#our wedding has been the happiest day ive ever experienced

[hostilecandle]

I know I'm mainly a CoD/John Price stan account nowadays but today is my 2 year wedding anniversary with @basilandthymegarden 🥺🥺 I am just the luckiest man on the planet to be married to my amazing husband. 3 years married and about 7 and a half years total together and every day just gets better than the last. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with him 🥺🥲

(not showing our faces for obv privacy reasons but trust that I am smiling like an absolute fool at that handsome man in the grey suit)

[dear-yandere]

— oyasumi dazai.

ada! osamu dazai x reader.

cw: yandere, romanticization of suicide and death, nihilism, depersonalization, implied death, themes of regret and grief.

wc: 1985.

disclaimer: the following content does not depict a healthy relationship, please read the warnings carefully. by click the read more button, you are giving your consent to read this content.

“isn’t it lovely, all alone?” 

i.

he dreams of death.

the stench of iron and the sight of bones is nothing new, but he dreams of death like one would dream of the future. he supposes he is nobody, because no one ever dreams of their own passing (not willingly). people are pushed to that point, betrayed and hurt and put through enough suffering that life no longer seems worth living. whether life is or isn’t worth the effort lays with them, dazai reckons, but the urge to reason death from life has never crossed his mind. to him, to live is to suffer — that is, suffering is inevitable. within the same vein, it must mean that to live is to make the best of that suffering, but what is life if you’d never asked to be born?

the question is foreign and familiar all the same — bittersweet on his tongue, a plague on his mind. his life has always been filled with nothing. the smile of loving parents was a sight he’s unfamiliar with. in comparison to the misfortunes of many others, his parents were saints; and, in comparison to the fortunes of others, they were demons. and yet, that laid the problem. they have a role in this world, a calling, a purpose. but dazai… he is nothing. nothing but a black stain on this white earth. from the day he took his first breath, death has been both friend and foe, a tease and a reprieve for a boy who’d never wished to breathe life.

but, where death comes easy to others, it is nothing short of a luxury for him. it does not welcome him with open arms, nor does it even look his way. suicide after suicide attempt and yet he is still alive. and he has to wonder, is life a gift — as everyone claims it is — or a curse? and why? why was he gifted, why was he cursed? the distinction makes no difference to him, but why must it be him? was he brought into this world for a purpose? for some sort of greater good, or evil? or do the gods simply enjoy the frailty of human life and the suffering it comes with?

of all the people in this wretched world, why is he alive?

ii.

from his first breath, he begun to blacken. his heart is not his own, has never been his own (it beats for someone who is, and never will be, him.) his body holds nothing but muscle and blood and sinew, a vessel he’s been forced into without second thought. he’s never thought of it as anything more. not a temple nor a burden, just… some thing. something that is not his. something that isn’t meant to be his, as if he’s an outsider looking in through the hollows of his eyes.

humanity was always something unbeknownst to him, something he could never quite get a grasp of. the thoughts of others could never quite fit into the process of his mind, its recesses far too unaccustomed to how others should or shouldn’t feel. their expressions are unreadable at all times, a fault that has led to bullying and alienation. he never shed a tear; loneliness is to be expected when you have nowhere to fit in. he is pure black. he may as well be invisible to the human eye, no different than an ant that passersby would carelessly step on without thought. he is no different from anyone else, because he is worse.

had he sold his happiness to the devil in a past life? is life his punishment, or is this how dull it’s meant to be?

cynical — a word used to describe him all too often, but it’s never been dear to dazai’s heart. words, in fact, have never been able to describe him, not in a way he ever found fitting. what does it mean to be cynical? what does it mean to be human? what does it mean to be alive, to have a beating heart, to have feelings? twenty-one years on this earth and he’s never once found an answer.

life, it seems, is something not meant for the likes of him.

and yet, suicide never got him anywhere. whether it be the fault of dumb luck or his own ineptitude, dazai could never die. it’s laughable, how even though his heart beats without his own will, he cannot make it stop. as if some cruel god reveled in how much torture it is for him to live a life he did not ask for. every noose left him choking for air but never took his life. every gun shot blanked or missed his brain entirely. every stab and cut never hit his arteries, never allowed him the luxury of bleeding out. like water in a vase, waiting until the surface tension is broken by a slight drop and starts to overflow — dazai spent his days in hopes of when his own heart would overflow and spill.

life was given to him, and life will not be taken by his own hands.

iii.

he dreams of death so often, his only nightmare is awaking the next day.

he will only ever just be… him. forever living, forever beating and breathing — the thought of experiencing life like others do is something out of a children’s book, to him. to strive for goals, to be torn apart by failures, to get up after being knocked down again and again. he understands it in theory, the process of living, but to put any further meaning on his or anyone else’s existence seems beyond the furthest reaches of his mind.

nothing makes sense.

“i never understood the fuss over weddings, going so far as to plan one’s entire life around it.” he says one day, eyes locked on the black coffee in his hands. darkness always did make him feel at home. “funerals are much more exciting. i’ve planned mine already.” a smile twitches onto his face, one of genuine happiness and excitement. death is like a dear friend, one he feuds with often, and yet one he adores all the same.

but those aren’t words most would say. weddings are a day of joy, but to him, they can only bring grief, one unlike the kind funerals bring to others. the happiest day of his life will be the day he dies, and yet…

he finds himself wanting to marry you.

you, as beautiful as ever, crack a knowing smile and play his words off, shooing them from the air like a pesky insect. the coffee in your hands is almost pure white by this point; drowned in creams and syrups and sugars. he wonders if it’s a reflection of your heart or your soul. “but osamu, i’ve already planned our wedding. you wouldn’t die before we got married, would you?”

he smiles. it’s a reflection of your soul.

he wouldn’t dream of it.

iv.

there’s a reason for everything, or so he’s heard. a mantra mostly uttered by religious heretics, and yet the sentiment was enough to get him thinking; is there a reason he cannot die? is there a reason he’s doomed to live, until whatever entity that tortures him grows bored of his plights? is there a reason he’s alive?

you’re nothing new, nothing he hasn’t seen time and time again. but, he knew: you are his reason. he is a person that someone like you should never get close to. the sentiment is ingrained in his very being, to stay away from you. he knows already: that he will only taint you, corrupt you, drag you down to rock bottom with him. and, if there is a place lower than here, it would surely be hell.

you deserve better than that. you deserve better than him.

“if i were to ever unforgivably hurt you, promise me this.” his heart tugs uselessly, his mind already made up. “if i ever hurt you very, very deeply, please kill me at once.”

he places your hands at his neck and presses. your fingers don’t curl around the flesh like he wants them to, and he knows then that he will never deserve you. you are too good for him, too good to him; your heart is too white and his blackness will only taint it. but darkness cannot be without light. just as the pitch black can overtake the white, the white can overtake the pitch black. life is not solely black and white, he’s come to learn. to be born and to live is to tread through life in a series of greys. there is no good nor evil, only humanity. but, if he were to describe himself, he would surely be black.

“you’ll promise me this, right?”

you hesitate to answer. he caresses you gently, like his mother used to do for him. a means to quell and comfort others, he’s learned, and yet his heart still feels nothing but blackness. he’s never understood why you feel so hurt when he speaks of death so casually — his death is his and his alone, after all. no one would be affected, not for long. memories fade and hearts heal; he is but a stain on life, and no one would miss him.

“right, belladonna?” he prompts. “please say yes. to die by your hands would be my greatest joy. even more so if you were to join me in death, but i could never ask that of you…” he laughs at his desperation, knowing you’d never agree to a premature death like he. you have so much to live for, and he…

he was born to die.

“i promise, osamu.”

v.

you haunt him like a ghost.

he still dreams of death, because a world without you is one he no longer wants to live in. but you would want that for him. you know of his infatuation with the throes of death and yet you want the very thing he detests; for him to live. funny thing, life is. like an idiot ghost, he’d lived wandering through life without any direction. without purpose, dreams and ambitions never held any real meaning to him, not like they seemed to do for other people. the only thing that came close was… you.

he wants to hide like the coward he is. run away, start over again. forget this ever happened, forget he ever met you.

forget he ever tasted love.

it occurs to him that this must be that feeling of ‘regret’ he so often hears. and he’s reminded of odasaku, the only living being that had come close to eliciting some semblance of genuine emotion from dazai. the closest thing he could call to a true friend, dead. and, the closest thing he could call to a lover, gone. life isn’t meant for cowards like him.

but he lives. death has cursed him with the act of living; perhaps that’s a fate worse than death. he has spent all his life resisting the desire to end it, and he regrets never once succeeding. because now he has to live; to live with his own regrets and failures, all the things he said and didn’t say, all the things he did and shouldn’t have done.

he didn’t get to say ‘i love you’.

your tombstone is pristine and he wonders if death is just the same; clean. free of sin, free of burden. what a beautiful thought, one he’s begun to believe doesn’t truly exist. beauty is wasted on him and even death does not hear his pleas. because to seek beauty is human. to be played and toyed with is human.

and to break and destroy, is also human.

death is preferable to losing you. it laughed in his face when it came to claim you, took you away from him forever. to someplace far, far away — to someplace he can never belong.

he misses you. he wonders if you miss him too.

© dear-yandere, all rights reserved.