#revverries404

his love is quiet.

and it is loud.

it is a murmur; it is a siren.

dazai — once he accepts to himself that he loves you and lets himself to, (which will, undeniably, take a long time — a year or more would be a lower estimate) — will never let you go.

his selfishness to have you would overpower his self-hatred.

his adoration is evident in his words, yes — but exaggerated actions of his are a habit he cannot get rid of. what was formerly a mask has now merged within his personality — and now, feels natural. almost.

but his love seeps through in more real ways in the things he does which you aren't aware of.

that is — handling your environment.

that nuisance of a coworker / college classmate you complained to him about? well, they wouldn't bother you anymore after a couple days.

weird.

those bills you stressed about — never voicing your worries? huh. they ended up paid by someone.

(he never paid them himself. there are other ways, remember?)

that friend who spread shit about you — you, unaware of them?

they shifted to another city.

it's all a little strange, you'd think — but never paid enough attention to them, brushing them away.

other than those moments where his love trickles in his kisses — turning soft, suddenly; far gentler — it does so in the things he does behind your back.

loving, behind your back.

fyodor's mission overlaps with raskolnikov's philosophy on the extraordinary man in crime and punishment, and if someone had seen the similarities before, fyodor being unable to achieve his ideal world would've been not much of a surprise at all.

and here's why.

fyodor wanted to instigate a world war between the ability users and the normal civilians. he wanted to do so for the greater good — to wipe out the ones who could wreck violence easily, unnaturally, in the way the unabilitied couldn't. in the absence of the abilitied, i believe he wanted to control the strings of the world from behind the scenes, in a manner which would make crime more difficult to be committed — a more authoritarian world, in my opinion. to ensure punishment would always follow crime adequately. to make society moral, less sinful, in their actions, at least — even if it represses human nature. after all, human nature is the root of all sins. it needs to be suppressed, to some extent, to eradicate crime.

his mission could've stemmed from a philosophy similar to raskolnikov's — the main character of crime and punishment (dostoevsky's magnum opus).

skip the next two paragraphs if you're already acquainted with raskolnikov's theory of the extraordinary man.

according to raskolnikov, by the law of nature, society is divided into two — the ordinary man, and the extraordinary man. the inferior ordinary ones, "who serve only to reproduce its kind", are men who go by what they have been taught in life — regurgitating it in newer ways still, but unable to do, say, or discover something wholly new of its kind. they are law-abiding, conservative in temperament, and "live under control and love to be controlled". it is natural for them, and they are often unrealizing of their subservience to the social norms, customs, institutions, etc. they do not have the conscious right to transgress the law. any attempt at it will lead to retribution — legal, psychological, or both. note that if the ordinary man does break the law, raskolnikov stated that he must accept his suffering, as it is morally wrong, since they do not have ideas that justify their crime.

the extraordinary, on the other hand, are "men who have the gift or the talent to utter a new word" — that is, the ability to develop something entirely new (not a mere regurgitation of what is already known in different ways). one in thousands, perhaps, has a "spark of independence". "one in ten thousand... is born with greater independence, and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. the man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions". raskolnikov tied it to men like lycurgus, salon, mahomet, and napoleon (especially napoleon). such men had the conscious right to transgress the law. they are unarguably criminals, stopping not even at bloodshed. he maintained that the extraordinary have to be without exception criminals, "otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they cannot submit to". their ideas for the greater good justifies their crime — their courage to go beyond what is accepted in society is what makes them extraordinary. in a nutshell, their ends justify their means.

now that i have established raskolnikov's theory in the best way i could without turning it into a lecture, it can be clearly tied to fyodor's worldview and mission.

undoubtedly, fyodor saw himself in some sense similar to such men like napoleon. (i don't say it arbitrarily — napoleon wanted to conquer europe and reformed france by ensuring equality of men, based status on merit, not birth, protected private property, etc. though there were indeed downsides like him undermining the equality of women and excessive censorship. he caused bloodshed for his idea of a greater good.) such men didn't cease at carnage in order to bring the world to their idea of a better change — "moving the world and leading it to its goal". fyodor wanted to do the same — causing a war to eliminate the abilitied users, and bring the rest under control and order to ensure peace — a more moral society, that is. even if he didn't devop a philosophy similar to raskolnikov's (which is highly improbable), he did believe himself to be akin to the extraordinary types in some shape or manner. raskolnikov's theory also states that the ordinary men are inferior to the extraordinary — maybe fyodor's belief in the same caused why he looked down upon the rest.

but fyodor's end was the same as raskolnikov's, when it came to deploying this theory.

raskolnikov, after murdering an old pawnbroker and her sister, was unable to deal with his guilt and paranoia, and confessed eventually to the crime. he found that, after all, he fell into the ordinary rut at the end of the day — something that almost drove him to madness.

though in bungo stray dogs, fyodor did have new ideas (akin to raskolnikov's) — at the end, he was unable to bring them about. maybe, fyodor too, was ordinary — a man with an inability to bring a greater good to the world in any significant manner. despite being a man of genius.

it is undeniable, from this quote in crime and punishment — "one in ten thousand... is born with greater independence, and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. the man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions" — that fyodor aimed to be the crown of humanity. altering the world requires a status of that importance, after all. and he failed to achieve such a status.

i cannot rule whether fyodor was extraordinary or ordinary, because it is entirely subjective. maybe he will come back to life, somehow, and prove us wrong; maybe he never died. perhaps it was a shapeshifter who did. perhaps it was merely a trick once more.

but if he is dead for sure, his end was foreshadowed from the start to anyone who realised the similarities in the philosophy.

one thing is for sure — fyodor will either never come back or will control the world.

Jealous Dazai?

A/N: I AM SO IN LOVE WITH THE REQUESTS I'M GETTING. I ADORE you for this one.

Brief: no established relationship, underlying sexual tension (???) (at least, i imagined it so, even if it's not quite evident within the writing), angsty-ish + comfort-ish by end

DAZAI OSAMU...

...isn't typically a man who gets jealous. For one who doesn't believe in possessions — someone who believes anything and anyone he's ever had is bound to be lost one day — envy should be no acquaintance.

Yet, emotions do not adhere to logic or personal beliefs in the least. How simple would everything be if they did?

The world would be too magnanimous.

But ours? It isn't.

Neither for geniuses nor fools life waters itself down. Perspective hones emotions, but it has no capacity to control them fully.

Dazai is no stranger to the same. But envy has been foreign to him for a long while; apathy and existential fatigue often takes up any space reserved for it.

That is — until you started to fill it up, inspite how much he resisted. There was just something about you that anything else couldn't offer...

Perhaps nothing else had the ability to quicken his heartbeat.

Perhaps nothing else fills him with such intensely vague emotions.

Perhaps it was you who defied his worldview by setting wind loose into his mind — upsetting, hurling emotions that formerly laid stagnant upon the floor.

Perhaps.

It couldn't be helped.

There was barely a murmur within the office.

Its typical inhabitants had slowly filtered out — the golden dusk seeping in through the uncurtained windows languidly, making its way through the frigid air.

Usually, the calmness would've been a sedative. Today — it was an icicle.

Because within the bubble of silence, the person creased the surface of the peace — unsettling it with his ripples — was Dazai.

Though surprisingly, unlike most occasions, the man was actually not making noise.

"So, bella..."

You clicked your tongue in annoyance. "How many times has it been, Dazai—"

"—that you told me not to call you that, darlin'?" he chuckled. "Mm, is that better?"

You bit your lip, looking away. Hiding the way that word made you feel was no use.

"No — no."

Except you tried anyway.

"Is that so?" he smiled slyly, yet made no attempt to edge further.

And let the silence hang.

And hang.

And hang.

...

But obstinately, you did not answer. Holding yourself back despite the discomfort of the oppressive quiet.

Slowly, slimily, it wrung its hands through your neck, suffocating you, beckoning you, screeching at you —

"You know it isn't so!" you whispered breathlessly, harshly — loathing yourself for it, the effect his mere presence had.

He chuckled. "I never questioned it." His typical cool unchanging — he looked perfectly calm. Irritatingly so.

"You just did!" you snapped.

"Now, now — what's the matter with you getting so worked up?" he tilted his head in the similar innocent manner yet with the evident undertones of slyness he didn't bother hiding.

"Anyone flirting incessantly despite my asserted lack of interest is bound to irk me, Dazai."

"Mm... that didn't seem so with that actor this morning." He leaned back in his chair. "An old friend, did you say?"

"Seriously?" your tone raised a notch further. "You're comparing yourself with another man on how you treat a woman?"

"You didn't answer the question, did ya'?"

"You're comparing yourself with a sleazebag like him?" you scoffed bitterly. "I didn't..." ...expect that from him, but the words got caught up in your throat — confusion, anger, and denial all wrapped up.

"You thought I was better?" He got up from his chair, walking towards you.

"Do you want me to be better, [name]?"

He leaned down in front of your chair.

"Something keeps telling me otherwise, despite your words."

His hands ghosted laid on edge of the chair, right beside but not quite touching your thighs.

Your breath caught up in a lump in your throat.

Something passed by as a flicker in his eyes — almost vitriolic, you fancied — but too swift to judge from.

"But," he breathed out a laugh, "I'll take your word for it."

"I'll stop."

You wondered if that was his method of punishment.

Karma for your persistent denial of these underlying emotions of yours, the undercurrent of electricity that passed unacknowledged — but never unnoticed.

Sitting alone now, truly, in the office —

realising these feelings you buried desperately, failing, failing, again and again —

realising regretfully that perhaps, perhaps —

perhaps nothing else fills you with such intensely vague emotions;

and perhaps —

you will force those words out, walking faster, faster, faster now —

"Dazai!"

A/N: i'm afraid this became more confession-ish than an actual jealousy fic, but i hope you like it nevertheless 🥹 i'd written an actual jealousy fic before this which might've been one of the most delicious pieces of literature I've ever written, but tumblr didn't save it when I tried to and it deleted and i went through the five stages of grief over the course of one week before gathering enough mental strength to get my ass to write it again. though in an entirely different way. scarcely as good as before. it was angst without comfort formerly.

i'll forever mourn the version Iost to tumblr's tantrums 💔

i think this one's kinda crappy at the end.

eh.

...

a fight with dazai.

A/N: ...a few months late. i apologize 😭 but tysm for the ask <33

brief: dead dove: do not eat. gore. murder. (towards third characters in the story). angst without comfort.

undoubtedly, it stemmed from his lies.

you knew him. you knew the way he acted, why he acted. it was a mystery, initially — but at least you knew there was a mystery. others felt dazai merely found suicide an absurdly exciting prospect.

you knew better.

a leopard — and too a pathological liar — isn't likely to change its spots soon.

except he wasn't a pathological liar. he was just dazai. he just lied like one.

"you said you'd be there when i asked you, dazai." a blank expression on your face. trying not to raise your voice — doing so would undoubtedly result in tears.

no. not near him.

he cocked his head to the side, almost innocently. "i did?" he blinked. "i only remember saying yes to yosano about going to the karaoke afterwards, [name]."

a wave of frustration washed over you. "that happened AFTER — " your tone too high, you abruptly cut yourself off, breathing in. "that happened after we discussed about meeting at the site with atsushi at 4:45."

"huh..." he mumbled. "are you sure?" a step closer. "you know you have a habit of planning things in your head and forgetting."

but you didn't. you didn't. you remembered the warmth of his breath beside your neck, the lilt of his voice, the look in his eyes, when he leaned over the building's map to discuss how, where the children might've gotten lost there.

that old building site under construction.

that was the new mission you'd been assigned with the two of them. atsushi and dazai. and been given the responsibility to inform them.

the very building where children went to play hide and seek everyday. formerly.

there were no kids to play there anymore.

imagining it was haunted, it was a play area for them where they went for hours.

this time, they didn't come back.

the cameras outside never saw they come outside.

and neither were they inside.

atsushi had dropped out at the last moment because of a sudden high fever, so you were alone. with your ability that was useless in a situation as such.

you found the children.

easily.

in the basement.

within a hollow underneath the sofa they hadn't bothered moving during the initial search.

after all, what could be beneath a sofa?

mutilated, disfigured bodies.

seven dead. two dying. you could save only one.

the other one, retching cries — raw-throated, guttural — clutching at his nearly severed hand in excruciating agony, infested by maggots already — covered in blood that was his dead sister's.

the ambulance was too late for him.

at least the worst the other one had to go through was being covered in vomit and blood with both wrists fractured. she survived.

ending up mute.

she had been choked by the neck.

the images were fresh in your mind — as if being witnessed.

and still — not an idea of how the children ended up there. because of the severity of the crime, ranpo had been assigned the mission from hence on.

the boy's father — on the news before you found out — was found trying to hang himself.

maybe, maybe — if dazai was present, the poor child would've survived.

but no. he showed no fucking remorse as he tried to gaslight you into doubting your memories.

you knew his tricks, being no stranger to them.

"bella..." he stepped forward, gently putting his palm on your cheek — sensing the building anger within the bubbling silence. "look at me —"

"don't fucking touch me."

you shoved his hand away; painfully, painfully preventing eye contact — so he wouldn't see the building tears — whose presence was already evident in your choked up voice.

"the tricks that work on atsushi won't on me, dazai."

the following two days, you hadn't been at the office — having other duties to take care of.

you hadn't seen him.

the next time you did, though, the office was in too good a mood for you to continue to act sullen or angry.

after all, a previous case that had been puzzling even ranpo had been solved.

but not yours.

never yours.

not yet.

you laughed along to dazai and atsushi's banter that amused even kunikida, keeping his severity at bay for the time being.

when dazai approached you later, throwing a light-hearted joke, he pretended as if everything was fine.

was it fine?

was it not that serious?

did you merely imagine it?

perhaps you were merely too sensitive.

you crinkled your eyes and laughed along.

if it was alright on the surface, it didn't matter what was underneath.

it shouldn't really matter if you loved him.

in a way he oughtn't know.

it should be fine.

A/N: this is one of an older works of mine, and i'm not really proud of them... i can't imagine a fight being resolved easily with a man like dazai, who would sooner die than be emotionally vulnerable. i could write a pt-2 with a resolution, if you want. it just wasn't happening in this one... like, i couldn't see it work here. 😭

oh, he just looks entrancing — it's lovely to observe him. if you could, you would study him under a microscope to understand every single detail about him.

but for now, you listen to him yap about the trivialities of the day, unaware that he's only carrying on because he loves to see how you look at him secretly when you think he's not watching.

who knows... maybe one day he'll use that to his advantage. to surprise you with that knowledge when you least expect it.

A/N: yes. i'm back to writing. not back to my requests, but i promise we'll get there. someday. but this sudden 12:14 AM rush hit me and i had to write this down.

perhaps a continuation might follow? :3

warnings: dazai is being dazai. chuuya is being chuuya.

it was the twelfth time you dreamt of that early evening again.

that day, twilight had just set. blue tones of the sky were setting into a pale yellow, nearly orange near the horizon. like a sunscape painting.

it was quiet. you were in your muted white dress. the casual type. the type that subtly flows down.

not attracting attention, but existing within its own quiet swish when the wind blows.

distant shouting—

ripping your attention from the book you were reading. instinctively raising your head, you spot a flash of orange. just nearby.

"oi! shitty dazai, those mushrooms aren't gonna help you die."

"isn't it worth trying?" came from an amused tone.

"we've got work to do, you asshole—"

"and we've got two hours. calm down, chew-ya."

"and eight people to ki—" the voice dropped, all of a sudden. quiet again, replaced by the low chirp of crickets once more.

suspicious. ki—? kick? kiss? kill?

seemed to be the last one from the silence...

"aaand?" the voices walked ahead, their figures coming into view fully. two boys, seeming to be teens, around your age. one tall, dark brown hair, in a white shirt, and the shorter one, a ginger, in a dark green hoodie. a bandage covered the former's right eye.

successfully ruining the silent solitude of the park. the susurrus of leaves no longer audible.

"where even is that fancy-ass hotel we're supposed to go to?"

"hmm... perhaps in neverland?"

a kick was swung at the brunette's knee, almost hitting him, had he not stepped left last minute.

"you've gotta polish your attacks, chuuya-kun—"

a fist swung at the skull this time. successfully connecting.

"hey! that's against the rules!" the brunette shouted, massaging his head with his right hand. "a dog doesn't attack its own master!"

"oh? want me to test that again?"

"anyways, the hotel!"

the ginger almost seemed murderous. typical of someone with his hair color. "reply to me, mackerel—"

"there's nobody nearby who can help us with the directions..." the brunette—named dazai/asshole/mackerel, judging by the conversation—looked around, shielding his eyes with his hand on his forehead, despite the absence of sunlight.

but you were in plain sight.

"...may i help you?" you got up from the bench, setting aside your book for the time being.

"oh, my, a pretty girl—" the brunette named dazai/asshole/mackerel gasped. "may you help me by giving me your name?"

you looked at him, unimpressed. "[name]."

"such a pretty name," his mouth twisted into a half-smirk, half-smile.

"you'll make me gag, you fucker." chuuya.

he ignored him.

"well... may i have yours?" you asked dazai/asshole/mackerel/you fucker.

"why, it's dazai osamu."

"dazai. the hotel's the second building on the first turn by the main street."

"ooh, were you listening in to our conversation?" he gave a sly smile.

"i couldn't help not to with your loud voices."

"his," said the ginger, rolling his eyes. "his. voice."

"i think yours was louder, honestly," you responded.

dazai clicked his tongue. "that's chuuya. don't mind him. he doesn't know how to talk to pretty girls."

"i'm charmed, dazai, but i think i should—"

"is that crime and punishment you're reading?" his eyes drifted to the book on the bench you'd set aside, taking it in his hand. "that's quite advanced for your age, isn't it?"

"it's... for a school project," you lied.

"is that so? i suppose you're done with reading it. i'd love to borrow it!"

the ginger cringed. "what the actual he—"

"we'll get going, then!" he said before you could react, grabbing the ginger's wrist, starting to walk away.

"but when will you—" you tried to speak, but were cut off.

"soon!"

he didn't look back as he walked away.

you didn't know if you were ever getting it back.

he met you outside the school gates a week later.

"y'know, the annotations gave away your lie by the first page."

"thought so, but i never thought i'd see this book again," you mumbled, inspecting the book. it was partially soaked in orange juice.

that was not the last time you saw him, unlike what you thought.

you woke up again.

𝄞 a lynch mob in a religious society, but i try to never let it break my mind 𝄞 ｡･:*˚:✧｡

弱い人間は幸福そのものを恐れる。彼らは綿毛に触れただけで傷つくことがある。時には幸福によってさえ傷つけられるのだ。

- 太宰治