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This would be easier if you were cruel but you aren’t cruel, she’d said in a slurred rush, sometime near the start.
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Dazai isn’t dead. Not really. Not yet. But she finds herself twined tightly enough to choke with the purgatorial near-dead, almost-dead, could-be-dead states of being. Schrodinger’s cat in a box. Mori’s doll in a box.
Right now, she wants — needs — a different kind of in-between.
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Mori does Dazai's estrogen injection. Dazai gets a treat. Two parallel trips backward in time.
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A man, his girl, and her dog walk into a bar.
Stop me if you've heard this one before.
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A morizaiku thesis of sorts. Featuring: unethical puppygirl treatment, the ups and downs of dream logic, and fewer spilled fluids than you'd expect, all things considered.
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This is it, she tries to tell herself during the worst of it, caught in the purgatorial land between dreams, shaking so hard it jolts her bones, Howard, the way forward, this is it.
Sure, Taissa, the voice inside her scoffs, expanding up against her fleshy inner walls. Sure.
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Post-rescue Tai fic. Featuring: the case for saying never, dubious friendship, tasteful clock motifs, and that one pesky Jungian shadow.
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listen close. can you hear something in the distance? like a fingernail tapping metal.