MayaFoxWriter

You have a crush.

A very, massive, humongous crush.

A wonderful crush on your monster biology teacher, Dr Lis.

Whenever a student struggled with the complexities of biology, he took his time to explain in a way that anyone could understand. He excelled at his job and was passionate about teaching. Dr Lis was intelligent, patient and gentle. But beneath that academic poise, you found yourself wondering if that same patience would apply to… other things.

Those were the things that made you fall hard for Dr Lis, especially his appearance; he was a beautiful fox guy with dark fur that had purple and pink hues here and there. His eyes were a mix of violet and bright pink, and you could've sworn they sometimes flickered in certain moments. Especially when they were directed at you...

But it is a secret, you don't want anyone to know. You don't want to ruin his reputation! So all you do is pretend to be a teacher's pet, in an academic sense!

No one knows of your secret crush.

Or so you thought...

Recently, you started to notice the subtle signs—small, flickering changes in Dr Lis’s composure. Every time you answer a question correctly, his thick, distinguished white tail gives a sharp, involuntary twitch…

After each homework paper return, the Foxian teacher gives you a mysterious smirk that barely exposes his fangs, and you find enigmatic notes on them that are a bit more personal.

"The anatomical rendering you did of the werewolf pelvic region was… impressively firm. You have a keen eye for where the true strength of a creature lies."

"Your description of vampiric vision is masterful; it felt almost hypnotic to read. It makes me wonder what else you see when you look at someone so closely…"

"Your knowledge of aphrodisiatic fluids is exceptional. You seem to have a natural instinct for the chemistry of desire—a very dangerous talent for a student to have."

You also noticed how Dr Lis lingered a moment longer whenever he leaned over your shoulder during a dissection, or as you examined cells and samples under the microscope. You could feel the radiating heat of his body and the faint, earthy scent of his fur, turning a simple biology lesson into an exercise in holding your breath.

Maybe this was a sign...

You decided to be bold. You slipped into the classroom after the final bell, your heart thumping a rhythm that matched your confidence. You watched his velvety fox ear twitch—a sharp, directional snap that told you he’d caught your scent long before you spoke.

"Soooooo, Dr Lis~ I know we had a class on Kitsune beasts, buuuuut~" you drawled, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. "I’m not quite sure I grasped how their reproduction works."

You sank into the chair by his desk, steepling your fingers and resting your cheek against them, looking up at him through your lashes. "Since you’re a fox-beast yourself, I hoped you could explain it in greater detail to me… I’m really struggling to wrap my head around it~"

"My sweet butterfly," he hummed, the sound vibrating with a knowing smirk on those devilishly tempting lips. "I am quite certain you are already well-versed in their reproduction process…"

Dr Lis levelled the stack of papers in his hands with slow, deliberate precision. You couldn't help but let your eyes linger on his long, delicate fingers—the way they moved was as hypnotic as his scent. You forced a swallow, the saliva thick in your throat, as the silence in the classroom began to sizzle.

In those seconds, the sterile, sharp smell of the lab was completely drowned out by his scent—something musky and sweet, like crushed dark plums and a trace of expensive incense. It was a heavy, intoxicating aroma that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

The presence of the Foxian teacher was overpowering, a weight that felt as heavy as his scent. Your wings vibrated with a frantic, hidden energy, spilling a fine shimmer of biological dust onto the floor, while your antennae shivered under his dominating gaze. You squirmed softly in your seat, your cheeks and eyes flushing a deep, betrayed pink that mirrored the hues of his own fur.

You refused to submit completely. Steeling your nerves, you crossed your arms beneath your plum-colored chest, a gesture that served only to present yourself more boldly. Your red school tie draped over your bosom, outlining your form as you shifted your weight. With a deliberate slowness, you crossed one leg over the other, allowing your skirt to slide juuuuust enough to reveal the curve of your thick, succulent thighs. You weren't just a student anymore; you were a challenge.

Dr Lis read your nonverbal message and smirked, deliberately exposing his fangs this time. He leaned in close—trapping you by placing the stack of papers on the desk behind your back—until his presence was even more delicious than you had anticipated. His sharp, vertical pupils never left your frame.

"Perhaps..." he purred, his eyes narrowing as his nose stopped mere millimetres from yours, "you want more... practical examples, hm~?"

Your face flushed a bright, burning magenta, and you could barely register the way your antennae were flitting in a shy, frantic rhythm against the air between you.

Since you struggled to speak, Dr Lis outstretched his arm to caress your smooth cheek. The touch was agonisingly gentle—sensual enough to send your mind racing and your heart into a frantic, drumming rhythm. You hadn't expected it to go this far; not that you wanted to complain, but you weren't ready for the sheer weight of his attention! Your poor, beating heart felt as though it couldn't possibly hold such a surge of excitement without breaking.

You tried to ground yourself by looking directly into Dr Lis’s eyes; that was your mistake. The moment your widened gaze locked onto his, you felt utterly hypnotised, pulled toward him by a force stronger than gravity. The rest of the world dissolved into the shadows, your vision tunnelling until there was nothing left but the violet glow of his eyes and the intoxicating scent of dark plums.

Like a moth drawn into a flame.

Then you felt it—something impossibly soft brushing against your back. You jolted at the sensation, your head turning involuntarily to find your teacher’s thick, white fox tail winding around you, embracing your waist from behind. While you were momentarily entranced by the luminescent glow of the fur and its twirling tuft tip, Dr Lis took his advantage. He leaned in until his hot, steamy breath tickled the sensitive curve of your human ear, the heat of it so intense you had to bite back a moan.

"Firrrrst~" he began, the word vibrating with the unholiest, deepest purr you’d ever heard, "you must seduce your mate... or your prey, whichever you prefer, dear~"

Dr Lis’s long, delicate fingers snaked up your neck, finally coming to rest in an animalistic caress against your throat. You felt the slight pressure of his palm—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you hyper-aware of your own pulse. As his palm settled against your skin, a fresh shiver of biological dust escaped your wings, coating his dark sleeve in a faint, silver-plum shimmer—a physical mark of your surrender.

"You need to make them feel relaxed... safe," he whispered, the tip of his nose nudging at your jawline in a light, rhythmic nuzzle. "We Kitsune beasts can feel our mate's pulse, their every breath... and exactly how high their arousal has spiked~"

At his last words, you froze. The realisation hit you like a physical weight—had he figured out your crush? How long had he been watching you, scenting your desire from across the classroom? You weren't sure if it was the sting of embarrassment or the sheer electricity of excitement, but one thing was certain: you loved the feeling of being his prey...

The Foxian teacher continued to trace your sensitive pulse with his expert nose. "You smell so divine, my sweet darling~" he purred against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "So butterfline... so lepidopterous~"

He continued to murmur these sweet, scientific endearments while his fingertip began to trace your rami. He moved with a scholar's precision, parting each delicate branch like the barbs of a feather’s vane, smoothing them like the bristles of a fine brush. Each stroke sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation straight to your core.

Dr Lis exhaled directly into your antenna, the heat of his steamy breath condensing against the delicate rami until your feathery whiskers felt heavy, warm, and wet. You trembled like a lone autumn leaf caught in a storm—or rather, your antennae vibrated with such intensity they looked like leaves tossed by a sudden, violent gale. The sensation was overwhelming, a flood of warmth that made your entire body feel dangerously fluid.

Now that the Foxian was this close, his scent became an intoxicating, lustful weight in your nasal cavities. You had always known his mysterious, light musky aroma, but now—held in his shadow—you could distinguish the delicate top notes of crushed sakura blossoms. Beneath that lay something deeper and slightly pungent: the tart sweetness of dark cherries and the comforting, simmering spice of baked apples. It was a scent that didn't just fill your head; it settled into your very marrow, demanding you stay right where you were.

All this sensory overload finally broke you, forcing a pathetic, whimpering moan from your throat—though you didn't think of complaining. You felt raw, exposed, and utterly humiliated. Then, the sharp sound of footsteps echoed from behind the classroom door.

You froze, your heart stopping, but your stillness was rendered useless. Dr Lis suddenly yanked your antennae—not harshly enough to damage the rami, but firm enough to make you tremble and let out a sharp squeak. Before you could react, he manhandled you, pulling you off the chair and pinning you down until your head was pressed against the cool, sterile floor. Horrified, you squeezed your eyes shut, praying that whichever students were lingering in the hallway hadn't heard your betraying sounds...

"D-Dr Lis... t-there are people around..." you whispered, your voice barely a breath, but his sharp Kitsune hearing caught every trembling syllable.

He smirked, the expression dark and predatory, and tightened his grip around your antennae just enough to send a fresh wave of heat through your frame. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your human ear as he whispered huskily:

"And? We are having an important lesson here, my dear mothling~ If you want no one to interrupt us, you’d better stay very, very quiet then~"

Those were the words of your crush—the very Foxian who made your heart rumble and squeal like a pathetic schoolgirl. The humiliation coiled deep inside you, growing heavy and thick, only to turn into a sharper embarrassment as you realised your body was betraying you completely. Down below, you felt the unmistakable, heavy heat of your panties becoming obscenely drenched, a physical testament to how much you craved his "important lesson."

Then, you felt something slithering beneath you. You realised with a jolt that it was Dr Lis’s tail, teasingly brushing against you to feel the damp heat of your drenched panties. The mischievous, luminescent tuft began to draw slow, deliberate circles over your clothed clit, sending sparks of fire through your nerves. Meanwhile, he shifted his weight, his upper torso looming over you as he nuzzled deep into your ink-black hair. You let out a shaky breath as his true goal became clear: he was moving to lick the base of your antennae—the place where you were most agonisingly sensitive.

You shuddered violently, your moth-wings flitting in a frantic, spasmic rhythm from the sheer weight of the overstimulation. A thick cloud of shimmering dust erupted from your wings, coating both you and your crush in a fine, glitter-plum powder. Your bright magenta eyes rolled back into your head as you bit your lip—hard enough to taste the metallic, chalky tang of your own blood. The sharp sting and the strange flavour only served to heighten your arousal further, sending a surge through your nerves that made your brain nearly short-circuit.

"Then..." you finally heard Dr Lis' silken voice, a sound that mixed with the rush of pleasure until it became just another intoxicating ingredient in the arousal cocktail brewing in your brain. His hand coiled firmly around your waist, his long fingers sinking into your soft skin as he began fondling your chubs with a slow, possessive rhythm. "We prepare our prey for mating~"

You could feel your erogenous zones swelling, pulsing with a sensitivity that was becoming almost unbearable. Then, Dr Lis rolled his hips, brushing the heavy, hardened heat of his bulge against your soaking groin.

You arched your back painfully, your spine snapping into a desperate curve as a deep, guttural moan tore from your throat. All pretence of the "student" vanished; your tongue lolled out, a string of lewd saliva dripping onto the pristine, clean floor as your body completely surrendered to the Kitsune’s rhythm.

You tried to push away the terrifying possibility of being exposed, but the danger only served to fuel your sinful, insectile brain. Your violent shivers were expertly restrained by the Foxian’s strong yet delicate arm, pinning you to the floor as he maintained control by pulling your antennae.

He began hungrily sucking on your scapes, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bases until your mind went blank. In response, your body began to betray you by exuding a heavy cloud of sex pheromones that filled the small space between you. The scent made you feel mellow and docile, yet left your core desperate and aching for the final strike of Dr Lis.

The atmosphere was now completely infused with the heavy, cloying scent of sex and pheromones—the perfect biological setting for mating. You could sense how your scent was intoxicating the beast above you; his pupils blown wide as his tail began sliding your panties down with agonisingly teasing slowness.

Even as his hands moved with deliberate care, his dry humping grew more relentless, a primal rhythm that demanded surrender. The moment you felt his soft, thick fur press against the sensitive skin of your thick thighs and ass, your knees finally gave way, leaving you completely at the mercy of the Foxian’s hunger.

Then, you heard a solid growl you didn't recognise.

"Brace yourself, mothling."

You weren’t given a single second to react before your core was instantly filled with a delicious hardness, striking every one of your sweet spots at once. You tried to scream, the sound tearing from your throat, but beautiful, long fingers thrusted into your mouth, muffling your euphorically defiant moan. As the beast claimed you, your antennae were pulled and gripped with a new, bruising intensity, and you felt the sharp fangs pierce the skin of your shoulder, tethering you in a surge of pain and pure ecstasy.

The classroom was now a sanctuary of lewd, primal sounds—a hot cacophony that echoed off the cold lab tables. There was the frantic, soft flutter of lepidopteran wings against the floor, the rustle of thick fox fur, and the rhythmic, skin-to-skin plapping of the Foxian’s relentless pace. This symphony of the beast was underscored by your own broken whimpers and his low, gentle growls, all while the thick scent of sex and pheromones rose around you like a sweet, suffocating intoxication.

The tension was tightening to a breaking point, the knot in your belly coiling with a sharp, masochistic pleasure as your teacher pinned you harder to the floor by your throat. Dr Lis picked up the pace, his movements becoming a frantic, rhythmic blur as he chased his own release.

The closer he got to the edge, the harder he pinned you and the deeper he thrusted, his desperation mirroring your own. Meanwhile, his luminescent tail caressed your shuddering body with its strangely cold, glowing fur—a dizzying, electric contrast to the searing heat of the beast currently claiming you.

Finally, Dr Lis delivered one last, violent thrust that almost knocked the breath from your lungs. His Kitsune knot plopped firmly into place right inside you, the sudden expansion making you choke on an inaudible gasp as your mind finally snapped.

He spilt his warm seed deep inside your core, and you could feel his cock pulsating deliciously against your vaginal walls, a rhythmic thrumming that matched the frantic beating of your own heart. He kept you pinned firmly to the cool floor, his weight and the biological lock of the knot claiming you completely, leaving you anchored to the beast in a state of helpless, liquid bliss.

While the Foxian was still filling you up, he began using his long, wet tongue to lick your sweat-covered skin. The act seemed odd, almost primal at first, but you soon realised the secret of his Kitsune biology: his saliva had a profound cooling effect. As Dr Lis licked your neck and shoulders, the "burn" of the animalistic mating began to fade, replaced by a soothing, icy relief that calmed your overstimulated nerves.

Soon, with agonising and painful slowness, Dr Lis finally removed himself from your pretty, abused hole. The sudden void left you feeling cold and hollow, and you let out a pathetic, high-pitched whine, your body already yearning for the return of his heavy Kitsune cock. You felt ruined, yet entirely his—a moth caught in the silver silk of a Foxian’s desire.

Then, you felt his massive frame looming over you once more, his presence feeling even more dangerous and intoxicating than before. He leaned down, his voice a sultry purr against your human ear:

"I shouldn't stay too long inside you, my butterfline dear~ We wouldn't like you to get pregnant, now, would we~?"

Your eyes widened and your cheeks burned a fierce magenta. Dr Lis knew. He knew your anatomy—the complex, hidden secrets of your reproduction. He knew that for a "mothling" to conceive, you needed to be plugged by the shaft—"corked"—ideally for the entire night. The realisation that he had intentionally studied how to "fill" you without "claiming" you permanently made your brain melt and spin in a dizzying, pleasant haze.

Lost in a heavy, euphoric daze, you barely noticed that you had been pulled into the sanctuary of Dr Lis’s soft, thick tail. Its snowy tuft caressed your flushed, magenta cheek with rhythmic gentleness, while his lean yet strong arms cradled you into a warm, living cocoon.

The Foxian teacher leaned down, his chest vibrating as he let out a mysterious, low purr against your temple. The sound carried a strange, buzzing frequency that resonated through your rami, acting as a natural sedative that calmed your frantic heart and left you drifting in a state of absolute, sheltered peace.

Dr Lis' purr vibrated against your skin one last time before his voice returned to that professional, silken tone you knew so well. He pulled back just enough to look into your hazy, magenta eyes, a playful yet dominant glint in his own.

"Now, my dear mothling student... did I give you a sufficient lesson about the Kitsune’s reproduction?"

Your liquified, insectile brain couldn’t begin to form a coherent thought, but the surge of safety and happiness was so overwhelming that you simply gave him a wide, drunken smile of approval. Your antennae, once rigid with overstimulation, now drooped and brushed gently against the Foxian’s strong arms in a sweet, rhythmic touch of devotion. Dr Lis chuckled elegantly—a sound of pure, dark satisfaction—and nuzzled your temple one last time, marking the end of the most important lesson of your life.

"I will take that as a yes~" he purred, his voice thick with a dark, gratified warmth. He tightened his hold on your "cocoon" for just a moment longer before whispering against your skin: "I hope you will remember this lesson well, my darling student~ After all, we wouldn't want all this... extra credit... to go to waste~"

The light in the classroom was beginning to fade, stretching long shadows across the floor and signalling the quiet closing of this scene. As the room succumbed to the dark, the Foxian’s physical form blurred into the gloom, leaving only his violet eyes visible—burning with a steady, monitoring pink glow from afar. Even in the silence, you could feel his gaze, a final, glowing mark of the lesson that would never truly leave you.

(P.S. This is my first ever smut! Please let me know how you liked it and if there is anything I can improve on!)

Requestee: @goddesscalyptra Tags: @cosmopolitanalienation @ilikebitteralmonds @fun-cats

Liked what you read? Leave kudos on my AO3, please! ^x^

Odasaku… odasaku….

ゾクゾク... (zoku, zoku...) Shiver, shiver...

ゼーゼー (zee, zee) Wheeze, wheeze...

痛い痛い痛い痛い... (itai, itai, itai, itai...)

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts...

くそくそくそくそくそくそくそくそ！！！ (kso kso kso kso ksSO KSO KSO KSO!!!!)

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!!!

げー (ge—)

Bleurgh—

A convulsive, stertorous retching sound was heard from a small bathroom. A man slouched over the toilet, shaking like a wet, freezing cat. The sorry figure shivered and jerked violently, letting out a ragged, sob-like wheezing; his face was drenched in sweat and salt.

This man's name was Dazai Osamu, and right now, he was throwing up from overeating. The distress was both physical and psychological; his body was struggling to hold it all in, and his mind was screaming with bright, loud alarms. His head was splitting, his eyes were stinging. The palm of the poet was pressed against his stomach, trying to suppress another guttural heave.

Dazai hated himself for being such a mess. The detective had pushed himself to please you by eating more than his body could handle. He felt deep, burning disappointment because he didn't become good immediately after starting a closer relationship with you. To the poet, the purge felt more than just exiling the food; it was as if he were physically vomiting out the very essence of the "ordinary" life he had tried so hard to swallow.

Sitting next to the soiled toilet, Dazai's mind was clouding, spiralling... again... The shades were shrouding the clarity of his pathetic mind, and the poet was struggling to stay aware of his surroundings. He grabbed his head with wretched urgency; his fingers digging into his scalp like rakes into hard, dry soil, so hard that his digits were turning white. The way Dazai squeezed his head seemed as if he were trying to wring answers from his agonising pain... to find solutions to his predicament... or will himself to get a hold of himself.

Or, perhaps, rid himself of the morbid phlegm-like substance from his now clogged skull.

Another heave of disgusting, wet mass was swirling up his system. Anxiety now seized Dazai's frame and he desperately tried to suppress the feeling. It wasn't about the inconvenience of the mess; it was about the humiliation and guilt that made him shudder.

But he failed... failed again...

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, HOW PATHETIC—

哀れ, 哀れ, 哀れ, 哀れな— (aware, aware, aware, awarena—)

UGH—!!

げー！！ (ge—!!)

Dazai didn't even have time to aim properly into the toilet bowl when he threw up all over the seat, the lid, and some on the floor. His exhausted, wet eyes tried to scan his work. The first thing that penetrated the mushy fog of his mind was the image of a men's public restroom, where piss was everywhere. The poet felt as hot and defiled as the piss in a men's public restroom.

Suddenly, he saw your face amidst the mist.

The "fake" poet grabbed his phone to call you, but as soon as he did, he dropped it as if it had burned. Sheer shame paralysed him—what would you have thought of him, seeing him like this? His clothes were filthy, covered in his own nasty fluids and bits of his vomit. The feeling of utter embarrassment to show his vulnerability like this made him whine in an inhuman, choked sobbing wail.

The human-shaped creature thrashed in the bathroom, trying to figure out an escape… from this torture...

The bathroom ablazed with black flames, emitting scorching heat and searing frost. Dazai's shivers grew more relentless and abusive.

The inner fog envisioned the pills—they called upon him. The soulless entity languidly reached his arm into the air, as if the blister pack would appear in his shaking palm. But when nothing happened, he groaned miserably and then began crawling towards the sickening sink. These arms were barely holding the creature straight on the edges of the basin. A pair of voids stared at the mirror that mocked him and made him desire to shatter it, using its shining shards to quell the voices.

Soon, the feet stopped listening to him, his knees gave in, and he fell back, failing to reach for his darkened hope. Dazai moaned in a silent, animalistic way. He flung his arms onto his wet, messy face to suppress his beseeching cries. His face felt hot, damp, agonising, intolerable...

The "poet" was struggling to breathe.

The creature rolled over and started crawling frantically in this deceptively clinical room, blindly searching for something, something... then his fingers clawed at the tub, clinging as if for dear life. His grip was painfully tight, his knuckles turned ashen white. The being was having a mental battle over whether to lift himself up or drop down onto the floor. The man-shaped entity was tired, so tired...

His breathing became laboured and choked. The beast desperately sank his teeth into the acrylic, making clanking and grinding sounds. The edge of the bathtub was sullied, slick with saliva. The filthy, reeking creature also let out ghastly whines, sounds resembling the restless dead that—

The door opened.

Horrified, the "poet" turned around so violently that he managed to hit his head against the side of the tub. He rubbed his hurt spot while squinting at the only door in his bathroom, the very escape route he failed to see. His breath hitched.

It was you.

Then Dazai remembered—you had told him that if he were ever struggling, he could call you and hang up immediately. It was the signal—a silent, desperate cry for help that required no words.

And so you had rushed here. For him.

Dazai was drawn to you by your beautiful writing, your unspoiled wit, and the kindness you showed Naoji from the book. He often thought about how wonderful it would have been for such a lovely, sweet person like you to find interest in a man like him, regardless of the ugly nature of his depravity.

Even at this very moment, you were not repulsed by his sorry state. No matter what kind of mess he had made or become, you didn't turn your gaze away with disgust.

But he did.

Dazai envisioned his revolting appearance through the reflection of your clear eyes. His darkened mind twisted the reality into a skewed image of himself, an image that disturbed him further with every passing second.

He felt sicker. His jaw hung open as he struggled to utter any human sounds—a strangled cry of deep distress.

A help he desperately needed but suppressed with all his might.

Suddenly, his vision blurred, and he forgot your existence. What he saw now in front of him was a statue made of cardboard, the kind of hollow support he was so accustomed to. With neither foundation nor volume, dull echoes of platitudes...

A package of empty promises...

The detective didn't see you anymore; he saw an empty shell, like a doll given to a kid to play with, alone. The bathroom seemed like his gameroom, a decorated prison he was meant to live in, and survive...

The comfort of a blinding, illusory home...

Desperation seized the poet—his hands flew to his throat, gripping and scratching. It was a fake attempt to help him breathe, to escape this grief, this bleak reality, to find any kind of release from these overwhelming feelings and sensations.

The more he scratched, the more he imagined getting better, but in truth, his nails left despairing red marks across his throat, unravelling the bandages that had already slipped from his mind.

Abruptly, Dazai felt warm softness on his wrists. The impact was so surreal that he gasped like a man waking from a stupor. He glanced at his wrists and saw gentle, delicate hands restraining him—Dazai felt delirious and panicked, but soon he was pulled back by a soothing voice:

"Osamu! Osamu... I'm here, you'll be ok, you are okay."

The detective jolted at the sound of his name; his eyes cleared a bit to see your face better. You looked calm but firm, which made him feel more grounded and less anxious.

Less psychotic...

His erratic breathing was calming down; the whistling, restrained breathing regained some volume and depth. The shivers were also more manageable.

For the first time since entering his bathroom, Dazai felt at ease, and his chest swelled with a caressing warmth upon seeing you. But the poet was still seeing dark edges in his vision, which were still clawing at his eyes. You recognised his situation.

"Listen, Osamu... I will let you go for a bit, is that ok?"

Your voice was as sweet as a siren who gave up on hunting and decided to save the drowning captain. Dazai was still dazed, still overwhelmed by all the tiring thoughts and sensations.

Then slowly, he nodded.

Before letting him go, you took a good look at him. Once you felt it was safe, you released the poor man and went to the sink. The faucet was gushing water at full strength, and you turned it down before filling a glass. You wondered if Dazai tried to get water.

But the "poet" wasn't even aware that he did that.

He wasn't even aware that he also turned the bathtub's faucet on. Luckily, the drain wasn't blocked, so the tub never had a chance to be filled with frostbiting liquid. The water vapour crept sinisterly, turning into a dangerously inviting mist, gently swirling, surrounding the tragic poet with ghostly whispers...

You gently offered Dazai the glass of water and told him that he could take a few sips whenever he wanted. The poet trusted you but didn't trust himself, so he hesitantly reached for the glass. You both were holding it, letting the cold gradually take your attention away.

Grounding.

グラウンディング (guraundingu)

Once Dazai's vision settled more or less, he began to see the dimmed bathroom more clearly, without the noise in his head. However, what he saw horrified him no less; pills were scattered around the floor, some were crushed, and some were lost... and the shave kit was ripped and the zip was broken...

カミソリ (kamisori)

The razors...

Seeing the crushed pills made Dazai imagine the grated crumbs of powder, like a white desert of his inner worth. He desired to be as small as a single speck of that small hill of sand; invisible, microscopic, lost within the white void...

But soon he felt nauseated at the thought of the bright colour; it was too pure, too blinding for his throbbing brain. Revolting, irritating, rejectaneous... Now he just wanted to be crushed to pieces like those pills on the floor, under frantic stomps of his own feet, or by some random person—just left there, bleeding with white, saturated fluids because humanity had already slipped from his pores long ago...

Dazai started to shiver again; a vibration of damnation. He felt so ashamed of himself, so much so that he wanted to die so badly, so badly that it hurt more...

Dazai harshly pulled you away, some water splashed from the glass and then—

He smiled.

スマイル (sumairu)

He smiled, as if he wasn't covered in his own half-dried puke, hot tears and sticky snot. It was a forced, pained smile. Alien.

そえん (soen)

Your heart ached; for the first time, you saw Dazai donning an imposed mask. Of course, you've seen him perform before, but those acts were harmless, silly and charming.

This one, though... it was just cruel...

ざんこ (zankoku)

Dazai tried to push you away, to suffer alone, to prevent you from coming any closer to his void. The one he so desperately tried to protect you from and hopelessly make sense of. The very abyss he wants to submerge into, especially when everything felt meaninglessly and irrevocably harrowing.

You were simply agashed; Dazai was chirping like his usual self, like the way he carries himself at the Agency—carefree and lazily suave.

But you were having none of that.

However, you also struggled to figure out how to bring the detective back from this difficult situation. You pondered hard—how to de-escalate the psychological strangulation and the physical pain without igniting the lingering fuel even further when it just got the chance to cool down?

So you grabbed the poet's hand and squeezed it gently, looked firmly into his darkened eyes.

"Can I... hug you, Osamu?"

The cajoiling was soft and attentive, hopeful.

Your words rendered him speechless, but his smile was still plastered on his lips, like a habit, a default state; an act he practised even in his sleep. Dazai's eyes looked detached, soulless and glassy, like those of a creepy, porcelain doll.

Then his breath hitched, his eyes widened and his mouth twisted. Dazai shook his head in fear, his lower lip trembling and tears threatening to spill.

"D-don't... d-dont...!"

The man struggled to speak and he was shivering terribly again. He pressed his back against the side of the tub like a frightened animal.

"Don't look at me!!"

み (mi

な na

い i

で de

！!! )

Dazai yanked his hand from yours and tightly covered his face, audibly sobbing and wheezing.

As if the world was crowding, crushing.

You felt heartbroken, not because of what he did but how much he was suffering. It didn't occur to you that Dazai's issues were this bad, well, maybe you did, but now that you seen it so vividly...

After taking a few deep breaths yourself, you managed to clear your mind and lungs; you noticed your chest tightening, so you needed to relax first. Then, you shifted near him and started to coo sweet words, coaxing him to open up.

"Osamu, I am here, I am not going anywhere. I will stay with you."

To avoid crowding him, you started slowly shifting to his side, keeping the glass of water secured and ready. You let the silence settle for a bit, only broken by the poet's silent, sobbing rhymes.

"Can I pat your back?"

You murmured sweetly, smiling; you wanted him to feel safe, loved and appreciated. After a short moment, Dazai peeked from his arms, gaze locked on the floor.

There was a humming moment of silence. And then, slowly, he gives a tiny nod.

The smile on your lips stretches involuntarily, feeling glad to be in his space again. Despite the pressuring weight of his soul, you found comfort in his enigmatic presence.

You started to rub his back in a slow, circular motion, subconsciously humming something to yourself. Dazai's sobbing soon ceased, and he ever so lightly, like a feather, leaned towards you. Without hesitation, you let him lean into your embrace, and then, his head rested on your shoulder.

He hugged you loosely.

"Osamu," you purred gently, "can I hug you back?"

The man mumbled, hugging you tighter, face hidden.

"I'm gross..." キモい、キモい... (kimoi, kimoi...)

"No, not to me." You said calmly, with no sign of doubt or lie.

Dazai shuddered at your words and let out tiny hiccups. The poet was lost within his own lyrics, sounds and rhymes mixed with dreams and seams. Vectors of his sharpened mind cut through strings of his reality, but they were uneven, making it unclear which parts were actuality and which—psychedelic materiality.

After several agonising moments of hesitation, he nodded slowly.

You hugged your partner, shushing him soothingly like a sacharine spell of pixie dust from woodland's trust. "Shhh... You're ok, Osamu, it's ok... I'm here, not goin anywhere..." you petted him while embracing his smalling figure. "Let's stay here like this, as long as you need. We don't need to go anywhere, hun."

Then you gently, carefully nuzzled his temple, which caused him to shudder and whimper pitifully, but he didn't push you away. Dazai's grip on you instead tightened, and his face buried deeper into your shoulder. Dazai shook as he inhaled your scent and sighed deeply, as if he was finally able to breathe oxygen after many long years.

Both of you sat there some time in silence, momentarily broken by the poet's quiet laments. You kept rubbing his back and murmuring sweet tunes, ever so lightly rocking him back and forth. At this point, your clothes were all painted in his bodily fluids, but it didn't bother you—those traces were marks of trust and love to you.

You really didn't know how much time had passed; it felt as if all air and smells had stilled within this bathroom. You kept holding your lover in your arms gently as you began to get a better look around.

The mirror by the sink was smudged, possibly with his sweat and snot. You thought Dazai must have tried to break it, but then gave up; there were signs of fists banging at it and a palm print dragged down the glass. You also remembered that the sink was dirty, too—stained with bits of food. You wondered if he’d hurled in there and tried to clear the taint by running the water.

The pills and packs of medicine lay on the ground like stars and galaxies in a white vacuum. The crushed tablets looked like cosmic dust, painting the floor into nebulae, while the lines separating the tiles served as a notebook's margins. The scene evoked a science classroom, filled with vials and formulas.

The bathtub you and Dazai leaned against was cold, but you could also feel the lingering chill mist drifting lazily from the pit. You had turned all the faucets off, but the one in the tub was especially freezing—it was so biting that you yanked your hand away as soon as you turned the handle. It unnerved you; you weren't sure if this was Dazai's version of purification or a re-creation of the Styx.

Your gaze then reluctantly turned to the one thing reeking in the room—the toilet...

You could tell Dazai had been hurling a lot, and violently so. The smell was horrid but manageable at this distance. Seeing the visible, visceral mess, the odour seemed to intensify just by looking. Vomit was splashed everywhere—around the seat, on the floor, and even on the tank. Even from here, you could tell which bits and pieces belonged to the food he had eaten and purged.

You also noticed how the lid had been violently handled; it was smeared with fluids and skewed by force. You wondered if your lover had tried to rip it off as his body was rejecting those life-preserving substances.

By now, you had noticed his breathing calming and his sobs growing quieter. He leaned closer, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You knew what this meant; he had settled down and was more stable, though still feeble from total holistic exhaustion.

You nudged closer to his temple while carefully petting his hair. You wanted to ground him before asking: "Osamu~ Would you like to do the breathing exercise with me, hm?"

The poet shivered at first, as if he was afraid of being seen. Soon, however, his body relaxed. He peeked up at you, sniffling softly, like a small, tender animal.

Like a bunny.

うさちゃん (usa-chan)

For a moment, you felt delirious; you had seen Dazai in all sorts of lights, but most had shown only his confident, elusive, watchful, slippery, and flippant sides. Now, you saw him all meek and fragile. Sure, it was not the first time you had seen him vulnerable, but… witnessing this rarity felt surreal and morbidly exhilarating.

To a point.

And for a flicker of a moment, you felt like an onlooker observing this rare, delicate bundle of a creature. This dissociation was intoxicating, making your body feel floaty and your mind heavy.

But that soon disappeared as quickly as it had come.

You shook your head to clear your mind from that delirium, then gave Dazai a sweet smile, petting him like a newborn baby.

"Alright, Osamu, dear, I will do the box breathing now; you can follow along if you like, okey?"

And so you began the exercise; you never forced the detective to do anything, really; you knew that just being there for him was enough. You also knew that offering advice or help without expectations would be more motivating—something you've learned at your office job.

Besides, you also needed to stabilise yourself; this was a delicate, serious matter after all. No matter how much you had worked under stress and pressure at the Agency, nothing can prepare you for everything, let alone the emotional distress of your loved one.

Let alone Dazai.

Soon, though, you felt the very man breathing along with you. This almost melted you, but you managed to catch yourself before you became another mess of liquid in this already soiled space. You tried to stay as cool as possible lest you startle the bunny.

Finally, Dazai managed to sit up on his own without violent shivers and panicked breathing. The poet's listless arm moved to rest on his bent knee—this made you vividly remember the ballet dancers in Swan Lake, how their limbs wave like beautiful, snow-white wings.

However, this detective looked exhausted, a total mess, really. His gaze was dark and distant; if you didn't know better, you'd have thought he was a prop for a sick theatrical play with holes in his eyes.

"You look like you've been dug up from the bottom of Hell, and I mean, the bottomest of the bottom of Hell," you emphasised with your index finger pointed at the ceiling.

"Whichever excavation team finds you would think you've been rotting there for millennia, and they would also wonder whether you're the most prized relic in existence or the most horrid accursed object in the entire solar system."

Then you looked at Dazai with an honest, humorous smile. You weren't mocking him nor insulting; you simply spoke your truth.

The poet was motionless for several heartbeats, whether his or yours, but then he huffed a chuckle, not strong enough to be laughter. He found your blunt absurdity endearing and refreshing.

"Yeah... I do look that bad, huh?" Dazai managed a weak smile, but a smile it was.

Your smile also grew with his, and you reached out to gently rub his shoulder. "But you know..." you added coyly, "the beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, isn't it?" You couldn't help but grin at the ruined man.

His brows furrowed as he gently swatted your hand away, but then he immediately dropped his head on your lap. He loved your openness, but that didn't mean he was ready to be as open, so he did that—

non-verbal communication. 非言語コミュニケーション (higengo komyunikeeshon)

Dazai wanted, really wanted, but he couldn't, he just couldn't... to look you in the eye, to be direct, to be exposed and vulnerable with you...

It just hurts... hurts so much... That kind of exposure, that kind of vulnerability, that heat... Like standing on the surface of the hottest, bluest sun. The detective wasn't ready for such destruction. Your soul was a light of luminescence—a gentle, natural emission that would make any flower bend and coil towards you. But his, Dazai believed, and he truly believed, was that of incandescence: powerful, blinding, and overwhelming. The wailing of the poet would wither any and all plants, even trees and branches.

So he lay there, on your softness and warmth, like a battered, wet kitten that felt at home for the first time in his short yet tormenting life.

You thought it was time to move on from this damp atmosphere. So you started to chat about random, light-hearted topics. You talked about how the week went, some natural events. For example, you spotted a brambling on Wednesday—you hadn't seen one in a while, so you were ecstatic to see and hear them.

You even talked about silly things, like how Atsushi ate all the gingerbread you and the other clerks had baked together. The weretiger felt too bad to let your efforts go to waste. A man of poverty has a powerful stomach, you thought—especially a young boy who also has a heart of gold.

Dazai was listening; he loved the sound of your voice. Sometimes he dreamed of doing nothing but silently enjoying your presence for the rest of his miserable life. As you spoke, the poet played with the hem of your shirt—alternating between absentmindedness and intent. He would pinch and twist the fabric as if testing its endurance, or trace slow, small circles to feel the texture against his smooth fingertips.

You felt at peace. Despite the chaos that had settled in Dazai's bathroom, you felt human—normal, even. That feeling made you subconsciously take a deep breath, which you regretted as soon as your olfactory device caught the wretched stench. You then felt something turning and moving on your lap.

As your gaze dropped, your eyes met with a glimpse of mischief. "So, you yearn for the cocks o' the north? My, my, [Y/N], I had no idea my lovely clerk had such a dirty min—" You didn't let the man finish his sentence, for it was cut short with a light bonk on his fluffy head.

Dazai groaned in theatrical pain; apparently, he was in better shape than a few minutes ago, because this poet now had the audacity to sprawl across you like a spoiled, needy cat. He was still covered in his own fluids—some of which hadn't dried yet. You didn't mind the mess, really, but now that the detective wasn't in any immediate danger, your patience was starting to thin.

After letting out a deep sigh, you pulled your lover up into a sitting position. The way he was so light and lanky in your hands made you imagine him like a curious kitten hanging in a ragdoll manner. You almost gave in to his adorable yet naughty face. Almost.

"Now, let us wash that face of yours, shall we? I'll also help you wash your clothes, hun," you announced with a caring, almost parental softness. Dazai grinned cheekily, and despite all the dirt on his face, he looked handsome and so cheerful. Dear Heavens, you loved him dearly.

The rest of the day went without an incident; it felt harmonious, actually. You washed Dazai in warm water, regularly checking the temperature after being traumatised by the cold air. He also insisted on washing you, but you didn't trust his sneaking glances, so instead you let him wash your clothes together with his. Later, you both cleaned the bathroom together, though you did most of the work because certain spots made the poet freeze in place, like where his medicine and shaving tools were scattered.

This was not the first time you had seen him having an episode, but this was the most intense yet.

Ever since you both started a much more intimate relationship, Dazai had developed a habit of crashing at your place, usually following you like a cute puppy from work or reappearing like a past apparition in the evening while you brush your teeth. You could never get used to seeing his ghostly face suddenly forming in the bathroom mirror...

However, every time your poet appeared there, he would tell you how much he liked seeing the bags under your tired eyes, how beautifully the fluorescent light bounced off your nose tip and cheekbones—and how much he loved your teeth—as well as how your lips stretched and moved around the toothbrush. You would just huff at his remarks.

And yet, you always loved the way he paid attention to little details like these. To you.

A few times, you had considered visiting Dazai's place, wondering what it looked like. However, each time you thought about visiting, your tired mind would wave the idea away; you really didn't want to be met with possible mountains of trash after work. That mental image reminded you of the unending promise of paperwork, so you would head home before you thought too much about it, avoiding any intrusion into your peaceful dreams. None of that!

Even Dazai teased you for your curiosity—of course, he would. Every time you had even an inkling of special interest in his life, the mischievous yet charming detective would take advantage of that emotional resource. He would never give you a straight answer; he preferred making you come up with hypotheses.

The poet described his apartment as a "living graveyard filled" with offerings he had to buy for himself. He claimed that no one ever comes to clean up his place, so you imagined it was akin to a hikikomori's room. At other times, Dazai made you imagine his home as a cat sanctuary, with kibble and litter scattered across the floor.

Whether any of this was real or not, you decided to humour your perpetually bored poet; the man constantly required stimulation, and it served as excellent training for your brain. Not a single day went by without a touch of Dazai-esque flair in your schedule.

But one summer evening, when you felt as though all the stars and planetary moons had aligned, you decided to see his den.

It wasn't as unhinged as your work-weary mind had imagined. There were, of course, a concerning amount of cheap alcohol bottles and opened tins of crab, not to mention the unopened ones. Dazai hadn't lied about his favourite dish—he truly loved his tinned crab, and he sure did like to drink, just as Kunikida had once told you.

Then your eyes spotted a pair of unwashed cups lying in the sink...

You decided to clean the place, and it wasn't that bad in the end. The resident sly fox spent as little time as possible at the place, it seemed.

As you were scrubbing the tea stains from the inside of the cup, Dazai admired your work with childish curiosity and a charming smile. You found his interest adorable, as if he had returned to his childhood and was watching you as something absolutely wonderful. It made you feel appreciated and happy; however, that didn't inspire you to have your own kids or become a parent.

Soon, you felt long, lanky arms encircling your waist. Dazai was surprisingly tender for a trickster, you thought—especially considering how exhilarated he becomes during violent missions. This felt oddly domestic: his warm chin on your shoulder, his nose brushing your neck, and a coy hand snaking across your stomach.

You almost forgot who he was.

The poet proceeded to nuzzle your ear, your temple, and your cheek. You enjoyed his surreal, gentle touch so much that it made this subtle, affectionate moment freeze in time. You didn't say anything; you didn't even make a single move lest you scare the stray. You revelled in this moment like a content cat under the sun after a day's work of hunting rats.

Then you caved in; your body moaned silently as you gently turned your head to nuzzle Dazai in return. The moment your nose tip brushed the bridge of his, the detective's breath hitched, and he stiffened like a ferret caught doing something mischievous. But you also sensed something else…

Dazai quickly buried his face into the nook of your neck, squeezing you in a hug as if that would hide his embarrassment. You giggled and decided to cheer him up with a head pat. His hair was soft—a warm home for your hand—tickling your skin like a fluffy, needy kitten.

You both stayed in this standing, comforting embrace. It felt intimate and personal, like a new, sweet memory in the making. You had heard about how people felt as though the outside world had ceased to exist in these kinds of moments, but you had never believed that—until now.

Suddenly, you felt the pads of Dazai's delicate fingers move around your opposite shoulder, trailing to your collar bone with a clinical precision, as if an archaeologist examining the remnants of some ancient civilisation. Your skin was the sand he traced and dipped, and your bone was the intricate architectural pillar, a living proof of your wondrous existence.

His explorative, smooth digits moved up, tracing your column as if feeling a musical instrument before playing. Then he brushed the tip of your chin; he took his time mapping it like a mountaineer marking the summit he just conquered. You could hear his deep breathing; you weren't sure if he tried to control it like his sensitive heartbeat.

Soon, you felt his amorous, almost sybaritic fingertips on your lips, and your breath hitched sharply.

At first, you let Dazai feel the plump, bumpy edges of your mouth—he was pressing them gently, tapping slowly, and smearing curiously, seeing how far and flexible your lips were.

The act wasn't too intense; however, it did make your mind blur—you were basically submerged in this sensual submergence and sighing freely, openly even, without any restraints. Then, you tenderly, ever so gently, ever so lightly, like a brush of a feather, kissed his fingertips.

Dazai froze—not only his hands, but his whole body, as if petrified. His breath stilled, and possibly his heart as well.

You also hesitated; your eyes widened open, and you involuntarily held your breath. You felt as if you had committed a grave sin against humanity, but quickly realised it was anything but.

You looked at him gently, making sure not to invade his personal space but not staying too far to make him feel alone. Dazai's hung gaze was a sign of vulnerability, so you cherished the moment without ruining it with banal, conventional words.

Careful not to scare your lover like a fragile beast, you turned your head to glance at him. The poet looked perplexed, lips pursed and brows furrowed; he was thinking hard about something—something deep. You watched him lift his hand from your abdomen to his own trembling lips. He traced his own soft crests with his slick fingers, caressing them curiously, as if lost in thought.

You couldn't tell, but Dazai was in the throes of a grave inner conflict; he didn't know which action to take, which steps would make you the happiest while still maintaining the autonomy of his inner world. Which chess piece should he move to keep you close, yet at a safe distance? His mind jumped between options like a game of Mahjong: unable to decide which hand to play, constantly second-guessing himself the moment a solution appeared, unsure which path would yield the most optimal result.

Dazai looked too irresistibly appetising at that moment, so much so that you were stunned to notice how much you desired to kiss him.

"Do you... want to try kissing, Osamu?" you asked him curiously.

The poet's head snapped up in anxious shock, then he stared at you as if you asked him to jump off a cliff... to dive and survive.

"But what if—!!" he retorted, inching away from you like a scared puppy. It was likely subconscious, but he was trembling. "What if… the kiss turns out to be bad? Like, really, really bad?!"

Dazai was panicking, shivering like a teenage boy, his eyes wide and his face flushed. It was a rare sight—so rare that it even shocked you.

You took a moment to collect your thoughts and emotions before speaking: "It's okey, we have other ways to show affectio—"

"No!!" Dazai interrupted you petulantly. His lips puckered into a prominent pout. Then, he dramatically threw himself onto the couch, tossing his head from side to side like a capricious child.

や

だ

！

(yada!)

"I don't wanna!"

This display left you even more speechless than the last, and soon you simply sighed; you couldn't help but feel a sense of defeat. You were about to say something, but stopped in your tracks when you noticed Dazai was about to speak.

"What if I kissed you…" He trailed, playing bashfully with his thumbs, avoiding your caring gaze. "It would… become… actually real?" Dazai asked with a soft, dry voice. He peeked at you carefully, as if he was deeply terrified of that possibility.

You couldn't help but let your face soften at the sight of your partner's tender vulnerability. You didn't want to pretend that you understood his worries but you didn't want to dismiss them either. With tented eyebrows, you tried to think of how to comfort Dazai.

"So what, Osamu?" you asked gently, tilting your head to level with his eyes. "So what if it becomes real?"

Osamu gritted his teeth and held back his non-existent tears; this story had been repeated millions of times in his head, in moments where real tears had threatened to spill from a false alarm—like the boy who cried wolf.

"Real things are always ugly, [Y/N]… always… and they leave an even nastier aftertaste when they disappear…"

You could sense him trembling—invisible, small rivers trickling across his puffy cheeks.

"To hold onto something dear to you... only to have it escape your grasp like cold smoke... what's the point of freezing the cherished time if it leaves a hollow, drowning ache in your core..." the poet breathed, a whisper of an escaping shadow in the corner of the room.

Suddenly, you felt that something was wrong. It was as if the atmosphere had been invaded by thunderous clouds out of nowhere in the middle of a clear, sunny sky; a storm, invisible yet heavy in your core.

"Osamu…!" You reached out your arms with an alarming abruptness, your own hands trembling slightly.

"C-can I hug you??" You really wanted to. You had to.

The question made Osamu jolt. He soon realised exactly what was happening. He wanted to run, to escape—to leave these feelings behind before he lost total control. But a new voice, a lighter one, forced him to be more honest, painfully honest...

"Please…" he half-sobbed, trembling like a freezing dog in the rain. "Please, do…"

You hugged him immediately—a hug so warm and real it sent electric signals through his entire body. Oxytocin flooded his system like a potent drug, relaxing and elating him until he felt high. He clung to you desperately, whimpering silently, before his head finally lolled to rest against your comfortable shoulder.

"Reality tastes so bitter…"

苦い... (nigai...)

"I tried to overpower it once," he sighed deeply, at first with self-pity, then with a chuckle of pure irony. "With pills and blood, pushing myself to the brink of death… seeking the taste of the most awful dirt, the staleness of stagnant water. But I never succeeded. No matter how many times I retched or split my lips, the taste of reality remained—strong and bitter. My tongue felt numb, shrivelled like a raisin."

A DEATH WISH

自殺願望 (jisatsu ganbou)

This was the first time you experienced one of Dazai's episodes. Whether it was a meltdown or a panic attack, you realised just how serious things were for him. You felt completely overwhelmed at first, but that didn't discourage your affection for your lovely, dramatic poet. In fact, it made you understand the sheer amount of work and courage Dazai invested in his decision to pursue this relationship.

For the rest of the night, you lay together on the couch, huddled close, letting the silence do the talking and the soothing. The quietude was broken only by the susurrus of breaths, the rhythm of beating hearts, and the friction of flesh against cloth. The darkness of the room was painted by the light of a halcyon moon and the distant hum of the wornout streetlamps.

You have heard of Dazai's suicidal tendencies before. However, the way the Agency treated them led you to believe they were nothing serious—merely a performance, a bit of comedic relief to the dreadful business they conducted here, stripping it of its lethality with witty remarks and a pleasing smile.

This, though, changed the moment you witnessed "one" of his suicidal attempts.

You were walking back home at your usual time, admiring the sunset, which made the river next to you shine like a billion tiny diamonds scattered across the warm sand. As you lifted your chin to see the twilightening side of the sky and the appearing stars, their faint constellations reminded you of your tiny notebook, which you suddenly realised you had left at your work desk.

With a heavy sigh, you turned on your heels in the direction of your workplace. The moment you did that, though, you noticed a body drifting down the river. Had you not done it, you wouldn't have come across the drifter—a thought that still haunts you to this day.

The mild panic dawned upon you, like a massive wave passed through your body. After wondering whether this was how the "flushes" work for the middle-aged women, you immediately sprinted to the bank to see if you still had the chance to save them. Once there, you noticed a familiar face... frame?

It was Dazai.

And his face was half-submerged in the water.

You gasped painfully, then dived to save him. You managed to pull him out of the water and began doing CPR. It took several attempts to get the man to cough up the water and focus his gaze on you. Dazai looked utterly bewildered, but soon that signature lopsided smile returned to his pale lips.

"Oh my... If I knew you were such an excellent swimmer, [Y/N], I would have dived into the waters more often!"

You were speechless, paralysed by the weight of this interaction. Dazai had actually attempted it; it wasn't a performance. You saw it with your own eyes—the way his gaze went glassy and void. Yet here he was, chattering as if it were a mere incident, a trivial everyday matter.

The poet noticed your petrified expression. His smile softened, but the warmth was forced; it was melancholic—a fragile space between apology and surrender. You reluctantly realised then that this modbidity was a fundamental part of him, a fixture of his soul that wouldn't change any time soon, if ever.

"I was just minding my own business, walking through the city as always, marvelling at the modern construction of this human jungle made of steel and concrete..." Dazai relayed the story as if they were on a pleasant picnic under the warming sun, as if you both weren't shivering from the recent dip in the river.

"When suddenly!" the man continued with a spark in his eyes, a fair display of a storyteller, "I stumbled upon a crushed cicada on that bridge!" He motioned his slender hand towards the bridge he supposedly fell from.

"I thought, 'that's it! This is it! This is the sign! I must jump now or I shall be cursed forever with a profound sadness!' And so I jumped." As he finished with a grin, Dazai twirled his wrist as if signalling the end of the story. That hushed peacefulness written on his face made you understand that your lovely partner here would endlessly keep looking for any poetic way to end his life.

Like a final line at the end of an epic that would resonate with the living and the dead.

"But it seems..." he continued smoothly, as if cooing, comforting you, perhaps even reassuring you. "...that I misinterpreted; the crushed bug only meant that my journey towards death would be cut short today, that the time was not right yet; that someone was still waiting for me." His deep, brown eyes told you everything—you were the reason he was still here today.

You were his literal lifesaver.

"Ah, how silly of me," Dazai brushes his forehead with his fingertips, as if laughing at his own "miscalculation" about the symbolism. "Perhaps, I should seek a dead butterfly instead, preferably with torn, dark wings; that surely will be the right sign for my departure!"

The poet declared with flair, yet your mind was elsewhere.

You replayed the moment of dragging him to the shore in your mind—how light his body felt, how weightless, as if he truly belonged to the current of the Acheronian stream. Now, seeing that weak smile—a silent, remorseless apology—his hugs felt heavier to you. More meaningful, and much harder to carry.

It was a bizarre realisation that left you scarred and a tad shaken.

After that incident, his usual suicidal remarks didn't land with humorous laughter like before; they left you smiling clumsily. The lightness of his presence felt heavier than a feather tipping a scale, and his steps thudded in a heavy rhythm of a muffled heartbeat. Atsushi had noticed the change in your posture and even asked you once during your break if you were all right.

You felt uncharacteristically meek.

"Don't you think it's... strange that everyone takes... you know..."

You struggled to say it out loud now that you knew better, but weretiger's worried, kind look encouraged you to speak up.

"That everyone takes Dazai's suicidal tendencies too... lightly?"

As you finished your sentence, you noticed an empathic look on the boy's face. You were not alone, which comforted you; however, you also realised that neither of you could do much about it. You bet he tried to encourage his mentor to change his "dangerous" hobby and reason with his perfectly solidified nihilism.

"This is just how Dazai is," you imagined people saying.

At least, those were the exact words said by the lovely, hardworking and merciful Kunikida Doppo.

"This suicidal maniac creates PROBLEMS everywhere he goes, everywhere he sets his foot on!!" the blonde huffed visibly. "Honestly, Dazai would do us all a service when he succeeds, whenever that day is," Kunikida finished while sipping his coffee during his lunch break. This man was dedicated to his schedule—no matter how much work there was, he would always follow his appointed breaks.

Your features tensed a bit at his words, your skin stretching uncomfortably; you thought Kunikida's words were a bit too crass, especially when they were said to your face. You carefully considered your next words:

"Don't you think you're being a bit too harsh on him, Kunikida-san? Dazai-san is going through a lot; he's a human being just like any of us... Everyone deserves to live happily."

Your words certainly struck a nerve in Kunikida—his eyebrow twitched, and his eyes looked a bit sharper, as if realising that he was, indeed, a bit too harsh on his colleague. However, his annoyance also stemmed from his jealousy of Dazai's incredible talents as a detective... among other things.

"Dazai isn't the only one with life-changing problems! Besides... we can't help those who don't seek it, [Y/N]..." he went quiet. "I have learnt that... in an agonisingly hard way... believe me..."

The breakroom fell silent, allowing the gravity of the situation to sink in. You have heard of some difficult missions the Agency members have gone through, but you couldn't possibly understand them holistically, for you are not a combat-type person. To see people die before your very eyes was not something you could deal with often...

Dazai's face flashes in your mind like an omen.

You shuddered and clutched your files closer to your chest, pursing your lips. Kunikida noticed the tension in your frame, and he sighed while adjusting his glasses.

"A word of advice, [Y/N]... Don't get too attached to Dazai, he'll only make your life horrendously miserable."

The moment he uttered those words, you blinked several times, wide-eyed. Kunikida stared at you in mild confusion, curious about your abrupt change of demeanour. You needed to confirm something with this workaholic...

"Kunikida-san..." you began softly. "You are aware that I am dating Dazai-san, right?"

The room fell once again silent, but with a different kind of tension.

Kunikida was as still as a statue, but then, he turned slowly to look behind him, as if there were a hidden audience who would give him hints on how to react to this situation. Then, he looked back at you, petrified, but soon his face contorted at the realisation of the situation.

え？(e?)

Huh?

"はぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁ？？？"

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA???"

You couldn't tell if Kunikida was truly dense or was in deep, utter denial until now. He must've thought that such a lovely, diligent and dignified person like you wouldn't date someone as messy and irresponsible as Dazai. The blonde seemed mortified by this, but the hilarity of his reaction made you involuntarily chuckle into your soft fist.

"You're so amusing, Kunikida-san," you wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, "I can see why Dazai-kun loves being around you."

You could tell, but Mr Idealist would always deny it, that your remark made him very happy, if not just plain flattered.

Knowing Dazai, indeed, provided you with some new perks. You have become more popular, or at the very least, known. You've got to know a man named Chuuya Nakahara, whom your adorable partner has a clear love-hate relationship with. You once encountered him by sheer accident during your shopping trip.

You recognised him first; he stood out more than you did, especially with that hat. Without thinking, you asked him curiously if he was the very mafioso Dazai "loved fondly" talking about. Needless to say, the ginger was astonished, but his shock soon was replaced by his complaints about Dazai and how "too drunk with suicidal love" he was.

Chuuya told you the exchange they recently had:

"Chuuuyaaaaa, I finally found a beautiful person to commit double suicide with~!" Dazai chirped, his voice like a cooing dove. The brunet leaned on the counter, hugging his drink like a charmed man.

"Uh-huh, right, then where are they now? In your psycho head?" Chuuya grumbled at the poet while nursing his own drink, already slightly tipsy himself. Dazai lifted himself up from the bar counter and quipped, sounding like a happy kid who had just won a prize, "At work!"

The sheer ridiculousness of it irritated the mafioso. Chuuya went on and on, complaining about how more annoying your detective had become—gushing about you all the time and recounting an endless stream of compliments to the one man who least wanted to hear them.

While Chuuya spat accusations about the unfavourable and unpleasant features of the infamous poet, you observed the bar that Dazai frequented with his former partner and friends. The soft, amber glow of the interior gave you a deceptive yet welcoming sense of an afternoon in the woods, with golden bars of light peeking through the tree trunks. Bar Lupin carried that forest-like, sweet scent of fermented, sugared berries, as well as the weight of tales as old as time.

The ambience was so powerful that you felt as if your lover's very ghost was sitting right next to you, clinking drinks with the three people who shared a particular, intimate bond. You could imagine Dazai and Chuuya having a civil conversation with you in the middle of their bickering. It was actually endearing—the way these two got along in a strange, uniquely beautiful way.

"You should seriously reconsider, though, darling," Chuuya said, pulling you back to reality with a serious tone. "Dazai might be a great romantic, but he’s no fairy-tale prince. The man craves death more than he'll ever crave life." The mafioso clicked his tongue while tapping the glass in irritation.

Chuuya was right; not only was Dazai a suicidal enthusiast, but he was also quite careless with himself. You would often catch a glimpse of new, mysterious scratches on his fair, exposed skin and an increase in the bandages scaling his body. You also remembered Dazai telling you that his ability was always active, so Yosano's ability would provide no help to him. The poet was as vulnerable among ability users as any average person... You even tended to forget how seriously dangerous these ADA missions could be.

One day, Kunikida asked you to accompany Dazai in double-checking information from a hacker the Agency worked with. In a way, you knew this was an excuse to send you there and write a proper report because everybody knew that Dazai would avoid such "frivolous" and "underwhelming" tasks. Besides, everyone, even Kunikida, loved the way you wrote your papers. They were precise, diligent, engaging even, and easy to read without sparing any details.

Kunikida had given you a taser gun as a precaution. You both trusted Dazai to protect you, but, just in case...

In the end, the mission turned out to be more than just "a walk in the park", as Dazai put it; it was an ambush, and a nasty one at that. You actually had to use your taser several times against criminals, either to protect yourself or aid Dazai. During this scramble, you learnt that, despite his lanky body, the detective was sturdy; no matter how many punches he took or blood he spilt, he would always stand on his feet.

Because Dazai was so used to the sight of blood and filth, they never repulsed him. He never gagged. He had become so accustomed to it that it felt as normal as rain draped over his hair and shoulders. It had its own weight, volume, and degree of moisture, but it all felt the same to him. That very smell of blood trickling down his body was no different than the scent of petrichor bestowed upon you two by dark, heavy clouds... so different from the rain by the friendly grave.

The falling water droplets slowly washed the blood from your clothes, but on Dazai, it looked like an additional colour painted onto his frame. The poet looked as if he fit the melancholic scene—an uncanny addition to perfect the picture. However, all you saw was the same poet drenched in fresh blood and water, standing on a white carpet of bouncing raindrops. It made his features glow with a ghostly beauty, while his silhouette cast a shadowy, alluring warning.

The very epitome of the living macabre.

But you were not used to it. The closest you had come to such shiver-stricking scenery was during your hospital visits, where you were met with the smell of antiseptic and sterile white lights bleaching across the floors and walls. You had seen people with appalling injuries there and on TV, but nothing compared to what you saw at Yosano's infirmary, and on these missions...

Seeing your lovely poet at peace around death was surreal; yet, strangely, you couldn't bring yourself to ruin the peace he so rarely allowed himself. If blood was his rain, what did water represent to him?

It didn't make sense to you, and it shouldn't. You soon realised that.

By staying in the light, you not only kept yourself safe, but you were also honouring Dazai's will. You had attempted to understand your poet better by reading papers and novels about the dark world, but you could never relate to his sheer agony of existence. You would simply be invading the wolf's den with cheap dog toys.

What do you know?

あなたに何がわかるの？ (anata ni nani ga wakaru no?)

...

You eventually found harmony in one another. There were good days, and there were bad days... and then there were very, very bad days...

It all started with a rumour—a harmless, silly rumour.

〜という噂がある (~to iu uwasa ga aru) There is a rumour that~

And it wasn't about your relationship with the suicidal maniac, no. Almost the whole Agency knew about this, let alone the Special Division for Unusual Powers; Dazai would blabber about you to nearly anyone he knew or came across. The poet would twitter poems dedicated to you and how much you fill his aching heart. So it was needless to say that he had talked the ears off about you to Ango during their working hours.

The rumours were about how you've become Dazai's weakness; those were senseless, giddy gossip murmured across Yokohama city. The Agency didn't take them seriously because they believed that Dazai would try to save any human life he could, especially Kunikida, who would vouch for his lazy colleague and shoot down any accusations.

As time went by, the juicy gossip birthed enticing stories. They carried an air of adventurous excitement akin to shallow, frivolous romance novels and dark, angsty detective stories. People craved entertainment and spice in their everyday lives, so they wrote their own versions online; some wrote about kidnapping, some about love triangles, and others became creative, constructing their own fantasy tales.

The majority of these people didn't even know the origins of the rumours; they simply hopped on the trend train of this urban legend about a heartless detective falling for an average, clever clerk.

One of the clerks at the Agency noticed these online stories and shared the information with Nanami and Haruno. They tried to figure out if this posed any issues for the organisation's image or, more importantly, for the two people the rumours most concerned. The Tanizaki sister decided to be the brave one and bring the matter up with the armed detectives.

"Rumours?" You blinked curiously, as if you had no idea about the matter. You were sitting at Dazai's desk because the lovely, lazy poet had once again asked for your help. After all, you were the best at writing reports and never failed to make them interesting to read.

With your laptop in front of you, your hands hovering over the keys and your fingers freezing mid-type, you let out a deep sigh. You took off the reading glasses provided by the Agency and rubbed the bridge of your nose. "Are you talking about those fanfics? Why should we worry about them? Let people ship whomever they want. It's not my concern."

The clerk who found these "stories" stood bashfully behind Naomi, fidgeting. "We just… thought we should let you know, [Y/N]-san, Dazai-san…" they murmured. "They, um… there are many of them and, um…" The clerk took a deep breath to calm their nerves. "Some of them have been fairly close to reality. We just thought if things get too serious, we could report them for… a possible breach of personal information or… even defamation."

You crossed your arms and thought about it. That was actually sound reasoning to it, but you weren't sure if such actions should be taken. You turned to your right to look at Dazai, who was mulling over the new information with a daydreaming hum.

"Ah, so our love transcends the digital!" Dazai chirped, standing up with his usual theatrical flair and spreading his arms as if "sharing" the love that was just mentioned. "I don't blame them! [Y/N]-kun would charm any and all of humanity! How could they not be blown away by the two most beautiful actors on this stage called 'the World'! Let them dream; let them feel our love!"

Then Dazai threw himself toward you and hugged you by the waist, rubbing his cheek against your soft tummy. His face looked blissful, and you simply couldn't bring yourself to interrupt his joy. Eventually, you sighed, placed your palm on his head, and began gently petting him, feeling the soft locks that never failed to ground you and bring a smile to your lips. The poet hummed pleasantly, still holding you like a hopeless lover boy.

The clerk looked awkward and a tad worried; they weren't used to Dazai's theatrics, so they weren't sure whether to stay or leave. Luckily for them, Haruno intervened with fresh findings of her own: "Actually, the other thing that worries us is that some of these stories are a bit... technically detailed?" Haruno lifted her phone to show the story in question that had caused the concern.

She was right; this story was about a clerk who was kidnapped by the Port Mafia, while the detective faced many challenges to bring back his lover. The psychological struggles and the details of the kidnapping were strikingly accurate. You realised what the issue was: should any members of the Port Mafia find this story, they could use the information against the Agency—or worse, hunt down the writer for exposing their tactics.

The air felt a bit heavy, but it was washed away as soon as Atsushi returned from his mission with Kyouka, their clothes a bit dirty. The boy's aura was always calming and warm, especially when accompanied by Kyouka, who had an air of sheer cuteness. Their presence was akin to a sunny winter park filled with snow and crisp, fresh air, with cherry petals scattering in the breeze.

The pair was filled in on the situation and the rumours about you and Dazai. As the weretiger skimmed the story, his face serious and his eyes sharp, he soon mellowed and smiled cheerfully.

"I think we should report the story. While it's interesting, protecting [Y/N]-san and Dazai-san is more important! Hopefully, the Port Mafia hasn't seen this yet."

"And if they have..." Kyouka slowly unsheathed her short sword, her wakizashi, with murderous eyes. "We will rescue [Y/N] post-haste."

Suddenly, the air felt heavy again, but Atsushi noticed it wasn't because of Kyouka; he could sense a much darker, uglier aura emanating from within the office. His tiger senses were tingling and his ears perked; he tried to detect the source of this nasty aura. The weretiger was genuinely frightened, and for a second, he thought an enemy was there.

But it wasn't.

Horrified, Atsushi froze in place when his eyes met those of a true murderer: Dazai's.

The man's face was overcast and shadowed, as if it were turned away from the sun, and his eyes were wide and wild. Atsushi could have sworn that his mentor had brown eyes, but at that very moment, they looked like two black holes traced by white lines. The boy was even more surprised to see you unaffected—you had no idea what was resting on your lap... you simply kept petting its hair…

It took everything in Atsushi not to flee; his instincts were flaring, his inner tiger roaring warnings and begging him to leave, to leave...

Emotions could drive any man mad—let alone a monster.

...

That very night, Dazai faced his inner demons—voices of the past and the call of the void.

Someone will kidnap them, for sure; you will lose your precious [Y/N], just like always… anything you find worth living for—it will disappear.

Dazai leaned his weight on his palms against the sink; his soft skin—despite all the roughness left by a gunpowdered life—moulded to the ceramic. He felt the pressing ache and the red stains forming on his palms. He could feel it: a threat looming over him.

The lights were dim in the bathroom, but it didn't matter to him. As someone who lived and lingered in the darkness, adjusting his vision to this familiar environment was as easy as walking. The dark, ghostly hands clung to his body—each clutching with its own intensity. Dazai stared at himself in the mirror. A self-deprecating sneer met him in the reflective glass. What a mockery of a man.

Dazai was all too familiar with this feeling, yet he never managed to put a name to it. The poet in him had felt it before, painfully so. Whenever he read poems and thought he could do better, the moment he tried, he felt his own words were never good enough—mere scraps of paper filled with imitations of human emotions. It was a torturous pain...

An abysmal void, a curseful, never-ending cycle of suffering and dissatisfaction.

Dazai watched as his mouth twisted into something increasingly unnatural—odd, alien, inhuman...

人間失格 (ningen shikkaku)

It drove him insane that he couldn't name the feeling—that maddening sense of being challenged. Yet, at the same time, he felt absolute confidence in his skills, his self-control, and his ability to mimic a decent human being...

He loved you... so dearly...

Dazai gripped the sides of the mirror, overcome by a strange fatigue—an unexplainable nausea. His breathing grew laboured, and his heart thrummed in erratic, discordant pulses. He eyed the glass desperately, as if searching for any kind of remedy for his condition.

He stared and stared, into the fog hidden in the reflection of his morbid deflection—the countenance of the dark humanity. But soon, your face appeared in the mist. Dazai gaped and inched closer, his nose almost pressing against the glass as if he were possessed. It was a memory of you, living deep within him.

You peered at him over your shoulder, a smile playing on your lips like a subtle greeting to welcome him home. Dazai's features softened; he almost fell to his knees in reverence. You were his salvation, a beautiful human of silk. It was that peaceful mind of yours he envied most.

How could someone like him—Dazai Osamu, the infamous former executive of the Port Mafia—be seen as a gentle, sweet man with a tender smile, standing beside your radiance of fragile humanity?

“A former killer isn't qualified to become a good person. Do you truly believe that?”

Dazai did believe it; he truly did. He had seen killers become saviours with his own eyes. Therefore, he still tried to believe in his own redemption. However… at that very moment, he struggled desperately. Could he really be good? Wholeheartedly?

Did that even matter? Was he even qualified as a person in the first place?

A familiar lullaby played in his head.

However, that melody was slowly changing. With you, his cynicism and depravity started to morph like clay, finally granted the sweet moisture needed to bend; with you, he didn't see that pesky, nauseating brightness that usually made him wince; with you, Dazai was feeling more alive, finding it harder to suppress his true self.

With you… your soft light—this, he loved.

And your smile...

That empathetic smile of martyrdom and sweetness.

犠牲 (gisei) sacrifice...

Dazai felt a sudden surge of bitterness and scepticism. It irked him to no end, but what irritated him most was that these unpleasant emotions were directed toward you. He didn't want to link any negative trait to your persona; he was disgusted with himself for feeling this way. The poet wanted his muse to be pure and untainted by sin.

However, since he was devoid of human emotion, he only offered a smile in return—an eerie twist of his lips.

"I guess," he heard a voice say, "that explains why he always laughs and makes others laugh, too."

That ignited something behind his chest—nay, more like a dull clonk echoing within his hollow core. His heart felt like a petrified shell—empty, cold, and coated in the dust of dried blood.

The poet felt as though a vexing responsibility had been thrown in his face: the burden of people's pain. It disgusted him—this irritable urge to comfort them, to "get better" for the sake of their "sacrificial" selves.

An unsolicited duty bestowed upon him by them... perhaps, by you, too?

The poet had seen, touched, and tasted many strays who were drawn to him. Dazai was well aware of his charms—that haunting, gothic magnetism that lured shivering, hungry souls to his side. But now, he struggled to reconcile your serene face with these disturbed, murky waters, teeming with piranhas and anglerfish.

"You prideful fool," he thought. Or, perhaps, he simply heard the words echo.

This newly arrived sensation swelled painfully in his chest—a frustrating mental lava pressing against his ribcage like an invading, unnatural catastrophe. Dazai knew it was time to stop, lest he suffer further and dissolve into the sodden wreckage of a trashed, dirty creek.

Tears threatened to spill, born of a tangled fear: the loss of you, the legion of writers who dreamed of you, and the ever-present danger of the Port Mafia. He cursed himself for listening to the clerks' gossip. More so, Dazai Osamu—a man who lived by logic and masks—could not allow himself to be unravelled by A FICTIONAL STORY.

作り話 (tsukuribanashi)

The emotions were messing with him. It was the fear of being seen as a human being... one burdened with so many inhuman traits, covered in wounds and the stains of despicable, dirty sins. His hands were stained with a burnt mahogany from the repeated splashes of blood he had failed to wash away...

Suddenly, Dazai saw Mori emerging from the coal-black, thick waters like a spectre of the Devil—an ominous premonition.

"Oh, Dazai-kun," the Devil cooed, "You had so much potential... to think you'd waste your talent and freedom on saving people, of all things... what a misuse of your calibre, Dazai-kun."

Dazai sank to his knees, looking up at the figure looming high above him. The poet was delirious, his eyes wide and pathetic. His frail body was shivering violently and painfully, making a string of whimpers.

"I am so disappointed in you, Dazai-kun."

「太宰くん、本当にがっかりした。」 (Dazai-kun, hontou ni gakkarishita)

Dazai clutched his head and choked an inaudible scream, his throat aching from the sheer weight of his psychological suppression. His head screeched with a deafening, internal shrill.

Somewhere deep within his void, a new darkness had been sown. A hideous desire was growing—slowly, silently, and persistently...

A new mental apparition imposed itself onto the deteriorating mind of Dazai. He jerked his head and gasped as his eyes met the violet gaze of a true "Demon"—Fyodor. The Arctic Rat slowly lifted his arm, pointing an accusatory finger at the poet, speaking in a cold, husky murmur:

"The reason you are so easily shaken, Dazai, is that you have no conviction. You have no God nor Muse to light the path you strayed from by your own volition. Your fire was extinguished long before your mind could even perceive the world."

Dazai felt the anemic man’s chill gaze drilling into his porous shell—a void of a soul that allowed darkness to invade his pathetic state. He fruitlessly attempted to block his hearing with his palms, as if that judgmental voice were coming from the outside.

"It is a grave shame to see you waste your potential like this, Dazai; your intellect could have been put to much better use," the ghost of a frozen past whispered with a frostbitten ache. "The best you did for this world was when you were with the Port Mafia... but even then, you were the biggest fool, Mr Little 'Demon Prodigy'."

«Я та́к разочаро́ван тобой, Дазай.» (Ya ták razacharóvan toboy, Dazai)

Now Dazai screamed—violently this time—and thrashed his head. It was unbearable; he felt a dull choking in his chest, his heart burned with an acidic bleed, and his mind felt leaden. Then, abruptly, he felt two pairs of hands on his throat; Mori and Fyodor were gripping him tightly. Dazai's mind was rushing; he couldn't see their eyes, but their faces were expressionless.

The poet was immobilised and gasped for vanishing air. He frantically moved his eyes, trying to think of a solution, a new calculation, a new escape route. Then, he saw a small figure crouching on the surface of the ink-black water. Their eyes locked, and Dazai felt a jolt of pure horror; the creature was covered in seaweed, barnacles, lichens, worms, and other seabed filth.

It also wore bandages... its red eyes struck Dazai's soul and—

ハッ！ (ha-!)

GASP!

Dazai suddenly emerged from the cold water, taking deep, wheezing breaths. He was dumbfounded and shaking. Carefully, he let his eyes examine his surroundings: he was sitting in his own bathtub, fully clothed and drenched, shivering… and his hands were gripping his own throat in a death grip. He had no memory of getting into the tub, let alone filling it with water.

The poet slowly peeled his fingers away from his neck, one at a time; the rest of his body remained as if petrified. When they finally released their hold, he stared at them with such intensity it was as if he were drilling holes into his own palms. Then, he glared upward into the empty air, his eyes fixed on nothingness. He stared so hard from beneath the shadow of his brow that his eyes stung, but he didn’t care.

The world was full of agonising pain anyway...

・・・

Dazai began to fall back into his old habits; he lurked in the shadows and stalked you, making sure you were safe and sound. He wanted to hunt down any person who dared to woo you or steal your precious time from him. Any inkling of kindness that bordered on intimacy was snubbed before it had the chance to spark a curiosity in you.

But more importantly, Dazai was more terrified of you seeing him like this—a man possessed by an obsession with delirium. The poet in him demanded that his muse remain perfect, spotless and free from sin... his sin. He knew how atrocious and smudged he appeared in this state.

The detective had become cunningly manipulative.

He would often invite you for coffee, ask you to stay at his place a bit longer over a cup of tea, or spend afternoons by the harbour bench. Sometimes he would simply follow you home and dance until sundown—an invader of your time with a sweet smile. A honey-coated spice.

"Look at this creek that pretends to be the night sky of Earth, [Y/N]-chan," Dazai would murmur sweetly, gazing at you adoringly. "It steals the city lights of Yokohama to mimic the stars above us, dear. Who knew that even nature exhibits such emotions as envy and pride?"

The cold breeze carried his voice to you like a love letter—carefully folded and neatly written with words of romance and a promise of subtle passion that would gently rock you to a blissful, peaceful sleep.

The voice was as sweet as poison.

The office parties would be cut short because you ended up drunk far too soon. Your ever-so-caring knight of a partner would take you home, with no one but Dazai himself knowing he was the one who had spiked your drinks. On other occasions, the detective would drug your lunches so he could take you to Yosano’s office and remain by your side, "nursing" you back to health…

"Oh dear, my dear, my sweet [Y/N], it seems you’ve had a bit too much to drink, haven't you? Now, let me be responsible and take you home. I want my lovely partner to be safe and avoid a morning hangover."

Dazai hugged you gently, caringly, rubbing circles on your back to soothe your sudden heave. If anyone had taken a closer look at his face during that Christmas party organised by the ever-earnest Atsushi, they would have seen a vicious, subtle smile playing on his lips. The poet’s eyes, once struck by horror in the ink-black water, now burned with a depraved obsession, relishing your submission.

Friends and acquaintances, old and new, were also under Dazai’s careful, burning watch. How dared they take your time away? Hadn't you vowed to be his partner—a loving soulmate to his damning one? The poet would use his puppy eyes and hypnotically sweet voice to assign your loved ones tasks or "urgent" information to keep them busy, using your name as a guarantor.

"My partner hasn't been feeling well lately; oh, poor thing! They’ve been piled up with work after work!" Dazai would dramatise with his usual melodramatic flair, but he played his role so skillfully that no one questioned the fidelity of his words.

"So, could you be a dear and shop in their stead to save them time and stress? You know what they need for this birthday party better than I do!"

Oh, what a lovely, responsible partner Dazai was! Running errands for you, taking a load off your shoulders... all with a hidden, grim grin.

Our "lovely" detective was smart; he made sure you’d never suspect a thing. There was no regularity to his "caring" acts, nor to the quick, "casual" disappearances of people you might have wanted to know better or spend more time with. Dazai was deeply calculative; he knew exactly when to strike and how to wrap you around his finger.

But little did he know that you were also a clever bean.

It didn’t spark suspicion at first, but soon you noticed that Dazai lingered in your presence far too long. You had thought the poet valued his solitude too much to cling to a living being—someone he surely saw as a fleeting indulgence. Moreover, some of the items gifted by your friends and colleagues had vanished, while others had been replaced.

You also took note of how vividly Dazai beamed whenever you offered him any form of affection, and how much he melted under your touch. Our lovely poet failed to consider the one thing that gave him away so quickly: he had stopped talking about suicide. Specifically, he had ceased his casual invitations for a double suicide.

Another day, another instance where your charming detective invited you for coffee during the break. You narrowed your eyes, already seeing the evidence of his subtle, odd behaviour... This was a golden opportunity to speak to him in private, so you suggested a café that offered maximum seclusion and excellent brew... and, more importantly, your favourite pastry.

As you two walked leisurely, chattering like lovebirds as usual, nothing about you particularly stood out. Soon, however, you noticed the surroundings had grown significantly quieter.

You decided it was time to poke the viper.

"Is something wrong, Osamu?" you asked carefully, making sure to face him as you walked by his side.

Dazai flinched inconspicuously—a movement so subtle that you would never have suspected it happened. No one would have picked up on it but Dazai’s own acutely attuned brain. Despite your lack of reaction, Dazai had become painfully self-aware of his state, and it gnawed at his heart and stomach. He had become too alert, too desperate.

As Dazai turned to face you, he offered his signature smile, his eyes gleaming with that Dazai-esque indifference that tended to bewitch any human soul. He spoke with his usual cheeriness, a voice a bit too smooth: "Nothing, really!"

Your eyes widened at what you saw before you: a man wearing a mask.

It wasn’t just any mask; it was a carefully crafted artefact, like those found in tribes where tradition and mysticism reigned. It was akin to a fox mask that bore more meaning than the simple paint we see in modern days. This one differed from his other masks, which were like cheap theatre props—swapped frequently, yet with such skill that it demanded the audience's absolute focus to catch the trickery.

It felt as though Dazai himself had gone into the dark woods to personally seek the tree that suited his aesthetic taste and wit. With a hatchet forged from his own desperation and anguish, he had hacked the wood down, seizing the raw timber with bare, splintered hands.

Then, he would have spent days carefully carving the wood to create the most beautiful, intricate, and decorated mask, coloured with paints he himself concocted and dosed with the perfume he found most pleasant. At that point, could you find the heart to tear such a painstakingly crafted mask from his face?

That was the type of mask Dazai was wearing; eerily and exquisitely gorgeous, delicately donned on his face for decades, if not millennia.

The mask felt so real that you knew—something was terribly wrong.

"You can’t fool me, Osamu. Something is definitely wrong." You sounded almost angry as you glared at him, gesturing expressively to show your agitation. "If you did this to yourself, fine! But now you’re dragging ME into this whirlpool you’ve created!"

The poet remained motionless, yet his crafted smile never faltered.

"Please, talk to me..." you pleaded gently, placing your warm and soft palm on his cold, bony shoulder. "We can... work through this together, Osamu... please..."

Dazai flinched visibly this time; being caught so easily left him agonisingly horrified and humiliated. He shivered violently, but he immediately forced his shoulders to relax. He curled the edges of his smile even higher—a trained habit for which he was deeply grateful.

"Nothing is really wrong, [Y/N]-chan! Ah, you are so lovely when you worry for me; your brows knit so beautifully, like a model for a painting ready to be captured on canvas!" Dazai cooed, taking your hand between his and peering at you like an enraptured charmer.

Something sinister washed over his brown eyes, soiling them like oil, depriving the fish of oxygen and the sea birds of their ability to swim and fly.

"Osamu…" Your voice trembled; your heart ached as you felt a stinging warmth in your eyes—a warning of incoming tears. "It pains me to see you like this. What happened? Why are you acting like this? Please, speak to me… please…"

"I want to!" Dazai’s inner teen voice wailed in desperation, but the poet’s face remained unchanged, his smile unmoving. "I want to talk! I want you to hold me! Please, never let go! Only look at me—me, me, me!!"

私っ! (watashi—!)

Dazai desperately kept his eyes open; he refused to break, refused to let his tears fall or his lips so much as tremble. He couldn't bear to see you like this, but even more so, he absolutely couldn't let you know… know how deeply he despaired over "silly" things like fear, envy, jealousy, and possessiveness... The pain was too great; he couldn't let you see how fragile and pathetic he felt for being affected by such human emotions...

Dazai tried so hard to wear that ancient mask over his soft, delicate face, desperate to shield your innocent light from his own disgusting, stained soul. He earnestly modified and maintained this hardened facade—a gift worn for you. It was a cruel irony: especially now, for the first time, the poet had found something to look forward to—a life spent with you.

Suddenly, Dazai felt a shift in pressure. He had been so consumed by his own convictions that he failed to notice your approach until… you hugged him, tight and warm.

Oh, how he wanted to simply melt and die in your arms right at that moment.

"Please, Osamu, please…" You murmured softly, pleading like a little bunny begging for mercy from a wolf. "Don't be alone in this pain that I might have caused, please… I don't want you to be alone, Osamu. Please… I can take it…"

The man gasped as if he had been shot. Now, he felt true anguish—he had hurt you, and in turn, you were hurting him with your words, with your kindness. How could you possibly bear his weight? Even Chuuya couldn't. Even Mori. Even…

"We can work through this, together, remember?"

Ah! The radiance of that memory flashed before him—back when he thought a simple kiss could break him. He believed in it still, but now he felt a greater conflict: the familiar, friendly darkness he longed to sink into, and the new, flowery light he desperately wanted to consume.

Oh, how warm you felt to him… he might find peace after all. Or perhaps not; for him, all of this was fleeting, while the darkness was forever...

"Please, Osamu…" you whispered, your voice a tether to the real world. "I want to be by your side, not behind you."

Dazai could sense an angel crying; he felt those tears falling and reviving the dead seeds buried deep within him. The suicidal maniac remembered how much he felt—too much, so much that the urge to die surged through him once more. He realised how long he had used shades to blind himself, and now that he finally saw the light...

It hurt... so, so much...

I want to die. I want to die so, so badly...

You hugged him tighter. Dazai’s restraint was slowly failing; his face contorted in frustration and resistance—a childish, petulant stubbornness. He was desperately holding onto the void, but how could he, when you stood there knocking on his door so softly, so gently? You were asking for permission, unlike the usual, painful banging and the biting, accusatory shouts he was so accustomed to. You were peeling off his mask so carefully, so gently... so slowly, lest the glue should tear his skin.

And so he bit his lower lip to feel the moist iron, and hugged you in return.

"I'm afraid…" he confessed, burying his sobbing face into your shoulder, desperately pulling you close so no one else could see him being ruined before you. "I am so pathetic… how can you be with me? I'm so despicable, ugly… toxic…" His fingers clung to you like claws, as if he knew he would lose you the very moment he let go.

Dazai embraced you like a famished, trembling wolf who had been starved for months; now that he had finally snatched his prey, he had to control the craving lest he choke on the warm meal. The poet was so hungry for genuine affection that he feared he would drown in the drinking of it—that if he took it all in, he would consume you whole, and in doing so, killing you...

His fear was hellishly hot, burning and melting the walls within—walls he fought to cool with burnt hands and exhausted breaths. Dazai hated his human heart, his damned soul. Why would anyone else love his true essence when he himself despised it so?

"I'm not human, [Y/N]…" he whimpered, pulling you closer. Your calming shushes worked wonders, soothing the banshee-like wailing inside him, while your cool palm against his back slowly massaged the residue of grime from his dry shell.

"I used to feel that way, too…" Your voice was a gentle whisper, so smooth and quiet that Dazai wondered for a moment if he had imagined it. You continued your lullaby: "I won’t say I understand your anguish. I just… I want to say that inhumanity can feel different for everyone. Sorry… I think I’m failing to help you, hun…"

Dazai pulled violently away, though his hands still gripped your shoulders. He stared at you in a state of delirium, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"You did? You? My sweet [Y/N]-chan felt inhuman, too? That’s a joke, right? There is no possible way anything could make you feel like a monster! Not my darling [Y/N]!" The poet rattled the words off without a breath, his throat aching from the strain. You, however, simply huffed, looking a bit insulted. Then, you gently bonked his forehead.

"I am not some angel, you fool!" You were right, of course, but Dazai’s stubborn head still insisted on seeing you as a higher being. "Sure, you had it worse, but that doesn't mean other people can't have shitty lives, too!" You threatened your lover with a wagging finger.

"I was seen as an oddball more often than not, you know? Too diligent, too 'right'—whatever that meant. People looked at me like I wasn't human. Some even said I'd 'lost' it… even my friends." You began your ramble, while Dazai simply stared at you with clear, calculating eyes, as if he were trying to decode this strange yet adorable behaviour.

"Like, what does it mean? If humanity could be lost, could it be restored? Or was it something pure; once stained, thus forever ruined? Do we really want to be something unachievable, something truly inhumane to be human? Like angels, the breath of the Divine? I bet this stems from unrealistic beauty standards as well as an excuse to hide one's own insecurities..."

You kept talking, huffing and puffing as you critiqued vertical collectivism and neoliberalism. You rambled about missing Shibuya and its small shops with their cute, tasty goods; you spoke of yearning for libraries and the simple time to read. Dazai stood there, a little stunned and dazed, beginning to wonder.

Why did he want to connect with you? How were you any different from the others he had met? Ango, Kunikida, Fukuzawa, Atsushi… Yosano, Ranpo, and even Akutagawa… they were all parts of a world he merely navigated.

No... just like Mori, Fyodor, Chuuya, and Odasaku... you were one of the rare few who truly piqued his interest—those who could see through the static. Dazai didn't just want to observe you; he craved your company... He wanted to be part of the reality you were huffing and puffing about.

And that terrified him more than anything—so much so that he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and burst into a long, ugly cry.

Dazai was slowly realising that he didn't need to make grand gestures to be with you. He didn't need to be the "best" to have your soft fingers trace his frame, or to woo you further just to make you crave his ghostly presence. He didn't have to tear down buildings to keep your attention. All he needed was… unconditional love.

At that very moment, you looked like a pouty, fuming bunny, fanning your long ears and stomping your little feet with soft "thuds." Dazai’s eyes widened—red and wet, but filled with amazement. Here he was, an absolute, chaotic mess, being scolded by a bundle of soft, clever fluff. The detective couldn't help it; he burst into loud, belly laughter, pulling you into a crushing hug.

"You are such an anomaly, [Y/N]! I love you!" the poet chimed.

You stood there, breathless and flustered; his sudden shift from a dark, crushing depression to such radiant affection had given you emotional whiplash. You knew this hadn't "cured" his sour, dark thoughts—and you hadn't aimed to save him, anyway. But you were glad that your words had stirred his still, deep waters. Perhaps, you thought, your rambling had finally grounded him.

Then, suddenly, you realised something.

"...Is it about those rumors?"

Dazai jolted; he pouted, snapping his head away to avoid your eyes. You couldn't believe it. "Osamu..."

"Please, don't… It's embarrassing enough as it is," your wounded poet pleaded with a contrite, pathetic look. You couldn't help but imagine him as a puppy who had barked a tad too loudly and now deeply regretted it. You tried your damndest not to let your mind wander into the morbid possibilities of what Dazai might have actually done…

You let out a deep sigh. There was no reason to cry over spilt, spoiled milk—even if it was milk you had once hoped to use for baking something sweet. You were a forgiving person; you had already prepared yourself for this after learning how deep Dazai's mental issues truly went—deeper than any roots, for sure. You gently stroked the poet’s messy, soft hair and nuzzled his forehead.

"Let's just forget all this and move on, alright? You can always come to me and cry into my shoulder, my little puppy," you said with a smile. Dazai clearly did not appreciate the nickname. In fact, he looked absolutely mortified, which only made you giggle a bit too obviously.

In a fit of playful retaliation, Dazai reached out and pinched your cheek.

Finally, the heavy, dark clouds of the mind drifted past, washing over you both with the familiar scent of petrichor and the weight of hope. Both of you were drenched in emotions and tears, yet smiles remained on your lips. Dazai felt lighter; it was as if his soul had been distilled by your little creek—clear and teeming with koi. It wouldn't fix him—it wasn't supposed to—but at the very least, your support made his existence bearable. It gave him the will to walk on this cold rock a little while longer.

"You— You two haven't kissed yet?!" Atsushi almost choked on his coffee, eyes round with shock. You found his reaction endearing, but you couldn't help but smirk at the sheer innocence and simple assumptions a teenage boy would have about couples. You decided to tease him further.

"Have you ever seen Dazai kissing anyone, hm?" you asked the bewildered weretiger in a calm voice.

Atsushi’s hands froze around his mug, the rising steam tickling his sensitive nose. He began to ponder the question as if the answer should be obvious, only to find that the reality was far more elusive than he had first assumed.

"Like, have you actually seen him kissing anyone? On the lips?" You repeated the question while coyly tapping a finger to your lips. While you did want to tease him, you also wanted Atsushi to think critically, treating it like a makeshift detective exercise. The mockery was just a reflex; you’d clearly spent too much time around Dazai.

The more the weretiger pondered, the deeper the flush on his face became. It dawned on him that despite the countless times he’d seen Dazai flirt, he’d never once witnessed an actual kiss. The question sparked a sudden curiosity to ask the other agency members, only to be instantly replaced by a wave of bashful shivers.

Your inquiry might have seemed pointless at first. Why would it matter if a notorious womaniser like Dazai had kissed others? It was easy to assume a man like him would be naturally physical in his flirtations. However, once you dug deeper, you realised that all of those thoughts were merely assumptions.

Kunikida was the prime example of someone who projected his own desires onto Dazai, envying his colleague's forwardness and romantic nature. The blonde was a poet himself, yet he lacked the flexibility to let himself swim in the warm stream of sensuality. His firm stand on heteronormative and monogamous preferences was petrifying his softness. While their suicidal maniac was clearly beyond such limitations, who could say for sure? No one else in the Agency had ever been a witness.

"Oh? What do we have here?" Yosano peered into the conversation, her entrance marked by the distinct click of her heels. As she ordered a strong coffee, you relayed the topic of the discussion in a clerical manner, while Atsushi blushed like a shy schoolboy caught doing something naughty. The doctor’s interest was piqued, and she flashed us her signature smirk before letting out a deep, knowing sigh.

"It's no use, huns. Dazai is an elusive man and won't drop a hint for the life of us; and if he did, it would be akin to solving the Da Vinci Code."

Yosano sighed deeper still and took a brave swig of her coffee. Atsushi smiled politely, still holding his cup like his only safe space, while you rested my head on the back of the cafe's sofa. Everyone agreed with her; Dazai was a prankster who would only tell truths in riddles because it was more exciting for him. The only one who might have known anything about him was Ranpo, but the "boy" had zero interest in such frivolity.

Sigh

Nevertheless, your words had opened Atsushi’s mind, and now the boy felt guilty for assuming such unsavoury things about Dazai. You and Yosano sweetly assured him that he’d done nothing wrong; you were even proud that the weretiger had put effort into thinking through the puzzle like a true detective. The doctor even gave him an encouraging pat on the back. You were glad Dazai had such a caring junior.

However, now the thought followed you—the question was supposed to be playful, but it stuck to you like a leaf on the surface of your clear inner creek. You hadn't intended for it to be so deep; you simply asked what popped into your head to tease Atsushi. Yet that quip had morphed into an aching question you wished to ask Dazai himself. You wondered whether the cat would bite your curious tongue.

Fortunately, life with him wasn't all doom and gloom. On rare occasions, Dazai seemed more human than he had ever been.

April had rolled around. Your poetic lover spontaneously asked you on a date to view the cherry blossoms at Mitsuike Park. He claimed he preferred walking under the "pink rain" rather than sitting on a mat amidst the distracting chatter of the world. You found it romantic—all the more so because it was rare for him to ask you out—so you seized the moment with a smile.

You both decided to take an extra step to honour local traditions, so you each wore a kimono. Dazai even brought a Yokohama hand fan made of hand-dyed cotton. The detective managed to outdo you with his authentic look, which he leisurely teased you about throughout the date. He was lucky you were such a forgiving clerk—especially since he spent the afternoon clandestinely shielding you from the sun.

At the park, you both strolled through the picturesque landscape at a comfortable pace. It made sense why Dazai had chosen this place; every corner of the park looked as if it had been meticulously organised by the brushstroke of a painter. Soon, you came across another couple walking a happy puppy. The sight of the fluffball seemed to personally offend your poet to the point of wincing in disgust. You imagined him staring at a scroll of poetry only to spot an ugly blot, ruining its inner beauty. You found his reaction quite endearing and couldn't help but chuckle.

"You really do not fancy dogs, do you, Osamu?"

Dazai subtly pouted at your remark; it was barely visible, but you could spot those puffed-out cheeks from miles away. In moments like these, you tended to forget that he could be a rather crafty, mischievous little devil.

"Is it because of their undying loyalty that you find them disagreeable, hon?" you added with a teasing smirk.

The poet frowned and stared at you like a petulant kitten caught off guard. You could even imagine him flicking a phantom tail in irritation.

"You're sometimes too clever, [Y/N]," he murmured, then lightly pinched your nose in retort.

Offence is the best defence, as they say.

"Unfaltering loyalty is the greatest folly, my dear! It's irrational and yields not an ounce of self-righteous satisfaction. Besides, this park was meant to sustain the bark of trees, and not those of canine felons!" the poet declared with flair, emphasised by a snap of his fan. He pointed it upward as if to add more drama to his statement, while you stood there rubbing your nose.

Luckily for you, the damage wasn't severe.

The pond and pathway were strewn with flower petals. As you approached the water, its reflection was constantly skewed by the falling blossoms. Each ripple had its own rhythm, a silent, vibrating melody. The cherry blossoms eased even the mind of a charred heart; the pastel, rosy colours were soothing, never bright enough to prick the vision. You saw a quiet rain of pink, whereas Dazai saw a slow, descending twirl of painted flakes. He felt their tender surface—petals like gentle, innocent kisses.

A flicker of thought crossed his mind as he pressed the bamboo of the fan against his lips. He outstretched his arm in a smooth, deliberate motion, attempting to intercept the pink runaways. To your surprise, a solitary petal settled right onto Dazai's delicate, plump palm.

Dazai’s eyes widened just a fraction in mild disbelief that this pure miracle had actually favoured him. However, his expression soon dissolved into a melancholic romanticism. The poet toyed with the pink petal for a moment, twirling it between his lean digits; then slowly—ever so gently, as if cradling a fairy—Dazai pressed the petal to his lips.

He felt its creamy texture—fragile and thin, yet somehow grounding and breathtaking. The detective seemed to want to keep that petal pressed against his lips forever.

Then another thought pierced his mind.

"I wonder..." he murmured, "if your lips would have the same taste?"

He asked the question as if to no one. You looked at him curiously, your cheeks flushed and your chest unbelievably hushed. You felt as if you had intruded upon a private fairy tale, and Dazai was its natural spirit—not the centre of the story, but the reward of the magical journey.

For a moment, Dazai’s presence felt entirely spectral—unreachable, frail, and distant. Even though he stood right beside you, in your eyes, he looked far away, with only a mere glimmer of his silhouette remaining.

What a bizarre delusion.

You even forgot his question; it was left behind in reality while you were lost in this fantasy. You imagined white, vulpine ears and tails on Dazai, as if he were a fox spirit seeking your breath. Perhaps that was why nobody ever saw him kissing anyone. As you reached this conclusion, you found you didn't really mind him being a kitsune with many fluffy tails after your soul.

After all, it wasn't as if you were just after those comfortable, soft tails that would make the best napping spot.

Absolutely not.

Now that you had begun examining those "ears" of his, you wondered what other animal features would suit Dazai.

Soon, the poet hummed, his lips puckering and his brows furrowing. It seemed he had realised what he just said, forgetting to mind his manners before an audience—even if that audience was only you. A wave of embarrassment washed over him as he attempted, but adorably failed, to hide his blush with the tiny petal, forgetting he held a far better shield in his hand. The pale colour of the flower only served to highlight the contrast of his flushed cheeks. His eyes glowed with a bashful youthfulness that held you spellbound.

"What are you pondering so deeply, dear?" He had noticed your studious expression.

"I wonder whether cat or fox ears suit you better," you answered with natural calmness, your fingers solemnly pressed to your chin.

The sheer absurdity of your remark stunned him into a momentary silence before he burst out laughing. It sounded so open and unrestrained that you could sense your date truly relaxing. It was a joyous, hearty, and boyish laugh—a genuine belly laugh that even brought tears to his eyes.

"Oh my, is that truly the only thing weighing on your mind, [Y/N]? What a carefree, burdenless clerk you are~" He wiped a tear from his elated eyes, flashing you an eager grin.

"It's a very serious matter, I’ll have you know, Mr Detective," you insisted, nodding with the seriousness of a professional. You even crossed your arms over your chest to enhance the look.

"Hmmm... is that so?" Dazai purred, his voice dropping into a low, vulpine register to humour you. He leaned in, the bamboo ribs of his fan clicking as he unfurled it to shield you both from the world. You froze; the air between you suddenly felt charged, electric and ticklish all at once. As his lips inched closer, your heart gave a violent squeeze...

Then he placed the rosy petal between your lips—the kiss of a cherry blossom. You felt the creamy texture you had imagined, and it had more velvetiness than you expected. The warmth that Dazai shared with you through the flower made your chest feel unbelievably mellow and fuzzy. This enclosed, sweet moment soon ended as your date purred softly and backed away to get a better look at your flushed face.

"Hmm... My, my, [Y/N]. Your breath has made the petal smell far more enticing. I wonder," he mused, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "if it would taste just as thrilling if I were to brew it into a tea~?"

The poet smirked with devilish satisfaction as he coquettishly spun the petal between his fingers. His sly trickery sparked a storm inside your chest, and the sheer bite of your crimson cheeks left you speechless. Perhaps you had grown too soft towards this impish detective, but you were also glad to see him smile so freely in your presence—even if it meant falling prey to his clever tricks and witty remarks.

All thoughts about Dazai's kissing habits left your mind completely, like a dove released soaring upwards, but instead of attaching a message to her claws, you set her free. It didn't matter whether he kissed people frequently or not. Your relationship with your detective was your own business—unique and messy in its own right. It was up to you two how it progressed, and not to the digital gods of Yokohama.

And so, the hanami date ended with the two of you strolling idly through the vast park, huddled together. A gentle breeze shook hands with the cherry branches and caressed the pond, whisking away pink flakes into a swirling dance. Even the sunset blessed your peaceful day with golden hues, painting some petals white and others dark.

Since you knew that Dazai would always find his way into your place, you didn't bother closing the windows anymore, or the balcony door whenever the summer was particularly hot—like tonight.

You have questioned him about his habits a few times, but since he never gave you a "straight" answer, you stopped worrying about it. Reasoning with uncommon folk like the members of the Agency would only drive you mad. Besides, you thought it was unfair to fit them into boxes that had never been crafted for them before. All you had to do was be kind to them—and to yourself.

The night was particularly warm, so you left the balcony open, letting the breeze play with your ghostly curtains. The fabric waves like nymphs dancing idly during the quiet of the dark hours. The soothing spectacle and the whisper cast a sleeping spell on you, so you left the scene and slid under the blanket.

Before Hypnos put you to rest, he let your mind wander for a bit. You wondered about how your lover viewed the world. Did he also see his own nymphs dance before his eyes at certain dates? Time? Periods? How did the poet view the sun dipping into the Pacific, and the rise of it illuminated his day, perhaps his mind, too?

The moment you thought you were alone in your beloved bed and ready to submit to the realms of dreams, you sensed a new weight descend next to you. It did startle you at first, but soon you relaxed with a soft huff—you knew it was him.

Speak of the Devil.

You didn't expect him to come tonight. Although you never knew when a whim of spontaneity seized his scrupulous mind, just tonight you didn't feel like he would come. How come? You didn't know; it was just a weak hunch. You wondered why you believed that.

Perhaps because it was such an ordinary day, nothing in particular happened at the Agency. You were mostly preoccupied with paperwork; other clerks tapped their keys peacefully and diligently, Ranpo munched on his usual snacks, the detectives chatted as they always did, and even Kunikida seemed less agitated today.

Now that you thought about it, Dazai hadn't caused any mischief or chirped any of his habitual quips during the day. Perhaps it was too ordinary—so ordinary that you failed to notice anything unusual, simply because you had grown accustomed to their extraordinariness. Perhaps Dazai relied on that mundane performance of ordinare.

Suddenly, your train of thought had been interrupted by a new sensation. Your poet nudged closer to you, hugging you more tightly than before, nuzzling between your shoulder blades. Maybe he thought you were sound asleep?

"I know you're not sleeping, [Y/N]..." he murmured softly.

Oh

Dazai sounded a tad petulant, as if he felt hurt by your unresponsiveness. You concluded that because he squeezed you harder, but not uncomfortably. Yet.

You couldn't help but chuckle softly at his behaviour.

"You're so mean, [Y/N]..." he pouted and proceeded to bury his face deeper into your back.

"How am I mean, Osamu?" You asked curiously, attempting to face him, but the manchild stubbornly kept you locked in place. The detective was giving you a full-blow octopus hug.

"...you didn't pay any attention to me... even now..." Dazai murmured softly. You were shocked to hear him so pensive, but then you realised that you were, indeed, so busy today that you forgot to greet him properly. And now you pretended to sleep...

Wait a minute.

"Hold on, Osamu, you didn't even say a word today!" You managed to roll in his arms to face him with suspicion. Dazai was pouting spectacularly with puffed-up cheeks, and his face was dusted with radiant blush. He was even tearing up.

"Because... I wanted you to approach me first, [Y/N]..."

"You should have said that. I can't read your Rubik's Cube of a brain."

"That would defeat the whole purpose of 'first approach'!"

"Uh-huh, should've asked someone else to do it for you, Mr Detective. You're an expert at that kind of thing, aren't you?"

Dazai GASPED at your audacity! He clutched the shirt over his heart and let out a low, pained growl so convincingly that you nearly believed him. Nearly. That brat.

You weren't planning to fall for his theatrics, so you pinched his nose. However, Dazai expected that, so once you reached for his face, he grabbed your wrist with a smirk and pinned you down to your bed. Needless to say, you were stunned; not only were you tricked so ruthlessly, but your detective also used force to trap you.

As your eyes met, the silence settled between you two as dust—light yet heavy. The way he looked at you made you catch your breath; something much deeper was in his mind—his eyes darkened despite the softness of his smile playing on his pale lips. A strange tension was building up in the air that you felt physically, as if you could count each spec of dust landing on your skin.

And then, a rustle.

You tensed up at the sound until you jolted at the electric shock caused by his touch—Dazai brushed your hair from your face. You both blinked, then he chuckled at the irony of the world.

"Guess that eases... the tension..." The poet chuckled further, suppressing it with a bent, lean finger. He gave you such a sweet, winsome smile with a gentle tilt of his head that your heart skipped a beat, forgiving all his "crimes." Reluctantly, your mind painted Dazai's features in a divine light—an angel who had fallen from the sky on a whim simply to pay you a visit. You cringed inwardly, yet your mind also bloomed under his radiance and touch.

But before your mind could sink deeper into the pond of dopamine, you noticed your lover's odd silence; his eyes were clear yet empty—calculating, perhaps? The poet loomed over you like a marble statue, hypnotising you to join his lovely petrification.

It was as if this moment of stillness were the only way to capture and admire the beauty of an emotion, such as this—pure affection.

A stone would not shift a muscle, nor would an eye avert from its lover. The skin would always maintain its honest, flushed colour, and the expression of the countenance would never shy away from true agape and unyielding devotion. Was love meant to be clear water—ever-changing, and always quenching the many? For many more would guard its shore in return...

Then he tapped his fingertips against your plush cheek—a touch as light as a feather, but with a soul heavy with weather.

"I... want to kiss you... right now, [Y/N]..." Dazai murmured, his voice trembling, as uncertainty rushed into his eyes. You stayed silent.

"I... it must happen tonight... it... has to..." Now your lover was wincing in agony, a visible battle of will. You were speechless at his expression—the inner conflict unravelling before your eyes. You marvelled at him like a piece of exquisite art, a man whose existence was as coveted as the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. However, you were the one who was given the private tour...

No

You lifted your hand to catch the silent tear rolling down his cheek. The act made Dazai's breath hitch in surprise, for he was unaware of his own weeping. So tormented was his soul.

"Why tonight, Osamu? Why must it happen tonight?" you asked gently, like a curious cat offering comfort and soft fur to pet.

The poet flinched at your words, as if he were caught under a sudden spotlight in a theatre—utterly and completely unprepared for an act he had never practised, let alone heard of. However, Dazai soon sighed and slumped against your shoulder, hiding in your warmth.

"It’s the day... I was born... and I... it shall be the day when anything significant in my life happens, even my own death," he said without faltering, his grip on you tightening. His words vibrated through you like a verdict of punishment that no one had imposed on him but himself.

You had already realised that death would always surround him, whether you or he liked it or not. It wasn't easy to acknowledge that fact. There were even days when you had a hard time finding peace with it—evenings filled with sobs and tears seen only by the setting sun. You had to accept it and grow with it: this lethargy coated with narcotic honey. That was his essence, and denying it would be denying his very existence, or lack thereof.

A slight shiver ran down his spine, and then you felt a bit of wetness on your shoulder. You understood that words would only wound him more, and therefore, you resorted to physical calming; you tenderly threaded your fingers through his dark, dishevelled hair—silken fur belonging to a lone, black cat who sang melodies of the damned, yet sought comfort from the ordinary. A simple hug from a human.

Dazai needed neither salvation nor a saviour; you were neither of those to him, and never would be—you knew that, too. Even when he clung to you as a drowning man, literally or figuratively; even when he slumped against you like a dead weight for comfort; and even when he cried on your shoulder and purred a stream of poetry dedicated solely to you. You were his soft sofa, a cat sanctuary, a fountain of respite—but never the one who would defeat death and cure his inherent void.

You sighed and rolled over, pushing Dazai away because it was getting too sweaty under the covers for your liking.

"It’s too hot, Osamu"

"But I’m cooooold~" he whined, clinging even harder to you like a needy koala. Your sigh grew even deeper. Your hand found his tummy, then gently squished it.

"You should eat more, Osamu. You’d feel less cold."

"Buuuuut my metabolism is quickkk and mercileeeeeeeeeessss—I can’t eat that much, [Y/N]-chaaaaaan," the poet complained pathetically, extending his vowels to tire your soul even more.

You looked at him; your eyebrows went up so high that you almost pushed all your forehead ridges out of sight. You also squinted to the point that your eyes looked like two slits. The expression was a visible, if not exaggerated, display of doubt.

"You’re not fooling anyone with that, Osamu, you cheeky brat."

In response, Dazai puckered his lips and put on the best puppy eyes he could muster. But you had grown immune to his tricks, so instead, you attacked him with tickles and raspberries.

How dareth he challenge thee!

Soon, the night sailed smoothly into a tranquil, starry sea filled with the joyful chimes of two people giggling and tickling. Pillows were tossed and thrown around—a few missed the mark, and one or two kissed the offender. These two travellers were slowly navigating the volatile yet beautiful nature of a very deep, human love.

The kiss

It happened on a rainy day.

On a nasty, rainy day with depressing, harrowing clouds.

You were walking fast to get back home as soon as possible. It was raining cats and dogs and your umbrella was at its wits' end.

You really didn't want to get wet. Too many clerks caught a cold and you didn't want to leave the Agency understaffed. To some extent, you wondered if the umbrella yokais were having revenge on you and your colleagues for losing so many of your old umbrellas in the past...

Suddenly, you stopped in your tracks, in a half-bent pose with your umbrella hoisted high up above your head.

You froze in place like a frightened small animal—a silly mascot if you will. You had no idea why, but you sensed great danger; something terribly scary was watching you.

Something very ominous and eerie.

You stood there, trembling—out of fear, out of cold. When your teeth began to chatter, you grew impatient and irritated at your inaction. Therefore, you braced yourself and straightened your back, meeting the eyes of the dead.

And you gasped sharply.

There, in the alleyway, stood a hunched man; tall with eyes round like two saucers, yet only their edges were white for the gaze was mostly filled with his dark, round voids.

Like two solar eclipses staring at you.

The Earth.

You instantly recognised him—it was Dazai.

Your Dazai.

Needless to say, you were in a deep stupor seeing him like this... but your freezing body urged you to act fast. And so you approached the man and asked if everything was alright. Your voice trembled with worry, like an autumn leaf fighting against the beating, merciless winds.

The poet simply stared at you—he was taking notes of your shivering body, like a precise device calculating the frequency of vibration around your frame; the wet feet, raindrops trickling down your locks, and the blushing tips of your nose and fingers. Also, your lips, how they flexed and twisted as they moved...

"Were they making a sound?" he wondered as if in a trance.

The world felt like a highly dense water, like a semi-transparent kisel with no flavour or colour. Dazai's body felt heavy yet weightless, hard to move, and your voice was muffled. The poet felt in high alert but his mind was also so sluggish with the rain... Was it raining?

Then he slumped onto you, his face on your shoulder.

"[Y/N], [Y/N], [y/n]..." he kept murmuring, as if chanting. You were confused and tried to gently shake him, but soon you yelped as you felt his shaking arms wrapping around your body, still murmuring your name, as if he was trying to find an answer to his woes.

Dazai was drenched, but his body wasn't shivering from cold, but from something else. You were alarmed; was he having one of the episodes? You almost desperately tried to get a hold of him, to look into his eyes—there was no resistance, yet he couldn't find the strength to release you from his deathly grip.

However, for a moment longer, he let you hold his shoulders and peer into his bottomless eyes. You were speaking in that lovely, purring voice, yet the poet heard no words; mere waves bouncing in around his ear canals and drums.

He wasn't sure if he heard you speak—or was it the grey rain susurrating into his auditory organs?

Dazai then noticed your wet clothes. Without speaking, he took off his trench coat and draped it over you. Shaken, you simply stared at him with your deep, worrying eyes. Only now you noticed how much smaller he looked without his coat—naturally, you've seen him without it before, but at this very moment you realised how much that piece of light armour played a great part in his disguise.

The poet was tall but without his cloak, he looked frail and thin.

The two figures simply stood motionless under the heavy rain. The little water missiles raided the surface of your umbrella, bouncing off in the form of dissipating rochocets. The musk of the wet concrete surrounded the space between you two, making the chill feel uncomfortably biting and the smell sharply pricking inside the nose.

Soon, you couldn't hold it anymore and gently slapped Dazai's cheeks, forcing him to look at you. He didn't seem too shocked by your action; he simply stared at you with curious, blinking eyes. At least you felt like you were making progress at bringing his mind back to Earth.

"I'm taking you to my place, Osamu," you said firmly and began dragging him along. The poor poet was confused but he offered no resistance—he followed you like a lost puppy.

Once at home, you wasted no time taking off your outer clothes and Dazai's. The lanky man was acting like a stunned animal with wide eyes, but he listened to you obediently. You were thoroughly drying his hair, with a change of clothes lying next to you ready, when you noticed how freezingly cold his skin felt. You also noticed that his bandages were soggy and falling apart.

You bit your lower lip; you wanted to give him a hot bath, help him get washed and then help him bind. However, you weren't sure how comfortable your delicate poet was about this idea—you didn't want to invade his sanctuary that he so carefully, perhaps even meticulously crafted. So you asked him to go ahead and clean himself up first. Dazai noticed your concern.

"Do you want to see what lies beneath these... discoloured ribbons of armour of mine?"

You took a long look at his soft face; you weren't sure if the rain or something else wet his features to make them look round and puffy, almost fragile, almost innocent... Then, you shook your head.

"I'd never ask you to tear your second skin to satisfy my superficial curiosity, Osamu." To which Dazai dropped his gaze like a shy puppy.

"But… Don't you want to see?" he peered at you meekly. You gave him a gentle smile as you exhaled through your nose, feeling lovingly protective of him. Your palm gently rested on his shoulder, where his bandages slyly tried to slide away and expose his secrets.

"I only want to see what you want me to see, hun; whatever you want to show me, or tell me, I want to watch and listen, Osamu."

Dazai really wanted to show you... he really did, he trusted you! However, Dazai was struggling to trust himself... his inner teen was screaming and kicking, pulling him back by the sleeves. Calling him names: "Betrayal! Traitor! A wuss! Weakling! Push them away! Don't ignore me!! Look at me, only me!!!"

The poet was conflicted; you could tell that by his watery eyes, by how his lips quivered in pain and confusion. He was at a loss. Dazai didn't know what to do for once.

Then you hugged him.

You carefully hugged his head, nuzzling his crown while pressing his face softly onto your shoulder. Dazai froze—he was still paralysed by indecision and blizzarding emotions. You began rubbing slow circles on his back with your palm, with your fingertips.

His mind was racing, multiple scenarios from the past rushing to offer an optimal solution, but all of them were dragged across the mud created by his mental struggles. Tainted, shattered, distorted. A true, frustrated agony—the detective's wit was exceptional and trained; however, his mind was plagued with a void that made them slow, like a horse galloping relentlessly on a treadmill, exhausted yet making no progress whatsoever.

Then Dazai heard crying. Only then did he notice that his eyes had been wide open this whole time, stinging and drying... but he wasn't crying, nor could he feel your tears. He frantically moved his eyeballs around to find the source of the sound; he was sure you lived alone and had very few visits from friends, relatives, or colleagues. So, no one else could possibly be here...

Until the poet looked inward and saw a teen sobbing, shedding big, ugly tears, and gripping his messy, dishevelled hair. Dazai was stunned. He saw his younger self, a mere boy, who was brave and strong, now losing all his composure and rubbing his wet, soiled face.

"Don't leave me!" he wailed with a half-sobbed voice, like a radio he kept forgetting to dust and fine-tune.

Dazai stiffened more, but now his shock had answers—all his teenage self wanted was unconditional love and warmth, the kind that left no room for fear of abandonment. No daggers, metaphorical or real. This teen Dazai was afraid to be forgotten, pushed away to be with you. So, the poet did one thing that was logical at that moment:

He approached his younger self and hugged him.

"We are in this together, little one," he cooed with his own tears squeezing through his eyelids. The teen Dazai shuddered, bewildered and gasped but soon he, too, hugged himself back, clinging to his future self. Nails digging into the coat.

"You promised... you promised me! Us!" he whined, still having some fire in him despite how ruined and messy he looked, despite the rivers running down his puffy cheeks. The poet chuckled at his own young bravery and petted the boy.

"I did, and there's still time, alright? I am not letting you go, lil one..."

Now, back to reality, Dazai gasped as if he had just emerged from deep waters, his face wet with sweat and silent tears. You moved back to look at him, wiping his tears gently with a smile.

You were so patient with your poet; it made his heart ache.

"[Y/N], I... I want you to see them..." he made a bashful pause, still not used to being vulnerable, "what's underneath the bandages..."

Moments later, the bathtub was filled with hot, steaming water. The wet clothes and bandages lay discarded in the sink and the wash bin, and the bathroom held the warm touch of mist. Not even the fogged mirror could catch a peek at you two.

Dazai went first, as his body felt the coldest. He held himself, arms wrapped around himself, carefully dipping his toes into the tub water—he shuddered at the sharp contrast in temperature at first, lifting his leg back from the hot surface. But after looking at your encouraging, warm smile, the poet courageously sat down in the tub, causing a small ripple in the water. Soon, he eased into the new, aquatic hug.

Your partner hugged his knees, expecting you to join him in the soak, but you smiled amusedly and shook your head gently. Dazai looked so precious like this; his wide eyes emanated innocence and curiosity, making him appear even more fragile and youthful. You slowly approached him to plant a soft kiss on his temple.

"I will help you wash, Osamu," you explained, lifting a lathered shower pouf, prepared to scrub your poor poet's body squeaky clean.

Dazai was startled by your intentions, but instead of a protest, he hiccuped and hid his flustered face between his knees. He was not used to being taken care of—not like this, with such warmth and tenderness. It felt almost overwhelming, but Dazai wanted this; he had to let it happen, for you...

And for himself.

You were meticulous in foaming his body, careful not to cause any further damage. You saw all kinds of scars marring his exposed skin; you could hardly believe your eyes. The Dazai you had known from the beginning didn't emit such an aura; he was an elusive jester who knew more about the world than anyone else could imagine—perhaps he even knew more about you than you knew yourself.

However, seeing these etched marks convinced you otherwise. It was quite strange; people tended to believe that scars added character to a man's soul, but you saw it differently. The person before you now appeared as a gentle soul with a hollowed heart—one that was meant to beat for romance, but instead was forced to bleed for violence.

The poet's body was his canvas and his scars—his ink; stories written by others and, you suspected, by himself as well.

You washed the soap from his shoulder closest to you with water, exposing yet another wound of the past. Your gaze lingered, tracing its contour and depth like a cartographer, and your hand subconsciously caressed the smooth skin with reverence. You then leaned in and brushed it with your lips.

Dazai sharply inhaled the moment he felt your kiss on his sensitive skin, but he didn't move away. He endured the sensation—not because he disliked your touch, but because of its sheer unfamiliarity. The poet's mind was screaming; he felt needles pricking his arms, which he hugged tighter, gripped with his fingers. Yet he wanted this, he wanted...

To overcome this hurdle of humanity.

You nuzzled his shoulder to ground him and hugged him by the waist. You didn't mind the soap residue getting on you; comforting Dazai took priority—it always did. You loved humans with an equal measure of care, especially those dearest to you, and now, this silly poet was taking the lead. You smiled to yourself; the thought was amusing, so you rubbed your cheek against his scarred, bony skin.

This time, Dazai let out a deep, relaxing exhale. He then gently turned his head to look at you; his cheeks were puffed and red, and his lips were puckered. You could tell that he was struggling, but that didn't stop him from being himself and pouting at your teasing behaviour.

"You're so mean, [Y/N]... you seem so calm and caring, yet here I am... losing myself to someone who never hurt a fly in their life..." Dazai complained with a theatrical sigh.

Then, he shyly glanced at you.

"...It's my turn now. To clean you..."

You raised an eyebrow at his demand and couldn't help but smile.

"But I'm not done cleaning you, honey~" You teased, then thought for a moment longer. "Don't tell me this is your limit? Too much attention on your persona, hm~?"

Dazai responded by narrowing his eyes at you.

You were about to chuckle at his adorable behaviour, but the detective stifled it by grabbing your cheeks with one hand. Dazai lifted your face until your eyes met; he felt challenged.

"I can't let you have all the fun, now, can I, dear~?" The poet purred darkly with a twisted, suppressed smile. You had no time to think before he pulled you into the tub, splashing water all over the floor and walls. You squealed and braced yourself, but Dazai held your head above the water, ensuring you remained unharmed despite his drastic move and volatile soul.

"Comfortable?" You heard him murmuring, with that usual hint of mischief in his smooth voice. As you looked up, you saw his eyes had that sharp look, and his lips curled into a feline smirk. You also noticed that you were on top of him… and that he was holding the shower pouf.

This was a good reminder that your lovely Dazai had the skilful hands of a little thief.

You tried to play it cool, putting on your most unimpressed, sulky expression, but your rosy cheeks betrayed your intentions. Dazai noticed that little deception, of course, and proceeded to nuzzle your forehead with prideful yet tender flair.

"I promise to scrub your back to the best of my abilities, my darling~"

"Is that so?" you hummed playfully. "I knew I could trust you to watch my back, Osamu dear~" Now it was your turn to smirk and rest your chin on your arms, gazing directly into his eyes, the edges crinkling.

Dazai huffed; he could never compete with you on this field laced with saccharine domesticity. He didn't hate it, per se; he simply wasn't built for such a level of intimacy and needed more time to train his soul, lest it crystallise into a candy that melts at every warm touch.

The poet gently pinched your nose in retaliation, an act to gain some form of control over the situation. He wasn't ready to completely submit himself to you—not yet. Now, a new challenge was posed before him: to wash your back without being too rough.

Sure, Dazai was a great flirt and could woo any soul with his carefully crafted words laced with honey and milk—a voice so well-trained that he could pose as any man of any trade. Not to mention his mesmerising, slender hands, whose fingers could make any human being moan in pleasure from a simple brush of their tips.

But this was different. Here, Dazai was supposed to take care of your body. Whenever he dealt with the flesh, he was always ruthless and passionate—either using violence to tear the soul apart or forcefully grasping the living shell to feel the fullness of life and a beating human heart. Dazai didn't know how to treat an adult human being who still possessed a sense of innocence.

Suddenly, the poet heard you humming a melody. You were patient, never asking or rushing him. You were even swaying your hips and head to the rhythm of your own tune. For a moment, Dazai simply observed your peacefulness—the way the water rippled serenely and the feel of your weight against his.

He suddenly realised why he loved you so much.

Soon, the detective smiled to himself and began washing your back, starting with careful, slow circles. Dazai was used to seeing red liquids forming beneath his hands, but this time, he only saw frothy bubbles expanding from the sponge. Your back was painted white with lather.

"Hmm, you could make a great masseur, Osamu~" You sighed deeply as he washed your shoulders. You attempted to tease him but failed; his hands pressed into all the right spots, making your body thrum as you inwardly purred. Hours spent sitting by the screens at the Agency had made your back more than a tad stiff, and this kind of care made you feel like you were on cloud nine.

Dazai didn't miss your attempted quip; he huffed and flicked your forehead. "Careful now, [Y/N], you have your back exposed to me; I could pinch between your shoulder blades if you keep misbehaving~" For a split second, you sensed his dark eyes on yours, but they soon faded back into his usual mischief.

You gasped. The audacity! And here you were, trusting him with your back! Traitor!

You immediately spun around so the back of your head lay against his lean stomach. Your face was flushed with feigned irritation.

"Now, my back isn't exposed~" you murmured triumphantly, to which Dazai couldn't help but laugh. However, he soon stifled his laughter and grinned widely at your naivety. You felt a sudden sense of danger.

"Oh, really?" He hummed mysteriously. Suddenly, you felt his hands playfully but firmly squishing and kneading your belly. "But now all your vitals are exposed, my dear. You have yet to learn so many things, my poor, lovely, adorable clerk~"

Yet another gasp escaped you, but this time your red face was genuine; you felt embarrassed at your own miscalculation. Perhaps, even you have grown soft because of a certain messy, foolish, goofy yet handsome and funny detective. You covered your blushy face with your wet palms; it was a tad too embarrassing that Dazai caught you at your most vulnerable place, but you would be lying if you didn't enjoy this side of your daring poet.

Suddenly, a thought crossed your mind. It was vile but it was perfect for revenge; he had it coming.

You dramatically lifted yourself up and now were facing your partner. "Shall we talk about your 'bad behaviour', Dazai Osamu?"

Dazai froze the moment these words left your pretty lips. He didn't expect to be called on for his own actions. You couldn't tell if he started sweating or if it was all water from the tub, but what you could see was his face turning ashen white.

"W-which... bad behaviour?" The poet hesitated and tried to avoid your beautiful eyes. You used your hand to gently turn his face back to look at you.

"The one that kept me away from everyone? When you kept finding 'cute' reasons to keep me 'stuck' at your place, hm?" You lifted your eyebrow with a pout, leaning closer to him.

Dazai didn't feel bad at the time for using manipulative tactics on you. However, now that you had pointed it out to him—especially since he was trying to get better—he felt guilty. That old repentance he had followed since the day his friend left this world was now fuelled with fresh meaning and emotion.

The detective felt absolutely embarrassed; you giving him cute names and calling out on his "cringe" behaviour were overwhelming him to the point of shivering and mild nausea, so much so that he was threatening to drown himself in that very same bathtub.

"No forgiveness for my atrocious actions, dear! I deserve nothing but death! This bathtub shall be my tomb, and the water may wash away my sins! Embalm my carcass for good!" The poet gasped and slowly began sinking into the water.

"Not on my watch, Osamu!" You protested and locked him in place by showing your arms under his armpits, "You've lost those privileges the moment you decided to date me, Mr Detective; no dying or wishing for death in my presence!"

Dazai gasps at your audacity, at his tragedy of such a predicament! Had he known these conditions, he would have given them deep thought before entering into a relationship with you! Thoroughly reading the terms and conditions! The poet was very poetic about it.

"Ah, what tragedy! Even my very own lover shan't allow me to have the sweet release of death! What of the double suicide? The very epitome of romance! How could thine heart refuse such beautious end for us!"

You chuckle: "That can only happen with mutual consent, dearest; otherwise, it's murder, my love." To which Dazai throws himself back like a wounded, dramatic maiden; the back of his hand on his wet forehead and his head tilted to the side to display his delicate, lean neck. A true, despairing Drama Queen.

You huffed with amusement, soaking in the comfort of the atmosphere. Then, your eyes found the lines of his scars once more. You wondered how he felt about them—were they embarrassment? Pride? Reminders? Disappointments? Or simply the history of his life? Perhaps he still remembered where each one came from, stories he could read to children as if they were fairy tales.

Dazai looked lazily at your face, his own thoughts swirling like smoke in cold air. His gaze wasn't focused, yet he was completely present, holding you in his personal space, between his arms. You reached out to touch his face with the pads of your fingers.

"How do you feel about your scars, Osamu?" you asked curiously, desiring to learn more about your lover, no matter how deep or dark. Then, you felt a small pinch in your heart; you realised it might have been egotistical to think you had the capacity to understand his ink-stained soul—to dip your fingertips into his cold, shallow creek, only to find an elusive omut lurking beneath that you could never quite reach.

Was it sinful to desire to offer sanctuary for his tormenting heart?

Dazai's eyes hardly twitched, and his breath grew heavy, but his gaze softened even as his lips failed to smile. "Nothing, really. A mere teenage embarrassment," he hummed, tilting his head with a mouth stretched in irony.

You studied his expression in quiet, hearing only the gentle drips rippling the cooling bathwater and the sound of your shared breathing. Your eyes locked, and for once… it felt as though you could read him like an old letter stored away on a bookshelf—one that had been collecting dust and momentum, only to be finally unfolded for you.

And only for you.

"I… really wanted to kiss you back then…" Finally, Dazai sighed the words he had held for so long. You froze, as if stilling for the opening of an orchestra—an act that had been practised countless times. You felt like the only audience member in this immersive play.

Perhaps this was the only way Dazai could ever express his feelings. Instead of letters and poems written in bleeding ink, or songs of blazing love, performance seemed to be his chosen tool for relaying messages.

"That time... when I lurked around your apartment like a lone wolf, debating whether to steal you or invite you, whether to snatch your kiss by the bathroom sink or against the tree bark at the park. I couldn't decide. My mind got clouded, I was tired..." The detective began, the caress of his hand warming your cooling cheek.

"And then... like a little, lost boy, I snuck onto your balcony, into your bed..." The poet's eyes softened as if re-acting the very scene from the past, trying to inspect those feelings he failed to recognise then.

Dazai’s lips were slightly parted as his palm brushed your cheek, as if he were imagining erasing his own tears on your skin. He leaned in, his nose grazing your jawline, his deep breaths tickling your neck. You shivered—not from the cooling water, but from the sheer intensity of this esoteric intimacy. It felt like a personal ritual.

"I was so sure… that by kissing you then, it would make the night special—a morning choir meant to celebrate my birth... The day the world had the cruelty of a god to uproot my soul into the light… into life…" The poet paused, pensive—a strategic silence for you to catch your breath and for him to process his own thoughts. Then, he cupped your face to look directly at you, his touch divinely gentle.

"I wanted to share… that breath of life with yours… yet I hesitated…" Dazai grimaced, a flash of violence in his expression, as if sharing these feelings was too painful after all—so painful that he clutched the mental script until the letters became illegible. The tormented poet pressed his forehead against yours, seeking an answer to his own ailment. You felt him shaking; was that a tear forming in the corner of his eye?

Soon, you realised that your detective darling was actually shivering from the cold.

"Osamu…" You softly cupped his cheek, peering into him with a gentleness that could melt sugar. "Let’s dry ourselves first, alright? I’m not going anywhere. I will listen."

Perhaps you were an enchanter in a previous life, for your words worked wonders on the poet; or perhaps he was simply so miserably and—oh!—so hopelessly in love with you. Dazai obeyed. Before climbing out of the bathtub, which tempted him with its cold caresses, he leaned into your palm as if recharging his very soul.

Bodies padded dry with patience, hair dishevelled in haste, and skin wrapped in warm robes, both you and Dazai moved to the safety of your bed. The detective had been here many times before, and yet, tonight the scent of your room felt different—more flavorful. In his delirium, he was almost convinced that the bath had purified his damned soul and washed away the wreckage of his racing thoughts.

Oh, how naive he felt—a feeling he so missed, yet dismissed in reflex.

You gently guided him to your room, a guardian angel before his eyes. You padded across the wooden floor like a hushed kitten stealing a blissful fish—rich with iron and scent—now pulling him into your divine abode.

How could this empty shell feel such a powerful firework in his chest?

Dazai gripped his chest with such force, as if he felt guilty—as if he were committing a crime against humanity simply by being human himself. But how could he will himself to free these feelings when they felt so addictive… and so liberating?

The poet was so lost in his garden of thoughts that he didn't notice crossing the threshold. He was draped in a soft, cool blanket, like flowers being tucked away for a long, dark winter.

But those thoughts soon evaporated once he saw your soft, playful smile. Now, all he felt was the blissful, overwhelming joy of a devotee blessed by a Saint. Dazai felt such unbearable joy that he shivered—he simply wanted to sob uncontrollably on your bosom, comforted by your voice and the touch of your hands.

You giggled at the face your lover was making, unable to help feeling endeared by how raw and deep his soul was. Luckily for him, you were a merciful saint; you approached the poet and planted a soft, warm kiss on his forehead. Dazai’s breath hitched at the sacred act. He desperately pulled you into his arms, drawing you down to the bed.

At first, you were surprised, but as you felt Dazai’s persistence in keeping his face hidden, you realised he was simply too embarrassed to be seen this vulnerable. Your giggles grew louder, more open. This man—who had committed inhuman atrocities and solved puzzling mysteries that saved lives while insulting morality—was now whimpering like a scolded boy.

What a contradiction of a man.

A touch he craved because of biopsychological demands had also become the bane of his existence—fraught with morbid, soul-stripping associations and the history of his inhuman life. He desperately needed to be hugged, yet he avoided human touch like a plague. How could anyone in their right mind survive such heart-tearing agony? A throat-ripping scream, never heard in the physical world, but one that tricks the mind by choking the windpipe.

You sighed after a fit of good laughter, then petted the poor poet who had carried such a sorrowful soul for millennia.

"Do you want to keep talking or...?" You spoke softly—not too loud, yet not too quiet. You could feel the dampness spreading on your shirt, but you didn't acknowledge the wet spots outwardly; it would only break his heart further. Dazai was quiet for a beat, then shifted his head. You weren't sure if he was shaking his head "no" or simply nuzzling into you, so you chose to keep petting him.

Abruptly, he rolled over, and you ended up on top of him. It was so sudden that a short shout escaped you. Now, you were both staring into each other's eyes, as if time had frozen between you. It was so silent that you could hear his heart beating—one loud, rhythmic thrum after another. Every time you heard his ticker go haywire like that, it reminded you of how much your detective feared life; he needed control over everything to feel safe, even over his very own heart—his soul.

This moment felt like a soothing river, glazed with moonlight and drizzled with sparkling stardust. But why not snow? Those flakes were like twinkles on the earth; surely they would have been more reliable. But you both knew the truth: it was about the warmth and the comfort, not the cold touch of petrified, guarded hearts.

Two nuclei pulling at each other, slowly swirling together in a slow dance within the vacuum of a pragmatic choice of affection—a love free from societal demands. One problem had been discarded from the pile of many more yet to solve, but at your own pace. That was life.

Soon, you noticed your poet pursing his lips, his chin tilted downward with canine shyness. You likely realised what he was asking for, but you needed to be sure:

"Do you... want me to kiss you... hun?"

Dazai flinched, but held himself still; he was shivering, yet he bravely and gently nodded. Past deeds and tainted acts clouded his mind, so instead of overthinking or overanalysing, he decided it was up to you to make the call. He gave the choice to you—for once, not taking, but giving. He had gathered every ounce of his human courage and will.

For how could someone as spoiled as him take something as transparently clear as a precious crystal… like you?

Before leaning in, you caressed his cheek, softening your gaze to calm his flaring nerves. You knew how difficult these sensual moments were for him; despite Dazai’s expertise in using them as tools, he was too afraid to use them with genuine intent. Perhaps he had once felt a crush or two—ones he had hurt instead of loving.

The detective’s breathing eased, and his pupils were less jarring—stripped of the killer’s alertness. You might not have noticed every subtle change, but you knew when your lover felt more at peace… and ready.

"I am going to kiss you now, Osamu..." You whispered with hushed intent, your own desire guiding your descent toward his trembling, parted lips. You were already imagining their softness, remembering exactly how they had felt against other parts of your body.

The poet froze; the realisation that it was actually happening terrified him beyond reason. He feared your lips even as he desired them; he trusted you, he wanted you, but the act itself was terrifying. What if... this was it—the moment of truth that revealed whether you truly loved him or not?

Or whether he was even capable of love... or—

Your noses brushed, and Dazai squeezed his eyes shut with painful force, out of fear, out of rage. His heart hiccupped, and his mind was screaming, screaming!

ぞくぞく (zokuzoku) Shivering, trembling... どきどき (dokidoki) Ba-dum, ba-dum...

Dazai's heart was beating frantically, racing, in all kinds of poetic verses; he had no control. He was so nervous, nervous—!

...

And then, your lips he felt.

The sudden touch of softness made Dazai’s body relax almost immediately. He felt as if a rush of ocean waves had washed over him, taking all the tension and pain away; only the lingering lukewarmness borne of a cold past was left ruminating inside his core.

His eyes were still closed, but he was no longer terrified. No, he was feeling—feeling your lips gently savouring his. Dazai wanted to focus on the sensation, to take his time, to etch this very moment into his endlessly analysing mind like ink urgently scratched into historical records. He submitted to you; he wanted to let you kiss him at length so he could memorise every detail, lest the words get smudged.

Then slowly, the poet began moving his own lips. He was no stranger to these kinds of acts, but stranger still were the people he had met. This encounter, though, was entirely different from everything he had experienced; it had the same texture, the same touch, the same spark... but the intent was different.

This difference made the fire even more profound. Your breath had more depth, the sounds you exhaled made his mind feel hazy, and your scent was aromatic—appetising, even. Then your lips... they felt more tender, the texture richer in flavour and story.

He wanted more.

Dazai's arms moved slowly but with intention. He firmly wrapped them around your waist; one hand kept you steady while the other restlessly explored your back. His fingers kneaded into your shirt, greedily craving the feel of your flesh. He expressed his lament with a pathetic moan and a deepening of the kiss.

The detective opened his eyes—barely—and noticed it made no difference, for his vision was already blurred with sinless lust.

He had never felt this divine; it felt criminal, illicit, felonious.

But Dazai wanted to become a repeat offender. It didn't even bother him to feel as though he were reverting to his mafia roots.

"Osamu..." you moaned. The whisper was like a drop of paint falling into clear water, blooming with passion and urgency. Your voice slipped into his mind like a laced tonic, fueling a sense of reckless inebriety. Dazai felt electric, synapses firing in a frantic rhythm, yet he anchored his frenzy with a low, pained groan.

It was too much for him, but the new drug felt too sweet, too new to discard immediately. He placed his trust in you; he believed that you would stop him, bringing him to his senses should he ever go too far… a bit too much, too fast, too soon...

"[Y/N]..." Dazai whimpered, as if begging you to help him decide what to do next—whether he even had the right to. The poet clutched your shirt, bunching the fabric in a desperate grip. His breath was hot and laboured, and his mind was muffled by a thousand different cravings.

Chuuya's voice chimed in your own foggy mind—how he often called Dazai the devil. The thought made you sober up and chuckle a little; here he was, your detective, squirming beneath you, unravelled and pitiful with flushed cheeks and needy lips. You smiled softly at him.

It was your first kiss with him—on the lips—so you had gotten a bit carried away. Not that you were the only one aching to go further. However, since your mind had cleared thanks to a certain former partner of your lover, you decided it wasn’t the right time for that. Once again, Chuuya had saved Dazai. Oh, the irony~

So, instead, you soothed your trembling, eager poet with the back of your hand. Dazai gasped pathetically, whining and moaning with vulnerability—but also with an itching need for affection. And you gave it to him; you cradled his face and suddenly showered him with soft, smacking kisses and loving murmurs. You made sure that not an inch was left unattended until his face was shimmering from your lips.

"Ah! [Y/N]! H-have m-mercy...! Decency!" Dazai finally found his voice and protested feebly, flailing his arms even more weakly. He was clearly not against your shower of affection, but he felt too embarrassed to admit it. Eventually, his gasps melted into airy laughs, and his cheeks puffed with joy and comfort.

This time, your saintly duties escaped your mind, and so you offered no mercy to your lover; you proceeded to smother him with more kisses and cuddles, eventually wrapping him tightly into a blanket burrito. Dazai was red down to his shoulders and attempted—yet failed—to pout at you with an objection whose severity was akin to a spoiled kitten.

But you knew he loved every second and every inch of this moment. So much so that he would mark this day on his calendar upon returning to his apartment, and perhaps even write it down in his favourite blonde colleague’s diary. The poet would celebrate that date like an anniversary with the passion of a loyal husband. Still, he would deny any accusations of being overly zealous regarding that specific day—even to you.

That night, you two would experiment with kisses now that Dazai had graduated from his initial anxiety. It was sweet—sometimes electrifying, sometimes mellowing. Your poet couldn't believe that he would ever have this chance in his life, with you. The night was filled with endless, refreshing chatter and the soft press of lips, laughter and silent, longing stares.

Dazai cherished being held fast in your arms beneath the covers. He adored every "kiss-test" you tried on him, but most of all, he loved your forgiving soul for indulging his eccentric ideas. The moment you blessed his eyelids with feather-light kisses while cupping his soft cheeks, the poet inhaled audibly—a gasp like that of someone emerging from a chilling river with its soul-pulling, merciless flow.

The one memorable kiss that Dazai suggested trying was an upside-down kiss; he lay on the bed, then hung his head over the edge of it, and you kissed him like that. You suspected that it was his way of letting you have more control, because that particular make-out session ended up being the most passionate. His only lingering complaint was the lack of lipstick—he truly lamented not being able to leave vibrant, tell-tale marks across his skin and the linen.

After that night, you would often make fun of his shyness toward intimacy, but your lover would always turn your mockery back at you with his witty retorts; however, he would never admit that he enjoyed every teasing quip you gave him. After all, the poet loved seeing your toothy smile and the crinkles at the edges of your eyes. He even wrote a few lines of poetry about them.

Needless to say, everyone noticed the change in you two—well, more specifically, in Dazai. The detective became more expressive and charming around you, but none of it was a performance. It was all unadulterated, honest affection; he was letting his heart speak for him. This was, probably, the only time the Agency would ever see such a flicker of openness from the poet.

This shouldn't have shocked anyone, but it was too much of a stark contrast for the high-strung Kunikida and shy Atsushi. Seeing their usual suicidal maniac blushing in your presence like a hopeless romantic was a sight that gave the blonde guy a heart attack and Yosano a prideful smile. Atsushi and Tanizaki both felt uneasy at first, for they were used to Dazai being an elusive, ruthless prankster.

You were not free from his change either; you were under a constant attack of his love. Be it flowers with hidden meanings, letters written like epics, or invitations to yet another elaborate, poetic double suicide. Your lover craved your love like a moth drawn to light in the dark, yet he was finally showing some care for himself to honour your own love for him.

And, of course, Dazai would find any excuse to steal your kiss.

"A close second to suicide! Kissing and dying are both exquisite, sophisticated, delicate forms of art!" The poet announced with such flair that you wondered why he never became an actor. Perhaps he didn't want a whole audience to know that he was always performing, even beyond the stage.

You gently pinched his nose in a mature retaliation. "You're lucky I know you, Osamu; any other person would have been gravely offended by your honeyed words," you sighed with a smile.

Dazai huffed at the gentle pinch, his lips curling smoothly into a disarmingly boyish smile. It was unfair; that smile always managed to strip your heart bare and crumble any prideful defences. You felt as if the Sun itself were fooled by him, aiding his charm by powdering his features with a golden glow.

"Truly," he murmured, his eyes alight with a gentle twinkle. "I am beyond lucky to have you in this miserable life of mine, [Y/N]. Even if… even if the time is cut short, I find I already feel better about the man I am." Carefully, Dazai guided your hand to his chest, pressing your palm over his heart. He wasn't just looking at you; he was searching the very soul he had come to deeply adore.

"With you, I can keep my promise to Odasaku. With you, I can be myself—unapologetically and capriciously. With you... even the bed feels warmer and more welcome to me, [Y/N]..."

And then he kissed you. He had been inching closer and closer while he talked—the only way he knew how to steal your lips. It might have irked you, but you knew this was his way of showing affection; besides, you loved him that way anyway. Nothing had to be perfect. This was perfect for you, for him. As long as you worked together, with bandages and streams of life, things would flow and find their course.

Even if only for a moment, like the joy from diving off a cliff.

THE END

終わり  (owari)

(Phew! It's finally done! What did you expect? A real kiss from our lovely suicidal, bratty maniac isn't gonna happen so easily! Hope y'all enjoyed reading this as much as I did~)

I want to thank all my friends and loved ones for beta-reading and editing my work! Special thanks to: @cosmopolitanalienation and @wishing-on-stardust for being my beta-readers! As well as TheKapokKid, Calyptra and Elly for being my editors! All of you have been amazing support for me <3

You can read this fanfic in chapters on my AO3 or Ellipsus

Border Credit

You have a crush.

A very, massive, humongous crush.

A wonderful crush on your monster biology teacher, Dr Lis.

Whenever a student struggled with the complexities of biology, he took his time to explain in a way that anyone could understand. He excelled at his job and was passionate about teaching. Dr Lis was intelligent, patient and gentle. But beneath that academic poise, you found yourself wondering if that same patience would apply to… other things.

Those were the things that made you fall hard for Dr Lis, especially his appearance; he was a beautiful fox guy with dark fur that had purple and pink hues here and there. His eyes were a mix of violet and bright pink, and you could've sworn they sometimes flickered in certain moments. Especially when they were directed at you...

But it is a secret, you don't want anyone to know. You don't want to ruin his reputation! So all you do is pretend to be a teacher's pet, in an academic sense!

No one knows of your secret crush.

Or so you thought...

Recently, you started to notice the subtle signs—small, flickering changes in Dr Lis’s composure. Every time you answer a question correctly, his thick, distinguished white tail gives a sharp, involuntary twitch…

After each homework paper return, the Foxian teacher gives you a mysterious smirk that barely exposes his fangs, and you find enigmatic notes on them that are a bit more personal.

"The anatomical rendering you did of the werewolf pelvic region was… impressively firm. You have a keen eye for where the true strength of a creature lies."

"Your description of vampiric vision is masterful; it felt almost hypnotic to read. It makes me wonder what else you see when you look at someone so closely…"

"Your knowledge of aphrodisiatic fluids is exceptional. You seem to have a natural instinct for the chemistry of desire—a very dangerous talent for a student to have."

You also noticed how Dr Lis lingered a moment longer whenever he leaned over your shoulder during a dissection, or as you examined cells and samples under the microscope. You could feel the radiating heat of his body and the faint, earthy scent of his fur, turning a simple biology lesson into an exercise in holding your breath.

Maybe this was a sign...

You decided to be bold. You slipped into the classroom after the final bell, your heart thumping a rhythm that matched your confidence. You watched his velvety fox ear twitch—a sharp, directional snap that told you he’d caught your scent long before you spoke.

"Soooooo, Dr Lis~ I know we had a class on Kitsune beasts, buuuuut~" you drawled, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. "I’m not quite sure I grasped how their reproduction works."

You sank into the chair by his desk, steepling your fingers and resting your cheek against them, looking up at him through your lashes. "Since you’re a fox-beast yourself, I hoped you could explain it in greater detail to me… I’m really struggling to wrap my head around it~"

"My sweet butterfly," he hummed, the sound vibrating with a knowing smirk on those devilishly tempting lips. "I am quite certain you are already well-versed in their reproduction process…"

Dr Lis levelled the stack of papers in his hands with slow, deliberate precision. You couldn't help but let your eyes linger on his long, delicate fingers—the way they moved was as hypnotic as his scent. You forced a swallow, the saliva thick in your throat, as the silence in the classroom began to sizzle.

In those seconds, the sterile, sharp smell of the lab was completely drowned out by his scent—something musky and sweet, like crushed dark plums and a trace of expensive incense. It was a heavy, intoxicating aroma that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

The presence of the Foxian teacher was overpowering, a weight that felt as heavy as his scent. Your wings vibrated with a frantic, hidden energy, spilling a fine shimmer of biological dust onto the floor, while your antennae shivered under his dominating gaze. You squirmed softly in your seat, your cheeks and eyes flushing a deep, betrayed pink that mirrored the hues of his own fur.

You refused to submit completely. Steeling your nerves, you crossed your arms beneath your plum-colored chest, a gesture that served only to present yourself more boldly. Your red school tie draped over your bosom, outlining your form as you shifted your weight. With a deliberate slowness, you crossed one leg over the other, allowing your skirt to slide juuuuust enough to reveal the curve of your thick, succulent thighs. You weren't just a student anymore; you were a challenge.

Dr Lis read your nonverbal message and smirked, deliberately exposing his fangs this time. He leaned in close—trapping you by placing the stack of papers on the desk behind your back—until his presence was even more delicious than you had anticipated. His sharp, vertical pupils never left your frame.

"Perhaps..." he purred, his eyes narrowing as his nose stopped mere millimetres from yours, "you want more... practical examples, hm~?"

Your face flushed a bright, burning magenta, and you could barely register the way your antennae were flitting in a shy, frantic rhythm against the air between you.

Since you struggled to speak, Dr Lis outstretched his arm to caress your smooth cheek. The touch was agonisingly gentle—sensual enough to send your mind racing and your heart into a frantic, drumming rhythm. You hadn't expected it to go this far; not that you wanted to complain, but you weren't ready for the sheer weight of his attention! Your poor, beating heart felt as though it couldn't possibly hold such a surge of excitement without breaking.

You tried to ground yourself by looking directly into Dr Lis’s eyes; that was your mistake. The moment your widened gaze locked onto his, you felt utterly hypnotised, pulled toward him by a force stronger than gravity. The rest of the world dissolved into the shadows, your vision tunnelling until there was nothing left but the violet glow of his eyes and the intoxicating scent of dark plums.

Like a moth drawn into a flame.

Then you felt it—something impossibly soft brushing against your back. You jolted at the sensation, your head turning involuntarily to find your teacher’s thick, white fox tail winding around you, embracing your waist from behind. While you were momentarily entranced by the luminescent glow of the fur and its twirling tuft tip, Dr Lis took his advantage. He leaned in until his hot, steamy breath tickled the sensitive curve of your human ear, the heat of it so intense you had to bite back a moan.

"Firrrrst~" he began, the word vibrating with the unholiest, deepest purr you’d ever heard, "you must seduce your mate... or your prey, whichever you prefer, dear~"

Dr Lis’s long, delicate fingers snaked up your neck, finally coming to rest in an animalistic caress against your throat. You felt the slight pressure of his palm—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you hyper-aware of your own pulse. As his palm settled against your skin, a fresh shiver of biological dust escaped your wings, coating his dark sleeve in a faint, silver-plum shimmer—a physical mark of your surrender.

"You need to make them feel relaxed... safe," he whispered, the tip of his nose nudging at your jawline in a light, rhythmic nuzzle. "We Kitsune beasts can feel our mate's pulse, their every breath... and exactly how high their arousal has spiked~"

At his last words, you froze. The realisation hit you like a physical weight—had he figured out your crush? How long had he been watching you, scenting your desire from across the classroom? You weren't sure if it was the sting of embarrassment or the sheer electricity of excitement, but one thing was certain: you loved the feeling of being his prey...

The Foxian teacher continued to trace your sensitive pulse with his expert nose. "You smell so divine, my sweet darling~" he purred against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "So butterfline... so lepidopterous~"

He continued to murmur these sweet, scientific endearments while his fingertip began to trace your rami. He moved with a scholar's precision, parting each delicate branch like the barbs of a feather’s vane, smoothing them like the bristles of a fine brush. Each stroke sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation straight to your core.

Dr Lis exhaled directly into your antenna, the heat of his steamy breath condensing against the delicate rami until your feathery whiskers felt heavy, warm, and wet. You trembled like a lone autumn leaf caught in a storm—or rather, your antennae vibrated with such intensity they looked like leaves tossed by a sudden, violent gale. The sensation was overwhelming, a flood of warmth that made your entire body feel dangerously fluid.

Now that the Foxian was this close, his scent became an intoxicating, lustful weight in your nasal cavities. You had always known his mysterious, light musky aroma, but now—held in his shadow—you could distinguish the delicate top notes of crushed sakura blossoms. Beneath that lay something deeper and slightly pungent: the tart sweetness of dark cherries and the comforting, simmering spice of baked apples. It was a scent that didn't just fill your head; it settled into your very marrow, demanding you stay right where you were.

All this sensory overload finally broke you, forcing a pathetic, whimpering moan from your throat—though you didn't think of complaining. You felt raw, exposed, and utterly humiliated. Then, the sharp sound of footsteps echoed from behind the classroom door.

You froze, your heart stopping, but your stillness was rendered useless. Dr Lis suddenly yanked your antennae—not harshly enough to damage the rami, but firm enough to make you tremble and let out a sharp squeak. Before you could react, he manhandled you, pulling you off the chair and pinning you down until your head was pressed against the cool, sterile floor. Horrified, you squeezed your eyes shut, praying that whichever students were lingering in the hallway hadn't heard your betraying sounds...

"D-Dr Lis... t-there are people around..." you whispered, your voice barely a breath, but his sharp Kitsune hearing caught every trembling syllable.

He smirked, the expression dark and predatory, and tightened his grip around your antennae just enough to send a fresh wave of heat through your frame. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your human ear as he whispered huskily:

"And? We are having an important lesson here, my dear mothling~ If you want no one to interrupt us, you’d better stay very, very quiet then~"

Those were the words of your crush—the very Foxian who made your heart rumble and squeal like a pathetic schoolgirl. The humiliation coiled deep inside you, growing heavy and thick, only to turn into a sharper embarrassment as you realised your body was betraying you completely. Down below, you felt the unmistakable, heavy heat of your panties becoming obscenely drenched, a physical testament to how much you craved his "important lesson."

Then, you felt something slithering beneath you. You realised with a jolt that it was Dr Lis’s tail, teasingly brushing against you to feel the damp heat of your drenched panties. The mischievous, luminescent tuft began to draw slow, deliberate circles over your clothed clit, sending sparks of fire through your nerves. Meanwhile, he shifted his weight, his upper torso looming over you as he nuzzled deep into your ink-black hair. You let out a shaky breath as his true goal became clear: he was moving to lick the base of your antennae—the place where you were most agonisingly sensitive.

You shuddered violently, your moth-wings flitting in a frantic, spasmic rhythm from the sheer weight of the overstimulation. A thick cloud of shimmering dust erupted from your wings, coating both you and your crush in a fine, glitter-plum powder. Your bright magenta eyes rolled back into your head as you bit your lip—hard enough to taste the metallic, chalky tang of your own blood. The sharp sting and the strange flavour only served to heighten your arousal further, sending a surge through your nerves that made your brain nearly short-circuit.

"Then..." you finally heard Dr Lis' silken voice, a sound that mixed with the rush of pleasure until it became just another intoxicating ingredient in the arousal cocktail brewing in your brain. His hand coiled firmly around your waist, his long fingers sinking into your soft skin as he began fondling your chubs with a slow, possessive rhythm. "We prepare our prey for mating~"

You could feel your erogenous zones swelling, pulsing with a sensitivity that was becoming almost unbearable. Then, Dr Lis rolled his hips, brushing the heavy, hardened heat of his bulge against your soaking groin.

You arched your back painfully, your spine snapping into a desperate curve as a deep, guttural moan tore from your throat. All pretence of the "student" vanished; your tongue lolled out, a string of lewd saliva dripping onto the pristine, clean floor as your body completely surrendered to the Kitsune’s rhythm.

You tried to push away the terrifying possibility of being exposed, but the danger only served to fuel your sinful, insectile brain. Your violent shivers were expertly restrained by the Foxian’s strong yet delicate arm, pinning you to the floor as he maintained control by pulling your antennae.

He began hungrily sucking on your scapes, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bases until your mind went blank. In response, your body began to betray you by exuding a heavy cloud of sex pheromones that filled the small space between you. The scent made you feel mellow and docile, yet left your core desperate and aching for the final strike of Dr Lis.

The atmosphere was now completely infused with the heavy, cloying scent of sex and pheromones—the perfect biological setting for mating. You could sense how your scent was intoxicating the beast above you; his pupils blown wide as his tail began sliding your panties down with agonisingly teasing slowness.

Even as his hands moved with deliberate care, his dry humping grew more relentless, a primal rhythm that demanded surrender. The moment you felt his soft, thick fur press against the sensitive skin of your thick thighs and ass, your knees finally gave way, leaving you completely at the mercy of the Foxian’s hunger.

Then, you heard a solid growl you didn't recognise.

"Brace yourself, mothling."

You weren’t given a single second to react before your core was instantly filled with a delicious hardness, striking every one of your sweet spots at once. You tried to scream, the sound tearing from your throat, but beautiful, long fingers thrusted into your mouth, muffling your euphorically defiant moan. As the beast claimed you, your antennae were pulled and gripped with a new, bruising intensity, and you felt the sharp fangs pierce the skin of your shoulder, tethering you in a surge of pain and pure ecstasy.

The classroom was now a sanctuary of lewd, primal sounds—a hot cacophony that echoed off the cold lab tables. There was the frantic, soft flutter of lepidopteran wings against the floor, the rustle of thick fox fur, and the rhythmic, skin-to-skin plapping of the Foxian’s relentless pace. This symphony of the beast was underscored by your own broken whimpers and his low, gentle growls, all while the thick scent of sex and pheromones rose around you like a sweet, suffocating intoxication.

The tension was tightening to a breaking point, the knot in your belly coiling with a sharp, masochistic pleasure as your teacher pinned you harder to the floor by your throat. Dr Lis picked up the pace, his movements becoming a frantic, rhythmic blur as he chased his own release.

The closer he got to the edge, the harder he pinned you and the deeper he thrusted, his desperation mirroring your own. Meanwhile, his luminescent tail caressed your shuddering body with its strangely cold, glowing fur—a dizzying, electric contrast to the searing heat of the beast currently claiming you.

Finally, Dr Lis delivered one last, violent thrust that almost knocked the breath from your lungs. His Kitsune knot plopped firmly into place right inside you, the sudden expansion making you choke on an inaudible gasp as your mind finally snapped.

He spilt his warm seed deep inside your core, and you could feel his cock pulsating deliciously against your vaginal walls, a rhythmic thrumming that matched the frantic beating of your own heart. He kept you pinned firmly to the cool floor, his weight and the biological lock of the knot claiming you completely, leaving you anchored to the beast in a state of helpless, liquid bliss.

While the Foxian was still filling you up, he began using his long, wet tongue to lick your sweat-covered skin. The act seemed odd, almost primal at first, but you soon realised the secret of his Kitsune biology: his saliva had a profound cooling effect. As Dr Lis licked your neck and shoulders, the "burn" of the animalistic mating began to fade, replaced by a soothing, icy relief that calmed your overstimulated nerves.

Soon, with agonising and painful slowness, Dr Lis finally removed himself from your pretty, abused hole. The sudden void left you feeling cold and hollow, and you let out a pathetic, high-pitched whine, your body already yearning for the return of his heavy Kitsune cock. You felt ruined, yet entirely his—a moth caught in the silver silk of a Foxian’s desire.

Then, you felt his massive frame looming over you once more, his presence feeling even more dangerous and intoxicating than before. He leaned down, his voice a sultry purr against your human ear:

"I shouldn't stay too long inside you, my butterfline dear~ We wouldn't like you to get pregnant, now, would we~?"

Your eyes widened and your cheeks burned a fierce magenta. Dr Lis knew. He knew your anatomy—the complex, hidden secrets of your reproduction. He knew that for a "mothling" to conceive, you needed to be plugged by the shaft—"corked"—ideally for the entire night. The realisation that he had intentionally studied how to "fill" you without "claiming" you permanently made your brain melt and spin in a dizzying, pleasant haze.

Lost in a heavy, euphoric daze, you barely noticed that you had been pulled into the sanctuary of Dr Lis’s soft, thick tail. Its snowy tuft caressed your flushed, magenta cheek with rhythmic gentleness, while his lean yet strong arms cradled you into a warm, living cocoon.

The Foxian teacher leaned down, his chest vibrating as he let out a mysterious, low purr against your temple. The sound carried a strange, buzzing frequency that resonated through your rami, acting as a natural sedative that calmed your frantic heart and left you drifting in a state of absolute, sheltered peace.

Dr Lis' purr vibrated against your skin one last time before his voice returned to that professional, silken tone you knew so well. He pulled back just enough to look into your hazy, magenta eyes, a playful yet dominant glint in his own.

"Now, my dear mothling student... did I give you a sufficient lesson about the Kitsune’s reproduction?"

Your liquified, insectile brain couldn’t begin to form a coherent thought, but the surge of safety and happiness was so overwhelming that you simply gave him a wide, drunken smile of approval. Your antennae, once rigid with overstimulation, now drooped and brushed gently against the Foxian’s strong arms in a sweet, rhythmic touch of devotion. Dr Lis chuckled elegantly—a sound of pure, dark satisfaction—and nuzzled your temple one last time, marking the end of the most important lesson of your life.

"I will take that as a yes~" he purred, his voice thick with a dark, gratified warmth. He tightened his hold on your "cocoon" for just a moment longer before whispering against your skin: "I hope you will remember this lesson well, my darling student~ After all, we wouldn't want all this... extra credit... to go to waste~"

The light in the classroom was beginning to fade, stretching long shadows across the floor and signalling the quiet closing of this scene. As the room succumbed to the dark, the Foxian’s physical form blurred into the gloom, leaving only his violet eyes visible—burning with a steady, monitoring pink glow from afar. Even in the silence, you could feel his gaze, a final, glowing mark of the lesson that would never truly leave you.

(P.S. This is my first ever smut! Please let me know how you liked it and if there is anything I can improve on!)

Requestee: @goddesscalyptra Tags: @cosmopolitanalienation @ilikebitteralmonds @fun-cats

Liked what you read? Leave kudos on my AO3, please! ^x^

February

Elegy to My Elegancy (3 Feb 2026)

The Violet of the Mouse (1 Feb 2026)

The Berries Desired but Left Untouched (1 Feb 2026)

March

A Sudden Urge for a Peach (22 March 2026)

May

I'm in Pain (11 May 2026)

June

I Like Night and Sunset (4 June 2026)

Dazai is a man of mathematical certainties. He moves through the world with a calculating eye, observing the threads of a room that others are too blind to see. To look at him is to see a tragic poet bound in linen; he carries his bandages as if they are the only anchors keeping him tethered to the earth. Without them, one gets the sense his essence would simply fray, dissipating like woodsmoke into a sharp autumn evening.

That bottomless, pitted core of his always hungers for intensity—some vibration or flicker of light to prove he exists. Since leaving the Port Mafia, that craving for raw, desperate emotions—those that cling to life with ugly, stained fingernails—has been replaced. Now, he hungers for something far more dangerous: the innocent, fragile emotions that he observes with a predator’s patience and a poet’s grief.

His days are now filled with less harmful pranks and flirtatious invitations for a carefree, cooperative suicide—a performance of lightheartedness. This shift into mentoring serves a calculated purpose: it is a way to spark the old memories that once kept him afloat, a deliberate attempt to refresh his emotional cache and keep his hollow core from collapsing under the weight of its own stillness.

The charade orchestrated by Dazai runs with a clockmaker’s precision; the gears and joints are oiled by his wit and wired perfectly into the mundane flow of the Agency. Even his colleagues, whom he has grown to appreciate through a lens of cold logic, fail to see through the architecture of his mind. Not Kunikida, despite a meticulousness and a magistrate’s bravery that borders on the divine. Not even Atsushi, whose heart possesses a warmth deep enough to melt any iceberg. Perhaps Ranpo is the only soul capable of peering over Dazai’s battlements, but the Great Detective has little interest in the riddles of a frivolous soul.

Everyone played their part in the script Dazai had so carefully ghost-written. Even the newest additions—Atsushi, Kyouka, and Lucy—moved precisely along the blueprints of his mind without ever smudging the ink. That is, until you joined.

You were one of the Agency’s clerks, yet you carried an air that stood apart. You moved with a professional grace that commanded attention, weaving a quiet wit into every interaction. Your reports read like essays on the Great Authors; your presentations were the work of a sincere performer. But above all, you were a listener—someone who offered supportive words that carried a weight of genuineness he hadn't prepared for.

Dazai sat draped over his chair, the office light catching the amber of his usually dark eyes as he flipped through the latest incident report. Usually, this was a chore he performed with a yawn, his mind instantly spotting the grammatical errors or the tactical missteps of his subordinates. It was a "cache refresh" he could do in his sleep.

Then he reached your file.

It wasn't just a report; it was a narrative. You had dissected the battlefield with the grace of a scriptwriter and the analytical depth of a historian. Your words didn't just state facts; they sought the truth behind the conflict. He stopped humming. His finger froze on the page. Dazai expected a standard clerk’s summary, but you had given him a new mirror. You had observed the same "threads" of reality that he did, but instead of seeing them as something to manipulate, you saw them as something to understand, to reach, and to feel.

"How peculiar," he whispered to the empty room, his voice losing its playful edge.

Dazai looked for a flaw. His calculating mind scanned for a logical gap, a moment of professional weakness, or a hint of the "ugly" desperation he was so used to. He found none. There was only the grace of your prose and the innocent, fragile sincerity of your conclusions. For a man who viewed the world as a script he had already read, you were a page Dazai couldn't turn.

And it terrified him.

Dazai didn't summon you to his desk; that would be too formal, too "calculating." Instead, he waited until the late afternoon sun turned the office into a haze of gold and dust—a peaceful memory in the making. He intercepted you at the filing cabinet, leaning against the cold metal with a deceptive, languid grace.

"Ah, [Y/N]! My favourite poet of paperwork," Dazai chirped. His voice was back to its saccharine pitch, the mask firmly in place. He held your report between two fingers, waving it like a white flag. "I read your latest masterpiece. It was so moving, so hauntingly sincere, that I nearly felt my heart beat! Truly, it made me want to skip the rest of the day and head straight for the river. Would you care to join me for a sunset drowning? I hear the water is quite refreshing this time of year."

It was his standard routine—the flirtatious invitation for a carefree suicide. But as he waited for your usual polite deflection, he didn't count on the "professional air" he had admired in your report. You didn't laugh, and you didn't roll your eyes. You simply looked at him with depth in your crystalline eyes, the very eyes you had used to dissect the battlefield. And you gave him that agonising small smile of an earthy angel.

The silence stretched. Dazai’s smile held, but the edges of it began to fray. He realised he was still holding your report—holding the "page he couldn't turn."

"Dazai," you said smoothly, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "If we were to drown today, who would keep writing these 'masterpieces'—and who would read them?"

The "gears and joints" of his machinery came to a grinding halt. Dazai had spent years ensuring no one could see through his walls, yet here you were, treating his soul like a text that needed to be understood rather than a script to be followed. For the first time, the tragic poet had nothing to say.

The office clock ticked—a rhythmic reminder of a reality Dazai usually tried to slip out of, though now the exit seemed narrower than before. The silence between you stretched until the ticking grew loud, a prominent thrum in the air. The gold-and-dust haze of the room felt like a cage, the colours reflecting off the filing cabinets with a blinding, metallic glare.

Dazai’s hand, still clutching your report, gripped the edges until the paper crinkled. His breath heaved, shuddering with the effort of suppression. Finally, he lowered it, resting the "masterpiece" on the metal between you like a peace offering he wasn't sure he wanted to give.

His gaze remained lowered. He didn't blink, didn't pivot into a joke, and didn't retreat into the smoke. He simply stood there, his chest rising and falling in a terrifying, human rhythm.

"You're a very troublesome clerk, [Y/N]," he finally murmured, his voice firm and stripped of its mask. It was the voice of a tragic poet who had found a line he was simply too tired to edit.

He didn't agree to live. He didn't promise to stop his routine. He wanted to leave—he desperately wanted to—but he didn't. Instead, he shifted his weight, his shoulder barely brushing yours as he leaned against the cabinet. The "gears and joints" of his mind were strained now; the "fallowed core" wasn't filled, but the vibration within it was screaming. It was a resonance he hadn't asked for. You had offered him a mirror where he wasn't a monster or a ghost, but a person.

That was unacceptable.

And so, he stayed. Two figures tethered to the earth by nothing more than the weight of a few sincere pages and the shared, charged quiet of an autumn evening.

Meanwhile, you were frozen in place. Dazai was radiating a thousand subtle frequencies at once, and you weren't sure which one to tune into. While his internal world was in turmoil, his exterior remained deceptively still—he looked merely challenged, as if you were a riddle he hadn't expected to solve so soon. That was the version of Dazai you saw, and it made your heart squeeze with a sudden, sharp vulnerability. You hadn't just exposed him; you had exposed yourself.

You both stood like two statues in a forgotten gallery, side-by-side against the iron cold of the cabinets. Dazai’s silhouette was long and jagged against the gold-leaf light of the sunset, while your form brought a warm, living murmur into the scene—a counterbalance to the cold soul trembling beside you.

Dazai didn't turn to face you. Instead, he angled his body just enough so that the rough fabric of his trench coat—the outer layer of his many bandages—pressed against your shoulder. It was a minute distance, a mere millimeter of contact, yet in the heavy silence, it felt like a grounding wire. You were close enough to share the same air, yet remained separated by the invisible battlements Dazai still refused to fully dismantle.

While you appreciated the moment of unusual peace, you remained wary of the currents in Dazai’s labyrinthine mind. The silence in the room shifted as a gentle breeze slipped through the window, carrying a few stray leaves that swirled across the floorboards. You took a deep breath of the visiting air—a complex bouquet of sweet, apricot-like perfume mixed with the distinct, buttery musk of ginkgo nuts and the damp, earthy scent of fallen leaves. It was the scent of a season ending, and for a moment, the "smoke" of the man beside you seemed to settle, held in place by the weight of the autumn air.

Even Dazai felt a bit more grounded by these "earthy pleasures"—the chilling, fresh air expanding his lungs and the vivid olfactory palette that enriched his numbing, hollow skull. The tragic poet blended into this melancholy like a perfect picture painted by an old friend; for a heartbeat, he could almost hear the melody of those lost times.

He let the darkness slip through his gaze, unmasked and weary. Your presence felt like a taste of a world so new and startling that he forgot himself—forgot the script, forgot the charade, and forgot the void. For one fleeting evening, he wasn't a creature of smoke, but a man standing in the autumn air.

Then, very abruptly, Dazai pushed off from the warmed cabinet and dashed out wordlessly. His bangs hung low, masking his face, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets as if trying to hide the fact that they were shivering.

The detective’s sudden movement startled you, leaving you standing alone with the documents still clutched in your grasp. You opened your mouth to call after him, but the words died in your throat. You couldn't. Somehow, deep within yourself and in this moment, you knew this was the most embarrassing yet peaceful thing Dazai had felt in a very long time. He wasn't running from you; he was running from himself.

As you stood there, a little stunned but not disturbed, you looked outside the window to enjoy the last rays of sunset. To you, this was simply one of the intimate yet ordinary days in the Agency. You didn't judge the members; on the contrary, like the other clerks, you appreciated their uniqueness and the strange rhythm of their interactions. You felt as though you had given a little encouragement to Dazai—a small, peaceful memory to tuck away in his hectic life.

But to Dazai Osamu, this was one of the major moments of his existence.

From then on, the life of the nihilist became more agonising. He began to see you as something special—something new, exciting, and utterly frustrating. Yet, you hadn't changed. You remained as graceful and diligent as ever, moving through the Agency office as if that shared sunset had never happened.

To him, the world had tilted. To you, it was just Tuesday.

How could this be? He watched you from the corner of his eye, waiting for a blush, a stutter, or a knowing glance—some sign that his presence still held some power over you. But there was nothing. Your professional air was a fortress he couldn't charm his way back into, and it drove the "tragic poet" to the brink of a new kind of madness.

Dazai was obsessed. He wanted to provoke you—to force a reaction, to see the memory of that shared moment flicker in your eyes like a romantic panic. He hungered for anything familiar: infatuation, greed, hatred, or even disgust. Anything but this irksome, ordinary peacefulness. It was only fair, he told himself, since you had begun to flood his mind every time he felt bored—and for a man like him, that happened often.

The Ghost was devising a plan. He drafted and revised it through the long, hollow stretches of his insomniac nights. He would frame his provocation as nothing more than a frivolous new hobby—a whim he decided to share with the office.

Atsushi would be the perfect target for the display; the boy was like a Sun around which the other "great" planets of the Agency naturally circled. By centring the chaos on the weretiger, no one would think to look at Dazai as the true centre of the gravity. No one would realise that the entire performance was staged for an audience of one.

Only Ranpo and Kyouka—the silent "guardian angel" of our sweet weretiger—would notice the subtle shift in the air. Yet, as long as no one was bleeding, they wouldn't act; they knew better than to interfere with the Ghost's internal weather.

Dazai knew exactly how much Atsushi loved reading, so suggesting casual, small reading sessions would only elate the boy. It was a stroke of genius—or perhaps cruelty. After all, isn't it a wonderful thing to encourage a protégé? No one could fault a mentor for wanting to share "masterpieces."

And now, the stage was set. Dazai would nonchalantly offer Atsushi yet another book, but this time, he would flippantly encourage the weretiger to seek out the opinion of the "ordinary folk."

The Ghost timed the loan with surgical precision—placing the book in Atsushi's hands just as the boy was prone to babbling about his latest read, and exactly when you typically settled in for your tea and biscuits. After all, in Dazai's scripted world, a clerk perfectly fit the role of the "ordinary folk." It was a double-edged sword: a dismissive label to protect his ego, and a perfect trap to lure you into the light.

Atsushi took Dazai’s advice to heart, as he always did, with the earnest depth of a writer’s soul. He noticed you taking your break, and the urge to discuss the book became a physical weight he could no longer carry in silence. His familiar, momentary shyness evaporated, burned away by the weretiger’s sudden passion.

With the book clutched like a treasure, Atsushi approached your desk with soft thuds to strike up a pleasant chat. The sound of the clock ticking in the Agency made Dazai aware of his own contradictory, racing heart. The anticipation of triggering his trap made his lips twist into an antagonistic grin. Atsushi was a whirlwind of soft-hearted enthusiasm, completely unaware that he was the projectile in a much larger, much colder game.

You adored everyone at the Agency, finding a quiet joy in watching Atsushi grow and begin to glow with confidence. The soft light of the afternoon sun made his ashen hair look iridescent, while your own hair held a warm, homely sheen. The exchange looked lovely until your breath hitched upon hearing the title of the book—a sharp, momentary lapse in your professional air.

It was enough. From his position in the shadows, Dazai caught it with the predatory focus of a cat. For a split second, his chest swelled with a dark, triumphant pride; he had finally smudged the ink of your "ordinance"

But the victory froze in his throat. As you looked up, your eyes didn't hold the panic he had scripted, nor the shock he had rehearsed. There was something else in your gaze—something he couldn't name. Dazai continued to watch, his brows barely furrowed, as his "master plan" began to dissolve into a new, deeper confusion.

"The Setting Sun?" you asked Atsushi sweetly, then hummed as if plucking a slumbering memory from the ocean floor. "I remember that book. It was... haunting. I truly loved the ending, to be frank."

"Really?" Atsushi exclaimed, pulling up a chair to your desk, his eyes alight. "What part resonated with you so much?"

"Well," you began with a coy, distant smile, "I was captivated by the note. Naoji’s raw, deep emotions were entrapping—so curious. I felt a profound sympathy for him... a desire to hold him close, if only he could have been honest with—"

You froze. A realisation struck you, sharp and sudden. You chuckled softly to yourself, looking at no one in particular as a fleeting image of Dazai flickered in your mind. You dismissed it instantly, finding the comparison ridiculous—surely the Ghost behind the pillars wasn't that fragile.

Atsushi cocked his head, puzzled. "Nothing," you reassured him, smoothing your features. "I just... I would have loved to hear more of his true thoughts, that's all."

Atsushi nodded eagerly and dived back into the symbolism of morality, unaware that his "mentor" was currently disintegrating in the shadows.

But soon, the darkness in the corner of the room felt vacant—the Ghost had vanished.

Dazai wouldn’t—couldn’t—even dare to wish for your presence in any other way. The man was too shaken to even contemplate the possibility; he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, for the weight of it was too much to bear.

You were too bright for his fragile, match-like soul—a soul already charred by bitterness and oozing the thick smoke of a self-hatred that kept him intellectually numb and defensively condescending. To reach for you would be to let the fire finally consume what little of the "Ghost" remained.

How could such a despicable, broken man be allowed to have you in his existence? Could he even be called a living human being by nature?

Dazai’s eyes stung, and his nose crinkled in a bitter, involuntary recoil. He felt offended by your arrogance—the sheer audacity of your kind heart, a heart that beat so genuinely for humanity. It was something so soft and fragile, yet blindingly bright and warm. Against his own will, and for the first time in an eternity, Dazai’s cold, exhausted frame began to yearn for the impossible: your warm embrace.

He tried—he really tried to look away. Seeing you chatting and laughing with the other Agency members felt like both a relief and an agony. On one hand, he was relieved that you weren't tethering yourself to him, sparing him the weight of your hope. But on the other, he ground his teeth at the thought of never feeling the palm of your hand against his cheek.

As you gained the President’s trust, you began to go on business trips more frequently. Fukuzawa had come to rely on you as much as he did Haruno, a respect you returned with quiet, deep-seated loyalty. From these journeys, you would always bring back souvenirs—usually local delicacies to share with the office.

Dazai secretly wished that you would offer your gifts to him last, as if saving the best for the final moment, or first, as if he were the only one who mattered. He craved an order, a hierarchy, some sign that he was the exception to your rule. But to you, everyone was equally important. You distributed your kindness without bias, treating the "Ghost" with the same simple warmth you gave to the others. He wanted to be special; he always had been.

A new plan invaded his mind without invitation. Dazai began to bring you food or linger nearby, hoping to share a meal. He was never a man who ate for his own well-being, but he would eat with others; to him, that was the most profoundly loving moment a human could experience.

Seeking out food for himself was meaningless, but when it was given to or cooked for him, it felt as if he were taking a piece of someone’s warmth directly into his barren core. Around you, the specifics vanished; whether it was leftover pizza or a simple plate of spaghetti, it didn't matter. Everything you offered tasted infinitely better than the finest gourmet meals he had ever known.

This newfound sensitivity even bled into his daily life; he began to taste Kunikida’s cooking more profoundly. While the rigid honesty of his partner's culinary creations often made him feel "sick" to his stomach—forced to digest a reality he usually avoided—it also made him crave the substance of it more than ever.

The Agency office was quiet, the afternoon light stretching long across the desks. Outside the window, the sky was painted in hues of pink and violet, with clouds that seemed to steal the spotlight for themselves. Dazai sat across from you, his usual theatrical flair dampened by the simple presence of a shared meal. He watched your hands as you moved—prosaic, graceful, and terrifyingly real.

As you typed away, the rhythmic, soft tapping of the keyboard and the pale blue glow of the screen illuminated your painfully halcyon face. When he took a bite of the food you offered, the "intellectual numbness" he had cultivated for years finally relaxed its grip. It wasn't just flavour; it was a weight in his chest—a heat in his stomach that made the "smoke" of his self-hatred feel thin and pathetic.

He looked at you—not as a puzzle to be solved or a "Masterpiece" to be written—but as a human being who had, quite accidentally, soothed the jagged edges of his hollow core. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The "Ghost" had finally been forced to eat, to taste, and to exist. And for the first time, the "Ordinary Tuesday" was enough.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by a curious question.

"What is your favourite food, Dazai-san?" you asked. You rested your chin on your steepled fingers, your eyes clear and unintentionally poking at Dazai’s own guarded heart.

The man almost tipped over in his chair; he had been drifting, and your voice dragged him back to reality with a jolt. He caught himself, chuckling.

"Why, finally interested in my sorry presence, dear?" He quipped, a habitual smirk returning to his lips. "I fancy canned crab above all else! It is the pinnacle of the food chain!"

You hummed, slowly tilting your head. You weren't sure if he was playing a part, but you found the preference fascinating—a sharp contrast between the bright, vibrant red of the tins and the worn-out, earthy colours Dazai wore like a shroud.

"Veeery interesting," you purred, before immediately returning to your work, your fingers flying across the keys with renewed speed.

This reaction baffled Dazai. He had expected more questions—a long, winding chat at the very least! Deprived of the attention he had just begun to crave, he slumped onto your desk like a bored, petulant child.

"Whyyy interesting, [Y/N]?" he whined, dragging out the syllables.

You finished your last sentence and closed your laptop, leaning toward the detective with a playful, knowing grin.

"For a man who desires death, to eat something so nutritious is quite peculiar, don't you think?" You caught his gaze, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "People think canned food is a lazy choice, but crab is packed with protein and minerals. You’re very smartly hiding your secret healthy habits, Dazai-san."

And just like that, you rendered him speechless. Dazai maintained the mask of someone in control, but his heart was squeezed tight—a pressure so intense he could have almost forced himself into unconsciousness. But he didn’t pull away; he wanted to feel every pang. He wanted more of you.

Desperation finally overtook him.

Dazai rose from his chair with the sudden, jarring energy of a jester—as if Nikolai himself had burst through a portal to begin a show. You watched, a tad surprised, as the detective dropped to one knee. He gently caressed your hand, his voice a low, melodic hum as he confessed the "earthly beauties" he saw in you. Then came the proposal—the familiar offer of a double suicide—but this time, it lacked the echoing theatricality. It was raw, almost too genuine; it was the kind of ending he finally wanted for himself, if only because it meant he wouldn't have to exist a single moment after you were gone.

"Your grounding words are so enchanting, my dear," he murmured, his voice dropping into a velvet rasp. "I could listen to you forever as I succumb to my desired end. Your earthy eyes would numb the semantic pain of this world."

You listened patiently, your smile resembling that of a dedicated waitress—efficient and polite—but infused with a much deeper, caring attention. When he finally finished his grand, tragic offer, you replied with a single, quiet action: you reached out and gently petted his soft, ruffled hair.

The touch made Dazai’s eyes go wide. He was frozen in a great, void stupor. He had prepared for words, for clever jokes, or perhaps sweet whispers he could dissect—but not this. Not a silent, tactile warmth. It should have been underwhelming, yet it was the most overwhelming thing he had ever felt.

You pulled your hand away, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "One day," you said softly, a playful grin returning to your lips, "but not today."

And with that, you went home, leaving the "Ghost" alone in the darkening office—finally solid, finally warm, and completely undone.

As the door clicked shut, the silence of the Agency felt heavier than before. Dazai remained on one knee for a long moment, his hand still tingling where you had touched it. He wasn't used to a silence that didn't scream. It was in that lingering quiet, with the scent of your tea still in the air, that the realisation finally took root.

He was hopelessly in love...

But he couldn't make a move. How could he? You were an ordinary person, and he was a man beyond salvation, clawing his way through a journey of redemption. You didn’t deserve the touch of his aching, acidic pain on your skin or your soul. To reach for you, he realised, would be to steal your normalcy—and he couldn't do that.

The spark you had lit within him was small, but for a broken man like Dazai, it grew exponentially, consuming the hollow spaces within him. His nights at Bar Lupin became heavier, the air thick with more than just smoke. There were nights when the alcohol bypassed his wit and went straight to the wound, leading to rare, quiet bouts of sobbing that he couldn't charm away.

Even Chuuya, encountering his ex-partner in those dim-lit hours, found himself unable to mock him. There was something in Dazai’s expression—a raw, aching sincerity—that made the usual insults die in Chuuya’s throat. For once, the gravity of Dazai’s sorrow was too real for even his rival to touch; it was the grief of a man who had finally seen the sun, only to realise he was too "hot" to ever stand within its light.

He was hopelessly in love with you. Dazai loved how real and honest you remained in a city built on deception; he loved how sweetly you treated the world and how you dared to stand for others despite your own fragility. That sharp, simple intelligence of yours—a mind that could effortlessly strip a mafioso of his pride—was dedicated entirely to the beautiful simplicity of life.

You were the very thing he craved to protect; the one light he wanted to wrap his arms around and tuck beneath his dark wing forever. Like the last flickering candle in a storm, Dazai wanted to keep you tucked away, safe from the wretched shadows of Yokohama that had already consumed so much of him.

The mere possibility of your light touching his shadows would drive him to the edge of madness—to the very lip of a bridge, ready to surrender to the rope and the stone. Dazai would rather strangle the life from his own lungs than allow you to breathe a single lungful of the past stench that clings to him like a parasitic tic.

He is paralysed by the fear that his history will spread like a cancer around you, corrupting your ordinariness with the rot of his own making. In his mind, he is the source of the misery, a walking contagion; and so, Dazai loves you from the darkness, convinced that his greatest act of love is to stay exactly where he is: in the shadows, far enough away to keep you safe from himself.

This shift infuriated Kunikida; the burning "Ghost" began to fidget and avoid the office space more often. It was as if Dazai were avoiding something—or someone—in particular.

Nonetheless, the idealist let it slide, for lately Dazai handled every mission with a cold, calculated precision, as if he were trying to prove he was still the Demon Prodigy. While Kunikida appreciated quiet and order more than anything, the new silence Dazai offered unnerved even him.

Meanwhile, your life hadn't changed much. You had grown used to the routine of your work and the quirkiness of the Agency and its residents. Seeing quick changes in the office didn't faze you, nor did Dazai's odd behavior. You were an ordinary clerk, and because you were acutely aware of the dangers of this world, you remained hardworking and attentive—anchoring yourself to the task at hand.

But little did you know that your very kindness—the simple, unvarnished way you treated the world—was systematically ruining the suicidal maniac who watched you from the shadows.

But when you laughed at his jokes, his heart trembled because the sound was genuine. When you discussed the macabre with him so beautifully, his lungs felt fresh and his chest—for once—was free of pain. And the way you looked at him when he smiled crookedly, awkwardly, and without pretence... in those moments, he was ready to drop to his knees again and take your hand. Not for a tragedy this time, but to ask for your forever.

But he couldn't. How could he?

Every time you leaned closer to whisper coyly to him, Dazai would desperately try to keep his heart still, only to panic that he might actually lose consciousness in your presence. The thought of such an embarrassment was the only thing that kept him upright, even as his heartbeat drummed like a frantic wedding parade against his ribs.

If you lingered a second longer, his legs would grow weak, a shiver running through him that bordered on an internal moan of both agony and relief. But you saw none of that; no one did. It was a storm contained entirely within the shivering soul of Osamu Dazai.

When it felt like the "Ghost" would haunt the hallways of the Agency forever, an incident occurred that changed everything.

It happened on a rainy Thursday, the kind of day where the sky was draped in dark grey blankets, making your office lamp feel like the only sun in Yokohama. You had worked overtime; the day had been particularly gloomy, weighed down by a never-ending pile of paperwork. As you finally began packing to leave, you noticed Dazai’s strange, flickering presence lingering near the door.

The man was silent, his gaze lowered meekly, but you noticed the umbrella held tightly in his hand. The room was deathly quiet, filled only by the rhythmic tapping of raindrops against the glass. It was then you realised you had forgotten your own umbrella at home, and you wondered if Dazai—the man who had been avoiding your very shadow—was silently waiting to escort you into the rain.

You simply smiled at him; by now, you knew exactly how awkward he could get when his masks weren't aligned.

"Could you be a dear and escort me, Dazai-san?" you asked gently.

Dazai’s expression softened instantly. "Of course, [Y/N]. That is why I am standing here, after all—waiting for your grand escape," he replied. He lifted his head, and in the dim light of the hallway, his face looked oddly, startlingly humane.

As you walked through the summer rain, side by side and shoulder to shoulder, the silence between you felt entirely new, underscored only by the rhythmic drumming of nature’s shower. The small, enclosed space beneath the umbrella became a personal, intimate bubble, cutting the rest of the World away.

You had always heard romantic stories about sharing an umbrella, but you had no idea how powerful the effect would actually be. For the first time, you felt a flutter of genuine nerves, a warmth that made you feel adorably embarrassed.

You soon realised that Dazai was leading you down a different path—not toward your home, but somewhere else entirely. The change in course made your heart beat harder; you wondered if he was planning to show you something that would help you understand him, or perhaps this complex city, a little better. You had heard the rumours of his past in the Port Mafia, and you wondered if he was simply showing you the shortcuts or the shadows to avoid for your own safety.

Meanwhile, Dazai’s heart was hammering out all kinds of frantic rhythms, even as his face remained deceivingly stoic. He fought a desperate internal war to avoid looking your way, terrified that if he caught your eye, he might finally say—or do—something regrettable.

Finally, the two of you—a couple of pulling souls—arrived at the graveyard. You had seen this place from afar, but you had never set foot within its gates. Despite the macabre nature of the site, it looked hauntingly beautiful in the rain, with a gorgeously picturesque view of the river below.

You walked beside Dazai until he stopped before a weathered gravestone. Engraved upon it was a simple name: S. ODA.

You stared at it silently, waiting for Dazai to speak—or not. It didn't matter. You already understood that this was important; the weight of the air told you everything your mind couldn't yet put into words.

"I made a promise to a very dear friend of mine," he murmured softly. You looked up at him wordlessly, desperate to see his expression, to finally understand the man behind the jester. Dazai looked down at you, and for the first time, his smile was entirely warm, free of shadows. "And you... you are making it much easier to follow."

Your heart skipped a beat, and your eyes widened. In that quiet moment, with the rain tapping against the umbrella and the river flowing below, you realised that you meant far more to him than just a colleague.

And just like that, as if emphasising your epiphany, the rain quietly ceased. Bright rays of sunlight peered through the grim clouds, fracturing the grey with light. You both stood still, taking in the transformed view: white wildflowers billowed in the gentle breeze, and the sharp, fresh scent of petrichor invaded the air.

As the clouds cleared the sky, your mind cleared with them. You understood Dazai now—the intentionality behind his strange behaviour, the way he moved toward you and then recoiled. He was a man who simply didn't know how to show affection without fearing that his past would ooze into the light he so desperately wanted to integrate. He wasn't being difficult; he was being careful.

You looked back at Dazai; his earthy eyes, once like a parched desert, now looked like rich, tilled soil. You were the seed he had finally decided to plant in the void of his heart. Your breath hitched, and in that sharp intake of air, the "Ghost" knew it was time.

He took your hand with agonising gentleness, as if you were the most fragile, treasured porcelain in the world, and brought it to his trembling lips. As the tragic poet barely brushed your skin, his gaze melted into the warmth of a morning marshland—deep, soft, and reviving.

"May I have the honour to be yours, [Y/N]?" he whispered against your knuckles, his voice a low vibration of sincerity. "Even if only for this lifetime?"

You were speechless, your mind racing to process the rapid succession of events. Your internal computer was re-evaluating every old memory in this new light; everything finally made sense, and with every passing second, you felt your love for him take root and grow. Your chest felt heavy yet weightless all at once, and you covered your mouth in disbelief.

You fought back tears; it felt almost too dramatic for this, but how could you not be overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his surrender?

You answered him with an action. Reaching out, you took his hand from his lips and pressed it firmly against your own cheek, letting him feel the reality of your warmth. You offered him a radiant, caring smile—the same one that had "ruined" him in the office.

"Yes, you may, Dazai-kun~" you purred cheekily, the playful lilt of your voice finally shattering the last of his ghostly chains.

Dazai blinked, then chuckled at your biting response. It was utterly charming and ordinary, and for the first time, his cheeks were dusted with a genuine, boyish pink.

"Shall we seal the deal with a kiss, perhaps, my lovely [Y/N]-chan~?" he purred coyly, sounding like a spirit fox tempted to steal your soul. You giggled tenderly, just as he expected—but your next move hadn't crossed his mind, despite it being one of his deepest, darkest desires.

You pulled the detective closer and leaned in. Dazai’s heart seemed to stutter to a halt as realisation hit; he squeezed his eyes shut with a sudden, reflexive sense of horror, bracing for the impact of a world he didn't feel he deserved. He shivered as he sensed your face nearing his... but it wasn't lips he felt.

Caught off guard, Dazai didn't feel the press of expected lips. Instead, he felt a soft, rhythmic brushing against his skin. It was gentle, slightly ticklish, and incredibly soothing. When he finally dared to open his eyes, he realised what you were doing: you were fluttering your eyelashes against his cheek, his nose, his lips, and his chin...

Butterfly kisses... You were giving him butterfly kisses.

Dazai’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn't expected such an angelic touch upon a persona he deemed devoid of a soul. He was a man accustomed to being used for his mind and his looks; a man whose flesh had been craved by many, but whose spirit had been touched by few. This felt... refreshing. It was enlightening and, for the first time in his life, entirely weightless.

You pulled away from him—not too far, but just near enough to continue sharing your warmth. Your cheeks were as flushed as his, perhaps even more so, which caused the heart of the burning "Ghost" to drum even more violently. But this time, the pain was sweet.

You smirked at the detective, your eyes dancing with that "clerkly" intelligence he adored.

"Your heart isn't quite ready for that, is it now?"

You were right. Dazai wasn't ready for a genuine kiss—not yet. A kiss of shallowness or pretence would have been easy, but this? He wondered if his heart would truly stop if his lips had touched yours today. Perhaps he should have taken that leap of faith, but for now, he was content to let that philosophy belong to someone else. He was simply grateful to be standing in the sun, still breathing, still in your presence.

P.S. This one-shot fanfic was inspired by the confession fics I've read and "The Setting Sun" by our lovely poet, Dazai Osamu.

EDIT: Working on a Part 2 for this! If you want to be tagged, comment below! I do warn you, it's going to be VERY heavy and angst, with a kiss as a fluff moment!

EDIT EDIT: PART 2 IS HERE!!

@cosmopolitanalienation @ilikebitteralmonds

Border Credit

Odasaku… odasaku….

ゾクゾク... (zoku, zoku...) Shiver, shiver...

ゼーゼー (zee, zee) Wheeze, wheeze...

痛い痛い痛い痛い... (itai, itai, itai, itai...)

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts...

くそくそくそくそくそくそくそくそ！！！ (kso kso kso kso ksSO KSO KSO KSO!!!!)

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!!!

げー (ge—)

Bleurgh—

A convulsive, stertorous retching sound was heard from a small bathroom. A man slouched over the toilet, shaking like a wet, freezing cat. The sorry figure shivered and jerked violently, letting out a ragged, sob-like wheezing; his face was drenched in sweat and salt.

This man's name was Dazai Osamu, and right now, he was throwing up from overeating. The distress was both physical and psychological; his body was struggling to hold it all in, and his mind was screaming with bright, loud alarms. His head was splitting, his eyes were stinging. The palm of the poet was pressed against his stomach, trying to suppress another guttural heave.

Dazai hated himself for being such a mess. The detective had pushed himself to please you by eating more than his body could handle. He felt deep, burning disappointment because he didn't become good immediately after starting a closer relationship with you. To the poet, the purge felt more than just exiling the food; it was as if he were physically vomiting out the very essence of the "ordinary" life he had tried so hard to swallow.

Sitting next to the soiled toilet, Dazai's mind was clouding, spiralling... again... The shades were shrouding the clarity of his pathetic mind, and the poet was struggling to stay aware of his surroundings. He grabbed his head with wretched urgency; his fingers digging into his scalp like rakes into hard, dry soil, so hard that his digits were turning white. The way Dazai squeezed his head seemed as if he were trying to wring answers from his agonising pain... to find solutions to his predicament... or will himself to get a hold of himself.

Or, perhaps, rid himself of the morbid phlegm-like substance from his now clogged skull.

Another heave of disgusting, wet mass was swirling up his system. Anxiety now seized Dazai's frame and he desperately tried to suppress the feeling. It wasn't about the inconvenience of the mess; it was about the humiliation and guilt that made him shudder.

But he failed... failed again...

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, HOW PATHETIC—

哀れ, 哀れ, 哀れ, 哀れな— (aware, aware, aware, awarena—)

UGH—!!

げー！！ (ge—!!)

Dazai didn't even have time to aim properly into the toilet bowl when he threw up all over the seat, the lid, and some on the floor. His exhausted, wet eyes tried to scan his work. The first thing that penetrated the mushy fog of his mind was the image of a men's public restroom, where piss was everywhere. The poet felt as hot and defiled as the piss in a men's public restroom.

Suddenly, he saw your face amidst the mist.

The "fake" poet grabbed his phone to call you, but as soon as he did, he dropped it as if it had burned. Sheer shame paralysed him—what would you have thought of him, seeing him like this? His clothes were filthy, covered in his own nasty fluids and bits of his vomit. The feeling of utter embarrassment to show his vulnerability like this made him whine in an inhuman, choked sobbing wail.

The human-shaped creature thrashed in the bathroom, trying to figure out an escape… from this torture...

The bathroom ablazed with black flames, emitting scorching heat and searing frost. Dazai's shivers grew more relentless and abusive.

The inner fog envisioned the pills—they called upon him. The soulless entity languidly reached his arm into the air, as if the blister pack would appear in his shaking palm. But when nothing happened, he groaned miserably and then began crawling towards the sickening sink. These arms were barely holding the creature straight on the edges of the basin. A pair of voids stared at the mirror that mocked him and made him desire to shatter it, using its shining shards to quell the voices.

Soon, the feet stopped listening to him, his knees gave in, and he fell back, failing to reach for his darkened hope. Dazai moaned in a silent, animalistic way. He flung his arms onto his wet, messy face to suppress his beseeching cries. His face felt hot, damp, agonising, intolerable...

The "poet" was struggling to breathe.

The creature rolled over and started crawling frantically in this deceptively clinical room, blindly searching for something, something... then his fingers clawed at the tub, clinging as if for dear life. His grip was painfully tight, his knuckles turned ashen white. The being was having a mental battle over whether to lift himself up or drop down onto the floor. The man-shaped entity was tired, so tired...

His breathing became laboured and choked. The beast desperately sank his teeth into the acrylic, making clanking and grinding sounds. The edge of the bathtub was sullied, slick with saliva. The filthy, reeking creature also let out ghastly whines, sounds resembling the restless dead that—

The door opened.

Horrified, the "poet" turned around so violently that he managed to hit his head against the side of the tub. He rubbed his hurt spot while squinting at the only door in his bathroom, the very escape route he failed to see. His breath hitched.

It was you.

Then Dazai remembered—you had told him that if he were ever struggling, he could call you and hang up immediately. It was the signal—a silent, desperate cry for help that required no words.

And so you had rushed here. For him.

Dazai was drawn to you by your beautiful writing, your unspoiled wit, and the kindness you showed Naoji from the book. He often thought about how wonderful it would have been for such a lovely, sweet person like you to find interest in a man like him, regardless of the ugly nature of his depravity.

Even at this very moment, you were not repulsed by his sorry state. No matter what kind of mess he had made or become, you didn't turn your gaze away with disgust.

But he did.

Dazai envisioned his revolting appearance through the reflection of your clear eyes. His darkened mind twisted the reality into a skewed image of himself, an image that disturbed him further with every passing second.

He felt sicker. His jaw hung open as he struggled to utter any human sounds—a strangled cry of deep distress.

A help he desperately needed but suppressed with all his might.

Suddenly, his vision blurred, and he forgot your existence. What he saw now in front of him was a statue made of cardboard, the kind of hollow support he was so accustomed to. With neither foundation nor volume, dull echoes of platitudes...

A package of empty promises...

The detective didn't see you anymore; he saw an empty shell, like a doll given to a kid to play with, alone. The bathroom seemed like his gameroom, a decorated prison he was meant to live in, and survive...

The comfort of a blinding, illusory home...

Desperation seized the poet—his hands flew to his throat, gripping and scratching. It was a fake attempt to help him breathe, to escape this grief, this bleak reality, to find any kind of release from these overwhelming feelings and sensations.

The more he scratched, the more he imagined getting better, but in truth, his nails left despairing red marks across his throat, unravelling the bandages that had already slipped from his mind.

Abruptly, Dazai felt warm softness on his wrists. The impact was so surreal that he gasped like a man waking from a stupor. He glanced at his wrists and saw gentle, delicate hands restraining him—Dazai felt delirious and panicked, but soon he was pulled back by a soothing voice:

"Osamu! Osamu... I'm here, you'll be ok, you are okay."

The detective jolted at the sound of his name; his eyes cleared a bit to see your face better. You looked calm but firm, which made him feel more grounded and less anxious.

Less psychotic...

His erratic breathing was calming down; the whistling, restrained breathing regained some volume and depth. The shivers were also more manageable.

For the first time since entering his bathroom, Dazai felt at ease, and his chest swelled with a caressing warmth upon seeing you. But the poet was still seeing dark edges in his vision, which were still clawing at his eyes. You recognised his situation.

"Listen, Osamu... I will let you go for a bit, is that ok?"

Your voice was as sweet as a siren who gave up on hunting and decided to save the drowning captain. Dazai was still dazed, still overwhelmed by all the tiring thoughts and sensations.

Then slowly, he nodded.

Before letting him go, you took a good look at him. Once you felt it was safe, you released the poor man and went to the sink. The faucet was gushing water at full strength, and you turned it down before filling a glass. You wondered if Dazai tried to get water.

But the "poet" wasn't even aware that he did that.

He wasn't even aware that he also turned the bathtub's faucet on. Luckily, the drain wasn't blocked, so the tub never had a chance to be filled with frostbiting liquid. The water vapour crept sinisterly, turning into a dangerously inviting mist, gently swirling, surrounding the tragic poet with ghostly whispers...

You gently offered Dazai the glass of water and told him that he could take a few sips whenever he wanted. The poet trusted you but didn't trust himself, so he hesitantly reached for the glass. You both were holding it, letting the cold gradually take your attention away.

Grounding.

グラウンディング (guraundingu)

Once Dazai's vision settled more or less, he began to see the dimmed bathroom more clearly, without the noise in his head. However, what he saw horrified him no less; pills were scattered around the floor, some were crushed, and some were lost... and the shave kit was ripped and the zip was broken...

カミソリ (kamisori)

The razors...

Seeing the crushed pills made Dazai imagine the grated crumbs of powder, like a white desert of his inner worth. He desired to be as small as a single speck of that small hill of sand; invisible, microscopic, lost within the white void...

But soon he felt nauseated at the thought of the bright colour; it was too pure, too blinding for his throbbing brain. Revolting, irritating, rejectaneous... Now he just wanted to be crushed to pieces like those pills on the floor, under frantic stomps of his own feet, or by some random person—just left there, bleeding with white, saturated fluids because humanity had already slipped from his pores long ago...

Dazai started to shiver again; a vibration of damnation. He felt so ashamed of himself, so much so that he wanted to die so badly, so badly that it hurt more...

Dazai harshly pulled you away, some water splashed from the glass and then—

He smiled.

スマイル (sumairu)

He smiled, as if he wasn't covered in his own half-dried puke, hot tears and sticky snot. It was a forced, pained smile. Alien.

そえん (soen)

Your heart ached; for the first time, you saw Dazai donning an imposed mask. Of course, you've seen him perform before, but those acts were harmless, silly and charming.

This one, though... it was just cruel...

ざんこ (zankoku)

Dazai tried to push you away, to suffer alone, to prevent you from coming any closer to his void. The one he so desperately tried to protect you from and hopelessly make sense of. The very abyss he wants to submerge into, especially when everything felt meaninglessly and irrevocably harrowing.

You were simply agashed; Dazai was chirping like his usual self, like the way he carries himself at the Agency—carefree and lazily suave.

But you were having none of that.

However, you also struggled to figure out how to bring the detective back from this difficult situation. You pondered hard—how to de-escalate the psychological strangulation and the physical pain without igniting the lingering fuel even further when it just got the chance to cool down?

So you grabbed the poet's hand and squeezed it gently, looked firmly into his darkened eyes.

"Can I... hug you, Osamu?"

The cajoiling was soft and attentive, hopeful.

Your words rendered him speechless, but his smile was still plastered on his lips, like a habit, a default state; an act he practised even in his sleep. Dazai's eyes looked detached, soulless and glassy, like those of a creepy, porcelain doll.

Then his breath hitched, his eyes widened and his mouth twisted. Dazai shook his head in fear, his lower lip trembling and tears threatening to spill.

"D-don't... d-dont...!"

The man struggled to speak and he was shivering terribly again. He pressed his back against the side of the tub like a frightened animal.

"Don't look at me!!"

み (mi

な na

い i

で de

！!! )

Dazai yanked his hand from yours and tightly covered his face, audibly sobbing and wheezing.

As if the world was crowding, crushing.

You felt heartbroken, not because of what he did but how much he was suffering. It didn't occur to you that Dazai's issues were this bad, well, maybe you did, but now that you seen it so vividly...

After taking a few deep breaths yourself, you managed to clear your mind and lungs; you noticed your chest tightening, so you needed to relax first. Then, you shifted near him and started to coo sweet words, coaxing him to open up.

"Osamu, I am here, I am not going anywhere. I will stay with you."

To avoid crowding him, you started slowly shifting to his side, keeping the glass of water secured and ready. You let the silence settle for a bit, only broken by the poet's silent, sobbing rhymes.

"Can I pat your back?"

You murmured sweetly, smiling; you wanted him to feel safe, loved and appreciated. After a short moment, Dazai peeked from his arms, gaze locked on the floor.

There was a humming moment of silence. And then, slowly, he gives a tiny nod.

The smile on your lips stretches involuntarily, feeling glad to be in his space again. Despite the pressuring weight of his soul, you found comfort in his enigmatic presence.

You started to rub his back in a slow, circular motion, subconsciously humming something to yourself. Dazai's sobbing soon ceased, and he ever so lightly, like a feather, leaned towards you. Without hesitation, you let him lean into your embrace, and then, his head rested on your shoulder.

He hugged you loosely.

"Osamu," you purred gently, "can I hug you back?"

The man mumbled, hugging you tighter, face hidden.

"I'm gross..." キモい、キモい... (kimoi, kimoi...)

"No, not to me." You said calmly, with no sign of doubt or lie.

Dazai shuddered at your words and let out tiny hiccups. The poet was lost within his own lyrics, sounds and rhymes mixed with dreams and seams. Vectors of his sharpened mind cut through strings of his reality, but they were uneven, making it unclear which parts were actuality and which—psychedelic materiality.

After several agonising moments of hesitation, he nodded slowly.

You hugged your partner, shushing him soothingly like a sacharine spell of pixie dust from woodland's trust. "Shhh... You're ok, Osamu, it's ok... I'm here, not goin anywhere..." you petted him while embracing his smalling figure. "Let's stay here like this, as long as you need. We don't need to go anywhere, hun."

Then you gently, carefully nuzzled his temple, which caused him to shudder and whimper pitifully, but he didn't push you away. Dazai's grip on you instead tightened, and his face buried deeper into your shoulder. Dazai shook as he inhaled your scent and sighed deeply, as if he was finally able to breathe oxygen after many long years.

Both of you sat there some time in silence, momentarily broken by the poet's quiet laments. You kept rubbing his back and murmuring sweet tunes, ever so lightly rocking him back and forth. At this point, your clothes were all painted in his bodily fluids, but it didn't bother you—those traces were marks of trust and love to you.

You really didn't know how much time had passed; it felt as if all air and smells had stilled within this bathroom. You kept holding your lover in your arms gently as you began to get a better look around.

The mirror by the sink was smudged, possibly with his sweat and snot. You thought Dazai must have tried to break it, but then gave up; there were signs of fists banging at it and a palm print dragged down the glass. You also remembered that the sink was dirty, too—stained with bits of food. You wondered if he’d hurled in there and tried to clear the taint by running the water.

The pills and packs of medicine lay on the ground like stars and galaxies in a white vacuum. The crushed tablets looked like cosmic dust, painting the floor into nebulae, while the lines separating the tiles served as a notebook's margins. The scene evoked a science classroom, filled with vials and formulas.

The bathtub you and Dazai leaned against was cold, but you could also feel the lingering chill mist drifting lazily from the pit. You had turned all the faucets off, but the one in the tub was especially freezing—it was so biting that you yanked your hand away as soon as you turned the handle. It unnerved you; you weren't sure if this was Dazai's version of purification or a re-creation of the Styx.

Your gaze then reluctantly turned to the one thing reeking in the room—the toilet...

You could tell Dazai had been hurling a lot, and violently so. The smell was horrid but manageable at this distance. Seeing the visible, visceral mess, the odour seemed to intensify just by looking. Vomit was splashed everywhere—around the seat, on the floor, and even on the tank. Even from here, you could tell which bits and pieces belonged to the food he had eaten and purged.

You also noticed how the lid had been violently handled; it was smeared with fluids and skewed by force. You wondered if your lover had tried to rip it off as his body was rejecting those life-preserving substances.

By now, you had noticed his breathing calming and his sobs growing quieter. He leaned closer, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You knew what this meant; he had settled down and was more stable, though still feeble from total holistic exhaustion.

You nudged closer to his temple while carefully petting his hair. You wanted to ground him before asking: "Osamu~ Would you like to do the breathing exercise with me, hm?"

The poet shivered at first, as if he was afraid of being seen. Soon, however, his body relaxed. He peeked up at you, sniffling softly, like a small, tender animal.

Like a bunny.

うさちゃん (usa-chan)

For a moment, you felt delirious; you had seen Dazai in all sorts of lights, but most had shown only his confident, elusive, watchful, slippery, and flippant sides. Now, you saw him all meek and fragile. Sure, it was not the first time you had seen him vulnerable, but… witnessing this rarity felt surreal and morbidly exhilarating.

To a point.

And for a flicker of a moment, you felt like an onlooker observing this rare, delicate bundle of a creature. This dissociation was intoxicating, making your body feel floaty and your mind heavy.

But that soon disappeared as quickly as it had come.

You shook your head to clear your mind from that delirium, then gave Dazai a sweet smile, petting him like a newborn baby.

"Alright, Osamu, dear, I will do the box breathing now; you can follow along if you like, okey?"

And so you began the exercise; you never forced the detective to do anything, really; you knew that just being there for him was enough. You also knew that offering advice or help without expectations would be more motivating—something you've learned at your office job.

Besides, you also needed to stabilise yourself; this was a delicate, serious matter after all. No matter how much you had worked under stress and pressure at the Agency, nothing can prepare you for everything, let alone the emotional distress of your loved one.

Let alone Dazai.

Soon, though, you felt the very man breathing along with you. This almost melted you, but you managed to catch yourself before you became another mess of liquid in this already soiled space. You tried to stay as cool as possible lest you startle the bunny.

Finally, Dazai managed to sit up on his own without violent shivers and panicked breathing. The poet's listless arm moved to rest on his bent knee—this made you vividly remember the ballet dancers in Swan Lake, how their limbs wave like beautiful, snow-white wings.

However, this detective looked exhausted, a total mess, really. His gaze was dark and distant; if you didn't know better, you'd have thought he was a prop for a sick theatrical play with holes in his eyes.

"You look like you've been dug up from the bottom of Hell, and I mean, the bottomest of the bottom of Hell," you emphasised with your index finger pointed at the ceiling.

"Whichever excavation team finds you would think you've been rotting there for millennia, and they would also wonder whether you're the most prized relic in existence or the most horrid accursed object in the entire solar system."

Then you looked at Dazai with an honest, humorous smile. You weren't mocking him nor insulting; you simply spoke your truth.

The poet was motionless for several heartbeats, whether his or yours, but then he huffed a chuckle, not strong enough to be laughter. He found your blunt absurdity endearing and refreshing.

"Yeah... I do look that bad, huh?" Dazai managed a weak smile, but a smile it was.

Your smile also grew with his, and you reached out to gently rub his shoulder. "But you know..." you added coyly, "the beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, isn't it?" You couldn't help but grin at the ruined man.

His brows furrowed as he gently swatted your hand away, but then he immediately dropped his head on your lap. He loved your openness, but that didn't mean he was ready to be as open, so he did that—

non-verbal communication. 非言語コミュニケーション (higengo komyunikeeshon)

Dazai wanted, really wanted, but he couldn't, he just couldn't... to look you in the eye, to be direct, to be exposed and vulnerable with you...

It just hurts... hurts so much... That kind of exposure, that kind of vulnerability, that heat... Like standing on the surface of the hottest, bluest sun. The detective wasn't ready for such destruction. Your soul was a light of luminescence—a gentle, natural emission that would make any flower bend and coil towards you. But his, Dazai believed, and he truly believed, was that of incandescence: powerful, blinding, and overwhelming. The wailing of the poet would wither any and all plants, even trees and branches.

So he lay there, on your softness and warmth, like a battered, wet kitten that felt at home for the first time in his short yet tormenting life.

You thought it was time to move on from this damp atmosphere. So you started to chat about random, light-hearted topics. You talked about how the week went, some natural events. For example, you spotted a brambling on Wednesday—you hadn't seen one in a while, so you were ecstatic to see and hear them.

You even talked about silly things, like how Atsushi ate all the gingerbread you and the other clerks had baked together. The weretiger felt too bad to let your efforts go to waste. A man of poverty has a powerful stomach, you thought—especially a young boy who also has a heart of gold.

Dazai was listening; he loved the sound of your voice. Sometimes he dreamed of doing nothing but silently enjoying your presence for the rest of his miserable life. As you spoke, the poet played with the hem of your shirt—alternating between absentmindedness and intent. He would pinch and twist the fabric as if testing its endurance, or trace slow, small circles to feel the texture against his smooth fingertips.

You felt at peace. Despite the chaos that had settled in Dazai's bathroom, you felt human—normal, even. That feeling made you subconsciously take a deep breath, which you regretted as soon as your olfactory device caught the wretched stench. You then felt something turning and moving on your lap.

As your gaze dropped, your eyes met with a glimpse of mischief. "So, you yearn for the cocks o' the north? My, my, [Y/N], I had no idea my lovely clerk had such a dirty min—" You didn't let the man finish his sentence, for it was cut short with a light bonk on his fluffy head.

Dazai groaned in theatrical pain; apparently, he was in better shape than a few minutes ago, because this poet now had the audacity to sprawl across you like a spoiled, needy cat. He was still covered in his own fluids—some of which hadn't dried yet. You didn't mind the mess, really, but now that the detective wasn't in any immediate danger, your patience was starting to thin.

After letting out a deep sigh, you pulled your lover up into a sitting position. The way he was so light and lanky in your hands made you imagine him like a curious kitten hanging in a ragdoll manner. You almost gave in to his adorable yet naughty face. Almost.

"Now, let us wash that face of yours, shall we? I'll also help you wash your clothes, hun," you announced with a caring, almost parental softness. Dazai grinned cheekily, and despite all the dirt on his face, he looked handsome and so cheerful. Dear Heavens, you loved him dearly.

The rest of the day went without an incident; it felt harmonious, actually. You washed Dazai in warm water, regularly checking the temperature after being traumatised by the cold air. He also insisted on washing you, but you didn't trust his sneaking glances, so instead you let him wash your clothes together with his. Later, you both cleaned the bathroom together, though you did most of the work because certain spots made the poet freeze in place, like where his medicine and shaving tools were scattered.

This was not the first time you had seen him having an episode, but this was the most intense yet.

Ever since you both started a much more intimate relationship, Dazai had developed a habit of crashing at your place, usually following you like a cute puppy from work or reappearing like a past apparition in the evening while you brush your teeth. You could never get used to seeing his ghostly face suddenly forming in the bathroom mirror...

However, every time your poet appeared there, he would tell you how much he liked seeing the bags under your tired eyes, how beautifully the fluorescent light bounced off your nose tip and cheekbones—and how much he loved your teeth—as well as how your lips stretched and moved around the toothbrush. You would just huff at his remarks.

And yet, you always loved the way he paid attention to little details like these. To you.

A few times, you had considered visiting Dazai's place, wondering what it looked like. However, each time you thought about visiting, your tired mind would wave the idea away; you really didn't want to be met with possible mountains of trash after work. That mental image reminded you of the unending promise of paperwork, so you would head home before you thought too much about it, avoiding any intrusion into your peaceful dreams. None of that!

Even Dazai teased you for your curiosity—of course, he would. Every time you had even an inkling of special interest in his life, the mischievous yet charming detective would take advantage of that emotional resource. He would never give you a straight answer; he preferred making you come up with hypotheses.

The poet described his apartment as a "living graveyard filled" with offerings he had to buy for himself. He claimed that no one ever comes to clean up his place, so you imagined it was akin to a hikikomori's room. At other times, Dazai made you imagine his home as a cat sanctuary, with kibble and litter scattered across the floor.

Whether any of this was real or not, you decided to humour your perpetually bored poet; the man constantly required stimulation, and it served as excellent training for your brain. Not a single day went by without a touch of Dazai-esque flair in your schedule.

But one summer evening, when you felt as though all the stars and planetary moons had aligned, you decided to see his den.

It wasn't as unhinged as your work-weary mind had imagined. There were, of course, a concerning amount of cheap alcohol bottles and opened tins of crab, not to mention the unopened ones. Dazai hadn't lied about his favourite dish—he truly loved his tinned crab, and he sure did like to drink, just as Kunikida had once told you.

Then your eyes spotted a pair of unwashed cups lying in the sink...

You decided to clean the place, and it wasn't that bad in the end. The resident sly fox spent as little time as possible at the place, it seemed.

As you were scrubbing the tea stains from the inside of the cup, Dazai admired your work with childish curiosity and a charming smile. You found his interest adorable, as if he had returned to his childhood and was watching you as something absolutely wonderful. It made you feel appreciated and happy; however, that didn't inspire you to have your own kids or become a parent.

Soon, you felt long, lanky arms encircling your waist. Dazai was surprisingly tender for a trickster, you thought—especially considering how exhilarated he becomes during violent missions. This felt oddly domestic: his warm chin on your shoulder, his nose brushing your neck, and a coy hand snaking across your stomach.

You almost forgot who he was.

The poet proceeded to nuzzle your ear, your temple, and your cheek. You enjoyed his surreal, gentle touch so much that it made this subtle, affectionate moment freeze in time. You didn't say anything; you didn't even make a single move lest you scare the stray. You revelled in this moment like a content cat under the sun after a day's work of hunting rats.

Then you caved in; your body moaned silently as you gently turned your head to nuzzle Dazai in return. The moment your nose tip brushed the bridge of his, the detective's breath hitched, and he stiffened like a ferret caught doing something mischievous. But you also sensed something else…

Dazai quickly buried his face into the nook of your neck, squeezing you in a hug as if that would hide his embarrassment. You giggled and decided to cheer him up with a head pat. His hair was soft—a warm home for your hand—tickling your skin like a fluffy, needy kitten.

You both stayed in this standing, comforting embrace. It felt intimate and personal, like a new, sweet memory in the making. You had heard about how people felt as though the outside world had ceased to exist in these kinds of moments, but you had never believed that—until now.

Suddenly, you felt the pads of Dazai's delicate fingers move around your opposite shoulder, trailing to your collar bone with a clinical precision, as if an archaeologist examining the remnants of some ancient civilisation. Your skin was the sand he traced and dipped, and your bone was the intricate architectural pillar, a living proof of your wondrous existence.

His explorative, smooth digits moved up, tracing your column as if feeling a musical instrument before playing. Then he brushed the tip of your chin; he took his time mapping it like a mountaineer marking the summit he just conquered. You could hear his deep breathing; you weren't sure if he tried to control it like his sensitive heartbeat.

Soon, you felt his amorous, almost sybaritic fingertips on your lips, and your breath hitched sharply.

At first, you let Dazai feel the plump, bumpy edges of your mouth—he was pressing them gently, tapping slowly, and smearing curiously, seeing how far and flexible your lips were.

The act wasn't too intense; however, it did make your mind blur—you were basically submerged in this sensual submergence and sighing freely, openly even, without any restraints. Then, you tenderly, ever so gently, ever so lightly, like a brush of a feather, kissed his fingertips.

Dazai froze—not only his hands, but his whole body, as if petrified. His breath stilled, and possibly his heart as well.

You also hesitated; your eyes widened open, and you involuntarily held your breath. You felt as if you had committed a grave sin against humanity, but quickly realised it was anything but.

You looked at him gently, making sure not to invade his personal space but not staying too far to make him feel alone. Dazai's hung gaze was a sign of vulnerability, so you cherished the moment without ruining it with banal, conventional words.

Careful not to scare your lover like a fragile beast, you turned your head to glance at him. The poet looked perplexed, lips pursed and brows furrowed; he was thinking hard about something—something deep. You watched him lift his hand from your abdomen to his own trembling lips. He traced his own soft crests with his slick fingers, caressing them curiously, as if lost in thought.

You couldn't tell, but Dazai was in the throes of a grave inner conflict; he didn't know which action to take, which steps would make you the happiest while still maintaining the autonomy of his inner world. Which chess piece should he move to keep you close, yet at a safe distance? His mind jumped between options like a game of Mahjong: unable to decide which hand to play, constantly second-guessing himself the moment a solution appeared, unsure which path would yield the most optimal result.

Dazai looked too irresistibly appetising at that moment, so much so that you were stunned to notice how much you desired to kiss him.

"Do you... want to try kissing, Osamu?" you asked him curiously.

The poet's head snapped up in anxious shock, then he stared at you as if you asked him to jump off a cliff... to dive and survive.

"But what if—!!" he retorted, inching away from you like a scared puppy. It was likely subconscious, but he was trembling. "What if… the kiss turns out to be bad? Like, really, really bad?!"

Dazai was panicking, shivering like a teenage boy, his eyes wide and his face flushed. It was a rare sight—so rare that it even shocked you.

You took a moment to collect your thoughts and emotions before speaking: "It's okey, we have other ways to show affectio—"

"No!!" Dazai interrupted you petulantly. His lips puckered into a prominent pout. Then, he dramatically threw himself onto the couch, tossing his head from side to side like a capricious child.

や

だ

！

(yada!)

"I don't wanna!"

This display left you even more speechless than the last, and soon you simply sighed; you couldn't help but feel a sense of defeat. You were about to say something, but stopped in your tracks when you noticed Dazai was about to speak.

"What if I kissed you…" He trailed, playing bashfully with his thumbs, avoiding your caring gaze. "It would… become… actually real?" Dazai asked with a soft, dry voice. He peeked at you carefully, as if he was deeply terrified of that possibility.

You couldn't help but let your face soften at the sight of your partner's tender vulnerability. You didn't want to pretend that you understood his worries but you didn't want to dismiss them either. With tented eyebrows, you tried to think of how to comfort Dazai.

"So what, Osamu?" you asked gently, tilting your head to level with his eyes. "So what if it becomes real?"

Osamu gritted his teeth and held back his non-existent tears; this story had been repeated millions of times in his head, in moments where real tears had threatened to spill from a false alarm—like the boy who cried wolf.

"Real things are always ugly, [Y/N]… always… and they leave an even nastier aftertaste when they disappear…"

You could sense him trembling—invisible, small rivers trickling across his puffy cheeks.

"To hold onto something dear to you... only to have it escape your grasp like cold smoke... what's the point of freezing the cherished time if it leaves a hollow, drowning ache in your core..." the poet breathed, a whisper of an escaping shadow in the corner of the room.

Suddenly, you felt that something was wrong. It was as if the atmosphere had been invaded by thunderous clouds out of nowhere in the middle of a clear, sunny sky; a storm, invisible yet heavy in your core.

"Osamu…!" You reached out your arms with an alarming abruptness, your own hands trembling slightly.

"C-can I hug you??" You really wanted to. You had to.

The question made Osamu jolt. He soon realised exactly what was happening. He wanted to run, to escape—to leave these feelings behind before he lost total control. But a new voice, a lighter one, forced him to be more honest, painfully honest...

"Please…" he half-sobbed, trembling like a freezing dog in the rain. "Please, do…"

You hugged him immediately—a hug so warm and real it sent electric signals through his entire body. Oxytocin flooded his system like a potent drug, relaxing and elating him until he felt high. He clung to you desperately, whimpering silently, before his head finally lolled to rest against your comfortable shoulder.

"Reality tastes so bitter…"

苦い... (nigai...)

"I tried to overpower it once," he sighed deeply, at first with self-pity, then with a chuckle of pure irony. "With pills and blood, pushing myself to the brink of death… seeking the taste of the most awful dirt, the staleness of stagnant water. But I never succeeded. No matter how many times I retched or split my lips, the taste of reality remained—strong and bitter. My tongue felt numb, shrivelled like a raisin."

A DEATH WISH

自殺願望 (jisatsu ganbou)

This was the first time you experienced one of Dazai's episodes. Whether it was a meltdown or a panic attack, you realised just how serious things were for him. You felt completely overwhelmed at first, but that didn't discourage your affection for your lovely, dramatic poet. In fact, it made you understand the sheer amount of work and courage Dazai invested in his decision to pursue this relationship.

For the rest of the night, you lay together on the couch, huddled close, letting the silence do the talking and the soothing. The quietude was broken only by the susurrus of breaths, the rhythm of beating hearts, and the friction of flesh against cloth. The darkness of the room was painted by the light of a halcyon moon and the distant hum of the wornout streetlamps.

You have heard of Dazai's suicidal tendencies before. However, the way the Agency treated them led you to believe they were nothing serious—merely a performance, a bit of comedic relief to the dreadful business they conducted here, stripping it of its lethality with witty remarks and a pleasing smile.

This, though, changed the moment you witnessed "one" of his suicidal attempts.

You were walking back home at your usual time, admiring the sunset, which made the river next to you shine like a billion tiny diamonds scattered across the warm sand. As you lifted your chin to see the twilightening side of the sky and the appearing stars, their faint constellations reminded you of your tiny notebook, which you suddenly realised you had left at your work desk.

With a heavy sigh, you turned on your heels in the direction of your workplace. The moment you did that, though, you noticed a body drifting down the river. Had you not done it, you wouldn't have come across the drifter—a thought that still haunts you to this day.

The mild panic dawned upon you, like a massive wave passed through your body. After wondering whether this was how the "flushes" work for the middle-aged women, you immediately sprinted to the bank to see if you still had the chance to save them. Once there, you noticed a familiar face... frame?

It was Dazai.

And his face was half-submerged in the water.

You gasped painfully, then dived to save him. You managed to pull him out of the water and began doing CPR. It took several attempts to get the man to cough up the water and focus his gaze on you. Dazai looked utterly bewildered, but soon that signature lopsided smile returned to his pale lips.

"Oh my... If I knew you were such an excellent swimmer, [Y/N], I would have dived into the waters more often!"

You were speechless, paralysed by the weight of this interaction. Dazai had actually attempted it; it wasn't a performance. You saw it with your own eyes—the way his gaze went glassy and void. Yet here he was, chattering as if it were a mere incident, a trivial everyday matter.

The poet noticed your petrified expression. His smile softened, but the warmth was forced; it was melancholic—a fragile space between apology and surrender. You reluctantly realised then that this modbidity was a fundamental part of him, a fixture of his soul that wouldn't change any time soon, if ever.

"I was just minding my own business, walking through the city as always, marvelling at the modern construction of this human jungle made of steel and concrete..." Dazai relayed the story as if they were on a pleasant picnic under the warming sun, as if you both weren't shivering from the recent dip in the river.

"When suddenly!" the man continued with a spark in his eyes, a fair display of a storyteller, "I stumbled upon a crushed cicada on that bridge!" He motioned his slender hand towards the bridge he supposedly fell from.

"I thought, 'that's it! This is it! This is the sign! I must jump now or I shall be cursed forever with a profound sadness!' And so I jumped." As he finished with a grin, Dazai twirled his wrist as if signalling the end of the story. That hushed peacefulness written on his face made you understand that your lovely partner here would endlessly keep looking for any poetic way to end his life.

Like a final line at the end of an epic that would resonate with the living and the dead.

"But it seems..." he continued smoothly, as if cooing, comforting you, perhaps even reassuring you. "...that I misinterpreted; the crushed bug only meant that my journey towards death would be cut short today, that the time was not right yet; that someone was still waiting for me." His deep, brown eyes told you everything—you were the reason he was still here today.

You were his literal lifesaver.

"Ah, how silly of me," Dazai brushes his forehead with his fingertips, as if laughing at his own "miscalculation" about the symbolism. "Perhaps, I should seek a dead butterfly instead, preferably with torn, dark wings; that surely will be the right sign for my departure!"

The poet declared with flair, yet your mind was elsewhere.

You replayed the moment of dragging him to the shore in your mind—how light his body felt, how weightless, as if he truly belonged to the current of the Acheronian stream. Now, seeing that weak smile—a silent, remorseless apology—his hugs felt heavier to you. More meaningful, and much harder to carry.

It was a bizarre realisation that left you scarred and a tad shaken.

After that incident, his usual suicidal remarks didn't land with humorous laughter like before; they left you smiling clumsily. The lightness of his presence felt heavier than a feather tipping a scale, and his steps thudded in a heavy rhythm of a muffled heartbeat. Atsushi had noticed the change in your posture and even asked you once during your break if you were all right.

You felt uncharacteristically meek.

"Don't you think it's... strange that everyone takes... you know..."

You struggled to say it out loud now that you knew better, but weretiger's worried, kind look encouraged you to speak up.

"That everyone takes Dazai's suicidal tendencies too... lightly?"

As you finished your sentence, you noticed an empathic look on the boy's face. You were not alone, which comforted you; however, you also realised that neither of you could do much about it. You bet he tried to encourage his mentor to change his "dangerous" hobby and reason with his perfectly solidified nihilism.

"This is just how Dazai is," you imagined people saying.

At least, those were the exact words said by the lovely, hardworking and merciful Kunikida Doppo.

"This suicidal maniac creates PROBLEMS everywhere he goes, everywhere he sets his foot on!!" the blonde huffed visibly. "Honestly, Dazai would do us all a service when he succeeds, whenever that day is," Kunikida finished while sipping his coffee during his lunch break. This man was dedicated to his schedule—no matter how much work there was, he would always follow his appointed breaks.

Your features tensed a bit at his words, your skin stretching uncomfortably; you thought Kunikida's words were a bit too crass, especially when they were said to your face. You carefully considered your next words:

"Don't you think you're being a bit too harsh on him, Kunikida-san? Dazai-san is going through a lot; he's a human being just like any of us... Everyone deserves to live happily."

Your words certainly struck a nerve in Kunikida—his eyebrow twitched, and his eyes looked a bit sharper, as if realising that he was, indeed, a bit too harsh on his colleague. However, his annoyance also stemmed from his jealousy of Dazai's incredible talents as a detective... among other things.

"Dazai isn't the only one with life-changing problems! Besides... we can't help those who don't seek it, [Y/N]..." he went quiet. "I have learnt that... in an agonisingly hard way... believe me..."

The breakroom fell silent, allowing the gravity of the situation to sink in. You have heard of some difficult missions the Agency members have gone through, but you couldn't possibly understand them holistically, for you are not a combat-type person. To see people die before your very eyes was not something you could deal with often...

Dazai's face flashes in your mind like an omen.

You shuddered and clutched your files closer to your chest, pursing your lips. Kunikida noticed the tension in your frame, and he sighed while adjusting his glasses.

"A word of advice, [Y/N]... Don't get too attached to Dazai, he'll only make your life horrendously miserable."

The moment he uttered those words, you blinked several times, wide-eyed. Kunikida stared at you in mild confusion, curious about your abrupt change of demeanour. You needed to confirm something with this workaholic...

"Kunikida-san..." you began softly. "You are aware that I am dating Dazai-san, right?"

The room fell once again silent, but with a different kind of tension.

Kunikida was as still as a statue, but then, he turned slowly to look behind him, as if there were a hidden audience who would give him hints on how to react to this situation. Then, he looked back at you, petrified, but soon his face contorted at the realisation of the situation.

え？(e?)

Huh?

"はぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁぁ？？？"

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA???"

You couldn't tell if Kunikida was truly dense or was in deep, utter denial until now. He must've thought that such a lovely, diligent and dignified person like you wouldn't date someone as messy and irresponsible as Dazai. The blonde seemed mortified by this, but the hilarity of his reaction made you involuntarily chuckle into your soft fist.

"You're so amusing, Kunikida-san," you wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, "I can see why Dazai-kun loves being around you."

You could tell, but Mr Idealist would always deny it, that your remark made him very happy, if not just plain flattered.

Knowing Dazai, indeed, provided you with some new perks. You have become more popular, or at the very least, known. You've got to know a man named Chuuya Nakahara, whom your adorable partner has a clear love-hate relationship with. You once encountered him by sheer accident during your shopping trip.

You recognised him first; he stood out more than you did, especially with that hat. Without thinking, you asked him curiously if he was the very mafioso Dazai "loved fondly" talking about. Needless to say, the ginger was astonished, but his shock soon was replaced by his complaints about Dazai and how "too drunk with suicidal love" he was.

Chuuya told you the exchange they recently had:

"Chuuuyaaaaa, I finally found a beautiful person to commit double suicide with~!" Dazai chirped, his voice like a cooing dove. The brunet leaned on the counter, hugging his drink like a charmed man.

"Uh-huh, right, then where are they now? In your psycho head?" Chuuya grumbled at the poet while nursing his own drink, already slightly tipsy himself. Dazai lifted himself up from the bar counter and quipped, sounding like a happy kid who had just won a prize, "At work!"

The sheer ridiculousness of it irritated the mafioso. Chuuya went on and on, complaining about how more annoying your detective had become—gushing about you all the time and recounting an endless stream of compliments to the one man who least wanted to hear them.

While Chuuya spat accusations about the unfavourable and unpleasant features of the infamous poet, you observed the bar that Dazai frequented with his former partner and friends. The soft, amber glow of the interior gave you a deceptive yet welcoming sense of an afternoon in the woods, with golden bars of light peeking through the tree trunks. Bar Lupin carried that forest-like, sweet scent of fermented, sugared berries, as well as the weight of tales as old as time.

The ambience was so powerful that you felt as if your lover's very ghost was sitting right next to you, clinking drinks with the three people who shared a particular, intimate bond. You could imagine Dazai and Chuuya having a civil conversation with you in the middle of their bickering. It was actually endearing—the way these two got along in a strange, uniquely beautiful way.

"You should seriously reconsider, though, darling," Chuuya said, pulling you back to reality with a serious tone. "Dazai might be a great romantic, but he’s no fairy-tale prince. The man craves death more than he'll ever crave life." The mafioso clicked his tongue while tapping the glass in irritation.

Chuuya was right; not only was Dazai a suicidal enthusiast, but he was also quite careless with himself. You would often catch a glimpse of new, mysterious scratches on his fair, exposed skin and an increase in the bandages scaling his body. You also remembered Dazai telling you that his ability was always active, so Yosano's ability would provide no help to him. The poet was as vulnerable among ability users as any average person... You even tended to forget how seriously dangerous these ADA missions could be.

One day, Kunikida asked you to accompany Dazai in double-checking information from a hacker the Agency worked with. In a way, you knew this was an excuse to send you there and write a proper report because everybody knew that Dazai would avoid such "frivolous" and "underwhelming" tasks. Besides, everyone, even Kunikida, loved the way you wrote your papers. They were precise, diligent, engaging even, and easy to read without sparing any details.

Kunikida had given you a taser gun as a precaution. You both trusted Dazai to protect you, but, just in case...

In the end, the mission turned out to be more than just "a walk in the park", as Dazai put it; it was an ambush, and a nasty one at that. You actually had to use your taser several times against criminals, either to protect yourself or aid Dazai. During this scramble, you learnt that, despite his lanky body, the detective was sturdy; no matter how many punches he took or blood he spilt, he would always stand on his feet.

Because Dazai was so used to the sight of blood and filth, they never repulsed him. He never gagged. He had become so accustomed to it that it felt as normal as rain draped over his hair and shoulders. It had its own weight, volume, and degree of moisture, but it all felt the same to him. That very smell of blood trickling down his body was no different than the scent of petrichor bestowed upon you two by dark, heavy clouds... so different from the rain by the friendly grave.

The falling water droplets slowly washed the blood from your clothes, but on Dazai, it looked like an additional colour painted onto his frame. The poet looked as if he fit the melancholic scene—an uncanny addition to perfect the picture. However, all you saw was the same poet drenched in fresh blood and water, standing on a white carpet of bouncing raindrops. It made his features glow with a ghostly beauty, while his silhouette cast a shadowy, alluring warning.

The very epitome of the living macabre.

But you were not used to it. The closest you had come to such shiver-stricking scenery was during your hospital visits, where you were met with the smell of antiseptic and sterile white lights bleaching across the floors and walls. You had seen people with appalling injuries there and on TV, but nothing compared to what you saw at Yosano's infirmary, and on these missions...

Seeing your lovely poet at peace around death was surreal; yet, strangely, you couldn't bring yourself to ruin the peace he so rarely allowed himself. If blood was his rain, what did water represent to him?

It didn't make sense to you, and it shouldn't. You soon realised that.

By staying in the light, you not only kept yourself safe, but you were also honouring Dazai's will. You had attempted to understand your poet better by reading papers and novels about the dark world, but you could never relate to his sheer agony of existence. You would simply be invading the wolf's den with cheap dog toys.

What do you know?

あなたに何がわかるの？ (anata ni nani ga wakaru no?)

...

You eventually found harmony in one another. There were good days, and there were bad days... and then there were very, very bad days...

It all started with a rumour—a harmless, silly rumour.

〜という噂がある (~to iu uwasa ga aru) There is a rumour that~

And it wasn't about your relationship with the suicidal maniac, no. Almost the whole Agency knew about this, let alone the Special Division for Unusual Powers; Dazai would blabber about you to nearly anyone he knew or came across. The poet would twitter poems dedicated to you and how much you fill his aching heart. So it was needless to say that he had talked the ears off about you to Ango during their working hours.

The rumours were about how you've become Dazai's weakness; those were senseless, giddy gossip murmured across Yokohama city. The Agency didn't take them seriously because they believed that Dazai would try to save any human life he could, especially Kunikida, who would vouch for his lazy colleague and shoot down any accusations.

As time went by, the juicy gossip birthed enticing stories. They carried an air of adventurous excitement akin to shallow, frivolous romance novels and dark, angsty detective stories. People craved entertainment and spice in their everyday lives, so they wrote their own versions online; some wrote about kidnapping, some about love triangles, and others became creative, constructing their own fantasy tales.

The majority of these people didn't even know the origins of the rumours; they simply hopped on the trend train of this urban legend about a heartless detective falling for an average, clever clerk.

One of the clerks at the Agency noticed these online stories and shared the information with Nanami and Haruno. They tried to figure out if this posed any issues for the organisation's image or, more importantly, for the two people the rumours most concerned. The Tanizaki sister decided to be the brave one and bring the matter up with the armed detectives.

"Rumours?" You blinked curiously, as if you had no idea about the matter. You were sitting at Dazai's desk because the lovely, lazy poet had once again asked for your help. After all, you were the best at writing reports and never failed to make them interesting to read.

With your laptop in front of you, your hands hovering over the keys and your fingers freezing mid-type, you let out a deep sigh. You took off the reading glasses provided by the Agency and rubbed the bridge of your nose. "Are you talking about those fanfics? Why should we worry about them? Let people ship whomever they want. It's not my concern."

The clerk who found these "stories" stood bashfully behind Naomi, fidgeting. "We just… thought we should let you know, [Y/N]-san, Dazai-san…" they murmured. "They, um… there are many of them and, um…" The clerk took a deep breath to calm their nerves. "Some of them have been fairly close to reality. We just thought if things get too serious, we could report them for… a possible breach of personal information or… even defamation."

You crossed your arms and thought about it. That was actually sound reasoning to it, but you weren't sure if such actions should be taken. You turned to your right to look at Dazai, who was mulling over the new information with a daydreaming hum.

"Ah, so our love transcends the digital!" Dazai chirped, standing up with his usual theatrical flair and spreading his arms as if "sharing" the love that was just mentioned. "I don't blame them! [Y/N]-kun would charm any and all of humanity! How could they not be blown away by the two most beautiful actors on this stage called 'the World'! Let them dream; let them feel our love!"

Then Dazai threw himself toward you and hugged you by the waist, rubbing his cheek against your soft tummy. His face looked blissful, and you simply couldn't bring yourself to interrupt his joy. Eventually, you sighed, placed your palm on his head, and began gently petting him, feeling the soft locks that never failed to ground you and bring a smile to your lips. The poet hummed pleasantly, still holding you like a hopeless lover boy.

The clerk looked awkward and a tad worried; they weren't used to Dazai's theatrics, so they weren't sure whether to stay or leave. Luckily for them, Haruno intervened with fresh findings of her own: "Actually, the other thing that worries us is that some of these stories are a bit... technically detailed?" Haruno lifted her phone to show the story in question that had caused the concern.

She was right; this story was about a clerk who was kidnapped by the Port Mafia, while the detective faced many challenges to bring back his lover. The psychological struggles and the details of the kidnapping were strikingly accurate. You realised what the issue was: should any members of the Port Mafia find this story, they could use the information against the Agency—or worse, hunt down the writer for exposing their tactics.

The air felt a bit heavy, but it was washed away as soon as Atsushi returned from his mission with Kyouka, their clothes a bit dirty. The boy's aura was always calming and warm, especially when accompanied by Kyouka, who had an air of sheer cuteness. Their presence was akin to a sunny winter park filled with snow and crisp, fresh air, with cherry petals scattering in the breeze.

The pair was filled in on the situation and the rumours about you and Dazai. As the weretiger skimmed the story, his face serious and his eyes sharp, he soon mellowed and smiled cheerfully.

"I think we should report the story. While it's interesting, protecting [Y/N]-san and Dazai-san is more important! Hopefully, the Port Mafia hasn't seen this yet."

"And if they have..." Kyouka slowly unsheathed her short sword, her wakizashi, with murderous eyes. "We will rescue [Y/N] post-haste."

Suddenly, the air felt heavy again, but Atsushi noticed it wasn't because of Kyouka; he could sense a much darker, uglier aura emanating from within the office. His tiger senses were tingling and his ears perked; he tried to detect the source of this nasty aura. The weretiger was genuinely frightened, and for a second, he thought an enemy was there.

But it wasn't.

Horrified, Atsushi froze in place when his eyes met those of a true murderer: Dazai's.

The man's face was overcast and shadowed, as if it were turned away from the sun, and his eyes were wide and wild. Atsushi could have sworn that his mentor had brown eyes, but at that very moment, they looked like two black holes traced by white lines. The boy was even more surprised to see you unaffected—you had no idea what was resting on your lap... you simply kept petting its hair…

It took everything in Atsushi not to flee; his instincts were flaring, his inner tiger roaring warnings and begging him to leave, to leave...

Emotions could drive any man mad—let alone a monster.

...

That very night, Dazai faced his inner demons—voices of the past and the call of the void.

Someone will kidnap them, for sure; you will lose your precious [Y/N], just like always… anything you find worth living for—it will disappear.

Dazai leaned his weight on his palms against the sink; his soft skin—despite all the roughness left by a gunpowdered life—moulded to the ceramic. He felt the pressing ache and the red stains forming on his palms. He could feel it: a threat looming over him.

The lights were dim in the bathroom, but it didn't matter to him. As someone who lived and lingered in the darkness, adjusting his vision to this familiar environment was as easy as walking. The dark, ghostly hands clung to his body—each clutching with its own intensity. Dazai stared at himself in the mirror. A self-deprecating sneer met him in the reflective glass. What a mockery of a man.

Dazai was all too familiar with this feeling, yet he never managed to put a name to it. The poet in him had felt it before, painfully so. Whenever he read poems and thought he could do better, the moment he tried, he felt his own words were never good enough—mere scraps of paper filled with imitations of human emotions. It was a torturous pain...

An abysmal void, a curseful, never-ending cycle of suffering and dissatisfaction.

Dazai watched as his mouth twisted into something increasingly unnatural—odd, alien, inhuman...

人間失格 (ningen shikkaku)

It drove him insane that he couldn't name the feeling—that maddening sense of being challenged. Yet, at the same time, he felt absolute confidence in his skills, his self-control, and his ability to mimic a decent human being...

He loved you... so dearly...

Dazai gripped the sides of the mirror, overcome by a strange fatigue—an unexplainable nausea. His breathing grew laboured, and his heart thrummed in erratic, discordant pulses. He eyed the glass desperately, as if searching for any kind of remedy for his condition.

He stared and stared, into the fog hidden in the reflection of his morbid deflection—the countenance of the dark humanity. But soon, your face appeared in the mist. Dazai gaped and inched closer, his nose almost pressing against the glass as if he were possessed. It was a memory of you, living deep within him.

You peered at him over your shoulder, a smile playing on your lips like a subtle greeting to welcome him home. Dazai's features softened; he almost fell to his knees in reverence. You were his salvation, a beautiful human of silk. It was that peaceful mind of yours he envied most.

How could someone like him—Dazai Osamu, the infamous former executive of the Port Mafia—be seen as a gentle, sweet man with a tender smile, standing beside your radiance of fragile humanity?

“A former killer isn't qualified to become a good person. Do you truly believe that?”

Dazai did believe it; he truly did. He had seen killers become saviours with his own eyes. Therefore, he still tried to believe in his own redemption. However… at that very moment, he struggled desperately. Could he really be good? Wholeheartedly?

Did that even matter? Was he even qualified as a person in the first place?

A familiar lullaby played in his head.

However, that melody was slowly changing. With you, his cynicism and depravity started to morph like clay, finally granted the sweet moisture needed to bend; with you, he didn't see that pesky, nauseating brightness that usually made him wince; with you, Dazai was feeling more alive, finding it harder to suppress his true self.

With you… your soft light—this, he loved.

And your smile...

That empathetic smile of martyrdom and sweetness.

犠牲 (gisei) sacrifice...

Dazai felt a sudden surge of bitterness and scepticism. It irked him to no end, but what irritated him most was that these unpleasant emotions were directed toward you. He didn't want to link any negative trait to your persona; he was disgusted with himself for feeling this way. The poet wanted his muse to be pure and untainted by sin.

However, since he was devoid of human emotion, he only offered a smile in return—an eerie twist of his lips.

"I guess," he heard a voice say, "that explains why he always laughs and makes others laugh, too."

That ignited something behind his chest—nay, more like a dull clonk echoing within his hollow core. His heart felt like a petrified shell—empty, cold, and coated in the dust of dried blood.

The poet felt as though a vexing responsibility had been thrown in his face: the burden of people's pain. It disgusted him—this irritable urge to comfort them, to "get better" for the sake of their "sacrificial" selves.

An unsolicited duty bestowed upon him by them... perhaps, by you, too?

The poet had seen, touched, and tasted many strays who were drawn to him. Dazai was well aware of his charms—that haunting, gothic magnetism that lured shivering, hungry souls to his side. But now, he struggled to reconcile your serene face with these disturbed, murky waters, teeming with piranhas and anglerfish.

"You prideful fool," he thought. Or, perhaps, he simply heard the words echo.

This newly arrived sensation swelled painfully in his chest—a frustrating mental lava pressing against his ribcage like an invading, unnatural catastrophe. Dazai knew it was time to stop, lest he suffer further and dissolve into the sodden wreckage of a trashed, dirty creek.

Tears threatened to spill, born of a tangled fear: the loss of you, the legion of writers who dreamed of you, and the ever-present danger of the Port Mafia. He cursed himself for listening to the clerks' gossip. More so, Dazai Osamu—a man who lived by logic and masks—could not allow himself to be unravelled by A FICTIONAL STORY.

作り話 (tsukuribanashi)

The emotions were messing with him. It was the fear of being seen as a human being... one burdened with so many inhuman traits, covered in wounds and the stains of despicable, dirty sins. His hands were stained with a burnt mahogany from the repeated splashes of blood he had failed to wash away...

Suddenly, Dazai saw Mori emerging from the coal-black, thick waters like a spectre of the Devil—an ominous premonition.

"Oh, Dazai-kun," the Devil cooed, "You had so much potential... to think you'd waste your talent and freedom on saving people, of all things... what a misuse of your calibre, Dazai-kun."

Dazai sank to his knees, looking up at the figure looming high above him. The poet was delirious, his eyes wide and pathetic. His frail body was shivering violently and painfully, making a string of whimpers.

"I am so disappointed in you, Dazai-kun."

「太宰くん、本当にがっかりした。」 (Dazai-kun, hontou ni gakkarishita)

Dazai clutched his head and choked an inaudible scream, his throat aching from the sheer weight of his psychological suppression. His head screeched with a deafening, internal shrill.

Somewhere deep within his void, a new darkness had been sown. A hideous desire was growing—slowly, silently, and persistently...

A new mental apparition imposed itself onto the deteriorating mind of Dazai. He jerked his head and gasped as his eyes met the violet gaze of a true "Demon"—Fyodor. The Arctic Rat slowly lifted his arm, pointing an accusatory finger at the poet, speaking in a cold, husky murmur:

"The reason you are so easily shaken, Dazai, is that you have no conviction. You have no God nor Muse to light the path you strayed from by your own volition. Your fire was extinguished long before your mind could even perceive the world."

Dazai felt the anemic man’s chill gaze drilling into his porous shell—a void of a soul that allowed darkness to invade his pathetic state. He fruitlessly attempted to block his hearing with his palms, as if that judgmental voice were coming from the outside.

"It is a grave shame to see you waste your potential like this, Dazai; your intellect could have been put to much better use," the ghost of a frozen past whispered with a frostbitten ache. "The best you did for this world was when you were with the Port Mafia... but even then, you were the biggest fool, Mr Little 'Demon Prodigy'."

«Я та́к разочаро́ван тобой, Дазай.» (Ya ták razacharóvan toboy, Dazai)

Now Dazai screamed—violently this time—and thrashed his head. It was unbearable; he felt a dull choking in his chest, his heart burned with an acidic bleed, and his mind felt leaden. Then, abruptly, he felt two pairs of hands on his throat; Mori and Fyodor were gripping him tightly. Dazai's mind was rushing; he couldn't see their eyes, but their faces were expressionless.

The poet was immobilised and gasped for vanishing air. He frantically moved his eyes, trying to think of a solution, a new calculation, a new escape route. Then, he saw a small figure crouching on the surface of the ink-black water. Their eyes locked, and Dazai felt a jolt of pure horror; the creature was covered in seaweed, barnacles, lichens, worms, and other seabed filth.

It also wore bandages... its red eyes struck Dazai's soul and—

ハッ！ (ha-!)

GASP!

Dazai suddenly emerged from the cold water, taking deep, wheezing breaths. He was dumbfounded and shaking. Carefully, he let his eyes examine his surroundings: he was sitting in his own bathtub, fully clothed and drenched, shivering… and his hands were gripping his own throat in a death grip. He had no memory of getting into the tub, let alone filling it with water.

The poet slowly peeled his fingers away from his neck, one at a time; the rest of his body remained as if petrified. When they finally released their hold, he stared at them with such intensity it was as if he were drilling holes into his own palms. Then, he glared upward into the empty air, his eyes fixed on nothingness. He stared so hard from beneath the shadow of his brow that his eyes stung, but he didn’t care.

The world was full of agonising pain anyway...

・・・

Dazai began to fall back into his old habits; he lurked in the shadows and stalked you, making sure you were safe and sound. He wanted to hunt down any person who dared to woo you or steal your precious time from him. Any inkling of kindness that bordered on intimacy was snubbed before it had the chance to spark a curiosity in you.

But more importantly, Dazai was more terrified of you seeing him like this—a man possessed by an obsession with delirium. The poet in him demanded that his muse remain perfect, spotless and free from sin... his sin. He knew how atrocious and smudged he appeared in this state.

The detective had become cunningly manipulative.

He would often invite you for coffee, ask you to stay at his place a bit longer over a cup of tea, or spend afternoons by the harbour bench. Sometimes he would simply follow you home and dance until sundown—an invader of your time with a sweet smile. A honey-coated spice.

"Look at this creek that pretends to be the night sky of Earth, [Y/N]-chan," Dazai would murmur sweetly, gazing at you adoringly. "It steals the city lights of Yokohama to mimic the stars above us, dear. Who knew that even nature exhibits such emotions as envy and pride?"

The cold breeze carried his voice to you like a love letter—carefully folded and neatly written with words of romance and a promise of subtle passion that would gently rock you to a blissful, peaceful sleep.

The voice was as sweet as poison.

The office parties would be cut short because you ended up drunk far too soon. Your ever-so-caring knight of a partner would take you home, with no one but Dazai himself knowing he was the one who had spiked your drinks. On other occasions, the detective would drug your lunches so he could take you to Yosano’s office and remain by your side, "nursing" you back to health…

"Oh dear, my dear, my sweet [Y/N], it seems you’ve had a bit too much to drink, haven't you? Now, let me be responsible and take you home. I want my lovely partner to be safe and avoid a morning hangover."

Dazai hugged you gently, caringly, rubbing circles on your back to soothe your sudden heave. If anyone had taken a closer look at his face during that Christmas party organised by the ever-earnest Atsushi, they would have seen a vicious, subtle smile playing on his lips. The poet’s eyes, once struck by horror in the ink-black water, now burned with a depraved obsession, relishing your submission.

Friends and acquaintances, old and new, were also under Dazai’s careful, burning watch. How dared they take your time away? Hadn't you vowed to be his partner—a loving soulmate to his damning one? The poet would use his puppy eyes and hypnotically sweet voice to assign your loved ones tasks or "urgent" information to keep them busy, using your name as a guarantor.

"My partner hasn't been feeling well lately; oh, poor thing! They’ve been piled up with work after work!" Dazai would dramatise with his usual melodramatic flair, but he played his role so skillfully that no one questioned the fidelity of his words.

"So, could you be a dear and shop in their stead to save them time and stress? You know what they need for this birthday party better than I do!"

Oh, what a lovely, responsible partner Dazai was! Running errands for you, taking a load off your shoulders... all with a hidden, grim grin.

Our "lovely" detective was smart; he made sure you’d never suspect a thing. There was no regularity to his "caring" acts, nor to the quick, "casual" disappearances of people you might have wanted to know better or spend more time with. Dazai was deeply calculative; he knew exactly when to strike and how to wrap you around his finger.

But little did he know that you were also a clever bean.

It didn’t spark suspicion at first, but soon you noticed that Dazai lingered in your presence far too long. You had thought the poet valued his solitude too much to cling to a living being—someone he surely saw as a fleeting indulgence. Moreover, some of the items gifted by your friends and colleagues had vanished, while others had been replaced.

You also took note of how vividly Dazai beamed whenever you offered him any form of affection, and how much he melted under your touch. Our lovely poet failed to consider the one thing that gave him away so quickly: he had stopped talking about suicide. Specifically, he had ceased his casual invitations for a double suicide.

Another day, another instance where your charming detective invited you for coffee during the break. You narrowed your eyes, already seeing the evidence of his subtle, odd behaviour... This was a golden opportunity to speak to him in private, so you suggested a café that offered maximum seclusion and excellent brew... and, more importantly, your favourite pastry.

As you two walked leisurely, chattering like lovebirds as usual, nothing about you particularly stood out. Soon, however, you noticed the surroundings had grown significantly quieter.

You decided it was time to poke the viper.

"Is something wrong, Osamu?" you asked carefully, making sure to face him as you walked by his side.

Dazai flinched inconspicuously—a movement so subtle that you would never have suspected it happened. No one would have picked up on it but Dazai’s own acutely attuned brain. Despite your lack of reaction, Dazai had become painfully self-aware of his state, and it gnawed at his heart and stomach. He had become too alert, too desperate.

As Dazai turned to face you, he offered his signature smile, his eyes gleaming with that Dazai-esque indifference that tended to bewitch any human soul. He spoke with his usual cheeriness, a voice a bit too smooth: "Nothing, really!"

Your eyes widened at what you saw before you: a man wearing a mask.

It wasn’t just any mask; it was a carefully crafted artefact, like those found in tribes where tradition and mysticism reigned. It was akin to a fox mask that bore more meaning than the simple paint we see in modern days. This one differed from his other masks, which were like cheap theatre props—swapped frequently, yet with such skill that it demanded the audience's absolute focus to catch the trickery.

It felt as though Dazai himself had gone into the dark woods to personally seek the tree that suited his aesthetic taste and wit. With a hatchet forged from his own desperation and anguish, he had hacked the wood down, seizing the raw timber with bare, splintered hands.

Then, he would have spent days carefully carving the wood to create the most beautiful, intricate, and decorated mask, coloured with paints he himself concocted and dosed with the perfume he found most pleasant. At that point, could you find the heart to tear such a painstakingly crafted mask from his face?

That was the type of mask Dazai was wearing; eerily and exquisitely gorgeous, delicately donned on his face for decades, if not millennia.

The mask felt so real that you knew—something was terribly wrong.

"You can’t fool me, Osamu. Something is definitely wrong." You sounded almost angry as you glared at him, gesturing expressively to show your agitation. "If you did this to yourself, fine! But now you’re dragging ME into this whirlpool you’ve created!"

The poet remained motionless, yet his crafted smile never faltered.

"Please, talk to me..." you pleaded gently, placing your warm and soft palm on his cold, bony shoulder. "We can... work through this together, Osamu... please..."

Dazai flinched visibly this time; being caught so easily left him agonisingly horrified and humiliated. He shivered violently, but he immediately forced his shoulders to relax. He curled the edges of his smile even higher—a trained habit for which he was deeply grateful.

"Nothing is really wrong, [Y/N]-chan! Ah, you are so lovely when you worry for me; your brows knit so beautifully, like a model for a painting ready to be captured on canvas!" Dazai cooed, taking your hand between his and peering at you like an enraptured charmer.

Something sinister washed over his brown eyes, soiling them like oil, depriving the fish of oxygen and the sea birds of their ability to swim and fly.

"Osamu…" Your voice trembled; your heart ached as you felt a stinging warmth in your eyes—a warning of incoming tears. "It pains me to see you like this. What happened? Why are you acting like this? Please, speak to me… please…"

"I want to!" Dazai’s inner teen voice wailed in desperation, but the poet’s face remained unchanged, his smile unmoving. "I want to talk! I want you to hold me! Please, never let go! Only look at me—me, me, me!!"

私っ! (watashi—!)

Dazai desperately kept his eyes open; he refused to break, refused to let his tears fall or his lips so much as tremble. He couldn't bear to see you like this, but even more so, he absolutely couldn't let you know… know how deeply he despaired over "silly" things like fear, envy, jealousy, and possessiveness... The pain was too great; he couldn't let you see how fragile and pathetic he felt for being affected by such human emotions...

Dazai tried so hard to wear that ancient mask over his soft, delicate face, desperate to shield your innocent light from his own disgusting, stained soul. He earnestly modified and maintained this hardened facade—a gift worn for you. It was a cruel irony: especially now, for the first time, the poet had found something to look forward to—a life spent with you.

Suddenly, Dazai felt a shift in pressure. He had been so consumed by his own convictions that he failed to notice your approach until… you hugged him, tight and warm.

Oh, how he wanted to simply melt and die in your arms right at that moment.

"Please, Osamu, please…" You murmured softly, pleading like a little bunny begging for mercy from a wolf. "Don't be alone in this pain that I might have caused, please… I don't want you to be alone, Osamu. Please… I can take it…"

The man gasped as if he had been shot. Now, he felt true anguish—he had hurt you, and in turn, you were hurting him with your words, with your kindness. How could you possibly bear his weight? Even Chuuya couldn't. Even Mori. Even…

"We can work through this, together, remember?"

Ah! The radiance of that memory flashed before him—back when he thought a simple kiss could break him. He believed in it still, but now he felt a greater conflict: the familiar, friendly darkness he longed to sink into, and the new, flowery light he desperately wanted to consume.

Oh, how warm you felt to him… he might find peace after all. Or perhaps not; for him, all of this was fleeting, while the darkness was forever...

"Please, Osamu…" you whispered, your voice a tether to the real world. "I want to be by your side, not behind you."

Dazai could sense an angel crying; he felt those tears falling and reviving the dead seeds buried deep within him. The suicidal maniac remembered how much he felt—too much, so much that the urge to die surged through him once more. He realised how long he had used shades to blind himself, and now that he finally saw the light...

It hurt... so, so much...

I want to die. I want to die so, so badly...

You hugged him tighter. Dazai’s restraint was slowly failing; his face contorted in frustration and resistance—a childish, petulant stubbornness. He was desperately holding onto the void, but how could he, when you stood there knocking on his door so softly, so gently? You were asking for permission, unlike the usual, painful banging and the biting, accusatory shouts he was so accustomed to. You were peeling off his mask so carefully, so gently... so slowly, lest the glue should tear his skin.

And so he bit his lower lip to feel the moist iron, and hugged you in return.

"I'm afraid…" he confessed, burying his sobbing face into your shoulder, desperately pulling you close so no one else could see him being ruined before you. "I am so pathetic… how can you be with me? I'm so despicable, ugly… toxic…" His fingers clung to you like claws, as if he knew he would lose you the very moment he let go.

Dazai embraced you like a famished, trembling wolf who had been starved for months; now that he had finally snatched his prey, he had to control the craving lest he choke on the warm meal. The poet was so hungry for genuine affection that he feared he would drown in the drinking of it—that if he took it all in, he would consume you whole, and in doing so, killing you...

His fear was hellishly hot, burning and melting the walls within—walls he fought to cool with burnt hands and exhausted breaths. Dazai hated his human heart, his damned soul. Why would anyone else love his true essence when he himself despised it so?

"I'm not human, [Y/N]…" he whimpered, pulling you closer. Your calming shushes worked wonders, soothing the banshee-like wailing inside him, while your cool palm against his back slowly massaged the residue of grime from his dry shell.

"I used to feel that way, too…" Your voice was a gentle whisper, so smooth and quiet that Dazai wondered for a moment if he had imagined it. You continued your lullaby: "I won’t say I understand your anguish. I just… I want to say that inhumanity can feel different for everyone. Sorry… I think I’m failing to help you, hun…"

Dazai pulled violently away, though his hands still gripped your shoulders. He stared at you in a state of delirium, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"You did? You? My sweet [Y/N]-chan felt inhuman, too? That’s a joke, right? There is no possible way anything could make you feel like a monster! Not my darling [Y/N]!" The poet rattled the words off without a breath, his throat aching from the strain. You, however, simply huffed, looking a bit insulted. Then, you gently bonked his forehead.

"I am not some angel, you fool!" You were right, of course, but Dazai’s stubborn head still insisted on seeing you as a higher being. "Sure, you had it worse, but that doesn't mean other people can't have shitty lives, too!" You threatened your lover with a wagging finger.

"I was seen as an oddball more often than not, you know? Too diligent, too 'right'—whatever that meant. People looked at me like I wasn't human. Some even said I'd 'lost' it… even my friends." You began your ramble, while Dazai simply stared at you with clear, calculating eyes, as if he were trying to decode this strange yet adorable behaviour.

"Like, what does it mean? If humanity could be lost, could it be restored? Or was it something pure; once stained, thus forever ruined? Do we really want to be something unachievable, something truly inhumane to be human? Like angels, the breath of the Divine? I bet this stems from unrealistic beauty standards as well as an excuse to hide one's own insecurities..."

You kept talking, huffing and puffing as you critiqued vertical collectivism and neoliberalism. You rambled about missing Shibuya and its small shops with their cute, tasty goods; you spoke of yearning for libraries and the simple time to read. Dazai stood there, a little stunned and dazed, beginning to wonder.

Why did he want to connect with you? How were you any different from the others he had met? Ango, Kunikida, Fukuzawa, Atsushi… Yosano, Ranpo, and even Akutagawa… they were all parts of a world he merely navigated.

No... just like Mori, Fyodor, Chuuya, and Odasaku... you were one of the rare few who truly piqued his interest—those who could see through the static. Dazai didn't just want to observe you; he craved your company... He wanted to be part of the reality you were huffing and puffing about.

And that terrified him more than anything—so much so that he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and burst into a long, ugly cry.

Dazai was slowly realising that he didn't need to make grand gestures to be with you. He didn't need to be the "best" to have your soft fingers trace his frame, or to woo you further just to make you crave his ghostly presence. He didn't have to tear down buildings to keep your attention. All he needed was… unconditional love.

At that very moment, you looked like a pouty, fuming bunny, fanning your long ears and stomping your little feet with soft "thuds." Dazai’s eyes widened—red and wet, but filled with amazement. Here he was, an absolute, chaotic mess, being scolded by a bundle of soft, clever fluff. The detective couldn't help it; he burst into loud, belly laughter, pulling you into a crushing hug.

"You are such an anomaly, [Y/N]! I love you!" the poet chimed.

You stood there, breathless and flustered; his sudden shift from a dark, crushing depression to such radiant affection had given you emotional whiplash. You knew this hadn't "cured" his sour, dark thoughts—and you hadn't aimed to save him, anyway. But you were glad that your words had stirred his still, deep waters. Perhaps, you thought, your rambling had finally grounded him.

Then, suddenly, you realised something.

"...Is it about those rumors?"

Dazai jolted; he pouted, snapping his head away to avoid your eyes. You couldn't believe it. "Osamu..."

"Please, don't… It's embarrassing enough as it is," your wounded poet pleaded with a contrite, pathetic look. You couldn't help but imagine him as a puppy who had barked a tad too loudly and now deeply regretted it. You tried your damndest not to let your mind wander into the morbid possibilities of what Dazai might have actually done…

You let out a deep sigh. There was no reason to cry over spilt, spoiled milk—even if it was milk you had once hoped to use for baking something sweet. You were a forgiving person; you had already prepared yourself for this after learning how deep Dazai's mental issues truly went—deeper than any roots, for sure. You gently stroked the poet’s messy, soft hair and nuzzled his forehead.

"Let's just forget all this and move on, alright? You can always come to me and cry into my shoulder, my little puppy," you said with a smile. Dazai clearly did not appreciate the nickname. In fact, he looked absolutely mortified, which only made you giggle a bit too obviously.

In a fit of playful retaliation, Dazai reached out and pinched your cheek.

Finally, the heavy, dark clouds of the mind drifted past, washing over you both with the familiar scent of petrichor and the weight of hope. Both of you were drenched in emotions and tears, yet smiles remained on your lips. Dazai felt lighter; it was as if his soul had been distilled by your little creek—clear and teeming with koi. It wouldn't fix him—it wasn't supposed to—but at the very least, your support made his existence bearable. It gave him the will to walk on this cold rock a little while longer.

"You— You two haven't kissed yet?!" Atsushi almost choked on his coffee, eyes round with shock. You found his reaction endearing, but you couldn't help but smirk at the sheer innocence and simple assumptions a teenage boy would have about couples. You decided to tease him further.

"Have you ever seen Dazai kissing anyone, hm?" you asked the bewildered weretiger in a calm voice.

Atsushi’s hands froze around his mug, the rising steam tickling his sensitive nose. He began to ponder the question as if the answer should be obvious, only to find that the reality was far more elusive than he had first assumed.

"Like, have you actually seen him kissing anyone? On the lips?" You repeated the question while coyly tapping a finger to your lips. While you did want to tease him, you also wanted Atsushi to think critically, treating it like a makeshift detective exercise. The mockery was just a reflex; you’d clearly spent too much time around Dazai.

The more the weretiger pondered, the deeper the flush on his face became. It dawned on him that despite the countless times he’d seen Dazai flirt, he’d never once witnessed an actual kiss. The question sparked a sudden curiosity to ask the other agency members, only to be instantly replaced by a wave of bashful shivers.

Your inquiry might have seemed pointless at first. Why would it matter if a notorious womaniser like Dazai had kissed others? It was easy to assume a man like him would be naturally physical in his flirtations. However, once you dug deeper, you realised that all of those thoughts were merely assumptions.

Kunikida was the prime example of someone who projected his own desires onto Dazai, envying his colleague's forwardness and romantic nature. The blonde was a poet himself, yet he lacked the flexibility to let himself swim in the warm stream of sensuality. His firm stand on heteronormative and monogamous preferences was petrifying his softness. While their suicidal maniac was clearly beyond such limitations, who could say for sure? No one else in the Agency had ever been a witness.

"Oh? What do we have here?" Yosano peered into the conversation, her entrance marked by the distinct click of her heels. As she ordered a strong coffee, you relayed the topic of the discussion in a clerical manner, while Atsushi blushed like a shy schoolboy caught doing something naughty. The doctor’s interest was piqued, and she flashed us her signature smirk before letting out a deep, knowing sigh.

"It's no use, huns. Dazai is an elusive man and won't drop a hint for the life of us; and if he did, it would be akin to solving the Da Vinci Code."

Yosano sighed deeper still and took a brave swig of her coffee. Atsushi smiled politely, still holding his cup like his only safe space, while you rested my head on the back of the cafe's sofa. Everyone agreed with her; Dazai was a prankster who would only tell truths in riddles because it was more exciting for him. The only one who might have known anything about him was Ranpo, but the "boy" had zero interest in such frivolity.

Sigh

Nevertheless, your words had opened Atsushi’s mind, and now the boy felt guilty for assuming such unsavoury things about Dazai. You and Yosano sweetly assured him that he’d done nothing wrong; you were even proud that the weretiger had put effort into thinking through the puzzle like a true detective. The doctor even gave him an encouraging pat on the back. You were glad Dazai had such a caring junior.

However, now the thought followed you—the question was supposed to be playful, but it stuck to you like a leaf on the surface of your clear inner creek. You hadn't intended for it to be so deep; you simply asked what popped into your head to tease Atsushi. Yet that quip had morphed into an aching question you wished to ask Dazai himself. You wondered whether the cat would bite your curious tongue.

Fortunately, life with him wasn't all doom and gloom. On rare occasions, Dazai seemed more human than he had ever been.

April had rolled around. Your poetic lover spontaneously asked you on a date to view the cherry blossoms at Mitsuike Park. He claimed he preferred walking under the "pink rain" rather than sitting on a mat amidst the distracting chatter of the world. You found it romantic—all the more so because it was rare for him to ask you out—so you seized the moment with a smile.

You both decided to take an extra step to honour local traditions, so you each wore a kimono. Dazai even brought a Yokohama hand fan made of hand-dyed cotton. The detective managed to outdo you with his authentic look, which he leisurely teased you about throughout the date. He was lucky you were such a forgiving clerk—especially since he spent the afternoon clandestinely shielding you from the sun.

At the park, you both strolled through the picturesque landscape at a comfortable pace. It made sense why Dazai had chosen this place; every corner of the park looked as if it had been meticulously organised by the brushstroke of a painter. Soon, you came across another couple walking a happy puppy. The sight of the fluffball seemed to personally offend your poet to the point of wincing in disgust. You imagined him staring at a scroll of poetry only to spot an ugly blot, ruining its inner beauty. You found his reaction quite endearing and couldn't help but chuckle.

"You really do not fancy dogs, do you, Osamu?"

Dazai subtly pouted at your remark; it was barely visible, but you could spot those puffed-out cheeks from miles away. In moments like these, you tended to forget that he could be a rather crafty, mischievous little devil.

"Is it because of their undying loyalty that you find them disagreeable, hon?" you added with a teasing smirk.

The poet frowned and stared at you like a petulant kitten caught off guard. You could even imagine him flicking a phantom tail in irritation.

"You're sometimes too clever, [Y/N]," he murmured, then lightly pinched your nose in retort.

Offence is the best defence, as they say.

"Unfaltering loyalty is the greatest folly, my dear! It's irrational and yields not an ounce of self-righteous satisfaction. Besides, this park was meant to sustain the bark of trees, and not those of canine felons!" the poet declared with flair, emphasised by a snap of his fan. He pointed it upward as if to add more drama to his statement, while you stood there rubbing your nose.

Luckily for you, the damage wasn't severe.

The pond and pathway were strewn with flower petals. As you approached the water, its reflection was constantly skewed by the falling blossoms. Each ripple had its own rhythm, a silent, vibrating melody. The cherry blossoms eased even the mind of a charred heart; the pastel, rosy colours were soothing, never bright enough to prick the vision. You saw a quiet rain of pink, whereas Dazai saw a slow, descending twirl of painted flakes. He felt their tender surface—petals like gentle, innocent kisses.

A flicker of thought crossed his mind as he pressed the bamboo of the fan against his lips. He outstretched his arm in a smooth, deliberate motion, attempting to intercept the pink runaways. To your surprise, a solitary petal settled right onto Dazai's delicate, plump palm.

Dazai’s eyes widened just a fraction in mild disbelief that this pure miracle had actually favoured him. However, his expression soon dissolved into a melancholic romanticism. The poet toyed with the pink petal for a moment, twirling it between his lean digits; then slowly—ever so gently, as if cradling a fairy—Dazai pressed the petal to his lips.

He felt its creamy texture—fragile and thin, yet somehow grounding and breathtaking. The detective seemed to want to keep that petal pressed against his lips forever.

Then another thought pierced his mind.

"I wonder..." he murmured, "if your lips would have the same taste?"

He asked the question as if to no one. You looked at him curiously, your cheeks flushed and your chest unbelievably hushed. You felt as if you had intruded upon a private fairy tale, and Dazai was its natural spirit—not the centre of the story, but the reward of the magical journey.

For a moment, Dazai’s presence felt entirely spectral—unreachable, frail, and distant. Even though he stood right beside you, in your eyes, he looked far away, with only a mere glimmer of his silhouette remaining.

What a bizarre delusion.

You even forgot his question; it was left behind in reality while you were lost in this fantasy. You imagined white, vulpine ears and tails on Dazai, as if he were a fox spirit seeking your breath. Perhaps that was why nobody ever saw him kissing anyone. As you reached this conclusion, you found you didn't really mind him being a kitsune with many fluffy tails after your soul.

After all, it wasn't as if you were just after those comfortable, soft tails that would make the best napping spot.

Absolutely not.

Now that you had begun examining those "ears" of his, you wondered what other animal features would suit Dazai.

Soon, the poet hummed, his lips puckering and his brows furrowing. It seemed he had realised what he just said, forgetting to mind his manners before an audience—even if that audience was only you. A wave of embarrassment washed over him as he attempted, but adorably failed, to hide his blush with the tiny petal, forgetting he held a far better shield in his hand. The pale colour of the flower only served to highlight the contrast of his flushed cheeks. His eyes glowed with a bashful youthfulness that held you spellbound.

"What are you pondering so deeply, dear?" He had noticed your studious expression.

"I wonder whether cat or fox ears suit you better," you answered with natural calmness, your fingers solemnly pressed to your chin.

The sheer absurdity of your remark stunned him into a momentary silence before he burst out laughing. It sounded so open and unrestrained that you could sense your date truly relaxing. It was a joyous, hearty, and boyish laugh—a genuine belly laugh that even brought tears to his eyes.

"Oh my, is that truly the only thing weighing on your mind, [Y/N]? What a carefree, burdenless clerk you are~" He wiped a tear from his elated eyes, flashing you an eager grin.

"It's a very serious matter, I’ll have you know, Mr Detective," you insisted, nodding with the seriousness of a professional. You even crossed your arms over your chest to enhance the look.

"Hmmm... is that so?" Dazai purred, his voice dropping into a low, vulpine register to humour you. He leaned in, the bamboo ribs of his fan clicking as he unfurled it to shield you both from the world. You froze; the air between you suddenly felt charged, electric and ticklish all at once. As his lips inched closer, your heart gave a violent squeeze...

Then he placed the rosy petal between your lips—the kiss of a cherry blossom. You felt the creamy texture you had imagined, and it had more velvetiness than you expected. The warmth that Dazai shared with you through the flower made your chest feel unbelievably mellow and fuzzy. This enclosed, sweet moment soon ended as your date purred softly and backed away to get a better look at your flushed face.

"Hmm... My, my, [Y/N]. Your breath has made the petal smell far more enticing. I wonder," he mused, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "if it would taste just as thrilling if I were to brew it into a tea~?"

The poet smirked with devilish satisfaction as he coquettishly spun the petal between his fingers. His sly trickery sparked a storm inside your chest, and the sheer bite of your crimson cheeks left you speechless. Perhaps you had grown too soft towards this impish detective, but you were also glad to see him smile so freely in your presence—even if it meant falling prey to his clever tricks and witty remarks.

All thoughts about Dazai's kissing habits left your mind completely, like a dove released soaring upwards, but instead of attaching a message to her claws, you set her free. It didn't matter whether he kissed people frequently or not. Your relationship with your detective was your own business—unique and messy in its own right. It was up to you two how it progressed, and not to the digital gods of Yokohama.

And so, the hanami date ended with the two of you strolling idly through the vast park, huddled together. A gentle breeze shook hands with the cherry branches and caressed the pond, whisking away pink flakes into a swirling dance. Even the sunset blessed your peaceful day with golden hues, painting some petals white and others dark.

Since you knew that Dazai would always find his way into your place, you didn't bother closing the windows anymore, or the balcony door whenever the summer was particularly hot—like tonight.

You have questioned him about his habits a few times, but since he never gave you a "straight" answer, you stopped worrying about it. Reasoning with uncommon folk like the members of the Agency would only drive you mad. Besides, you thought it was unfair to fit them into boxes that had never been crafted for them before. All you had to do was be kind to them—and to yourself.

The night was particularly warm, so you left the balcony open, letting the breeze play with your ghostly curtains. The fabric waves like nymphs dancing idly during the quiet of the dark hours. The soothing spectacle and the whisper cast a sleeping spell on you, so you left the scene and slid under the blanket.

Before Hypnos put you to rest, he let your mind wander for a bit. You wondered about how your lover viewed the world. Did he also see his own nymphs dance before his eyes at certain dates? Time? Periods? How did the poet view the sun dipping into the Pacific, and the rise of it illuminated his day, perhaps his mind, too?

The moment you thought you were alone in your beloved bed and ready to submit to the realms of dreams, you sensed a new weight descend next to you. It did startle you at first, but soon you relaxed with a soft huff—you knew it was him.

Speak of the Devil.

You didn't expect him to come tonight. Although you never knew when a whim of spontaneity seized his scrupulous mind, just tonight you didn't feel like he would come. How come? You didn't know; it was just a weak hunch. You wondered why you believed that.

Perhaps because it was such an ordinary day, nothing in particular happened at the Agency. You were mostly preoccupied with paperwork; other clerks tapped their keys peacefully and diligently, Ranpo munched on his usual snacks, the detectives chatted as they always did, and even Kunikida seemed less agitated today.

Now that you thought about it, Dazai hadn't caused any mischief or chirped any of his habitual quips during the day. Perhaps it was too ordinary—so ordinary that you failed to notice anything unusual, simply because you had grown accustomed to their extraordinariness. Perhaps Dazai relied on that mundane performance of ordinare.

Suddenly, your train of thought had been interrupted by a new sensation. Your poet nudged closer to you, hugging you more tightly than before, nuzzling between your shoulder blades. Maybe he thought you were sound asleep?

"I know you're not sleeping, [Y/N]..." he murmured softly.

Oh

Dazai sounded a tad petulant, as if he felt hurt by your unresponsiveness. You concluded that because he squeezed you harder, but not uncomfortably. Yet.

You couldn't help but chuckle softly at his behaviour.

"You're so mean, [Y/N]..." he pouted and proceeded to bury his face deeper into your back.

"How am I mean, Osamu?" You asked curiously, attempting to face him, but the manchild stubbornly kept you locked in place. The detective was giving you a full-blow octopus hug.

"...you didn't pay any attention to me... even now..." Dazai murmured softly. You were shocked to hear him so pensive, but then you realised that you were, indeed, so busy today that you forgot to greet him properly. And now you pretended to sleep...

Wait a minute.

"Hold on, Osamu, you didn't even say a word today!" You managed to roll in his arms to face him with suspicion. Dazai was pouting spectacularly with puffed-up cheeks, and his face was dusted with radiant blush. He was even tearing up.

"Because... I wanted you to approach me first, [Y/N]..."

"You should have said that. I can't read your Rubik's Cube of a brain."

"That would defeat the whole purpose of 'first approach'!"

"Uh-huh, should've asked someone else to do it for you, Mr Detective. You're an expert at that kind of thing, aren't you?"

Dazai GASPED at your audacity! He clutched the shirt over his heart and let out a low, pained growl so convincingly that you nearly believed him. Nearly. That brat.

You weren't planning to fall for his theatrics, so you pinched his nose. However, Dazai expected that, so once you reached for his face, he grabbed your wrist with a smirk and pinned you down to your bed. Needless to say, you were stunned; not only were you tricked so ruthlessly, but your detective also used force to trap you.

As your eyes met, the silence settled between you two as dust—light yet heavy. The way he looked at you made you catch your breath; something much deeper was in his mind—his eyes darkened despite the softness of his smile playing on his pale lips. A strange tension was building up in the air that you felt physically, as if you could count each spec of dust landing on your skin.

And then, a rustle.

You tensed up at the sound until you jolted at the electric shock caused by his touch—Dazai brushed your hair from your face. You both blinked, then he chuckled at the irony of the world.

"Guess that eases... the tension..." The poet chuckled further, suppressing it with a bent, lean finger. He gave you such a sweet, winsome smile with a gentle tilt of his head that your heart skipped a beat, forgiving all his "crimes." Reluctantly, your mind painted Dazai's features in a divine light—an angel who had fallen from the sky on a whim simply to pay you a visit. You cringed inwardly, yet your mind also bloomed under his radiance and touch.

But before your mind could sink deeper into the pond of dopamine, you noticed your lover's odd silence; his eyes were clear yet empty—calculating, perhaps? The poet loomed over you like a marble statue, hypnotising you to join his lovely petrification.

It was as if this moment of stillness were the only way to capture and admire the beauty of an emotion, such as this—pure affection.

A stone would not shift a muscle, nor would an eye avert from its lover. The skin would always maintain its honest, flushed colour, and the expression of the countenance would never shy away from true agape and unyielding devotion. Was love meant to be clear water—ever-changing, and always quenching the many? For many more would guard its shore in return...

Then he tapped his fingertips against your plush cheek—a touch as light as a feather, but with a soul heavy with weather.

"I... want to kiss you... right now, [Y/N]..." Dazai murmured, his voice trembling, as uncertainty rushed into his eyes. You stayed silent.

"I... it must happen tonight... it... has to..." Now your lover was wincing in agony, a visible battle of will. You were speechless at his expression—the inner conflict unravelling before your eyes. You marvelled at him like a piece of exquisite art, a man whose existence was as coveted as the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. However, you were the one who was given the private tour...

No

You lifted your hand to catch the silent tear rolling down his cheek. The act made Dazai's breath hitch in surprise, for he was unaware of his own weeping. So tormented was his soul.

"Why tonight, Osamu? Why must it happen tonight?" you asked gently, like a curious cat offering comfort and soft fur to pet.

The poet flinched at your words, as if he were caught under a sudden spotlight in a theatre—utterly and completely unprepared for an act he had never practised, let alone heard of. However, Dazai soon sighed and slumped against your shoulder, hiding in your warmth.

"It’s the day... I was born... and I... it shall be the day when anything significant in my life happens, even my own death," he said without faltering, his grip on you tightening. His words vibrated through you like a verdict of punishment that no one had imposed on him but himself.

You had already realised that death would always surround him, whether you or he liked it or not. It wasn't easy to acknowledge that fact. There were even days when you had a hard time finding peace with it—evenings filled with sobs and tears seen only by the setting sun. You had to accept it and grow with it: this lethargy coated with narcotic honey. That was his essence, and denying it would be denying his very existence, or lack thereof.

A slight shiver ran down his spine, and then you felt a bit of wetness on your shoulder. You understood that words would only wound him more, and therefore, you resorted to physical calming; you tenderly threaded your fingers through his dark, dishevelled hair—silken fur belonging to a lone, black cat who sang melodies of the damned, yet sought comfort from the ordinary. A simple hug from a human.

Dazai needed neither salvation nor a saviour; you were neither of those to him, and never would be—you knew that, too. Even when he clung to you as a drowning man, literally or figuratively; even when he slumped against you like a dead weight for comfort; and even when he cried on your shoulder and purred a stream of poetry dedicated solely to you. You were his soft sofa, a cat sanctuary, a fountain of respite—but never the one who would defeat death and cure his inherent void.

You sighed and rolled over, pushing Dazai away because it was getting too sweaty under the covers for your liking.

"It’s too hot, Osamu"

"But I’m cooooold~" he whined, clinging even harder to you like a needy koala. Your sigh grew even deeper. Your hand found his tummy, then gently squished it.

"You should eat more, Osamu. You’d feel less cold."

"Buuuuut my metabolism is quickkk and mercileeeeeeeeeessss—I can’t eat that much, [Y/N]-chaaaaaan," the poet complained pathetically, extending his vowels to tire your soul even more.

You looked at him; your eyebrows went up so high that you almost pushed all your forehead ridges out of sight. You also squinted to the point that your eyes looked like two slits. The expression was a visible, if not exaggerated, display of doubt.

"You’re not fooling anyone with that, Osamu, you cheeky brat."

In response, Dazai puckered his lips and put on the best puppy eyes he could muster. But you had grown immune to his tricks, so instead, you attacked him with tickles and raspberries.

How dareth he challenge thee!

Soon, the night sailed smoothly into a tranquil, starry sea filled with the joyful chimes of two people giggling and tickling. Pillows were tossed and thrown around—a few missed the mark, and one or two kissed the offender. These two travellers were slowly navigating the volatile yet beautiful nature of a very deep, human love.

The kiss

It happened on a rainy day.

On a nasty, rainy day with depressing, harrowing clouds.

You were walking fast to get back home as soon as possible. It was raining cats and dogs and your umbrella was at its wits' end.

You really didn't want to get wet. Too many clerks caught a cold and you didn't want to leave the Agency understaffed. To some extent, you wondered if the umbrella yokais were having revenge on you and your colleagues for losing so many of your old umbrellas in the past...

Suddenly, you stopped in your tracks, in a half-bent pose with your umbrella hoisted high up above your head.

You froze in place like a frightened small animal—a silly mascot if you will. You had no idea why, but you sensed great danger; something terribly scary was watching you.

Something very ominous and eerie.

You stood there, trembling—out of fear, out of cold. When your teeth began to chatter, you grew impatient and irritated at your inaction. Therefore, you braced yourself and straightened your back, meeting the eyes of the dead.

And you gasped sharply.

There, in the alleyway, stood a hunched man; tall with eyes round like two saucers, yet only their edges were white for the gaze was mostly filled with his dark, round voids.

Like two solar eclipses staring at you.

The Earth.

You instantly recognised him—it was Dazai.

Your Dazai.

Needless to say, you were in a deep stupor seeing him like this... but your freezing body urged you to act fast. And so you approached the man and asked if everything was alright. Your voice trembled with worry, like an autumn leaf fighting against the beating, merciless winds.

The poet simply stared at you—he was taking notes of your shivering body, like a precise device calculating the frequency of vibration around your frame; the wet feet, raindrops trickling down your locks, and the blushing tips of your nose and fingers. Also, your lips, how they flexed and twisted as they moved...

"Were they making a sound?" he wondered as if in a trance.

The world felt like a highly dense water, like a semi-transparent kisel with no flavour or colour. Dazai's body felt heavy yet weightless, hard to move, and your voice was muffled. The poet felt in high alert but his mind was also so sluggish with the rain... Was it raining?

Then he slumped onto you, his face on your shoulder.

"[Y/N], [Y/N], [y/n]..." he kept murmuring, as if chanting. You were confused and tried to gently shake him, but soon you yelped as you felt his shaking arms wrapping around your body, still murmuring your name, as if he was trying to find an answer to his woes.

Dazai was drenched, but his body wasn't shivering from cold, but from something else. You were alarmed; was he having one of the episodes? You almost desperately tried to get a hold of him, to look into his eyes—there was no resistance, yet he couldn't find the strength to release you from his deathly grip.

However, for a moment longer, he let you hold his shoulders and peer into his bottomless eyes. You were speaking in that lovely, purring voice, yet the poet heard no words; mere waves bouncing in around his ear canals and drums.

He wasn't sure if he heard you speak—or was it the grey rain susurrating into his auditory organs?

Dazai then noticed your wet clothes. Without speaking, he took off his trench coat and draped it over you. Shaken, you simply stared at him with your deep, worrying eyes. Only now you noticed how much smaller he looked without his coat—naturally, you've seen him without it before, but at this very moment you realised how much that piece of light armour played a great part in his disguise.

The poet was tall but without his cloak, he looked frail and thin.

The two figures simply stood motionless under the heavy rain. The little water missiles raided the surface of your umbrella, bouncing off in the form of dissipating rochocets. The musk of the wet concrete surrounded the space between you two, making the chill feel uncomfortably biting and the smell sharply pricking inside the nose.

Soon, you couldn't hold it anymore and gently slapped Dazai's cheeks, forcing him to look at you. He didn't seem too shocked by your action; he simply stared at you with curious, blinking eyes. At least you felt like you were making progress at bringing his mind back to Earth.

"I'm taking you to my place, Osamu," you said firmly and began dragging him along. The poor poet was confused but he offered no resistance—he followed you like a lost puppy.

Once at home, you wasted no time taking off your outer clothes and Dazai's. The lanky man was acting like a stunned animal with wide eyes, but he listened to you obediently. You were thoroughly drying his hair, with a change of clothes lying next to you ready, when you noticed how freezingly cold his skin felt. You also noticed that his bandages were soggy and falling apart.

You bit your lower lip; you wanted to give him a hot bath, help him get washed and then help him bind. However, you weren't sure how comfortable your delicate poet was about this idea—you didn't want to invade his sanctuary that he so carefully, perhaps even meticulously crafted. So you asked him to go ahead and clean himself up first. Dazai noticed your concern.

"Do you want to see what lies beneath these... discoloured ribbons of armour of mine?"

You took a long look at his soft face; you weren't sure if the rain or something else wet his features to make them look round and puffy, almost fragile, almost innocent... Then, you shook your head.

"I'd never ask you to tear your second skin to satisfy my superficial curiosity, Osamu." To which Dazai dropped his gaze like a shy puppy.

"But… Don't you want to see?" he peered at you meekly. You gave him a gentle smile as you exhaled through your nose, feeling lovingly protective of him. Your palm gently rested on his shoulder, where his bandages slyly tried to slide away and expose his secrets.

"I only want to see what you want me to see, hun; whatever you want to show me, or tell me, I want to watch and listen, Osamu."

Dazai really wanted to show you... he really did, he trusted you! However, Dazai was struggling to trust himself... his inner teen was screaming and kicking, pulling him back by the sleeves. Calling him names: "Betrayal! Traitor! A wuss! Weakling! Push them away! Don't ignore me!! Look at me, only me!!!"

The poet was conflicted; you could tell that by his watery eyes, by how his lips quivered in pain and confusion. He was at a loss. Dazai didn't know what to do for once.

Then you hugged him.

You carefully hugged his head, nuzzling his crown while pressing his face softly onto your shoulder. Dazai froze—he was still paralysed by indecision and blizzarding emotions. You began rubbing slow circles on his back with your palm, with your fingertips.

His mind was racing, multiple scenarios from the past rushing to offer an optimal solution, but all of them were dragged across the mud created by his mental struggles. Tainted, shattered, distorted. A true, frustrated agony—the detective's wit was exceptional and trained; however, his mind was plagued with a void that made them slow, like a horse galloping relentlessly on a treadmill, exhausted yet making no progress whatsoever.

Then Dazai heard crying. Only then did he notice that his eyes had been wide open this whole time, stinging and drying... but he wasn't crying, nor could he feel your tears. He frantically moved his eyeballs around to find the source of the sound; he was sure you lived alone and had very few visits from friends, relatives, or colleagues. So, no one else could possibly be here...

Until the poet looked inward and saw a teen sobbing, shedding big, ugly tears, and gripping his messy, dishevelled hair. Dazai was stunned. He saw his younger self, a mere boy, who was brave and strong, now losing all his composure and rubbing his wet, soiled face.

"Don't leave me!" he wailed with a half-sobbed voice, like a radio he kept forgetting to dust and fine-tune.

Dazai stiffened more, but now his shock had answers—all his teenage self wanted was unconditional love and warmth, the kind that left no room for fear of abandonment. No daggers, metaphorical or real. This teen Dazai was afraid to be forgotten, pushed away to be with you. So, the poet did one thing that was logical at that moment:

He approached his younger self and hugged him.

"We are in this together, little one," he cooed with his own tears squeezing through his eyelids. The teen Dazai shuddered, bewildered and gasped but soon he, too, hugged himself back, clinging to his future self. Nails digging into the coat.

"You promised... you promised me! Us!" he whined, still having some fire in him despite how ruined and messy he looked, despite the rivers running down his puffy cheeks. The poet chuckled at his own young bravery and petted the boy.

"I did, and there's still time, alright? I am not letting you go, lil one..."

Now, back to reality, Dazai gasped as if he had just emerged from deep waters, his face wet with sweat and silent tears. You moved back to look at him, wiping his tears gently with a smile.

You were so patient with your poet; it made his heart ache.

"[Y/N], I... I want you to see them..." he made a bashful pause, still not used to being vulnerable, "what's underneath the bandages..."

Moments later, the bathtub was filled with hot, steaming water. The wet clothes and bandages lay discarded in the sink and the wash bin, and the bathroom held the warm touch of mist. Not even the fogged mirror could catch a peek at you two.

Dazai went first, as his body felt the coldest. He held himself, arms wrapped around himself, carefully dipping his toes into the tub water—he shuddered at the sharp contrast in temperature at first, lifting his leg back from the hot surface. But after looking at your encouraging, warm smile, the poet courageously sat down in the tub, causing a small ripple in the water. Soon, he eased into the new, aquatic hug.

Your partner hugged his knees, expecting you to join him in the soak, but you smiled amusedly and shook your head gently. Dazai looked so precious like this; his wide eyes emanated innocence and curiosity, making him appear even more fragile and youthful. You slowly approached him to plant a soft kiss on his temple.

"I will help you wash, Osamu," you explained, lifting a lathered shower pouf, prepared to scrub your poor poet's body squeaky clean.

Dazai was startled by your intentions, but instead of a protest, he hiccuped and hid his flustered face between his knees. He was not used to being taken care of—not like this, with such warmth and tenderness. It felt almost overwhelming, but Dazai wanted this; he had to let it happen, for you...

And for himself.

You were meticulous in foaming his body, careful not to cause any further damage. You saw all kinds of scars marring his exposed skin; you could hardly believe your eyes. The Dazai you had known from the beginning didn't emit such an aura; he was an elusive jester who knew more about the world than anyone else could imagine—perhaps he even knew more about you than you knew yourself.

However, seeing these etched marks convinced you otherwise. It was quite strange; people tended to believe that scars added character to a man's soul, but you saw it differently. The person before you now appeared as a gentle soul with a hollowed heart—one that was meant to beat for romance, but instead was forced to bleed for violence.

The poet's body was his canvas and his scars—his ink; stories written by others and, you suspected, by himself as well.

You washed the soap from his shoulder closest to you with water, exposing yet another wound of the past. Your gaze lingered, tracing its contour and depth like a cartographer, and your hand subconsciously caressed the smooth skin with reverence. You then leaned in and brushed it with your lips.

Dazai sharply inhaled the moment he felt your kiss on his sensitive skin, but he didn't move away. He endured the sensation—not because he disliked your touch, but because of its sheer unfamiliarity. The poet's mind was screaming; he felt needles pricking his arms, which he hugged tighter, gripped with his fingers. Yet he wanted this, he wanted...

To overcome this hurdle of humanity.

You nuzzled his shoulder to ground him and hugged him by the waist. You didn't mind the soap residue getting on you; comforting Dazai took priority—it always did. You loved humans with an equal measure of care, especially those dearest to you, and now, this silly poet was taking the lead. You smiled to yourself; the thought was amusing, so you rubbed your cheek against his scarred, bony skin.

This time, Dazai let out a deep, relaxing exhale. He then gently turned his head to look at you; his cheeks were puffed and red, and his lips were puckered. You could tell that he was struggling, but that didn't stop him from being himself and pouting at your teasing behaviour.

"You're so mean, [Y/N]... you seem so calm and caring, yet here I am... losing myself to someone who never hurt a fly in their life..." Dazai complained with a theatrical sigh.

Then, he shyly glanced at you.

"...It's my turn now. To clean you..."

You raised an eyebrow at his demand and couldn't help but smile.

"But I'm not done cleaning you, honey~" You teased, then thought for a moment longer. "Don't tell me this is your limit? Too much attention on your persona, hm~?"

Dazai responded by narrowing his eyes at you.

You were about to chuckle at his adorable behaviour, but the detective stifled it by grabbing your cheeks with one hand. Dazai lifted your face until your eyes met; he felt challenged.

"I can't let you have all the fun, now, can I, dear~?" The poet purred darkly with a twisted, suppressed smile. You had no time to think before he pulled you into the tub, splashing water all over the floor and walls. You squealed and braced yourself, but Dazai held your head above the water, ensuring you remained unharmed despite his drastic move and volatile soul.

"Comfortable?" You heard him murmuring, with that usual hint of mischief in his smooth voice. As you looked up, you saw his eyes had that sharp look, and his lips curled into a feline smirk. You also noticed that you were on top of him… and that he was holding the shower pouf.

This was a good reminder that your lovely Dazai had the skilful hands of a little thief.

You tried to play it cool, putting on your most unimpressed, sulky expression, but your rosy cheeks betrayed your intentions. Dazai noticed that little deception, of course, and proceeded to nuzzle your forehead with prideful yet tender flair.

"I promise to scrub your back to the best of my abilities, my darling~"

"Is that so?" you hummed playfully. "I knew I could trust you to watch my back, Osamu dear~" Now it was your turn to smirk and rest your chin on your arms, gazing directly into his eyes, the edges crinkling.

Dazai huffed; he could never compete with you on this field laced with saccharine domesticity. He didn't hate it, per se; he simply wasn't built for such a level of intimacy and needed more time to train his soul, lest it crystallise into a candy that melts at every warm touch.

The poet gently pinched your nose in retaliation, an act to gain some form of control over the situation. He wasn't ready to completely submit himself to you—not yet. Now, a new challenge was posed before him: to wash your back without being too rough.

Sure, Dazai was a great flirt and could woo any soul with his carefully crafted words laced with honey and milk—a voice so well-trained that he could pose as any man of any trade. Not to mention his mesmerising, slender hands, whose fingers could make any human being moan in pleasure from a simple brush of their tips.

But this was different. Here, Dazai was supposed to take care of your body. Whenever he dealt with the flesh, he was always ruthless and passionate—either using violence to tear the soul apart or forcefully grasping the living shell to feel the fullness of life and a beating human heart. Dazai didn't know how to treat an adult human being who still possessed a sense of innocence.

Suddenly, the poet heard you humming a melody. You were patient, never asking or rushing him. You were even swaying your hips and head to the rhythm of your own tune. For a moment, Dazai simply observed your peacefulness—the way the water rippled serenely and the feel of your weight against his.

He suddenly realised why he loved you so much.

Soon, the detective smiled to himself and began washing your back, starting with careful, slow circles. Dazai was used to seeing red liquids forming beneath his hands, but this time, he only saw frothy bubbles expanding from the sponge. Your back was painted white with lather.

"Hmm, you could make a great masseur, Osamu~" You sighed deeply as he washed your shoulders. You attempted to tease him but failed; his hands pressed into all the right spots, making your body thrum as you inwardly purred. Hours spent sitting by the screens at the Agency had made your back more than a tad stiff, and this kind of care made you feel like you were on cloud nine.

Dazai didn't miss your attempted quip; he huffed and flicked your forehead. "Careful now, [Y/N], you have your back exposed to me; I could pinch between your shoulder blades if you keep misbehaving~" For a split second, you sensed his dark eyes on yours, but they soon faded back into his usual mischief.

You gasped. The audacity! And here you were, trusting him with your back! Traitor!

You immediately spun around so the back of your head lay against his lean stomach. Your face was flushed with feigned irritation.

"Now, my back isn't exposed~" you murmured triumphantly, to which Dazai couldn't help but laugh. However, he soon stifled his laughter and grinned widely at your naivety. You felt a sudden sense of danger.

"Oh, really?" He hummed mysteriously. Suddenly, you felt his hands playfully but firmly squishing and kneading your belly. "But now all your vitals are exposed, my dear. You have yet to learn so many things, my poor, lovely, adorable clerk~"

Yet another gasp escaped you, but this time your red face was genuine; you felt embarrassed at your own miscalculation. Perhaps, even you have grown soft because of a certain messy, foolish, goofy yet handsome and funny detective. You covered your blushy face with your wet palms; it was a tad too embarrassing that Dazai caught you at your most vulnerable place, but you would be lying if you didn't enjoy this side of your daring poet.

Suddenly, a thought crossed your mind. It was vile but it was perfect for revenge; he had it coming.

You dramatically lifted yourself up and now were facing your partner. "Shall we talk about your 'bad behaviour', Dazai Osamu?"

Dazai froze the moment these words left your pretty lips. He didn't expect to be called on for his own actions. You couldn't tell if he started sweating or if it was all water from the tub, but what you could see was his face turning ashen white.

"W-which... bad behaviour?" The poet hesitated and tried to avoid your beautiful eyes. You used your hand to gently turn his face back to look at you.

"The one that kept me away from everyone? When you kept finding 'cute' reasons to keep me 'stuck' at your place, hm?" You lifted your eyebrow with a pout, leaning closer to him.

Dazai didn't feel bad at the time for using manipulative tactics on you. However, now that you had pointed it out to him—especially since he was trying to get better—he felt guilty. That old repentance he had followed since the day his friend left this world was now fuelled with fresh meaning and emotion.

The detective felt absolutely embarrassed; you giving him cute names and calling out on his "cringe" behaviour were overwhelming him to the point of shivering and mild nausea, so much so that he was threatening to drown himself in that very same bathtub.

"No forgiveness for my atrocious actions, dear! I deserve nothing but death! This bathtub shall be my tomb, and the water may wash away my sins! Embalm my carcass for good!" The poet gasped and slowly began sinking into the water.

"Not on my watch, Osamu!" You protested and locked him in place by showing your arms under his armpits, "You've lost those privileges the moment you decided to date me, Mr Detective; no dying or wishing for death in my presence!"

Dazai gasps at your audacity, at his tragedy of such a predicament! Had he known these conditions, he would have given them deep thought before entering into a relationship with you! Thoroughly reading the terms and conditions! The poet was very poetic about it.

"Ah, what tragedy! Even my very own lover shan't allow me to have the sweet release of death! What of the double suicide? The very epitome of romance! How could thine heart refuse such beautious end for us!"

You chuckle: "That can only happen with mutual consent, dearest; otherwise, it's murder, my love." To which Dazai throws himself back like a wounded, dramatic maiden; the back of his hand on his wet forehead and his head tilted to the side to display his delicate, lean neck. A true, despairing Drama Queen.

You huffed with amusement, soaking in the comfort of the atmosphere. Then, your eyes found the lines of his scars once more. You wondered how he felt about them—were they embarrassment? Pride? Reminders? Disappointments? Or simply the history of his life? Perhaps he still remembered where each one came from, stories he could read to children as if they were fairy tales.

Dazai looked lazily at your face, his own thoughts swirling like smoke in cold air. His gaze wasn't focused, yet he was completely present, holding you in his personal space, between his arms. You reached out to touch his face with the pads of your fingers.

"How do you feel about your scars, Osamu?" you asked curiously, desiring to learn more about your lover, no matter how deep or dark. Then, you felt a small pinch in your heart; you realised it might have been egotistical to think you had the capacity to understand his ink-stained soul—to dip your fingertips into his cold, shallow creek, only to find an elusive omut lurking beneath that you could never quite reach.

Was it sinful to desire to offer sanctuary for his tormenting heart?

Dazai's eyes hardly twitched, and his breath grew heavy, but his gaze softened even as his lips failed to smile. "Nothing, really. A mere teenage embarrassment," he hummed, tilting his head with a mouth stretched in irony.

You studied his expression in quiet, hearing only the gentle drips rippling the cooling bathwater and the sound of your shared breathing. Your eyes locked, and for once… it felt as though you could read him like an old letter stored away on a bookshelf—one that had been collecting dust and momentum, only to be finally unfolded for you.

And only for you.

"I… really wanted to kiss you back then…" Finally, Dazai sighed the words he had held for so long. You froze, as if stilling for the opening of an orchestra—an act that had been practised countless times. You felt like the only audience member in this immersive play.

Perhaps this was the only way Dazai could ever express his feelings. Instead of letters and poems written in bleeding ink, or songs of blazing love, performance seemed to be his chosen tool for relaying messages.

"That time... when I lurked around your apartment like a lone wolf, debating whether to steal you or invite you, whether to snatch your kiss by the bathroom sink or against the tree bark at the park. I couldn't decide. My mind got clouded, I was tired..." The detective began, the caress of his hand warming your cooling cheek.

"And then... like a little, lost boy, I snuck onto your balcony, into your bed..." The poet's eyes softened as if re-acting the very scene from the past, trying to inspect those feelings he failed to recognise then.

Dazai’s lips were slightly parted as his palm brushed your cheek, as if he were imagining erasing his own tears on your skin. He leaned in, his nose grazing your jawline, his deep breaths tickling your neck. You shivered—not from the cooling water, but from the sheer intensity of this esoteric intimacy. It felt like a personal ritual.

"I was so sure… that by kissing you then, it would make the night special—a morning choir meant to celebrate my birth... The day the world had the cruelty of a god to uproot my soul into the light… into life…" The poet paused, pensive—a strategic silence for you to catch your breath and for him to process his own thoughts. Then, he cupped your face to look directly at you, his touch divinely gentle.

"I wanted to share… that breath of life with yours… yet I hesitated…" Dazai grimaced, a flash of violence in his expression, as if sharing these feelings was too painful after all—so painful that he clutched the mental script until the letters became illegible. The tormented poet pressed his forehead against yours, seeking an answer to his own ailment. You felt him shaking; was that a tear forming in the corner of his eye?

Soon, you realised that your detective darling was actually shivering from the cold.

"Osamu…" You softly cupped his cheek, peering into him with a gentleness that could melt sugar. "Let’s dry ourselves first, alright? I’m not going anywhere. I will listen."

Perhaps you were an enchanter in a previous life, for your words worked wonders on the poet; or perhaps he was simply so miserably and—oh!—so hopelessly in love with you. Dazai obeyed. Before climbing out of the bathtub, which tempted him with its cold caresses, he leaned into your palm as if recharging his very soul.

Bodies padded dry with patience, hair dishevelled in haste, and skin wrapped in warm robes, both you and Dazai moved to the safety of your bed. The detective had been here many times before, and yet, tonight the scent of your room felt different—more flavorful. In his delirium, he was almost convinced that the bath had purified his damned soul and washed away the wreckage of his racing thoughts.

Oh, how naive he felt—a feeling he so missed, yet dismissed in reflex.

You gently guided him to your room, a guardian angel before his eyes. You padded across the wooden floor like a hushed kitten stealing a blissful fish—rich with iron and scent—now pulling him into your divine abode.

How could this empty shell feel such a powerful firework in his chest?

Dazai gripped his chest with such force, as if he felt guilty—as if he were committing a crime against humanity simply by being human himself. But how could he will himself to free these feelings when they felt so addictive… and so liberating?

The poet was so lost in his garden of thoughts that he didn't notice crossing the threshold. He was draped in a soft, cool blanket, like flowers being tucked away for a long, dark winter.

But those thoughts soon evaporated once he saw your soft, playful smile. Now, all he felt was the blissful, overwhelming joy of a devotee blessed by a Saint. Dazai felt such unbearable joy that he shivered—he simply wanted to sob uncontrollably on your bosom, comforted by your voice and the touch of your hands.

You giggled at the face your lover was making, unable to help feeling endeared by how raw and deep his soul was. Luckily for him, you were a merciful saint; you approached the poet and planted a soft, warm kiss on his forehead. Dazai’s breath hitched at the sacred act. He desperately pulled you into his arms, drawing you down to the bed.

At first, you were surprised, but as you felt Dazai’s persistence in keeping his face hidden, you realised he was simply too embarrassed to be seen this vulnerable. Your giggles grew louder, more open. This man—who had committed inhuman atrocities and solved puzzling mysteries that saved lives while insulting morality—was now whimpering like a scolded boy.

What a contradiction of a man.

A touch he craved because of biopsychological demands had also become the bane of his existence—fraught with morbid, soul-stripping associations and the history of his inhuman life. He desperately needed to be hugged, yet he avoided human touch like a plague. How could anyone in their right mind survive such heart-tearing agony? A throat-ripping scream, never heard in the physical world, but one that tricks the mind by choking the windpipe.

You sighed after a fit of good laughter, then petted the poor poet who had carried such a sorrowful soul for millennia.

"Do you want to keep talking or...?" You spoke softly—not too loud, yet not too quiet. You could feel the dampness spreading on your shirt, but you didn't acknowledge the wet spots outwardly; it would only break his heart further. Dazai was quiet for a beat, then shifted his head. You weren't sure if he was shaking his head "no" or simply nuzzling into you, so you chose to keep petting him.

Abruptly, he rolled over, and you ended up on top of him. It was so sudden that a short shout escaped you. Now, you were both staring into each other's eyes, as if time had frozen between you. It was so silent that you could hear his heart beating—one loud, rhythmic thrum after another. Every time you heard his ticker go haywire like that, it reminded you of how much your detective feared life; he needed control over everything to feel safe, even over his very own heart—his soul.

This moment felt like a soothing river, glazed with moonlight and drizzled with sparkling stardust. But why not snow? Those flakes were like twinkles on the earth; surely they would have been more reliable. But you both knew the truth: it was about the warmth and the comfort, not the cold touch of petrified, guarded hearts.

Two nuclei pulling at each other, slowly swirling together in a slow dance within the vacuum of a pragmatic choice of affection—a love free from societal demands. One problem had been discarded from the pile of many more yet to solve, but at your own pace. That was life.

Soon, you noticed your poet pursing his lips, his chin tilted downward with canine shyness. You likely realised what he was asking for, but you needed to be sure:

"Do you... want me to kiss you... hun?"

Dazai flinched, but held himself still; he was shivering, yet he bravely and gently nodded. Past deeds and tainted acts clouded his mind, so instead of overthinking or overanalysing, he decided it was up to you to make the call. He gave the choice to you—for once, not taking, but giving. He had gathered every ounce of his human courage and will.

For how could someone as spoiled as him take something as transparently clear as a precious crystal… like you?

Before leaning in, you caressed his cheek, softening your gaze to calm his flaring nerves. You knew how difficult these sensual moments were for him; despite Dazai’s expertise in using them as tools, he was too afraid to use them with genuine intent. Perhaps he had once felt a crush or two—ones he had hurt instead of loving.

The detective’s breathing eased, and his pupils were less jarring—stripped of the killer’s alertness. You might not have noticed every subtle change, but you knew when your lover felt more at peace… and ready.

"I am going to kiss you now, Osamu..." You whispered with hushed intent, your own desire guiding your descent toward his trembling, parted lips. You were already imagining their softness, remembering exactly how they had felt against other parts of your body.

The poet froze; the realisation that it was actually happening terrified him beyond reason. He feared your lips even as he desired them; he trusted you, he wanted you, but the act itself was terrifying. What if... this was it—the moment of truth that revealed whether you truly loved him or not?

Or whether he was even capable of love... or—

Your noses brushed, and Dazai squeezed his eyes shut with painful force, out of fear, out of rage. His heart hiccupped, and his mind was screaming, screaming!

ぞくぞく (zokuzoku) Shivering, trembling... どきどき (dokidoki) Ba-dum, ba-dum...

Dazai's heart was beating frantically, racing, in all kinds of poetic verses; he had no control. He was so nervous, nervous—!

...

And then, your lips he felt.

The sudden touch of softness made Dazai’s body relax almost immediately. He felt as if a rush of ocean waves had washed over him, taking all the tension and pain away; only the lingering lukewarmness borne of a cold past was left ruminating inside his core.

His eyes were still closed, but he was no longer terrified. No, he was feeling—feeling your lips gently savouring his. Dazai wanted to focus on the sensation, to take his time, to etch this very moment into his endlessly analysing mind like ink urgently scratched into historical records. He submitted to you; he wanted to let you kiss him at length so he could memorise every detail, lest the words get smudged.

Then slowly, the poet began moving his own lips. He was no stranger to these kinds of acts, but stranger still were the people he had met. This encounter, though, was entirely different from everything he had experienced; it had the same texture, the same touch, the same spark... but the intent was different.

This difference made the fire even more profound. Your breath had more depth, the sounds you exhaled made his mind feel hazy, and your scent was aromatic—appetising, even. Then your lips... they felt more tender, the texture richer in flavour and story.

He wanted more.

Dazai's arms moved slowly but with intention. He firmly wrapped them around your waist; one hand kept you steady while the other restlessly explored your back. His fingers kneaded into your shirt, greedily craving the feel of your flesh. He expressed his lament with a pathetic moan and a deepening of the kiss.

The detective opened his eyes—barely—and noticed it made no difference, for his vision was already blurred with sinless lust.

He had never felt this divine; it felt criminal, illicit, felonious.

But Dazai wanted to become a repeat offender. It didn't even bother him to feel as though he were reverting to his mafia roots.

"Osamu..." you moaned. The whisper was like a drop of paint falling into clear water, blooming with passion and urgency. Your voice slipped into his mind like a laced tonic, fueling a sense of reckless inebriety. Dazai felt electric, synapses firing in a frantic rhythm, yet he anchored his frenzy with a low, pained groan.

It was too much for him, but the new drug felt too sweet, too new to discard immediately. He placed his trust in you; he believed that you would stop him, bringing him to his senses should he ever go too far… a bit too much, too fast, too soon...

"[Y/N]..." Dazai whimpered, as if begging you to help him decide what to do next—whether he even had the right to. The poet clutched your shirt, bunching the fabric in a desperate grip. His breath was hot and laboured, and his mind was muffled by a thousand different cravings.

Chuuya's voice chimed in your own foggy mind—how he often called Dazai the devil. The thought made you sober up and chuckle a little; here he was, your detective, squirming beneath you, unravelled and pitiful with flushed cheeks and needy lips. You smiled softly at him.

It was your first kiss with him—on the lips—so you had gotten a bit carried away. Not that you were the only one aching to go further. However, since your mind had cleared thanks to a certain former partner of your lover, you decided it wasn’t the right time for that. Once again, Chuuya had saved Dazai. Oh, the irony~

So, instead, you soothed your trembling, eager poet with the back of your hand. Dazai gasped pathetically, whining and moaning with vulnerability—but also with an itching need for affection. And you gave it to him; you cradled his face and suddenly showered him with soft, smacking kisses and loving murmurs. You made sure that not an inch was left unattended until his face was shimmering from your lips.

"Ah! [Y/N]! H-have m-mercy...! Decency!" Dazai finally found his voice and protested feebly, flailing his arms even more weakly. He was clearly not against your shower of affection, but he felt too embarrassed to admit it. Eventually, his gasps melted into airy laughs, and his cheeks puffed with joy and comfort.

This time, your saintly duties escaped your mind, and so you offered no mercy to your lover; you proceeded to smother him with more kisses and cuddles, eventually wrapping him tightly into a blanket burrito. Dazai was red down to his shoulders and attempted—yet failed—to pout at you with an objection whose severity was akin to a spoiled kitten.

But you knew he loved every second and every inch of this moment. So much so that he would mark this day on his calendar upon returning to his apartment, and perhaps even write it down in his favourite blonde colleague’s diary. The poet would celebrate that date like an anniversary with the passion of a loyal husband. Still, he would deny any accusations of being overly zealous regarding that specific day—even to you.

That night, you two would experiment with kisses now that Dazai had graduated from his initial anxiety. It was sweet—sometimes electrifying, sometimes mellowing. Your poet couldn't believe that he would ever have this chance in his life, with you. The night was filled with endless, refreshing chatter and the soft press of lips, laughter and silent, longing stares.

Dazai cherished being held fast in your arms beneath the covers. He adored every "kiss-test" you tried on him, but most of all, he loved your forgiving soul for indulging his eccentric ideas. The moment you blessed his eyelids with feather-light kisses while cupping his soft cheeks, the poet inhaled audibly—a gasp like that of someone emerging from a chilling river with its soul-pulling, merciless flow.

The one memorable kiss that Dazai suggested trying was an upside-down kiss; he lay on the bed, then hung his head over the edge of it, and you kissed him like that. You suspected that it was his way of letting you have more control, because that particular make-out session ended up being the most passionate. His only lingering complaint was the lack of lipstick—he truly lamented not being able to leave vibrant, tell-tale marks across his skin and the linen.

After that night, you would often make fun of his shyness toward intimacy, but your lover would always turn your mockery back at you with his witty retorts; however, he would never admit that he enjoyed every teasing quip you gave him. After all, the poet loved seeing your toothy smile and the crinkles at the edges of your eyes. He even wrote a few lines of poetry about them.

Needless to say, everyone noticed the change in you two—well, more specifically, in Dazai. The detective became more expressive and charming around you, but none of it was a performance. It was all unadulterated, honest affection; he was letting his heart speak for him. This was, probably, the only time the Agency would ever see such a flicker of openness from the poet.

This shouldn't have shocked anyone, but it was too much of a stark contrast for the high-strung Kunikida and shy Atsushi. Seeing their usual suicidal maniac blushing in your presence like a hopeless romantic was a sight that gave the blonde guy a heart attack and Yosano a prideful smile. Atsushi and Tanizaki both felt uneasy at first, for they were used to Dazai being an elusive, ruthless prankster.

You were not free from his change either; you were under a constant attack of his love. Be it flowers with hidden meanings, letters written like epics, or invitations to yet another elaborate, poetic double suicide. Your lover craved your love like a moth drawn to light in the dark, yet he was finally showing some care for himself to honour your own love for him.

And, of course, Dazai would find any excuse to steal your kiss.

"A close second to suicide! Kissing and dying are both exquisite, sophisticated, delicate forms of art!" The poet announced with such flair that you wondered why he never became an actor. Perhaps he didn't want a whole audience to know that he was always performing, even beyond the stage.

You gently pinched his nose in a mature retaliation. "You're lucky I know you, Osamu; any other person would have been gravely offended by your honeyed words," you sighed with a smile.

Dazai huffed at the gentle pinch, his lips curling smoothly into a disarmingly boyish smile. It was unfair; that smile always managed to strip your heart bare and crumble any prideful defences. You felt as if the Sun itself were fooled by him, aiding his charm by powdering his features with a golden glow.

"Truly," he murmured, his eyes alight with a gentle twinkle. "I am beyond lucky to have you in this miserable life of mine, [Y/N]. Even if… even if the time is cut short, I find I already feel better about the man I am." Carefully, Dazai guided your hand to his chest, pressing your palm over his heart. He wasn't just looking at you; he was searching the very soul he had come to deeply adore.

"With you, I can keep my promise to Odasaku. With you, I can be myself—unapologetically and capriciously. With you... even the bed feels warmer and more welcome to me, [Y/N]..."

And then he kissed you. He had been inching closer and closer while he talked—the only way he knew how to steal your lips. It might have irked you, but you knew this was his way of showing affection; besides, you loved him that way anyway. Nothing had to be perfect. This was perfect for you, for him. As long as you worked together, with bandages and streams of life, things would flow and find their course.

Even if only for a moment, like the joy from diving off a cliff.

THE END

終わり  (owari)

(Phew! It's finally done! What did you expect? A real kiss from our lovely suicidal, bratty maniac isn't gonna happen so easily! Hope y'all enjoyed reading this as much as I did~)

I want to thank all my friends and loved ones for beta-reading and editing my work! Special thanks to: @cosmopolitanalienation and @wishing-on-stardust for being my beta-readers! As well as TheKapokKid, Calyptra and Elly for being my editors! All of you have been amazing support for me <3

You can read this fanfic in chapters on my AO3 or Ellipsus

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