𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏𝘼𝙇 𝙎𝘾𝘼𝙍𝙎, 𝙤𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙪 𝙙𝙖𝙯𝙖𝙞

𝙏𝙒𝙊

You knew sooner or later that he would find a way to get you alone. To catch you off guard—back you up into a position where he'd be able to speak to you.

Dazai was always three steps ahead of you. He was a logical thinker. Meticulously planned situations that he'd have the upper hand in were his favorite.

He knew it would be easy to corner you. The only thing that made him wait this long was the way Kunikida and Ranpo watched you like fucking hawks. You'd hated when peopled hovered. What had changed?

You were afraid of him. That's what changed—he could see it in your eyes. The way you shook just ever so slightly when his eyes raked over your figure. The way you always kept him in your line of vision. He wasn't an idiot, no, far from it. You knew the extent of his actions—how far he'd take things.

Oh, how you wish you didn't.

Its something he enjoys. Sick, sick bastard. He'd loved when people were afraid of him, when he could bark an order and people would scramble to do it. He got off on power dynamics, you'd seen it first hand.

Dazai is a man who thrives on being in control, and right now—he had control over the situation.

He had you backed into a corner, a devilish smile on his lips as he watched you shake beneath his touch. A slim finger running across your jaw.

You'd told Ranpo—or maybe, it was Atsushi—that you'd just be a minute. That you had to copy a paper for Kunikida. He had offered to come with you, following Fukuzawas orders to not leave you alone.

Suddenly, you're now wishing you took up that offer. Because now, you're face-to-face with the Devil himself.

His skin is cold, ice cold, yet his touch feels like fire. Like electricity—just how it used to feel, except now follows the immense fear. You almost wish he'd kill you, snap your neck and be done with it. Somehow, death seems less painful than what he's forced you to endure.

It would be better if he spoke. If there was some noise amongst the silence, instead of being forced to listen to his breathing—he's relaxed. He's calm as can be, and yet, you're panicking. You're on the verge of a breakdown, even he can hear it in the way you breathe.

Your actions were louder than any words. You were afraid of him, oh, so dearly afraid of him.

Good. It's better to be scared. It's easier to be afraid than to love him. Fear comes naturally, love doesn't.

When he speaks, you wish he didn't. You wish you were deaf, if only for a moment—then let it be now. You'd spent five years waiting to hear his voice again, and you'd willingly cut five years off your life if it meant you'd never have to hear him speak again.

"They told me you were dead." He says, hand brushing the fallen hair to behind your ear, his other hand resting behind you.

You've never felt claustrophobic before. Small spaces don't scare you, not at all—but right now, you've never felt more scared. The small closet smells like him, it smells exactly how he's always smelt, and that scares you half to death. You're sure you should be able to hear his heartbeat, that it's quiet enough to be able to.

Perhaps, he doesn't have one.

It would explain everything about him. He doesn't have a heart. He doesn't understand what it's like to feel things. Yeah, that's the only idea that would make sense. There's no way someone could be this fucked up if they had a heart.

"Oh," he hums, piercing eyes studying every single feature. He could draw you from memory if he wanted to. "How I wish that were true."