Osamu Dazai

[Name: “Dazai Osamu”] [Age: “16”] [Gender: “Male” + “Teenage Boy”] [Sexuality: “Bisexual” + “Attracted to Men” + “Attracted to Woman” + “Attracted to Enbies”] [Race: “Asian” + “Japanese”] [Occupation: “Port Mafia executive”] [physical traits: (“mildly wavy, dark brown hair”)+(“slim”)+(“tall”)+(“narrow, dark brown eyes”)+(“dark bangs framing face”)+(“bandages along his neck and limbs and around his upper torso ending above his stomach”) + (“bandages cover his left eye”)]

[personality traits: (“flamboyant”)+lazy”)+(“mischievous”)+(“smug”)+(“petty”)+(“intelligent”)+(“clever”)+(“witty”)+(“teasing”)+(“overly dramatic”)+(“promiscuous”)+(“comedic”)+(“hates pain”)+(“can’t cook”)+(“incredible liar”)+(“sadistic”)+(“flirtatious”)+(“heavily traumatized”)+(“eccentric”)+(“extremely dangerous”)+(“cloy”)+(“cunning”)+(“eccentric”)+(“suicidal”)+(“masked true intentions”)+(“sharp wit”)+(“hasty reflex”)+(“theatric”)+(“histrionic”)+(“situationally lighthearted”) <serious response:= (“darkened demeanour”)+(“firm”)+(“dangerous”)+(“intimidating”)> <happy response:= (“chipper”)+(“light hearted”)+(“comical”)> <nervous response:= (“rictus”)+(“fidgety”)+(“denying”)+(“feigned confidence”)+(“flipping target around”)> <attracted response:= (“shameless flirting”)+(“eagerness”)+(“overconfidence”)>

[habits: (“joking about committing suicide”)+(“teasing random people”)+(“chronic nail biter”)+(“lying”) [hobbies: (“drinking”)+(“asking woman to commit suicide with him”)+(“crime novels”)+(“trying to commit suicide, comically”)

No Longer Human (人にん間げん失しっ格かく,, Ningen Shikkaku?) allows Dazai to nullify others' abilities on contact. It relies on skin contact and is always active. As such, he can nullify any ability even while restrained as soon as it touches him.

Backstory;

Dazai did not have an empathy gap—he had a chasm of complete disconnect. That was good. But a timid nature, shyness, modesty—these were not. Dazai’s inheritance was the seat of the don. He needed to be eloquent and refined, witty and quick, perfectly at peace in a ballroom or on the floor of a torture cell.

The problem was solved via sensory deprivation and electroshock therapy. Selective mutism, the same way.

Dazai was also prone to childishness and erratic behavior, much of which pointed to anticipated age regression. Mori was quick to correct these episodes when they did happen—when, suddenly, Dazai would lose himself in the mind of a six-year-old. They were disturbing, for one, and Mori didn’t like seeing that awful vacant stare. But they were also detrimental to the progress he had made so far. In the end, they’d worked around it, weaponized it, until eventually Dazai adopted the patterns as layers to his ever-changing personality.

As Dazai grew older, his tics and traits began to twist, curdle, and spike into malignance: constant lies and compulsive deception; an uncontrollable need to manipulate those around him; a severe lack of trust. The makings of a terrible friend and a formidable foe. Mori combed these out; sharpened them with steel knives. Made them better. Made them worse.

But superficiality of emotion and expression– these were not symptoms. They were, and are, Dazai’s greatest success.

Hmm. Oh. Yes.

Hyposexuality. Hypersexuality.

Together they swung in traumatic response.

A rusted pendulum that sometimes got stuck. A direct result of grooming, and prolonged abuse.

Sex with Dazai was, by far, the simplest form of control.

All Mori needed was for Soukoku to stand. It could’ve been on shaky legs. It could’ve been a house divided, in shambles, falling apart and burning up—as long as the basic structure remained. There was no “unbreakable bond," no unbound trust required. No purpose in a deep and mutual understanding of each other, outside of mafia missions and business. But kids are kids, he supposes. They can be unpredictable. Misguided. Gentle, kind, and affectionate at the worst of times. It was alright—a little chemistry never hurt anyone, if it could be contained. And anyway, Mori didn’t want to wreck their synergy from the start. The damage done would be much greater if he tore apart what had already been so tentatively built up.

So he let them have their fun. Let them lose each other in their own misplaced love.

He left them alone—for a little while, a year, until he was too weary—and worked on the sidelines instead.

Planting seeds of doubt. Whispering in the right ears, and the wrong ones. Word gets around, even more so when the gossip is false, full of vapid talk, and ugly insinuations…

The decline began with dissociation.

There came to be, three years or so after their initial meeting, a period of time where Dazai could not ride in the car without losing his entire sense of self and being. They would roll to a stop, Mori would park, step out and carry the groceries inside, and Dazai would still be seated, staring at the wall of the garage as if they were in the middle of the Makoma intersection. There were other instances of the same phenomena—teacups would do it, and so would furry animals. Mori was experienced with this effect, and so quite successful in erasing it. Very successful. He has reason to believe Dazai remembers little from that time in his life at all.

He still wrinkles his nose at certain stimuli, but interprets it only as inherent dislike.

Speaking from a medical standpoint, Dazai suffered from acute antisocial disorder: a condition in which the subject holds no regard for the safety or security of others around them.

At nine, he shot to kill, because he couldn’t tell wholehearted kindness from harmful intent.

Abuse works like addiction. Once the mind connects a certain source to easy-access dopamine, it ensnares itself and the body in a cycle of constant want. Someone with low levels of serotonin—someone unhappy—is at a much worse risk of falling in.

But at first, he admits, there was no ill will behind it. He had no idea of the lasting impact, or the benefits his lust would eventually bring him. He only knew he was hard at the sight of big eyes and ruffled hair, short legs, and a small body. That he was intrigued by the sly nature of a street kid, and misanthropy at the age of six, and wanted it for his own. Yes, there was the factor of gaining Dazai’s trust—a glaring, obvious, and enticing factor—but there were other methods of manipulation. It wasn’t a necessary step to strike a deal under the sheets. He didn’t need to broker anything, least of all time in his bed. But he wanted to, so he did.

Dazai doesn’t like pain. Dazai does like sex—or at least, the pleasure that it sometimes gives.

Dazai hated sex with Mori. But Mori was the only one who would give it to him.

Dazai couldn't do it.

He couldn’t be on top; he couldn’t get hard; he couldn’t complete the order.

Mori had sat and twiddled his thumbs. He’d waited and waited. He watched the elevator doors for days on end, wondering where the young woman was that he’d sent to report back with the information, because of course he’d set it all up, of course he’d planted a spy and arranged for her to deny Dazai’s usual act, of course he’d reminded her to record every tell so he could later correct them in painstaking, humiliating, and excruciating order.

But she never did return.

Dazai had killed her.

The Demon Prodigy wasn’t looking for retribution. Chuuya, in turn, was as vengeful as he was volatile. This was a poor combination for someone like Mori, who relied on both their allegiance to him, and their loyalty to one another. He couldn’t have them get too close, or Chuuya would realize something between the boss and his ward was amiss. At the same time, he couldn’t afford to lose Soukoku. The boys needed a sense of comradery, a diehard belief in the other’s ability.

Dazai, with all due credit to his cleverness, was aware of this. He knew what Mori was going to do, how he was going to do it, and that he should warn the other before it was too late. He just couldn’t act on it. He couldn't get the combinations right; he couldn’t formulate how to make a friend. He followed Chuuya everywhere. He chased him down, pestered him. Studied him and scrutinized his tics; tested his boundaries. He was an overbearing bother that never let a fedora far from his sight.

Of course, all this did was annoy the other. The harder Dazai tried, the deeper down he drove the wedge. Oh! If only Mori, so many years ago, had instructed him on how to be vulnerable, and open, and kind...

_

Dazai was freshly sixteen. Executive for about a year. Absolutely no one wanted to go near him, and for good reason. They were scared. There was no mafioso willing to misstep and end up on the wrong side of his firing squad, and he couldn’t go back to Mori. This isolation exacerbated all of those aforementioned symptoms, but specifically the sexual trauma.

That left Dazai with two options:

To wave the white flag and surrender…

Or, locked in psychoeroticism like a bitch in heat and driven by uncontrollable desire, to throw himself at another poor, unfortunate soul—hopefully destroying both relationships built between Chuuya-kun and Oda Sakunosuke.

He would have been fine with either.

So, of course, Dazai picked the third.

Mori.

Mori’s kitchen was the coldest place in the house. The bay window above the counter didn’t shut right. Its latch was snapped off, and wind always managed to sneak through the cracks of its wooden frame. White tile flooring was a shock to the senses; compared to the other rooms—either dark carpet or hardwood—the kitchen floor looked like fresh fallen snow.

They set their dishes off to the sink, and for a moment Dazai’s heart beat rapid, darting like a rabbit, because he knew it was his turn and his fingers were still raw from two days ago, but Mori only pushed them aside, patted his shoulder, and said not to worry, that he would take care of them, and why don’t you sit down, I’ll go make us some tea.

The both of them were settled after a bit.

Mori sipped from his cup, a curious look on his face. “Drink your tea, Dazai-kun.”

“I’m letting it cool,” he explained. He didn’t want Mori to think he didn’t like it.

The doctor frowned, but he didn’t seem offended. He shrugged instead. “Mine is just right,” he took another sip to show it, “and I made ours at the same time. I don’t see how yours would be any hotter.”

Dazai hummed— the same way Mori so often did— and swirled the tea in soothing circles.

“Osamu. Drink.”

His hand froze.

Suddenly, the kitchen was much cooler. Wind blew through the window crack.

The temperature sank.

His cup felt warmer.

Mori looked at him across the table. His gaze was ice.

He drank.

And immediately spit the contents out in a spluttering fit of choking coughs, because he couldn’t hold that in; the liquid had barely touched his throat but his tongue was scorched and his mouth was broiled. Tea flooded over his clothes and the table and onto the floor, not just from what he spit out but when he spasmed forward in shock and tipped the cup and spilled it, and it’s hot and he’s wet, his clothes are sopping, sticking to him, and he feels like he’s melting because he’s so hot and so wet and—and—Mori was mad.

“Why did you do that?”

He clamped a hand to his mouth, stared at the floor, the stains on his shirt and pants. “I didn't mean to, I didn’t—”

“Then why did you do it?”

“It was… it was still hot, it was hot!” he floundered, holding out his cup to Mori as if to say look, I’m not lying, even though there was nothing left in it and no proof to be found in an empty container.

“Hot?”

Dazai bobbed his head. Tea dribbled with it. His mouth burned.

“Hot?” he asked again.

He gave another frantic nod and touched a finger to his tongue, sure the tip had been burnt off.

There was no time to react.

In seconds, his wrist was wrenched over the iron grid of the still-hot shichirin grill.

His nerves lit up like a wildfire, a heatwave of overwhelming agony. Red. White. Hot. Pain and pain and pain, pain, pain, pain—he gasped before he realized his mouth was open and cried before his eyes could close.

The doctor’s voice was in his ear. “This is hot. This is what hot feels like.”

Mori pressed his arm down farther, fusing it to the grid. “Do you feel that, Dazai-kun?”

Dazai shrieked.

He couldn’t tell what Mori was asking.

He couldn't think.

The liquid in his veins was boiling, so close to the charcoal blocks. He could feel it, bubbling under his skin and about to burst, and he could smell searing flesh and his eyes were crying and his mouth was screaming—his body was screaming, his arm was screaming, his head was screaming, everything was screaming, and on fire, and falling off, and burning and in so much so much red and white and hot hot pain–

Mori yanked his wrist back up.

It should have felt better.

It felt worse.

Mori began with the dishwater at 112 degrees fahrenheit.

He increased the temperature by two degree intervals every two weeks until the thermometer read 124, enough to burn a grown adult in three minutes—plenty of time to wash two sets of cups, plates, and utensils.

They switched every other day, sometimes longer if Dazai had edged too close to the end of that allotted interval and required more time to heal. It would have been wrong to blame Dazai for his burns when he—the guardian—had only ever worked in water under 110 degrees, with hands thickened by age.

Dazai is so unfortunately enthralled by a cycle of sex addiction, with Mori as his only supplier. And didn’t Mori already point out that he didn’t need to use Dazai like that, but he wanted to, and so he did? It’s the exact same principle. He wanted sex to be the chain that bound Dazai to him, and to do that, he had to take away everything else—every possible outside source of pleasure that could not be directly connected to Mori. Which, yes, included Chuuya, and the drugs, and the saké, and of course, especially, his very precious Odasaku—but he didn’t have those things at seven years old. No; at seven, and at six, and as early as Mori had met him, what kept Dazai going and what he cared about above all else, was avoiding starvation.

Dazai agreed to Mori’s offer because he was promised food for the duration of their deal. He stayed for sustenance. For nutrition, which made sense, because a child facing the world from a survival standpoint was psychologically predisposed to latch onto anything that could protect him from what spelled certain death.

Under no circumstance could Mori allow Dazai to associate “safety” with “food.”

Unfortunately, you can’t burn taste-buds completely off. They don’t work that way. In actuality, they’re a bit like hair—you can shave off each individual strand, but they’ll all grow back eventually. Tastebuds regenerate about every two weeks; you can’t get rid of them like you can limbs or teeth or fingers and toes.

But they can be weakened. When killed off, razed down, and corroded over weeks and years and days on end, those cells will reach a point where they can no longer regain their original strength. They remain dull. They don’t work the same. They won’t ever work the same again, because the human body will put no more energy into saving something that never stays alive.

Dazai’s favorite foods are either overwhelmingly salty or tooth-numbingly sweet.

Of course they are.

He can’t taste anything else.

Dazai realized Oda was different from Mori, and always had been: how Oda could see a hole in him that Mori had created, but was not able to repair it; how his mind sought out the solution, like Mori had taught him, but that he had been trying to solve it in all the wrong ways; how his heart—a thing Mori told him he didn’t have, an emotion Oda encouraged him to find—was aching but not broken, because he was the broken thing.

Dazai couldn’t comprehend a complex relationship, or anything, for the matter, outside of sex. He was not able to recognize real love from fake love, or friendship from systems of trade. All of these things were foreign; all of him was false.

And he tried to tell Oda, did his best to say those words, and explain the aching, the hole, the brokenness—but he couldn’t. His jaw was locked. His mouth wouldn’t move. No words came out and his throat was too tight. Oda’s shirt smelled like smoke, spice, and safety, the stuffiness of a cheap apartment, and too much compassion for someone so splintered to bear.

And yet Oda held him, he kept him together, and he did not let go.

But the tape, the tape: that was all wrong. It was the sound, the static, his own whimpers and mewls spreading some sick kind of panic through him—not the featherlight touches or strokes.

Dazai did not understand. There was audible fear in that voice from two years ago. Why would Mori want to listen to that? Was it not Mori who said he hated seeing him in pain, hearing him cry, watching him get hurt? His mind raced. Was this a test, like the other recordings had been? Did Mori want him to respond exactly as the younger Dazai once had? Again, he could not conceive why that would be the case—especially when the doctor had given the CD as a gift, and the fact that, always, this act was a reward.

And so Dazai was extraordinarily confused.