#osamu feels alive again

[mania-sama]

for the ask game because i will NEVER pass up the opportunity for mania-sama lore;

20. Which work of yours have you reread the most?

27. What do you listen to while writing?

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

YESS thank you for sending in questions! in an effort to answer all of them, i will be taking creative liberties (since two of them have already been asked, but you couldn't have possibly known that, so trust that they WILL be answered).

➼ 20. Which work of yours have you reread the most?

This is HARD. I have a strong tendency to, after a month or so of posting, to go back and stare at a work until my eyes water. I will then repeat this cycle every time I get a comment. If I were to take a guess, it's most certainly a toss-up between hesitated all my life (but i'm all done running) and the difference between hurt and injured.

For the first one, it's mainly because I have NEVER gotten over how I managed to write 12 thousand words where almost nothing happens. It's a Haikyuu work where Oikawa spends 99% of it inside of a volleyball gym. The other 1%? The one to two minutes he spends outside of the gym. And when I say outside, I mean that he literally does not make it further than like two steps past the doors before he's held at gunpoint and kidnapped back inside the gym. 90% of the fic is spent in a 6 x 1 foot space underneath the gym's floorboards. Barely even enough room to WIGGLE. So I just. Sometimes I go in and admire how I wrote NOTHING. NOTHING for TWELVE THOUSAND WORDS. It astonishes me, really. It's just an internal monologue journey until he gets miraculously rescued. There's a fair amount of blood, injury, and starvation along the way as well. Fun stuff.

The second work is a little more complicated. I said it was my fic with the angstiest ending in the previous ask game, which is true. Every time I get a comment on it (usually complaining that they missed the MCD tag, which is fair), it prompts me to take an in-depth review of it. I have a lot of thoughts regarding this fic, namely in the ways it's good and in the ways it's bad, both in terms of the storyline and the writing. All in all, though, it's the first fic I wrote that had a somewhat high word count (relatively speaking. This is me, of course) with themes and morals that I wanted to try really hard to convey. So, I just like looking at it from time to time. It reminds me of who I was and of my writing goals at the time. I think I've met them. I think she would be proud of the writer I've become.

➼ 27. What do you listen to while writing?

My previous answer is that I do not listen to music or videos or anything with words or lyrics while writing. However, I suppose the answer can be a little more complicated than that. I do have a songfic that I wrote, is it me or the fear talking (what a dumb question), set to Intro III by NF. I listened to that song an insane amount in the process of writing that fic. Perhaps not exactly while I was putting words to the paper, but I did have the song up next to me at all times and pressed play when I needed to recapture the vibes and lyrics.

orange juice was also somewhat like this. While it isn't technically a songfic, it is HEAVILY inspired by the song Orange Juice by Noah Kahan. I was listening to it a lot around the time that I was writing that fic. I think the best reading experience for that fic is also to listen to the song while reading. I usually never do that, again because it's incredibly distracting. But for that fic? The vibes are REQUIRED.

➼ 29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

I liked everything I wrote this year. Even though it wasn't a lot, it's quality of quantity, right? It would really easy for me to pick any passage from if you need me, dear, i'm the same as i was. I did that for my last answer, and I could do it again. Everything from that fic is, in my opinion, a certified banger. But again, I did write more than that fic. So, I will give a passage from a murder of crows in the lowlight of boston:

“His urn is broken,” Osamu whispers. It’s a shout, an ear-splitting scream with his brother standing next to him. The sounds of his brother’s murder case play from the television in his mind so clearly he nearly convinces himself of its reality. “Whose urn?” Atsumu gasps, his hand reaching out to touch Osamu but entirely falling through. Osamu tilts his head to look up at him. If Atsumu notices the way his entire form flickers, becoming transparent enough to see the black television behind him, he doesn’t show it. His mother cries more, and Atsumu tries to hug her by wrapping his arms around her shoulders, but she doesn’t react. “What do we do?” Osamu doesn’t know. The living room becomes brighter as a cloud moves out from under the sun, sending warm rays beaming across the floor and highlighting Atsumu’s ashes. Simultaneously, Atsumu becomes harder to see, as if the light itself is melting away his body. His face is still clear, standing at a height that protects his head from the sun. The color of his lips is impossible to make out behind the heavy coating of his blood, and his yellow hair is tousled and matted with dried bits of flesh and gore. Atsumu stares at him with hazel eyes that look terribly, horribly, sickeningly alive. For the first time in a month, since the day the police knocked on their door with the devastating result of their search-and-rescue hunt for his missing brother, Osamu feels like he can breathe. He takes in the crisp filtered air, smelling the faint traces of his brother’s scent from his spot on the ratty old couch. His throat cools and eases oxygen in and carbon dioxide out, as it was always meant to do. “We get the dirt devil vacuum,” he says. His chest tightens, squeezing around his heart as bile crawls up his throat. “Get all of the ashes out and into a new urn.” He’s killing Atsumu again, he knows. He knows it because Atsumu trembles, his head shaking and bright eyes betraying his hurt. “You’re ignoring me, too! You’re both ignoring me! What did I do? Why are you doin’ this?” Atsumu cries. Despite the anger lacing his words like poison, Atsumu’s words lay over Osamu like a thick, warm blanket. He missed his brother. He missed how he took up all of the space in a room, how he let his voice boom over everyone else regardless of the warnings he’d previously received. He missed his volatile personality that barely masked how much he cared for his family. But his brother is gone. Osamu covers his face with his hands and presses the heels harshly into his eyes, scattering thick black dots across his vision.  There is a knife sticking out of Atsumu’s ghost. He ignores his brother’s burning remarks shot at the back of his neck and picks out a blue plastic cup and napkin from the kitchen. While his mother sobs, he scrapes a large clump of the gray remains into the cup and covers it with the thin white napkin. He watches as Atsumu bleeds out from his view, slowly, like the blood coming from his mouth and flowing over his orange shirt. His faint outline remains, and his noises — formless, wordless sounds — are no louder than the shutter of the wind against the bushes that brush against the outside of the trailer. Quietly, so quietly that only his brother could hear it, he leans in close to the cup, pressing his mouth against the napkin, and says, “I love you.”

The important context to this fic is that, 1. Osamu and Atsumu are twin brothers from Haikyuu, and 2. in this story, Atsumu was murdered a month prior.

There's a lot I could say about this fic. It's a complete exploration of grief and another example of how if you love someone, you let them go. With if you need me, dear, the "letting go" was in the past, and every aspect of it was voluntary. Iwaizumi talking to Oikawa again was voluntary. In a murder of crows, nothing is voluntary. Atsumu disappeared and then turned up dead. Their mother then accidentally knocks over and breaks the urn, which raises Atsumu's ghost. Only Osamu can see him, and apparently, Atsumu doesn't even know he's a ghost. He doesn't know that he looks exactly like he did when he died.

But here is the thing: Osamu misses his brother so, so badly. For sixteen years of his life, his small, poor family (fic canon, not actual canon) consisted of him, his twin, and his mother in a small trailer home. It was constantly loud and barely had enough space to fit them, but it was full of love and warmth. Now, it's just him, his mother, and the ashes of the once lively Atsumu. He feels like nothing is right. Everything is quiet. The trailer is suddenly too big for him and his mother. He spends all of his time in his room; he's losing weight from not eating or cooking or playing volleyball. He spends all of his time in the bottom bunk, waiting for his brother to come back.

So, he's in this awful position when Atsumu does come back. Even though the entire situation is stressful because his mother is crying, the urn is broken, and his brother is shouting at him, he feels warm. He feels some semblance of love and warmth he used to have when his twin was alive. He wants nothing more than to hold on tight and never, ever let Atsumu go. Because he's warm. His voice soothes the rush in Osamu's ears.

But.

"There is a knife sticking out of Atsumu's ghost."

He is dead, and he should remain that way. It is torture to keep his brother around when Atsumu could never understand why no one would talk to him or look at him, why Atsumu could never do anything. His mother couldn't see him; she would still remain in grief. Nothing would change for her. It isn't fair, Osamu knows, to keep him around.

And all of the weight of making that decision happens in a split second. He knows what he wants, what would make him happy, but he also knows what he should do, what will make no one happy but is better in the long run. He lets go. Because he loves his brother more than he loves himself.

That's the nature of family, isn't it?

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 IF WE WERE YOUNG AGAIN

FEATURING: osamu dazai

SUMMARY: your day was a mess from start to finish, and you knew it would only go further downhill when dazai inevitably called you up to his office once you got back to headquarters. still, you never could've imagined just how badly it would take a turn for the worse.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: AHAHAHAHAHA GUYSSSSS ARE U READY ARE U READYYYYYYYYY BEAST AU PMREADER AT LAST!!!!!!!! anyway there's not much to say yet, i shall be saying my thank yous and my full piece at the end of the last part, so ENJOY! this first part is a doozy dafuhsdiufh sorry the summary sucks i couldnt think of one and just wanted to get this out for u guys. be gentle on our girl reader, she's going through it. reblogs appreciated!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, beast!dazai, tragedy, angst, canon compliant.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: dazai is quite cruel in this first part (with reason of course but it still might be hard to read). alcohol & drug usage. unprotected sex. finger sucking. a bit of implied/explicit misogny & slut shaming.

SEE: TWO SLOW DANCERS SERIES MASTERLIST

Dazai Osamu is dead—that’s what everyone tells you, at least.

Chuuya is convinced he died somewhere between his fifteenth and sixteenth birthday, months before you ever met either of them. He tells you that if you’d seen the way he acted when he and Chuuya first met—if you’d seen how bright his eyes got whenever he insulted Chuuya and goaded him into stupid challenges, if you’d seen the way he was so careless with his life and how he’d laugh gleefully when Mori panicked trying to keep him alive, if you’d seen him compared to how he acted afterward, you would know that something happened in those months that killed the boy that once went by that name. Chuuya is vehement in his belief that Dazai has been long dead, and the thing that lives on the top floor of the Mafia’s main headquarters is only a husk that wears his ex-partner’s face.

The Flags agree with him—they never knew Dazai well, but they knew of him enough to know that something had seriously changed in those few months. You’d never been convinced of it, though. You didn’t know Dazai before his ‘death’ date, but you know that he wasn’t dead when you met him. 

He was always odd; you could always tell that something heavy was hanging over him. There was an air of gloom and despair that clung to him like a second skin, and it made people keep him at arm’s length. Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he’d get a faraway look in his eyes like he was lost in some other world, and sometimes he became cold and standoffish for no reason at all. It would happen so suddenly that it would give you whiplash, and you never knew what triggered it. Still, you could see the way his fingers trembled with guilt after.

He was odd, but he was alive. You fought Chuuya tooth and nail about it for two years; he always tried to get you to distance yourself from Dazai, warning you that something was wrong with him, that he was not right, that something changed him for the worse, and every time would end with you slapping him and the two of you not speaking for days. Dazai was alive—it was so abundantly clear to you in every interaction with him. His eye shone brightly whenever you walked into the room. You could hear and feel his heart racing when the two of you were curled up on the couch or in bed. His cheeks would flush a pretty red whenever you teased him, his breath would catch when your lips brushed his—he was alive, and there was no one you wouldn’t fight about it.

Your partner, Itou, didn’t know Dazai before his speculated ‘death’ date either, but he too was skeptical of how adamant Chuuya and the Flags were about it because all he saw was the way he acted with you. It made you feel validated, you would vent to him about it whenever you and Chuuya got into fights because you didn’t want to tell Dazai what Chuuya was saying about him, although you had a feeling he already knew. 

Then he hopped on the bandwagon two months before Dazai took over as Port Mafia boss. You don’t quite know what happened between the two of them—Itou and Dazai were never friends. Dazai was always cold to the older boy, and Itou always kept a distance from him, but they were cordial for the most part. Something changed at eighteen when Dazai picked up a mission that was supposed to be yours. He went with your subordinates up to Kyoto to handle Ihara Saikaku, who was undoing all the work you’d done up there before you came to Yokohama. When they got back, Itou could never look at him the same. He wasn’t quite as loud and adamant about Dazai as Chuuya and the Flags were, but you could tell that he wasn’t fully on your side anymore when you vented to him.

So you were alone in your defense of Dazai. Alone, and for a long time, you never wavered���Dazai was odd, but he was indubitably alive, and he was indubitably human. You fought Chuuya on it, you fought Itou on it, but eventually, you had to fight yourself on it, too. 

Your throat swells as you look at the small metal trinket resting in your hands. It’s ugly, haphazardly made—a bunch of wires twisted into an indecipherable shape. It’s only because you remember the offended expression that crossed Dazai’s face when he saw the confusion on yours after handing it to you as a gift when you guys were sixteen that you know it’s supposed to be a crab, and he has his own to match. Had his own to match. Chuuya had one, too, but he destroyed it right before your eyes during one particularly bad fight three years ago. 

Dazai had made them after watching a movie with you and Chuuya before their shaky friendship fell apart entirely toward the end of the Dragon’s Head Conflict. You’re not really sure what pushed him to make them, but Chuuya immediately called them ugly and said that he didn’t want a stupid crab, and Dazai promptly threw it in his face. The two of them started brawling on the ground for almost an hour, but even after they fell out, you know Chuuya took careful care of the stupid crab—it brought you solace for a time because you knew it meant that a part of Chuuya, however small, still clung to his old friendship with Dazai even if they weren’t on good terms anymore. 

Until he used his ability to ensure that there wasn’t even dust left when he destroyed it, that is.

“You already finished up with Mishima? I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

You lift your gaze from the crab, eyes falling on Chuuya as he leans against the frame of the door to your office. There’s an odd expression on his face, and you realize that he’s not looking at you but instead at the object in your hands, trying to figure out what it is. As casually as you can, you lean back in your seat and bring your hands into your lap, giving him a wry smile.

“Dealing with Mishima never takes more than a couple of hours,” you say, quietly dropping the trinket in your desk drawer before sliding it shut. “I figured you’d be busy with the new recruits today. I heard they were incompetent.”

“Don’t get me started,” he replies dryly,  pushing himself off the doorframe to make his way over to you. He sits on your desk and you give him a withering look when he carelessly moves the documents you’d been reading. “I left Iceman to deal with it.”

“How considerate.”

“Always,” he agrees with a sharp smile. He leans back on his hands, hair falling in his eyes and hat crooked on his head as he looks down at you, eyes curious—you know him well enough that there’s a question on the tip of his tongue, but it’s likely a question he already knows the answer to and just wants to see what you say.

“We’re meeting at the bar in Hodogaya—you gonna come?”

It’s a casual question, an invite out with friends, so unassuming, but you know what the underlying question is. 

Are you going to answer him when he calls for you?

It’s a Thursday night. Dazai usually calls for you on Fridays because you’re not quite as busy trying to get together reports before the weekend—he knows you like to have them done before Friday morning—but you had a mission today, so you know, and Chuuya knows, that he’s going to use it as an excuse to call you up to his office tonight. 

There’s a heavy look in his eyes as he stares at you, waiting for a response, and you know what he wants to hear. He wants you to say yes, he wants you to turn your back on Dazai at last and come out with them instead—and you think he has some nerve expecting that of you when he still acts like Dazai’s loyal dog, killing and destroying on his command. This is going to lead to an argument between the two of you, not the first and certainly not the last. Every time you argue about this, he tells you that what he does for Dazai is different, he throws things in your face that you regret ever telling him, and then he’ll apologize when he calms down later. 

Then the same fight will happen next week like clockwork. 

“Chuuya,” you say quietly, letting out a sigh as you lean back in your chair, looking away. “You know—”

You sit upright when Chuuya suddenly leans forward, using his foot to push the drawer he’s sitting over open to grab what you tossed in there before he entered the room—you hadn’t been subtle enough. Your heart rate spikes, hand darting out to grab his wrist, but Chuuya is stronger than you, and he wrenches his hand away, staring down at the twisted wires with a disgusted expression

“Give it back,” you say tightly, holding your hand out. The air suddenly feels very hot, the room is suffocating. “Chuuya, give it to me.”

He doesn’t.

“You still have this shitty piece of scrap metal,” he spits, hand tightening around it. The Tainted Sorrow responds to his anger in an eerie red glow that emanates around his hand. Usually, Chuuya has impeccable control over his ability, he has to otherwise, destruction will follow him everywhere he goes, but the topic of Dazai is the only thing that manages to rattle the careful control he’s built. The only thing that wakes up the sleeping calamity god inside of him. “Why?”

“None of your business,” you say tightly, rising to your feet. “Give it back, Chuuya.”

“What the fuck are you still holding onto?” he demands, voice raising as he too comes to his feet, holding the trinket tight in his hands as he comes face to face with you. “He’s gone. How many fucking times does it have to be shoved in your face for you to understand? Dazai is gone.”

“Stop it,” you tell him, voice quiet but it wavers in a way you wish it didn’t. You’re not sure if you’re trying to convince yourself or Chuuya when you say, “He’s still there.”

“Dazai is dead,” Chuuya hisses. You can see he’s trying to calm himself down, but the frustration is whittling at his self-control. You used to be able to have conversations about Dazai, discussions about your opposing viewpoints, but now the instant his name is brought up, it’s like guns being drawn on both sides. “He died years ago. Whatever that thing is up in that office, it’s not him. Let him go, for fuck’s sake.”

“Rich,” you say with a laugh that you know grates his nerves. “Then why are you still here, Chuuya? You’re the strongest ability user in the world. No one could stop you if you wanted to leave, but you still answer his every whim like a well-trained dog.”

Chuuya’s expression twists like you’ve physically slapped him. A hurt expression crosses his face, and then something closer to guilt as he looks down at the ground. You know why—you know he partially blames himself for how Dazai changed. He thinks that there’s something he could’ve done differently in those months he knew him before he ‘died’ that could’ve led to a different outcome, and that’s why he stays at his side.

“Because once you’re done holding out hope that he’s still there,” Chuuya says, voice low and threatening in a way that has your hair on end—you’ve only ever heard him take this tone with enemies, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” you reply, voice just as low. “He’s still the boss.”

“He’s a walking corpse.” 

“Watch your mouth.”

Chuuya suddenly laughs, taking a step away as he shakes his head. His eyes are wild, and you tense, waiting for him to escalate the argument, but you can’t brace yourself for the words that fly from his mouth.

“Always running to his defense, all for him to treat you like a whore,” Chuuya spits, slamming his hands down on your desk. He’s loud enough that you know all of the subordinates wandering the halls can hear. You don’t breathe as you stare at him, words processing slowly. “He calls you up there because he wants to get his fucking dick wet, and you spread your legs for him every time. Where’s your fucking self-respect?”

Your hand shoots out before you can stop yourself, palm stinging painfully as you slap Chuuya so hard that his head snaps to the side. He doesn’t budge for a second, staring at the far wall, a guilty expression crossing his face as if he only just now realized the gravity of his words.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, and you hate that your voice wavers. “Get out of my office.”

Chuuya says your name quietly, regretfully. “I—”

“Get out, Chuuya,” you scream at him, taking one of the books on your desk and throwing it at him hard. He could use his ability to stop it from hitting him, or he could dodge, but he lets it drive hard into his chest, grimacing at the pain. “Get the fuck out.”

He leaves without another word, placing the bundle of twisted wires back down on your desk and only sparing one last glance in your direction before shutting the door quietly behind him. As soon as he’s gone, your hand is flying to your mouth to muffle the ragged breath you take in. Your eyes blur with tears, but you don’t let them roll over your cheeks—you don’t even have the chance to because your phone is buzzing with a message you’ve been expecting since you got back to base. 

What timing, you think dryly, desperately trying to calm yourself down.

Dazai: Come up.

———

When you reach the top floor, your heart is in your throat. You don’t meet the eyes of either of the guards in the hall leading to Dazai’s office. You can’t even if you wanted to—as soon as you stepped out of the elevator, they averted their gaze to the ground. 

You only come up here once a week—you only see Dazai once a week. You can hardly handle being in that office, it reminds you too much of Mori. It’s been four years, and you still sometimes expect to see him when you walk down this hall and through the double doors at the very end of it. You still haven’t fully processed his death—how could you with no closure? Dazai never even let you say goodbye. He didn’t tell you what was happening and had Mori’s body dumped before you could even race up to the top floor to stop him. By the time you got to the office, the deed was done, and Dazai was sitting at his desk, blood still fresh on his face and Mori’s scarf draped around his shoulders—a spoil of war, a symbol of his conquest.

There was no apology. No explanation. Not even a hint of guilt over what he did—for keeping you in the dark, for not even giving you the chance to cry over your father’s corpse.

He looked at you and said, “You were slower than I expected.”

He let you yell at him, he let you cry, but he never rose from where he was sitting at his desk. He watched impassively as you screamed your throat raw and cried until there were no tears left to shed, and when you sat on the ground heaving, finally starting to calm down, he told you to pull yourself together. That he needed your help reconsolidating power because the weeks directly after the transition would be the most vulnerable to internal and external conflict. That you needed to reach out to Leo Tolstoy and Mishima Yukio to let them know about the power transition and to ensure they were vocal in support of him.

Sometimes, you wonder if Chuuya is right because you don’t understand how Dazai could be so callous. And to you of all people. You can’t reconcile the Dazai of that day to the Dazai you knew for years—the one who lived in your apartment, who failed miserably every time he tried to make dinner, whose fingers trembled when you kissed him the first time.

He adored you for years, he looked at you like you were his whole world—he was cold to everyone else, but never you. From the day he met you when the Dragon’s Head Conflict was raging through Yokohama, he was gentle, overly affectionate, he gave you silly trinkets that reminded him of you, and picked the shittiest movies on Friday nights. He couldn’t sleep unless you were near him—a week before he killed Mori, he was curled up in your bed and complaining when you took too long brushing your teeth. You’d known the night before it happened that something was wrong, but you never could have expected what happened. Not ever. Not from Dazai.

He never explained why he really killed Mori; he blows you off with some shitty excuse about how it was what was best for the Mafia. How Mori knew this was coming. How it was always meant to happen. But you know there’s something he isn’t telling you, and his refusal to do so is as much of a betrayal as the act itself was.

When you reach the tall wood doors leading to his office, you take a moment to collect yourself. You remind yourself that it’s Dazai behind them, that Mori is gone, Elise is gone—you do this every time you come up here, but it’s never enough to rid yourself of the hope that briefly swells in your chest before it’s crushed by the sight of Dazai.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally push the door open and step into the office. The air is cool, brisk compared to the stuffy air of the hallway, and Dazai is standing on the other side of his desk, back facing you, hands clasped behind him. The door slams shut behind you with a deafening thunk, and you stay rooted to the ground in front of it, staring at the back of Dazai’s head.

He turns his head to the side, looking at you from the corner of his eye. For a moment, you almost think that his gaze softens as it lands on you, but it’s wishful thinking. You brace yourself when you see the way the corners of his lips quirk up into a sharp smile, how his eye glitters with a type of amusement that can only be malicious. His hands slide from where they’re resting behind his back to his front, out of view, and he says:

“You were slower than I expected.”

The air whooshes from your lungs—you don’t know what you thought he would say, but it wasn’t that. You try not to let the pain show as you recover from the blow dealt, but you know you failed to stop a grimace from crossing your face with how Dazai’s eye crinkles. 

“You’re lucky I came at all,” you finally bite back, hating the way your voice so obviously wavers. 

It’s always him, only him, who hurts you like this—he’s the only one with the ability to do this to you. Even Chuuya’s worst doesn’t come close to the damage Dazai can do with a few words. With everyone else, you can fight back, you can match their cruelty, surpass their cruelty, but he leaves you at a loss for words. He always has. He used to tease you with it—he was sweet and flirty, and it left you flustered, but now he’s cruel. He digs his fingers into wounds that he created and twists, violently reopening them so he can watch you bleed, and the worst part is, you don’t know why.

“Is that right?” he drawls, voice low and languid as he finally turns to face you, gaze roving over your body once before settling back on your face. His lips are pale and chapped, cheeks a bit sunken, the bag under his visible eye is almost black—you want to find pleasure in the fact that he’s clearly not doing well, but you can’t. He takes a few steps closer to you, and it takes all of your willpower not to let him back you up against the door. He lifts two fingers to your chin, tilting your face up to him and forcing you to hold his gaze—his fingers are so cold that it makes you shiver. “As always, all bark, no bite—you and I both know you’re too obedient to go against a direct order.”

You slap his hand away hard. His lips curve up into an unsettling smile that doesn’t reach his eye. He takes a step back to put some space between the two of you, hands taking their place behind his back again.

“What do you want?” you ask him after a moment, shaking your head as you look away. You know what he wants—you just don’t know what game he wants to play before he gets it. Especially not right now; he’s been so irritable and unpredictable the past few weeks. Sometimes, he likes playing politics, asking you about missions and how relations are with the Port Mafia’s allies; other times, he likes testing your limits, seeing how cruel he can be until you finally break. It always ends the same way for you—bent over his desk. “Hm?”

Dazai tilts his head to the side, giving you a lazy smile. “So cynical. What makes you think I want something? Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

You know better than to fall for that, lips tightening before you say, “You always want something.”

He leans forward on the balls of his feet, head dipping down, and there’s a playful expression on his face that gives you whiplash. You shift back, and for a brief second you see the Dazai you remember. The Dazai who giggled as he held your phone out of reach and watched you struggle to get it back. The Dazai who teased you into giving him your first kiss when you guys were sixteen. The Dazai who learned the names and stories of all of the constellations in the sky for you.

The Dazai you loved.

The Dazai you desperately want to believe is still here.

“Do you know what tomorrow is?” he asks, visibly excited about whatever it is. But you don’t know what he means, so you don’t know how to answer, and your throat feels clogged with fear. 

What is tomorrow?

You’re fumbling, taking too long to answer, you know it, but you want this Dazai, you want him to stay, you want to drag him down to Chuuya and shove it in his face, ‘I told you it’s still him, don’t you see?’, and you want things to go back to how they were. You’re frustrated and panicked trying to come up with an answer for him, and on top of everything, you’re angry at yourself because you don’t know why you still cling so desperately to the boy he used to be after everything he’s done. 

His smile starts to fade when you don’t immediately respond, and you blurt out:

“We have a meeting with the Red Chamber tomorrow.”

It’s not the answer he wants—you know it as you say it, but it’s the only thing you can think of.

“Right,” he agrees quietly, smile gone and gaze lowering to the ground. For a moment, he looks disappointed but not surprised, and then he closes off from you again. His eyes empty of excitement, and his expression flattens—the Dazai you loved is gone again just like that. You know you shouldn't feel as gutted as you are, but you are. Not for the first time, you wish that you could rip out that traitorous beating thing in your chest. It would be so much easier if you could hate him. “Come.”

You don’t move immediately, a heaviness settling over you as you watch him pace back over to his desk, lithe fingers flipping through a manila folder lying on top of it. You swallow thickly before making your way over to him. He slides the folder in front of you and shifts so that he’s looking over your shoulder. He’s too close. You can smell the smoke on his breath from the cigarettes he chain-smokes, the whiskey staining his tongue, the familiar metallic scent of blood. Your gaze drags from the folder to the bandages that peek out from under the dark sleeve of his jacket and then up to his face.

He’s already looking at you through his lashes, eye half-lidded. His gaze isn’t empty anymore, it’s heavy, dark. You don’t know what he’s thinking—you used to be able to read him well, but you haven’t been able to in years. You wish you could now more than ever. 

“What is this?” you finally ask, voice quiet as you force yourself to look back down at the folder he passed over to you. The file is of an executive of the Red Chamber—an acquaintance of yours who worked to get Cao Xueqin to meet with you and Dazai tomorrow. “Why are you showing me this?”

“This friend of yours—”

“Acquaintance,” you correct with a frown.

“Acquaintance,” he echoes with an empty smile. “I want you to kill him tomorrow.”

What?

You don’t even realize you speak the word that instantly flies through your mind at the order he gives you. You turn to look at him again, and he’s watching you carefully now. You don’t know if this is a real order or if Dazai is just saying something ludicrous to get a reaction out of you. You can never tell with him.

“You heard me,” Dazai replies, dark eye dancing with amusement at your confusion.

“What purpose does that serve, Dazai?” you demand, shaking your head. You want to take a step away from him but his presence is magnetic, a black hole that relentlessly pulls you in. “Baoyu Jia is the closest to an ally that the Port Mafia has inside the Red Chamber. We may as well be shooting ourselves in the foot. You—”

Your words falter when Dazai reaches up with his left hand to grab your chin. He tilts your face up again, but this time, his thumb rests on your lower lip, effectively silencing you. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and you know that it’s a power play—forcing you to look at him, silencing you, and then just holding your gaze, daring you to continue. You want to rip your chin out of his grip and scoff at him.

You don’t.

“Don’t question me,” he finally tells you, voice cold, eye flashing with something indecipherable when he sees the rage that crosses your face, but it fades into disappointment when you don’t say anything. 

Did he want you to? 

You don’t understand him.

“I don’t do assassinations, Dazai,” you say instead, voice hard. The pads of his fingers are so hot against your skin, and his thumb against your lip feels too heavy. “I handle politics. You know that.”

His grip on your chin tightens just a smidge, there’s a cruel glint in his eye that you don’t like. You brace yourself for whatever he’s about to say, but nothing can prepare you for what he does.

“You slit your own mentor's throat in her sleep,” he says casually, like it wasn’t something you confided in him about when you were at your lowest years ago. “Surely, you can handle an acquaintance.”

You rip your chin from his grip, taking in a sharp breath as you physically step away. You turn your back to him so he doesn’t see the way your throat spasms as you swallow the sudden lump in it, the way your eyes sting with tears at his words. You don’t know what you expect coming up here every time he asks. You don’t know why you still have hope that he’ll treat you the same way he did before he put a knife in your father’s back and draped his red scarf around his shoulders while his corpse was still warm. 

You don’t know why you still want him to.

“I hate you,” you breathe out, hating how shaky your voice comes out.

Your breath catches when he takes a step closer to you, chest brushing your back, fingers ghosting your hips. His presence is deceptively warm, considering he has no heart to keep his blood pumping, and you hate the way it makes your hair stand on end. You hate the way he knows because you don’t have to look at him to know that his lips are curved up into an amused smile.

He leans down, breath fanning against the nape of your neck as he whispers, “Then leave.”

You won’t. You don’t. You never do.

One of his hands rests on your hip, fingers deceivingly gentle as he caresses you when his words feel like knives through your back. He lifts the other to graze your jaw, leaning in to brush his lip against where he’d touched before he lets his hand drop back to your side, sliding down your body to join the other on your opposite hip, holding you steady when your knees feel weak.

“Leave,” he tells you softly again. You press your lips together to hold back the moan that nearly tumbles out of your lips when his teeth graze that spot below your ear that makes your knees buckle. Luckily, you have enough control over yourself that your knees don’t give out, but you don’t think you were as successful at muffling the moan as you thought you were because you can feel Dazai’s lips curl up into a smug smirk against your skin. “Go, I won’t stop you.”

You should. You know it even as he resumes the slow, languid kisses down your jaw. You know it when you feel his hands slide from your hips to your upper thighs. You know it when he shifts you forward so that the front of your thighs are flush against his desk, the wood pressing uncomfortably into your skin, and you know how this is going to end. You should leave, you should shove him off of you and go back down to your office, you should give him a hateful look and tell him that the way he touches you makes you sick and you can hardly stand to look at him even if it is a lie just to see if he’s still human enough to be hurt by your words or if he’ll just stare at you with that unnervingly empty gaze that makes you question if Chuuya had been right from the beginning. 

But you don’t.

He pauses for a second. His hands go still on your thighs, his lips ghost your pulse point—he’s waiting to see if you’ll leave even though he knows that you won't. You never do. When you don’t move, you hear him take in a sharp breath, and you feel his grip tighten before he slides one hand up your back to fold you over his desk. 

Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes you would leave, if he wants you to fight back, if he’s disappointed when you don’t. 

You’re still wearing the black slip you wore to meet Mishima and his daughters. You purposely wore it because his daughters have wandering eyes and are prone to letting more information slip when they have something pretty to look at.

“You wore this for them.” 

It’s not really a question, but there’s an edge to Dazai’s tone that makes you hold your breath. You turn your head to the side to look at him from the corner of your eye, hoping to catch something on his face, but it’s as blank as ever, entirely unreadable even with you bent over his desk in front of him, hands on your thighs as he slides up your short dress.

“What does it matter?” you ask, voice tight. 

You don’t know how you want him to respond, but it’s certainly not with the way he does: “It doesn’t.”

His voice is as cold as it always is when he calls you up to his office for this. He’s never warm, never intimate—it’s always a quick fuck, it’s always over his desk and never in a bed, his fingers are always rough, and he never kisses you, not on the lips. He hasn’t since the two of you were eighteen. 

But sometimes you’ll hear his breath hitch when he’s deep inside you, you’ll feel his whole body shudder, fingers digging into you so hard like he’s terrified of letting go, and when you look back, you’ll see Dazai. The Dazai you know, the Dazai you loved, the Dazai you can’t let go of. You see it in his eye when he looks down at you—the adoration and the desperation, the tears that he tries desperately not to let spill over—and in the way his lips part like he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to. 

It’s why you keep coming back. It’s why you don’t leave when he tells you to. You cling to the idea that he’s still here like it’s the only thing that keeps you going. A part of you wonders if maybe it is the only thing that still keeps you going because the thought of your Dazai being gone leaves an aching hole in your chest that you don’t think will ever fill.

Sometimes, you wonder if you just imagine it. There’s no hidden intent. There’s no love that he pushes away because he can’t afford the weakness as boss of the Port Mafia; he’s not bringing you up here because he wants to indulge in something he shouldn’t be allowing himself to have. This is just another power play. He just wants to prove that he can have you whenever he wants—that you’re his even after everything he’s done. 

You’re just as much of a spoil of war as the scarf around his neck.

He lifts his hand to shift your hair out of the way, and the tips of his fingers brush the nape of your neck. You hear him let out a noise akin to a scoff when he sees the ribbon tied neatly around your throat. There’s a pinprick of satisfaction that flies through you when you get the audible reaction from him.

“You still wear this thing?” He’s careful to keep his voice calm as he asks the question, but you know from the way his fingers are tense against your neck that he’s bothered.

“It was a gift,” you reply quietly, watching him intently. Your cheek presses against the mahogany of his desk. It’s cool against your skin, but you feel like you’re on fire with the fingers of one of his hands digging into your hip and the other resting on your neck. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He leans down a bit more, his chest to your back, weight pressing down on top of you. His hips are flush with your ass, and you can feel him straining against his black slacks. Your lips part in a silent gasp when he presses his lips to the underside of your jaw, trailing slow, wet kisses down your neck.

“You cling to the past too much,” he murmurs against your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point before he bites down far more gently than he usually does. “You need to let go.”

You have a feeling that he’s not just talking about Mori.

“Letting go has never been my strong suit,” you whisper, lashes fluttering shut when he sucks a dark mark into the crook of your neck. Your eyes snap back open when you feel him grab one of the ends of the ribbon, preparing to take it off. You grab his wrist to stop him. “Don’t.”

He pauses, you can feel his sharp gaze trained on the side of your head, but you don’t look at him this time. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking right now—you can tell from his body language that he’s about to make a comment you’re not going to like.

“What a dirty girl you are,” he murmurs, kissing the crook of your neck over the bruise he left on it. It’s deceptively soft, which lets you know whatever he’s about to say is going to twist the knife still lodged in your back. “Letting me fuck you over Mori’s desk while you wear the first gift he gave you… I’m sure he’d be rolling if he knew.”

You physically jerk at his words, head snapping around, a shocked expression on your face, but before you can get out more than a ‘you—’ he uses his foot to knock your legs apart, hand dropping from your hip to slide against the silk material of your panties. You inhale sharply, lips parting in a moan that you can’t catch as Dazai circles his index finger around where your clit is hidden beneath your panties, his lips trail from the crook of your neck to the top of your spine, and he uses his free hand to slide the zipper of your dress down, revealing your bare back to him.

He doesn’t take off the ribbon around your neck. 

You almost wish now that he would.

“I hate you,” you say again, but your words catch over another gasp when he starts trailing hot kisses down your spine, fingers pushing your panties to the side so he can slide his fingers between your wet folds. You hate how your body is so quick to react to his touch. “I hate you.”

“So convincing, hime,” he drawls. You choke at the use of the title that Mori gave you as he sinks two fingers inside of you—it’s not his first time saying it, he used to tease you with it all the time four years ago. But it was always a soft teasing, you could see the way the corners of his lips curled up gently and the way his gaze was fond. This is mocking. It’s sharp. It’s the same tone people took when they used the title to insult you, to imply you weren’t worthy of your high-ranking position in the Mafia, that the only reason you had a seat at the table was because of your relationship with Mori. The ribbon around your neck suddenly feels too tight, cutting off the airflow to your lungs. “I can feel your hatred dripping all over my hand.”

“Fuck you,” you spit out, blinking away the tears of frustration that suddenly sting your eyes. Chuuya’s words ring through your head: where’s your fucking self-respect? “Fuck you, Dazai.”

You feel his lips curl up into an unkind smile against your spine. “In due time.”

A part of you wonders if the fleeting sight of the boy you once knew is worth dealing with who he’s become. If the pleasure you feel when he touches you is worth putting up with the cruelty. You enjoy the time you have with him—physically, at least. Dazai knows how to touch you in ways that no one else can compare to; he knows all of the ins and outs of your body and can bring you to the precipice with just a few touches like he’s doing now. You’ve tried seeking out others to warm your bed, but they paled in comparison to the way Dazai makes you feel.

But he knows your mind as well as your body; he knows all of the ways to make you hurt, and he knows how to make it as painful as possible. He reopens a wound slowly with honeyed words and sweet smiles before digging his fingers in and twisting. The hime was intentionally cruel—not just to remind you of Mori, of where you are, of what Dazai did, but also to remind you of who Dazai once was. He was shoving it in your face again, just like Chuuya always says he does—you cling to the past too much, you need to let go.

“I hate you,” you gasp again, but your lashes flutter as he fucks his fingers deep into you, slow and steady—the stretch is pleasant, familiar, dizzying in a way that no one can replicate. He hums against your skin as he drags his tongue back up the length of your spine after he’s left a trail of bruises down it, like he’s marking his territory on you. “I—hah—”

He kisses the nape of your neck at the same time as he presses that spot deep inside you that makes your eyes knockback. You claw at the mahogany of the desk you’re on top of, breath quick and thighs trembling as he leaves you on the edge.

“Things would be so much easier if you did,” he murmurs, and you think you’re not meant to hear it. You try to look back at him, and you catch an oddly resigned expression on his face as he stares down at the marks he left on your spine, the fingers of his free hand tracing them delicately. It’s so out-of-character that it draws you back from the edge, which is what finally pulls him out of whatever trance he was in, something strange crossing his face when he realizes that you caught him staring. 

At once, his fingers slip out of your well-stretched hole, and you can’t stop the pitched whine that slips from your lips, breathing heavily as you try to regain your senses after having been brought so close to your high. Your cheek rests back down against the desk, vision a bit blurry as you reel from the loss of his fingers, but you know you won’t have to wait for long because you can hear him undoing his belt, pulling out his cock to use his drenched fingers to stroke his cock before he presses his tip to your entrance.

Your body shudders at the familiar feeling, eyes half-rolled back, just knowing what’s about to happen. You feel him lean over you again, chest to your back, and he lifts his fingers to press the two that were inside of you to your lips. It takes a moment for your gaze to focus on his expectant face, and you’re too out of it to consider turning your head away to be spiteful, lips parting so that he can push his fingers into your mouth, tongue instinctively swirling around them.

Where’s your fucking self-respect?

Again, the question echoes through your mind, but before you have the chance to answer it, Dazai fucks it away as he thrusts forward, hips flush to your ass as he suddenly pushes his cock deep into you. And fuck, if the stretch of his fingers was pleasant, the stretch of his cock is heavenly, the closest to rapture you’ll ever get. The moan of his name that spills out of your lips is garbled and unintelligible around his fingers, and he lets out a breathy noise—a scoff? a moan?—you can’t tell, too focused on the intoxicating feeling of being split open on his cock.

For the first time since you left his office last week, you feel whole, and maybe that’s the reason why you keep coming back. Dazai Osamu has ruined you to the point where you can’t feel whole without him—you need him in you, on you, around you. You want to be consumed by him, you want to consume him. From the day you met him when you were sixteen, you knew it would be him. It was always him, it could only be him. He loved you in a way that you never thought you’d be loved from the moment you met. He had you as early as that night he brought you to the rooftop to tell you the stories of the stars—you were his, and you thought he was yours. 

You fell so hard for him, so quickly, it was almost unreal. He understood you in ways nobody else ever did. Sometimes, you swore it felt like he knew you before he ever actually knew you. You’d never felt so seen by someone before, you’d never felt so loved. You spent years alone in Kyoto, and before that, you were following around a man who was hyper-focused on your ability and your failures. Dazai was the first person who saw you for you. He was the first person to make you feel like your life had meaning beyond just furthering the interests of the Port Mafia for Mori.

And Dazai is observant, sure, but you've seen how he interacts with everyone. You studied it carefully because, at first, you were worried that you were reading into things you shouldn’t be, especially with Chuuya’s warnings about him ringing through your head. But the way he saw everyone else was different from how he’d seen you—he saw them for their weaknesses and their faults, so he could exploit them whenever he pleased, but he saw you. He knew you—he knew little things that he had no reason to know, that he couldn’t exploit: how you took your coffee, that you love thrillers and are bored by comedies, he knew your favorite book, your favorite constellation, your favorite color, he knew everything from trivial details to all of the fears that you could never bring yourself to speak out loud.

That’s why you cling to the past, that’s why you keep coming, that’s why you never leave. You can’t accept that he’s gone, you can’t accept that he sees you now the same way he sees everyone else: as a pawn, as someone to exploit. So even if it means having to endure his cruelty and the whirlwind of emotions that follow every meeting with him, if you can get a glimpse of who he used to be, any shred of proof that the boy you loved, the boy who loved you is still there, it makes it worth it. Because it’s easier to deal with cruel words than it is to deal with the loss of meaning in your life that would follow accepting that he's gone. It wouldn’t just be losing him, you would be losing the only other thing that’s kept you moving, too, because Dazai became the Port Mafia as soon as he took over as boss.

The breath you take in around his fingers is ragged. You don’t know why you’re suddenly thinking of this—maybe it’s because Chuuya’s words are haunting you, demanding to know where your self-respect has gone, maybe you just need to rationalize why you’re so dependent on someone who treats you like this. You don’t realize you’re crying until Dazai’s hips suddenly still, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth to grab your chin, turning your head to force you to look at him.

Something strange crosses his face—pain, guilt—and it’s only then that you realize that your vision is blurry, that your cheeks are wet. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he’s uncharacteristically gentle as he uses his thumb to wipe away your tears. His hand drops from your face, and you lay your head back down on the desk, taking in a shuddered breath when Dazai rests his weight on top of you. He kisses your shoulder blade, and he kisses up to the crook of your neck again before burying his face in it for a moment—it’s almost intimate, it almost feels like an apology, but you know better than to hope for that. 

You don’t know how long you lay there with him like that, but you bask in the intimacy he rarely allows you. One of his hands runs up and down your side soothingly, his breath steady against your neck, you can feel his heartbeat against your back. 

A reminder that he’s alive, a reminder that Chuuya is wrong.

For a second, your Dazai is back. The Dazai that loved you.

It’s only when your breathing starts to steady and the tears stop rolling over your cheeks that Dazai finally moves, but it’s not to pick up where he stopped. Your lungs are drained of the air within them when you feel him move away from you, when you hear him tuck himself back into his pants, when his fingers brush the small of your back to zip your dress back up. Just like that, you’re left hollow again, a shell, half of a whole without him to complete you.

“Dazai—”

“Get out,” he says, voice cold and sharp. It’s not the same teasing ‘then leave’ he says every time you come in. It causes a pit to form in your gut, uncertainty riddling you as you stand up unsteadily. His back is to you, hands out of sight in front of him as he looks out the window over the skyline of the city, only lit up by various buildings now that night has fallen.

“But—”

“Get out,” he repeats, harsher this time. “That’s an order. Don’t question me. And don’t make me say it again.”

Your throat swells as you stare at the back of his head in disbelief. “I—”

“Now.”

You feel sick to your stomach, straightening out your dress as best as you can, fixing your hair, and making sure your makeup isn’t terribly smeared. You don’t dare to look at him, you think you might cry if you do. So you set your gaze on the far wall as you fix yourself up, not looking back even when you hear him moving.

Once you feel somewhat presentable, you raise your chin and make your way out of his office, only pausing when you get to the double doors to spare a short glance behind you. Dazai is sitting at his desk, face buried in his hands, fingers trembling almost as much as his shoulders are shaking. Your throat swells—you want to say something.

You know better.

You leave his office quietly, making sure to hold yourself together as you walk past his curious guards. You know they must have an idea of what goes down in his office when you’re called up; they’re probably the reason why so many rumors circle around about you sleeping your way into an executive position, but you refuse to let them see you with your head hanging, so you only meet their curious stares with a cold one of your own before taking the elevator back down to your floor. 

It doesn’t take long for you to get down to your office, and you inhale as you brace yourself for your subordinates’ attention, but you freeze when the elevator doors open and you’re met with an empty hall. This hall is never empty, and it’s only when you see Chuuya waiting for you at the end of it near your office that you realize he must have cleared them out.

His expression is taut, but his eyes are gentle as they roam over you, and you let out a wet, shaky breath when you realize that he’s here to make sure you aren’t alone even after the argument the two of you had. You take one step toward him, and then another, and then you’re breaking over a sob and rushing toward him a bit faster—he meets you halfway, strong arms circling your waist as you cling to his shoulders.

“It’s not—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say as you choke over your words. “It’s not simple, Chuuya. I can’t just—you don’t understand—”

“I know,” he murmurs, turning his head to the side to press his lips to your temple. “I’m sorry. Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

“... Yeah.”

———

You’re already wasted by the time you get to the bar with Chuuya. The two of you went to his penthouse to drink away your sorrows before Albatross started spam-texting you, trying to get you to come to the bar with them. Chuuya was planning on ignoring him and spending the night relaxing with you, but you didn’t want them to think something was wrong, so, against better judgment, you ended up making your way to meet them.

They’re already there and several drinks in by the time you and Chuuya arrive. You’re still steady on your feet, but you can feel the wine that the two of you had been drinking getting to your head. You just want a nice night, you want to forget about Dazai, you want to get drunk with your friends, and maybe if you’re feeling especially spiteful, bring someone back to your bed because you know it will get back to Dazai because everything gets back to Dazai.

No, you remind yourself, no more thinking of Dazai tonight. Even in spite. 

Unfortunately, your hopes are crushed the moment you approach the private booth where the Flags are drinking.

“Do you hear half of the shit they say about her?” Iceman asks, not realizing that you and Chuuya are approaching. “I beat the shit out of one of my own subordinates who thought it would be okay to say shit about her around me. When the fuck did they start getting so bold?”

“I’m just worried about her,” Lippmann murmurs as he takes a sip of his drink. “You haven’t seen her lately, she’s…”

Great, you think, teeth grinding together as you try to push their words out of your mind. Chuuya squeezes your bicep before his arm drops from around you, clearing his throat and giving Iceman a heavy side-eye. Iceman and Lippmann, to their credit, do go quiet when they realize that you overheard what they said.

You force a smile onto your face as you move forward to take a seat in the booth, knocking your hip against Albatross to force him to move in. Chuuya sits on your other side, squeezing you between the two of them. You reach out to take Albatross’s drink from him, not caring what it is or what it might be laced with knowing the older boy, you just want to fucking forget about Dazai tonight, and if that means consuming Albatross’s questionable choice of liquor, then so be it.

“You guys are so dramatic,” you say. “I’m fine.”

You can tell that they don’t believe you. Lippmann and Iceman exchange a long look with one another, and Doc’s gaze lowers to the table. The corner of your lips waver, throat tight as you look down at the drink in your hands before taking a long swig of it. The plain vodka nearly makes you gag, but there’s an odd sweet aftertaste that leaves you a bit suspicious. Before you can swallow, you feel Albatross toss an arm around your shoulders and drag you into him, causing you to nearly choke over the liquid.

“I knew you’d come out,” Albatross croons, pressing his face hard into the side of your head and nuzzling. He kisses your temple obnoxiously twice before licking your cheek; you slap him away with a scowl. “My favorite girl’d never let me down like that.”

His sunglasses hang off the bridge of his nose, and when you see the way his pupils are the size of nickels, you start to question what exactly is in the drink you just took from him. He seems to know exactly what you’re thinking from the way he tosses a wink at you and leans back against the booth, arm still snug around your shoulder.

“It’ll make you feel good,” he promises with a sharp smile before turning to Doc. “Hey, so about that…”

You tune Albatross out as you turn your attention back to Chuuya, who gives the glass in your hands a reproachful look but otherwise doesn’t say anything else. You give him a pointed stare before you take a sip of it, you don’t have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes at you.

You turn your attention to Iceman and say, “You should probably stop going out of your way to defend me. Otherwise, there’s just going to be more rumors about me spreading my legs for the whole upper echelon. They already say I’m sleeping with Chuuya, Albatross, and Piano Man too.”

Piano Man’s expression twists in disgust at your words, immediately taking another sip of his drink, and Albatross quiets down, looking at you from the corner of his eye. Chuuya only gives you a heavy look that you can’t bring yourself to look at him. 

“So you just want us to let them talk about you like that?” Iceman asks with a frown, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “They’re tearing your reputation to shreds.”

“It works in my favor,” you reply, although your voice is strained as you say the words, lips pressing together as you look down at your drink. “It makes it easier during negotiations, our enemies aren’t as guarded because they think I wasn’t given my position through merit.”

“Bullshit,” Iceman snaps, the corner of his lips curling into a sneer at your words. You shoot him a flinty look, but he’s unrepentant. “You can sit there trying to convince yourself that to make yourself feel better, but not me. I’m not going to sit and let my subordinates disrespect one of our executives.”

“Rich, considering how you talk about Dazai behind closed doors,” you say lightly, but your fingers are tight around your glass as you take another sip. Dazai’s name feels like ash on your tongue, a heavy feeling settling over your chest as you remember what happened in his office—weren’t you supposed to forget about him for the night? 

Always running to his defense, all for him to treat you like a whore.

You think Chuuya is reminded of his words from earlier, too, because you see his throat spasm as he looks down at the table. The moment Dazai’s name is spoken, the tension at the table spikes—sharp and sudden. You’ve never confronted them about their resentment toward their boss. It’s always been an unspoken rule, a line carefully danced around but never crossed. They respect him, acknowledge how he’s elevated the Port Mafia to new heights, but his name still leaves a bitter taste in their mouths—especially when it comes to his treatment of you and Chuuya.

But it’s more than that. It’s not just bitterness and resentment—they don’t understand him. They never did, even before he took over as boss. To them, Dazai is something cold, something wrong, something inhuman. They prescribe to the same belief Chuuya has: Dazai Osamu died seven years ago, and the thing living on the top floor of the building is a husk that wears his face. He doesn’t think like they do, doesn’t feel like they do. When they report casualties from missions, he turns a vacant gaze on them and tells them to leave; you don’t think they ever fully got over how he murdered Mori and how he treated you afterward. He’s a machine—a monster—in the shape of a man, all calculations and sharp edges where warmth should be. They might fear him, might even admire all he’s done for the Port Mafia, but they’ll never trust him, and they’ll never like him.

On nights like this, when you all have a few drinks in you, they get a bit bolder with their opinions—especially Doc and Iceman. You made a mistake bringing him up, you don’t want to argue with them—not tonight, not after you argued with both Chuuya and Dazai already. You’re so tired, you just wanted a nice night out after how shitty the rest of your day had been. 

“Oh my,” Piano Man sighs airily. 

“Come on, guys,” Albatross complains. “Can we not?” 

But Iceman has a temper. The table shakes as his fist drops onto it, he leans over to get closer to you, putting his cigarette out on the ashtray. “It’s because of that bastard that half of the fucking Mafia thinks you’re a walking fleshlight—”

“Jesus Christ, Iceman,” Chuuya spits, interrupting him as he slams his hands against the table and rises to his feet. You don’t react to the comment—it’s nothing you don’t know, nothing you’re not used to hearing in whispers. You finish the glass of vodka, that sweet aftertaste lingering in your mouth. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

“Come on, man,” Albatross complains again, rubbing his face. “Too far.”

“I’m only repeating what I have to hear,” Iceman says, holding his hands up before he lights another cigarette. You can tell he’s upset because it takes three tries for him to get it lit, fumbling with the lighter. “What I have to hear because of how he fuckin’ treats her, only for her to keep defending him.”

You should be angry, you think, but whatever was in Albatross’s drinks must be working because all you can feel is a dull haze as your fingers thrum against the tabletop.

“I have free will,” you say, voice distant even to your own ears. Doc raises his eyebrows and looks down at the table, not commenting but making his position clear with how he gives you a long look. “I choose to go up there, I let him fuck me. Albatross whores himself out like no tomorrow. He spends every night in a different person’s bed. Why is it an issue when I fuck one guy?”

“Yo, why am I catching strays?” 

“Because of the optics of it,” Doc replies, ignoring Albatross as he fiddles with something under the table. “Because of who you are, who he is. Because of how it looks.”

“I know the first thing Kitada-san taught you was the importance of optics,” Lippmann agrees quietly. “He knows, too. He could have anyone he wants, there’s no reason for him to be letting the Mafia drag your name through the mud like this.”

The thought of Dazai with anyone else makes you feel distinctly unsettled to the point where the intoxicated haze starts to abruptly fade away. 

“He could easily find a whore to fuck if that’s what he wants,” Iceman adds with a scoff. “He knows what he’s doing to you by making you spread your legs for him, he knows how it looks on you. On both of you.”

 And just like that, lines are drawn. Doc, Lippmann, and Iceman are on one side; you, Chuuya, and Albatross on the other. Piano Man remains in the middle, ready to intervene if things escalate. Though you know Chuuya and Albatross agree with the other three, they’ll always take your side in public, and you know the other three are only angry because they’re angry on your behalf, but it makes you sick to your stomach to know that they think… they think what? That Dazai calls you up there, and you have no say in the matter, that you let him on you, in you, because you can’t say no to the boss and not because you want it.

“I don’t give a shit,” you say tightly. “He’s not making me do anything. If I want to fuck Dazai, then I’ll fuck Dazai. If I don’t want to fuck him, I won’t fuck him.”

“Right,” Iceman drawls sarcastically. “You think that piece of shit gives a fuck about what you want?”

The rage hits you suddenly—you don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the stress that’s been weighing on you all day, or whatever Albatross had in his drink, but it makes your vision go red too quickly for you to control. You rise to your feet, the table shaking as your palms hit it hard—you think it must be a combination of the alcohol and whatever was in Albatross’s drink because you don’t even feel the pain you should feel when a piece of glass cuts into your hand.

“What the fuck does that mean?” you demand.

Iceman raises his chin, exhaling a cloud of smoke before he says coolly, “Exactly what it implies.”

“Fuck you,” you reply, eyes stinging with sudden tears as you stare down at Iceman. The older man has the decency to at least look ashamed when he sees your reaction, but he’s unapologetic otherwise. “You don’t know shit about Dazai, and you clearly don’t know shit about me either. This was a mistake.”

You move to leave, but Chuuya is in your way. Glaring down at him, you snap, “Move.”

“You’re drunk and fucked up on whatever Albatross is on,” Chuuya says, disagreeing, but when your face twists in frustration, he lets out a heavy sigh and moves out of the way. “Let me come with you.”

“I just need some air,” you say, voice rougher than you intended as you stumble out of the booth. “I’ll be back.”

Distantly, you hear Albatross spitting something at Iceman, and you can hear the anger dripping from his tone. Albatross never gets angry, and you don’t know why that makes you tear up more. You feel too suffocated in the bar; you can feel too many eyes on you, and you just can’t breathe. You slap away the hand of an attendant who tries to help you when you stumble, pushing the door open and greedily inhaling the cool air of the midsummer night. 

You rest your back against the wall of the building, trying not to let the tears in your eyes roll over your cheeks. You don’t know why today has left you so emotional—it’s just like any other day you meet Dazai. You argue with Chuuya, you go to meet Dazai, and then you deal with all of the emotions that the meeting drags up. Maybe it’s just that you’re drained from dealing with the Mishimas all day, or maybe it’s because Chuuya didn’t have to spend hours trying to calm down before he came back to you, or maybe it’s because you don’t know what went so wrong earlier with Dazai.

You still don’t fully understand why you spiraled so much. More than that, you wish you hadn’t left when Dazai had told you to. The way his fingers were trembling, the way his shoulders were shaking—there was no hiding that he was crying, and you think that if maybe you’d stayed, if you tried to press a little harder, you might’ve been able to get some answers out of him at last.

You take in a wet, shuddered breath as you try to get ahold of yourself. You miss Dazai, you miss how things used to be, and you don’t know how much more you can take of whatever this is.

You hear noise from your left, and you think that Chuuya or one of the Flags came out to check on you, but you’re startled by an unfamiliar face staring down at you, expression unreadable.

“Who-”

You yelp when his hand darts out to grab your arm. He tugs you into his chest harshly, and you don’t even have time to scream for Chuuya before there's a rag being placed over your mouth. Your hand claws at his wrist when the familiar sharp scent meets your nose, but it’s to no avail. You find your vision darkening and your knees going out—and the last thing you think of before everything goes black is him.

[yayll]

~ a little something about waking up next to Dazai, and he's unbearable as always ~

"I might just eat you alive..." He mumbles to himself, barely audible. His eyes are half-lidded, and he's barely blinked.

He's been watching you sleep next to him curled up like a kitten for the past hour, way past the time you usually wake up. He's the oversleeper, not you, and it makes him hyper aware of your bodily functions and if they're okay. He hasn't eaten properly in days, but you don't need to know that. He's rabid, and he knows he's being a total freak right now, but who will worry for you if not for him? He must rise up to be the voice of reason, the watchful eye that keeps you on track even if he can barely keep himself alive! He wishes you'd stay forever, where he could avoid his problems and take care of your every single need. He should be everything you need... He hopes. Then you'd never leave, and he would make sure to eat more, just for you. How perfect... selfish.

God, he just wants to crawl inside of you and make you his home, it's almost pathetic. You'd find him vile for the things he would do for you and your happiness, despite you already being so accepting of his dark past... You're simply heaven sent. He takes a deep breath, and lightly runs his knuckles down your jawline, as if carving them out of the precious material that you're made of. You begin to stir, and his pupils dilate instantly as he pulls back with anticipation.

"Mmm... Osamu..."

You murmur sleepily as your chest rises up and down ever so slowly. He's freaking out. It's bad for his health to hear the way you say his name as if it were a healing oath, a spell that only works on him.

"Wakey wakey~"

Dazai's propping himself up on one elbow, a calculating smile plastered on his lips as if he were in on something you weren't. You pop open one eye, and groan softly.

"You're up... early"

"Yes!"

"Why..." You yawn like the silly little thing you are. He gasps in mock offense, clutching his chest.

"Can't a fortunate guy like ME just be happy that we both live to see another beautiful day?!"

He winks, and boops the tip of your nose, this gets a muffled snort out of you that causes you to bury your face into the pillow. He's addicted to the rush of causing any joy in your life, it's disgusting. When you don't lift your face back up, he scrunches up his face, and reaches out to stroke a strand of your silky hair, but his intrusive thoughts win and he tugs on it as payback for possibly falling asleep again. He needs your attention, and you're sleeping? Insanity. You swat at him, blindly smacking his arm away.

Oh, how he loves that you're the only person who truly sees him past his myriad of theatrics.

"Oh my... a slap from you feels wonderful!"

He rubs his arm, and grabs the hand that swatted him, bringing it up to kiss the pulse point on your wrist. Feather like kisses, almost undetectable... until you lift your face up from the pillow, finally.

He gazes at you as he rubs his face onto your hand like a cat greeting its owner, purring as if he were starved for affection. For a moment, his gaze becomes more serious, detached, as if he were thrown back into a distant memory. He can't describe the feeling, but the way your hand feels against his cheek is a warmth he hasn't felt in ages. His eyes sting, and he blinks the wetness away before you can notice as he hears your angelic voice again. He's back to his usual self.

"Osamu... You're being annoying"

"You think I'm just annoying?~"

His voice comes out in a tender whisper, his mouth curled up into a mischievous grin. He's insufferable. He could be anything for you if you wanted it. Especially annoying! He almost drools when you roll your eyes affectionately at him, the coldness in his heart disappears as he leans in just a little, invading your personal space as always, eager to hear your reply.

"Amongst other things, yes..."

You flash him a sweet little smile, and it mends all that is wrong in the world. The pink in your cheeks is starting to turn red, and it sends him to the moon. He hums, slowly nuzzling himself into the crook of your neck, it's his turn to curl up. You run your fingers through his messy hair that tickles you, feeling the warmth of Dazai's breaths against the back of your ear.

"Hmm, do I look like a pillow to you?"

He can hear the smile in your murmur, and he pulls back from your neck briefly, peering at you through his messy bangs, those intense hazelnut eyes demanding your attention, and his voice drips with an aching devotion that oozes like honey. he moves his lips to your ear, and whispers.

".. You look like an angel to me."

He watches you self destruct at his painfully smooth delivery of a compliment, and secretly rewards himself for once again giving you another reason to never leave. He's got it all!

Romance, self deprecating humor, an inability to properly process his emotions and grief, but more importantly, an undying commitment to stay alive against all odds so that he may see another day of you in his arms... or you helping him change his bandages... or-

He's cut short by you grabbing the sides of his face and pulling him into the most sinfully delicious kiss known to man, and he could swear that despite all his efforts, this might be what ACTUALLY kills him.

[thewickedjazzy]

Level 2: Senses [mirror sex] for Kinktober.

ᡣ𐭩soft dom! osamu dazai x afab! reader.

ᡣ𐭩Synopsis: an argument with dazai boils over, as he pushes you to your limits, proving with every touch that the café girl has nothing on you—or your trembling legs.

ᡣ𐭩Warnings: nsfw, 18+ mdni, smut with plot, soft dom! dazai, praise kink, mirror sex, power dynamics, mention of cum, rough sex, sweaty sex, slight bondage, aftercare...etc.

ᡣ𐭩Word count: 2.1k. animated dividers by @/toastray.

ᡣ𐭩-check Kink Coin to unlock bonus fics´-

“why do you let her hang all over you?” the words spill out before you can stop them, harsher than you intended. but you can't swallow them back. not when the frustration has been building for days.

you stand in the low-lit corner of dazai's bedroom, arms crossed tightly over your chest, staring him down. does he know? does he care? every time you see her at the café—fingers tracing the edge of his sleeve, her gaze shameless and sticky, like she’s entitled to every sliver of his attention—it sets something off inside you. something you hate to admit.

dazai stands a few paces away, his hands shoved into his pockets, staring at you like you’ve just accused him of something absurd. maybe you have. maybe you haven’t. “are you really this upset about her?” his voice is calm, too calm, and the restraint in his tone makes your stomach knot.

“shouldn’t i be?” you counter, feeling the heat rise to your face. your pulse pounds in your ears, “why do you let her act that way? why don’t you stop her?”

silence again. does he even have an answer? maybe he’s not bothered by it because it doesn’t mean anything to him. or maybe—maybe it means everything, and you’re the fool standing here, questioning him like it’s not eating you alive.

dazai tilts his head, his chocolate eyes studying you, and for a moment you wonder what’s going through his mind. is he amused? bored? does he think you’re being ridiculous? after all, neither of you has ever voiced your feelings for one another.

“and why does it bother you so much?” his voice lowers as he steps closer, the calmness giving way to exasperated disbelief. “do you really believe i’d choose her over you?”

his question stings. why is he turning this on you? isn't he the one who’s been too indifferent, too careless, always letting other women linger too close? you draw in a shaky breath, your heart tight in your chest. “you don’t push her away,” you say, voice wavering even though you try to steady it. “that’s why i think...” your words falter, caught in the knot of your throat. “It’s like... she has something i don’t. something you want.”

his laugh is soft, but it feels more like a sigh, like he’s disappointed you even think that. “what could she possibly have that you don’t?” he’s closer now, his fingers ghosting over your wrist, tugging you gently toward him. “no one else gets this close to me. not like you do.”

and there it is—proximity, his words, slipping through your defences like water through cracks in stone. you hate how easily he pulls you in, how effortlessly he makes your doubts feel small. but still, the question remains, the doubt stubborn.

“then why don’t you push her away?”

“because,” his grip tightens slightly, his thumb brushing across your pulse point. “you look so pretty when you're mad”

before you can respond, his hands move lower, tracing the outline of your waist slowly. he doesn’t smile, doesn’t smirk like you’d expect. instead, he leans in close, his breath ghosting over your ear as he speaks.

“you want me to prove it?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your neck, making your heartbeat quickens with every carefully chosen word. “you want me to show you why you never have to be jealous?”

you hate how easily he can always dissolve your anger with his touch, how your body betrays you, melting against his as he begins to undo the buttons of your shirt. the soft rustle of fabric is the only sound between you, each button undone pulling you further into the moment, despite the storm raging in your chest.

your shirt falls to the floor, leaving your bare breasts exposed to the cool air. his hands linger on your shoulders for a moment before sliding down your arms, his touch featherlight and you can’t help but shiver under his gaze, feeling his now dark chocolate eyes drink in every inch of you.

“look at me,” he says softly, though his tone is still soft enough to feel intimate. “god, look at how beautiful you are.”

he steps behind you now, guiding you toward the full-length mirror standing across from the bed, its antique frame intricately carved, reflecting both of you in the low amber light—his tall frame towering behind you, hands moving with a slow, possessive ease over your skin.

you swallow hard as his fingers trail over your bare shoulders, down the curve of your spine, before hooking into the waistband of your pants. his breath makes your skin tingle as he slowly pulls them down, leaving you completely exposed.

“do you think i’d touch her like this?”

why does this feel so good when you're still mad at him? the question echoes in your mind as you bite your lip, your eyes wandering to your reflection, seeking answers in your own gaze.

“you’ve always been mine,” he murmurs against your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below it. “no one else gets this close. no one else even gets a chance.”

his fingers trail down your arms, wrapping loosely around your wrists before letting go. you watch him through the mirror, your breath hitching as he pulls a strip of his familiar white bandages from his pocket.

you open your mouth to say something, but he’s already wrapping the bandage around your wrist, securing it with a tenderness that feels almost too intimate. his eyes meet yours in the reflection, his voice a soft hum. “this is what you don’t understand,” he whispers. “no woman in the world would ever get to see me like this. no one but you.”

he finishes wrapping one wrist and moves to the other, his touch is a soft, golden warmth, like the sun’s first rays after a cold night. “you’re the only one who gets to wear these,” he continues, his tone deeper now, more affectionate. “the only one who gets to see the parts of me that no one else does.”

once your wrists are bound, he slips them behind his neck, pulling you closer to him, your back pressed against his chest, the heat of his body seeping into yours. he holds you there, his fingers exploring the curves of your body, tracing the lines of your stomach, your breasts, teasingly moving lower and with a swift move, he slips off his pants and dress shirt, pressing his hard cock against your ass through his boxers.

“you feel that?” his voice is thick now, his lips brushing against the back of your neck. “that’s yours. i’m yours.”

you tilt your head back, gasping as his breath caresses your skin, mingling with the intoxicating scent of him. “mine?” you whisper, the word tasting unfamiliar yet invigorating on your tongue.

“every inch of me.” his fingers glide across your skin until it rests between your thighs, where you want him the most. you feel your breath catch in your throat, a jolt of ecstasy shooting straight to your core, fueling an overwhelming desire that wraps around your lower stomach.

his tongue teases your bottom lip while grinding his clothed, hard cock against your ass, lifting you slightly with one arm to press your back firmly against his chest, and he devours your mouth, hot soft tongue slipping in to tangle with yours, groaning deeply, utterly intoxicated by your taste.

“ ’sam—ahh-” your sentence got cut by his middle and ring finger dipping between your folds and leaving in an instant.

“fuh-kk” he hisses, “look at you so beautiful.” he tilts your gaze until it locks on the mirror. “never met anyone who’s as beautiful as you, look at your pretty face,” the brunet continues to rasp as his lips drag across your flesh, placing small kisses into the crook of your neck while pumping into your folds gently curling his long slender finger before pushing another one just to slightly brush them against your sweet spot, watching you with half-lidded lust drunk eyes in the mirror as you whimper in pleasure.

dazai groans, fumbling behind you as he hastily shoves down his boxers only to nudge his tip through your slick folds, fingers slip from your cunt to circle around slit to smudging both your juices with his precum, before he pushes deep inside you drawing a broken gasp from you in which he quickly silence pressing his slick-coated fingers between your pretty lips, knowing exactly what you're supposed to do. your tongue swirls around his digits, gladly tasting of both your arousals as you suck on his fingers, mind short-circuiting savouring your combined slick essence.

dazai keeps placing wet kisses along your neck and collarbone keeping your toes off the ground with both his arms placed under your breasts as he juts his cock deep inside you almost reaching your womb.

“umph—fuck..i love your tits,” he coos, catching your reflected gaze and watching how beautiful you look getting fucked by him, with both your arms tied behind his neck as he bounces you on his cock. his eyes lockes on your delicious breasts admiring how they jiggle with each thrust of his hips, “love how soft they are, how they bounce when i fuck you,”

“nngh—hah please- k-keep going fuck—yes mngh,” your eyes roll back, body is all numb by now, completely ignoring the sting in your arms, as all you can focus on is his brutal pace, feeling your slick run down your thighs.

“look at your pretty pussy yeah?—uh fuck-look how it sucks me in, so eager for my cock hmm? i could fuck you—ungh..all the time.” he growls between words, losing his mind, as you struggle to take him at this punishing fast speed.

“fuh-ck yes ’samu nghh, feels so good ahh right there—goddamnit ’m gonna cum gonna cum aah-” you're particularly screaming by now, legs trembling as he holds you tight against his chest and you can feel the droplets of his sweat sliding down your back, your breasts bouncing, eyes crossing in a blissed-out haze.

“yeah? you're gonna cum hmm? my pretty sweet girl is gonna cum? fuuck fuck..yes yes—squeeze me like that—ngh cum on my cock baby...c’mon give it to me.” he keeps chanting in your ears as his tip keeps assaulting your g-spot.

“y-yess—fuck ’samfff” your cry got muffled by his hungry kiss, tasting all of him, too brainless and fucked out to focus on the constant twitching of his cock between your spongy slick walls, hips snapping faster and faster, filling his bedroom with the filthy lewd noises of his balls slamming against your folds as he rides out his orgasm filling you with his thick ropes of white seeds.

your lips barely manage to form a muffled squeal against dazai's wet lips before pleasure shoots through your veins, toes curling from the intensity of your full body orgasm, body trembling and writhing, gushing all over his cock.

dazai finally pulls back slightly, breath unsteady only connected to you by a string of your swapped spit.

one of his hands presses against the mirror trying to steady himself as he catches his breath. he then pulls out of you letting your mixed arousal drool down your thighs and soak the wooden floor. he places a soft, wet kiss on your lips before releasing your wrists from behind his neck, allowing them to fall to your sides.

he gently lets your feet touch the floor, loosening his firm hold around your waist. but just as he's about to let go, you stumble instantly, your legs trembling as you nearly fall. “hey hey baby, you okay?” he quickly catches you again, pulling you close to him with a reassuring grip.

“y-yes just t-ired” you manage to breathe out.

in one smooth motion, he spins you around so you're facing him. “sorry, i might've overdone it a bit,” he teases, brushing a strand of hair away from your flushed face. his hands linger on your waist, keeping you close as your legs slowly regain strength.

“so,” he tilts his head as he leans down a bit, “do you still think I want that girl from the café?” he raises an eyebrow, watching for your reaction, clearly amused by the idea.

his fingers trail lightly up your sides, pulling you closer again as if to remind you exactly where his attention lies. “because, sweetheart,” he adds with a smirk, “if this hasn’t convinced you yet, i can still go for another round.”

TAGS: @a-smol-bean @violetbutterflix @amanoava @falloutjuli @embersweapons @warriordemigosworld @cathias @v15aexe @vasarii @pe4rl-diver @sukidenks @dazaifavbandage @chuuminn @fyodorsprettynun @ace-0fspades69 @irasamu @trippyserval @alyszuha @bittysuguro @writingandmusing @corruptedwrathkitsune @thedamselzelda

[dearmegumi]

through the night | multi

an : will proof read later!!! js felt like getting something out to help me w writers block . i also realize im actuallya sucker for fics abt sleeping i gen cant get enough of them

hot. summer. night. the kind of summer night where the air is so thick, warm, and heavy it feels like a blanket you didn’t ask for.

you have been drifting in an out of a light sleep for who knows how long. sleep just brushes past you, teasing, slipping through your fingers every time you start to fall. the heat that clung to your skin was constantly reminding you of its maddening presence that you can’t seem to escape.

in your drowsy haze, you make out the slow shifting and steady breath of him behind you, who has somehow—beyond your understanding—managed to fall into a deep sleep hours ago. he’s now curled around you, his body pressed tight to yours, arm draped over your stomach like a lazy claim. you can feel the calm rise and fall of his chest against your back, his face burying itself in your hair.

“baby, ‘s too hot.” you murmur, your body attempting to inch away from his.

“move the blanket.” he murmurs back, his voice scratchy with sleep and the possibility of his hands leaving you not once crossing his sleepy mind.

a quiet groan escapes you. he kisses the curve of your neck. you envy him for his ability to sleep through the summer like he was built for it.

“you’re gonna cook me alive,” you mutter, though you don’t pull away this time. neither does he. instead, he chuckles softly, already sounding like he’s about to doze off again. his thumb grazes your skin comfortingly.

“i sleep better like this.” he whispers languidly, his lips gently brushing against your nape as his body relaxes and his breath begins to steady once more. he’s asleep.

and with that, you stay. the air is still heavy, the heat is still present, but your breathing steadies as well. and your eyelids grow heavy. and the last thing you feel is the tender brushing of his fingers on your side. and, finally—you sleep. for good this time.

— enjin, gris rubion, follo tunito, august stilza — sero hanta, kaminari denki — itadori yuuji, takuma ino, satoru gojo, suguru geto — kuroo tetsuro, atsumu miya, osamu miya, hinata shoyo, iwaizumi hajime, nishinoya yuu

[vanilladove]

hi vani!!! turning anon bc im shy … i feel like school really gets to us in winter months and i hope you’re doing well <3 since im in a fever rn can i request dazai taking care of a sick reader? (either nsfw or sfw is okay!) thank you luv ･ᴗ･

⋆｡‧˚ʚ pairing: dazai osamu x sick!gn!reader

⋆｡‧˚ʚ genre: heartwarming fluff

⋆｡‧˚ʚ content warnings: alcohol mentions; anon i hope ur sickness has been long cured >:T

⋆｡‧˚ʚ word count: 1.7k

"Bella, are you still alive?" You heard the door open as your boyfriend's voice echoed faintly throughout your shared apartment. You groaned in response, pulling the warm covers over yourself.

You hated it⎯your fever made you either uncontrollably hot or freezing cold, and you had no strength to do anything. A fever. You didn't even realize how bad it was until you started to feel lightheaded on your walk home from work and couldn't stop coughing and sneezing. When the thermometer read 101, you couldn't believe your misfortune, and you immediately went to go tell Dazai.

Of course he only cooed with sympathy, promising to take care of you (definitely not as an excuse to leave early from the ADA).

"Hellooooo..." He quickly opened the door to your bedroom and lazily threw his tan trench coat over your chair. With his hands in his pockets, he leaned over your resting frame, standing over the side of the bed. His chocolate brown locks hung over your face, and you blushed in embarrassment, sure that you looked like an absolute mess.

"How are you feeling? Like you're on your deathbed?" You scoffed at that, not in the mood for his witty comments, but a cough quickly left your throat and you turned to the side, facing away from Dazai.

"Like shit..." You coughed again. "I took a hot shower earlier, but the steam almost made me pass out." You sniffled, sure that your hair was all frizzy from your frequent tossing and turning.

"Ah, really?" He slowly crawled onto the bed and dug his nose into your nape to place a gentle kiss, sighing softly, "That explains why the room smells so nice⎯it's just like your shampoo~"

Your cheeks heated up under his touch and he leaned forward to cradle your warm face. You tried to move away, but he only stared at you intensely as he inched closer, crawling one step⎯

"Ow! Bella!" Dazai jumped off the bed suddenly, holding his knee, and ripping off the linen comforter. You tried to swat his hands off it, but his abrupt motions revealed your laptop and textbooks underneath.

"What?! I can't believe you⎯"

"No!" You gathered all your things quickly and clutched them tightly to your striped pajamas. "I-It's finals week! I have three exams coming up, and I have to study for them! I can't afford to get a bad grade!"

Dazai only looked at you in disbelief, his brown eyes cutting glares into your irises, "Seriously! You're sick! Give yourself a break!" Before you could object any further, he dramatically scooped your belongings out of your arms and placed them on your desk. You tried to reach for them, but he only blocked your way, holding a palm out to block you from moving forward.

Trying to lower his guard, you intertwined your hand with his and tried to plead with him, but you were again cut off when he instead pulled you forward and threw you over his shoulder. You yelped from the shift in gravity and tried to fight back by tapping on his back and kicking your feet, but it was useless. You always forgot how Dazai's tall, lean frame contrasted with his actual strength.

Humming carelessly and ignoring your cries to be released, he slowly walked to the living room and gently placed you upright on the sofa, securing you tightly with a dark blue blanket and placing a cream pillow behind your back for support.

"Dazaiiiiii, you're being mean." You whined, grabbing some tissues to blow your nose.

He crossed his arms in annoyance, "Well you aren't taking care of yourself properly. So I have to be mean." You rolled your eyes and tried to get up, but Dazai only pushed you back again and kept a firm grip on your shoulders, "Nuh uh, you aren't allowed to get up. Especially not to go back to study." He pulled out the key to your bedroom door and swung it in front of you, taunting you, "And don't even think about trying to sneak away because I locked it."

You groaned in dismay, not sure where the sudden urge to become your caretaker came from.

"Got it, bella?"

Still being stubborn, you only huffed, "Stop telling me what to do, idiot. You don't even take proper care of yoursel⎯"

The loud grumbling of your stomach interrupted you, and you could tell Dazai was about to start laughing at you like you didn't just prove his point.

"Haha, yeah, I bet you haven't even eaten a solid meal yet. Sit down. And stay there⎯I'm making you food." He had his signature condescending grin on his face, and you didn't want to look at it, so you dug your face into the pillow and closed your eyes, grumbling some minor curses at your lover as he giggled and walked away to turn on the stove.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆

"Angel, wake up, your food's ready." You felt the gentle touch of Dazai's fingers as you stirred awake, eyelids feeling weighed down by exhaustion, but you nuzzled into his palms reflexively.

"So tired...mmm...." You mumbled as you intertwined your fingers with Dazai's hand again, trying to hold onto his warmth. He brushed softly above your brow bone and kissed your forehead, his light chuckles vibrating against your skin.

Your eyes crept open again as you felt the blanket shift and a pair of bandage-wrapped arms pull you against a steady back. He tucked some flyaway strands behind your ear and handed you an olive-colored ceramic mug. "Don't worry, I'll feed you."

You smiled to yourself, letting out a quiet 'thanks' before sipping on the warm liquid in the cup. You cringed when you felt an astringent bitter taste attack your taste buds. "A-Ack," you coughed, "It's too strong⎯" Dazai's eyes widened in surprise as he snatched the cup away from your hands.

"Oh, that's my warm sake. Here, take your tea." He flashed you an innocent smile and he swiftly replaced the identical mugs and childishly laughed.

You flicked his forehead gently, "Seriously, did you come back early because you were worried about me, or because you just wanted to day drink?" You exhaled, side-eyeing Dazai from your peripheral. He only swatted his hand dismissively, pulling you closer with the coy cattish grin still on his face.

"What kind of a question is that? Obviously I came back to see you as soon as you sent me the photo of the thermometer reading. It just coincidentally happened to be in the middle of an assignment from Kunikida...but you always come first." You sighed, already anticipating an angry voicemail from his strict counterpart.

But you always come first.

You decided you'd scold your lover later and cuddled deeper into his embrace. He pet the top of your head before grabbing the miso soup from the table and taking a spoonful of it. He blew on the spoon to cool the soup down before bringing it to your slightly chapped lips. After you finished it, he looked down to kiss your temple. "How is it? Good? Not too salty?"

Rose dusted your cheeks and the back of your neck again as you shook your head affirmatively, "Mmm, it's perfect." Dazai smiled while bringing up another warm spoonful.

"Yeah? Then make sure you eat it all, okay?" You nodded, but he kept going, "You need to eat well if you wanna recover your strength. I'm sure pulling too many all nighters is how you got this fever in the first place." You looked back at him again, but he nudged your face back with another kiss to your temple, "What classes are you studying so hard for, anyways? You know you can always ask me to help you."

As much as you wanted him to stop, you knew he was right. Even though you advanced pretty fast through school, your intellect could never quite rival Dazai's. He could easily teach you a subject in a week better than your professors.

You turned back and tried to flash puppy eyes at him, "Will you take my exams for me then? I can buy you a wig and lend you some of my clothes."

"Very funny, angel, very funny...I'll make you an outline, though."

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆

After you finished eating, you napped in Dazai's arms while he completed his abandoned report (Kunikida did end up calling and was in fact quite upset). When you woke up again, Dazai was tucking you back into your actual bed and changed into pajamas to snuggle in with you. He peppered kisses along your face and neck and stroked your hair gently, the nutty aroma of the warm sake comforting you.

He gave you some fever reducer and cough drops to help you finish your tea and held you close in his arms, although he was more focused on watching over you than sleeping.

You looked up at his tranquil face, "Dazai, aren't you worried you'll get sick too from being so close to me?" He watched you playfully, propped up on his hand with his elbow bent at an angle.

"Hmmmm...not really. My body's been through a lot worse than a little fever, so I'm basically immune." You shot him an unconvinced look, "Plus, worst-case scenario, Yosano can always use her ability to heal me."

"Isn't that taking advantageous of her though? I feel like a fever's not worth that kind of effort..."

"Ahhh, I guess you're right...I guess I just have to stay with you then, and we can try out a different soup and tea combo until you recover...Hopefully everyone will be fine if I miss work for a few days." He flashed you an innocent yet mischievous smile.

"That's not..." Dazai pulled you closer into his arms and traced the outline of your lips lightly, exhaling before catching them with his and pulling you into a deep kiss, one hand around your waist and the other pushing the back of your head into the kiss.

"I love you. I love you so much that I'd always take care of you, even though neither of us can do it for ourselves..."

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You woke up in the morning from sudden repeated noises. Yawning, you paid more attention to hear...the thermometer beeping and Dazai sniffling?

"101...seriously..." Dazai groaned, opening a capsule of medicine.

You flipped over, squinting at him, "Hey, Dazai, don't tell me you got a fever from me..."

"..."

"..."

[with-my-calamitous-love]

I CHOOSE YOU AND ME, RELIGIOUSLY

osamu dazai x reader

thoughts about how dazai would treat you

same premise as the chuuya + atsushi ver

inspired by guilty as sin

osamu dazai, who doesn’t really know how to love. you confuse him and challenge the equations in his head. who is a mystery to everyone, even himself. who is sure that nothing will fill his heart. who is easy to approach, but hard to love.

osamu dazai, who wonders if he’s allowed to cry. if he’s allowed to show any real emotion behind the walls and bandages he’s put up. who wonders if he- an absolute vile monster of a man- is allowed to love you. who wonders if he deserves anything more than death for what he’s done, for the demon he still thinks he is.

osamu dazai, who still tries to be a good man. who takes the words of his former friend to heart. who wonders when he’ll deserve to love. who wonders when he’s considered good enough to love you. who is usually so smart, so calculated, and so thoughtful, and who is at an embarrassing loss for words when it comes to you.

osamu dazai, who decides he’ll bet against the universe once again. who throws his life to the wolves and the ocean rocks if it means getting to hold you. who treats you like gold, whispering words into your ear he would never dare to speak to anyone else. “you’re not my first kiss, my first time, or even my first ‘i love you’ but you are the first person who made living seem possible for me.”

osamu dazai, who prefers to be alone. who knows thats what makes you different, because for the first time ever, he craves your presence. he wants you in his lap while he reads, who actively pulls you towards him when he sleeps, who kisses your knuckles before leaving for a mission, who returns to engulf you in his embrace when he steps into a home. who actually thinks of his apartment as a home when you’re in it.

osamu dazai, who everyone thinks is a womanizer, but is secretly a gentlemen. who knows chivalry like its his first language. who always opens to the door for you, slips his hand around your waist like a puzzle piece, who zips up all your clothes for you, who presses kisses underneath your ear while he’s at it, who reads you poetry, who teases you because he can’t help but love the way you turn pink, who somehow manages to keep the flowers he buys for you alive for longer, who knows everything about you, and who lets you decode his soul.

osamu dazai, who wants you to know him as well as he knows you. who tells you about his past, about his wrongdoings, about odasaku. who swears that the most human he has ever felt was when he was looking at you. who can’t fathom how you’re real. who lets you see whats under his bandages. how his heart swells when you kiss each one.

osamu dazai, who makes chuuya promise him to protect you should anything ever happen to him. who can’t stand the thought of you leaving, even though death was such a common feeling for him in his life. who tells chuuya you’re his everything, and trusts him to look after you. who can’t imagine another man ever loving you, but knows that chuuya is a man of promises, and will not let anyone touch a hair on your head once he’s gone.

osamu dazai, who thinks of you as way to die. who takes one look at you and recalls things that haven’t even happened yet. late nights, messy kisses, promises, families, embraces, heaven, sin, unraveling, scars, loving not despite but because. who’s heart is so full of you he can barely call it his own anymore.

osamu dazai, who thinks that even if its all make belief, and if he’s simply made you up, he’ll uphold his vows anyway. he’ll still come home to you with a kiss to your forehead. he’ll still always give you his jacket when you even slightly shiver. he’ll still read to you his favourite poetry, tell you his secrets and watch how you love him anyway. he thinks that even if you aren’t real, he’ll love you like his favourite storybook.

osamu dazai, who knows the world will crucify him anyway. who knows he’ll likely pay for what he’s done at some point. who knows the universe will catch up to him soon, even though he’s trying to be better. who thinks its okay if he gets what he deserves, even if its death, because he’s already seen heaven just by kissing you. who thinks that way you hold him is spiritually holy, who lets you haunt him stunningly. he vows to find you in another life, one where he can deserve you. a life where he an love you with no limits. who knows he’ll choose you, always.

[ranpazz]

ARE YOU DEATH OR PARADISE? ft. Dazai Osamu

synopsis ; He thought he could prevent your inevitable death. How foolish he was to believe that he'd succeed where he failed in every world.

cw ; beast!zai, character death, angst/no comfort, gn!reader, not proofread (it's me.), someone needs to take Billie Ellish away from me.

Death.

Humans fear two things. The inevitable, and what they dont know. The first thing is what most humans tend to try and avoid, knowing that it's impossible. Some fear it, some wish for it. To Dazai, it was something that he felt the duality of. He feared it– only when it prayed and caught onto those he cherished most, yet he wished for it to the point it was not sane.

In this world, the very one he fabricated every tiny detail down to the wire, he assured himself that nothing could truly avoid his watchful eye. He even brought you along with him to ensure that fact. You're something precious, possibly even otherworldly, to Dazai, even in the realities that he's a mere spectator of. The memories of you that plague his mind like flies swarming food.

He wanted to believe that, even just for a moment, you were his. That you didn't belong to the versions of him from another world– you were solely his. Dazai protected you, he has the resources in this world to save you from the very fate that found you in every universe– death. You were supposed to be safe. You were not supposed to be lost. This wasn't supposed to happen again. Then again, Dazai knew better.

So why did he hope that you were any different?

Why did he believe that when he witnessed you die on the CCTV footage, killed by a threat greater than himself, you were merely playing a game? Why did he, for once, pray to a God that this was not the horrid reality it was meant to be? Why was life so far away from fair, taking away the only string of sanity that kept him going in this world?

It was simple, really. He was Dazai Osamu. Everything he wants is lost the moment he obtains it.

Which led him here, hovering over your body, clutching you tightly in his grasp as if you'd vanish the moment he let you go. He was trembling, your blood was staining his hands, tainting the bandages he wore a deep shade of scarlet. Dazai had never cried before, but he could feel his tear ducts stinging, his vision blurring.

Chuuya’s shouts were ignored, all Dazai could focus on was how at peace you looked. Your hair was disheveled, yet it framed your face with the upmost delicacy, your lifeless eyes were closed, thick lashes mocking him, causing him to ponder that you might just be toying with him. Unfortunately, the lack of a heartbeat in your ribs, the paleness of your skin, and the way no air entered nor left your body, said otherwise.

The pages of that godforsaken book tunneled his vision, the sentences that spelt out your death tantalizing him. He knows, so stop it. Stop reminding him of what he lost. Dazai knew he was reckless, stupid for bringing you into this life when he should have left you alone. He should have learned from those other versions him that it's best not to become attached. The original version learned from Oda, so how come he just had not learned his lesson from you?

It could have been that he did not want to accept the truth of your demise. You had loved him so tenderly, accepted every one of his flaws, remained patient with him no matter what occurred. You were practically his safe-haven in each universe. Maybe it was your understanding that led him to forgetting the reason why he told himself to stay away. Or possibly it was the sheer love that he refused to acknowledge until the last minute.

.

.

In the next life, he'll try again. You'll stay safe, you'll stay alive. He'll do whatever it takes for you to stay by his side.

Next time, he'll do things differently.

divider by @kodaswrld

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

The Beggar Student by Dazai Osamu

"I could feel the hands of fate upon me. I'd been caught. In his heart of hearts, the student is a thirty-two-year-old drunken poet."

"Not even the wisest reader knows the anguish of the writer who has sent a truly awful piece of writing to a magazine in order to survive. Here goes nothing, I told myself, pushing that heavy envelope into the mailbox. It hit the bottom with a thunk. And that was that. Another crummy story. On the surface, it pretends to be a mirror to my soul, although I know as well as anyone the slimy worms of compromise are wriggling in the muck at the bottom. It's a work in which the work is far from done. ... It makes me so ashamed I want to scream and run around in circles. I promise you, it's terrible. A lousy piece of trash. I have no right to call myself a writer. Such is my ignorance. No insights to impart. No illuminating views."

"I wish I could just cut my belly open and let all of the words come spilling out. No matter if it's gibberish, as long as it's my flesh and blood doing the talking."

"My work will disgrace bookstore windows all across the land. Critics will sneer; readers will give up. That hack writer has outdone himself again, they'll say, setting a low bar for writers everywhere. Tough to beat."

"I'll have you know, I may look like an ass, but I'm not a total moron, and when I say I lack conviction, I only mean it relative to my own high standards."

"You ought to try this out sometime, dear reader. Sit yourself down on the sofa of a coffee shop or bar, facing the fireplace beside the madam of the house, so that both of you are staring at the flames, and talk as if you're speaking to the fire - I promise, up against even the dullest mind, you'll be able to sustain a lively conversation for hour after hour. But take heed, reader: you must not look into each other's eyes, not even once."

"I couldn't shut up if I tried. The only way I can stand being alive is if I'm playing the buffoon."

"One might call reason the glue that holds society together. In that sense, the order we enjoy is artificial, but we need this artifice if we want to go on living."

"Even if I feel bad for a person, I'm certain of the cold hard fact that I can't do anything for them, which leaves me feeling even worse."

"Growing up, I found the name incredibly embarrassing, so despite being a string bean, I've been publishing as Osamu Dazai, a name that makes me sound like a street fighter who might break your neck."

"...This guy's a good person. Not egotistical like you." "Hold on," I said, bristling at being labeled a good person. "I'm plenty egotistical..."

"When something pushes me over the brink of fear, I have a nasty tendency to begin laughing like an idiot. A disturbing, wild laugh. I lose control, can't hold it in. An expression not of brazenness, but extreme cowardice that takes me to the limits of delirium."

"Truth is that grownups are the same as kids, except a little worse for wear. Kids ask a lot from grownups, but grownups ask at least as much from kids. It's a real mess. But it's the truth. We count on you to hold it all together. ...To put it gently, we're always one step away from being overwhelmed. To put it harshly, we're all babies who cant' take a word of criticism."

"Next time life gets you down, curl up in a blanket in your rented room and open a good book."

[moomuzan]

I⃣   M⃣   P⃣   O⃣   S⃣   T⃣   E⃣   R⃣

༘⋆CHARA. — dazai , chuuya , akutagawa

༉‧TAGS — angst , gender neutral

ੈ INFO — you have been an imposter, all this time. 2.0k

➶ ˚A/N — i think my fav angst prompt is betrayal

DAZAI stared at you as if you’d plunged a knife straight into his chest. You looked the same—same eyes, same soft features, the same mouth that had whispered his name in the dark. But now those eyes were cold, your face void of the warmth he’d come to cherish.

“What’s wrong, Osamu?” you asked, tilting your head, your tone eerily neutral. “You look pale.”

For the first time in years, Dazai was speechless. His mind raced, piecing together every moment you’d shared, every kiss, every teasing word, and weighing it against the bitter truth now staring him in the face. You were standing there, right in front of him, but you felt like a stranger—a perfect stranger who had somehow slipped under his skin and made him believe in things he had long abandoned.

“You’re joking,” he said finally, his voice shaky, barely above a whisper. “This isn’t real. You’re lying.”

His words hung in the air, brittle and broken, the weight of them almost suffocating. He couldn't comprehend the stark shift, the coldness in your eyes. His pulse hammered in his chest as he tried to steady himself, to make sense of the impossible.

Your lips curled into a faint smirk, but it wasn’t your smile—it was cruel, mocking. It wasn’t you. “It’s real, Dazai,” you said simply, your voice devoid of any warmth. “I was never who you thought I was.”

The words hit him like a slap to the face, sending a jolt through him. His chest tightened painfully, his heart pounding against his ribs as the truth began to seep in, dark and heavy. Every whispered promise, every touch that made him feel like he was alive again—all of it was nothing more than a lie, a carefully crafted illusion.

“No,” he muttered, his breath shaky as he struggled to hold on to some semblance of reality. “No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say that everything—” His voice cracked, raw with desperation. “Everything we had was fake.”

Your silence was answer enough. The cold, impenetrable silence that echoed louder than any words could.

“Don’t take it so personally,” you said, your tone flat, emotionless. “You were just a target.”

Just a target.

The words rang in his ears, cutting deeper than any blade. Dazai’s hands twitched at his sides, his breath hitching as he fought to keep the tears from spilling. The sting of those words hit him in places he didn’t know still existed—deep, raw, and aching. He thought of the way you’d tease him, the way your fingers would trace the scars on his body as you’d murmur, “You’re more than the darkness in your past, Osamu.” He thought of the way you’d kiss him so fiercely it made him believe, even for a moment, that he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

He could still feel your touch, the way your hands would linger just a second longer than necessary, as if you were trying to fix the pieces of him that had long been shattered. He could hear your voice in his head, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the coldness now consuming him.

Now it was all crumbling, the illusion shattering before his eyes, leaving only jagged remnants of what had once felt like love.

“You were the only good thing I had,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he looked at you, his hands trembling. “And you—” His breath hitched. “You’re not even real.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t react at all.

“I’ll see you around, Dazai,” you said coolly, your words cutting through him like a knife. Your voice was flat, distant, as if the person he had once known was nothing more than a faded memory. Without another word, you turned on your heel and began to walk away.

He didn’t stop you. He couldn’t. His body felt like it was made of stone, the weight of his disbelief holding him in place as you walked out the door. He felt hollow, like a shell left behind, unable to grasp the reality of what had just happened.

When the door clicked shut behind you, Dazai let out a strangled laugh, a sound devoid of any true humor. His knees buckled, the world tilting beneath him as he sank to the floor. His hands, once steady and composed, now trembled uncontrollably. He stared at the empty room, the walls closing in on him, his chest heaving as if he were gasping for air in a place where there was none. He buried his face in his hands, the overwhelming sense of loss crashing over him in waves.

The moment you told him the truth, CHUUYA ‘s world tilted on its axis. You stood before him, arms crossed, your expression unreadable, as if you hadn’t just gutted him with your words.

“Say that again,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. His gloved hands twitched at his sides, his blood boiling with barely contained rage.

“I was never yours, Chuuya,” you said simply, your voice calm, detached. “Everything we had—it was just a game.”

He took a step back, his chest heaving as your words sank in. His heart felt like it was being ripped in two, the pain radiating through him in waves. The floor beneath him seemed to tilt as though the ground were giving way. “You’re lying,” he said sharply, shaking his head, his eyes widening in disbelief. “You’re just messing with me. You do this all the time, playing games, teasing me—”

“This isn’t a game,” you interrupted, your tone cutting through his words like a knife. “This was never a game.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, the room fell silent. The air around him felt heavy, suffocating, as if time had slowed to a crawl. Chuuya’s hands clenched into fists, a sign of the rage barely contained within him. He thought of the nights you’d spent tangled in each other, the way you’d laugh as you’d pull his hat off and run your fingers through his hair, the way you’d tease him until he’d growl and kiss you to shut you up.

The memories, once sweet, now felt like daggers lodged deep in his chest. His head swam with a mixture of anger and confusion. How could he have been so blind?

“How could you do this to me?” he asked finally, his voice trembling. It wasn’t just the anger—it was the pain. He was shaking, trying to hold on to some semblance of dignity, but it was slipping through his fingers like sand.

“It was never about you,” you replied coldly, your voice void of any emotion. “It was about the job.”

The job.

The words felt like a slap to his face, a cruel reminder of how little he had truly meant to you. Chuuya let out a bitter laugh, his head tilting back as he ran a hand through his hair. He could feel the heat of his anger rising, mixing with a deep sense of betrayal that tore through him. “The job, huh?” he muttered, his voice thick with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “You played me. The whole time, you were just pretending.”

You didn’t deny it.

There was nothing but cold silence in the air as you stood there, your gaze unwavering. You didn’t flinch, didn’t try to comfort him. You were a stranger now—someone who had worn a mask, someone who had used him for their own ends. Chuuya’s fists trembled at his sides, his jaw clenching so hard it felt like his teeth would crack.

When you turned to leave, Chuuya stood frozen, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His mind screamed for him to stop you, to grab your arm and demand an explanation—anything to make sense of what had just shattered around him. But his body wouldn’t move. The words stuck in his throat, the weight of them too heavy to push out. He felt like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing under the strain of his own helplessness.

The door slammed shut behind you, and the silence that followed was deafening. Chuuya stood there for a moment longer, staring at the empty space where you had just been. The world felt distant, as though he was no longer part of it. Slowly, his legs gave way, and he sank to the floor, his head falling into his hands. The rawness of it hit him like a freight train. The weight of your betrayal crashed down on him all at once, suffocating him.

“You’re not real,” AKUTAGAWA said quietly, his voice trembling as he stared at you. His pale hands shook at his sides, and his normally stoic face was twisted in anguish. “You never were.”

You met his gaze, your expression cold, detached, unfeeling. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for,” you said simply, your words sharp and cutting.

His chest tightened painfully at your words, a weight pressing against his ribs so hard he thought he might stop breathing. The betrayal hit him like a tidal wave, suffocating and relentless. “Why?” he demanded, his voice rising despite the tremor in it. “Why would you do this?”

“Because it was necessary,” you replied, your tone flat, as if his pain was insignificant. You took a step back, your posture calm, calculated. “You were a tool, Akutagawa. Nothing more.”

A tool.

The word echoed in his mind, louder and louder, until it felt like his skull might split apart. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with suppressed fury and heartbreak as Rashomon stirred behind him, lashing out violently against the walls in his frustration. The room quaked faintly under the force of his emotions, but he didn’t care. All he could focus on was you—your coldness, your detachment, the way you stood before him like none of it mattered.

“A tool?” he repeated, his voice cracking. He looked at you with wide, disbelieving eyes, his breath uneven as if he were fighting to hold himself together. “You used me?”

“Did you really think it was real?” you asked, your tone mocking, each word a dagger plunged deeper into his chest.

He thought of the way you’d hold his face between your hands, your touch so gentle it had made him believe he was worth something more than his brutality. He thought of the way you’d kiss his scars, each touch a promise that he wasn’t just a monster, that he wasn’t defined by his violence or his loyalty to Dazai. He thought of the nights you’d murmur to him in the dark, telling him he deserved more than the pain that had shaped him. And now, all of it—all of it—felt like a cruel joke.

“Why?” he asked again, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I trusted you,” he whispered, his voice trembling as tears burned in his eyes. “I—” His breath hitched, his chest heaving with the effort to keep himself together. “I let you in.”

Your silence was deafening. You didn’t flinch, didn’t falter, didn’t even meet the raw emotion in his eyes. It was as if his pain didn’t matter, as if none of it ever had.

When you finally turned and walked away, Akutagawa didn’t follow. He couldn’t. His legs felt like they’d turned to stone, his body rooted in place as if moving might shatter him completely. His shoulders began to tremble, and his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood. The pain felt distant compared to the gaping wound you’d left in him.

Behind him, Rashomon flared uncontrollably, tearing into the walls around him as his emotions spilled out in violent waves. The room cracked and crumbled, debris falling in jagged pieces, but he barely noticed. His vision blurred, his breaths uneven and labored as he fought against the suffocating emptiness you’d left in your wake.

He thought he’d known pain before—pain from rejection, pain from failure, pain from his relentless quest to prove himself. But this? This was unbearable. This was something deeper, something raw and ugly that clawed at his very soul, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out. For the first time in his life, Akutagawa felt truly powerless.

[ravencincaide]

Foot in Your Mouth

Summary: You feel off, scared and confused leaving you with no choice but to go behind Dazai's back. Just in and out to confirm your suspicions. Unfortunately for you, you run into someone who has other ideas..

Pairing: Mafia! Osamu Dazai x Fem! Reader  Author Note. This is Part 3 to: If only you'd hold my hand and continuation of Flowers Work count: 1.9K Warning: Dark content including angst, mention of pregnancy & abortion, cursing and toxic relationship. You've been warned, And with those words: Enjoy!

You felt off.

Not the kind of off that could be chalked up to unfamiliar food or jet lag. No, this was different—more like the creeping unease of morning sickness, the kind that made your mind scream ‘pregnant’ rather than just ‘upset stomach’. 

But you refused to entertain that idea. At least, not at first.

The microscopic chance—a sliver of hope tangled with existential dread—wasn’t something you wanted to acknowledge. It was a can of worms you weren’t ready to open. 

Yet, as the days dragged on, and you found yourself hunched over the toilet every morning, skipping dinners because the faintest scent of wrong food suddenly sent your stomach churning, you couldn’t ignore the facts any longer. The pills you’d taken had failed. The abortion hadn’t worked. You were back in the same predicament as before

—no, worse. You corrected yourself grimly. You weren’t in the same predicament. You were in France, where abortion laws were stricter than in Japan. Without the mafia’s influence to bend the rules. You were ridiculously, powerlessly ordinary.And if that wasn’t distressing enough, you were a week closer to the due date.

A week closer to the point of no return. A blessing and a curse-But what if you were wrong? What if this was just food poisoning, and your overactive imagination was blowing it out of proportion? 

You couldn’t tell Dazai. Not yet.

 You couldn’t get his hopes up only to shatter them again. You couldn’t ruin this vacation, not when your relationship was finally rebuilding—when the cold ‘obligation’ was slowly being replaced with a familiar warmth. You couldn’t shatter your glimmer of hope like that. 

“Oi, Donna, you okay in there?” Dazai’s voice cut through your thoughts, followed by a sharp rap of knuckles on the bathroom door. He didn’t wait for an answer before calling again, “Checkout’s in an hour. Hey, you alive in there?” 

“Sorry,” you called back, your voice strained as you raised your head from the toilet bowl. The remnants of breakfast stared back at you, a rancid reminder of your condition. “I’m not in any shape to go anywhere. I know you were looking forward to that book signing—you even brought your own copy—but I don’t think I can handle a three-hour car ride and two hours in line.” 

Dazai knocked again, harder this time, his impatience bleeding through the door, an unmistakable demand to be let in and assess your condition himself. Unlock the door Donna 

You ignored the unspoken demand, trying to divert his attention. “Maybe you should go alone? It’d be a shame to miss it when you’ve been looking forward to it so much.” When it sounded like he was about to break the door down, you added, “Besides, I’m not much fun right now. I’ll just stay here and sleep this off. And if you go, you’ll have less chance of catching whatever stomach bug this is.” 

The urgent rapping slowed, then stopped altogether. Dazai let out a long, heavy sigh—the kind that sent a pang of guilt straight to your heart. “I’ll see if we can extend the hotel room,” he said, his tone dejected. “Then I’ll pick up some meds and dinner on the way back.” You heard him shuffling around the room, followed by the sound of a phone call.

You couldn’t hear what was said; and not knowing was killing you. The bundle of anxiety growing until- 

 “I’ll see you after the book signing. Call me if something happens. Remember, it’s important we make decisions together, Donna.” 

A few moments later, the door opened and slammed shut. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. Maddening. Infuriating. You thought the anxiety would fade but without Dazai it grew ten times worse. It pressed down on you like a weight, leaving you alone with your spiraling thoughts. The cold tiles dug into your knees, the stench of vomit filled your nostrils, and the nausea refused to relent. Each breath felt heavy, each thought darker than the last. 

What if you were wrong? What if this was just a nasty bug from that shabby crepe stand? But what if you weren’t wrong? What if you had to make the decision all over again? The thought of bringing a child into this chaos—of being a single parent with Dazai’s barely-there presence, or worse, his cruel disregard—was.. scary. A single parent in a ‘partnership’. This vacation had been wonderful, but it didn’t erase the days of solitude you’d endured back at the mafia hideout. You were naive enough to believe he still loved you, but not naive enough to think he changed. 

Twenty minutes. 

Twenty agonizing minutes passed as you stared at the ugly orange-and-blue tile patterns on the bathroom walls, trying to decide what to do. To ignore the possibility and keep stressing, or to face it head-on. The good or the bad. The hopeful or the life-shattering. 

The phone felt heavy in your hand as you scrolled through your contacts, stopping at the number of the doctor who’d prescribed the abortion pills. The dial button felt hard to press, but you pressed it anyway, ignoring the bile rising in your throat and the frantic pounding of your heart. 

The doctor answered on the second ring, his greeting cut short as you blurted out, “I think the abortion pills didn’t work!” 

A long, startled silence followed before he cleared his throat awkwardly “ Well, it is possible the pills didn’t take,” he said cautiously, “but I can’t confirm that without an examination. I’m at a medical conference in France for another week, but I can have my assistant—” 

“Give me the address,” you interrupted. When he hesitated, you added, “Are you sure you want to say no to the Port Mafia?” 

“...The address will be texted to you shortly.” 

You swore you were only going for a medical exam—to confirm or deny your suspicions—and then you’d call Dazai. After all, you didn’t want to disturb his book signing over something minor. 

He’d skin you alive for it!

But as you stepped into the small, private clinic on the outskirts of the city, the lack of lights, patients, or staff set off alarm bells. The place felt abandoned, and the phone call replayed in your mind. How had the doctor known it was you calling? Was he always this ‘eager’ to help at the mention of the Port Mafia? And when did ‘away on a conference in another country’, equate to clinic available at your doctors beck and call? Especially one as isolated, shabby and half-abandoned as this one looked? Or was this a standard for reproductive care in France?’

If this was a setup, you delivered yourself on a silver platter.

“Hello?” you called out, approaching the empty lobby desk. The corridors on either side were lined with closed doors, giving the place the eerie feel of a cheesy horror movie. Again, you wished Dazai were here. Despite his condescending tone and jabs at your “scaredy-cat” tendencies, he was was a skilled fighter, and more than skilled with a gun. 

Movement from the right corridor caught your attention, and you headed in that direction, hoping to find the doctor or at least a nurse. In and out, you told yourself. Just get checked, confirm or deny your suspicions, and get back to the hotel before anyone—least of all Dazai—noticed you were gone. 

“Eh, you really don’t have any self-preservation instincts, do you?” 

You spun around. You hadn’t heard the door open or the sound of polished shoes stepping into the corridor. But there he was, his hat, gloves, and the unmistakable stench of cigars, blood, and whiskey told you who it was without needing to his face —Chuuya Nakahara.

“Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised that the bastard’s bedmate has the same death wish as him,” Chuuya said, a pleased grin spreading across his lips. 

You ignored the insult; your eyes locked on the door behind him.

And Chuuya took it as an invitation to keep running his mouth. “Oh, c’mon. Even you know that anyone who messes with the Port Mafia has it coming.” His blue eyes dropped to your stomach, lingered there, then returned to your face. 

Your eyes remained glued to the door. You swore you heard sounds behind the door. Words, or choked cries?  You refused to believe you’d come all this way for nothing, but the absence of anyone else in the clinic—and the blood speckled on Chuuya’s gloves—told you everything you needed to know. 

They were like dead. All of them. The doctors, nurses and patients of this clinic. If there were anyone here besides your doctor to begin with of course.

“You’re really stupid,” Chuuya muttered, drawing your attention back to himself. He stepped closer, invading your space. His gloved hand reached to grab your chin and forced you to meet his eyes. For a moment, they weren’t their usual cold, murderous blue. They were stormy with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. 

Chuuya showing emotion outside of anger and bloodlust? The world was ending. 

“So fucking stupid, to think someone like Mackerel would ever do anything selflessly. And even more stupid to think he’d put effort into all that romantic crap. The vacation, the flowers, the dress, the goddamn dinner—all of that was my funds. My goddamn idea!” His voice started soft, but then grew louder and louder for every uttered word. 

Chuuya never was any good at holding back his anger. 

You slapped his hand away and took a step back.And three it was, the anger in his expression, the disappointment, then something almost condescending before he ‘hid’ it all behind a look of indifference. But his clenched fists told a different story. 

His anger was always easy to read- his emotional immaturity would always make him los to Dazai. Always come second best, at least in your eyes. “Stop shuffling and deal the damned deck already,” you snapped. 

An amused smile tugged at his lips- like an inside joke that made the world seem okay. “You’re lucky I enjoy your quirks as much as your looks.” His expression softened, almost pleading. “We both know disobeying Dazai equals death. You’re lucky that I… don’t want to see you perish.” His hand twitched, as if debating whether to reach for you again. 

Come with me or stay and face Dazai’s wrath.

You couldn’t believe your ears. A bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Dazai wouldn’t!” 

Chuuya chuckled, though his laughter held no amusement. He tipped his hat lower, shadowing his face, and your eyes were instantly locked on the sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve—a tiny drop of blood that reminded you where you were. A clinic full of dead bodies, with a man who could turn you into collateral damage without a second thought. 

Before you could backtrack, Chuuya was already moving to leave. 

“Stupid. But let’s see if you’re right, Donna.” 

He said Dazai’s nickname for you mockingly, condescendingly, like he was addressing an idiot who’d chosen obvious death over a life of luxury. You wanted to roll your eyes and flip him off but something held you back. A little voice that grew louder with every step Chuuya took, making you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’d put your foot in your mouth one too many times. 

Author Note: .. I think I forgot how to write. No, but seriousely, uni has been kicking my ass so much I've forgotten what fanfics even are! Easy to say I'm not fully happy with how this chapter turned out but we're one step closer to the end and most importantly; I think it's only a chapter left of this fic. One chapter to see if Chuuya was bullshitting or not. What do you think?

And on a final note: I hope you enjoyed!

𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 |ℝ𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕟 |ℝ𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤 |ℝ𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕤 |𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 |ℂ𝕣𝕖𝕕 & 𝕆𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣

All fics are unique works by ©raven-cincaide 2025. Do not copy/repost/translate or spread my work(s) without my explicit permission. If you see any of my work(s) reworked/reposted/copied anywhere, please inform me!

[violetbutterflix]

Kiss and make, kiss, kiss and make up

Character: Osamu Dazai.

Warnings: beast!dazai, dazai and reader are married, sub!dazai, dom!reader, make up sex, pegging, dazai cries and moans, mentions of multi verses and beast manga spoilers.

☆Being the wife of the Port Mafia boss has pros and cons, just like two sides of a coin. Sure, your husband is the richest and most feared man alive, and he can get you everything you desire without any problem. Just say the words, and they will be yours. However, it's not material possessions that your heart craves, but rather his presence.

The clock strikes two in the morning so quietly that nobody in the bedroom can hear it. You can hear your own breath as you lie on the bed, eagerly waiting for your husband's arrival. But nothing happens; the bedroom door knob remains closed and untouched on the other side. No sounds of footsteps approach. You bite your lip bitterly, thinking about the last time you saw him. The last time he was here with you—his arms around your waist, his mouth on yours, your head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat as you fell asleep on his body.

How many nights have you spent waiting for him to come back home, yearning for a warm embrace and kisses, only to be met with loneliness and disappointment? Every day, you wake up, hoping to see him, yet he’s never there. The other side of the bed is empty and cold. It has been a month of this pattern, and you haven’t seen him once. It makes you sick to your stomach. You reach for your phone, hoping for a new message from him, but there’s nothing. The last message you sent is still there, marked as ‘seen.’ You sigh; you can’t do this anymore.

—

“Osamu…” You called his name, the sound escaping your lips in a bittersweet way. The man in front of you smiled softly, waiting to hear what you had to say. His eyes are a dull, pure black, yet there is a light of hope at the bottom of them whenever you're around.

“Yes, bella?”

You take a long, deep breath before continuing, your eyes fixed on the table. You can’t look into his eyes at this moment. “I… I think we should take a break.”

Dazai drops the drink in his hand, and the glass shatters into pieces on the floor, creating a loud sound. You can feel his eyes on you, suffocating you with that silence. One second, two seconds, three seconds… Three long seconds pass, yet not a single word escapes his lips.

Your eyes glance up, and—gosh—you’ve never seen Dazai with that expression before. His pupils are dilated with disbelief, and his face carries a hurtful look, as if you’ve betrayed him again countless times. You—his world—seem to be destroyed all at once cruelly.

Dazai's lips part slightly, finally being able to speak. “Why?”

The simple yet painful question stabs at both of you, an unpleasant ache spreading through you as you try to explain your reasons. “I… I don’t feel like we should be together anymore. I’m tired. You don’t pay attention to me anymore. You've buried yourself in work for so long that you don’t care for me.”

A frown appears on his handsome face, disapproving of your accusation. If only you knew how much he cares about you-how much he loves you in every universe. How much he hates being the leader of a dangerous organization but he has no other choices. He does all of this for you.

“But that’s my job. Being a Port Mafia boss is never easy. I have my responsibilities—”

“Then what about your responsibility as a husband? What about me?”

“[Reader]…Please.”

The word 'please' from him sounds so desperate, something you’d never expect him to say. Desperately, he adds more, trying to please you so your sorrow will go away, like a hopeless little boy begging for forgiveness and redemption for his wrongdoing.

“I’ll do anything for you; I’ll give you the world. Just name your price, Bella. Please…”

“I only want my husband..I don’t need anything else.” You admit, which makes Dazai smile a little until he hears the next line.

“But since you said you’d do anything…” An idea suddenly runs through you—a risky plan that feels almost too good to ignore. This opportunity could be your one and only chance. How can you possibly let such an offer slip away? Before you realize it, the words are freed from your mind. “Then I want to peg you.”

A simple sentence from your pretty lips makes your husband pause. Dazai stares at you, his expression unsure and confused. He didn’t expect this from you on a Sunday night. Dinner is where you can talk about every topic in the world, but that so casually?

Oblivious to his confusion, your face remains serious. “I said what I said.”

“May I get to know why?”

“I just do. So…Please?”

Dazai hesitates a little. No, it's not because he doesn't want that, it's just he's not sure and he's not too fond of the idea. But he does want to make up for you for the time he has been gone, he can't bring himself to oppose you. So, he lets the ‘best’ of him agree.

—

Dazai finds himself beneath you, naked, just like the day he was born. His face buries against the pillow, gripping the bed sheet as he waits for you. A small kiss is planted on his dark hair as a finger slowly enters his hole to create a gasp from him. A sudden urge to tell you more grows inside him, yet he’s too prideful to admit it.

“Let me hear your pretty sounds, Osamu.” You whisper against his ear, continuing to finger him at a slow pace to test his patience.

A small moan slips out from his lips: “Ah…[Reader]...mph...”

At his cute and pathetic plea, you add another finger and then follow by another one to stretch his tight hole, causing his entire body to twitch. Dazai bites his lips to prevent any loud moans due to embarrassment, but fails. He has always been the one in control, but the sudden switch between you two and you're ruining him completely makes him feel surprisingly good.

Your fingers pump in and out at a faster and harder pace repeatedly, hitting the spot to make him squirm. Just before he hits his orgasm, you pull your fingers away. Dazai turns his head over his shoulder, whining and sulking. Before he can complain, you swiftly push your strap into him. He lets out a muffled yelp of surprise, his eyes widening in shock as the sudden force pushes him back onto the pillow. Your free hand grabs both of Dazai’s hands, gripping his wrists above his face as you move your hips back and forth, fucking him crazy like a wild, starved beast devouring its captured prey.

Your lips travel to his ear, biting on his earlobe as you eagerly thrust deep inside him while your hand drops down his chest, playing and rubbing his nipple. Your hips crash against Dazai’s ass, causing his moans to get louder between each thrust. Your hand switches to his other nipple, giving it the same treatment as the other one. His back arches at a perfect angle, plus his long legs are spread wide open for you to fuck him more and better.

After you’ve abused his sensitive nipples, your hand travels down to his cock. Your hand perfectly wraps around Dazai’s cock, caressing it before you mumble against his ear. “Such a good boy for me, taking my dick so well.” Your lips reach his shoulder, taking a bite of his pale skin as you rapidly stroking his dick.

Dazai’s head rolls back as he moans your name shamelessly over and over, as if you were the only thing his mind could think.

“You’re so beautiful like this. A beautiful mess because of me. Am I the only one gets to see you and fuck you like this?”

“F-fuck y-yes. Only my dear wife…ah…mph…gets to see me like this and fuck me as much as she wants.” Dazai curses; his eyes flutter close as he tries his best to speak between moans. The pleasure builds inside him more and more, filling him fully. “Gonna c-cum…I’m gonna cum…”

“Yeah? Cum for me, Samu. Let me hear you scream my name and how good my dick is.”

Tears are formed on his reddened cheeks when he cums on your hand, painting his stomach and up to his chest with hot, thick, creamy cum as he screams your name out loud so that it can wake up the neighbors. Your strap continues to enter deep inside him, and the way the harness rubs against your cunt this entire time is enough to make you cum as well. Dazai collapses straight into bed, breathing heavily after his afterglow.

Dazai turns his head over, looking at you affectionately with tears falling down the corners of his eyes. “I love you, [Reader], more than anything in this world. I’m sorry that I wasn’t around much. But I’ll try to spend more time with you. So please don't ever doubt my love for you ever again.

Your lips curl to a smile. “I know…I love you too, my dear husband.”

The way you call him ‘dear husband’ brings an indescribable feeling of happiness to his heart. In this cruel world, where his life is filled with darkness and misfortune, you are his only hope—the reason he cherishes his life and the one and only treasure he protects with all he has. He brings his hand to your pretty face, caressing your cheek before it moves down to your neck, pulling you close for a kiss. He kisses you as if it were the last day of his life, as if this were the final kiss you two would ever share.

[sillied-too-hardxp]

~D~e~s~p~a~i~r~

~(bruce’s pov)~

.

.

.

.

.

Almost everyone around you is off. You couldn't discern what but, it just… off..

The most noticeable one is Alfred, you haven't seen him like this since that horrible night … Is it around that time again? Perhaps you should give him the day- no, month off. After all, he'd given up his freedom to your family…

But unfortunately for now, you have League business to attend to.

.

.

.

.

Jiro Osamu… after his probation, proudly took the mantle of Batman of Japan, asked to come to the JL headquarters for an ‘urgent’ problem.

Though the problem seems to be bi-colored bears with a hint of a red glint, sneaking around… But with the help of the heroes in Japan and testimonies of some civilians.

The Justice League(the main group mostly) decided to investigate for a bit. At first, nothing seemed to be wrong… The spike of people going absent/missing say otherwise. Everything in your body, your mind says something is obviously wrong. Along with what seemed to be bodies found all around Japan popped up.

That the bears have something to do with it… But how? How do bi-colored bears fit in the missing people case? The autopsies haven't stated or implied any animal attacks…

Osamu mentioned that the adults who'd gone missing had something in common- children who attended {Hope’s Peak Academy}, specifically the elementary division…

Your heart hurts for those children who had lost their parents, and to parents who lost their child before their time. You know the pain of both…

Then a league member brought something to you, a cardigan and a lanyard. A dull yellow cardigan with pins replacing the buttons and the lanyard almost completely covered with stickers. Saying that the lanyard found had a school id, [Name] Nakamura the Ultimate Caregiver…

You couldn't place the feeling you have. It's like how you felt about Jason's death, but confused… When did they leave to Japan? When did they grow up, only to be found dead?

You only remembered the child you briefly talked to during that dinner, Alfred looked disappointed.

But… the more you looked at the id, the more you saw your old friend…. The one who left a voicemail about catching up and meeting each other's children. About how she couldn't wait for you to get to know her little family… jokingly saying that her child wanted to be friends with your family “Like how we were when we were younger!”.

It's one of many things that consistently pops up in your head before sleep. How joyful she sounded, before she and her wife were ripped away like your parents. Leaving a too mature child who should've been crying uncontrollably, like you had been.

Maybe that was why you had walked past them? It was horrible of you to do so, but you had thought they didn't need you. You felt they hadn't needed you, that they understood what had happened…

But seeing them dead?

It completely broke you… The child you thought was always fine and safe was found dead with only their belongings found. You never thought about them before, but seeing the cardigan and lanyard being all there is left? Hurts… hurts so much beyond what it should be.

Have you really missed all the milestones? Have you really not thought of them for eleven years?? You missed over a decade of birthdays and holidays to share with them…

Guilt is eating you alive, but unlike the other times, this feels like it's eating you down to the bone! That it's eating your muscles and nerves that have been exposed, like maggots wriggling in your skin...

You could practically hear a chorus asking the same thing you thought, how could you?? How could you ignore a child in your care when you never did before? When you brought in child after child? How could you forget your godchild? YOUR child??

Akemi and Chou are probably cursing your name, rolling in their graves for forgetting their- no your child.

You don't remember coming home, but getting out of the Batmobile.

.

.

.

Why was Damian behind a stalactite? And why is Alfred and Tim staring at him?

You only let out a heavy sigh.

“What's going on here?”

_____________________tags_____________________

@welpthisisboring @pialexx @pearlyribbons @xzmickeyzx

sorry! I had a bit of a block on where to take his pov 🙇‍♂️

[miiyas]

hello atlas i am anonymous anon because anon is shofrt for anonymous and anymous means unknown did you knowi ghat

i am in love with arsumu miya but hea in lvow wirh this giel bamed lyn van you wrie their wedding thank you

CANT TAKE MY EYES OFF OF YOU !!

wedding day with atsumu miya

wc: 517, fluff, fem reader (can be gn but reader has a dress), post-ts, wedding, lovesick atsumu agenda, not proof read

atsumu thinks he’s the luckiest man alive.

he’s aware that almost every man thinks that during his wedding, i mean, who wouldn’t ? to be bounded together by a pretty diamond ring that you’re soon going to show off to all your friends and co-workers, it’s a great ego boost. the greatest, he thinks.

currently, the two of you are standing next to each other, talking to a few group of friends with the champagne that you like, with the jazz playlist the two of you made, and osamus kitchen skills that continues to spread around the large party room.

there’s a soft smile on the blondes face as his loose fingers drum around your waist, taking sneaky glances at you and your pretty white dress whenever he can. he's only barely hearing the conversation you and your friends are having, eyes glazing around the party room and mouthing out words to his twin whenever they make eye contact.

but atsumu is caught a little off guard when you throw your head back and burst out laughing with your maids of honor, the champagne glass in your hands swishing around in the oval glass. your laughter is terribly infectious to him and the blonde feels his smile grow wider, slyly taking the glass from your hands and holding it for you, taking a sip or two himself to conceal his smirk.

from the corner of atsumus eyes, he can see osamu set up the large, towering wedding cake. from the help of aran, suna, kira, a few other guys, the cake is displayed in the middle of the room and as people get a glance at it, the exclamation of awe starting to echo in the room.

he’s been keeping you distracted enough, the blonde thinks. he poked at your side, making you twitch at the ticklish feeling and just before you scold him, he points his head to the cake, basking in your surprises squeal and laughter.

“how the hell did you get this ?” you beam out, rushed steps walking over to the cake with atsumu following behind you.

“he got on his knees ‘n started ta beg for me to make the cake.” osamu comments, putting his sleek dark blue suit back on, dusting off his hands as he nods at you.

“wha ?! hey ! you weren’t ’posed to say anythin’ !!” the blonde bickers back, the cake knife in his hands pointing at his twin. you laugh again, shaking your head and atsumu swears this marked the hundredth time you’ve laughed tonight.

he waits for your smaller hands to hold onto the knife with him and he adjusts the positioning of his hands, placing yours under his warm ones, allowing you to have a firm grip on the knife.

atsumus chest is pressed against your back, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek as you laugh and slice through the wedding cake with him. the matching wedding rings clack against one another ever so quietly, reminding you two of your now shared last name— a testament of your love for one another.

[eriace]

you again? ; dazai osamu

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which dazai’s childhood best friend shows up in yokohama, and with her return comes chaos, mischief, and the realization that he might have been in love with her all along. ↷ dazai osamu ; bungou stray dogs

↳ an order of caramel macchiato from anonymous in the comeback cafe event !

THE LAST TIME Dazai Osamu saw Y/n, she had thrown a slipper at his head.

So naturally, when she showed up at the Armed Detective Agency, completely unannounced, it was with the same energy:

“OSAMU DAZAI, YOU OWE ME A NEW COFFEE MAKER AND AN EXPLANATION!”

“Y/n?” Kunikida blinked from behind his desk, pen frozen midair. “You know her?”

Dazai, in true Dazai fashion, peeked from behind his newspaper with a lazy grin. “Of course I do! She’s my first love, my childhood best friend, and the source of 80% of my childhood trauma.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Y/n huffed, but her cheeks were warm. “It’s probably closer to 70%.”

They were chaos incarnate the moment they reunited—bickering, teasing, laughing like no time had passed.

Y/n slid into his life the way she always had: too comfortably, too fast, and far too close to the place he kept all his carefully buried feelings.

She teased his bandages.

He stole her snacks.

She slapped his hand away.

He called it love.

One evening, after helping him file a completely fake report (that he insisted was “creative writing”), she leaned against his desk and asked softly:

“Why didn’t you ever call me back, Osamu?”

He paused.

That grin he always wore—the dramatic, exaggerated, please-don’t-look-too-closely-at-me kind—wavered.

“I didn’t want to drag you into the mess I became.”

She tilted her head.

“You idiot. I wanted to be dragged in. You're my mess.”

And that—that—was when Dazai Osamu’s brain did something ridiculous like hope.

“Y/n...” he said slowly, leaning in. “If you’re not careful, I might think you like me.”

“Good.” She leaned in closer. “Because I do.”

Kunikida walked in at that exact moment, shrieked something about "this is a place of WORK!" and immediately walked back out.

They laughed so hard they cried.

Then Dazai kissed her—soft, sweet, like the kind of promise he thought he wasn’t allowed to make until she returned.

He still caused chaos. Still faked injuries. Still threatened dramatic double suicides.

But now, when Y/n yanked him by the collar and rolled her eyes, she smiled just a little too fondly.

And Dazai? He grinned like the luckiest man alive.

Because in the end, she came back for him.

© eriace ;; don’t repost my works.

[yayll]

Hi!! It’s my first time requesting something so I dont know how that works.. um I was thinking of some mission like some kind of ball that dazai and y/n has to go and y/n has to seduce someone to get information out of them. You know those masquerade balls? Yeah I think that really goood!! And dazai gets sooooooooo jealous and after she got the information dazai kiss her infront of that person to show him that she’s his😭😭😭😭😭😭omg

HIII angel sorry this took me a while, but i hope you like it :') i tweaked your idea a lil and fingers crossed this is what you so graciously asked for. i tried to put my best jealous goofy ass dazai in there along with the absolute MUSH his brain turns into when he has you to himself mixed with a lil........ fucked in the headness. i love requests! this was soooo fun to write i love youuuuuu <3

~ a little something about Dazai and his uncharacteristic jealousy ~

"Osamu, come on... You're my only sweetheart, you know that."

You call out half sweetly and half out of breath as you follow him down the hallway of the lavish event you were currently attending, dressed to the nines and trying to remain undercover. You were coming to realize why people didn't date within the workplace as he walked ahead, grumbling to himself. He's trying to remain unfazed, pretending to still be upset as he shrugs with his back turned to you.

"Hmph. I dunno, I don't feel like I'm your 'sweet' anything..."

This causes you to roll your eyes affectionately and pick up the pace, placing a hand on the back of his shoulder to finally stop him in his tracks. You flash him a sincere smile, and speak softly.

"I'm really sorry you had to see that. I didn't know that asshole was going to kiss me after he let me go. I also didn't think you'd ever get jealous..."

You say that last part with a more playful tone, treading dangerous waters of your unpredictable lover's emotions. As expected, he sighs dramatically, casting you a look of disgust.

"Ugh, of course I'm not... That's honestly sooo lame and pathetic. I can entertain jealousy as much as I can entertain one of Kunikida's little speeches on morals, or whatever."

"You mean his 'ideals'?"

You chide, stifling a laugh. He glares at you, his eyes narrowing as he scans you for a moment.

He can't find a single flaw on that precious face, not a single stray hair or stain on your exquisite outfit. He should change that by the end of the night.

"... You're always so negative, correcting me and whatnot. Isn't it tiring being so irritatingly superior in every way?"

This one gets a laugh out of you, You can tell he's slowly lightening up his mood by the way you both begin walking side by side once again.

"Yeah well, if it weren't for that little kiss earlier, we'd both still be all tied up in the wine cellar of this wonderful party."

He flashes you a pout, and shrugs dismissively.

"And here I thought you of all people would like the idea of being tied up with me. Hmph, wrong partner, I suppose."

Now he was starting to pick back at you, though it was cute. Jealousy looked cute on him, it was something you didn't think he was capable of. It was a pity it had to be during a mission where your main asset was your seduction skills and his was mental instability. You hated every second of it, but you also wanted to make sure you both made it out with the secret intel alive.

You make your way into the grand ballroom, the gala is in full swing, and your eyes dart around to find a proper escape route. Just as you see an exit, a handsome and well dressed young man blocks your view, sticking his hand out.

"Hi. You're gorgeous. Care for a dance?"

You stare down at his hand and then back up at the stranger, your face flushing as you're caught off guard.

"Me? No, no I-"

Dazai immediately interjects, sloppily holding a glass of champagne that somehow manifested in his hand and pretends to be drunk. He loved his theatrics, especially when he was desperate.

He bumps harshly into the young man's shoulder, the alcohol sloshing out of the cup as he slurs, but not before he flashes you a wink to tell you to play along.

"Sooo sorry, pardon me. This indeed beautiful angel is quite busy you see... Taking care of me that is. Ooh, I'm a wreck! I'm nothing but a sad and lonely dog.. In this sad and lonely world-"

The man looks at Dazai skeptically, and huffs into a chuckle. He shoves him away, and turns his attention back to you. Your eyes dart nervously between the two, wondering what Dazai will do next.

"Shut it, clown.. Anyway, I think this further proves you should be in the company of a gentleman like me tonight rather than this wet mop-"

The sound of a champagne flute soaring through the air and connecting to the man's skull is suddenly heard, interrupting him and sending him falling to the ground along with broken glass and liquid everywhere. In one swift motion, Dazai is at your side with a premature victorious smirk, but before you can both be on your way, the man regains his posture and spins him around, punching him square in the face. Dazai's not scrawny or weak, but he isn't the most skilled fighter, relying mostly on his special ability and intelligence to get him out of things.

You gasp, instinctively grabbing Dazai by the collar of his suit and dragging him away to get lost in the crowd of concerned people. You finally make it outside and you both collapse onto the soft grass just outside the venue. It's decorated with all kinds of flowers and fragrant rose bushes, it almost looks like you're at the garden of Versailles. You look over at Dazai, his nose bleeding all over the place, but he looks completely unbothered by it. As you reach over to touch the bridge of his nose, he grabs your wrist and holds it away gently. He waves a finger at you.

"No touchy, I've got it."

He does not, in fact, got it. He looks around until he plucks a rose petal and uses it to wipe his nostrils. You frown, getting all up in his space within an instant.

"What on earth are you doing, Osamu? Let me help, you goofball. Your nose is a mess thanks to that stunt you pulled."

You tear off a bit of fabric from your outfit and dab his skin tenderly, holding his head on your lap now. You can see some blood has trailed down his neck, staining the bandages there along with the collar of his crisp white dress shirt you picked out for him this morning. Dazai perks up, his voice slightly strained but full of lightheartedness.

"How does it feel to work with the agency's most tactical and covert operative? Eh?~"

You bite back a smile, and shake your head. You murmur.

"Feels like he's asking for a death wish a little more than usual."

Your lips soon become a thin line, realizing your statement hurts a little more in the context of the situation than it usually would. He notices your mood shift as his eyes flicker from your concerned eyes down to your lips and back up again. He knows it hurts you when he's like this, reckless and acting out on the impulses of his own plans. He wants to sit up and close the gap between you, kiss you until you drop down those brave walls you're putting up for the sake of the mission. For the sake of your feelings for him. He knows he's careless with it all.

He hums, eyes trained on you as if burning the image of your heavenly self into his mind, where you always deserve to be. In the distance, a bulky sketchy looking man runs out of the venue frantically, looking around wildly and you both get the impression it's the guy from the cellar earlier who kissed you in exchange for your freedom.

Shit! You could have sworn you knocked him out cold. Dazai sits up from your lap and you two scoot more into the bush, trying to hide from him as he makes a call. You mutter under your breath, turning to Dazai as you begin to type something out on your communicator.

"Now's the perfect time to let the others know we're ready for extraction."

He's already looking at you, or gazing admiringly more like. He knows he can fuck up everything, pay any consequence, but the thing he needs to get right for the selfishness of his wretched little heart is you. He scoots a bit closer, hearing the sounds of both your shallow breaths harmonizing. He mutters, softly.

"It would also be the perfect time for you to kiss my face better. You know, for my wellness and all that. Besides, that guy wasn't very nice to us earlier and we need to get rid of any traces of him from those lips. Yuck."

You roll your eyes yet again, despite the fluttering that won't let your stomach rest.

"Who cares about that, we have a case to close first."

He smirks, voice dropping low and provocative.

"I care."

He leans in even further, practically caging you with both arms on either side of you. He can feel your breathing become more erratic, his own filled with a pathetic sense of need he always has when he's with you. Dazai's hand reaches out and grabs your chin, turning it up slightly to face him, making sure you drop this silly act once and for all. His voice comes out gentle, firm.

"I need you to physically push me away, or I swear I'm going to kiss you right now, cutie."

Your eyes widen as you let a shaky breath escape your plush lips, murmuring in return.

"I'll.. punch you in the nose again, you know..."

His hand moves from your chin to the side of your face, cupping your cheek as he takes another breath, his body aching to be as close to yours as possible. His eyes are fixed on you, tearing you apart right then and there, but not before putting you back together so nicely. In that moment, he knows you don't mean that, and he knows he can't resist anymore.

He then whispers with a finality, the anticipation torturing him like you do on a daily basis.

"I don't think I'm going to listen to that..."

You break into a faint smile as you perceive him back.

"You've still got a little blood on your-"

Without another word, Dazai closes the remaining distance between you and him, kissing you with fervor as his soft whines reverberate against your lips. You taste sweetness and then... metallic as your lips mesh together for a heavenly moment. He feels alive, this was what he needed, the soothing balm for his soul and any other wound only you could provide. He's like a vampire, a parasite leeching off of your very essence so he could be himself around you. Cowardly burrowing into the safety of your heart. You squirm just a tad, your fingers carding through his brown hair as you try to keep up. He pulls back after his nose can't push more air through and keeps his lips hovering over yours, feeling the heat from your mouth mingle with his as he sees your lips stained red with his blood. Just as he's going to comment on how disgustingly erotic it is to see you like that, he pushes away the indecent thoughts, using the bandage on his wrist to wipe your mouth instead.

"Okay, I'll be good for now. You can call for extraction.~"

It was a dumb thing to do and could be seen as him being territorial or jealous, but the reality of it was that it was the natural order of things when it came to the way he processed his affections. Someone gets in between the two of you in any way?

An uglier and more dangerous past version of himself would have called for an immediate execution, there was a reason he held the titles that he did. He did his very best to keep that mentality at bay, rebuking it every time he felt a dark urge that he felt needed to be dealt with, mostly for your sake and for the sake of the promise he made to a friend once. Though he can't lie and say that's not who he is anymore, he can always find a better way to get his point across... even if a wishful bullet to the head comes out in the form of a kiss on your precious lips. He'll try for you. He'll wear the fastidious label proudly and be Dazai, a jealous man.