Cirque de Sentimentalité - YANDERE!DAZAI

MY BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN*

You will come home.

Was an echo you heard while Dazai was fucking the tears out of you on that clinic bed. He had a special way of making you fall apart, whether that be with his fingers or his cock.

"I hope you're as horribly obsessed with me as I am with you," He had said, pushing his sticky cock back into your hole. His voice was wavering, as if pleasure was turning his brain into mush. "A-are you thinking of me?"

He had forced an answer from you by thrusting extra hard. You clawed at his shoulders, raking through the elastic bandages and arching your back.

"Yes, yes," You had babbled in a lust-driven delirium, eyes crossed at the way he angled his hips to mash against your sweet spot. His thumb was pressing circles against your throbbing clit, feeling the nub burn against his skin. You muffle a cry when he leans down and takes a nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling and suckling on it. "I am."

"Good, good girl," He praises, his own composure beginning to break at the sheer heat of your cunt swallowing his cock. Your eyes squeeze shut and roll back as you squirt on him, liquid spraying all over the sheets and over his light happy trail. "Messy girl~"

Home isn't with him.

What was home? A place where a velvet rope was squared around it?

After he had fucked you, or made love, as he liked to call it, he grabs a wad of tissues and begins to wipe your mess and tears away.

"My love, my beloved, my everything," He says slowly, tossing the tissues into the bin and zipping up your jacket, concealing the hickies he had left on your neck. They throbbed as if shouting: I'm here! Dazai's territory, right here! "My darling. I won't let you leave me. My life is worthless without you. You're my cult, I exist for you."

You'll regret this.

But it sounded like a question now, rather than a statement, a question with no answer. And then the echoes cease to come, like the dying rumbles of a church bell on a Sunday when he peppers your face in loving kisses. 

–

"What were you guys doing back there?" Atsushi asks innocently as you walk out the doctor's office together, hand in hand. Your ears burn as Dazai chuckles, and he becomes your voice for you.

"We were napping together."

Atsushi's own ears burn at the implications. "N-Nothing else, right?"

Dazai tuts. "When did you get so dirty minded, Atsushi?"

He stammers over his own words before coming to an awkward silence at your gaze. Your eyes were different. It was as if he was staring at a completely different person compared to the time he first met you. Back then, you were like gnawed bones and old bricks and fossils that archeologists would have loved to investigate; but now, it was as if you had become art itself, and in a way, it was true–the way Dazai spoke about you was similar to an artist stating his reason for living. How he crooned and swooned about you during work, how he kept an image of you, curled up and sleeping, on his desk (because his wallet was lost in the river), how his wallpaper was an image of your hand being enveloped in his.

"We'll be out of your hair, Atsushi," Dazai says, ignoring the knowing glint from Ranpo's eyes from the corner of the room. He knew he knew. But he knew Ranpo wouldn't say anything. "Good luck with the investigation!"

"Yeah..." Atsushi waves half-heartedly as you two exit, with Ranpo sucking on a red lollipop before waving it around.

"He's found his reason to live, huh?" Ranpo questions, to which Atsushi nods.

"I think so."

"Guess I won't be speaking at all during this case, then." He pops the lollipop back into his mouth and ignores the questioning gaze of Atsushi, turning away to face the outside world through the dirty mirror. "Not a thing at all~"

Ranpo could look the other way, turn a blind eye. There were, after all, spaces to look away. Dazai had done his deed without leaving a trace behind, and there was plenty of blank space for Ranpo to focus on. Ranpo was no stupid man. He knew when to speak and when to be quiet.

This time, for everyone's sake, and for the future's sake, he would remain quiet.

–

"Where are you taking me?" You ask Dazai, wobbling in your steps from your sore hips.

"Back to the crime scene," Dazai answers casually, walking towards the direction of the forest, on the outskirts of Yokohama. "You know, there are cases where serial killers return to the scene of the crime to relive what they've done. I don't think we're serial killers, because we're going back to remind you of what we have done to be together."

You fall quiet.

"Do I mean that much to you?" You ask, timidly. Dazai's hand on your tightens.

"Everything. My soul is tied with yours."

"Even–"

"Even if anything, I love you," He cuts you off and you fall quiet once more. "I love you more than you can even comprehend."

You start on the hike that leads to the forest, the walk there tranquil and quiet. You search your head and brace yourself for the echoes to come back, after years of haunting you, but they remain quiet. Maybe returning to the scene of the crime was a good thing–it would remind you that no one would go to these kinds of lengths to love you, to be with you. And even when you had your mistakes, your imperfections, he would find them beautiful, as if it were proof you were human and not an animated statue. You warmed his soul. You cleansed his heart. You brought back colour to his once metaphorical white hairs, de-stressing him in the easiest of ways.

The dirt crunches under your shoes before the crime scene comes into view. It was sectioned off, with police tape squared around it. The smell of soot and ashes entered your nose and you flinched, but Dazai forced you to continue walking. As if this was the hearth of his soul and he was forcing you to face it for what it was: dangerous, with undertones of calculated insanity. Police officers were murmuring by the sidelines, the beeps of their walkie-talkies punctuating the air as they took no notice of you two. As long as you were out of the sectioned area, they didn't seem to care.

"Look, (first name)," He whispers. "Look what we've done together. This is proof that we were meant to be."

You look at where he was looking. Tent tarp, fraying and blackened by the fires; ashes grey-white and almost suffocating everyone in the vicinity; the ground charred and a sooty; burnt corpses being wheeled out on white stretchers, or at least what remained of them.

"Look at the bodies. They could never love you as I love you," Dazai wraps an arm around you when you notice that you were staring at one of the gold-trimmed sleeves of Joker's. It had survived the fire–and for what? To mock you? You felt sick to your stomach, but like the adrenaline that pumped through your veins when you had given him the OK to light them on fire, you find yourself smiling. A part of you has broken once more. "Look. You don't need anyone but me.

"You're all mine. I'll make sure of that, until the day one of us dies." He says.

"What if I die first?"

"I'll follow you to death," He says. "You think the afterlife can keep us separated? We created the universe together."

Your hand on his tightens. In the background are the charred remains of what you once called your abode. Your short sojourn was simply a transitional period in your life where you were surrounded by constant reminders that you were alone: a forever orphan. He turns you to face him, tilts your head up, and presses his soft mouth against yours.

The image of this alone is similar to that of a wedding. 

You give into his insanity again. Again and again. Maybe you'll wake up from it all, but he'll be there to fuck it out of you. Force it out of you like a cold. You scatter into pieces in his gentle hands, blooming into a flower that once was so far away from him in his dreams, your velvety petals opening up to his advances with vigour. 

It is both damning and gorgeous to witness it all.