#{ tbh... }

Er

Why she facing the wrong way???

summary: (Oda's pen danced across the paper. A single stroke at a time, he crafted him, shaping him into something magnificent, something that shone like the sun. But as quickly as he had breathed life into him, your existence had taken precedence over all else.) 

dazai osamu / reader

notes: mild yandere themes, this is ummm after PM! Dazai? but before ADA? unhealthy relationships, dazai bathes you, dependency

"Is the water too cold for you, dear?” Dazai asks, drawing out the vowels of the endearment like he used to.

He adjusts his seat next to the bath tub before dipping his hands in the water, his bandages soaking as he cups the liquid, his lithe fingers almost making contact with your sides. “I think it’s fine.” He replies to his own question after moments of your silence. 

(You don’t understand why he’s so insistent in taking care of you.)

You look down on the water, its clarity enabling you to glimpse beyond where your arms burst with vibrant colors of purple blue and faded yellow — colors you used to when looking up the sky — colors that were once emblematic with something beautiful. 

(You’re simply an individual who was once together with someone who had been special to him.)

Yet, these wounds are not from Dazai, and he has no intention to cause harm to you; it drives you insane — when you look at these marks, all they accomplish is to serve as a reminder of what you brought about to yourself when you refuse his help.

(A dear friend he had been to Dazai, and a lover to yours.)

Lukewarm water is poured on your back, cascading down the tub, inciting ripples. Dazai’s ungloved hand trails his name with his fingertips, warmth imprinted in each letter despite the coolness of his skin. “You’re awfully quiet these days.” He stops, the initials still searing. The way the soft pads on his hands treat you delicately pains you so. 

Then, you feel soap being lathered gently on your back, in repetitive, circular motion. 

These are the same hands that wield a gun, and these are the same hands that used to bring you a rose after your work — "From him," he would murmur, and you shouldn't have dismissed the notion that Oda would be lazy enough to make Dazai deliver a single rose to you. 

Knowing that the same hands can be used for a variety of purposes and that their nature is just as complex and paradoxical as the individual to whom they correspond is an alienating experience.

As if used to your silence, he continues on his task, The soap frothing as he generously squeezes more of the thick substance over his hands, an overwhelming scent of rosemary — the same one he uses — pervades the room. He rubs his palms together, making a bubble of foam and suds that shortly spreads between his fingers, before smearing it all over your back.“

“Talk to me [Name],” Dazai drawls, a playful huff escaping his lips, his hands now on your arms — he must’ve hated your silence; his fingers now digging on your back. “I miss your voice, you know?“

“There was no need for you to do this,“ You start, voice hoarse after hours of not talking. The suds slip down your forearms, leaving a moist trail in their wake. His hands working the soap into the crook of your elbows, your body limp to his advances. “Oda never asked you to.“

His hands stop at their movements. A strange silence pervaded the room, and there was a palpable sense of tension. Your ears hurt from the agonizing silence. It seemed as though the walls themselves were closing in on you as the air was so weighted with tension. The stillness persisted, lingering over the room like a foreboding cloud.

Then, Dazai gently placed his head on your shoulder, his soft locks of chocolate tickling your neck as he absorbed the warmth of your skin. He didn't give any thought whether your shoulders were soaked. An intimate act for who you both are. Too delicate. Too tender.

“Oda has nothing to do with this,“ You can feel his lips curl up into a smile from behind. “It is of my own volition.“