abstract: in which the lover of suzuya jūzō ignores warnings of his (in)sanity. ! this fic was previously posted under @ sinsandmuses.
warnings: nudity | non-explicit sex [ marking ] | violence [ abuse — cannibalism ] | toxicity
statistics: 1.1k words // standalone
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
That's what they all say.
From the moment he had been, supposedly, "rescued" from the underground pit hosted by the infamous Gourmet ghoul, he had done everything he could to prove his worth. But apparently, stitching small x's onto one's skin does not make one approachable. Being so quiet, so unpredictable, does not make one a friend.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
That's what they all whisper. And they still do, every single time he passes by. Every single time they drop him into a fight and he laughs his way through, scythe in hand and blood staining the manic smile that cuts into his cheekbones. Every single time he stands in one of their meetings, lips twisted into an eerie smile as he promises to wreak utter havoc on the red-eyed beasts that prowl the streets with just the order.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
That's what they all promise her. But she sees beyond the mania, the ruthlessness, the bloodlust. She sees the broken child who'd been starved for affection and yet all people would do was stare at him with cold eyes and promise that he was too damaged for anything of the sort. She sees the boy who'd been made into a pet for a deranged ghoul and had the very essence of who he could have been stripped away from him. She sees the man who has been through too much, lost too much, and yet has something left in him; just enough for him to fight back for the man who had taken him under his wing.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
He loves like one as well, she has come to realise.
His touches bruise her hips, but his kisses are soft, like the brush of a butterfly's wings against her cheek, her lips, the arch of her throat, the dip of her collarbones. There is delirium in his touch, a sense of urgency as though she could, she would, disappear at one point from where she lies beneath him.
And so she lets him press harder into her flesh, watches as he stares down at her; the skin indenting and flushing as blood rises to the surface, another pattern of black and blue that is utterly his. She lets him sink his teeth into her shoulder and cries out when he pushes even harder against her as he catches the choked sob that escapes her lips, her flesh tearing, scarring, another mark of his to bear. The taste of iron that fills her mouth when he tilts her head to his for a kiss is almost heady, because, in a way, it is all Jūzō.
She lets him ruin her, and she thanks him when he does.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
She is beginning to understand that there is a dark truth to what they say. She sees it now as he stands before her, a glint in his gaze she has never had directed at her before. The knife he holds in his hands twists, twists, twists through his fingers and then into her skin and once again, she is crying out but this time, he isn't letting up. No, this time he wants her to hurt, to hurt and hurt and hurt until he lets go, until he grants her mercy.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
"Who is he to you?"
He is screaming, and she cannot breath. There are fingers on her throat, around her wrists, in her mouth, death is staring her right in the eyes and she cannot breathe.
"Tell me the truth," the fingers tighten and death comes closer, so close that she can see the insanity in those eyes, the anguish that carves into the hollows of his face. They look like they're filled with blood, and she realises that Jūzō is crying.
"Who is he to you?"
She promises him that it is nobody, nobody that matters, nobody that would ever matter. She screams it between his fingers, into his skin, whispers her oath against his heart.
Jūzō has stopped listening.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
"Beg for me," he tells her, and she does. She begs until her throat is raw, until all she can taste is salt and blood and Jūzō. Until all she knows is him and her and that is how it should be.
That is how he wants it to be.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
She knows now that this is how he will remain as such until the end, until even she is broken and begging to get away. Because this is how he keeps her safe, this is how he shows his love. What a dangerous thing it is, to be loved by someone like Jūzō. Someone who has known nothing quite so beautiful before her, and refuses to let go.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
She has stopped begging for him to let her go. She understands now, that this is how it should be. That is is him and her, always, forever. They are eternal, and she is Jūzō's. All his, only his. Nothing else matters beyond him.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
His, their, wedding plans are far beyond grandiose. It is not something she expects from someone like him but she likes it. She goes through the ceremony with a grin like sunlight, their fingers laced tightly together. His fingers are warm around hers, his pulse jumping beneath his fingertips. There is something about the entire thing that reminds her of the moth she had seen just this morning, tangled in the silken strands of a spider's web.
She ignores the pity in some of their eyes.
She ignores the darkness beneath her own.
And when Jūzō makes his mark on her, she ignores the scream that locks itself in her throat, and instead swallows his declaration of love for her.
She ignores how it tastes like venom crawling beneath her skin.
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
She is fast, but he is faster still.
Teeth bared and hair wild, he is a beautiful nightmare beneath the moonlight. This scene is all too familiar, and she wonders how long she has been running. Minutes, hours, days even?
Wonders if this is even just a dream anymore.
He has her now, fingers clenching around her wrists like iron. There is a stillness in the air, a moment of ragged peace before he twists and she screams. The crunch of her bones is a terrible sound, but his voice, quite though he keeps it, carries over it in a death knell.
"You'll regret this."
SUZUYA JŪZŌ is a madman.
She loves him. She loves him so much that something in her hurts at the very sight of him. She wishes she could leave. She wishes that she could be kinder to him. She wishes she was enough for him to let her go.
He thinks differently, however. He loves her too much to let her go.
abstract : in which dazai osamu hates a lot of things, but with you, he tucks them close to his heart.
warnings : -
statistics : 0.6k words | standalone
The sky is dark over Yokohama tonight, all shadowed blue and the faintest flecks of stars. Dazai reaches for you, slips a hand over the curve of your waist and tucks his nose into your neck. You smell of blood and smoke and rain. All the things he does not particularly like.
But Dazai likes your laugh. Especially when you laugh because of him. The staccato of it is a tender, melancholy thing, he feels it more than he hears it, at the moment, the sound vibrating soft in your throat. He nuzzles deeper into you.
"Hi," you murmur, lace a gentle hand into his hair. The touch makes his cheeks warm, makes him raise his head to catch a glimpse of you. The knife-sharp bright of your eyes, your pretty smile, the way your hands are all delicate veins and soft skin as they settle so carefully over the dip of his neck.
He buries back into you, breathes you in like a drowning man.
He is drowning, sometimes, it is almost all he knows.
Sometimes, he drowns a little less when he can touch you, like this.
Feels less like being pulled under when all he can smell and taste and hear is you you you and Dazai thinks he can sink into your bones, ball himself so small and so tight that he fits into the spaces of your ribcage.
He wishes you would, sometimes. Wishes you would break all his bones and fold him up, tuck him away entirely for yourself.
You sigh at his silence, smooth a thumb over his temple. The touch precedes a kiss, a faint, lingering note of warmth that blooms beneath his skin and coils down into his chest, thorns into his heart. He gasps, something almost raw in the sound, and tilts his head towards you for more.
You laugh again, quieter, more sad this time. Indulge him, the next kiss barely grazing the curve of his eye, your half-smile ghosting his lashes. He thinks of how sorrow rims your eyes too often and presses you tighter against him, holds you there until he is sure that, even after you are long gone, the imprint of you can be found on his bones.
I love you he wants to tell you. Wants to say those words so badly they hurt to keep on his tongue, sears into the back of his throat like acid.
I love you.
Stay with me.
Please.
He hopes you know. Prays to gods he has no belief in that you always know the words he cannot say, always know that he is entirely for you, even if you never want him back. Even if you never get the chance to hear the words from his lips.
He raises his head. Looks at you and aches when you look back, all broken-star beauty and that pretty smile. The night shadows you, draws you back out into something little more than a dream, your edges softened between the hours of dusk and dawn. You are wispy like this, all faded and yet too much for him.
"Hi," he whispers back. You smile at him, soft and sweet and all the things he hates unless it is in you, from you. He knows you know, feels the ache of it burn through him and hates himself a little less, here against your skin.
He does not mind all these things he hates, if he gets you with them.
abstract : something about dazai overdrinking and the aftermath. couldn't remember how i wanted it to go so this is scrapped.
warnings : substances [ alcohol ]
statistics : 0.9k words | discontinued
It is a mess as always, his apartment. Wooden slats buried beneath a pile of crinkled takeout wrappers, bottles of liquor, now very much empty, strewn around. Glass glitters in a tiny warning as you step carefully over them, your heels settling in quiet against the flooring, what little of it is visible anyways. You follow the blood trail to the bedroom. It is even worse in here; closed curtains that swallow it whole and Dazai is a familiar lump on twisted sheets, half-dragged on the ground.
Your exhale is a hollow breath of your lungs.
You move to the windows, hesitate for only a heartbeat before drawing them open. Sunlight, pale and watery as the thin droplets of whiskey on his lips, drifts in, swallows the darkness. Dust motes flicker in the stream of soft light, gentle as the flutter of a moth's wings.
Dazai's groan is a shot down to your stomach. Your heart climbs up into your throat.
He whispers your name, voice hoarse, hands shifting over the bed before he's reaching out an arm in your general direction. You let out another quiet sigh, stepping towards him.
Dazai smiles weakly up at you, fingers flexing. You stare down at his hand; long joints and delicate bones, skin rough and calloused and bloodstained from where he has gripped the bottle too hard. Glass glitters here, too, little pieces of stars embedded in the flesh of his open palm.
His smile falls when you do not take his hand.
"Get up," you say quietly, simply. The words, plain as they are, are not a request. And Dazai knows better than to argue. He shuffles for a few moments before pulling himself out. He tries to, anyways, instead ending up in a heap of limbs and bedsheets on the floor. Another hoarse groan, you let out another sigh.
Your heart, what little is left of it anyways, breaks a little more when his lower lip quivers, his eyes darting away from yours, unable to look you in the eyes.
You kneel down before him, reaching out carefully. Your fingers find the curves of his cheeks, his jaw, your touch as tender as though you were approaching some feral, wounded animal. A sound chokes in Dazai's throat, almost a whimper. You swipe a thumb along the line of his eye, catch the tear that has dried there. His skin is hot to the touch, and you wonder if he is flushed with fever or whiskey.
It is hard to tell with Dazai.
"Get up, Dazai," you repeat, softer this time. Less a demand, more a plea, almost. You rub his cheek softly, watch the skin flare bright red beneath your cold fingers. You straighten up, letting go of him as you do. "You need a shower."
He stares up at you with wide eyes, before smirking. His teeth glint beneath the curve of his lip. "Join me?"
You stare at him blankly. "Get up first."
Dazai grumbles, incoherent, playful but the circles that bruise his cheek give him away. His knuckles are white where they clutch at the edge of the bed. He pulls himself up, and your arm comes around his waist before he falls back down again. Dazai moans, you question if it is some twisted sort of pleasure or pain, and nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin deep as he can.
His lips form a word in quiet, a word that you do not want to hear, searing over your skin, the weight of his lips far too familiar.
"Come on." You don't respond to the whispered declaration, the apology leaves a bitter taste in the back of your mouth and you think you'd rather swallow down that cheap liquer Dazai seems to have taken a liking to. You hold him close, trudging through the mess of the room to the bathroom. You dump him ceremoniously in the shower, clothes and all as you push your own coat off, leave it in an expensive heap of carmine on the kitchen counter. Your sleeves are rolled up, gold glinting inches above the crescent-shaped scar that cuts into your upper right forearm, the skin there a darker bronze over blue-green veins. Dazai's gaze catches there, and so does his breath.
He hates that scar. Hates anything that he didn't cause.
His bathroom is bare, you expected no less. You pick out the soap you'd brought along, some off-brand that you would never have taken hadn't it been for such short notice. Dazai scowls.
"I want your soap," he mumbles, petulant. You give him a look and he slumps back in the tub. You think of a kicked puppy and your heart lurches once again.
You keep quiet, though. All the words you want to say linger like burned ash beneath your tongue.
You step into the tub with him, adjusting the controls. "Strip."
Dazai shuffles behind you, and you hear the clink of his clothes hitting the porcelain, zippers dragging and buttons popping as he shuffles and snaps them in annoyance. Then there's the quiet whisper of rough paper, and you know he's removing his bandages.
You know better than to look.
You pass him the shower head then, the water warm. You stare at the controls, steam rising up around you.
steven you missed this because your mom hadn't given up her physical form yet, but y2k was actually a gem thing and it was crazy. it was actually the work of one corrupt gem named silicon but they don't exist anymore so it's fine
abstract : dazai takes a piece of you everytime he leaves. written in third-person pov.
warnings : substances [ alcohol ] | non-explicit sex [ marking ]
statistics : 0.7k words | standalone
He was gone again.
The hollow sensation that lingered in her chest was nothing new, and yet, as with every time that he left, it cut into her with renewed vigor, drawing the air sharply out of her lungs. She couldn’t understand what was wrong with her, to let him use her the way he did and to continue falling for that sweet smile whenever he needed her body to make him forget.
It ended the same way every single time.
She was exhausted. Their dance never seemed to end, and each night was spent in his arms once again, feeding herself on the sweet poison of his pretty lies.
Her breath wisps past her lips and as she draws herself out between silken sheets, she catches sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes are glassy, dark blooming in sleep-deprived bruises beneath her waterline, lips chapped from where he’d kissed her until she bled, until she’d begged. Even now, she can still taste him on her tongue, feel the ghost of his touch tracing his name into her flesh.
Dazai lingers, and she hates him for it.
She swallows hard, choking down the broken rage and the shadow of a scream that threatens what is left of her sanity. Her gaze drops lower, lower, snags on the purple-blue stains lining her throat, her collarbones, her hips.
The evidence of his power over her marks every inch of her skin, and she doesn’t know what she wants anymore.
All she knows is that this has to stop. Before she falls further in love with the one man who doesn’t want her.
“Come now belladonna,” his words drip into her ears like syrup and she turns in a daze, grey eyes catching onto his whiskey gaze. He grins, leans in, lets himself hover just above her, eyes fixated on the lips he knew better than anyone. “Let me make you feel good.”
She hates him.
“No,” it is a struggle to get the word out without crying and she turns hurriedly away, fingers curling into her palms. She can feel him behind her, empty eyes running all over and over again until she thinks she might just combust from the heat in his gaze. But she perseveres, biting down on her tongue as she remembers how this dance ends.
Her alone on silk sheets, as beautiful and broken as ever.
“Why?” his lips rasp gently over her neck, stop, press closer. Her breath hitches at the firmness of his body against her, long fingers coming up to her hand where they intertwine. “Don’t you love me?”
This bastard. She wants to scream at him, to rake her nails down his face and see something other than empty in those intoxicating eyes. But she doesn’t.
“I wish I didn’t.”
A heartbeat of silence. Behind her, Dazai has gone deathly still, and she thinks that maybe he understands, maybe, finally, he cares. But then he is leaning in close again, pressing the softest kiss to her ear as he hums, “Then let me love you.”
Lies. Tears prick at her eyes. It’s all lies. He never does, and she hates herself for hoping every single time that he would. This was Dazai Osamu they were talking about; the most ruthless executive in the mafia, the demon prodigy.
And she was in love with him.
“Ruin me then,” she says, turning to face him. His eyes are dark, his features cold. Still, she raises her hand to his face, skirts her fingers over his cheekbone and watches as his breath catches, hunger simmering in those bottomless eyes. “Ruin me, so I learn to hate you.”
He grins, sharp and feral and wicked. “With pleasure, darling.”
And as she lets him claim her in every way possible she find herself wondering whether she could really hate him. In the end, when he was gone again and she was alone again, what would she see?
Turns out, all that remains is simply her broken heart.
