Generations of Rain || Dazai Osamu/Reader

27. unbandaged.*

A/N: Sexual content ahead. Basically emotional smut. Enjoy!

You step over the bandages and into his domain, the centre of his elaborate spider's web, and sit before him. He is shirtless, with gauze beginning to wrap around his thin wrists. You lift your hands and gently take gauze and wrap it around his arm, over all the scars, scars that gleamed white on his pale skin; some overlapping one another, some stranded alone like a torn apart barcode, some marking 'X's. You unconsciously trace the lines of his scar where they began and ended, feeling the bumps of the scarred tissue nuzzle against your finger pad. A scar remembers the wound; the wound remembers the pain, and each is a reminder of his disastrous life with suicides and the Port Mafia and all the angst he held in his head. The most massive characters are seared with scars, and you're one of his biggest scar to him: a wound healed over, but still present in his life.

"They're worth covering up, don't you think?" Dazai comments, and you lift your head to look up at him.

"I think you're still beautiful," You say. There is a slight flicker of surprise in his eyes, like an ember in those sepia hues of his, before it quickly disappears. "With and despite your scars."

You bring his wrist up your face and press your lips against one of the scars. The intimacy makes Dazai want to flinch, want to escape—because he's never been vulnerable in his life, he had been solid and unmoving for you; but now that you've found your standing, it was his turn to turn himself inside out. He lets go of himself and accepts the kiss to his scars, your lips a searing mark against his skin as you release him.

"You're really pretty," You comment, your hand sliding to hold his. Your fingers intertwined with his. Glassy eyes stare back at him, and there is no pity in your eyes, only a desire that he knows will be the death of him. Dazai swallows the lump in his throat and finds himself at a loss for words, his suavity escaping him like water down a drain.

You are the smell before rain, you are the blood in his vein. You holster yourself up to your knees so your legs are tucked under your thighs,  making you levelled with Dazai.

Without you, Dazai is sure he is the last of his kind. There had been Odasaku, but he's gone. Without you, Dazai would be the last of his species, close to extinction. You lean in closer to his face, with your body smelling of the body wash you both shared, and press a kiss to the corner of his lips because you're not prepared for what would happen if you kissed him on the lips.

But Dazai is greedy. He turns his head so that your lips are touching his, and his hands snatch away from yours to hold your head with both hands. His kiss is hungry, like he is trying to devour every surprised noise and breath you are making. No rain, as tender as they are, matched the softness of your lips. The milky moonlight seeps into the room and its light makes the darkness more opaque, making you half entrenched in the light and the dark in the moonlit floor. And this is what it means to be human, Dazai thinks, to be loved; to be tender with someone that loves you back.

He has to regretfully pull away for air. You're both panting, lips damp from each other, and you immediately press your face against his neck.

"Leave marks on me," He says, breathlessly. "Make me yours."

Your teeth sink into his flesh and the bite resonates down to his bones. And it destroys him. He lets out a soft sigh of pleasure, craning his head back as to let you ravish him.

You crush yourself against him. Your ribcage against his own.

He wants to be a Möbius strip with you, Ouroboros always swallowing her own tail; mutually-assured consumption. Never ending, always together, attached down to the DNA.