No two sunrises are ever the same,” you tell him quietly, “I want to see as many as I can before I die… and I’d like to see them with you.”

You think that whatever answer he was looking for, you must have given him, because his entire expression shifts and collapses at your words. As if you’d taken any semblance left of the mask he wears and shattered it against the rocks that line the far side of the beach.

Longing, adoration, desperation, fear and hope all cross through his eyes before Dazai suddenly turns his face back toward the sunrise, the hand on your thigh reaching to the one you have resting on his chest so that he can entwine your fingers again. He keeps his palm to the back of your hand so that your own palm can stay flat against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart.

“He’s wrong” he says so softly that you think that you might not be meant to overhear it, “this is the promised land.”

You don’t know what he means, but you think that’s as close to an agreement that you might get from him, so you smile and finally turn your eyes up to watch the sunrise yourself.

You can only enjoy it for a few seconds.

“I’m still going to throw you in the water,” he suddenly claims, and then adds, just a bit more quietly, “… but let’s just sit here for a few moments longer, okay?”

You smile softly.

“Okay.”

#bsd #dazai.bsd #rb

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