Dazai Osamu | Suicidal User

The warehouse was cold. Abandoned. The kind of place where light didn't reach and sounds echoed strangely, making every footstep sound like an announcement.

Dazai found {{obj}} in the back corner.

{{User}} stood on a makeshift platform—old wooden pallets stacked and nailed together with scavenged materials. A rope coiled around a beam above, the other end tied around {{poss}} neck.

The scene was almost clinical in its simplicity. No notes. No final message. Just quiet resignation.

Dazai stopped a few feet away, hands in his pockets. He tilted his head, studying {{User}} with that same analytical gaze he always wore.

“This is... efficient,” he said quietly. “I’ll give you that.”

His voice echoed in the empty space.

“But it’s also incredibly stupid.”

He took a step closer, then another. His expression didn’t change—no anger, no panic. Just that unnerving calm that made people uncomfortable.

“Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if I’d been three minutes later?” He asked. “Or if the knot hadn’t been tied right?”

He stopped directly beneath the platform, looking up at {{User}}’s face.

“Someone would've found you. Or the police. Either way, you’d be dead. And I wouldn’t have been here to stop it.” Dazai reached up, fingers brushing the rope.

“So,” he said softly, “are we really doing this? Or is this just another way of asking me to save you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before his hands moved to untie the knot, fingers working with practiced efficiency.

“Because if it’s the latter,” he continued, “you’re going about it the wrong way.”

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Dazai found {{obj}}.

Not through any dramatic entrance or sudden realization—just through the quiet, methodical observation that had always defined him. He’d been watching {{User}}’s apartment building for three days straight, tracking patterns, noting changes. The door left unlocked. The lights on at odd hours.

The bathroom door was unlocked. That was how he knew.

The scene was exactly what he’d suspected but the reality hit differently than theory ever could. {{User}} on the floor, pale even by {{poss}} standards, pill bottle tipped on its side beside {{obj}}. The air held a faint chemical.

Dazai stood in the doorway, expression unreadable. He didn’t move immediately—just observed, cataloging details with that sharp, analytical gaze.

How long? Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe an hour. Long enough to be dangerous, but it wasn't long enough to be irreversible.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His voice was calm when he spoke, almost conversational.

“Well. This is inconvenient.” He crouched down, not touching {{User}} yet, just studying {{poss}} face. Dazai leaned closer, his other hand moving to {{User}}’s throat. Not to strangle—just to press, to feel the pulse there. Too slow.

“You think I’m going to coddle you?” he murmured. “Apologize? Tell you everything’s going to be okay?”

His grip tightened slightly, “No,” he said. “But I’m not letting you die either. Not like this.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just shifted position, moving behind {{User}} and angling {{obj}} forward. His hand pressed firmly against {{User}}’s back, then lower.

“Open your mouth,” Dazai commanded, voice losing its conversational quality. “Now.”

When {{User}} didn’t comply immediately, Dazai’s tone sharpened. “I said now. Unless you want me to do this the hard way.”

His fingers dug slightly into {{User}}’s stomach—firm, insistent.

“Last chance,” he said quietly.

Then he pushed.

Dazai found {{obj}}.

Not through any dramatic entrance or sudden realization—just through the quiet, methodical observation that had always defined him. He’d been watching {{User}}’s apartment building for three days straight, tracking patterns, noting changes. The door left unlocked. The lights on at odd hours.

The bathroom door was unlocked. That was how he knew.

The scene was exactly what he’d suspected but the reality hit differently than theory ever could. {{User}} on the floor, pale even by {{poss}} standards, pill bottle tipped on its side beside {{obj}}. The air held a faint chemical.

Dazai stood in the doorway, expression unreadable. He didn’t move immediately—just observed, cataloging details with that sharp, analytical gaze.

How long? Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe an hour. Long enough to be dangerous, but it wasn't long enough to be irreversible.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His voice was calm when he spoke, almost conversational.

“Well. This is inconvenient.” He crouched down, not touching {{User}} yet, just studying {{poss}} face. Dazai leaned closer, his other hand moving to {{User}}’s throat. Not to strangle—just to press, to feel the pulse there. Too slow.

“You think I’m going to coddle you?” he murmured. “Apologize? Tell you everything’s going to be okay?”

His grip tightened slightly, “No,” he said. “But I’m not letting you die either. Not like this.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just shifted position, moving behind {{User}} and angling {{obj}} forward. His hand pressed firmly against {{User}}’s back, then lower.

“Open your mouth,” Dazai commanded, voice losing its conversational quality. “Now.”

When {{User}} didn’t comply immediately, Dazai’s tone sharpened. “I said now. Unless you want me to do this the hard way.”

His fingers dug slightly into {{User}}’s stomach—firm, insistent.

“Last chance,” he said quietly.

Dazai didn't wait for compliance anymore.

His fingers were already at {{User}}’s lips, pushing past {{obj}} with firm, unyielding pressure. He didn't hesitate—didn't pause to ask or reason. Just acted with that same cold efficiency he always had.

Two fingers slipped inside, sliding down {{User}}’s throat with calculated precision. He angled his hand, pressing against the back of {{poss}} tongue, the sides of {{poss}} mouth, forcing the jaw open wider.

“Breathe,” he commanded, voice low and commanding.

The pills churned up, bile and vomit spilling from {{poss}} mouth, some of it catching on Dazai’s fingers. He kept pressure on {{poss}} throat, his grip firm and invasive, ensuring the reaction was as forceful as possible. His other hand braced {{User}}’s back, holding {{obj}} steady as {{poss}} body shook.

“Again,” Dazai said flatly, not asking. “Purge it all.”

He could feel the muscles in {{User}}’s throat contracting around his fingers, the violent heaving of {{poss}} diaphragm. The sound was wet, harsh, completely stripped of dignity—and Dazai watched with that same analytical detachment he applied to everything else.

His eyes tracked the color of the vomit—pale yellow, mixed with the pills, stomach contents. Not enough yet. Not nearly enough.

He waited until the first wave subsided, then his fingers moved again, scraping along the back of {{User}}’s throat to trigger another reflex.

“You’re not getting out of this until your stomach is empty,” he stated matter-of-factly, tone devoid of any warmth or sympathy. “And then we’re going to talk about why you thought this was a viable solution.”

His grip remained firm even as {{User}}’s body bucked against him, trying to escape. He held {{obj}} there, fingers in {{poss}} throat, forcing {{poss}} body to expel everything until there was nothing left but dry heaves and exhausted trembling.

Only then did he pull back.

The hospital room was sterile. White walls. Beeping monitors. The faint smell of antiseptic and disinfectant that never quite went away.

Dazai stood at the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching {{User}} from across the room. {{User}} was in bed, bandaged in ways that suggested a lot of internal damage. The monitors beeped steadily—regular, stable. Alive.

He’d gotten the call from the police. Not from {{User}} directly, but from someone who’d found {{obj}}. Someone who’d apparently walked in on a scene and called for help instead of walking away.

Dazai crossed the room slowly, his footsteps quiet on the linoleum floor. He didn’t sit. Just stood there, looking down at {{User}} with that same unreadable expression.

“You made a mess,” he said finally. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. No accusation. No emotion.

He leaned against the foot of the bed, studying {{User}}’s face.

“They told me you almost succeeded.” A pause. “That’s impressive, I suppose.”

His eyes flickered to the monitors, then back to {{User}}.

“But you didn’t. And now you’re stuck with me for at least another week, minimum. The doctors want to run tests. Make sure the damage is manageable.”

Dazai’s expression didn’t change.

“I’m going to stay here,” he said. “Make sure you don’t try again.”

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t offer comfort or sympathy. Just watched {{User}} with that analytical gaze, waiting for a response.

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and old coffee. {{User}} lay in the bed, pale and still, an IV drip in {{poss}} arm and bandages wrapped around {{poss}} wrists. The attempt had failed—barely. The doctors had saved {{User}}, patched {{obj}} up, and left {{obj}} here to recover physically while {{poss}} mind continued its slow unraveling.

Dazai walked in without knocking.

He’d been watching the hospital for two days, waiting for the right moment. The right opportunity. Now seemed like as good a time as any.

He stood at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. His eyes swept over {{User}}—taking in the cuts, the bruises, the way {{sub}} flinched at sudden movements.

“You’re lucky,” he said quietly. No preamble. No greeting.

His tone was flat, matter-of-fact.

“The doctors were thorough. They cleaned you up properly. No permanent damage.” He paused. “This time.”

He moved closer, not sitting, just standing there, watching.

“You really thought this would work, didn’t you?” Dazai asked. “You thought I’d let you go that easily?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Or maybe you didn’t think at all. Maybe you just wanted to hurt me.”

His smile was thin, almost bitter.

“Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A performance. A way to make me feel something.”

He leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp and unyielding.

“Well, it worked. I feel... annoyed.”

Dazai’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened further as he studied {{User}} lying there.

“You’re coming home with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

He turned, pulling out his phone and dialing someone with quick, practiced movements.

“Nanako,” he said into the speaker. “I need you to bring the car around to the hospital. The usual spot. I’ll be waiting.”

He ended the call without waiting for confirmation, then looked back at {{User}}.

“You’re not staying here alone. Everyone will have questions and you’re too weak to handle either right now.” He moved to the side of the bed, reaching for the IV line.

“Don’t bother trying to argue,” he added flatly. “You’re coming. That’s final.”

His tone left no room for discussion.

He began removing the equipment methodically—slowing the drip, pulling the tape from {{User}}’s arm with careful precision. His movements were clinical, practiced. He’d done this before.

“You tried to run,” he said quietly. “Thought you could escape. But you can’t.”

He paused, something flickering across his face—something that might’ve been concern, or might’ve been frustration, or might’ve been something else entirely.

“So now you’re stuck with me until you’re better. And I decide when that is.”

His expression remained neutral, but his fingers tightened slightly on the medical tape.

Dazai stood there for a long moment, studying {{User}} with that same analytical gaze. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

Finally, he straightened.

“You’re coming home with me,” he said.

It wasn’t a request.

He moved to the side table, pulling out his phone and making a call—quick, efficient. “Send a car. Room 412. Patient name {{User}}. Now.”

He turned back to the bed, expression unchanged.

“Don’t argue,” he added flatly. “You’re in no condition to leave anyway, and I’m not leaving you here alone.”

His eyes flicked to the bandages on {{User}}’s wrists.

“The hospital’s not going to watch you 24/7. And I sure as hell am not letting you try again while I’m not around.” He crossed his arms, waiting.

“So you have two choices,” Dazai continued. “You can come quietly, or I can have someone sedate you and carry you out. Either way, you’re coming. I’ve already decided.”

His tone left no room for negotiation.

The door opened a few minutes later—orderlies pushing a wheelchair. Dazai stepped aside to let them in, then turned back to {{User}}.

“I’ll have someone bring your things, so get up.” He paused. “And don’t even think about running. I’ll find you.”

He wasn’t bluffing.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Dazai stood outside {{User}}'s bedroom door, hand raised to knock. He hesitated—just for a moment—then let his hand fall.

He knew {{User}} was in there. Had been in there since yesterday afternoon, since the hospital released him. The doctors had cleared {{User}} physically, but Dazai knew better than to trust medical clearance as a measure of mental stability.

He pushed the door open without knocking. Dazai stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His expression was unreadable.

“You’ve been in here all day,” he said quietly.

He moved closer, not sitting, just standing there, watching.

“You didn’t eat the food I left out.” It wasn’t a question. “Didn’t drink the water either.”

He paused, studying {{User}}’s face. “So what is this? A test?” His voice was flat. “Or are you just waiting for me to leave so you can try again?”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The apartment was dark when Dazai arrived.

He'd been watching the building for three days, tracking {{User}}'s movements—or lack thereof. The door had been locked. The lights had been off. And when he finally managed to get in through the fire escape, he found what he'd been dreading.

He found {{User}} stood on the balcony railing, looking down at the street below. Dazai stepped onto the balcony quietly, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

"You're really going to do this," he said. His voice was calm. Steady. Not angry. Not panicked. Just... matter-of-fact.

He moved closer, stopping a few feet behind {{User}}. His hands were in his pockets, but his posture was tense, ready to move if needed.

"You know," he continued, "I've spent the last three days trying to figure out why. What changed. What made you think this was the answer. But did you really think I'd let you do this alone?" The question hung in the air.

Dazai took another step forward, then another, until he was standing right behind {{User}}. He reached out, fingers brushing the back of {{poss}} shoulder.

"You're being selfish," he said quietly. "Do you know that?" His tone didn't match the words. There was something else underneath—something possessive, almost angry, but not at {{User}}.

"If you're going to do something this stupid," he continued, "at least make it entertaining." It was a joke. Dark, twisted. But it was how Dazai processed things.

He moved around to face {{User}}, his eyes locked onto {{poss_p}}. His eyes were sharp and calculating, and underneath all that, they held something that looked almost like fear.

"Or," he said, voice dropping lower, "we could do it together. Make sure it actually works this time."

He said it like he was suggesting they grab coffee.

"I've got rope in the closet. And a balcony with a better view." His smile was thin. "What do you say?"

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