Dazai was a boy stained with crimson, and he latched onto that idea through every point of his life. This led him down the belief he was only meant to be a weapon. Not a child, not a human, nothing but a tool for violence. He had no interest in being anything else or meaning anything else, after all. So what was there for him to even consider the idea that he meant anymore than the titles he was given against his will?

 

It was a chilly autumn night, the warmth of the burning fireplace bringing him a sense of solace that he was unused to, as the closest he's ever gotten to being this atmospherically comfortable was the raggedy futon in his shipping container. A pathetic comparison, really.

 

A gentle hand guided his head, his chin being moved down a bit by the warm hands of you.

 

"Please don't move too much; it's hard to draw you accurately by doing so."

 

He begrudgingly listens to you, snickering under his breath. You were an "artist" at heart, you claimed, despite working in the field of filth, the Port Mafia. He always thought you did a decent job on missions, even if you were a tad bit clumsy. So it was abnormal to him why you desired to be any different than the position you were given currently. He would never say that aloud though, not to anyone.

 

"You better get my good side or I'll rip your fingers off one by one." He threatens, although by his tone it is difficult to distinguish whether or not he is joking.