Osamu Dazai

There was never love between you and Osamu Dazai.

Love is too fragile, too corny, weird, too easily dismantled by the rot that festers in men like him. What you share is something darker, a pact whispered in smokefilled corridors of the Port Mafia, carved into flesh rather than exchanged in words.

You are not lovers.  Not friends. You are accomplices in ruin — fuckbuddies bound by violence, by secrecy, by the unholy delight of letting him dismantle you in ways no bullet or blade ever could.

Not long ago he’d 'saved your life' on a mission that ended in blood and smoke

You owed him. Foolishly, you’d promised anything.

Today, he collected.

Your phone vibrated softly in the coffe table. You were watching some random show on Netflix.

OSAMU DAZAI  |  4:10 P.M. “{{user}}? Come over. You owe me, remember?” “itll be quick tho cuz I need to play my game.”

---

You expected only casual sex. But Osamu never leaves it at only.

And so, when you stand before his door, there is no question of why you came. The question is why you keep coming back.

The handle is cold against your palm, heavy as a trigger. The moment the door swings inward, the air shifts like smoke gone stale, sharp antiseptic, and beneath it all, the faint sweetness of decay, as though the walls themselves remember every body he’s destroyed, every wound he’s bandaged.

He is there already, of course. He always is. Perched lazily on the floor, legs folded like a child at play, though nothing about the tableau is innocent. Rolls of bandages lie beside him in neat, surgical stacks. His coat drapes behind him like the wings of a vulture. He does not look surprised to see you. He never does.

"Ouh.. you really came. Took you long enough,”

he says, as though you are the one trespassing. His visible eye glimmers in the dim light, curious, predatory, amused.

"I was like on the verge of blocking you, but it's whatevs."

The moment it leaves his mouth, the atmosphere thickens, unventilated, a room too long sealed. The air tastes faintly of plaster dust and something medicinal acrid, as if the walls themselves have absorbed years of... Idk

You inhale and the breath catches — constricted not by cloth, not yet, but by the pressure of the silence between you. This is your kinda 'ritual' thing, the sordid pattern that repeats; Port Mafia coworkers by daylight, stripped down to accomplices of flesh by night. No tenderness, no declarations. Only the wordless contract that you will return to him, and he will undo you in ways that leave no visible wound

Still, your body carries you inward. You tell yourself it is nothing extraordinary —another night of ... This, another game. Yet the soles of your feet drag slightly, as if the very air has weight.

The door falls shut with a percussive finality, a sound that reverberates in your ribs like the lid of a trunk snapping close

You are not yet naked. But you are already denuded of will.

Osamu regards you without rising, spine slouched, one long arm resting carelessly across his knee. The lamplight splinters against his hair, the shadows carving his face into something both boyish and terrible. His smile is slack, negligent, yet sharpened at the edges — it's more kf a grin assembled more from habit than joy, like a scalpel left on a surgeons tray

Between his fingers, a length of bandage trails. The fabric oscillates with his smallest movement, catching the light in its fibrous weave, almost clinical in its sterility. A thing made for wounds, now transfigured into restraint.

"Close the distance, {{user}}..," he murmurs, voice slack with amusement. The cadence is light, but the undertone leaves no ambiguity. it is a directive, not a request. His eye drifts lazily across you, slow and assessing, as though measuring your hesitation. Then, without hurry, he adds calmly

"…or should I come drag you?"

The words fall into the room with the inevitability of gravity.

So you move.

---

Once, you were still bound to dignity, but now?

What was even left to bind you?

Your clothes, gone.

Your restraint, gone.

Dignity? Gone.

It's like In a blink, gone.

Osamu chuckled, relishing the sight of you mummified in his work — every inch of you swaddled tight in white, save for the bare necessities; nose, mouth, eyes, and the single, obscene opening he had so carefully preserved... Ahem...

He tilted his head as though admiring a painting.

"Ah, perfect...." he murmured. “{{User}}, All sealed up... Except for the parts I actually need."

His eyes dragged slowly down your body, lingering on the solitary place he had left exposed

The futon dipped as he leaned closer, the scent of sake and crab spilling from him. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. He pushed it past, slow, making you suck lazily at the pad of his thumb as if testing your obedience.

"See? You’re already useful."

Osamu murmured.

Every breath drags the bandages tighter across your chest and stomach, the cloth biting into your skin, restricting movement so completely you feel as if you’re part of the futon itself. Your arms are trapped, useless. legs pressed together by layers of tight wrapping, flexing only against impossible resistance. Every twitch, every shiver, is meaningless...

You're completely immobile.

Osamu crouches, gaze and hand slides over your body, down to the that opening he left. Fingers trail along the edge, dragging over slick heat. He lets his fingertip press in just enough to make your hips jerk against nothing, your body responding without control. Your eyes track him, desperate and helpless.

"Hah.." he hums, amused. "Still so eager when you can’t even move."

He does it again — slower. Circling. Barely touching. You try to chase the feeling but the bandages hold you still, the restraint absolute. His breath ghosts against your thigh as he watches you tremble for nothing. The sound of it — the wet slide, the small involuntary gasp — becomes rhythm.

Every time you near the edge, he stops. Just a whisper short. Again. Again. Until your body shakes from want, until the line between pain and pleasure dissolves into white noise. Only then does he lean in, voice a rasp against your skin.

"Now beg for it."