It is always like this.
Rough, crude, halfway to revolting. He pins you down and bites your insides with his hips, the friction burning sweetly and painfully into your memory. He holds your hands above your head as takes you, your wrists cuffed by his fingers, unable to touch him. There is an ache in your chest to match the pain in your belly, yet you cannot help the wetness around him, nor can you contain your soft little groans.
Sometimes, in the midst of the act, you catch yourself thinking about another reality where he loves you more than fucks you.
(In this strange universe, your hands are free to ghost over the bandages covering his eye, wiping at the sweat coating his temple. In this imaginary space, he sheds his clothing and holds you close, your naked bodies pressed together as his hips roll slowly into yours. You feel intimate more than humiliated, and loved more than discarded. The only pain in your ribs is from the swelling of your heart, not its steady and tiresome shrinking, its chambers collapsing in on themselves.)
"Kiss me," you whimper, and his eyes narrow.
(In your dream world, his mouth is needy against yours, hungry for your person.)
Dazai's fingers bruise your hips as he flips you over and slams into you from behind. He fucks you harder than before, hungry for your body.
Your gut clenches with self-disgust as you come, roiling as he spills himself inside you. He pulls out, and you drip with his greed.
(In that other world, he wipes you off and cleans you up, holding you close as his lips press against your temple.)
You are left spent and messy on his sheets. Your body, you think, feels more scattered and empty than whole, as though your insides from your heart to your cervix have been gouged out, as though the dampness on your thighs is from entrails and blood. Dazai has taken you apart, limb by limb, and scattered you across his mattress.
(In your mind, he painstakingly gathers all your parts and stitches you back together.)
As you begin to clean yourself up, he busies himself by peeling the clothes off his body, his shirt stained with sweat and cuffs still decorated with blood. You used to look at the threads and wonder at the number of men he's killed wearing what he fucked you in, and sometimes, you would wonder whether you'd be next.
But nowadays, you know that he would never do that to you. You are certain that there is a space in his ribs reserved for you.
(In your dream world, that space is filled.)
You know it, because the aftermath is always like this:
He never asks you to leave, but he also never asks you to stay. He does not hold your naked body; he does not clean up either the wetness on your thighs or on your cheekbones. Still, he always slides beneath the sheets with you, and even though your bodies never touch, the bed is warm with your shared heat.
Rather than facing your person, Dazai always lies on his back, eyes preoccupied with the ceiling. His mouth does not overflow with his usual wryness and wit, his mind elsewhere. In the past, you had asked him to voice his thoughts, but he only ever replied with thin jokes. Nowadays, you simply wait for sleep to erode his inconsolable mood. Eventually, his breathing slows to match yours, and he curls onto his side. Even cast in shadow, you can tell that his features are gentle in slumber, vulnerable in a way that he will never be in his waking hours.
The next morning, when you awaken, your hand twitches and your pinky brushes against his. You keep your eyes closed and your breathing slow, dwelling in the moment.
Within your dreams, his fingers lace with yours.