Ash Violet

Its been quite a while since that happened, maybe a week or two - you've lost count of days since the feeling of guilt and the anxiety of getting caught has been slowly taking over your mind.

You had a long history with the mafia, the way they always treated you was an advantage due to your powerful ability. You quickly grew accustomed to going on missions along side Dazai and Chuuya and you felt like you gained the trust of everyone around you. Everyone but Dazai.

And just as it started to seem like you got away with it - just as you were silently celebrating and praising yourself for fooling everyone, the harsh reality hit you.

You'll never be able to trick a man like him, not when his ability to deceit and manipulate is much grater than yours.

You just fooled yourself into thinking you're safe- and even worse, Dazai just let you.

-

" Chuuya! let- go - " You struggled against the tight grip of the shorter man as he began dragging you along the hall by your wrist.

You pulled away back towards your room, he pulled you back towards Dazai's like almost you were playing tug of war.

" This is embarassing Y/N, even for you "

When he suddenly let go of your wrist, you fell down on the floor with a hateful look in your eyes, one he couldn't help but laugh at.

" You're making this much worse for yourself - just speak to him " He shook his head, leaning against the wall.

" Whatever he wants to talk about can wait, i'm tired and its 3 in the morning " You lifted your hand up, signalling for some help.

Chuuya stared down at you, his blue eyes fixating on your hand as he raises an eyebrow silently, not moving an inch.

This was weird to you since you considered him to be the closest out of everyone to you, usually you got along well so a cold rejection like this was nothing you ever came across before.

A bad feeling began to form in the pit of your stomach as you helped yourself up instead, dusting off your silk night gown with a sigh.

" Look, i'll go - if it's really that important " You muttered under your breath, rubbing your wrist as you bumped into his shoulder to pass him with a scoff.

You reach Dazai's room and you twist the door knob, pushing it open slightly while looking back for a second to see Chuuya staring back at you before looking down at the floor.

You shrug, knocking on the door a few times before letting yourself into the dimly lit room, the only source of light coming from a small candle in the middle of his desk.

" Dazai ? "

No reply, you step in further , leaving the door opened behind you.

You call out to him again only to be startled by the sound of the door slamming shut behind you, the air blowing out the candle in the process leaving only the moon light shining through the windows.

" Boo "

" Son of a -

You turn around quickly and throw a punch out of reflex which he catches with a sinister laugh.

" Did i scare ya ? "

You sigh of relief when you recognise his voice and your eyes start to adjust to the light but in a split of a second, you're spun around by him to face the window instead.

" Very fucking funn- " You choke on your words as a sinking feeling forms in the pit of your stomach when you feel the cold barrel of a gun placed to the back of your head, pushing you forward.

" I have to say, it's quite disappointing..." You hear the click of the door locking behind you making you freeze " but not unexpected "

" W-What are you talking about ? " You try to sound convincing as you feel the barrel push further into your head.

" You know exactly what i'm talking about "

You gulp involuntarily and shut your eyes, tilting your head back knowing you've already lost.

The pressure disappears as he lowers the gun with a smile and you hesitatingly open your eyes once you feel the warmth of his hand grabbing yours, leading you to take a seat at the desk.

You follow through silently as he takes a seat across from you, resting the hand holding his gun on the table with an expressionless face. The same one you could never read, no matter how much you tried.

" How much do you know ? " You finally crack, placing your shaky hands on the table as you avoid to stare into his brown eyes, the moon light reflecting off them.

" 1 million for the layout of our base, that does seem like a good deal " He grins, leaning back in his chair. You curse under your breath, your eyes widening as you realise just how fucked you truly are.

" I assume Mori already knows " You take a deep breath, accepting your fate at this point as you shakily reach for his hand, pulling it towards you so the barrel of the gun rests against your forehead. He frowns, looking at you from behind the trigger.

" P-Please spare me the torture and just kill me " You shut your eyes tightly and you hear the click of the gun being cocked back. And you wait. And nothing happens.

Dazai's laughter fills the room as you feel him pull away and you open your eyes, a sense of dread filling every part of your body.

" I can't fucking do this - please " You plead making him laugh more, waving the revolver around like a toy.

" So dramatic - i haven't told him "

Your eyes glisten with hope as those words roll of his tongue.

" Yet "

And just like that, you roll your eyes as you lay back in your chair. Too good to be true.

" What do you want, Dazai ? " You sit up in your chair trying to sound as confident as you can while watching him take out the bullets from the revolver.

All but one bullet.

Fuck. No. You knew where this was going.

" Play Russian roulette with me " He says casually, spinning the cylinder before placing it to his head.

You froze, puzzled expression on your face as you sit up from the table.

" Is this a fucking joke ?! " You spit out only to see his gaze silently turn to the same serious one and you knew he wasn't playing around.

Your mind runs with thoughts as adrenaline kicks in and eventually you slowly sit back down. It's either this or certain death and you realise you'd rather take your chance.

He wasn't the one to back down from a deal, let alone lie about one.

You nod hesitantly and he gives you a half smile, humming to himself before going over the rules.

" We spin the chamber every time and take turns - twist is, we have to say one last thing to each other and treat it as last words before pulling the trigger "

" H-How many turns ? " You nervously look down at the table before being forced to look up at him as he places his index finger under your chin, tilting it upwards.

" As many as i want " He gazes down at you coldly before retracting his hand leaving you speechless.

" I'll go first to ease your mind - "

" Wait wait wait - " You try to stop him,

“ Why are you doing this ? “

" Because i get a kick out of seeing a calm woman like yourself lose her shit " He grins, taking a deep breath before pulling the trigger with no hesitation.

Click.

You clench your teeth before taking the gun from his hand and spinning the chamber, pointing it at your head shakily as you maintain eye contact.

" You're a sick fuck and i never liked you " Your eyes tear up as you pull the trigger.

Click.

He chuckles as you breathe out before dropping the gun on the table, which he quickly picks back up.

" That's quite a shame, i've always liked you "

Click.

" Wh-What? " You furrow your eyebrows, your eyes glued to the man in front of you who looks eerily calm for the situation.

You impulsively snatch the gun from him, pointing it towards him instead.

" You're a fucking liar, all you ever do is treat me like shit " You choke on your words as you build up the courage to pull the trigger.

Click.

A small smile tugs out the corner of his lips as he stands up, kicking the chair behind him causing it to drop down with a loud thud.

" Come sit here, Y/N " He taps on the table surface in front of him and in that moment you mindlessly followed the instruction given, too mentally exhausted to try to fight this.

You shuffle onto the cold surface of the table, avoiding eye contact as you feel the gun being pulled away from your hand.

" Please... enough " You feel the knot in your throat as you try to speak, your vision slightly blurring as he gets closer to you, one hand resting on your thigh catching your attention.

You look up at him, his brown eyes looking darker as he bores into your soul, placing the gun to his head once more making you turn your head to look away.

You try to keep in mind that every last word and move he makes is calculated, it always is. This was all part of a bigger picture you couldn't see yet, you couldn't fall for it.

" Y/N, look at me " His voice is quieter as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear making you silently turn back to look at him, your heart feeling like its about to explode.

And you fell for it, the hatred in your eyes turned to pure concern as the silence grew louder, his bandaged hand cupping your cheek gently and for once in your life, you noticed his hand was shaking.

His usual calm and calculated demeanour seemed to fade and behind that you realised this part wasn't planned. This was pure impulse.

He brings his forehead closer to yours, his lips inches away from yours as he slowly pushes down on the trigger,

" I've always hated how close you and Chuuya are - part of me wanted you for myself "

Click.

" Shit, i said too much " He chuckles nervously , shaking his head.

Your eyes narrow in confusion, the words echoing in your head as he finally puts the gun down, pulling you in closer by the neck until your lips crash into a long kiss.

You push away, your mind still in a state of shock as you part lips.

" What the fuck...is wrong with you ? " You whisper out of breath, your eyes scanning his features chaotically making him laugh.

" You're having fun playing these mind games , huh?! Pathetic piec-" Your angry yell gets cut short by his hand tightening around your throat, making you struggle to talk.

" This is exactly how i pictured this - you're so predictable Y/N "

He suddenly picks you up, forcing you to wrap your legs and arms around him as he leads you to the bed, dropping you down on the mattress and firmly pinning your hands above your head.

The eye contact was killing you, seconds felt like minutes as you tried to struggle out of his grip.

" I played along Dazai - we - we had a deal " You choked on your words as you felt his hands slip up the silk material of your night gown, his slender fingers tracing circles around your thighs.

" Mm, but you called me a liar " His fingers begin to inch closer to the band of your panties, snapping it into place causing you to sharply inhale before letting them trail back along your thighs.

" Did you not ? "

" Fuck - I take it back - don't-"

You exhale deeply, your thighs starting to tremble slightly under his touch while he doesn't fail to take notice of.

" Too little too late darling " He smirks, his fingers tugging down at the thin material of your thong slowly revealing exactly what you didn't want him to.

You felt the cold air hit and thats the moment you knew you weren't imagining things. No, the mere soft touches from before really had you soaking although you knew this was wrong.

You couldn't possibly be turned on by him after everything, right? -

You get pulled out of your thoughts as you feel him grip tightly on your thighs, pulling them apart before he lowered his head between them.

" Fuck, you're dripping "

You looked down at him between your legs with a blush, the way his eyes pupils dilated in the dark light as he innocently gazed up at you.

" You want me too, don't you ? " He breathed against your skin, the small action enough to make you shift further into the bed.

You nodded your head no but you couldn't help the small embarassed smile that crept onto your face, you never imagined seeing Dazai in such a lewd position. His mouth inches away from your cunt, licking his lips impatiently.

He was always attractive but the way he was right now, the warmth of his touch and his intense gaze - you couldn't really blame yourself for being turned on.

He lifted his eyebrows in a nonchalant way with a smirk, not giving you any soft of warning before diving in, the tip of his tongue running circles around your clit.

You gasp, your thighs clenching around his head as he begins to move his tongue inside of you hungrily, his eyes never leaving yours as you tangle your hands in his hair.

" Shit - Dazai - don't " You cover your mouth in embarrassment after you let out a loud moan, your hips involuntarily buckling up to meet his every move.

He replaces his tongue with his 2 fingers, a sly smile plastered on his wet lips as he moves them knuckles deep inside you, quickly finding your spot as you cussed out begging for more.

"There - yes " You shut your eyes tightly, your hand slightly gripping the bed sheets next to you.

" Poor thing, you're gonna regret that "

Before you could process his words, he brings his head down for a kiss which you melt into, biting harshly at his lower lip as you feel yourself letting go on his fingers.

You open your eyes in a daze as he grabs your chin forcing you to part your lips before spitting in your mouth, his hand wrapped around your throat as you swallow obediently.

He tightens his grip, kissing the side of your mouth before quietly muttering something,

" You better start counting "

That was the first orgasm and you lost count after the 10th one as he continuously tortured you, his fingers feeling like they re going deeper and deeper while planting hickeys all down your neck to your tits.

Your body began to twitch as you pleaded with him, mouth hanging open as you felt yourself become more light headed with every touch of his.

" No more - please - can't " You whined, bottom lip trembling while looking up at him.

" Give me one more - and i'll stop " He whispers in your ear and at that exact moment you felt yourself cum again, your lower stomach burning as chant his name.

He takes his fingers out with a satisfied smirk, and you sigh of relief as he brings them up to his lips, licking them clean before kissing you, letting you taste yourself before pulling away suddenly.

" Guess what, slut ? "

You hum a response, not being able to say anything more as you saw him unzip his pants, taking out his cock before standing up and pulling your legs closer to the edge of the bed.

You widen your eyes at the size, looking up at him and chaotically shaking your head no as he looks at you amused.

" I lied " He lets out, tilting his head back with a quiet groan as you sit up slightly, your nails digging into his arms as you felt him push inside of you, the tip grazing past your over stimulated g spot.

" D-ah-Dazai " Your raspy voice calls out to him desperately as he starts picking up his pace, lowering down so you can wrap your arms around his neck as he drives himself deeper.

" Fuck - you're my bitch now mm? You'll follow my every word , is that clear ? " He bites down on your neck and you gasp, your mind going blank from pleasure as tears start running down your cheek.

" Yes sir , please - god -" You squeal as you clench down on him, your eyes shutting close as you cum again, your body feeling limp as you loosen up the hold on him.

He bites his lip at the sight, tears staining your face as your breathing becomes heavier and heavier, the way you continuously clench around him as your hands try to push him away.

He plants a kiss on your forehead before he sloppily drives himself into you a few more times, his pace slowing down.

" Good girl - ah" He moans , his head thrown back as you feel yourself get filled with his cum, your body jolting under his as you both try to catch your breath.

He pulls out and zips his pants back up while you curl into a ball, a small tired laugh leaving you as your body continues to shake.

" Fuck - you really are insane "

He chuckles quietly and you hear the knocks on the door making him step away slowly as he straightens his tie, fixing up his hair quickly before he unlocks the door.

You widen your eyes as he opens the door , your eyes meeting Chuuyas shocked face from the hallway before Dazai lets the door completely open, turning back around to face you.

No way.

You desperately try to pull the covers over you but your body couldn't move so you settled on covering your face instead. The embarrassment consuming your whole body.

" Not one word to Mori about any of this, ok ? " You hear Dazai's tired voice say before you hear the click of the door shutting and you slowly take your hands away from your face.

Your head turns to look at the clock which now showed 7:00 AM.

Crazy son of a bitch.

You sink your head into the pillow trying to ignore the embarrassment you were feeling and the fact you actually just agreed to be Dazai Osamu’s bitch.

it started off fine. hands on collars. biting smiles. dazai making some offhand joke about how "your lips taste like rebellion." you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t stop him.

the problem came when he tilted his head, just wrong enough for your snake bite piercing to catch on his braces. yes. braces. even the mafia didn’t save you from teenage dental work.

at first, it was just a weird pull. you both paused. blinked. and then- “...are we stuck?” “don’t move-” “i knew your piercings would kill me eventually.”

you tried to back away. he tried to laugh it off. it only made it worse. “great. just great. this is how we die. tangled up like star-crossed idiots-”

in desperation, you sent a message for help. you should’ve gone for anyone else. anyone. but no. somehow, mori ougai, the boss himself, walked in with medical gloves on, like this was a surgical emergency.

the silence in that room could have killed you. “really, dazai-kun?” mori’s voice was delighted, in that creepy, unhinged way of his. “braces and piercings. fascinating.” you, red as a tomato: “please just untangle us.”

it took a full ten minutes, some pliers, and one extremely awkward silence to get free. when it was over, you and dazai both practically launched yourselves to opposite sides of the room, embarrassed beyond saving.

later that night, dazai passed you a note. it read: let’s try again sometime. without the metalwork. p.s. you still looked cute stuck to me.

You were alone.

But that was nothing new. Loneliness had long since become your shadow, your silent companion. It lingered in every room you entered, sat with you during meals, echoed in your footsteps. You weren't just used to it—you had adapted, folded yourself neatly into its shape.

Sometimes, when the silence grew too thick, you tried to remember the last time you'd spoken to someone and meant it—held a conversation that wasn't strained by fear or ended in tragedy. When had you last felt the warmth of a hand on your shoulder, the press of a hug not weighed down by caution?

You couldn't remember. Not clearly.

Ever since your ability first awakened—violent, raw, and unforgiving—you had been pushed to the margins of society. Or maybe you had pulled yourself there, out of guilt. Out of fear. The day it manifested, you had still been a child. Just a kid, small and bright-eyed, with no idea of the power coiled beneath your skin. You hadn't even known you were dangerous.

Until that morning.

It had started so simply. The sun had risen lazily through the curtains. You had been happy. Giddy even. You remember the smell of breakfast, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, and the hum of your father's voice as he moved about. You ran to him, arms outstretched, beaming with all the love in the world.

He turned at the last second, smiling, and caught you in his arms.

But his smile faded.

Your father collapsed the instant your arms wrapped around him. You didn't understand at first. His body shook violently—spasms like waves of pain tearing through him—and then… he stilled.

You called his name again and again, your voice rising into panic. You shook him, tried to wake him, tried to hold on. But it was already too late.

He was gone.

It took time—hours of crying, of confusion, of horror—before the truth settled in like a sickness. It wasn't a heart attack. It wasn't some cruel twist of fate. It was you. You had done this. Your touch had killed the man you loved most in the world.

That day, something inside you broke.

Authorities came. Specialists followed. That's when the term was first whispered around you—clinical, detached, like labeling a disease.

Veil of Thorns. That was what they called it.

A grim name, taken from the Greek god of death. Fitting, wasn't it? With just a touch, you could disrupt a person's nervous system so violently that they collapsed into unconsciousness. Harmless, they said, if contact was brief. But if you held on—if your skin lingered against theirs for more than a few seconds—death was inevitable.

They told you to wear gloves. To avoid contact. To isolate. As if that would make it better. As if precautions could fill the gaping hole where your father's laughter used to be.

From that point on, people kept their distance. And you let them. You convinced yourself it was safer this way, easier. No one could die if you stayed alone.

But loneliness, you soon realized, was its own kind of death.

After your father's death, you became a child nobody wanted.

The system didn't know what to do with you. You were passed from one orphanage to another like a cursed object no one dared keep for long. Each new home came with fresh smiles, promises of understanding—but they never lasted. Word about your ability always got out, whether through whispered gossip or terrified staff who had witnessed your gloves slip off by accident. Fear always found you.

Caretakers kept their distance. Other children were warned to stay away. And when accidents happened—minor ones, mostly, but enough to stir panic—the solution was always the same: move you along. You were a problem to be passed on, never solved. By the time you turned fifteen, there were no more doors left to knock on. The last orphanage didn't bother with a goodbye. One cold morning, they simply handed you a duffel bag of your belongings and shut the gate behind you.

You were on the streets after that.

Alone again.

You learned quickly how to survive. Hunger taught you where to find food, fear taught you which alleys were safe to sleep in. The city of Yokohama, so full of life and light for others, became a shadowed maze of avoidance for you. Every human encounter was a potential tragedy. A misplaced touch, a stumble, a brush of fingers—and someone else might die.

Eventually, you found work. A factory on the edge of the industrial district took you in—no questions, no handshakes. It was the kind of place where nobody cared who you were, as long as you showed up on time and kept your head down. Perfect. You kept to yourself, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Day after day, you stood at the assembly line, performing the same task over and over again. It was tedious. Mechanical. Lonely.

But it was safe.

Within a few months, you saved enough to rent a small flat. You chose one tucked away in a quiet corner of Yokohama—an old building with crumbling walls and no neighbors who asked questions. The streets there were silent, devoid of the usual city noise. No children playing. No vendors shouting. Just the dull hum of distant traffic and the occasional stray cat slinking through the alleyways.

You made it your haven.

Groceries were ordered online and delivered to your door. You never had to set foot in a store, never had to worry about brushing hands with a cashier. No more crowded subways or bustling markets. You avoided rush hours like a phantom. Even on your way to work, you took the back alleys and narrow walkways where no one else bothered to walk. You had trained your life into a pattern of evasion—every move calculated, every step a quiet effort to remain unnoticed.

The accidents stopped happening.

Not because you were cured. But because you had removed yourself from the world that might force you to touch it.

Now, your world was made of empty rooms and routine. A small apartment where nothing changed, a job where no one looked you in the eye, and a heart that had slowly grown numb beneath layers of caution. You didn't even miss people anymore. Not really. Not in any way that could outweigh the terror of hurting them.

You had found peace, in a way.

A fragile, silent peace built on isolation.

And you told yourself that was enough.

Of course, solitude didn't mean you were always left alone.

One day, a man came looking for you.

He wasn't like the others—no wide eyes or trembling hands. He was calm, composed, dressed in a dark coat that fluttered like a shadow behind him as he stepped into your empty world. His voice was smooth, words carefully chosen, as though rehearsed.

He said he knew who you were. What you could do.

And he offered you something no one else had ever dared: a place to belong.

He spoke of power, of purpose, of shedding the chains that bound you to this isolated existence. If you were willing to offer your ability to him—if you pledged loyalty to his cause, to his people—he promised your life would change.

You wouldn't be a ghost anymore. You wouldn't have to hide.

He said you would be respected, even feared—not as a monster, but as a comrade. A weapon, yes, but valued. Protected. Understood.

The Port Mafia, he called them. You didn't need the name explained. Everyone in Yokohama knew who they were. You had heard their stories whispered like warnings—of blood on backstreets, of bodies found without answers, of entire businesses crushed overnight when they refused to cooperate.

They didn't just take what they wanted. They erased what stood in their way.

And now, they wanted you.

Maybe… maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he could have changed your life. Maybe there, among people who lived outside the law and moral constraints, you would have found something like acceptance. After all, monsters had no reason to fear other monsters.

But it would have come at a price.

You saw it in his eyes—cold, measured, evaluating. He didn't want you. He wanted what you could do. The death beneath your skin.

If you joined them, you would be used.

Every ounce of your guilt and pain twisted into something lethal, something transactional. No more running. No more loneliness. But also—no more choice. No more innocence. You would become what they saw in you. A weapon, unsheathed.

You said no.

You didn't yell. You didn't tremble. You simply raised your hand—slowly, deliberately—until your gloved fingers hovered just centimeters from his coat sleeve. Not touching. But close enough to make the warning unmistakable.

The air between you crackled with silent threat.

"I won't be your blade," you told him. "Not now. Not ever."

He didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. He just nodded, lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. Something more like a promise.

And then, like a shadow, he was gone.

But you knew better than to think that was the end of it.

The Port Mafia didn't make offers lightly. If they had come for you once, they would come again. Sooner or later. Especially if they truly needed what only you could do.

Your peace, as fragile as it was, had begun to fracture.

And somewhere deep inside, you wondered how long you could keep choosing solitude over survival.

The day had been long—just like every other. Another monotonous shift at the factory, another quiet walk home through the empty streets of Yokohama's forgotten districts. The evening air hung heavy, the sky painted in muted grays. You kept your head down, your gloved hands tucked deep in your coat pockets, steps soft against the cracked pavement.

It was supposed to be just another uneventful return to the silence of your flat.

But as you turned onto your street, you heard voices up ahead—unfamiliar, layered, and strangely out of place in this usually lifeless part of town.

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" a youthful voice asked, tinged with uncertainty. A child, maybe—definitely not someone who belonged here.

"Are you doubting me, Kenji-kun?" came the sharp reply, lazy but edged with unmistakable authority. There was an underlying smugness in it, like the speaker wasn't used to being wrong—and didn't intend to start now.

"No one's doubting you, Ranpo-san," a third voice said—female this time, calm and professional, but slightly exasperated. "Maybe she's just not home today, or—"

You rounded the corner and froze.

Three figures stood directly in front of your building. Not Port Mafia, at least not as you recognized them. But they didn't look like locals either. Their presence didn't feel accidental.

You exhaled quietly, already tired of what you assumed was another attempt to recruit you. Of course the Mafia wouldn't give up so easily—they were just using a new tactic. A new face.

Or three.

"Can I help you?" you asked flatly, your voice hollow with resignation.

The man in the brown coat turned toward you with a triumphant grin, leaning back on his heels like he'd just solved the final clue in a puzzle. His eyes remained shut, but his expression radiated smug satisfaction.

"Told you I was right," he said, sounding more pleased with himself than with the situation.

"Hello!" the boy beside him chimed, bright and cheerful. He looked no older than fifteen, with straw-colored hair and eyes as open as his smile. Genuine. Warm. Unafraid.

You blinked, startled. Instinctively, you took a step back.

It had been over a decade since anyone had smiled at you like that.

Not with pity. Not with fear. Just… kindness.

You steadied yourself, pushing down the ripple of emotion it stirred. "Can I help you?" you asked again, your voice firmer this time.

The woman, dark-haired and composed, stepped forward with a polite nod.

"You're L/N Y/N, correct? An ability user?"

"From what we've heard," the man in brown added with a casual smirk, "your touch can kill someone in seconds."

He said it like it was a party trick. Like it wasn't a curse you carried with you every second of every day.

You narrowed your eyes.

"I told the old man already—I'm not joining the Port Mafia," you said coldly, your words edged with warning. "And I'd really appreciate it if you all left me alone. Permanently."

You meant for your voice to sound threatening. You weren't sure if it did.

But the three of them didn't flinch. They didn't reach for weapons. They didn't run. Instead, the man in brown simply tilted his head, as if amused by your response, while the boy still looked at you with that same unwavering light in his eyes.

For a second, something about them felt different.

Unsettlingly different.

Not like the Mafia at all.

"I'm Kenji Miyazawa!" the boy beamed, stepping forward with unshakable cheer. "And these are Ranpo Edogawa and Dr. Akiko Yosano!" He gestured excitedly to his companions, clearly proud of the introductions. "We're not from the Port Mafia—I promise!"

You blinked at him, unsure whether to be relieved or even more suspicious. His optimism felt too... genuine. Too bright for someone standing face to face with a killer, even if you wore gloves. Even if you hadn't touched anyone in years.

"...Ah," you said at last, giving a faint nod, uncertain what else to offer. He smiled even wider, undeterred by your awkward silence.

"We're from the ADA," the woman added—her voice calm, precise. "The Armed Detective Agency. Maybe you've heard of us?"

"Of course they have!" Ranpo cut in, lifting his chin with a smug grin. "Who hasn't heard of the greatest detective in the world—me?" He pointed a thumb toward himself, eyes still closed, clearly basking in his own brilliance.

And yes—you had heard of them.

Even a recluse like you wasn't completely detached from the world. You watched the news. You kept up with reports, if only to make sure you were never in them. You knew of the Armed Detective Agency—an independent group of gifted individuals who took on the kinds of cases that the police couldn't handle. Especially those involving ability users.

They weren't villains. That much was clear. But still… trusting strangers didn't come easy to you. Especially ones who showed up at your door without warning.

"I don't understand why you're here," you admitted carefully, eyes shifting between them as they stood there, expectant.

Ranpo raised an eyebrow like you'd just asked whether water was wet. "Isn't it obvious?" he said, shrugging. "We're here to recruit you."

You stared at him.

He stared right back, utterly confident, like he already knew what your answer should be.

You didn't respond right away. You just looked at his smug expression, studied the way his coat fluttered slightly in the wind, like even the breeze knew he was full of himself.

Finally, you said, "I think you've got the wrong idea about me." Your voice was flat. Measured. "I'm not interested in being recruited by anyone. I don't want to fight. I don't want to help. I just want to be left alone."

The words settled in the air between you, heavy and certain.

But as you looked at them—Kenji's innocent smile, Yosano's composed gaze, Ranpo's annoying but oddly reassuring confidence—you couldn't help but feel like they weren't going to turn away so easily.

Not this time.

"But do you really?"

The new voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. You turned sharply, startled by the sudden presence behind you—another man, approaching from the direction you had just come.

His hands were in his pockets, his gait relaxed, unhurried. But his eyes were sharp. Studying. Seeing too much.

"Do you really want to live like this?" he asked calmly, as though it were a simple question. "Shut away. Alone. No connection to anyone. Just... surviving."

You instinctively took a step back, your jaw tightening.

Who was this now? Another recruit? Another smiling optimist who didn't understand what it meant to be you?

Your gloved hands clenched at your sides as he kept walking, not stopping until there was barely a meter between you—close enough for danger, close enough to tempt fate.

Your voice came low, defensive, a snarl under your breath. "It's no one's business how I live my—"

"Give me your hand."

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath caught in your throat as he extended his own hand toward you, palm up, fingers open in quiet invitation. His expression was unreadable—there was a ghost of a smile there, something casual and knowing, as if what he was asking wasn't insane.

"What?" you managed, your voice cracking slightly. "Are you insane? I can't—"

"He knows what he's doing," Ranpo called out, not even looking up from adjusting his coat.

"And if he doesn't," Kenji added brightly, "we still have Yosano-san!"

"I can heal fatal injuries," Yosano confirmed matter-of-factly, her voice steady. "My ability, Thou Shalt Not Die, restores anyone on the brink of death. So if something goes wrong... I'll be here."

You looked between them, overwhelmed by the ease in which they discussed it—your ability, your curse—as if it were nothing more than a minor technicality.

You hesitated.

And for a heartbeat, that hesitation wasn't fear. It was something colder. Something bitter. Envy.

She could heal. She could undo the damage. Bring people back from the edge.

And you?

You only ever brought them closer to it.

You cursed the world for that. Cursed yourself. Cursed whatever cruel irony had decided to make your touch a sentence and hers a salvation.

You looked down at the man's hand, still open, still waiting.

"Are you trying to test me?" you asked, voice flat, guarded. "Is this some kind of experiment?"

He shook his head slowly.

"No," he said. "We're trying to prove something to you."

And before you could react, before your instincts screamed loud enough, he reached out and took your hand in his, peeling the glove away before engulfing your hand—your bare hand—in his.

Your entire body froze.

You waited for it—the tremble, the spasms, the ragged gasp for air. The way their bodies always contorted when your ability took hold. You waited for the weight of death to settle between your joined hands.

But there was only... warmth.

No pain. No collapse. No screaming.

Just skin. Contact. Touch.

"W-What—"

"No Longer Human," he said, the faintest smile playing on his lips. "That's my ability. It nullifies all other abilities on contact. As long as I'm touching you... yours doesn't exist."

You stared at him, then at your joined hands, still struggling to believe what your senses were telling you.

It had been so long since you'd felt this—someone else. Not fabric, not plastic gloves, not the absence of touch. A person.

Your voice caught in your throat, nothing but the soft rustle of your breath filling the silence. The world seemed to still around you.

It was only a hand.

But to you, it felt like everything you'd ever been denied.

It felt like hope.

"Kenji-kun, come here," the man said, his voice calm but firm.

The cheerful boy didn't hesitate. He skipped forward, still wearing that sunny expression as if nothing in the world could go wrong. Without needing further instruction, he reached for your free hand, taking off the glove and clasping it gently.

And again—nothing.

No pain. No convulsions. No death.

Just another point of contact, another impossibility made real.

"See?" the man said softly, watching your face with a knowing look. "As long as I'm here, you can't hurt anyone."

Your breath caught in your chest.

"…Does it—" You swallowed hard, trying to clear the knot forming in your throat. "Does it still work if you're not touching me? If you're just nearby?"

For a moment, he didn't answer.

Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he turned his head toward Kenji. "Sorry about this, Kenji-kun," he said lightly.

The boy's eyes widened. "Wait—!"

Too late.

He stepped back.

In that instant, the warmth in your hand turned into horror.

Kenji let out a cry of pain, his body seizing as he dropped to the pavement, his hand locked tight around yours in a death grip you couldn't break. His small frame twisted, legs kicking weakly as he gasped, a pained, choking sound tearing from his throat.

"No—what are you doing?!" you screamed, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands fumbled to free his, panic overtaking your senses as your ability surged through your skin like venom. "Let go! Please—stop—!"

But Kenji didn't respond. In seconds, he went limp—face pale, lips parted, still.

Your heart shattered.

Tears sprang to your eyes as you hovered over his motionless body, your hands shaking. "Are you insane?!" you shouted, turning your fury on the man. "He was just a kid! How could you—how could you use him like that?!"

He didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head toward Yosano, who was smirking lazily, her body glowing faintly with an eerie, beautiful energy.

"Relax," he said casually. "You're forgetting about Yosano's ability."

Within moments, color was returning to Kenji's cheeks. His chest rose with a sharp inhale, and his eyes fluttered open.

You stumbled backward in disbelief.

"Still…" Ranpo spoke up, adjusting his hat, though his tone was more amused than angry. "That was reckless, Dazai. You do know there are limits to her ability."

"If it had failed," Dazai replied with a shrug, "I would've paid for the funeral."

"Dazai-san, that really hurt," Kenji grumbled as he sat up, brushing the dirt off his knees. Despite having just died, he looked no worse for wear—irritated, but otherwise completely unfazed. He was even smiling again.

Your head spun.

This had all happened so fast. Too fast.

You stared at your hands. They still felt dangerous. Cursed. But for the first time in years, someone had touched you—two people had—and lived to tell the tale.

Then Dazai extended his hand toward you once again, that same infuriatingly relaxed smile on his face.

"So," he said, voice light but with a deeper weight beneath the words, "what do you say?"

A pause.

"Ready to try a new life?"

You arrived at the Armed Detective Agency after what could only be described as the most stressful train ride of your life.

The entire time, you clung to Dazai's arm like it was a lifeline—because, in truth, it was. Not yours, but everyone else's. You weren't about to take a chance in a crowded carriage filled with unsuspecting civilians. One slip, one brush of skin, and someone might not make it home.

Dazai grumbled, of course.

"You're cursing my hand with your emotional baggage," he muttered at one point, sighing dramatically.

You ignored him.

You were still too bitter about how he'd handled things with Kenji—still haunted by the way the boy's body had gone limp in your arms. Kenji had forgiven you easily after you'd apologized over and over, brushing it off with a laugh and a sunny, "I've been through worse!" But you hadn't forgiven yourself.

Not for that. Not for anything.

Now, standing in front of the Agency's headquarters, you stared up at the unassuming building with its clean lines and welcoming signage. It looked normal. Safe, even. But it might as well have been the gates of another world.

"I still don't get why I'm here," you muttered, your voice low, more to yourself than anyone else. "It's not like my ability is... useful."

Yosano turned to you, expression unreadable but not unkind. "It's not always about how 'useful' someone is," she said. "You want to help people, don't you?"

You hesitated.

She continued, her tone matter-of-fact. "You didn't want to hurt anyone. That much is obvious. You turned down the Port Mafia, even when they offered you a place among people who wouldn't fear you."

She shrugged, as if the answer were simple.

"That's enough for us."

You looked away, uneasy. The idea that your intentions mattered more than your potential for destruction was foreign. Dangerous, even.

Yosano must've sensed your doubt.

"We've taken in all kinds of strays," she said, voice softer now. "Some of them far more dangerous than you. And as long as Dazai or I are around, you don't have to worry about hurting anyone."

Her words settled heavily in your chest—not quite comforting, but not dismissive either.

The others waited ahead on the steps. Kenji waved enthusiastically when he caught your eye, as if you hadn't nearly ended his life earlier.

And somehow, that made everything more terrifying.

But also… just a little less lonely.

The lobby of the Armed Detective Agency was brighter than you'd expected—sunlight spilled through the tall windows, warming the polished floors and walls lined with case files and bookshelves. It was… lived in. Comfortable.

Too comfortable, almost. You kept close to the door, your posture tense, hands locked at your sides.

Dazai stayed close.

Not that he said anything—not yet. But you could feel him there, hovering just behind your shoulder like a shadow. You suspected it wasn't entirely about his ability. He'd seen the way you flinched when Kenji fell limp, how your expression had cracked like splintered glass. Even with Yosano by your side now, you were clearly haunted by the memory.

Dazai, for all his irritating quirks and teasing smirks, didn't want to give you another reason to fear yourself.

A group of voices drifted in from the hall, and soon enough, you were no longer alone.

"Well, well," said a tall man with blond hair, eyes sharp behind his glasses. "So this is the new recruit."

You shifted uncomfortably, but the blond man's eyes flicked to you—more assessing than hostile.

"Kunikida," he introduced himself shortly. "Second-in-command here. I expect discipline and order from everyone under this roof. If you stay, I'll expect it from you, too."

You nodded stiffly, unsure what to say. He looked like the kind of man who wrote his life in neatly lined schedules.

"Don't mind him," another voice chimed in—light, sarcastic, and bordering on amused. A young man with messy red hair lounged in the doorway, flipping through a book without really reading it. "He's allergic to chaos."

"Tanizaki," he said, then motioned behind him as a quiet girl peeked in. "That's Naomi. My sister."

Naomi gave you a polite smile, though she stayed close to the wall.

And so it went—more introductions, more curious glances, none of them quite as afraid of you as you expected. If anything, they treated you like someone who had simply… arrived. Like you weren't a curse in human form.

Eventually, the room quieted when another presence entered—quiet, composed, and commanding. A man in a formal youkata, eyes calm and focused as they scanned the room. The others straightened slightly.

You knew at once this was the President.

"Fukuzawa-san," Dazai greeted with a lazy wave.

"Dazai," he said in return before his gaze shifted to you. There was no judgment in his expression. Just… understanding. And something else—acceptance.

"You're the one with the ability," he said gently. "The one they call Veil of Thorns, correct?"

Your breath caught. You hadn't heard the name of your ability spoken aloud like that in a long time.

You nodded, swallowing the tightness in your throat. "Yes, sir."

"I've read your file," he said. "And I've also heard about your choices. You could have taken an easier path—one with fewer rules. More bloodshed."

"I didn't want that," you said quietly.

"Which is exactly why you're here," he replied. "This agency doesn't just take in people because of their powers. We take them in for their principles. For who they choose to be."

You felt something shift—barely—but it was there. A sliver of warmth where cold had lived for too long.

Fukuzawa nodded once. "If you choose to stay, you'll have a place here. We'll teach you how to control your ability. How to work with others. How to live again."

You didn't trust your voice, so you only nodded. Slowly.

Dazai's presence lingered beside you. He didn't say anything, didn't tease. But when your hands trembled, he shifted just enough that his arm brushed yours, grounding you with that quiet, familiar pressure.

"I'll stick close," he said under his breath, just for you. "Not because I think you'll hurt anyone—but because I know how terrified you are of doing it."

You didn't reply.

But in that moment, you believed him.

And for the first time in years, the idea of staying didn't feel like a trap.

It felt like maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something you thought you'd never have again.

A life.

It didn't take long before you were officially inducted into the Armed Detective Agency. There was no grand ceremony—just a signature, a few papers, and a half-hearted "welcome" from Kunikida while Ranpo stole the last of the agency's cookies behind his back. It felt surreal, really. After years of solitude, you suddenly had a good job. A title. A place.

A home.

And apparently… a new apartment.

"Lucky you," Kenji beamed, swinging a box filled with your books effortlessly over one shoulder. "Your place is right next to Dazai-san's! That way he can keep you safe at all times!"

"Safe?" Dazai repeated from behind the box of potted plants he'd agreed to carry but now sat beside him on the sidewalk. "You mean emotionally tormented and psychologically confused. Honestly, those are the best ways to live."

You rolled your eyes as you passed him another box from the small delivery truck the Agency had helped arrange. "You said you were going to help carry things."

"I am helping. I'm supervising. And spiritually supporting you from the comfort of this very shady patch of sidewalk," he sighed dramatically, collapsing further against the building as if lifting a finger would cause his death.

Kenji giggled. "He said the same thing when I helped him move in."

"Exactly! Tradition is important, Kenji-kun!"

You tried not to smile—but it was hard around Kenji's cheer and Dazai's nonsense. The day was warm, the sky open, and for once, you weren't holding your breath for something to go wrong.

The apartment itself was… small. Sparse. But yours. Clean floors, neutral walls, a little balcony that overlooked a quiet street. And best (or worst?) of all: a thin wall separating your unit from Dazai's.

He wasted no time making himself at home in yours.

"I mean, clearly this is fate," he said casually, flopping onto your couch. "Your power kills with touch, my power nullifies all powers. It's like the universe wants us to be together forever. An eternal bond. Tragic. Romantic. Unavoidable."

You arched a brow. "You're insufferable."

"But touchable," he added, holding out his hand with a wink. "And that's rare in your case."

You ignored him and started unpacking a stack of mismatched dishes. He watched you for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly—not with suspicion, but something softer. Then, of course, he ruined it.

"Imagine," he sighed dreamily, "we could get matching coffins. Lay side-by-side under the cherry blossoms. Lovers in death. Poetic, no?"

You paused, turned to glare. "Is that your idea of flirting?"

"Only when it's with someone special."

Kenji poked his head in from the balcony, arms stretched over his head as he enjoyed the breeze. "Dazai-san flirts with everyone."

"Kenji-kun!" Dazai gasped. "That makes me sound disingenuous. I'll have you know, I only flirt with people who intrigue me. And people who might kill me. You, dear neighbor, happen to be both."

You couldn't stop the quiet laugh that slipped out, and Dazai's eyes flicked toward you, pleased.

Maybe it was reckless—being near him. He teased death like it was an old friend and wrapped sarcasm around him like armor. But for all his fatalism, Dazai didn't look at you with fear. Not once. He touched you without flinching, sat close without tension. You didn't have to be careful around him. You didn't have to apologize for existing.

"You're thinking too hard," he said, tipping his head at you. "That's dangerous. First it leads to hope. Then it leads to heartbreak. Then, inevitably—" He mimed a gun to his head. "Bang."

You gave him a flat look. "You're not very good at comforting people."

"I'm excellent at comforting people. I just do it in a way that makes them reconsider their entire existence."

You sighed and dropped onto the couch next to him—not close enough to touch, but closer than you'd ever let anyone else sit before.

He noticed.

No comment. No teasing.

Just a slight smile as he leaned back, arms folded behind his head, like he belonged there.

Maybe he did.

The soft hum of Yokohama at night drifted through the air—distant traffic, rustling leaves, the occasional bark or laughter echoing from streets far below. The city was winding down. But on your little balcony, tucked away just above the streetlights, it felt like time had slowed to a hush.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with Dazai, legs pulled up onto the chair, cradling a warm mug in your hands. He nursed a bottle of something questionable beside you, the label peeled halfway off, his other arm resting lazily along the back of your seat—close, but not quite touching. Not yet.

"I've been thinking," he said quietly, breaking the silence between you with a voice softer than usual. No dramatic inflection, no sharp grin. Just a murmur beneath the stars.

"That's dangerous," you replied without looking at him.

He chuckled. "Everything I do is dangerous. But…" He tilted his head to glance at you. "It's been a month since you joined the ADA."

You looked down at your mug.

"I know."

"I'm just wondering," he continued, "how you're doing. Really doing. You've never talked about your past."

You didn't answer right away. A breeze passed, brushing your hair across your face, and you tucked it behind your ear with a sigh. He didn't push. He never did when it came to this. For all the jokes and suicide pacts he tried to rope you into, he never forced you to speak.

Maybe that's why you finally did.

"I haven't… really talked about it ever before. Not properly." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "When my ability first appeared, I didn't even know what it was. I was a kid. Just a kid."

You swallowed, throat tight. Dazai didn't move, but you felt the tension ease from him—like he was giving you space and attention at the same time.

"It happened so fast. One minute I was hugging my dad good morning. And the next…" You trailed off. "He was on the floor. Convulsing. And I couldn't do anything. I didn't even know I had done it. Not until after."

You weren't crying. You thought maybe you would. But the tears had already come and gone, years ago, in the dark, when no one could hear them. Now there was just the ache. And the silence.

"I loved him so much," you whispered. "And after that… no one ever looked at me the same. Not the orphanage, not the teachers, not anyone. I learned to stay away. I had to."

A moment passed.

Then you felt it: the soft weight of his arm curling around your shoulders. Not hesitant, not pitying. Just there. Solid. Warm. Real.

You stiffened—reflexively—but he didn't draw back, didn't tense. Just let it happen. Gave you time.

And slowly, so slowly, you let your body lean sideways until your shoulder brushed his chest, until your weight rested slightly against him.

"I've been alone for so long," you admitted. "I think I forgot what it felt like to not be."

You felt his chin rest lightly atop your head.

"I know that feeling," he murmured. "All too well."

No lectures. No empty reassurances. No lies about how everything would be fine. Just his presence—like a promise unspoken. You could survive. You didn't have to do it alone.

Not anymore.

The city continued its quiet song beneath you, but you only listened to the steady beat of Dazai's breathing beside you. In a world that had taken so much from you… somehow, this had been given back.

And you clung to it like something sacred.

Dazai had a plan. 

He would meet a beautiful girl and welcome death with her, the pair of them slipping into oblivion in each other's arms. The thought of it excited him.

He planned to nickname her Belladonna, a name synonymous with death. It was cool, mysterious, dramatic, sexy… all the things the end of his life should be. Who better to end it all with?

But then…

Then he met you. 

You laughed at his jokes and didn't get annoyed with him when he goofed around. And you made him laugh too. God, you made him laugh so much. Some days he had tears in his eyes, clutching his stomach, falling about at your jokes. You talked to him about his life with genuine interest, and he found himself wanting to know more about you. Little by little, completely unaware of the power you wielded, you had him reevaluating who he was. 

And, though he wasn't proud of it, he checked. He touched your hand one time during conversation to make sure you didn't have some kind of ability which allowed you to seduce or disarm. It wasn't that he didn't trust you, he just… didn't trust life to give him a gift without catches. 

You delayed his plan. He'd wait a little longer before ending it all so he could have lunch with you. He'd put it off one more day because he quite fancied walking around the park with you. Little things became so incredibly important.

He very quickly realized he was in love with you. It took him a little longer to realize what that meant. 

The thought of you dying horrified him. The thought of him dying and leaving you alone and broken… he had to blink back tears at the thought.

You were no Belladonna. You weren't poison. No… not at all. Quite the opposite. You were the antidote to the toxin he'd been microdosing all his life.

It’s a perfect night, really.

Your warm body resting against his, limbs lazily tossed over each other as you snuggled and acted like lovesick fools. Moonlight poured in from the cracks of the curtains, casting small slivers on your face. Dazai couldn’t help but think of an angel when it came to you. A heavenly being that granted him a new life and forgave him for his past.

Nudging at your cheek with his nose, his voice came out in a sleepy tone.

“You should sleep, [name].”

His hand reached up to cup your face, playfully using his thumbs to gently close your eyelids like one would do with a body. He’d seen many people in the Mafia do that—try and make the deaths they caused seem more peaceful rather than a brutal end. Dazai himself never did that. No need in beautifying a simple concept of its finality and simplicity.

“Can’t. I know she’s about to wake up. It’s nearly eleven, and we put her to sleep at seven. I can tell.”

You shook your head stubbornly, looking at the baby monitor nearby where static noise and the occasional mix of a tiny snore and coo came from.

His little hellion.

Really, he had no clue how he got so lucky. First with the fact that he impregnated you and you carried his baby. Second with the fact that he had his own family now. And third with the fact she looked so much like him. Thick brown curls of hair on her head, big curious eyes that looked at him so adoringly. The tiny freckles and birthmarks scattered across her skin. She had some of your features, yes, but they were more subtle than his features.

Coupled with the fact that she was a bundle of energy and sass like him.

“I insist, pretty. Shinju needs her daddy too.”

He knew how much she made you tired with her habit for refusing to nap for more than an hour or two coupled with breastfeeding and the general responsibility and time that being a mom took. Dazai wanted to spend time with his daughter too and relieve your stress. You’d get sleep, he’d get to see Shinju. Win-win, in all accounts.

Hell, he even gave you puppy eyes in the darkness of your room.

“I…fine. But don’t wake me up if you screw up.”

Dramatically, he sighed and frowned, placing a hand on his heart.

“Does my ‘bella really think I’m an incompetent father? How heartbreaking and cruel of her!”

Much to his relief, you playfully groaned, pinching his sides lightly.

“I didn’t say that, dummy. God, I swear Shinju is more mature than you.”

Jesus, you were so insulting tonight. How was the baby that tried to put anything she could in her mouth more mature than him? Sure, he was a bit funny and childish, but he wasn’t a baby. Well, if he had his face buried in your boobs he’d be a baby. Still, it’s not his fault that they’re just so big and warm and squishy and seem to beg for his attention.

Which is what he soon did, resting his head on your chest while cupping them softly. You were wearing one of his shirts and a nursing bra underneath. He wished you weren’t wearing anything at all, but it wasn’t fair to ask for that when you recently gave birth just a mere two months ago. His libido lowered itself only for you. And when you did have sex—quickies when Shinju would nap—, he was so much nicer and loving than usual. The mother of his child didn’t deserve rough mean sex, no, she deserved gentle treatment under the sheets of their futon.

You deserved everything that he could possibly give you.

So when the small baby demon eventually began to wake up and whimper, he pressed a kiss onto your cheek and slowly got up, whistling a small tune under his breath before waking to the makeshift nursery nearby.

Opening the door slowly, he made his way to the crib and picked up his sniffling newborn, shushing her comfortingly.

“Shhh, it’s okay. Daddy’s here. We don’t want to wake up mama, okay?”

Her tiny hands balled up into fists, weakly moving around and occasionally hitting his chest. Sitting down on the rocking chair nearby, he fumbled around for one of her stuffed animals, grabbing the familiar bunny as he placed it in her arms.

“Look there, Shinju. It’s your bunny!”

From an authoritative Mafia executive to a tired loving father. Lord, Chuuya would be laughing his ass off. Or have that stupid face of confusion while he’d berate Dazai with questions about what unlucky woman had to bear his spawn. But what could that short alcoholic of a ginger say? No woman wanted to birth his babies.

He was quickly snapped out of his thoughts when Shinju’s tiny fingers began to grab at his chest, thinking he could feed her too. He could, just not straight from the source unlike you. Standing up, he went over to the mini-fridge nearby which contained bottles of your milk. It wasn’t too chilly, and so he carried it and the cooing baby to the kitchen where he warmed it up in the microwave.

After it warmed up, he carefully began to feed her, leaning back against the counter as he did so.

It still felt so odd to him. Caring and loving someone he helped to create. His self from ten years ago would never believe it—that they’d find love and even have a baby after escaping the Mafia. He had you to thank for that. The one who picked up the discarded pieces of his soul and welded it into the man he is today—a father first, and a detective second.

Kinda rushed the end but I couldn’t think of anything more :(

Assistants were something he never cared for much.

They came and go, either requesting to work for a different department in the Port Mafia after witnessing his peculiarities or dying. He hadn’t ever formed any bonds with them. Hell, he hardly knew their names. Dazai preferred to give them childish nicknames such as ‘four-eyes’ for the ones with glasses or ‘baldy’ for the ones who had barely began balding.

No use in actually getting to know them.

All they were good for anyway was organizing his work and making a schedule of meetings and pointless missions he’d hardly follow. And what could they do? Nothing.

Once, he had attempted to get Ango to apply for the job during an outing at Bar Lupin, but that four-eyes declined. So did Oda. Geez, his friends lacked faith in him. Dazai wasn’t that bad of a boss. His subordinates didn’t die that often compared to the others.

Then again, his most recent assistant had died via overdosing. Straight from the Port Mafia’s warehouses, too. Dying of his own stupidity because karma struck him down. The high may have been sending him to the clouds, but he got too close to the sun just as Icarus did and burned—or in this case, vomited—to death. Fun.

A replacement would be needed, yes, but that would involve looking through so many applications and that was boring compared to strangling himself or pulling Chuuya’s hair when the redhead was speaking with Kouyou.

He’d pick irritating the slug over paperwork any day. At least one was fun.

So he just had Mori pick one out. As long as they wouldn’t be a nuisance and knew their place, he didn’t care who it was. Boy, girl, whatever. All ages welcomed. Dazai preferred younger though. The old farts were annoying and so utterly dumb! So when a subordinate gave him a file for his new assistant, he didn’t think anything of it. He always got those for record keeping.

Although this particular individual piqued his interest as his eyes gazed over the information attached.

The age was young—seventeen, same as him. A girl. According to the report, you were previously stationed as a secretary for some lower ranking member. And you’d just joined, too. Only a few blissful months ago. Just barely a baby in the crime world. All dewy-eyed and truly unknowing of the dark underbelly of Yokohama.

Most interesting, though, and the thing that struck his curiosity was the fact that a small sticky note was attached to the last page.

‘Single mother of eight month old girl’

There weren’t many parents in the Mafia, much less teenage ones. Nobody had time to have a baby with the lack of safety. But you did. Someone desperate enough to provide for their child to the point where they joined an illegal organization without even being an adult yet. That took will and selflessness. Something he lacked.

And without having even met you yet, Dazai found himself fascinated by you.

Murmuring your name to himself, he found himself a bit startled at how smooth it rolled off his tongue. He liked it, too. Your name was nice to say.

Tossing the file onto his desk carelessly, Dazai tapped his fingers on the desk, mind wandering once more. If you had a child then you’d probably work your best to support them. You’d be competent enough for him.

Apparently competent enough to the point where you felt like you could handle bringing the baby to the Mafia HQ.

“I don’t remember hiring two assistants.”

Dazai’s voice came out as slightly amused and startled. There you were, standing in-front of his desk while occasionally shushing your…daughter? It looked like a girl, anyway.

“Sorry- her sitter wasn’t available and I-“

His eyes stared at your reddening cheeks—embarrassment and shame, he could tell—as you spoke again.

“I don’t really have anyone to watch her. I’m so sorry, sir.”

Sir? You called him sir? That made him wave his hand a bit dismissively. The only people who called him ‘sir’ were the random grunts and gunmen that served under him. Or people who were scared shitless of him.

“Dazai. Not sir.”

Sitting up languidly, his uncovered eye focused on the baby. Curls of dark hair fell over her forehead while her tiny hands grabbed at your shirt and hair. Funny, he thought.

“And the baby can stay.”

She reminded him of some of the orphans Oda took care of. Especially Sakura. Maybe they had the same name, too. Unlikely, though. She didn’t look like a Sakura, really.

Picking up a pen, he pointed it at you, a small smile on her face.

“Speaking of, may I know her mother’s name?”

He knew it already. But it felt more right if he convinced himself you told him.

“Oh! Yes, uhm, I’m (L/N) (Y/N). And her name,” Tapping your baby’s forehead, she released a small coo, giggling slightly. “is (L/N) Yukirou.”

“Winter baby, huh. I’ll guess, December 16th?”

This was so much fun for him so far. Maybe Yukirou really could be his second assistant. As a joke, of course.

Nodding, you began to ramble on about the baby as he relaxed back in his chair, spinning around and making funny faces at Yukirou. The small child giggled and outreached her fingers to him, probably infatuated by his bandages and messy hair. He didn’t touch her, though. No need to let such a good small thing interact with a person like him.

And so minutes went by. Technically, he should’ve been doling out tasks and trying to kill himself again—he had heard of a technique where one could inject apple juice into their neck and die, but he wasn’t sure it’d work—but it slipped out of his grasp. Maybe it was the fact you two were so close in age. The fact that in another universe you could’ve been classmates fueled this moment. Dazai didn’t really know people his age other than Chuuya, but Chuuya was Chuuya. You were new.

New to everything in this line of business. The killing, the release of morals. Then again, you were just an assistant. You’d never directly be involved with that. Just helping him out with whatever was needed.

Dazai thought that was a smart choice, whether or not you intended for it to be. As an assistant, you’d be safe from the gunfire and outermost threats. More likely to live and protect your daughter.

So caring in a line of work where lives were dispensable.

He wondered how you got there. Not to the Port Mafia—the file told him. But how you took on such a frowned upon job to solely provide for your child. Was the father a deadbeat? Or actually dead? His father was the same. Dead five years into Dazai’s life.

His mother tried her best, but she died too and he slipped onto Mori’s grasp. Hopefully your baby wouldn’t end up in the same situation.

The peaceful moment was interrupted by one of his men who dropped off a load of documents, side-eyeing you before leaving.

Dazai wished you hadn’t turned the conversation back to work.

“Sir, sorry- Dazai-san, would you like me to organize the papers..?”

Why did he forget that you were just an assistant of his? The medication must be making his mind woozy again.

“By date and incident, yep. Also, if you see any that mentioned a Chuuya, please throw them out. Or burn them. Preferably the burning part.”

His office was always to be kept rid of that ginger.

“On it.”

And so he doodled a noose on the wood of his desk while you slowly put the papers away. It soon became clear to him that Yukirou was making the job a tad difficult by trying to grab at the papers.

A slight idea of letting her crawl loose in Mori’s office and destroying it entered his mind, but it quickly left.

“Y’know, if she’s being a devil, I can play with her for a bit. I swear I’ll be good!”

The words left him before he could really process them. Next thing he knew he was wearing the baby carrier with tiny fingers pulling at his shirt. Instructions poured from your lips as he nodded and patted the baby’s back.

“I’ll kill you if anything goes wrong.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at the sound of that. You? Kill him? Never going to happen. Unless it were a double suicide, but you probably wouldn’t say yes.

And he replied when the slight fear in your eyes registered after remembering that he was your boss in the Mafia.

“If course, cutie. I give you permission to kill me if theoretically anything goes wrong.”

Dazai made sure to sneak a peek at your reddening cheeks before leaving his office with the baby strapped to his chest and tugging at his bandages like a little snake.

That’s how it all started. A boy and a girl who happened to have a baby.

He’d never regret how months went by as you two became closer and closer. Joking around, complaining about work, all the stuff friends did. Hell, Dazai even watched Yukirou sometimes.

Thank god Chuuya wasn’t there to see him watching children’s cartoons on your couch with a baby in his lap and a stuffed animal in the other.

Or how he insisted on covering some of your rent when you were struggling. Yukirou needs a home, after all. He sees himself in her a bit. And he didn’t want her to turn out like him. If he couldn’t change his own life for the better, he’d change hers.

And yours.

Much better than that dickhead that fathered Yukirou. You told Dazai about it one night when he stayed over after babysitting once more. Yukirou was napping in her nursery, and you two were sitting on the couch just talking.

Talking turned into sharing details of your lives, and he came up. Your old flame who ditched you. Breaking a promise that he’d be there for the baby and you. Dazai was silent all throughout it. Quiet when you spoke of the emotional abuse and stress that you had, quiet when you began crying over the fact you never got to graduate high school.

He was just there, daring to awkwardly rub your back as you vented. He wondered if you had talked about it before. Probably not.

Dazai felt like he too needed to share a story of his childhood too in exchange for yours. So he told you about the poor neighborhood he grew up in and the horrors he saw daily.

Did it lessen the impact of your venting? Most likely, but in his opinion, he was trying to show you that he trusted you now too. He assumed it worked when you fell asleep on his shoulder. He took care of Yukirou when she woke crying an hour later. He would’ve been a much better father than that bastard.

It didn’t help either that Yukirou began to see him as her daddy. He was there when she turned a year old, gifting her all sorts of things. Scolding her when she nibbled on his hands. Doing nearly everything a dad would.

Even when she managed to say ‘mama’ and ‘dada’ for the first time, it was when all three of you were in the room together. In her tiny mind, it was her family. Her mama and Dazai—her papa. Oda congratulated him for becoming a father when you came along one day with him to Bar Lupin.

It didn’t live up to Chuuya’s reaction when he first heard one of his guys call Dazai a doting father. The shortstack had gone up to him asking if he really was Yukirou’s dad—rumors went around at HQ quickly—and Dazai had to sadly reply that he wasn’t. Sometimes he wished he was. Months of time with you led to nights in bed where he dreamed of a universe that he was really the dad. That Yukirou had his brown eyes instead of her dad’s blue ones.

It wasn’t fair.

Nor were his growing feelings.

Dazai was smart. A genius thinker and planner. So of course he noticed how his heart began to rapidly beat around you. The sweating of his usually cold hands.

He’d had crushes in the past, sure. But it didn’t equate to this. Such a strong connection only made it worse. Was it wrong his Google history lately was filled with questions about confessing to and dating a single mom?

Did you even like him back?

That question couldn’t be answered by anyone but you. It scared him. You probably didn’t. Not as more than a brother, anyway. His suicidal ideation and tendencies scared off any woman who wanted more than sex. But he probably wouldn’t be living long anyway. So he’d have to shoot his shot eventually.

Which he did after another five months of consideration and thought. Dazai committed this act by simply asking you to sort out some notes for him. A total of eight. Each one had a single word on it. If you correctly put them together, it spelled:

‘I like you. Do you like me back?’

Much to his relief and shock, you did. You did, and he had hugged you so tightly. Tightening their bond, too.

So he became your boyfriend. And he wore the title of ‘dad’ to Yukirou gladly. The little girl saw him as her papa, and he couldn’t deny it. Even if it wasn’t biologically, she was his. And yours.

Dazai’s life used to be mundane and slow, yet with his new…family, he felt genuine happiness for once. A reason to live.

That was the greatest gift he could receive of all.

Regular Tags: @twst-om-lover, @xxcandlelightxx, @sinfulthoughtsposts.

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You owe it to the little shared space you’re in, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, reading a book of his as he shakes his coat off and tosses it across the small dining table with two chairs side-by-side at it instead of across from one another. Dazai usually hangs his coat up on the rack by the door, slips his shoes off mindlessly and comes to flop his entire body weight on top of you, but tonight he pulls his laces undone and leaves his shoes tucked neatly against the wall, walks by the back of the couch to press a ghostly kiss to the crown of your head, and heads straight to the bathroom, which he locks himself in.

You swallow as you hear the shower start. You had specifically picked out an apartment with a standing shower, no tub, when you moved in with him. You’d emptied it of razors a handful of times and you probably would a handful of times more, and you kept all of both of your medication in your bedside table. Still, you can no longer quite focus on the words in front of you.

So, you flick the television on. A little more noise in your brain helps tune out the shower that’s just that—a shower. He showers, most often, because he’s feeling strange and not because he needs to feel clean. Maybe he needs to feel clean, but not in a way that a shower will allow. He does it anyway. You wait.

When the water turns off and he doesn’t immediately bounce out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, singsonging which leftovers you should heat up for him, you turn the TV volume down a few notches. When it’s been five minutes or so, you find yourself in the kitchen putting day-old bibimbap in the microwave. When it’s been ten, you’re knocking on the door.

"Osamu?" Your voice is soft as your knock. "I waited for you to eat." Dirty trick, you know. But you also know he won’t otherwise; not on a night like this.

You hear a bit of shuffling before the bathroom door creaks open. His eyes are red, his nose flushed, and he’s rubbing his face with the corner of his towel like he’s just awoken from a nap. He’s got no bandages on. He nearly whispers, "You didn’t have to."

"Wanted to." You work the towel from his hands as he turns the light off. He’ll hide behind the darkness if nothing else, but it’s alright; you’ll let him. You pat water from his shoulders before you sling the towel around him like a cape. You whisper back, "I’ll get you clothes. Please get silverware, yes?"

You don’t give him much of a choice, but he’s in a state where he’s pliant enough to listen to corporeal orders. Getting silverware will be a marginally easier task than dressing for him right now.

After pulling a sweatshirt and pair of pajama pants out of your drawers—they’re his, or maybe yours, doesn’t really matter; what does matter is they cover as much skin as possible—you return to him on the couch, two bowls of cooling bibimbap with chopsticks stuck in them on coffee table. He’s got as much of his bare body under the towel as it will allow.

When you set next to him and peel the towel back he looks nearly catatonic. It spurs tears to your lash line, but you hold back. "Arms, please."

He shoves himself into the hoodie, tousling his wet mop of hair in the process, and takes the pants from you, which he stands robotically to step into. When he sits you wrap five fingers across the top of his flannel-clad thigh and press a short kiss to his cheek.

As if sparked by your touch, he curls himself into you.

You’re quick to receive him; you unlock his hands from where they latch behind your neck, gently, like everything else, and you lean back, back, until your head is hitting the pillow you were lounged up against earlier. His fingers scramble for somewhere to land; you will his weight down onto you, his shoulder and hip to tuck beside yours on the inside of the couch, his free arm and leg to sling across your body and his sweet face in the side of your neck. The water from his hair soaks through your shirt. You don’t care. You feel his breath; your fingertips trace circles along his spine, and your outside hand comes to tangle up with his. Eating will have to wait.

You don’t waste time asking if he wants to talk. If he did, he would’ve started by now.

So you focus on his breathing, and how lucky you are to have it ghosting along your collarbone. He’s gray, then white, then gray, then blue in the light of the TV as his thumb moves across the back of your hand, stiff, like it’s just been freed from paralysis.

You wait for his breath to shake; you know it will.

And he knows you know, because he squeezes your hand in a pulsing rhythm like a heartbeat. He hates this. He hates that you've seen him crumble so many times that you know exactly what he needs.

You say it so softly, again, almost a whisper: "I've got you, my love."

He doesn't want you to say it's okay or let it out or talk to me; this is another thing you know very well. He feels like he's floating away from what little sense of self he has to begin with and it's not okay, and he doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to be told when to cry or not, but he does need reminded that you're here, and you're real, and so is he, and so is this thing that both have; you'll grab his ankles and pull him down out of the air. You always do. You always do.

So he cries anyway.

It's like hearing a foreign language leave his mouth. There's something so assured about Dazai even while he believes he's all smoke and mirrors and seeing—hearing—his voice jump between heaving breaths and cracking sobs has always jarred you in some way. Moreover, now that you're so attuned to the way he breaks, it fills you with a tired anger that you can't place on anything concrete. It's a frustration you're glad to shoulder with him, but a frustration no less. You would set fire to everything you could touch, strangle it all to death with your bare hands, if it guaranteed his peace. But you know he wouldn't want that, not anymore; you quell the rage inside you between strands of his hair, fingerpads combing over his scalp with all that anger channeled into love, pure love. For as terrible and rotten as he's convinced he is, he's truly turned you into something softer than you thought yourself capable of being.

You feel his heart racing double-time against yours; you briefly wish you had no chest, no ribs, no physical form to separate you from him, so that your heart could cradle his, give over to his troubled body the time of the breath yours breathes.

He's all jagged edges right now and you're holding him like he's made of cotton. It makes him worse, momentarily, and he tears his hand away from yours; he knows wrapping around you like this, like a boa constrictor around its prey, will make his arms lose feeling but he does it anyway, like he's worried you'll go up in a cloud of dust if he doesn't hold onto you tight enough. He knows it's probably uncomfortable for you, too, laying back on his knotted fingers while he shoves every piece of himself as close as he can get to you, but you don't say anything, don't even make a sound when he hyperventilates into your shoulder and pushes out pathetic whimpers between his stuttering. He knows his face is twisted into that expression he long ago deemed too ugly to look at in the mirror. He gasps like he's underwater, and you just press your cheek to his temple while you lose track of if the wetness on your shoulder is from his hair or his eyes. It doesn't matter. You love him so fucking much.

He weeps against you with his constraint surrendered, loud but muffled by your shirt, at least until whatever movie was on is over. When he finally lifts his head, your eyes flutter open. You hadn't realized you closed them.

You tilt to look at him; the seam of your shirt collar is imprinted into his cheek. His bangs have dried wildly; you push them away from his eyes which are raw with sorrow, and Dazai's hands unclasp from behind you, settling back to how they first were with one curled up into the couch and the other interlaced with yours. He's devastatingly beautiful. You can't help the ghost of the sad smile you wear; it's because he's so gorgeous, and also you want to let him know you're content to be here—not content with what's upset him, not at all, but content to pick him up and help him haul himself forward. He does not reflect the smile back to you. You don't blame him.

"Let's eat." You leave the please unspoken, but it hangs there anyway.

"It's cold," he complains, still distant, but with a glimmer of a pout you think may be him. He's not getting out of it, though.

You sit him up, keep him close to your side and pick up a bowl; it's indeed cold, but you take a bite anyway, as if to show him it's not so bad. When you hold sliced carrot and broccoli to his lips, he looks at you like you're trying to feed him dirt, but opens his mouth anyway.

And it may as well be medicine going down. Not that he particularly cares for reheated and recooled leftover bibimbap, but your fingers being at the other end of the chopsticks makes it appealing. More than appealing. Delightful, even. He never really understood how things like food, music, or art could be healing until he met you and you doodles silly pictures of him on slow Sunday mornings, sang old love songs to him while you shooed him away from the stove as you cooked dinner, fed him leftovers in your shared home, on your shared couch, surrounded by all the things that were both yours and his, sweatshirts, books, blankets, chopsticks alike.

And he tells you that in his own way.

"Heat it up again for me? Please?"

He speaks the plea this time, and you grin—not sad this time, but wholly, as he relights slowly in front of you. And as already established, you'd do anything for him.

"Mhm."

"I love you," he blurts. Tags it on. You stand, gathering both bowls, still grinning.

You owe it to the little shared space you’re in, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, reading a book of his as he shakes his coat off and tosses it across the small dining table with two chairs side-by-side at it instead of across from one another. Dazai usually hangs his coat up on the rack by the door, slips his shoes off mindlessly and comes to flop his entire body weight on top of you, but tonight he pulls his laces undone and leaves his shoes tucked neatly against the wall, walks by the back of the couch to press a ghostly kiss to the crown of your head, and heads straight to the bathroom, which he locks himself in.

You swallow as you hear the shower start. You had specifically picked out an apartment with a standing shower, no tub, when you moved in with him. You’d emptied it of razors a handful of times and you probably would a handful of times more, and you kept all of both of your medication in your bedside table. Still, you can no longer quite focus on the words in front of you.

So, you flick the television on. A little more noise in your brain helps tune out the shower that’s just that—a shower. He showers, most often, because he’s feeling strange and not because he needs to feel clean. Maybe he needs to feel clean, but not in a way that a shower will allow. He does it anyway. You wait.

When the water turns off and he doesn’t immediately bounce out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, singsonging which leftovers you should heat up for him, you turn the TV volume down a few notches. When it’s been five minutes or so, you find yourself in the kitchen putting day-old bibimbap in the microwave. When it’s been ten, you’re knocking on the door.

"Osamu?" Your voice is soft as your knock. "I waited for you to eat." Dirty trick, you know. But you also know he won’t otherwise; not on a night like this.

You hear a bit of shuffling before the bathroom door creaks open. His eyes are red, his nose flushed, and he’s rubbing his face with the corner of his towel like he’s just awoken from a nap. He’s got no bandages on. He nearly whispers, "You didn’t have to."

"Wanted to." You work the towel from his hands as he turns the light off. He’ll hide behind the darkness if nothing else, but it’s alright; you’ll let him. You pat water from his shoulders before you sling the towel around him like a cape. You whisper back, "I’ll get you clothes. Please get silverware, yes?"

You don’t give him much of a choice, but he’s in a state where he’s pliant enough to listen to corporeal orders. Getting silverware will be a marginally easier task than dressing for him right now.

After pulling a sweatshirt and pair of pajama pants out of your drawers—they’re his, or maybe yours, doesn’t really matter; what does matter is they cover as much skin as possible—you return to him on the couch, two bowls of cooling bibimbap with chopsticks stuck in them on coffee table. He’s got as much of his bare body under the towel as it will allow.

When you set next to him and peel the towel back he looks nearly catatonic. It spurs tears to your lash line, but you hold back. "Arms, please."

He shoves himself into the hoodie, tousling his wet mop of hair in the process, and takes the pants from you, which he stands robotically to step into. When he sits you wrap five fingers across the top of his flannel-clad thigh and press a short kiss to his cheek.

As if sparked by your touch, he curls himself into you.

You’re quick to receive him; you unlock his hands from where they latch behind your neck, gently, like everything else, and you lean back, back, until your head is hitting the pillow you were lounged up against earlier. His fingers scramble for somewhere to land; you will his weight down onto you, his shoulder and hip to tuck beside yours on the inside of the couch, his free arm and leg to sling across your body and his sweet face in the side of your neck. The water from his hair soaks through your shirt. You don’t care. You feel his breath; your fingertips trace circles along his spine, and your outside hand comes to tangle up with his. Eating will have to wait.

You don’t waste time asking if he wants to talk. If he did, he would’ve started by now.

So you focus on his breathing, and how lucky you are to have it ghosting along your collarbone. He’s gray, then white, then gray, then blue in the light of the TV as his thumb moves across the back of your hand, stiff, like it’s just been freed from paralysis.

You wait for his breath to shake; you know it will.

And he knows you know, because he squeezes your hand in a pulsing rhythm like a heartbeat. He hates this. He hates that you've seen him crumble so many times that you know exactly what he needs.

You say it so softly, again, almost a whisper: "I've got you, my love."

He doesn't want you to say it's okay or let it out or talk to me; this is another thing you know very well. He feels like he's floating away from what little sense of self he has to begin with and it's not okay, and he doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to be told when to cry or not, but he does need reminded that you're here, and you're real, and so is he, and so is this thing that both have; you'll grab his ankles and pull him down out of the air. You always do. You always do.

So he cries anyway.

It's like hearing a foreign language leave his mouth. There's something so assured about Dazai even while he believes he's all smoke and mirrors and seeing—hearing—his voice jump between heaving breaths and cracking sobs has always jarred you in some way. Moreover, now that you're so attuned to the way he breaks, it fills you with a tired anger that you can't place on anything concrete. It's a frustration you're glad to shoulder with him, but a frustration no less. You would set fire to everything you could touch, strangle it all to death with your bare hands, if it guaranteed his peace. But you know he wouldn't want that, not anymore; you quell the rage inside you between strands of his hair, fingerpads combing over his scalp with all that anger channeled into love, pure love. For as terrible and rotten as he's convinced he is, he's truly turned you into something softer than you thought yourself capable of being.

You feel his heart racing double-time against yours; you briefly wish you had no chest, no ribs, no physical form to separate you from him, so that your heart could cradle his, give over to his troubled body the time of the breath yours breathes.

He's all jagged edges right now and you're holding him like he's made of cotton. It makes him worse, momentarily, and he tears his hand away from yours; he knows wrapping around you like this, like a boa constrictor around its prey, will make his arms lose feeling but he does it anyway, like he's worried you'll go up in a cloud of dust if he doesn't hold onto you tight enough. He knows it's probably uncomfortable for you, too, laying back on his knotted fingers while he shoves every piece of himself as close as he can get to you, but you don't say anything, don't even make a sound when he hyperventilates into your shoulder and pushes out pathetic whimpers between his stuttering. He knows his face is twisted into that expression he long ago deemed too ugly to look at in the mirror. He gasps like he's underwater, and you just press your cheek to his temple while you lose track of if the wetness on your shoulder is from his hair or his eyes. It doesn't matter. You love him so fucking much.

He weeps against you with his constraint surrendered, loud but muffled by your shirt, at least until whatever movie was on is over. When he finally lifts his head, your eyes flutter open. You hadn't realized you closed them.

You tilt to look at him; the seam of your shirt collar is imprinted into his cheek. His bangs have dried wildly; you push them away from his eyes which are raw with sorrow, and Dazai's hands unclasp from behind you, settling back to how they first were with one curled up into the couch and the other interlaced with yours. He's devastatingly beautiful. You can't help the ghost of the sad smile you wear; it's because he's so gorgeous, and also you want to let him know you're content to be here—not content with what's upset him, not at all, but content to pick him up and help him haul himself forward. He does not reflect the smile back to you. You don't blame him.

"Let's eat." You leave the please unspoken, but it hangs there anyway.

"It's cold," he complains, still distant, but with a glimmer of a pout you think may be him. He's not getting out of it, though.

You sit him up, keep him close to your side and pick up a bowl; it's indeed cold, but you take a bite anyway, as if to show him it's not so bad. When you hold sliced carrot and broccoli to his lips, he looks at you like you're trying to feed him dirt, but opens his mouth anyway.

And it may as well be medicine going down. Not that he particularly cares for reheated and recooled leftover bibimbap, but your fingers being at the other end of the chopsticks makes it appealing. More than appealing. Delightful, even. He never really understood how things like food, music, or art could be healing until he met you and you doodles silly pictures of him on slow Sunday mornings, sang old love songs to him while you shooed him away from the stove as you cooked dinner, fed him leftovers in your shared home, on your shared couch, surrounded by all the things that were both yours and his, sweatshirts, books, blankets, chopsticks alike.

And he tells you that in his own way.

"Heat it up again for me? Please?"

He speaks the plea this time, and you grin—not sad this time, but wholly, as he relights slowly in front of you. And as already established, you'd do anything for him.

"Mhm."

"I love you," he blurts. Tags it on. You stand, gathering both bowls, still grinning.

★ — osamu dazai ; maybe i'm the problem [ a, f ]

you got filled up with anger after finally knowing who he "truly" is. kunikida had sent you both to lure in the ability user who attacked the president but you refused to go with dazai, leading him to get shot by a sniper. later, kunikida breaks the news about to you about dazai undergoing surgery and you couldn't help but carry the guilt for not going to protect him.

★ — osamu dazai ; big tease [ s ]

★ — revenge sex ; hc [ s ]

★ — my love is mine all mine ; akutagawa smau [ f, a ] ON GOING

★ — osamu dazai : 9:27pm [ f, a ]

you two were laying on his bed, dazai's arms wrapped around your waist, his head inbetween the crook of your neck and your hand running in his hair. dazai had called you over since he need to be with someone, he needed someone to comfort him after a long day of work.

★ — ryuunosuke akutagawa : 4:57pm [ f, a ]

"i care because you don't" you replied, walking towards him. you reached your arms out to him, your hands cupping his face as you brushed his tears away. "i've always loved you ryuunosuke," you continued as you smiled warmly at him, his hand making it's way to your cheeks, them leaning in pressing his lips against yours.

★ — maki zen'in ; she likes a boy, i'm not a boy [ a ]

you were sent on a mission with maki, you two were now in the car on the way to ithe location. you had a crush on her but you didn't know if she felt the same way you did, you were pretty sure maki thought your love for her was in a "best friend" way, and you absolutely hated it.

★ — ryuunosuke akutagawa : pre/boyfriend hcs [ f ]

★ — ryuunosuke akutagawa : jealous [ a, s ]

★ — osamu dazai : lovesick [ f ]

you’d failed at landing yet another role, and the acting career you’d packed your bags and moved out for was plummeting. who would accept you now, now that your hopes and dreams had been for naught, now that you’d created a shameful woman of yourself and your family?

the answer was clear; but you were too stubborn too accept it, too desperate to believe that you could be up in the glimmering lights, the brightest silver star the world had ever seen. 

you lean back in your chair, stamping out the cigarette with a sigh as you stand to collect another drink. there’s not much left in your pockets, but you’ve made it work before, and you’ll keep making it work now, scrounging up coins for the relief that came with forgetting. 

the only consolation is the line of women that stand alongside you at the bar, as dejected and miserable as yourself. all of you have been labeled the failures of your families, the ones that bet on a shot in the dark. none of you expected that the road would be easy, certainly not with the way the industry is hasty to pick up only the most beautiful faces… but your ambitions had led you to believe that you, of all people, had had a chance. 

you know your beauty is endless, a sight to be admired, but even that had not been enough to secure your spot in the limelight. 

you thank the bartender as he hands you a drink, and slump back to your table, waiting for the effects of the alcohol to kick in. yet, when you stand at the edge of the table, peer at the chair you’d once been seated in, there is already a man there. 

he gazes at you with a crooked smile, eyes amused as he regards your beaten-down state.

you’ve seen him before—made every attempt not to see him again. you know what they say about him. he’s a wizard, he’s the devil, he’s a god that steals the body of a mortal, waiting to destroy the earth. all bad things, certainly, and with the way your life’s been going, you’d be a fool to get mixed up with someone like him.

still…you know of the things he’s done for people. that miracles have happened for those brave enough to ask for them. 

perhaps, you’re in need of a miracle. 

the dark-haired man leans forward, eyebrows raised as you gawk at him from the other side of the table. “no need to look so frightened,” he says, gesturing towards the other chair. “sit.” 

“i don’t want any company,” you say, straightening, pulling your drink closer to your chest. “i came here to be alone.”

his eyes flash, predatory, as if seeing down through the depths of your soul, to the very desire that lingers within. all of your dreams, your ambitions, and your loneliness are displayed to him, a flashing banner that alerts him easily of everything that’s ever been wrong with you. 

“is that so?” he asks, leaning forward, his voice deepening amongst the chaos of the speakeasy. “then, why have you been staring at me all evening?” 

you can’t help the flush that rushes to your cheek, the heat that covers your entire body. with the crowd of men and women alike that are constantly at his arm, you’d hardly thought he’d notice you.

and though you know what they say about him, he is undeniably beautiful; you’re drawn to him. there is a dark and heavenly beauty about him, something that you fear is too angelic to be of this world. his eyes glimmer almost like diamonds in the candlelit room, skin so flawless that it is nearly luminescent. 

it’s no wonder, really, that you haven’t been able to peel your eyes off of him.

you circle around his question, instead, and set your drink down on the table, lured in either by a false sense of safety, or the confidence of his grin. “i know what you are,” you say, swallowing back the fear that devils often prey on. 

he smiles, indulging you, a lifelong game he has surely played. “and what is that, my dear?” 

the mocking tone sends a cold wave down your spine, even though the sweet name seems to warm you. “i don’t believe i should say it out loud.” you’re not sure what kind of consequence that will bring you. perhaps you do not need to make a deal with him for your soul to be damned, straight to the fiery pits; maybe this conversation is enough, and already, you are on the long list of sinners that will be sent to burn.

“because you believe i am the devil? a demon sent to prey upon you and your soul, drag you down to hell once the contract you’ve made is over?” 

you say nothing, but your silence speaks loudly. 

he sighs, leans back in the chair and looks at you from under thick lashes. “i have no interest in the dealings of those fifty, lesser beings. i find that i can bargain for more enjoyable ventures.” two dark eyes trace over you, swallow you whole as he grazes your curves with his irises, the shape of your breasts under the tightness of your dress, the style shorter to match the current fashions. “so, i think we both may have something the other is interested in. please,” he gestures once more to the seat in front of him, addressing you by your first name—one you never even had to tell him. “sit.” 

nervous, you take the chair, wondering why you aren’t running away, screaming at everyone that there is a monster in your midst, a being that hunts the weak to lure them away from their misery. no wonder he has made himself a frequent customer at this place—there are people drowning in sorrows. one deal with him, and they will wake up in the morning, drowning in riches instead. 

“what do you want from me?” you ask, letting your hands fall to your sides. 

“so eager to get to the best part of my bargain, silly girl. have some patience.” he takes a sip of his own drink, pinning you with his gaze, even above the rim. you squirm under the intensity, but you, even now, can’t look away. “i know you’re struggling to find work. you’ve been here for years, and made pennies to live off of.” he reaches across the table, spins a lock of hair around his finger as he sighs dramatically. “such a shame, really. they must fear the power of your perfection if they refuse to let you shine brighter than the rest of the dull creatures that they call starlets.” 

your heart drops, stutters within the delicate bones of your skeleton before starting again, as you remember that this is how the devil would act, luring you in with sweetly poisoned words full of deceit. “they are talented—”

“they are nothing,” he snarls, banging his fist on the table so loudly that you jump, hands shaking against the beaded skirt of your dress. “you may claim to believe in your own talents, your appearance, but it is all a lie, a facade that you maintain to protect yourself. you are the one holding yourself back, and unless you let me help you, you’ll get nowhere.”

you feel tears burn. “you mean to lure me away from the path of god—”

his eyes narrow. “i mean to free the human race from the chains that religion has bound on them. there is nothing for you in the afterlife but an existence of slavery. one to a malicious devil who only wishes to torment, or one to a god who doesn’t love you.” 

it confuses you, the way he speaks of these beings as if he is not on the side of heaven or hell. as if there could be another option. it seems surreal, a secret that you should not have been told; since the day you were born, you have learned of the path of righteousness, the will of god. 

that is the only way you can obtain a life of peace… yet, there is a creature before you, claiming to offer you a third path, one that doesn’t have you bowing down for a god that won’t answer your prayers. 

it may be foolish, the work of the devil, but you are willing to listen. you are already lured in by this graceful creature with a charming smile and a quick tongue, and you don’t know if it will take much more for you to succumb to him completely. 

already, you have lost your way—you would do anything to escape your unhappiness.

“what is it you’re after, then?” you ask, your voice softer, weaker than you anticipated. 

he laughs, and lets his head tilt sideways, studies you before answering. “my father has cast me out of heaven; i plan to build my own religion of followers, tearing them away from that idiot of a being they call their god. because i am much stronger, much wiser, and the only way that they can find peace after their death is by trusting that i will give it to them.” 

you swallow, twining your fingers together, and think. “you’re… an angel?” 

he waves his hand. “a fallen one.”

there are things about the world that you do not understand, but you know that god has not once help you when you were drowning without a savior. he did not guide a helping a hand when you contemplated dragging a knife across your wrists, and yet, here is something, someone wanting to save you from just that. how is it that god can be more benevolent than those he casts out, when you have seen nothing but the opposite?

“you want me to join you, then?” you ask, drawing your eyebrows together. “if i join you, you’ll give me what i desire?”

“well… that is usually the bargain i offer. however,” he hums, eyes flashing as they scour your body. he looks at you hungrily, like he has never seen a being like yourself. “it has been a while since i’ve seen a human as beautiful as you.” 

you swallow, blinking at him with wide eyes as you grow hot all over. this would not be the first time you’ve sold your body for fame, but never has it been with a man as stunning as the angel before you. “you mean… if i fuck you, you’ll give me whatever i want?” 

he sniffs, repulsed by your suggestion. “always so lewd, you mortals.”

your eyebrows knit together. “but you said—”

“i don’t want you for one night. i want you forever. i want you to swear your body over to me for the rest of your life, let me use it as i wish, bear my children.” he traces your features, grazes a thumb over your jaw, your lip. his eyes are hard, and you swallow, wondering why your stomach flips. “you are meant to be mine.” he smiles, and though you can see the mischief within it, for some reason, there is also softness there as he crosses his arms over the counter. “but if you aren’t interested, then the deal is off the table. i have no need for someone who doesn’t want me in return.” 

you blink back at him, observing the seriousness of his expression, the softness lurking within the pools of his deep brown eyes. perhaps he is a vengeful angel… but he is offering you a life that is much more promising than the one you have now. would it really be so bad to give yourself to him, to spend the rest of your life in his arms, when he promises to give you everything you’ve ever wished for?

“i—” you hesitate, unsure how to even begin to answer the question, when you didn’t quite understand what it was that he needed from you.  

“i’ll give you some time to think about it. after all, it is a decision that will affect the rest of your life.” he stands to his feet, and it is then that you notice there are some eyes on you, the women he typically has hanging off of him watching your interaction with bated breath. “when you have an answer, just call for me. i’ll be there.” 

“wait,” you say, turning in your chair to face him. “i don’t even know your name.” 

“you can call me osamu.” he smiles and winks at you, tucking his jacket closer as he begins to walk away. “we’ll be in touch."

three weeks pass before you see him again. 

you’d decided quickly what you would say to him, and after two weeks worth of auditions that led to nothing, drinking without a friend in the world, alone to rot in your bedroom, you’d made up your mind.

osamu’s proposal, now, after everything you’d suffered, seemed too good to be true. how long had you wished for a companion, for money, for a steady job—and now, these were all things he promised to provide you, if only you’d stand by his side. 

you’d called to him at the start of the week, said a prayer to any angel named osamu that was out there—but no one came. 

night after night, you said the same prayer, wondering, if perhaps, you’d been made a fool of. that everything he had said was a lie, and you, truly, were doomed to live an unhappy life. maybe, he was mocking you for your misfortunes, for your weak heart. 

though, on the twenty-first day after your discussion, you awaken to a figure standing in the corner of your room, watching you with hawklike eyes, the shadow of a wingspan shaped out behind him. 

you gasp, nearly letting out a scream as you scramble to a seated position in your bed, bringing the sheets up to your chest. the man is nothing more than a silhouette, so dark in the moonlight, but you know, without seeing his face, that he is the one you’ve been searching for.

“osamu,” you say, trying to quell the fear that has made a home in your chest. you gawk at him as he uncrosses his arms, sauntering over like he owns the place, like he’s been here before, knows the shape of your body, even under the sheets you hide within. “you heard my prayers.” 

“i apologize for not coming faster,” he smiles in the darkness, teeth glimmering under beams of starlight. his face becomes visible then, and it steals your breath away—he is more stunning than you remember, skin nearly glowing, golden. “you were beginning to sound desperate.” osamu watches as your breathing evens out, your eyes flicking over his features. “is that still the case?” 

he is a sight to behold sitting before you, the very essence of power seeping off of him in waves. a creature crafted from the hands of god, shaped to be the very thing that would protect the weaker creations. 

osamu’s skin, his hair, every inch of him is without flaws, while you are but a sinful human girl who succumbs to each of her urges. 

“i want—” you stop, realizing that you’re not sure what you want. to be an actress, yes, a famous starlet that is cherished by the masses. but, when you look at osamu, the soft, plump shape of his lips, the lean limbs that hide under his tailored coat, you wonder if fame, security, comfort—perhaps, those aren’t the only things you desire from this exchange. “i accept—”

“you sound uncertain,” he interrupts, eyebrows drawing together in a scowl. “you called me here, begged me to come steal you away, and now, you change your mind?”

“no!” you say, scrambling to grab his wrist as he starts to stand from the bed, his eyes flashing as you reach for him on all fours. “i’m not changing my mind. i want to be famous, i want to be yours.” you swallow, choking out the word as it turns your cheeks warm, the heat making its way up from your toes. 

it hit you harder that you anticipated, the taste of belonging to another. you aren’t sure if its because you’ve craved the connection for so long that it’s twisting your insides, turning you into something desperate, or if, already, you feel an invisible string tying you and this stranger together. 

“but?” osamu asks, still seeming like he’s about to flee, his eyes hard, blinking back at you. there is something about you that he wants, but he won’t take it, not unless you crave him just as much. it muddles your mind, confuses you—he could have anyone, could take anything. yet— 

“but why do you want me?” you ask, releasing him to curl your fingers around the blanket. “i don’t understand.” 

osamu balks, then laughs, his eyes crinkling as he regards you with some sort of gentleness. “perhaps i have always loved humans a little too much, much more than i should, at least.” he curls a piece of your hair around his finger, hums to himself. “innocent creatures that my father cursed with misery, blaming their own sinfulness against them.” osamu licks his lips, hungry as dark eyes cover your face. “but it’s not entirely your fault that you must bear the torment of generations. just as it is not my fault that i was born with a lust for something much more delicate than the creatures of heaven.” 

he strokes your cheek, fingers grazing you like you are nothing more than a piece of glass, that you might shatter under the force of his power. perhaps you would—with too much, he might break you, turn you into a pile of ash with a snap of his finger.  

“but there are millions of us to choose from,” you say, sweating under the blanket as your heart pounds in your chest. the breadth of his power becomes more obvious with every passing second, and yet, you crave  a taste of it. “what makes me so special?”

he wraps a large palm around your jaw, thumb pulling at your lower lip. the tip of it dips into your mouth as you watch him with wide eyes, frozen, but not from fear. “i was meant to be your guardian angel, to be the guide that leads you away from the devil until your dying breath.” he moves closer, dipping his head towards your lips, brown irises never leaving your own. “and yet, the moment i laid eyes on you, i had already broken the first rule.” 

you stumble over your syllables, whispering them breathlessly. “and what’s that?” 

osamu smiles, muttering the words against your mouth, his voice ghosting over your skin. “angels are wired to protect those that we are assigned to,” he says, swiping his tongue against your lip, just barely kissing you, the sounds low and breathy. “we’re not supposed to want to fuck them.” a finger drags slowly, sensuously up your arm, and you can’t move, can’t do anything but watch as he pushes you, sinks you slowly into the bed. “i have never wanted anything as badly as i want you.”

you breath, in and out, slow, as the heat settles in your stomach, a burning pool of need churning there. it’s been so long—so long—since anyone has touched you in a way that is kind, has wanted to please you, instead of steal from you. “all that, just for me?” you ask cheekily, though you’re still not sure that he is telling the truth. 

maybe he is the devil, but you no longer care. his voice is so sweet with praise and affirmation, bleeding into the softness of your heart. 

he shrugs. “perhaps i was always meant to fall.” your head hits the pillow. you aren’t sure when he got you pinned on the bed. osamu looms over you with wide, burning eyes, licking his lips with an ache he doesn’t bother to hide. 

“osamu,” you shudder, grabbing his bicep to steady yourself. it is too much, suddenly, all at once. you are filled with need for him, clawing at his skin as he commands complete control over you with nothing but his words. “i—”

your sentence is stolen away by a kiss, one that burns from your mouth all the way down to your toes. it twists something within you, turns you into a monstrous being that you had not realized you were, longing so recklessly to be touched. 

his hands roam over your body, touch featherlight as he removes your dress, drags it slowly off your body, eyes grazing over every inch of your skin like he wants to devour your whole.

he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, fingers lightly dipping down your chest, between the swell of your breast to your ribcage. “how cruel of our father to keep us from such divine creatures,” he says, leaning down to kiss up your stomach, lick the skin around your breasts. “perhaps we are the ones that are truly being punished.”

you writhe under him, hands curling in his hair as his own dips between your thighs. grabbing his scalp hard, you yank him back up to your lips, and your eyes meet, both dark and dangerous as you brush your nose against his own. “you are punishing me right now.” 

“is that so?” he laughs, eyes flashing with humor. “such a greedy, impatient little thing.” osamu slips out of his coat, his shirt, revealing the tent that has already grown in his slacks. they are the next to go, and his golden skin is revealed, the perfection of every line and angle of his body heavenly and refined. he leans down to whisper in your ear, breath ghosting the shell of it. “act like such a princess, but i know you want to be fucked until you can’t form a single thought, don’t you?” he says, and the coolness of his voice has you squeezing his shoulders, gasping out his name.

your skin burns, your chest burns, an ache gathering and settling deep in your stomach. your cunt throbs as you look at the angel before you, and he kisses down your neck, bites a hard bruise into your collarbone. 

you whimper, wondering why you ever questioned going with him, when he could make you feel this good from nothing more than his hands on your skin. 

“such pretty fucking tits.” he swirls his tongue around your hardened nipple, teasing the bud as you cry out loudly in the silent room. far too loudly for the thin walls, the cheap apartment. yet, you wonder if you care that your neighbors can hear the noises that come with your pleasure. 

“that’s it,” he purrs, kissing down your stomach before his lips reach your hipbone, smiling into the sensitive skin there. “so quiet before… thought i was doing something wrong.” 

“n-no,” you say, chest rising quickly as you watch him hover above your soaked cunt with anticipation. “feels good.” 

osamu smiles, spreads your legs farther, so your dripping, aching hole is on display, embarrassingly, every inch of you vulnerable to him. “look at you,” he says, eyes hazy as he holds you tight, digs his fingers in your skin. “so fucking perfect. bet you taste as good as you look.” 

there isn’t a moment for you to say a word—his head is already between your thighs, kissing your clit before sweeping his tongue through your folds, gathering up the wetness. a moan leaves his lips, and the vibration sends a wave of need through you as you squeeze his hair, force him back down on your cunt, nose dragging against your clit. “osamu, please.”

“ah, ah, ah,” he stops, licking his lips that are moist from your juices as his head lifts from between your thighs. a dark smile stretches across his features, calculating and cruel. “where are your manners, sweetheart? i don’t want you to cum too quickly.” 

you’re not sure what he means until you feel your hands pinned to the bed by an invisible force, the power of the angelic creature before you, finally obvious. you can’t move, can’t even writhe against him, even as you try to thrust your hips forward, gain any sort of relief from the position. 

he laughs at you, so pitiful at your desperation to be touched. “much better,” he says, and returns to lap at your cunt, tongue already stretching you as his fingers graze your thigh. 

“s-samu,” you say, feeling the heavy pressure build down in your stomach. “want,” your cheeks grow hot, and you’re tingling with a need to touch him, but you can’t move. his pace is too steady, too slow. you’ve never wanted to scream more. “want your fingers. please, please.” 

“please? such a good girl.” osamu grins against your pussy. the sound of his tongue slurping at your arousal is loud in the darkened space, and you clench around him, burning with need and shame. “you taste so good, too. better than any of the fucking shit in heaven. fuck.” he slips a finger in then, working at your clenching hole as his tongue curls around your clit, rubbing at the sensitive bud. 

your words leave you in a cry, every muscle in your body aching. “please, i want to move. let me touch you, i want to, i—”

“i’m not letting you go that easy,” osamu says, and he pulls his mouth away, his face glistening, soaked. his fingers curl into you and you squeeze your eyes tight as he reaches deeper, to the second knuckle. “you’re so fucking worked up. bet you could cum at the sound of my voice alone.” 

“i wanna, please, i’m so close—"

he laughs, looking up at you from under dark lashes. “already?” the sound is mocking, nothing about it soft as he kisses your inner thigh. he sees the desperation in your irises as you can do nothing but stare, unable to twitch a single muscle. “gonna cum all over my face?” he asks, and he’s back between your legs, tongue diving into you. “make a mess on me, sweetheart, wanna see that pretty face of yours when you cum.” 

you don’t think you’ve every felt like this before, basked in the moonlight as the angelic man soaks his face with your desire, smiling at the sight of you so sinful. your heart hammers in your chest as you remember what you’ve promised him—that you would be his forever and, perhaps, this is what forever entails. 

breathy moans leave you, and with each thrust of his tongue, you’re left with less words on your lips, less thoughts in your mind. “feels so good, you’re so good, osamu,” you babble, over and over. 

osamu reaches the deep spot inside of you, and you squeeze him, clenching as you come on his fingers, cry out in the space of black room, nothing but the stars to guide you. you’re not sure you’ve ever come this fast before, not without the help of your own hands, but osamu just continues to lap at your cunt, drinking the juices and making lewd noises of pleasure at the taste of you. “mm,” he hums, “so fucking perfect.”

he fists his cock, already hard as his tongue swirls inside of you, and you lose any train of thought, too focused on the way he’s making you feel. 

osamu is hard, leaking before he shifts onto his knees, rubbing his cock between your folds, gathering slick at the tip. “want my cock, baby? such a pretty thing deserves it, don’t you think?”

you nod, muttering syllables you don’t even understand. osamu teases you, drags his cock against your hole as he kisses your lips. 

“use your words, sweetheart,” he smiles. his soaked fingers leave patterns of your own slick on your stomach. 

you groan, eyelashes wet. “want your cock, ‘samu, please, wanna be stuffed so full,” you babble, and you can’t do anything but lay there, even though you want to touch him, want so badly to shift your hips into him. “please, osamu, please,” 

he makes a noise in the back of his throat, grinning as he plays with your nipple, lining himself against your dripping hole. “so fucking sweet for me, anyone would think you were the angel, wouldn’t they?” osamu asks, and then he sinks into you, slow, eyes careful as he searches for any pain in your features. 

you blink up at him, making a soft noise as you writhe under your skin. “b-big,” you say, feeling him stretch your walls as he sinks further. 

though his eyes are careful, he doesn’t bother to stop, each second dragging as he inches further into you. he laces his fingers with yours on the bed, grinning as dark hair falls into his eyes. “i think you can take it, can’t you? you’ve been sogood for me already.” 

sucked into the coolness of his gaze, you don’t realize that he’s released you from whatever spell you’ve been trapped under, kept helpless on the bed. you gasp as he sinks into you completely, aching from a mix of discomfort and the deep need with you. 

“too much,” you say, but he sinks further, deeper, and your walls clench around him, bringing a heavy groan out of both of you. “fuck, please, let me move, i—” 

“i’m not stopping you,” he kisses you hard, sloppy as his saliva drags across your lips. there’s a possessiveness in the way he fucks you, dragging his mouth across your own, claiming you as his. “you take it so fucking well, angel, slipping right into this soaked pussy.”

his words take a moment to reach your disoriented mind, and when you try to move, you can, your hands flying to his shoulders to bring him closer. your whimpers are loud in the hollow room, and osamu loves the sound of you, drinking each little whisper in like a heavenly elixir. 

“you’re so pretty,” he says, kissing across your forehead as you arch into him. “making you feel good, hm? so fucking innocent, and i’m ruining you.” 

“mmm,” you force the sound out as osamu thrusts into you, hard against the mattress, his hips moving in a steady, fast rhythm. hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat, his brown eyes even darker in the midnight hour. 

your fingers graze across his back, between his shoulder blades, and though your touch is featherlight, he freezes, stops immediately with a loud groan as he clamps his teeth down on your shoulder. 

you breath in sync, your chests rising and falling together. “osamu?” you ask, staring up at him, his eyes pinched together tightly as he grits his teeth. 

“sensitive,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “fuck, i’ll cum on the spot if you touch me there.” 

you blink, your haziness clearing as you let your hands fall to your sides. it takes you a moment to realize why he would curl away from your touch there, why he would—

“your wings?” you ask, and he drags his gaze back up to your’s, nodding, before dropping his head onto your collarbone. he exhales into your neck, resuming a slow, steady pace inside you. though, you place a hand on his chest, feel his erratic heartbeat. “can i see?” 

“you don’t want to.” 

you pinch your eyebrows together, but he shifts his hips, forces a cry out of you as you collapse back down against the mattress. “i do,” you argue, but he’s fucking you mercilessly, sensuous sounds echoing in the room as he attempts to distract you. “i want to.” 

he’s about to deny your request, but you let out another soft please, batting your eyelashes so sweetly. your cheeks are flushed from the heat in the room, and, for some reason, he relents, bowing his head in some sort of remorse. slowly, his wings span out across the room. 

you lose your breath for a moment as you stare at them, muddled from the feeling of him inside and the beautiful sight before you. the wings are thick, black and feathery, spanning the length of the room, casting a dark shadow over you. they’re strong and unwavering, with a sheen that could be seen only on a raven, the light turning the shades from a deep purple to green. 

“oh,” you can’t mutter anything else as he drags his tip against the sensitive spot inside you. “oh, they’re so beautiful. fuck, osamu, i can’t—”

you can’t stop yourself from touching them, dragging a gentle touch against one of the feathers. osamu cries out, groans into your mouth as your walls clench around him, sweat dripping between you as your chest presses against his own.

“shit,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “oh, i’m so close. gonna make me come, aren’t you, baby? squeezing me so fucking tight, touching me like that.” 

his eyes are hazy, and, somehow, for some reason, he’s let you have control of the situation. he kisses your face, treats you with a gentleness you didn’t think he was capable of, his lips so warm against your skin. 

the dark, heavy wings cage you in, falling over the two of you, and you run your fingers against them once more as you feel another orgasm creep upon you. your clit rubs against him, and your slick drips between the two of you, down your thighs as your breath catches in your throat. 

for a moment, you revel in the feeling of him deep inside you, and you close your eyes, his feathered wings so soft under your palm, letting your pleasure overtake you.

though that is short-lived as osamu pinches your jaw.

“hey,” he says gruffly, “look at me. want to see those pretty eyes of yours when you cum.” and though his eyes are soft, delicate from the way you’re stroking his wings, he sounds so mean, so possessive. “gonna fuck all my cum inside you, cause you’re mine now.”

your fingers curl around the feathers, hard as you tug him down towards you. osamu moans deep into your mouth when you clench around him, your orgasm rolling over you again as you scream his name into the blackness of the room. 

“such a good girl f’me, fuck, i—” he doesn’t finish his sentence, already filling your soaked pussy with his cum. it seeps deep inside of you, coating your walls white until he pulls out, lets his seed drip between the two of you. 

osamu presses his fingers across your face, dragging the delicate touch around your jaw, your chin as you breath heavily, still awestruck by the creature before you. you’re exhausted, sleepy, eyes hazy as you regard him with stuttered breath. 

but he doesn’t let you go, kissing you over and over again with flushed lips. “i know you can give me one more,” he says in a low voice, humming against your throat. “my perfect mortal girl. just one more, and i’ll give you whatever you want, got it, pretty?” 

your body aches, sensitive and spent, but you don’t object when he slips another finger into, kissing you hard as he lets you touch his raven wingspan. 

you’d always wanted to be an actress, anyways. 

tags: @hannzai @cha0thicpisces @kissesmellow21 @sukiischaotic @hinata7346