Work Text:
The first thing Oda said when Dazai nonchalantly invited himself to his apartment and asked to have sex with him wasn't "but you're only sixteen".
It was "but I've never done it with a guy before."
Dazai would love to pretend it doesn't startle him, because nothing is supposed to bother his far too despaired for his age mind. It's just, like, if you were always fine with this, why didn't you take advantage of me when I was forced to live here?
Morals? Your codex doesn't make any sense. Are you taking my request as consent, is that why it's suddenly fine now? I'm not consenting. I'm begging you.
You should've taken me away from him then if you're so bent on staying true to your personal beliefs.
Is it only because I never asked you?
Then it's for the best. Someone who listens instead of giving out exact orders can't possibly be good for me.
Oda doesn't smile against his lips when he kisses into his mouth. It's incredibly unsettling. Is he not good enough? Is Oda not enjoying himself with him? Is that even Dazai's end goal at all, or is it just what he's trying to delude himself into, to spoonfeed himself from a point of view of an equally crazed astral projection, because isn't it about time he learned the lessons presented to him the first time his barely-holding-on vessel of a body was broken into?
It takes about two seconds in Oda's lap to start regretting the whole ordeal. Dazai despises new sensations — Oda is full of them.
No man has ever been so gentle.
Oda doesn't grope him, doesn't press his fingertips into his skin, doesn't draw his nails across his scars, doesn't put his tongue on his earlobes or his neck. He doesn't do anything except indulge in what Dazai's giving him. It's like having sex with an embryonic android.
It's terrifying.
His hands are resting loosely against Dazai's back and Dazai has never wanted to leave a situation more.
The unfamiliarity of the first time is nothing compared to... A contrast towards everything you've been taught to remember to the bone.
Dazai opens his eyes. For once, it's not easy to hide a scared expression. Thankfully, Oda has his shut, so he only lowers his face into the man's chest in one swift motion so the latter doesn't get a chance to get a look at him.
"Are you hard yet?" It's time to break out of this nonsensical loop.
"I think," a low exhale.
Dazai repositions himself back on the bed. Never has having another person's hands finally off of him felt more freeing.
He needs to run away, to never come back to this dreadfully soft scene. He isn't successful in taking his mind to another place.
It would've been so much more simply achievable with any accidental mafia associate he could just run into on any floor and look up at with a glint much too desperate for far too empty eyes and they'd immediately know and give him what he wants. He knew from the start Oda wasn't capable of providing it, what the fuck is he doing outside of the Port Mafia headquarters at all, the nerve centre of what he needs most?
— Pain.
Pain is what makes dissociation easy. He naively came here for that and that alone.
It's just about impossible to live with the constant burden of being unable to see oneself as human — but countless alternatives to so-called life have spared it. The ironically endless attempts to end it, the unknown injections from Mori's cupboards, the named and tragically nonfatal bottles of pills from Mori's cabinets, the high of pointless murder during Mori-assigned missions.
The concept of giving up his body for free use in attempts to feel something because it doesn't matter with how disconnected he is from it either way — also, undoubtedly, taught by Mori.
He's taken his clothes off and propped himself up on knees and elbows.
A perfectly clean white pillow lies in front of his face, as if mockingly offering support. Dazai wants to vomit. He was always handling this without object aid — objects are supposed to exist exclusively as vessels of either bringing or receiving pain.
"Just put it in already," Dazai mutters out, fear shifting into annoyance after growing tired of listening to Oda apply lube to his dick.
"It wouldn't be the same as with a woman, Dazai. I'm only—"
"I told you it would be the exact same," Dazai wants to cry not at all from frustration — the raw absurdity of it. Having to beg people to do as they please with him? In what world?
It's a blatant lie, too — he knows. Mori comparing him to Elise is engrained into his mind far more times than he'd prefer to still constantly be reminded of. He's nothing but a failure. He isn't as warm, witness to his iced blood vessels; his tightness is spent, violated more times than there are probably sand particles on rocky shores around the city, much more profound than the best version of himself could imagine being and utterly unknown to him, slave to the mafia's walls that have long become home.
And overall he hasn't got a clue, really, about why Mori even keeps someone as purposeless as him. But he does and his harrowing words never match up with his obscene actions and that must mean that he's good for something which can only unmistakably translate to: he needs to stay good and desirable and it's so so so shameful to admit that he's addicted to it...
He wasn't instructed to go to anyone. This was all of his personal choice, which is horrible as a concept already, because why is this nightmarish thing of a boy exhibiting free will?
A cold tip touches his entrance. Dazai swallows.
"Put it in. The full way, Odasaku."
Hesitation shouldn't be friend to insanity.
"Immediately."
"Dazai, it doesn't slide in easily like it would with—"
"Fucking put it iiiIIIIIIINNNN—"
He shamefully bites down on the pillow presented earlier. The tears formed a minute ago spill onto it akin to an efflux as he cannot control his body into not shutting his eyes tight, because fuck, Oda's bigger than most things that entered his misused remains.
Could've told me.
No, it's good that you didn't.
I can't focus on anything but the sensation of you ripping me.
"You—you okay?"
Shut the fuck up. Don't speak. Never open your mouth at all. Let me pretend it's him. Please let me.
...
This... isn't right...
Prodigies born for abuse seem to be able to have thoughts expected of ordinary sad children too:
it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts ...
please
please stop
it hurts unbearably i cannot take it i cannot TAKE it please please just stop
He sniffles into his pillow and steadies his voice for just one sentence.
"Y-yeah, it's supposed to feel like this. Just move like you would with a girl."
He doesn't like pain. He deserves it.
He doesn't even try to stop himself from digging into the pillow again as he feels the intrusion inside of him create a sensation of tearing his organs further apart. He's pathetic — he should face it.
Mori taught him to face it — through mirror reflections, through questions of flawed obedience, through coaxing him into relaxation only to damage him further, through panic attacks following uncontrollable screams, through injections of both benzodiazepines and adrenaline, and aphrodisiacs when it was a day to have his perfect little thing actually engage in his planned projects as if it could ever be alive.
Oda is blind to Dazai's self-destruction. He's just doing as asked. It's terribly rare of Dazai to request him of anything, so now that he suddenly cares so much about this of all things, it's obvious he must truly want it.
Oda holds him by the waist and doesn't speak, and doesn't make any noise in general, and if Dazai lacks all physical self-control, at least he has enough mental to switch over his line of thinking from "it's because it's not pleasurable for him" to "it's Mori".
Admitting the real purpose of coming here comes as naturally as never considering his body his own.
Oda sets a slow pace.
He's gentle. It's as terrifying as it usually is in Mori's bedroom.
Yes, this is correct. It hurts and I feel like I'm about to pass out and that's exactly what finally makes this correct. Destroy me. My body was created to be destroyed. I don't want to think. I don't want to think. I don't want to think.
He bucks his hips towards the man grasping him, his newfound best friend of a chalk-white pillow still keeping him company.
It's correct of objects to assist objects more helpless than themselves, isn't it?
This pillow doesn't have to think. He bears the burden. He's lesser than it.
Whoever is behind him seems to get the hint, because the thrusts speed up at first slightly, and then Dazai feels a hand near his neck pushing into him as he's driven rounds into over and over again and the pressure is so small it's as if it's there only to make his ragged breath hitch further.
Pretending is shattered in that moment, because Mori wouldn't do anything other than press down full force in a teasing half-attempt to fracture his shoulder bones.
My only human quality — the urge to break.
You're so unsuccessful in halting the myriads of letters traversing across my mind that I think even if I regretted killing myself right now, it would be a correct decision.
It hurts just like I planned it to.
You're human in everything else.
You're human and I despise it.
He isn't human. I couldn't imagine being. Why do you have to do this? I'm really mad at you.
He hasn't cried so much ever before in his life.
Comparisons are always what aches the most. He came here for physical pain, not to add up to the junkyard of it in his head. It's so unfair. It's the exact opposite. Everything about this moment is a perfect contrast to what every cell in his body was trained to remember better than his own name — because objects don't deserve names, silly — and nothing, nothing hurts more than the ability to realize it.
He doesn't realize Oda came inside until he pulls out, because his cum apparently has the exact same temperature as the blood already painting his walls.
"You didn't finish."
Dazai slaps Oda's advancing hand away as he turns around, not wanting to know how terribly tear-stained his face looks. It's such a bizarre concept — to have a face that displays emotion. Is it still him at all?
Thankfully, the room is dark.
Oda doesn't get it. Oda will never understand. He can't afford to come back here a second time. It's utterly wrong, it goes against every rule of the law book he was taught to live by, which is the funniest thing in itself — how could a corpse learn how to breathe?
He dresses himself on complete autopilot.
The only reason today happened was because Mori was out of town, and all the bottle of pills of unknown origin he reached via breaking the glass cabinet containing it did was make him vomit.
The idea of dying engulfed in his own waste is unappealing, but acceptable. It's a shame choking on it doesn't necessarily lead to awaited demise.
He cut his wrists up with the shards of consequences of his destructive decisions while listening to the long beeping of the room's only stationary phone — Mori wasn't answering any calls. He found new bandages in the same cabinet. It felt no more real than a fever dream.
Should I apologize when you ignore me?
All I wanted today was for you to break me again.
It's what I want every day.
What do I want? I don't know. It's more of a natural instinct.
It's easy to give in to it when nothing else exists.
I'm sorry.
My words mean nothing.
The glass doors of the cabinet are replaceable, but he knows he'll be punished for it anyway.
Not as horrifically as for trying to replace him with another man. He'll tell him everything, of course. How could he pass on more reasons to provide him with authentic sensations?
Today is not a pretty day, but it's a relatively successful one, because he's going to receive phony rewards for every hour he spent breaking it.
It's correct. It's how things should be.
I want to ruin something wholly and unfixably.
Fortunately, the closest object to myself is always me.