lyneytricks

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the glamorous life of a mafia executive

(based on an idea from Remi!)

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neither happiness nor unhappiness but a secret third thing (everything passes)

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🥀Today's Miku figure is:🥀

Good Smile Company Meihua Sannong 1/7 scale ver. (2026)

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Whatever. Have this, projection beam be upon ye. Dividers by cafekitsune

Word count- 415 words | not proofread (tbh i do not care), sh implied, blades, mentioned sethos, mentioned dottorre (one sentence I think). wanderer is called kunimitsu in this

Kunimitsu has been feeling strange all week.  

He supposes that the hollow in his chest– the distinct feeling of nothing where pain should be– is the cause of his now dilemma, leaving him to his own mind with some trashy song in the background that he’s practically screaming the lyrics of in an effort to feel something.  

The hurt simply does not come, nothing rises to the surface while he attempts to cry (in vain), now sitting in his bed half-dressed.  

He is picking apart a razor– methodically, carefully– the cheap plastic giving below his hands and snapping, letting him access the blades.  

As he takes them in his hands, inspects them and turns up his music so hard his ears hurt, he can think nothing but “What am I doing?”, over and over and over until he shakes and throws the blade in the ground out of frustration.  

The nothingness has given way to fear. Of himself, of the blade, of all that he thinks of doing as he picks it up and looks it over once more. It’s a cheap thing– clearly Kunimitsu should buy better razors– falls part easily and bends all the same. It is that fear what keeps him stuck, looking at the flimsy thing in his hand. 

It would simply be too easy. Too easy, because as cheap as this thing is, skin is equally fragile. A human He is too fragile. (He cannot finish the though, not now. He cannot call himself human.) Much too easy to break, only to then get put back together by the stubbornness of his own body. 

Dottorre would probably say something about life’s intrinsic desire to stay alive, the constant battle a body endures to function and fix itself. Kunimitsu does not want to think about it. 

It would be– has been– far too easy to hurt himself, in retrospect. It would only be easier now, with this privacy he now takes full advantage of. 

However, as he hears a scream of “have you finished showering?!” from the other side of the dorm, Sethos’ voice loud enough to hear even over the music and the fog of his own mind, he throws the blade and the cheap plastic it used to be attached to away. 

It would be too easy. Since Sethos trusts him too much, he is not difficult to deceive, but he does not.  

He does not deserve it (When thinking this, who is Kunimitsu talking about? Sethos, or himself?) 

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Being a writer will fuck u up fr bc why am I sitting during the lowest points of my week and going like "hm. I should write my favourite character in this situation."

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it wasn’t hard to overpower chuuya. no matter his strength, he had an undeniable, and inevitable weakness: kindness. it got in the way of everything for chuuya. perhaps one of the highest things at fault for all of chuuya’s misfortunes was how easily he could forgive, how naïve he could be sometimes. it was beautiful, chuuya’s ability to still be so trusting in a world that only punished those who let down their guards. dazai was never like that.

his heart was made of stone, blooming the darkest obsidian as it failed to be anything but rock. he couldn’t be like chuuya—he was never considerate, always in his own world; anyone else was simply a pawn in his eyes. expendable, stupid, and essentially useless.

and yet, despite everything, there was something about chuuya that made dazai halt. chuuya, and his wide oasis eyes, his sunset colored hair, and his pure, sweet heart. somehow, some way, he made dazai hesitate. from when they first met, dazai disliked chuuya. because he could sense that, despite the stubborn behavior he displayed, chuuya would never succeed in this thing called life. not in the mafia, not in the sheep, not in the world. he was much too terribly out of place. he deserved a world that was as kind as him, yet he lived in one that would only ever repay him with pain. and that, in itself, was enough to make dazai freeze up.

whether he couldn’t believe someone like chuuya exist, or the simple fact that chuuya was truly this amazing, it had dazai unable to deal the finishing blow. he could not, if only in his mind, kill chuuya. eventually, he would need to. be it a mission or something entirely other. chuuya could not survive much longer in this world, and dazai wanted, more than anything, to be the one to kill him. yet, with each opportunity that held itself open, dazai hesitated. he backed away, turning a blind eye to the opening chuuya unknowingly held.

it was easy to hurt chuuya, it would be easy to kill him. as more of a fact than anything, dazai would always be stronger than chuuya. perhaps the redhead could make dazai bleed, but dazai was and would always be at an advantage, in the end. chuuya was weak in his heart, in his mind. whereas dazai’s heart was only a boulder in his chest—irritating, but easy to forget. and that made dazai so, so much stronger than chuuya. in this world, at least, chuuya would never win.

so, then, why did dazai still freeze? why was he tensing, right as his hands slotted perfectly around chuuya’s neck? all he had to do was squeeze. though not quite the physical match of chuuya, he still held considerable strength. it wouldn’t take too much, it required little effort, really. yet somehow, he was stuck. and chuuya only watched, his eyes refreshing as water, but dazed like the murky sides of a lake. he said nothing, and neither did dazai. the only sound was of their hearts. they thumped quietly, quickly, almost unsteadily.

and in the midst of it all, a single thought bounced through dazai’s head: he couldn’t do it. he couldn’t kill chuuya.

it wasn’t that he didn’t hate him. he’d channelled every bit of fury he’d felt for chuuya since the day they’d met, and it had gotten him as far as having chuuya in this position. holding him down so he could swiftly finally rid of the same man he’d done nothing but despise for years. but it had gotten him that far, and nowhere else. dazai was stuck. and chuuya had no intention to leave.

tracing the familiar crooks of chuuya’s face, dazai’s eyes trailed over the smooth skin. apparently even mafia work couldn’t dent chuuya’s near-perfect appearance. the usually screwed up face was slack, now, devoid of its usual frustration. it was strange to see anything but anger directed at dazai, especially from chuuya. it was unnerving.

dazai’s hold on chuuya’s throat loosened. he fully expected chuuya to escape then, given the chance. truthfully, chuuya could do it. but he lacked the will to. the want to. so he remained there, laying under dazai, his chest rising and falling with sharp breaths. he made no move to leave, nor did he make any acknowledgment that he noticed. the only difference was how he breathed more easily, more deeply. but it could’ve been an unconscious action—his body taking autopilot. it meant nothing when dazai had allowed a careless slip of his control.

nothing would pride chuuya more than getting the better of dazai. yet he didn’t take the chance when it finally came. and somehow, dazai had done exactly the same. he would’ve loved to take chuuya’s life—to allow him the freedom of leaving life behind him. right in front of him was the clear opportunity for him to do it. but he made no move to proceed.

they were both idiots in that way. idiocy wasn’t appreciated in either of their lines of work. neither was it welcomed in the world, in general. but still, they stood as the most idiotic of all.

dazai’s fingers trailed up, and up, and up, grazing chuuya’s jaw, his lips, his cheekbones. they rested on his face, cupping his cheeks as his thumbs brushed over chuuya’s eyelids. dazai leaned down, gaze fluttering, as his hair swept forward. the dark brown strands tickled chuuya’s face, and the man twitched, blinking slowly. a name was swept from dazai’s tongue, breathed against chuuya’s face. chuuya’s name, really. a stupid name, an idiotic name, because of the speaker—because of the bearer of the name. it was hard to tell why either did anything. why either existed. they could not correlate with one another without colliding in a crash, breaking each other down again and again and again.

hands fluttering off chuuya’s face like butterfly wings, dazai’s neck bent fully down. his forehead touched chuuya’s, and maroon locks mixed with orange. from their proximity, breath was shared and recycled, but went unnoticed. breathing was nothing but an instinct. and then—perhaps this was all an instinct. dazai stopping was an instinct. chuuya doing nothing was an instinct. it was all instinctive in the way they refused to harm each other.

chuuya held power over dazai. his own weakness became a weapon against the man with no weaknesses.

perhaps chuuya was at the mercy of the world, but dazai had fallen to the hands of this man all the same. it had been a terrible thing to hate chuuya, and it was a terrible thing to love.

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dazai getting strategically lazy when his boyfriends are around is very funny to me.

like chuuya shows up and hes like oh sick i can make like one half assed plan and then he can carry so hard his spine is in danger of snapping <33

he and ranpo start having brain sex and hes like oh cool everything will work out fine :D hes so smart and cool and good at everything i can just relax now :DD

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I just want a conversation between ranpo and dazai in which dazai lies the entire time and ranpo responds to what he'd actually say if he weren't lying and it's incomprehensible to atsushi

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Being pleasing to the eye does not in and of itself qualify something as truly beautiful. What really matters is substance. Beauty for beauty’s sake is not sincere; it is not, in the end, authentic. Such beauty is essentially empty, and has no truth capable of moving people.

Sakaguchi Ango, “A Personal View of Japanese Culture”

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maybe this time picking at Textures on my skin will lead to being silky smooth

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ouhhhh suspicious new blog.... my wonderful friend driftwoodmanor would save me from this ezp1onage person.... surely they arent the same.......

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my friends open drawing requests and i bow my head with shame and avoid eye contact as i ask for the character they Already Knew I Would Ask For

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born to be a sitcom roommate duo forced to be tumblr mutuals

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