synopsis: it's easy for you to hide everything you've ever felt from anyone willing to look in your direction. however, it seems one particularly persistent stranger makes you wonder why you keep running off to begin with.
introduction: to get away from you, i'll self-sabotage. if you like when we talk, i'll dislocate my jaw! ... what the fuck is wrong with me?
all your life, you felt like isolation was the best option, safe for everyone, yourself especially. dazai, on the other hand, is trying to make you see that no one can out sabotage the original saboteur.
contents: ~6.2k words; sfw fluff with some angst/comfort; self-sabotage syndrome, gn!reader; obsessive dazai if you squint. pet names: bella(donna), my darling. no other warnings.
“How can you make a decision like that on your own?!” Dazai calls out to you, reaching for your wrist, but he just misses it, and he feels like he’s been here before. He blinks, a version of a life he thought he would get to live flashing before his eyes, and the thought of losing it all in this instant triggers something inside him he didn’t know was possible. His chest twists, heart crawling up his throat, and the only thing he can think to do is argue. “That isn’t something you can just think up for me!” He hardly raises his voice, no matter if the situation calls for it, and he’s doing it right now, yelling at your back with your hand on the knob, second-guessing for once in your life if this is something you should be doing. “You’re hesitating! Shouldn’t that tell you anything?!” It should, it does, but you don’t want to listen. You know what’s best, even if he won’t understand. At least not right now – he will later.
“Just means I have enough respect for you to hear you out,” you sigh, forehead resting on the door of his agency dorm, and a new part of you, one that never existed before, is telling you to stay. But I can’t. He’s formed cracks on your mask, hairline, not even visible to you, and they get worse when you’re around him. While he’s so good for you, you know deep down you’re no good for him.
“Then hear me out here!” His arms are gesturing in the empty space of the living quarters, far too small for two people, but he will do everything in his power to make it work. “Please, stop doing this to me.” His voice trembles, tone begging, and your knuckles loosen their grip on the metal, the hope jumping around on his diaphragm, making it difficult for him to breathe while he simply waits.
“Don’t you see?” You speak up, peeking over your shoulder some, but not enough to actually look at him. “This is exactly why I need to go and leave you alone. I upset you, all the time, and I don’t want to do that to you.” Your sentence is barely finished before you’re yanking the door open and stepping out, Dazai calling out after you, pointless since your name bounces off the surface when it closes behind you, surging back into his own ears, and he stands there. Silent. His brows repeatedly twitch together and relax, lips parted as he lightly pants from his accelerated heart, unable to properly comprehend what actually had happened. He’s a negotiator, excellent with words and trickery, able to convince just about anyone to do just about anything, and he couldn’t make you stay with him for the night. He couldn’t form the correct sentences, the appropriate string of words to coerce you into crawling into his futon with him, allow him to hold you, to sing you to sleep. All he did was beg, like a dog fighting his euthenasia appointment.
Things only ever get like this when the voices in your head get the better of you, when they leak out into your own speech, a slip up from your carefully crafted facade. No one recognized what you were hiding, able to buy what you’re selling: those smiles so big, you lighten up the entire continent despite it raining on your own parade; the gleam in your sad eyes, it’s difficult to tell it’s from unshed tears; the laughter that erupts from deep within your belly, how could anyone tell it’s forced? You don’t know the difference between minding your business and offering assistance, toeing the line of isolation and overbearing, ensuring the character you’ve designed to play is constantly present that sometimes your true self arrives on stage, and there’s no easy way to shove them off once they’ve sat in that lone chair – silent, blank stare, spotlight making them break a sweat, but they stay there for all to see. Doing nothing. Until it’s time to sleep, when all resets, and you’re good for another week or so to keep pretending.
You went through life like this, not speaking unless spoken to – careful of what you say; not helping unless you had no other choice; surrounding yourself with people after being dragged kicking and screaming, begging to be left alone – learning to have a disdain for others and authority. In school, you were always academically skilled, but “had difficulty engaging and cooperating with others”; in college, it was easier to be left alone – no clubs, no extracurriculars, rarely forced group work, and you were still living at home, so no roommates. Your professors noticed, of course, but a small handful in the four years you were there ever mentioned anything to you; one especially caring theater professor guided you to the campus’ counselor. You went out of obligation, but when you were asked questions, you simply said: “I’m only here because my professor will ask if I came, and I don’t want to lie to her.”
The moment you were able, you moved out of your parents’ house, got an apartment of your own, barely big enough for one, and you preferred it that way. You didn’t want guests, sleepovers, or any other possible implication that someone can overstay their welcome. You hardly visit your family, isolating yourself to the point of them worried you are dead – you do periodic check-ins, to offer your mom some peace of mind, and your father a sigh of relief. Any friends you’ve made have gradually slipped themselves from your life, some without a word, some asking: “What is actually your problem?” You didn’t know, still don’t, staring at them, watching them all leave out the front door or exit your phone’s contacts without putting up a fight. It’s for the best, especially if I upset them this much.
The final straw was when you thought you found somebody, someone that thought you were worth staying for, but even they fled the first chance they had. You feel like you are poison, everything and everyone you touched recoiling or withering away to a heap of ash, and there’s a reason people warn of staying away from poison ivy when hiking. It blends in to other shrubbery and grass, undetectable, unless you know what you’re looking for; if you don’t, it’ll most likely be too late once the itch seeps down deep under your skin, trying to reach your bones.
That’s how it was for you: deceitful, luring them to admire your leaves until they realize after the damage is done you have hurt them.
At least, until you met Dazai. How cliche and stereotypical, but it seemed you found someone that was immune to poison. He likes running his fingers leisurely along every vein of your leaves, murmuring how beautiful you are as he admires your bright green color, and is completely fine afterward. He isn’t scratching at his skin or reaching for ointment to shield his ailing rash; if anything, he goes back in for another caress, even places a kiss to your lips – the most dangerous part about you.
You met in passing, by accident, or fate, while rummaging around in the grocery store for potatoes. He had waltzed up to you, offering a tomato, and you looked at him with an arched brow, not daring to speak. “Did you know tomatoes and potatoes are from the same family?” He asked, unprompted, and you eyed the bright red sphere in his palm then darted toward the potato in your hand. “Solanaceae, commonly referred to as nightshade.” He held it up closer to your face, and you thought right then he was the weirdest motherfucker to ever cross your path. His chocolate gaze peered at you, playful, over the fruit, and a hint of a smirk was laced in his words. “They can be considered poisonous if consumed incorrectly, or if you come across something far more dangerous.” He continued explaining.
“And why exactly are you telling me this, stranger?” You took a step back and pushed the tomato down from your face. “Is my grocery store produce is a hazard to my health?” He chuckled, tossing it up and catching it, watching it fly in the air then land back in his hand, before setting it in the basket latched to his arm.
“No, it’s just an opening line, belladonna,” he stated, far too effortlessly for your liking, and your hand slowly came up to place on your hip.
“What makes you think you can call me something like that?” Your voice is strict, to-the-point, and maybe it had been too long since you last interacted with another human being, but you didn’t seem to mind entertaining such a conversation.
“Well,” he cooly leaned against the stand, shrugged, then tilted his head as he flashed you a polite smile. “We are on the topic of deadly nightshade. Seemed appropriate.” You paused – faltered – as your mind scoured your mental encyclopedia of standard trivia at the plant, and you couldn’t help thinking what kind of opening line is that?!
“You’re calling me poison?” You almost scoffed. This stranger eyed you with his analytical stare, expressionless before the corner of his mouth twitched upward and closed his eyes at your reaction.
“No, merely the direct translation. It’s Greek, you know,” he bowed his head before standing upright, shoulders rolled back, and another smile formed in your direction. “It seems I am correct, though.” He dared to extend his arm out and delicately placed his finger under your chin, and your eyebrows immediately downturned at the action. “You are quite the deadly beauty, aren’t you?” He tapped twice before tossing you a two-fingers salute, turning on his heel and walking off, as if he didn’t just do all of that. As if he hadn’t left you standing there with your jaw slack and eyes wide at how smooth that was. You’d be infuriated if it didn’t occur to you how seamless he made the connection of conversation, regardless of your reaction, and something about the way he willingly compared you to poison, death, and still called you beautiful really shook in your core. He’ll see in due time, if I ever even see him again.
You went on about your life after that, thinking of him once or twice the next day, then forgetting all about him for roughly a week. Until that shadow-like stranger, alluring and precarious as before, loomed around the shelves of the secondhand bookstore you were roaming around to kill time before an appointment. He had a book propped in his fingers, pages opened that he was reading, stopping only due to recognizing you from the grocery store – believing your first meeting would have been the last.
He slinked around, quietly following you, undetectable – you are terrible about checking your surroundings. He watched your hands meander around, nothing particularly intriguing you, light touches to book covers and Post-Its or sticky tabs wrapped in cellophane, pens resting in flimsy display cases, and nothing was good enough to go home with you. How I hope I can change your mind. He saw his opening, you standing in front of a random shelf, a book in hand that had an appealing cover, not a care in the world. Carefully, he floated over toward your frame, then lightly bumped into your shoulder, causing the book to slip from your fingers in shock, and you jumped in place.
“I am so sorry!” You immediately apologized, taking the blame, despite being still as a statue, minding your business. He raised a dark brow at that, hands frozen mid-air as he geared up to hold you in place, but he was more so taken aback by you self-assigning fault.
“No, please,” he held his hand up, recollecting himself when he kneeled down to grab the book and offer it out to you. You didn’t take it, recognizing his eyes and arrogant smile, your own eyes narrowing. “Entirely my fault.” He gracefully stuck the landing, ignoring your glare. He paused, phony, then his eyes lit up with a grin growing. “Oh, if it isn’t my grocery store belladonna!” He expressed genuine excitement to see you, but the execution was clear – even for you, to have been fabricated.
You rolled your eyes, walking away to go busy yourself in hopes he’d leave you alone. However, this stranger was adamant, unrelenting, and he raced over to reach your side, and still continued wearing a smile while near you. Even when you were playing pretend, people didn’t smile nearly to this degree. You side-eyed him before turning the corner, going down the aisle, and he fumbled a bit over his shoes to try keeping up. “You know, usually I am never one to chase, but I have to admit, you’re making this fun.” He, for some reason, felt the need to tell you this.
“I have a feeling all you ever do is chase,” you stated, blunt, avoiding looking in his direction. “You’re too good at weirdly specific pickup lines and harassment.” You turned another sharp corner, no longer knowing where in this store you’re headed, it not nearly as big to be playing these kinds of games with someone you don’t even know.
“Oh, how I love the sting,” he purred, his voice near but you couldn’t see him, until you glanced over your shoulder to see those sparkling irises over some of the books on the other side of the shelf. You scoffed under your breath, rolling your eyes again as you turned your back on him. “Listen, bella, I genuinely have no clue why you’re writing me off so quickly. I thought we hit it off after dropping such obscure knowledge on you?” He continued, his voice getting closer, his footsteps following, and you were about to turn and run, but found yourself trapped in a dead end. Classic.
“I’ll scream,” you immediately told him, whirling around to look at him. His hands are in his pants pockets, head cocked, and he was more than an arm’s length away.
“I tend to give that reaction,” he winked, and your mind did not go in the same direction as his, considering you gave him a judgmental expression and leaned back to get away from him more.
“Look, I’m not interested in a Misery situation,” you pushed past him, shoulder brushing his chest as you walked by, and his line of sight followed you, not wanting to miss a thing. “Plus, I’m pretty sure once you have me alone, you’re the one that will be begging to leave.” You added without thinking, the bite there in your tone, just wanting this guy to leave you alone.
“I hear a challenge!” He sang, skipping up to you again, his hands remaining hidden.
“God, you’re insufferable,” you barged out the front door, storming down the sidewalk, hoping to get swallowed by the crowd so you could ditch him.
“I get that often,” his voice, suddenly sultry, was right in your ear, breath fanning over the conch, and your body stiffened. Electricity struck up and down your spine, and you were frozen in the middle of the walkway. He chuckled before circling in front of you, and you finally noticed he was tall. You couldn’t have ditched him even if you wanted to – not without interweaving through alleyways or crossing the street to hide elsewhere.
“Point proven,” you tried recovering, folding your arms. “You are the chaser!” You pushed him lightly to the side, moving on with hopes of never seeing his face again.
“Bella, please, you break my heart!” He called out to you, and your nose scrunched in disgust. Bystanders watched in silence, looking between the two of you, thinking you had just utterly dumped him, and the poor guy couldn’t take it.
“Rot in a ditch!” You called back, waving him off as you disappeared in the crowd at the crossing. He sighed, dreamily, swooning with wobbling knees.
“A taste of poison I don’t think I can ever get enough of,” he muttered to himself, determination coursing through his veins and entering his bones, gaze fixated on you. “I’ll make you mine one day! Mark my words!” His voice was faint, but the words rang throughout the air, entering your ears and dancing circles around your brain. You made the mistake of peeking over your shoulder, seeing him on the other side, and held out a finger pistol in your direction. “Got you.”
The enigmatic stranger, whose name you would later learn is Osamu Dazai, held true to his decree: every nook and cranny he found you in while out in public, he worked hard to chisel away at your mask, recognizing it as one similar to his own. You had moments where you stopped trying to shoo him away, stopped forcing this character you were portraying to make him leave you alone – mostly because you learned he actually liked when you were mean to him. You traded it in for overdramatic melancholy, bleak outlooks on life, morose longing, and solemn looks of desertion – your true self.
The thing was that only drew him closer.
“We’re alike, you know,” Dazai said while he walked with you in the park. It was cherry blossom season, the petals vibrant pink and floating down to the pavement, creating a gorgeous path for you to follow. You had your hands stuffed away in your jacket pockets, walking at your leisure, unsure how he found you once again. Yokohama’s not nearly as big as I believed.
“Can’t see how,” you sighed inwardly.
“It’s easier to push people away, starting nearly at the beginning before it gets too real,” he went on, tone cheery, misplaced by his desolate speech. “Hard to think we’re deserving of people that care about us or, God forbid, love us.”
“You’re saying ‘us’ as if you know me well enough to make those assumptions,” your voice remained near monotonous, eyes ahead, wishing to be minding your business instead.
“There it is,” he mused, his hands behind his back as he strolled beside you. “That distance you place between yourself and others. Not letting anyone get close enough to even think they could begin to know you.” His voice is lowered, not quite a whisper, but not loud enough for anyone walking by could hear. “If they try, you have a plan to get out, right? Or make them leave on their own?” You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to, didn’t want this guy to have the satisfaction of being right.
“Self-sabotage,” he went on, tone shifting, the sadness only brought by loneliness overtaking him. Something you recognized. “I know it all too well. I can place it in others just as quickly. I understand it; I understand you.”
“No, you don’t,” you whispered, but your feet wouldn’t will you to take off like all the other times before. “You cannot begin to understand someone you don’t know. You don’t get it–”
“You truly feel poisonous,” he cut you off, never raising his voice, but his words cut through your bones. “Everything you touch ruined, sullied, killed. Every relationship you have ends with the other turning tail, as if they couldn’t get away from you fast enough.” You swallowed, eyes stinging, and your fists tightened. “All because you don’t think you’re allowed to have that connection. It hurts less if you make them leave.”
“Stop–”
“You get to tell yourself you were right,” he kept going. “You get to look in the mirror, a giant ‘I told you so’ to your reflection, that they’re like the rest–”
“Shut up!” You screamed, coming to a halt, the sound of your unreasonably angered voice echoing in the quiet of the blossoms. Multiple other people stopped to gawk at you two, and he didn’t look at you like all the others. “You don’t know anything! You don’t have the right to act like you do! Who even are you?!” Your chest heaved, your mind yelling at your feet, confused they haven’t run away, gritting your teeth as you stared up at him. He gazed down at you with something indescribable then, an expression no one ever dared to offer you, and your anger dispelled like magic.
“My name is Osamu Dazai,” his hand came out, wrapped in those mysterious bandages, and he waited patiently. “King of running away when things get too good and too comfortable.” You stared at his hand, stuck between the two of you, but you didn’t make any moves. “I’m trying to be better.” He added with a softness equated to how someone would speak to a cowering kitten in the alley.
“Makes one of us,” you took his hand anyway, shaking it, offering your name in return. “I’ll make you change your mind about that.”
“Doubt it,” he smiled, gentle, taking advantage of the situation to bring your hand up to kiss your knuckles. Your eyes bugged, hand trembling, and his eyes shone amber when the sunrays bled through the branches. Your brows knit, staring up at him, and you felt glued in place. “I’ll have you know, my darling, I’m incredibly stubborn when I have decided I want something. You will run out of tactics before I ever even consider giving up on you.” You faltered, hand slipping from his grasp, and dropping down to your side. You blinked, accidentally sneering that you had to quickly correct, but he already saw it – a smirk growing on his lips.
“I hear a challenge,” you grumbled, repeating his words back to him, then resuming your walk, hastening your pace to leave him behind.
“Bring it on! I was beginning to worry you’d gone soft on me!” He laughed lightly, catching up to you in three strides, and you huffed at the advantage his long limbs gave him.
That conversation stuck with you, replaying in the back of your mind as you’d sit in your one bedroom apartment, the moon illuminating your figure as it laid on the mattress. Your eyes fixated on the ceiling, vision adjusting to the darkness, and those gorgeous brown irises have dangerously instilled themselves in your brain, invading the crevices of your deepest memories, never to escape. Part of you believed he had done it on purpose, some sort of magic spell or one of those special abilities you’re always hearing about; another part of you wondered what it would be like to have those same eyes admiring you from the other side of the dining room table.
Somehow, along your journey of life with Dazai guiding you, following blindly, he lured you to his dorm, a place even smaller than yours. He didn’t have much, genuinely, and his futon was barely big enough for him to sleep on. He shared it with you regardless, inviting you to spend time with him in that suffocating space, and some days you enjoyed nothing more than his company – others, you were trying to find ways to get him to kick you out.
One night, when he tried confessing his feelings to you, standing in the doorway of your apartment, leaning down, preparing to give you a long-awaited kiss, you merely blinked. Sucked in a breath, then said: “If I had a car, I’d crash it into your garage.” He paused, lips parted and brows scrunching down, before tilting his head with those captivating eyes peering down at you.
“Are you saying you’d like me to get a house so you can do that?” He asked, as if he had missed the point entirely, and you were taken aback. “Market seems pretty good lately, I can see what I can do.” He shrugged, hand resting on the doorframe to hold himself up.
“What?” You shook your head, confused, and your lip curled up. “No, stupid, that’s not–” You cut yourself off, not finding it worth arguing when he looked at you like a clueless puppy – an expression you learned he taught himself to abuse toward others, but it works every time.
“May I have a kiss now?” He slightly pouted. You eyed him up and down, gripping the door tight, and your nose scrunched up before you started shoving him out of the way.
“Get lost,” you huffed, slamming it in his face. He blinked, knuckles immediately hitting the surface, and you hadn’t even stalked off yet. You rolled your eyes, tearing it open again to see him standing where you left him. “What n–” His hands were cupping your face and lips on yours, a beautiful interruption to your sentence, and you let him.
They lingered for a long moment before barely pulling away, gazing down at you, and your lips formed a line. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” He whispered.
“That’s assault,” you retorted. His eyes widened momentarily at that comment, hands withdrawing, but your fingers snatched at his wrists, pulling him across the threshold. “Stay.”
“Fine, but if you kick me out, I’ll sit in the hall again until you come get me,” he murmured, his foot kicking the door closed behind him, and followed your steps to your single bedroom, and if he can make a futon work, surely the full-sized mattress will do.
There were many good days where you two seemed picture-perfect, him even changed from his ways, not tearing off at the first sign of a life too good to be true, and told you about his past. He liked taking care of you, especially when the dreaded voices got the better of you, his comfort allowing you to be yourself – no mask, no hiding, no putting up a front, no character to portray. He’d sit on the floor in front of you, folding his arms on your lap and looking up at you, giving you silence but never space, no matter how many times your hands pushed and shoved at him to go away. He’ll stand behind the couch and gently press his fingertips to your temples, massaging small circles to help ease your mind and relax. He’ll wrap you tight in a blanket, his arms encasing you, holding your body close to his so you can hear his heartbeat – to remind you this is all real, and you’re allowed to enjoy this.
He liked arguing with you when you tried telling him time and time again that you weren’t good for him. He knew you were just fine, compared to everything he’s ever been through, and he never tired fighting against those hateful enemies that spewed false insults at him. He’s dealt with far more ferocious and despicable things in life, far more hurtful words have been said to and about him, your hoard of invisible saboteurs are nothing to him.
Though, this most recent fight, this feeling more like a war he lost rather than the small battles he reigned victorious, has him on his knees with hopelessness. Have I done something wrong to make you think I don’t love you? This aching sensation, for once he doesn’t know what to do, and an overwhelming dread from rejection – is this how others felt when I did the same thing? He isn’t used to fighting to keep people around, not something he thought had a point since they all leave in the end, but you… He wants to keep you.
You can run, but you can’t hide. Not from Osamu Dazai.
Each day at work, shuffling around with inventory at the accessories shop, mindlessly placing products on pegs and shelves and bins, your mind reels, replaying you quite literally running away from him, hoping he understood. You push people away, he knows this, he called you out on it; he shouldn’t be surprised you pushed him away too. He should have expected it, counted down the days you would leave him dangling off the ledge to pull himself up from on his own. Every night eats away at you though: guilt, regret, broken hearted. This is for the best, though. No one is actually immune to poison. One day, he was going to flare up until he just keeled over.
Your smiles at customers and coworkers are radiant, laughter uninterrupted. You have been reaching out to your parents again – they ask about Dazai, and you diverge conversation with upbeat news about an upcoming event you’re thinking about going to. You go out to movie theaters alone, cheerful, buying three seats so no one dares to sit on either side of you. You have visited animal shelters to volunteer, helping children find their perfect furry companion, your heart tugging toward the lonesome cat with curious eyes that remind you of no one in particular. You started getting invited out by your coworkers, internally reluctant to agree, enjoying drinks or a meal, some beginning to view you as a friend that you will eventually cut out of your life too.
You’re absolutely miserable, and no one knows.
Your mind is constantly occupied by Dazai, feet following the path against your will to his dorm, having to force yourself to turn around to go home. However, it’s far too late for the correction to go unnoticed – amber eyes gawk at your back from the opposite end of the street, knowing he hadn’t lost you completely.
He, on the other hand, hasn’t been taking any of this well. He reverted to old ways, stalking and following you around when the time allows, watching every move you make, every smile without crinkles in your eyes and hollow laughter at something that would otherwise not be funny. Sitting a few rows back in the movie theater to see you have two perfectly empty seats on each side that he knows you shelled out the extra cash to prevent anyone getting near you. Stopping by the same shelter you had just left from, asking about the cat with curious eyes he’s seen you spend more than ample time with.
He carefully lurks around your place of employment, hiding successfully in the shadows, watching from afar the blank stare on your face and the faraway look in your eyes, the flip switching the moment another human being approaches you, bright – fake – smiles all around as you help them. He will head out to the same bar you begrudgingly went to with your coworkers, or the same restaurant, sitting close enough to eavesdrop but you never detect him. He jots down everything in his mental notepad, coming to the conclusion he had suspected since you took off: you’re absolutely miserable, and he knows.
Dazai steps up behind you, hand in his pocket, holding a box of any old thing he found on the shelf, and he hesitates. Cornering you while you’re working is low, but he needs to test your reaction to seeing him in the flesh for the first time in months. He clears his throat, shifting in his spot, and you peek over your shoulder at who you thought would be a stranger. “Excuse me, could I ask for your opinion on something?” He asks, cool despite containing the sheer veil of insanity he doesn’t want you to know he has experienced without you. Locking eyes, you slowly turn to face him, hands folded politely in front of you, but the shock is too evident for you to pretend to be anything but.
He spent countless nights with his new pet in the dorm, pacing around the small space, avoiding stepping on its little paws or fluffy tail that tapped leisurely about, those four walls watching as he muttered ceaselessly to himself about all the different ways he could get you back, to make you understand that he didn’t want to be pushed away. That all he needed in his life to be complete was you. He went to his colleagues, asking and begging and pleading for advice on what to do in this situation; sitting in his own useless tears at how helpless he felt for the situation, gripping chunks of his hair in his bandaged fingers; looking into houses and cars to gift you so you could enter his life again by driving that vehicle into his garage if would truly make you happy. He hasn’t slept in, evident in the worsened eye bags and dark circles as he stares at you. He hasn’t properly eaten, obvious in the loss of color to his cheeks. He’s gone absolutely mad, clear in him trying to pretend to be a normal customer with questions about whatever it is being sold.
“H-How can I help?” You force a smile then, not wanting anyone else to notice your mask crack under his presence. His lips part then close, opening again before lowering his gaze, a bitter chuckle spitting out.
“I… I don’t remember,” he confesses. “I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.” You take in his appearance, looking pretty much how you feel, and your hands clutch together tight.
“I can break my jaw, then,” you slip out, an accident, and you falter.
“I have a friend who can fix it,” he instantly replies, not thinking. “Plus, I’m confident I can do enough talking for both of us if you are fine with listening.”
“I’ll just cut my ears off,” you can’t stop, brows twitching, everything you’ve been holding in is flooding out with him in front of you. The only person you could be you with.
“I’ll have my friend fix that too,” he nods once, tossing the lightweight box to the side, his hands sliding down in his pockets.
“I’ll hold your hand and never let go so they can’t,” you blurt, that not coming out nearly as harsh as you wanted it to.
“Then I guess I’ll have to learn sign language,” he shrugs.
“I’ll pluck my own eyes out,” you’re running out of different things you can do to mutilate your body, to be rid of him, to run him off, but he hasn’t budged.
“I’ll keep them in a jar to admire forever.”
“That’s morbid.”
“You’re the one threatening to leave pieces of yourself for me to keep forever,” his tone is level, unwavering, soft. You open your mouth, gearing up to give him some snarky comment, but you’re at a stalemate. No matter what you say, he has a fix. He chased you down, once again.
“Stop chasing after me,” you whisper, eyes stinging, and it’s difficult to hold yourself together in public with him standing there after so long. You missed him, but you won’t say it out loud.
“Then stop running,” he matches your tone, stoic impression prominent, him better than you at controlling his emotions. “Come home.” He borderline demands, but that doesn't make you waver in the slightest.
“I’m not letting you in my apartment–”
“No, come home,” he emphasizes, hand revealing itself, fingertips grazing your forearm. “To me.”
“You’re so arrogant to think you’re what I’d consider home.”
“Stop arguing with me and just come home,” his voice cracks, words breaking, and he allows you to see his mask shatter to pieces before your very eyes. “Can’t you see I’m more of a mess without you? Leaving me behind like this only hurts me. I miss you, fuckin’ idiot.” His mouth shudders, the whites turning bloodshot, and those sparkling amber eyes are hidden behind glass from tears he is on the brink of letting fall right then and there.
You swallow, averting your gaze simply because if you keep looking at him, you’ll burst, and you’re at work. Your fingers reach for his, discreet, squeezing three times before finally nodding. “I’m off at six. Come pick me up and take me home.” You murmur, an unknown weight lifting completely from your chest, and he sighs with the utmost relief at your words. His other hand comes up to brush some hair from your face, his lightly cracking lips pressing to your forehead, leaving behind a kiss that lingers on your skin, burning, and bringing you to life at the same time.
“I’ll see you after work,” Dazai’s fingertip delicately traces a heart on your temple. “And don’t try running off. I’m highly trained and clinically insane. I’ll bring you right back kicking and screaming.”
“People are going to think you’re serious,” you mumble, looking at him as if to tell him to ‘shut up’, catching a few stray bodies coming in and wandering around the store.
“What makes you think I’m not?” His finger hooks under your chin, shooting you a wink before placing a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m counting down the seconds to see you again.” He finally steps back, giving you breathing room and space, but your body trembles at the loss of him after getting him back once again. You toss him a half-hearted wave, dazed, a bit confused on what exactly had just happened, and you stare after him as he saunters through the entrance.
You’ve met your match, and maybe it isn’t so terrible to have someone understand you enough to never let you take off again. At least, not without him.
Smoking inside the Wayne manor has always been complicated. Alfred is completely against it, Dick never did it or even considered it, Jason wanted to, because it was normal in his environment but didn't do it until he returned. He would hide to smoke whenever he felt too oppressed. None of the other kids liked the smell but they didn't care enough to say anything
Bruce, in his adolescence, trying to rebel and suppress some of the pain he carried daily, smoked in secret from Alfred; Alfred knew it but still didn't believe he had authority over what his pupil was doing
Bruce and Jason, Jason and Bruce, both smoking to escape their reality even though they know it's harmful to their health
In the worst days, they discovered that their secret hideout belonged to both of them; they would meet in secret to smoke, they didn't speak, they just shut themselves away in the smell and taste of nicotine.
Why does vox look Like he want to kill someone in your radiodealer post and what the dynamic between vox and alastor are they ok or are they enemies like in canon?
Vox has a lot of emotions about his and Alastor’s past (but that’s per the norm even in canon lol). I wouldn’t say they’re enemies on the level they are in canon as Alastor isn’t really much of a threat power-level wise, but there is still a lot of friction between them.
Alastor still does everything he can to avoid cameras (so he doesn’t leave Husk’s district/territory very often) and Vox still tries to catch a glimpse whenever he can, but he can’t get too close as Alastor is technically in Husk’s jurisdiction and if he showed excessive interest or intent it would likely result in another Overlord battle between them.
It's been just some months after Wilson Fisk imprisonment, Hell's Kitchen it's almost peaceful for a while but soon enough reality hit's hard on FBI special agent Grace Travers as she can almost feel Fisk laughing in the face of justice.
With the hopes to be able to end the deep roots that Fisk has in the system, she will have to reluctanly accept the help of the cold blooded assasin Poindexter, wich will test her limits.
Before this starts i want to state english is not my first languague, if there is some mistake please let me know!
Also, this is my first fanfic :>. I have loved the Daredevil series for years now and I hope it shows, it will be multiple chapters but I haven't defined how many.
(Also shoutout to Cam, Oph and L for helping with the details ♥︎). Also it is on ao3 by the same name.
Words: 1.634
Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
Chapter 1: When it rains, it pours.
It was a busy day on 57th Street in Hell’s Kitchen; the street was fully cramped with impatient, honking cars from every lane of the intersection. Finally, the stoplight changed to green. Grace had three cars ahead of her, and when they started to move, they stopped unexpectedly as they saw two cars from opposite lanes crash into each other’s sides.
The car from the right had come faster than it should have onto the one that was just turning. As soon as she heard the sound while she looked at the scene and a woman came down from her car screaming—¡Call an ambulance!—the memories came flooding into Grace’s mind.
The smell of blood was almost tangible; the pain on her right side seemed to almost hurt as much again. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, but the images didn’t stop coming; the car had crashed on her mother’s side so fiercely it almost crushed her completely. As it got to her father in that second, he couldn’t even react as the air from his lungs got punched out, losing control of the wheel and making the car crash into a light post on his side.
The impact pushed her to the left, hitting her face harshly with the seat in front of her. It caused her a notorious cut, but Grace didn’t even feel it. After the car hit the post, she turned her head and looked through the windows to see the car running from the scene at full speed, she turned her face to the front again. They weren’t talking, they breathed with difficulty, and blood was spilling down the seats, and yet she couldn’t even scream or move a single muscle.
—Move out of the way, idiot!—A man behind her said as he honked very loudly, and she focused on the road again. The people involved in the car crash were stepping down from their cars, they seemed fine, they didn’t present severe injuries, she saw as her eyes scanned the scene and the grip on her wheel loosened.
A traffic officer guided her to take another lane, and she kept driving.
She already was going late, and this path made it slower to get to the FBI quarters. A message popped up on the screen of her car dashboard, "Hurry up, ongoing jewelry robbing". So she did her best and after passing for her uniform she got to the scene.
Jacques was the first to see her, and couldn't but to be cocky—Quite late, Travers, wouldn’t you say?—Grace grumbled as she quickly got next to her colleagues, —I got entertained by a car accident, what's the situation?—
Jennifer answered, —There are hostages at the back of the jewelry, a young couple with a kid, two elders, and a man. And the two saleswomen. Things are a bit tense with the officer that is negotiating—
—We need to de-escalate… Grace, take the negotiation,— another of her colleagues said.
—Yes.—She walked to the cop and dismissed him; on the other side there was a man with a mask and an AK-47.—Hello, I’m Travers. I´ll take the negotiation, so would you like to tell me what y’all want?—she said calmly. The masked robber looked back and chuckled to his friends before answering her,
—Name’s Rocky; these sons of bitches cops won’t even take off the spikes off the main street.—
Grace nodded— It might help if you start letting some hostages out.
—Not until I see you start taking 'em off,— he almost spits out.
Grace sighs, —This is a negotiation, we will give you something when you start cooperating, or we can be here all day.— the man walks back with the other men and after a quick chat he comebacks to her.
—The oldies can get out but the main street has to be cleared.—The old couple got out then and the spikes were taken off the main street, —Now, we want a gas can, the sniper, that I'm sure y'all have, gone and the cars out of the damn way. Oh and I was forgetting, a nice bottle of whiskey.—
—The spikes are off, you have to choose between the sniper or the blockage.—
—No, I don´t, I have plenty of people here still—
—I don´t think you and your friends want the trouble, if someone in there has any kind of medical problem it will get ugly— she says more serious, the man paces around and looks outside.
—Don´t start threatening me bitch, because we will start making things ugly if you keep playing around,— he says getting closer to the door, likely to intimidate.
—It seems you´re a bit nervous, do you have somewhere to be? perhaps someone else waiting to help hiding the loot?— she suppresses an smirk,—I'm merely trying to help you, so, how can I do that?— They stay in silence for some seconds.
—Take the sniper off and give us the gas can, in exchange for the young couple and the sales woman, and take out of the way one of the police cars for the last man— the man said, calmer.
They comply to the demands and after some minutes, the police officers get into their cars, and the thieves get out in a rush, starting the chase with the police. The special agent in charge tells Grace’s team via radio to take the declarations of the hostages, so they drive back to the FBI and distribute the hostages among them. As Grace was taking the declaration of the man, she couldn’t but notice how he looked around the closed room, fidgeted with his hands, and bounced his leg—Excuse me, is there a problem here, sir… Michael… Kemp? — She said as she read the name from the paper. Michael got a bit closer to the table, whispering,
—Truth be told, I have to get out of the country today… I used to work for Fisk. I served my sentence, but Fisk is still alive,—he expressed hastily.
—If you served it, there’s nothing to fear; tell me what you know, and I will make sure you’re safe.— Grace whispered back persuasively; the man doubted before he grabbed a piece of paper and wrote on it a direction.
—I’m too exposed here; meet me at 11 pm there, officer, but if what I tell you is useless, I’ll go this same night.—The man left the interrogation room. Grace looked at the paper: “At the port, back alley.” She doubted all day but decided to go when her day was over. At first glance, it was desolate; the only sound there was the sea waves that were near. She walked until she found the man hiding in the shadows.
—I hear you, Michael—she said seriously. He took a deep breath.
—I worked with the Albanian syndicate, minor jobs. But they were a real deal; they even bribed the deputy mayor, as you know Fisk gave them away to the FBI. But he did because he has more contacts.—He said with his hands on his pockets and looking around.
—As?—
—You know, with the chaos of the blip, the government is struggling to rebuild things. Fisk asked for an appeal for a review of his case that went by private; his lawyer found a way. Word around is he still has powerful contacts. He will go out soon—Grace’s eyes widened and her tone rose a bit,
—How soon?!—
—…By this week, Poindexter was lucky enough his officers vanished with the blip while they were evacuating inmates to a safer area. It will be in the news soon, since they failed to locate him after—Grace grabbed the man’s shoulder,
—Michael, I need you to tell me more, how do you even know that?—
—No, I can't!, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for that stupid robbery!, this was a mistake, I can't help.—
—Don't despair, I can help, we just need to go somewhere sa-
she was saying exasperated as a bullet cut through the air near them; she put him behind her and started walking slowly in the alleys as she took off her personal gun. It was like a dark small maze of ship’s depots.
—Stay with me!,— she whispered as she tried guiding them both out of there, but two sturdy men found them; she pushed Michael aside, ordering him to run. One man went after him, and the other engaged in a physical fight with her. No punch took down a man that big, and it wasn’t until getting thrown around and being able to shoot him three times that she could get him off to run to help Michael, but it was too late as she saw the other man smash his face against a wall.
She tried to shoot him but the man got closer quickly and started to run from the monstrous figure herself, trying but inevitably being found again and having her gun get thrown somewhere too far. In a matter of seconds he had her imprisoned with his arms choking her, trying to sentence her to the same fate as Michael. She offered a fight but wasn’t being able to get out. A metallic sound was faintly heard in the air; a knife ricocheted between the walls in a matter of seconds and pierced the back of the man’s head, and his body fell limp. She immediately took a big breath and leaned on the wall. A deep, raspy masculine voice abruptly was audible, with a certain amusement.
—Don’t speak about this to anybody—but when Grace turned around, there was nobody else but her and the dead body. The blood was starting to pool.
