#loserzai

I am the number one supporter of Dazai having shaggy, mullet-like hair when he was in the mafia, because I promise you he didn’t even remember that he had hair most of the time, never mind cut it.

Your cheek rests on the pillow you are hugging, staring blankly at the television, sitting on the far side of the couch, while your roommate selfishly sprawls his legs out across the cushions – though careful not to touch you with his cold toes. One arm is behind his head with the other thrown over his stomach as his hooded gaze is looking off near the same direction as the TV, but he isn’t really watching it either. He sighs heavily, lulling his head to stare up at the ceiling instead, trying to decide if he wants to head off to bed or stay awake with you. You tried telling him you’d be alright, you were used to watching stuff alone if he wanted to head to bed, but he just wordlessly placed himself down on the other side and made himself comfortable.

Living with a boy is… different. At least, considering he isn’t your boyfriend or anything like that. You two get along; he minds his business for the most part; chores are split accordingly; and the only verbal rule in place is that you have to warn the other if you’re bringing home a friend, no matter if they’re platonic, romantic, or a one nighter. For you, this is a fairly effortless rule to abide by, considering you rarely have anyone come over to your shared place: you have three friends total – including your roommate – that you prefer leaving the apartment to go hang out with, and you’re tragically single. Not by choice either. You’ve tried, obviously, but it’s hard out there between dating apps, blind dates, and realizing hookup culture is rampaging the relationship pool, sullying the meaning and making it even more difficult to try looking for “other fish in the sea”. You want a boyfriend, badly, but it unfortunately seems that isn’t in the cards for you. Plus, it’s a little embarrassing being a virgin “at your big age”, as one of your friends joked; your other friend, bless her to the high heavens, reassured it was totally fine and it’ll happen when you decide to let it happen.

That wouldn’t feel nearly as patronizing if your roommate weren’t bringing girls over constantly.

Dazai doesn’t have any issues with finding people to hang out with, his friend group much larger than you expected, and he has zero problems finding someone to bring home either as a girlfriend-of-the-month or some random, drunken hookup. “Drunken” might be a little too rude, but you’ve noticed most times when they’re one night stands, he’s usually been to the bar. He goes often with his buddies, every Thursday through Sunday, and you usually receive a warning text message that he won't be returning home alone. That’s when you have to run to your bedroom as soon as possible, close the door, and shove your headphones in with the highest volume as you read, play video games, or just have the TV on to drown out the sounds.

You have accidentally gone out a couple times before, bravely, to the kitchen for a snack or drink – naively believing they were done – and overheard some of the things he’s saying to whoever is in there with him. You look at him differently for a few days, eyeing him up and down, skeptical he is capable of being like that, before deciding to move on, ignoring it, and definitely not wishing someone spoke to you that way.

He teases you sometimes, thinking you’re not really into intimacy, sex, or relationships in general. You told him it was incredibly ironic in the least funny way possible that he, Dazai, of all people was making fun of you for not being in a relationship or partaking in “intimacy” – you ended up turning it around and making fun of him for calling it that. He’s a total loser at heart, and you simply cannot fathom that he is drowning in options every weekend while you are exiled to utter solitude. The guy you’ve known for years that drones on and on about Pokémon cards, the video games, and the show with all its accompanying movies; Dungeon & Dragons, which he made you sit in on a few sessions with him and his buddies, and it was killing you not to make fun of them; his deep interesting in literature and poetry; and, for the love of everything good and holy, he still laughs at sixty-nine! This absolute loser is the one messing with you for “not wanting” a relationship or to sleep with people.

Oh, how wrong he is, though, since it is what you want more than anything at this point in your young life. Both of your friends have partners, making it easy for them to repeatedly tell you “you’ll find someone someday”, or flat out make fun of you for still being single and a virgin. Your roommate is getting laid at minimum four days a week, making it easy for him to also dog pile on you. And you’re sitting there, alone, hugging the nearest thing you can find just so something touches your skin: pillows and stuffed animals were your immediate choice, but sometimes you’d sneak one of Dazai’s hoodies to hug in bed, something that didn’t belong to you, something simple that you knew he wouldn’t miss for a while. Pretending it’s someone else laying with you, burying your face in the material, and – on rare nights when the loneliness overwhelms you to a point of breaking – let it soak up your tears until you pass out. It was one of the small perks of living with a boy, at least, that there were plenty of hoodies to take if you didn’t want one of your own. He also never minds sharing with you, never minds when he sees you shuffling around with it draping over your body, and never minds that it’s covered in tear stains when it’s finally returned.

With all his teasing, Dazai has taken clear notice recently you have been running off with more of his clothes, not daring to say a word, but he watches as you rummage around in the freshly washed basket of both your guys’ things after he brings it in from the complex’s laundry room – your back to him – and sees you pull out one of his t-shirts before scurrying off to your room, shutting the door, and he stares with immense curiosity at that surface, seeing the light underneath illuminated, making it evident when you walk around in there doing whatever it is you do alone. He’s thought a handful of times about just barging in, letting his nosy side get the better of him, take a peek, but he holds off, hand twitching on the doorframe as he stands there, silently wondering if you ever are wanting some company.

There is an unspoken rule you two have that both of you hadn’t realized you were following: neither of you step into the other’s bedroom. Dazai doesn’t even know how you decorated it, and you don’t know that he isn’t nearly as messy as he’s led you to believe. The idea you have of his sanctuary is littered with trash, dirty clothes, and empty beer bottles – simply because that’s how he treats other rooms of the apartment. The idea he has of your enclosure is glittery pink and bows and smelling like cotton candy – despite knowing you don’t exactly like pink. And you aren’t allowed to paint the walls anything other than Landlord White. A distant memory from your bedroom when you were a kid infiltrating his mind, since it was the only room he ever got to know that you existed in.

You two have known each other for a long time, literally inseparable when you were kids since you were neighbors, and not many other children lived nearby, kind of giving you two no choice but to be best friends. Dazai had gone through some weird phase when he was a teenager, acting like he didn’t want anything to do with you, or anyone else for that matter, and only talking to you when he seemed to be at his lowest with nowhere else to go. While it hurt to watch him push you away, you never did the same, keeping your window open for him whenever he needed you.

He had been classified as a runaway at some point though, around the time he would have been eighteen, the thought tearing you to pieces and none of your calls or texts were getting through to him. You didn’t assume the worst, blindly going through that year or so just hoping he was okay, grasping at any minor passing comment that someone happened to see a guy matching his description wandering around alleyways and lingering near shitty hotels. Using that as a solace he was alive and well, and he’d return home when he was ready.

It was just before you were heading off to college that he appeared randomly out of thin air at your window, wearing a hoodie with your university’s mascot on it, asking if they do co-ed dorms. You were stunned into silence, bag half-packed, staring at him as he leaned on the windowpane, a strange sadness in his eyes that were hidden behind his glasses you hadn’t seen him wear before, and you merely sighed. You had to admit to him you were living in an off-campus house with a couple of other girls, and you weren’t too sure they’d be fine with a boy looming around.

“I can sleep in your room on the floor,” he shrugged, a joke, but his tone made it come off as serious. He had run off without saying anything to anyone, worrying everyone sick – including yourself, and he was standing at your window suddenly, asking if he can sleep on the floor of whatever room you get shoved in for college.

“Dazai, I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor like a dog,” you whispered, not sure if he wanted anyone else to know he had turned up.

“Fine, foot of your bed, I’m not picky,” he shrugs, hands gripping the ledge. You took in a breath, lips parted as you were getting ready to speak, and paused when the twinkle of hope in his honeyed irises caught you off guard. Your fingers flinched forward, an instinct from childhood to grab his hand, but you had to hold back. It was then you realized you hadn’t felt the touch of another person in quite some time, outside of family, and you weren’t sure if you would ever get the opportunity again if you didn’t take that one.

And you didn’t.

“‘Zai, I don’t think I can bring you to the house,” you breathed out, lightly shaking your head. His mood immediately deflated. “I want to, trust me.” You rushed to correct, but he did resemble a wounded puppy getting kicked repeatedly. “I don’t think the other girls will be okay with it.”

“Just say you hate me,” he whispered, but he wore a smile, one he had practiced so no one would know how he actually felt underneath.

“You know I hate lying,” you responded without thinking, and he took that as an invitation to climb into your room to help you pack.

You lived at the “Haute House”, something your new friend and then roommate thought would be funny to call your group’s campus house, for the first two years before Dazai pestered you to no end about getting an apartment together. It took convincing, him absolutely relentless, before you broke down and agreed to live with him. The resistance primarily came from a worry in the back of your mind that he would vanish again without a trace, leaving you behind again to pay full rent for somewhere you couldn’t afford, and worried to death if he’d be safe.

Now, you spend your evenings after work sitting on the couch as far away from him as possible. Once upon a lifetime ago, the two of you would hold hands, hug, cuddle, share beds and sleeping bags and futons together, huddle under blankets wrapped around each other for naps, and cozied up into one another inside a blanket fort. You didn’t think the last time you and him were curled up together under the blanket of your childhood bedroom, him insisting that you take a nap with him after school, would have been the last time you two ever willingly touched each other like that. The most you two do to each other is if you need to garner the other’s attention, you lightly poke or nudge another’s arms.

All this time of longing for someone else’s touch has resulted in you finding solace in inanimate objects to cuddle with instead, whether by searching for it in the moment, or waking up to your arms clasped tightly around something with your face buried in it. Relationships weren’t something you got around to caring about until you were older, but now it seems it’s too late, trying to keep the bitterness and jealousy pushed deep down from it seemingly being effortless for everyone else while you struggle. You’ve kept your hands to yourself for years, never being the one to extend even a finger out first, just to shiver at the slightest brush on your shoulder from anyone that wasn’t related to you and smelled of expensive cologne.

Dazai sighs, heavily, exhausted, lashes fluttering shut, and his chest slowly rises and falls as his breathing evens out, causing your head to turn in his direction. You watch him silently, knowing he had a long day, him mumbling about some intense stuff going on at work, and he barely made it through dinner without falling over. However, you said you wanted to watch a movie, and he wanted to join you. It’s been playing for roughly twenty minutes, and he’s already conked out. His glasses are abandoned elsewhere, and you can’t help the thought of how sweet he looks when his mouth is closed. You carefully get to your feet, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch to drape it over his body, oh so careful not to touch him, before turning off the television and hiding away in your bedroom with one of his t-shirts yanked over your pillow that’s awaiting you in bed.

𐔌 ꒱

Dazai has been paying an awful lot of attention to you lately, not that you particularly noticed, and in his observations of you, he has stopped making fun of you for not having a boyfriend or “sleeping around”. He watches you in silence sometimes, from across his spot on the couch, you an ocean away on your side with your arms tethered around throw pillows or stuffed animals you dragged out from your bedroom, his shirt or hoodie on you, and a distant look in your eye. He watches you wander aimlessly through the apartment, clear you’re in search of something, but he’s concluded even you aren’t aware of what it is. Your fingers drift and linger on different objects: the handle of the fridge, microwave, or mug; countertops, walls, or chair backings; doorknobs, doorknobs, doorknobs. His eyes train on wherever they find safety, playing back all the times when you were younger how they used to intertwine with his, and wondering why that ever stopped.

When you two go out together, he watches as your hands fondle and swipe through objects, but you’re careful not to touch people. If you bump into someone, he’ll catch your hand coming up to wherever they hit you, and it stays there for a moment before you come to your senses and apologize – pointless since the stranger had already disappeared. You don’t stand close to him, enough space for another to occupy, and if you go to a movie theater together, your hands are trapped tightly between your thighs, elbows in, and enthralled with what’s on the screen. He remembered there was once a time you would use him as a shield for horror movies, hiding behind his shoulder and holding onto his arm. Now, your hands fly to your face as your own protection.

Visiting your family is even stranger. He’s still welcomed to dinners when you decide to go see them, and your acceptance of their affection is natural, but it’s written all over your face it isn’t what you want. Almost against your will. If it’s an overnight stay, he is laying in a futon on the floor while you fill your old bed, sound asleep with your arms holding a pillow or withering stuffed animal, and he has to fight with himself from crawling up to cuddle you, huddled under covers together, like he used to. Old habits may die hard, but they still die all the same, it seems. He’s found, since being the first to distance himself from you way back when he decided he was a “rebellious” teenager who thought he knew everything, that he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. The last time he recalls a full, uninterrupted, deep REM sleep was the last time you took a nap with him after school when you were twelve. His brows will scrunch down when he stares at your back, body slowly rising and falling with your eased breathing, and his fingers flinch toward you. An instinct trying to revive itself, one he has to bury again, just as you did.

Dazai has been staying up late, sitting in his room by himself, playing video games, listening to music while he reads, or messing around on his phone, thoughts drifting to your actions, how you hold yourself – literally and metaphorically, and starts coming up with all these ideas on how to cure your supposed ailment he believes you to be afflicted with. He hasn’t quite figured out what it is, but he is determined regardless to get to the bottom of it. Even if the first step is to scoot his body closer to yours on the couch, sitting on the cushion next to you, arms sprawled out on the back, avoiding touching you. His presence and the shift of his body is heavy, hairs on the back of your neck sticking up whenever he’s near, but you never acknowledge it. It’s his couch, too. He can sit wherever he’d like.

He noticed you’ve been wearing his clothes more, stuff he could have sworn to have just washed disappearing until you come walking out of your room wearing the shirt he was planning to wear for a night out or the hoodie that magically reappeared on the couch he had just found to wash once more.

“Wanna keep it?” He asked you one evening, eyeing you in his hoodie that you had ran off with a few weeks prior that he momentarily believed to be missing from another girl that he brought over. He had practically kissed it goodbye, relieved to see it was merely you who had stolen it. He was in the kitchen, microwaving leftovers, arms across his chest as he leaned against the counter, and you stared at him with wide eyes.

“What?” Was all you could say, dumbly, looking at him with clear confusion.

“My jacket. You wanna just keep it?” He repeated, nodding toward you before pushing his glasses up. Your hand absentmindedly came up to clutch at it, tugging it some to peer down at, then raising your gaze to meet his. He was just staring at you, nothing evident in his features, and you cleared your throat as you began taking it off.

“No, sorry. I meant to give it back the other day,” your arm extended out, offering it to him, and his brow raised. He hesitated a beat, hand coming out toward the bundled fabric, then paused.

“It’s fine, you can keep it if you like it so much,” he insisted – no, tested.

“Nah, take it,” you practically shoved it into his hand then took off to your room once more, hiding away from embarrassment that he noticed you were still hanging onto it for so long. He blinked down at it before his head slowly turned in your door’s direction, noticing your hand didn’t even so much as graze his, shielded by his hoodie. That night sparked an idea, a bit of a risky one, but he needed to confirm if his suspicions were correct.

Articles of his clothing started randomly turning up near you, hoodies and t-shirts haphazardly tossed on the floor at your room’s threshold, in your spot on the couch, on the kitchen table, and sometimes dangling from the TV – blocking your view of the screen. You thought it odd, him being so careless and rude to leave behind his clothes in the most random of places; the thought dissipates when your hand connects to lift it, the material warm, freshly worn, and the waft of men’s cologne intrudes on your senses. You can’t help it, unable to stop yourself when it lifts to your nose to inhale, lashes fluttering shut as the comforting scent you are vaguely aware of being him wraps you completely.

He’ll watch from afar, peeking around his bedroom door, or from his spot in the kitchen, or looming around the hallway that leads to the living room, as your face buries itself in the soft t-shirt, then you turn heel back to your room to shove it on your favorite pillow or stuffed animal, cuddling it close. He hasn’t deduced anything from this, yet, but he has more information than before – she likes my cologne.

The trail of Dazai’s clothes continued, you not saying a word, hiding away with whatever you found that day, and him not saying a word when you do. You’ll wear them, coming out with his oversized shirt falling off your shoulder, bringing the collar up in as subtle of a way possible to catch more whiffs of the cologne he doused it in, and plop down on your spot with him right beside you.

The next trial would be even riskier, something he probably should test while you are both in the confines of your apartment, but it wouldn’t make sense to him to do it there. It only works in the outside world, just a mere bit of… microdosing, if you will.

One day, while you two were out and about, neither of you having anything better to do, you both had decided to go to a festival running in town. It was crowded, Dazai reminding you to stay close to him, another test at how you handle such large groups of people, but you griped that you weren’t a baby and could hold yourself fine at a festival. However, you listened enough to not to leave his sight, but you guys somehow never brushed or bumped into each other. While standing in line for some street food, you were close enough that if truly needed, you could grab him in an emergency. It was something you always kept in the back of your mind as is when running around with him – safety purposes trump the comfort of your friend.

Something shocked you, jumping out of your skin, and gearing up to jerk your hand away, whipping your head down to see his pinky linked with yours. You blinked a few times, confused, the feeling foreign but familiar all at once, knuckles grazing as he situated himself a bit more to hold tighter, and an incredibly weird feeling ripped its way up your chest, and your heart pounded along with the beat of the music blaring from the speakers. Your eyes trailed up to the side of his face, stoic as per his usual, and he wasn’t acknowledging you. As if this was something you two did often – maybe when you were children, but not in the long span since you have reunited.

You didn’t bring it up, nor did you pull away, him following suit with ignoring it, but he didn’t let go either. The two of you linked the rest of the evening, never to address it once you got home, and it took you far too long to realize, when you were turning around to shut your bedroom door, that you two were still holding pinkies, and he was standing at the threshold. He stared down at you, other hand in his pocket, and your cheeks flared up in an instant after it settled you had dragged him with you.

“I don’t mind,” was all he said when your lips parted, knowing you too well that an apology was prepared. His eyes flickered to your room, taking in the lack of glitter he was expecting, and he noticed his hoodie tugged over your pillow amongst the mess that was your bed.

“Night,” you said after swallowing, taking everything in you to release him, and clutched the doorknob.

“Night,” he nodded, the door slowly closing on his face, and he was honestly more confused than before.

Dazai continued, during outings with just the two of you, doing small things here and there to touch you. Intertwining your pinkies was the easiest, the least recognizable. His fingers will brush on your forearm, lightweight to him, heavily noticeable for you. Goosebumps will swarm, hair sticking straight up, and you chalked it up to the air conditioning of the store. When you two are surrounded by friends, his touches are more or less friendly by tapping the back of your hand or gently grabbing your elbow. Every touch, graze, slip of his finger, hold of your pinky, sends your body into a strange fight or flight, firmly planting your feet where you are, eyes glued to his hand on you, and the world is silent for a bit. A few seconds at most, but it’s quiet all the same.

He has now ventured to be bolder when you two are alone at home, an evening of hushed whispers amongst the TV, his body beside yours, arm behind your head, his shirt laying against your skin, and the pillow clutched tight to your chest. He’ll keep his eyes ahead, but his thumb will ever so slightly run up and down the nape of your neck – the first time startled you, thinking it was a bug, and he laughed at you for overreacting. Then went back to doing it, like nothing happened, and it was… nice. Your shoulders weren’t as stiff, the hold on the pillow wasn’t nearly as harsh, and you felt as if your mind wasn’t as clogged as it had been. He side-glanced in your direction, seeing in real time your content melting into your bones, and he knew then he just had to keep doing it.

The microdosing of human touch seemed to be working, not only for you, but for Dazai too. It dawned on him one evening, after being led to your room by accident again, holding fast to your pinky, then being shooed away to his own room, that he missed touching you. He laid there on his uncomfortable mattress, arms over his stomach, eyes trained on the sky contained behind the glass of his window, thinking about how reminiscent it was for him to have you closer. He scolded and blamed himself, knowing fully well it was his fault in the first place you two had grown distant, worlds apart, unable to see the other over the horizon. However, now with his fingers relearning the map of your skin, tracing the veins that bloom from your wrist, outlining your knuckles, and counting every goosebump that arises on your shoulder, your figure is visible as a shadow in the blazing sun on the other side of the same planet. Maybe we can be close again.

You couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation, not entirely sure how to take it. However, you welcomed it. You hadn’t realized how lonely you were in your own home, living with your best friend, the distance self-manufactured, and you didn’t really know why you did that to him. It’s Dazai, you’ve known him so long, you could hop in his lap, and he wouldn’t care. Probably keep you there. Not exactly like you would do that, but, you know, hypotheticals.

A thought occurred to you recently, unsure if you should bring it up, but Dazai hasn’t been bringing people home for quite a few weeks. Maybe even longer. He hasn’t been running off to the bar with his friends, leaving you behind with a cheery ‘don’t wait up’, and he hasn’t been warning you to hide because someone agreed to come back with him. He’s been abruptly spending more time with you outside of evenings in the living room, sitting on the couch with a dumb show on or a movie you’ve seen a hundred times. You want to be confused, but it’s difficult to be when it seems like things are going back to a way you didn’t know you missed.

Heat radiated off his body, sides meshed after he decided to invade your space, distracting you with his gentle stroking, thumb following the line of your shoulder, and your teeth chattered from anxious nerves. The recognizable cologne that clung to the random clothes he kept tossing around the apartment was stuck to his body, violating your nose, and your nails dug into the pillow you held far too tight. He sat there with you, mind elsewhere, fingers suddenly intertwining their way into your hair, playing with strands and pieces, fingertips skating into your scalp periodically, and your lashes fluttered at the feeling, fighting the relaxation. A soft sound came from him, almost a chuckle, not needing to look at you to know you’re ready to pass out.

“You look tired,” he mentioned, eyes nowhere on you, voice groggy himself. You simply hummed, lids drooping as if he casted a magic spell with those words, his nails carefully scratching at your head, it becoming easier to guide on his own. Without thinking, full trust in his movements, you allowed his hand to help rest your temple to his shoulder, and his cheek pressed to the crown. “Long day?” He continued, pretending nothing was happening, and you shifted to be more comfortable.

“Work sucked, yeah,” you murmured, body moving without your brain, curling up, dropping the pillow, and draping an arm over his torso. Your eyelids were heavy, mind foggy, and you could barely feel his arm coming down to wrap around you. He’s warm.

“Go to sleep, then,” he gently encouraged. “I’ll tell you how it ends.” You both have seen that movie more than either of you could count. You made a small sound of agreement, letting your eyes close fully, and his weren’t too far behind you, a strange and unknown calm enveloping his weary mind and aching bones.

The following morning from that experiment, Dazai was still passed out, laying on his back with his arms wrapped securely around your body while you were splayed out on top of him, cheek pressed on his sternum. Your eyes cracked open, taking in the few sun rays from the slits you could hardly see from, and it took you a long minute to comprehend you never left the living room. Your pillow seemed to be breathing underneath you, and that was new. You tried moving, to push yourself up, but you were trapped, the embrace tightening, and your eyes snapped open wider. Your gaze slowly snuck up to see his sleepy impression, hair messy behind his head, and he looked so peaceful. Fingers twitched around on his shoulder, so close to his face, and you so desperately wanted to trace along his cheek while he was unaware.

I gotta get outta here.

The fight or flight returned, heart pounding, pulse resounding, and your line of sight fixated on the TV screen, seeing the DVD’s home page repeatedly playing the movie’s menu. The sound was soft, unintelligible, and your fingers messed with the sleep shirt he wore instead, the material as comforting as all the rest you’ve been snatching for yourself.

You laid there, waiting, not knowing the time, watching the sun rise more and spilled its light into the living room, listening to his mellow heartbeat and even breathing. He didn’t dare move, his subconscious somehow aware you were there with him, not wanting to scare you off. You thought this was the longest he’s ever slept since living together. Usually you’d hear him rustling around in the middle of the night if you were still awake, venturing to the living room or kitchen, rifling through the fridge or turning on the television, sometimes the front door would open and close, then open and close again an hour or so later. Rarely did he stay in his room all night, even if he had guests.

“Mornin’,” his voice was deep, filled with remnants of sleep, eyes still closed, and his thumb traced your arm.

“Morning,” you whispered, immediately scrambling to get off of him and racing to your room the second his arms released you. He laid there, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips when he heard the door slam and breathed out a slight chuckle.

“Awh, didn’t even get to ask her how she slept,” he sighed to himself, tossing his arm over his eyes, fighting to ignore the heat creeping up his own neck, making way for his cheeks, and couldn't believe he slept all the way through the night like that. You on top of him, wearing his t-shirt and sleep shorts that might be one size too small for you, holding you close… I gotta get outta here. He rushed to his feet and hurried to his own room, slamming the door behind him and wasting no time to get in the bathroom for a painstakingly cold shower.

𐔌 ꒱

So, which one of you is going to come to the realization first? How I see it, you’re both standing in the middle of the desert with hands ready to quickdraw, but neither of you are taking the shot. It’s getting a little hot out here waiting on who’s going to make the first move.

… Maybe that’s why they call it a slow burn.

On one hand, Dazai has been making multiple moves, but he’s kind of dumb and doesn’t understand why and what kind of moves he’s making. His arm finds its way around your shoulders and waist while you two are out; pinky holding has turned into full blown hand-holding; he is the one practically in your lap during evenings on the couch, fingers lacing in your hair or thumb outlining your neck; and he has been whining about wanting to sleep better at night, so he thinks you need to start sharing your bed.

On the other hand, you’re so overwhelmed with all of the touching that you don’t know what to do with yourself. His hands are on you like he once did before, though they’re much larger than you remembered, and the moment they’re gone, you – albeit internally – whine at the loss of his touch.

Many efforts made on his part have finally seemed to pay off while watching a tragic romance he wanted to see, and your fingers stopped holding back, reviving the urge you thought had died so long ago. They inched their way out, brushing the back of his hand that rested on his stomach, and he thought all those butterflies swarming around in there were going to throw themselves up. Your fingertips traced his knuckle, along the barely protruding vein down to his wrist before gently gliding back up, resting there, all with your eyes on the screen. His brain broke, body frozen, and he stared ahead at nothing, not wanting to frighten you away. His other hand’s fingers trailed their way up the back of your neck, as they have been doing for quite some time now since his initial experimentations, and it was so pleasant. There was no other way to describe it, the quiet hush of the night, the movie’s volume low, the two of you sitting beside one another, and you reached out to him first.

“How do you feel?” He asked, afraid speaking will ruin everything.

“I dunno,” you hummed, leaning a bit to rest your head on his shoulder. “Happy, I think.” His cheek pressed on the top again, arm dropping down to wrap around your shoulders, subconsciously pulling you closer. Your fingers started playing with his other hand again.

“Yeah, me too.”

The two of you are in denial so badly, not even your respective friends can pull you out of the river you chained yourselves down to.

“Babe…” Your more blunt friend spoke slowly, eyeing you up and down. “You and Dazai have been dating for, like, months now.” You blinked, staring at her, then glanced at your sweeter friend, who had her lips sucked in with mildly widened eyes, lightly shaking her head.

“Dazai and I aren’t dating though…” Your voice trailed off, gaze going back to her, and her eyes rolled. She straightened her posture, beginning to count on her fingers as she rattled off evidence to her point.

“You wear his clothes,” she stopped long enough to gesture to your shirt, one of his, that you tied to look less baggy. “You two have been going out on dates. You have been skipping out on hanging with us to go spend time with him, even if it’s just at home. I saw you two cuddled up at the movie theater literally the other day. And, not to mention, that damn man whore hasn’t slept with a single other girl in, like, a millennium!”

“He has been avoiding other women as of late, I have to admit,” your other friend nodded along, adding in a point of her own, despite making it clear that she wanted no part of this conversation.

“I… hadn’t noticed,” your voice fell off, a lie, and your hand was clasped between your friend’s, who peered over the bundle at you with irritated but loving eyes. She batted her lashes, and you blinked once.

“Girl, that’s your boyfriend,” she stated flatly before dropping your hand and going back to her phone, taking a long sip of the iced coffee she previously abandoned. You peeked at your other friend again for help, but she sighed inwardly.

“At least he treats you well,” she offered, sounding almost like a question, before she quickly went back to her phone and drink as well, leaving you to stare between them while your fingers absentmindedly messed with his shirt.

You took their words with a grain of salt, but the thought was in the back of your mind. You weren’t paying much attention to all the things she accused you of doing with Dazai, thinking you were just hanging out with your closest and best friend like old times. However, she had a point that you two have been doing everything she’s observed.

His touches never stopped, making you more aware of his presence, a brush here on your hip, a careful grasp on your wrist there, a press of his side into yours, and fingers in your hair at the end of the day. The other night, there was a moment where something clicked in your brain while his malfunctioned completely. You were trying to get comfortable, looking for something that may have fallen, him helping you, when you both looked up at the same time – classic. Your noses nudged together, close, and you stared unblinking at the other with his eyes wide behind his lenses, and your body froze.

You pulled away first, face hot, and he didn’t speak for the rest of the evening. Just helped guide you to place your head on his shoulder like every night before, and you both fell asleep on the couch again.

Things weren’t really going anywhere, so you’ve deduced your friends were straight buggin’.

However, Dazai might have finally gathered enough evidence to come up with a sort of conclusion to these experiments he was implementing. He did have one more thing he wanted to try, but there would be two outcomes from it, and he was really hoping it would be the good reaction, or things would get extremely weird.

You have a test you want to run on your own, the echo of your friend’s voice repeating in your mind: he’s your boyfriend. If that’s truly the case, then you can wear whatever… right?

Dazai mentioned the night before he was going to be away, but you didn’t catch what he would be doing, preoccupied with your reeling thoughts, and you chew on your lip as you do a once over in the mirror. Typically, you don’t bother wearing “cute” pajamas around the apartment, mostly because you didn’t think you are comfortable enough to do so around him, and he’d have guests over so often it’s easier to continue wearing street ware until they all go home. Alas, you did spend money on them, wasting away as they rot in your drawer – it is hot outside, even with the AC running. You huff, fingers picking at the bottom of your shorts, eyeing the top that exposed nothing but also a lot all at once, before rolling your eyes at yourself for being so critical. He’s gone! I’ll just run in here to change when I hear the door start opening.

You venture out to the living room, then to the kitchen, trying to get used to your never worn pjs, and pull the refrigerator door open to meander in, not really hungry, but not really wanting to sit down. With no luck and a light sigh, you close the door back and saunter slowly to the cabinet, lips pursed and tapping your finger on your thigh, eyes trying to take in everything there is, then realizing neither of you have made it to the grocery store yet, so all the good snacks are absent. You reach in anyway, pushing a half-bottle of syrup to the side, sorting through soup cans, examining instant ramen packs, and other odds and ends of cans that you don’t have the energy to make for yourself. You remember the possibility of ice cream in the freezer, a comment made in passing recently that there should be some, but you can’t trust enough it will actually be there since Dazai eats whatever his eyes land on if it’s sat too long and doesn’t have a note with your name on it.

The frigid air hits you in the face first, making your nose scrunch, scouring past the ice cube tray, bags of premade food, and microwaveable pancakes, but no ice cream. Bummer. You close the freezer then open the fridge one more time, as if something new magically popped in while you were journeying around the kitchen, but nothing’s changed since the couple of glass beer bottles, the milk, the juice, half a carton of eggs, and produce deteriorating in the crispers. Your expression twists in disgust at the thought of emptying it out, closing the door once more and muttering: “I’ll make Dazai do it.”

“Make me do what?” You jump and yelp, hand clamping over your mouth from embarrassment and fear the neighbors will complain about you, and your heart pounds. Your frantic eyes land on Dazai standing there by the entrance, wearing his street clothes, and he’s just kind of… staring. His lips part, eyeing you up and down, but nothing comes out. You falter a bit, glancing down at your attire, and realize he’s here, looking at you, in your fancy pjs that he was never meant to see. “Didn’t… Didn't m-mean to scare…” He fumbles over his words, not able to finish his sentence, and he silently notes how he likes seeing you in green.

You pause for half a beat before tearing off toward your bedroom, a startled deer needing to hide away amongst the trees to be left unbothered, but he’s not having any more of you running in the opposite direction. “Wait!” He hurries after you, matching your speed, snatching you up in his arms in what can only be described as a bear hug – but it feels a bit closer to a trap. You don’t necessarily struggle against him, eyes big, a shaking breath sneaking out, and you can feel his breath hitting your bare shoulder. His grip loosens, drawing back, but your hand quickly reaches up to grasp at his arm.

“Don’t,” you almost beg, guiding him this time to hold you again, avoiding looking back at him due to how flustered and bashful you are. His eyebrows come together briefly, but obliges to resume hugging you close, and his heart palpitates against your shoulder blade. “Please don’t let go.” You muster in a small whisper, your hands coming up to lightly claw at his skin, wanting to turn this around into trapping him instead.

He stands there, obeying your request, the hug tightening, forcing a strained huff of air out past your lips, but you wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything else. Not right now, not when his skin is warm, inviting and comforting, his heart erratic like yours, and you’re being hugged by someone that isn’t related to you. You’re being hugged by Dazai. You’re being hugged. “I got you.” He whispers near your ear, you nodding in response, squeezing your eyes shut, not wanting to open them in case this is all a distant dream. Wave after wave of old feelings that you ignored, swept away, and pretended weren’t real hit you all at once, your body growing smaller until you’re twelve again, in your childhood bedroom, hugging a much smaller Dazai for what would end up being the last time. Until now. He’s just so warm.

His eyes are trained on the floor, pieces of you in his peripheral as his arms hold you as tight as he can without crushing your body, and everything falls into place. Everything he had been compiling for months, working tirelessly to figure out, deducing down to obvious conjecture that he could never bring to your attention without the possibility of ruining it all. It’s all boiled down to such simplicity: you’ve been neglected. The thing you wanted most was to be touched, not by friends or family, but someone else. He blinks rapidly, hands catching the way you tremble under him, and guilt washes over him. You’re this way because of him. He took away the thing you needed most and wouldn’t dare seek out from anyone else. He left you hanging in the worst way possible, and he believes he is the only one to fix it.

The temporary girlfriends and the one-nighters, the blind dates and the hookups, the making out in trashy bar bathrooms or hitting on someone at the store, none of it didn’t seem to fulfill his previously perceived insatiable hunger. No matter how many hands were on his arms, his back, his torso, in his hair, no matter how many kisses he received or how many compliments would be tossed in his direction, none of it felt quite like this does. Holding your hand, putting his arm around your shoulder to keep you close in crowds, cuddling on the couch, falling asleep together in the living room with bodies tangled, his fingers hidden in your hair.

Ah, fuck.

Dammit.

“When was the last time someone touched you?” He couldn’t stop the question escaping out of his curious mouth, mind immediately screaming at him for going off without it.

“What do you mean?” You can barely think, it dawning on you that he has been hovering over you in the most protective position he has ever placed you in.

“When was the last time someone touched you?” He repeats, his cologne mixing with your lotion, infiltrating his senses violently, and he does love how intoxicating of a combination it can be.

“You know I’ve never been with anyone, Osamu,” he shudders after a slight pause, hiding his face in your neck, and a small smile makes way on his lips.

“Haven’t heard you call me that in a while.”

“Your name?”

“First name, yeah,” his words vibrate into your skin, and you don’t really remember either the last time you addressed him with his first name; it had only ever been “Dazai” or sometimes even “‘Zai”. You swallow, reluctantly breaking from his embrace, still gripping his wrist, and you begin walking into your room.

“Twelve, I guess,” you answer his question, not looking back at him, just hoping he knows to cross that threshold on his own. “Maybe younger.” His feet follow, no hesitation, closing the door by himself, and watching the back of your head. Fingers twitch forward, listening intently to you.

“Can I keep touching you?” He abruptly asks, but the hint is already there with him in your enclosure, your hand clasped around his wrist, unrelenting, and her pjs are really fucking cute.

“Man, don’t make me beg,” you kind of joke, finally peeking at him over your shoulder, and he’s blushing. The sight makes you stall, slowly turning to face him fully, and his fingertips gently ghost along different parts of your body: your hands, forearms, up to your shoulders then down around the curve of your chest, landing on your hips with his thumbs caressing the subtly exposed skin under your shirt. You shake in place, holding eye contact with him, and you don’t know what to do.

“Relax,” he whispers, watching your shoulders visibly shudder, and steps closer to you. “It’s just me.”

“I know,” you, hesitantly, raise your hands up to place your fingers on his wrists, but your eyes drop down to look at them instead of his suddenly all too alluring gaze. “I-I don’t really… know what I should do.” You confess. They don’t exactly teach you how to initiate anything, or what first steps to take, comments of “it all comes naturally” being the only explanation you got. Porn isn’t the best teacher unless you dig down deep for oddly specific tutorials; movies are only slightly better because they’re written by real people that experienced those situations; and forget about books, literally written to fulfill fantasies that probably have never happened. You’re closed off in your bedroom with possibly the most experienced person you could encounter, and it’s a bit embarrassing.

“It’s alright,” his fingers come up to rest under your chin, tilting it back so he can see your reaction, the uncertainty in your eyes. He thinks to himself, glancing around the space, knowing for your comfort it’d be best to stay in a spot you recognize, and his line of sight lands on your unmade bed with his hoodie thrown across your pillow and stuffed animals. He withdraws his hands then messes with his jeans, carefully pulling them off and stepping out of them, just to reveal his boxers are the joke pair you bought him for Christmas. Your brow arches high, lips parting, and judgement clouds your mind to distract you. “What?” He looks down at them, tugging the material, showing off all of the little hearts littered against the white background.

“N-Nothing,” you quickly shake your head, hugging yourself. “Uhm, why are you undressing?”

“I don’t like lying in bed with jeans,” he climbs onto your mattress, hands making a pile with the fluffy mounds, before sitting down and pressing his back to it. His legs are spread, and he waves you to join him. “C’mere. Sit between my legs.”

“Do… I need to take anything off, too?” Your words come out slow, feet firmly on the carpet, eyeing him making himself comfortable on your bed.

“No, no, it’s alright, just c’mere,” his hand is extended out toward you, fingers outstretched, waiting, his brown eyes you used to never pay much attention to now gazing at you with the sunshine spilling in across his face, and the color seems to glow. Maybe I can understand why it was so easy for girls to fall for him. Your own hand carefully sits in his awaiting palm, letting him pull you closer, your knee on the edge, before his arm wraps around you completely and sets you between his thighs. Both snake around your front, another embrace, and brings your back flush to his chest, and you two sit there in silence like that, palms flat to your stomach, snuck under your shirt, the warmth floating on your skin. “How’s this?” He murmurs in your ear, voice steady, but his racing heart is hitting your back repeatedly.

You just nod, quick, mouth dry as you sit there with him in his underwear and the pjs you forgot you put on. He sighs, quiet, the thought entering his mind and leaving his mouth just as quickly: “I like you.” You smile slightly, confused, and your feet shift.

“Yeah? I would hope you like me. We live together.”

“No, dummy,” he sounds serious, his arms tightening again, and his chin is resting on your shoulder. “I like-like you.” You let that settle, the dust clearing, and off in the horizon, you can see in the setting sun of the desert duel that his gun is out, aimed at you, and the bullet grazed your cheek. Leaving you there startled and maybe bashful. He was always one to speak his mind when he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Just laying that out in the open?” You tease, but his palms can feel your body tensing under them. The anxious anticipation and butterflies have returned deep in the pit of your stomach, and you’re just glad you didn’t have to be the one to say it first.

“Got tired of ignoring it,” he shrugs, his legs now closing in on you, and his nose lightly nudges under your ear, causing your lashes to flutter at the adorable contact. “That was pretty brave of me to admit to you. Think I deserve a reward or something?” His voice has an audible mischievousness laced in the words, recognizable, something he used to use on you when he wanted your snacks that you were unwilling to share without coercion.

“Depends on what you want,” you follow along, head turning enough to see the side of his face. He’s deep in thought, clinging to you, pieces of his shaggy hair dropping down over his eyes.

“A kiss,” he suddenly pouts. You stare at him, cocking your head.

“Osamu, I’ve never kissed anyone.”

“Then I definitely should have one!” He side-eyes you, bottom lip poking out, and you huff.

“You’re gonna be weird about it!” You whine, lightly kicking your heels into the bedding.

“I’m gonna steal it one way or another, might as well let me now,” he argues, shifting around and readjusting his grip, fastened you down so you can’t wiggle around anymore. You think, briefly, before rolling your eyes.

“This isn’t going to help the boyfriend allegations,” you grumble, craning your neck to look at him fully with a pout on your lips now. He stops for a beat, blinking once, not having the slightest idea of what you’re referring to, but he isn’t going to let any of this slip by him like he did before. His features soften, fingertips gently pressing into your side, and nudges his nose against your jaw.

“Then lemme just kiss my girlfriend,” he murmurs, gazing down at you with such an intense longing, it makes you melt, forgetting you’ve known him for your entire life and had no clue he could be like this. Wait, girlfriend?! Before you can agree, or push him away, or scramble out of his hold to disappear in a different room of the apartment entirely, he’s cradling the side of your face and has his surprisingly soft lips on yours. Your body is stock-still, tense, eyes wide open, and nails lightly digging into his arm from the contact. Your cheeks are heating up as your throat closes on itself, and that stupid thing in your chest won’t slow down. When he pulls away, to give you breathing room, your lips chase after him, and that just strokes his own ego with a loving smirk forming on his mouth.

“You’re gonna be weird about this,” you whisper, hands shaking from anticipation and wanting and yearning and pent-up loneliness.

“I won’t, sweetheart,” he promises, tucking loose strands behind your ear, and his lashes are beautifully long. “Might gloat, though.” He winks, thumb following the outline of your jaw, and your breath stutters.

“Fine, just… please kiss me some more,” you grant him all the permission he needs, ducking down to let your mouths mesh, sharing passing breaths and short sighs, his fingers lacing back in your hair where they belong while you cling to his shirt, dying for him to be impossibly closer. He feels dizzy, his body moving on its own, muscle memory, teeth careful in biting and tugging on your bottom lip, fueled by the small sounds you make, the squirming in his lap, and the obvious way you don’t know what to do with yourself. Your body is screaming to know what his skin feels like against it, wanting to tug at his shirt to take it off, but he stops you, holding your wrists firmly at either side of you, and pulls away again as he pants. You whine, getting all this attention just for him to take it away from you.

“Hey,” Dazai soothes, his mouth wandering behind your ear to place delicate kisses down to the side of your neck, reaching your shoulder, lips getting wetter from the desperation to feel your skin on them. “Tell me what you want me to do. Where do you want me to touch you?” He asks, breath fanning your shoulder, and his eyes are trained on your pjs.

“Anywhere,” you barely get out, watching the side of his face as you wriggle around. “Everywhere.” He listens to you, the soft whining and whimpering, the handful of ‘pretty please’s falling out of your begging mouth, and he nods once before leaning back on the pillows, taking you with him.

“Relax for me, I’ll take care of you,” he instructs, slowly releasing your wrists to then languidly trail his large palms down your thighs, stopping just above your knees to bring them back up under your shorts to where they connect with your pelvis, fingertips tracing the outline, reveling in your body heat and hearing you struggle to breathe. He hums, low, revealing his hands once more as they make way for the waistband. “These are so cute on you, by the way. Where have you been hiding them?” His lips are resting on the conch of your ear now, darkened gaze watching you closely, and you swallow at his feather-light touch.

“Didn’t think… didn’t know if I should wear them,” you admit, but now you’re kind of wishing you had if it meant all of this.

“Do you have more?” He asks, as if you can even bother thinking straight enough to have a normal conversation at this very moment. His pointer slips underneath it, roaming, until his brows furrow. “Pretty girl, are you not wearing underwear?” Your teeth sink down into your lip before you hesitantly shake your head, and then he groans.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, reluctantly removing his hand until they both find the hem of your shirt, carefully rolling up to rest on your chest, exposing your tits that rise and fall with your labored breathing. Your thighs rub together by accident, on instinct, and maybe from shame as you’re just letting him ogle your bare chest right now. His eyes flicker to watch as they move, the satin-like material shining under the natural light, before raking back up to your already hardened nipples. His middle finger slips to your parted lips, letting the cool, manufactured air whip over your semi-naked body. “Get it wet for me?” He asks you, so sweetly, and you dart your eyes toward him before taking it in your mouth, rolling your tongue around the digit, making sure to get spit everywhere. “Good, now this one.” His voice is tight, and you can feel something poking into your lower back as you lay there, pressed against him, spitline breaking as he pulls one middle finger away to slide the other in.

As you work to coat his skin in spit, the other starts tracing around your nipple, the slick saliva making it easy for him to move at his leisure, before the pad applies pressure on the bud. Your pulse flutters in your neck, mouth falling open to release his finger, just so he can repeat it on the other, neglected nipple. “How’s this?” His voice barely keeps you anchored on this plain, hardly nodding, a small moan your verbal response as his fingers fondle and gently pinch at them. “Pretty.” He compliments as he watches you, continuing his slow, circular motions on your nipples and the skin around them, ensuring to take turns on which area to massage with adoring attention.

“That feels… feels s-so good,” you breathe, your hands gliding up to rest on the back of his, relaxed, feeling the muscles of his fingers move underneath yours, and your thighs rub together more as you start to ache.

“Poor thing,” he coos, taunting, watching your attempts at creating your own friction. “Is it true what they say?” He doesn’t ask anything further, hands gingerly cupping your tits, gently squeezing, and a puff of air makes its way out of your tightened throat.

“What…?” Your mind is elsewhere, toes curling, clamping your thighs tight. Eyes spin behind your eyelids, overwhelmed and overstimulated already, helping him fondle and massage your breasts, hearing him chuckle.

“Virgins are more sensitive,” he answers his own question, your lids cracking enough at that, and rolling your eyes at that comment.

“You’re such–” Another moan cuts you off as his palms caress your nipples as they squeeze again. “Such a loser. Makin’ this… w-weird.” He laughs at that, placing a sweet kiss on your cheek, before beginning to lower his hands down your stomach, and you whine. Loud in protest.

“Oh, I’m a loser, but you’re sitting here throwing a tantrum because I stopped touching you?” He teases, allowing you the sensation of his fingertips back to messing with your shorts, snapping the band repeatedly into your tummy, and your face is scorching as your hips buck down from each impact.

“You’re mean,” you pout, fisting the sheets, getting poked again in response as his erection jumps against your back. “I don’t see how girls like you so much.”

“I can keep showing you,” he doesn’t miss a beat, helping slide your shorts down, then lifting your legs up to spread out wide and dangle over his thighs. Fingers fly up to tangle into his hair, something to hold onto, the other gripping one of the pillows under your bodies. “Don’t worry, I got you.” He traces circles on your pelvis, earning your pants and shaking legs, fingertips drawing nearer to your pulsing clit, lips covered in a sheen of evident arousal, and it hurts with how badly you want to be touched by someone that isn’t you.

“‘Samu, please don’t tease me, please,” you beg, head dramatically falling back as your eyes squeeze shut. “It’s… It’s not fair, it’s not nice. Please, I want you!” You’re a bumbling idiot, saying all these things to him, catching him off guard since he wasn’t trying to tease you – more so getting your cunt acclimated to being touched there by someone else.

“I won’t be cruel, baby, it’s okay,” he soothes, one palm pressing down on your abdomen, silently telling you to ‘stay still’, the other reaching down, middle and ring fingers finding your puffy lips, and beginning a slow rhythm of petting. Your hips jolt forward at the contact, tears lining in your lashes, and you have to bite down on your back teeth to prevent more useless begging. His fingers are a combination of smooth and calloused, the perfect texture to apply gentle pressure on the outside of your pussy, moving easily with how wet you’ve gotten already. “All of this is for me?” He remarks with a flip to his tone, a breathy laugh following as his dick strains in his boxers from your ass squirming around on it. Nodding, your grip tightens in his hair, his slow drag starting at the bottom then making it on either side of your clit – you’re trying to maintain your cool, but this feels better than anything you’ve done to yourself.

He coaxes you once more to relax, spreading his own legs out to keep yours apart, and finally his fingers dip down to trace along the folds, a shuddered whimper squeaking out as your forehead presses to his temple. His other arm is holding you down in place by your torso, knowing he’s tormenting you without meaning to, trying his best to maintain his cool while you’re writhing and letting out such adorable sounds when he’s hardly done anything to you. He spreads your cunt open, the sound obscene, and he has to bite his tongue, reminding himself this situation is much different than what he’s used to, and he doesn’t think teasing you to tears is the best course of action. At least… not today.

The pad of his middle finger lazily draws itself up from just above your entrance right to your clit, applying gentle pressure, and you gasp, hitching in your throat, right into his ear, and it sends a strike of lightning down his spine. “Right here?” He whispers, ignoring how hard he is, mind getting fuzzy, and begins narrow circles on your clit, your body going limp in his hold.

“Yeah,” you breathe, inhaling deep, brows twitching, mouth fallen open, and hanging onto Dazai for dear life. “Yeah, l-like thaht.” Your hips involuntarily buck, his pattern not halting, applying the perfect amount of pressure, circling your clit, then sliding the pad over it, pushing the hood back and forth, and you shiver. “S-So good.” You tell him without thinking, your free hand absentmindedly grasping and massaging your tit, the warmth of his palm now over yours, following your movements, squeezing when you do.

“I know, sweetheart,” he croons, lips finding your shoulder again to pepper wet kisses along, finger moving on its own in the continued, mind-numbing pattern of encircling your swelling clit then caressing it back and forth, listening to your quiet, pitched sighs and sweet moans. Kisses create a path up the side of your neck, making way for your ear that he playfully nips at before blowing a small string of air into it. Your eyes roll back, lashes fluttering, and one leg twitches when his middle finger applies the slightest amount of pressure again. “You gonna come for me already?” His voice lilts right into your ear canal, and the pit ignites in your stomach.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes!” You murmur, nodding fervently, panting again from the burn of waiting for your orgasm to hit you. “Yes, gonna come for you, ‘Samu!” You whine, needy, hips squirming and raising, him no longer wanting to pin you down.

“Gimme another kiss right now,” he demands, hand reaching up to grab your jaw to hold firmly, guiding you to his greedy mouth, finger picking up pace on your clit, rubbing it back and forth, catching the spot near it that is setting your skin aflame, white-hot, moans and whimpers from you getting swallowed by him, lips moving feverishly against another, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth to fondle and wrap around yours. You can’t breathe, his body heat radiating around yours, his caressing delicious, him manhandling you – you can’t take it. You cry out, muffled by a groan of his own, you coming from his simple touch taking an edge off he didn’t know he had. Your legs shake, thighs clasping around his hand, just to be ripped apart by his legs and hands, spreading you open again and your head drops back, aftershocks rippling through your body as you sit in his hold. Your hand goes limp, slipping down from his hair to the side and dangles, and he watches you with such amusement.

“Need further convincing?” The question is rhetorical, his fingers already tracing your messy cunt, taking turns repeatedly petting at your neglected hole, earning a tired ‘uh, uh, uh’ with each stroke. He can’t help laughing at you, arrogant and ego inflated, happy he is the one doing all of this to you right now, his middle finger back to encircling your clit then tracing down to circle your hole. You lay there wordless, a fog invading your brain, lids hooded as you stare at the wall behind your bed, letting him touch you however he sees fit. “Sweet little virgin, so sensitive just from me jerking her off.” He purrs, tormenting you, his long fingers spreading your pussy open again, turning his head to plant kiss after kiss after kiss on your bright-red face.

“Please,” you mumble, twitching again when he has two fingers now tracing up and down between your lips, running along the folds, teasing your hole, cunt clenching around nothing, so badly wanting – needing – something inside you. Anything.

“Please what? Use your words for me,” his broad shoulder moves underneath you, flexing and relaxing while he reaches down to caress your inner thigh, and everything about him, someone you didn’t pay mind to in the matter of looks, is suddenly so hot. His voice, his fingers, his face – even the boxers he’s wearing aren’t a joke anymore, they’re attractive and almost purposeful for the circumstance. Oh god, I think Dazai’s hot. He won’t let you live that down if you say it to his face.

“Please… Put… Put something in-inside me,” the shame of having to beg both exhilarates you and makes you want to die. “Pretty please.” You add for good measure, not caring if this is all going to his head. He’s already got you literally wrapped around his finger just from using it, might as well get what you can from him while you’re both clouded in years of romantic and sexual tension snapping like an old rubber band that can’t hold out any longer.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, voice low again, and his fingers barely slide in, curling up repeatedly to give you a small bit of sensation, and your brain is broken. His? His body resituates itself, doing the same to yours, and his arm draws back for a moment, bringing his fingers to his mouth, popping them in and moaning at the taste of you dropping on his tongue. He takes his time, a filthy look in his dark, clouding eyes as he holds your gaze, and you flicker between his stare and his fingers in his mouth. He lets them go, covered in his spit, and drops them back between your legs. “Have you had anything in you before?” He wonders, a silly question he can’t stop himself from asking.

“I’m a virgin, not an innocent saint,” you grumble, sucking in a breath as his fingers tap the spot just above your hole.

“Just a question, sweetheart,” he laughs lightly, hugging you closer and nuzzling his nose with yours.

“You’re being weird again,” you mutter, resting a hand on his chest. He tilts his head, massaging that spot now while he admires you, the way you fight to keep your eyes open, cheeks flushed, and swollen, kiss-bitten lips pouting at his torturous neglect.

“Forgive me, I like knowing I’m the only one who will ever do this to you,” the confession rolls off his tongue, coated in remnants of you in the aftertaste of decadent reverie, and he doesn’t really give you much time to let that all settle before his fingers are knuckle-deep, the intrusion catching you by surprise, and, yeah, he wasn’t asking to be a weirdo. You fist his shirt, taking in a deep breath, hips shifting a bit, and he’s kind enough to allow time to adjust. Amber eyes watch closely, fingers stilled, and he steals a small kiss, lips lingering, eyes half-closed, watching. His mouth moves away, pressing to your forehead instead, fingertips already finding your G-stop to massage, thumb on your clit, and you shiver.

“Fuck, that’s amazing,” you slide your hand up the side of his neck, never wanting to leave his body ever again, wishing this doesn’t end. His forehead presses to yours, his fingers pumping in and out, curling with each thrust, brushing that spot with each plunge, trying to ignore how your cunt feels tightening around them so he can keep his focus. “You’re so good… so-so good at this.” You give in, letting him know you’re unraveling, begging for more of his touch, needing him to keep going, or you might simply die. The corner of his mouth tugs up at that, deep sanguine flush scattering from one cheek to the other, rampaging the tips of his ears, and his fingers urge themselves deeper, the digits already long, they don’t have much elsewhere to go.

“I want you to come again,” he admits, twisting them around inside you, your soaked cunt letting him know you’re already nearing your second orgasm. You nod, holding onto him again, drifting off into your own world, trying to take him with you as his elegant and slender fingers continue their ministrations, massaging every inch of your pussy, bullying that spot over and over, and his thumb decides to move. The circular motions return around your clit, your eyes rolling back into your head, hips rocking along with his thrusts, and his free hand is back to pinning you down against his body from how quickly you’re chasing that high. “That’s it, just relax and enjoy it.” He instructs, gritting his teeth some when you tug on the hairs on his nape, fighting his eyes from rolling back with yours from the pleasure skyrocketing through his entire body. Focus, idiot. His cock twitches again, your hips rolling around to make his fingertips feel every bit of you grinding against it, and if you keep it up, he might come with you.

“O-Osa–!” You lament, his thumb losing control of itself, swiping over and over at your swelling clit, fingers pressing harshly on your G-spot, deep and caressing it like his life depends on it, his own head falling back as your ass continues rubbing up on his leaking cock, and he pants as his mind swirls in and out of this reality.

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah! Yes!” Dazai moans along with you, his balls tightening, abdomen clenching, and your cunt trapping his fingers in place. “Gonna come w-with you, pre-pretty girl!” His teeth bite onto your shoulder, to conceal his whining, and attempts thrusting his fingers in and out of you again, but it’s difficult from his lack of concentration and your pulsing walls not wanting to let him go. You offer assistance by trying to literally ride his fingers, calling out his name, yanking his hair, and silently beg for mercy as his thumb finds the new spot to light your limbs on fire, your orgasm right there, and you’re utterly killing the poor boy with all this moving around. He groans, loud but muffled, his cock shooting out in his boxers, spurts and strings of his load sticking the material to his shaft and thighs, the warmth hitting your lower back.

Your jaw drops, a soundless cry when his fingertips curl and uncurl on your worn-out spot, clit aching from the overstimulation, and your legs tremble over his while your hips raise from your orgasm making stars burst in your eyes, clouding your vision, white at the edges, and he hasn’t stopped. His fingers assault you with vicious determination, canines trying to puncture your skin, and your cunt flutters again and again as you come, it dripping down his knuckles and the back of his hand, his palm, and onto the bed sheets.

You squeak, fingers unfurling from his messy strands, skating to his cheek, and relief washes over you when his teeth release you, and his hand comes to a standstill. You both lay there, you on top of him, panting, catching your breaths, sitting in each other’s afterglow. Slowly, carefully, he pulls them out, resting his hand on your stomach, and neither of you say anything. He swallows, coming down from… all of that, and realized his plan escalated far more than he intended. He was just going to try kissing you. He didn’t expect any of this. Not that I’m necessarily complaining.

“I’m tired,” you mumble, lids drooping, and he immediately snaps back to attention. Legs and hands work together to get yours down, swiftly grabbing your shorts to help slide back on you, before guiding you to lay down on your mattress. However, when he moves to get up, to change out of his own mess, you rolled over to bury your face in his chest; the cologne he conditioned you to love and seek out is surrounding you, wafting off his shirt, and you look so peaceful cuddled up next to me like this.

Dazai’s features soften at this, slipping down into the mattress with you, bringing the covers up to your shoulders, and traces the stars he found in your eyes along your cheek.

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