Generations of Rain || Dazai Osamu/Reader

17. sleep.

A/N: Slight sexual content in this chapter. Enjoy!

You can't sleep.

At last all the lights have died down and the crickets rest on the blades of grass and the moon has risen and sets your room alight with silver fire; your mattress bends under your weight as you settle down, tossing and turning before finally facing up to the ceiling.

Everytime you closed your eyes you could hear the incoming snarl of a sleepwalk. And you didn't know where you would go. Would you go back to the Port Mafia, to rest in the place where your husband had gotten shot? Would you go back to the cemetery and sleep amongst the soil and dirt and everything dead?

You hold onto your pillow and your eyes are open wide, staring into space. Your breath comes in steady waves, receding deep into your lung, breathing in the moonlight that slipped through the window in slanted rectangles.

You could not die. That alone was a fact. If you died, then you would have lost everything you have worked so hard for to survive. If you died, then Dazai would be alone. He will wander in the darkness for all eternity, without you as his candlelight, unable to fill the hole in his heart. You were, unknowing to you, filling in the hole in his chest like a homunculi; it is too late to turn you out of his heart, for part of you is defined as Dazai Osamu, and no longer as you.

You sigh. You can't sleep. You turn your head towards the clock: 3:25 AM. You blink and the clock whirrs back to 8:00 PM.

"You're crushing me!" You wheeze under the weight of Odasaku's firm build, his weight crushing the air from your lungs. He simply chuckles, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm being serious—ow!"

"Okay, okay," He rolls off of you and slots himself against you, like a puzzle being put together. Entwined fingers and legs and bare chest pressed alike, the two of you have melted together into one—untamed and filled with teeth, he kisses you again on the lips, in some kind of wild, primal way.

The two of you have just finished the first round. Your skin is still covered in a thin sheet of sweat, your heart beating in your temples and your pussy sore from the constant abuse. You whine when he slots a thigh between your legs and brushes against your clit—it throbs in response.

"No more!" You tug his hair back and reveal his neck, admiring your work on his skin. Purple and red blooms on his skin like a poppy field. He fights back against your grip and kisses you again on the lips. How easily he overpowered you, but how tenderly he held you like you were one of those porcelain dolls he bought for you as a souvenir, wrapped in coloured paper. He hums against your lips.

"You said you just needed a break," He says, almost, almost, playfully, and that makes you roll your eyes.

"It hasn't even been 5 minutes, my love."

"What can I say? I love you."

You sigh at his admission of vulnerability, his bluntness that always made your heart melt. He holds you against his chest, the top of your head just under his chin and there you can hear the faint thumping of his chest. Right now, you never want to leave this place, this place of his warm embrace, where it began to taste like a poem, like religion.

"Well," He flips you so that you're back onto your back and he's hovering over you, rusty red locks curtaining his face. "Time's up."

"Wait!!!"

A better time.

You choke on your own tears so you can trick yourself into believing you're sad and not begging, begging for him to come back: How are you supposed to live without him when you started truly living because of him?