nnakahara-blog

[nnakahara-blog]

*stumbling to go look ta my drafts* what year is it

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♠ "Ah, man - Can't really tell which one it is anymore. Working hard or hardly working? What a positively dull grind."

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HEY!! sorry that i suck & i'm inactive here atm but i just wanted to pop in and say that i'm Not Dead, i'm going to anime expo with my datefriend jisatsumania (cheesu/paz) and our friends so if you're going then catch us in bsd cosplay for the majority of the weekend (me=chuuya them=dazai & our friends will be part of our group!) and say hi! OK THAT'S ALL

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Kiss me harder, bruise my lips, show everyone that we own each other

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hyperdetect:

   there are many things ranpo has trouble understanding, even at the age of 26 and seeming to know everything about anything one may have brought to his doorstep. he knows languages, mathematics, science, his mind is absolutely brilliant and all knowing —– until it comes to the matters of other people and their hearts.

   even before that accident 12 years ago, he still had trouble with people. he spoke without a filter, without thinking, earning complaints or starting fights when he thought that honesty was something people treasured… it wasn’t, though. he was told to be quiet, not speak his mind, be mindful of the things he said and respect adults because they knew best. then fukuzawa tells him the opposite, it helps him, he thrives with his new life and his new mindset –

   and once again, at some point, he’s back to biting his tongue. is that what adulthood truly is in the end, a turning point in your life where you bite your tongue and sacrifice your feelings? is the empty throb in his chest supposed to always be there, does that truly mean being the ‘mature one’, he wonders?

   not that it matters. as much as he tries to think, none of it matters anymore.

   the so called ‘honesty’ this world treasured meant nothing in the face of the ugly emotions people held —– jealousy, inferiority, the ever present fear of being left.  ( again. )

  he hears something playing. what is it, his phone? it feels all too far away, as if there’s a barrier of something keeping him from hearing how loud it should be. ranpo slowly lifts it out from under his cloak, staring at the number glowing on the screen.

   chuuya…

                              monster.

   it clatters to the ground within the same moment, screen first. the word echoes in his head, hands lifting to bury fingers in raven locks before shaking slowly.

   it’s enough. IT’S ENOUGH. i don’t want to understand anyone anymore, i don’t want anyone to understand me. it hurts, i’m tired, I GET IT!

   but his luck is not kind – it hasn’t ever been, really. he hears footsteps, closer and closer until someone falls to their knees in front of him and grasps his arms so desperately, so worriedly. green eyes lift slowly, completely out of it. he takes enough time to register that it’s chuuya, reads the words on his lips, but he almost wants to laugh.

   it’s always you for some reason, isn’t it?

   “  i messed up. it’s fine. i’m fine. i’m always fine.

                          —– why are you here…?  ”

♠ Chuuya has seen the worst of Ranpo laid out on a platter in front of him, all his sliver-tongued guiles torn in two - a still life of Ranpo's path of ruin and heartbreak, presented in that soft, strained voice of his, green eyes dulled with agony. Never, though, has he seen this emotion in the makings of an event - never has he seen Ranpo this broken. He sees something that sends alert signals across his brain, making his hands go numb and his actions unsteady.

Chuuya does not enjoy the feeling of fear. It's wrapped in serpents, splattered in mud and bile, sick, renders him useless.

Chuuya's job is not pleasant. He is either sent to do the dirtiest work, kicking in skulls with his expensive leather shoes, or he is the cleanup crew of a greater disaster - inexplicable things that go on in the streets. Inhumane brutalities and traumas to humankind that shall not be spoken of out loud, only through closed doors in a report of what he had seen that day, what he knew to be the rawest truth. (Those cold, cold violet eyes watching him all the while, the heavy scent of lavender and blood hanging on the velvet curtains.)

He does not fear having a front-row seat to these gruelling events. He is desensitized; an iron wall, practically knowing what comes next at every given turn. Chuuya prefers this greatly to the humanity he lost early on when he was gifted to the mafia. For his profession, it is a needed barrier to differentiate him and his comrades from the outside world. And yet - he has not lost his honor, his dedication to those he swears deep inside himself to protect from harm - (and, in Ranpo and Dazai's case, who he will willingly kill by his own hands, if he must.)

Something happening to one of these people who, by Chuuya's own decree, shall not be fractured deeply by anyone without his watch or knowledge, shall not be destroyed by anyone but himself, is far beyond acceptable. it is, in fact, completely enraging. The fear is quickly replaced by a growing ferocity, his blue eyes widening and darkening with a watchful intensity matched only by a wild animal. He is no longer looking at Ranpo - he's watching his surroundings like a hawk, a strong gloved hand drawing Ranpo's back in, ushering him closer to him. His ability - it leaks, his body suddenly cast in a strange smoothness in contrast to the rest of the world's movement through natural space, and he seems to flicker out of sync with the usual gravity.

"You aren't." Chuuya speaks at a low volume, though his voice is backed with a roughness, almost a growl. "Don't lie. Tell me later when we're at my place. Get up - Ranpo." Chuuya anchors him, steel-framed as he lifts him to his feet, still gripping him close, close enough that Ranpo can feel his chest rise and fall, perhaps notice the long sigh through his nose, the bob of his adam's apple, the firm clench of his jaw. "It doesn't matter how I found you, but I'm here now. You aren't shaking me off that easily. I'm not walking away from you while you're like this."

He leads him through backways, steps virtually silent. His pace steady, almost foreboding.

[nnakahara-blog]

What's the kinkiest thing you are into?

feeling wanted

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♠ The doldrums of the day were finally past him - Chuuya's marks were good, and he had worked overtime this week to make up for lost time while he was injured. He moves briskly, his concise gait giving him an air of authority even outside the realms of those who knew of his possession of it. He was hoping to get a drink, and afterwards, he was more than ready to settle down with someone familiar in his own domain.

He occupies himself with simplistic tasks on the way home. He buys a carnation and a couple necessities at the small convenience store in a grotto, tips the shopkeeper on his way out. He chooses his favorite bar in the rows of clubs, takes a seat nearest to the exit, and silently observes the dancers as he gets himself buzzed. He has a smoke outside, notices a girl be profusely ill on the sidewalk, and helps lead her to a bench wherein he calls a cab for her before leaving immediately.

Chuuya averts his eyes from the neon signs, echoes of laughter, and crystalline sounds of liquid poured into glass after glass, the hem of his coat skirting over the road. He picks up his phone and swipes over his contacts with a deft thumb, landing on an Edogawa. He strolls to press his back on a cobbled building and taps the green call symbol.

He hears Ranpo's ringtone down the street in a narrow alley a mere 30 meters down. Chuuya stops what he is doing, holds his phone to his ear and waits - counting, mind, for enough time that it would take Ranpo to respond. A sensation of alertness manifests in his body when the phone continues to ring - he crouches and completely modifies the way he moves to accommodate for as little noise as possible. The tap from the steel in his shoes blends with the wind snagged on the rickety lightposts. His breathing slows to a faint rasp.

Chuuya stalks into the alley, and halts abruptly. He sees two things at once - Ranpo's phone, facedown on the black asphalt and vibrating against the dirty surface, and somebody curled up, crunched into themselves so thoroughly against the ground as if they were attempting, as hard as possible, to cease existing.

Chuuya, his composure bent out of shape, makes his way over to Ranpo, repeats his name with a dry mouth a couple times to rouse his attention, and kneels in front of him on his knees, grasping his arms and squeezing his flesh. Where have you been? How long have you stayed here like this? Has anyone seen you? Who were you with? How did you get here? Who did this to you?

"What happened?" Chuuya asks.

@hyperdetect.

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[nnakahara-blog]

@jisatsumania & @hyperdetect.

♠ With a note of indignation, Chuuya hits the gas firmly as he rounds the curve of the street from the Agency headquarters - with two of his acquaintances in tow, murmuring and trilling with laughter in the backseat. The extra weight in the black Miata, admittedly, feels... How does it feel? A little unusual, as Chuuya is used to driving solo, the silence & the darkness cut by strips of neon lights & street lamps cast onto the leather-furnished insides a familiarity night after night. And yet - these guests, his companions, blend in strangely, and a warmth is in the air. He lights a cigarette with his free hand when they get to a stoplight, and opens the windows, the night air crisp and blowing in freely.

"I already checked, the drive-thru is 24 hours." He pipes up, draping an arm over his seat as he cranes his head back in a soft incline. He studies the both of them, his eyes narrowing lightly. "Tell me your orders when we get there, alright? Hey, no roughousing back there or you're both out." It's unlikely that he's being serious, as his gruff tone would have less of a rounded delivery. "And if you get anything on my car - you name it - I'll kill you."

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jisatsumania:

「 My sweet time? Couldn’t you have come looking for me? You know where I live, Chuuya. You could have come and yanked me from my futon in the night and shaken me angrily, you dastardly little man! 」

♠ "Do you actually expect me to pick up your pieces for you every time you get like this? I can barely stand to look at you, you know, after proof of how little you understand the consequences of your shitheaded excuses for months at a time. What the hell do you have to prove for yourself? C'mon, spit it out." With that hiss and a jerk, he leans his head forward, ghosting his breath across that sallowed skin, pale from the lack of exposure to the spring sun.

(Chuuya's forgotten how many details of his face he's memorized. The patterns join together immediately. The roots in his stomach spread in a lacework of veins, and a familiar ache enters his core. In spite of himself, he sighs.)

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♠ "Bold? I'd think that your actions spoke louder than my words, if you were even paying attention to them. And I don't think you get to hear that from me. You took your sweet time, you coward."

「 Aha, how bold of you! … I missed you, Chuuya… didn’t you miss me? 」

| | | | | | @nnakahara { x }

[nnakahara-blog]

so when do you suck my dick too?

♠ "When are you going to get off your ass and shape the fuck up?"

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♠ chuuya @ daran

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hyperdetect:

♠ The detective's noises, apparent in each sucked-in disbelieving breath and building amount of pressure or tasteful technique, let Chuuya know that he just might be enjoying himself. Chuuya certainly is - he's not only doing this for a good and amicable act of kindness for his very stressed, very distracted companion (focus on only him for now, him and his jaw snapped back and his eyes heavy-lidded and flushed almost as red as his hair, focus, focus.) The tones of rapture in Ranpo's voice are practically exquisite, as a matter of fact, and plenty deservant of praise - since Chuuya, of course, knows how much he loves it. He hollows his cheeks again, working Ranpo's cock all the way up the roof of his mouth in gliding motions with his head, giddy & skimming on the lucid plane with the lack of proper oxygen through a full minute starts to take effect. He makes the last couple seconds that he can stand count, though.

Enough, that is, to edge him some more, popping him out of his mouth in order to stroke his tongue down the length before casting the head up again and to the soft corner, just missing his molars (dangerously so.) He wills Ranpo to show him something cute, right in his peripheral, patiently drawing Ranpo's thigh back for more room with a firm hand before trailing his palm over to assist in his practice, wrapping it around the base with a small tug, slowing his movements just enough to be horribly, inhospitably gentle. His thumb presses pointedly against the middle part of the cock's girth, feeling it slick against the black leather. He closes his fingers around it, a placid expression crossing his face for a moment as he makes eye contact.

"Be good. Sit nice and still for me, baby." Chuuya manages to purr into the air, voice laced with a mottled heat, his throat still readily constricted & hoarse. He has the audacity to lick his teeth and bare his neck slightly, a grin flitting across his face gratuitously as he curves down to return to his task.

Chuuya's strong enough to anchor Ranpo's hips just so, adjusting him like a china doll to stay in place like he should as Chuuya does the most wicked things to him. At Ranpo's curse, his airway is once again blocked, the plat principal being him, after all. His speed is at a gradual increase, and he's beginning to strain, shake softly, dig his fingers into the soft, exposed parts of Ranpo's thighs.

He's engrossed in every single second of it.

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hyperdetect:

   as if he’s in a daze , ranpo allows chuuya to lead him. while he may be able to play himself off as normal on the surface , he knows he can only do so much before the wall cracks and he has to show himself for what he truly is right now. no one has seen him weak outside of two people he trusts the most , and one of them… even though ranpo trusts her with everything she has , he’s never told her about his past. his parents , where he’s from – she knows nothing.

   what a liar he is , a man with countless masks to make his life convenient no matter who he may face ; a beautiful manipulator with emerald green eyes and a bright smile that does not truly reflect the years he’s seen throughout his life. ( he knows all too well what happens if he takes it off – that people will see him for the monster he truly is , the monster people have seen since he was a child. )

   he’s pulled out of his thoughts when the mafioso speaks with patience and kindness he can’t understand. what is there to gain? what good is there in knowing what truly runs through his head? nothing , absolutely nothing.

   “  you’re annoying.  ”   ranpo says at last , flicking his gaze to the ginger only for a few mere seconds before he pulls away. he grasps one of the cigarette boxes , then shifting to reach inside the other’s pocket without permission to retrieve the lighter he knows is there. for a moment , the raven watches the flame flicker before lighting the end of his cigarette , then sets it down in between them as he takes a puff.

   a good thing he won’t run into fukuzawa on his way home.

   “  … i told you , all i did was take a break. i went home…  ”   home? what home? that place isn’t your home anymore , it’s an empty place ; it’s a memorial for the life you lost.   “  … i went… to my old home , that is. my accent is pretty much gone after being with yukichi for so long , but i’m not from yokohama , actually. where i’m from , there’s no tall buildings or cities… it’s a village in the mie prefecture no one cares about , just like my father preferred it to be.  ”   and on the edge of town under a tree , his grave along with his wife is there.

   his parents sleep in the place they loved the most.

   what did i do to deserve losing you?

   “  have you ever heard of ace detective akechi kogoro? he solved countless cases here , all over the world. even arsene lupin couldn’t beat him –  ”   it brings a wry smile to his face. ranpo runs a hand through his hair , laughing despite himself.   “  he was my father. well , his name was an alias though. and my mother – she was even more amazing. she was the only one who could beat him and keep him in line. it was just the three of us there in that house. i was happy… i could’ve lived forever like that.  ”

   but he didn’t. he couldn’t.

♠ The acidic remark after the house settled came as no surprise. Chuuya merely blinks, sips his drink again, and resumes his position. He knows Ranpo's ways of getting around these types of confrontations with his repressed memories - he's never seen this side of him, but it's something of a child, stubbornly refusing to just say what's wrong - if he's stubborn, Ranpo's impossible by his own design, a persistent drive to push everything down. There is a method to his practice, and it's familiar to Chuuya.

Familiar like the conditioning of a perfect, shiny mold to hide the boy underneath the surface; meticulously created to give off light (or dark) a certain way to give a participatory audience exactly what they want to see or hear. Always the charmer, the one who knows how to impress them all - because who better than to know mind games then a boy who has nothing to call his own but his mind? His beautiful, wonderful head, so lovely and agonized, which compiles a list of things to do rather then feeling weak, choosing a different task then to grieve to save themselves the feeling of isolation and dread.

On this blustery night, through the blood red curtains in the thrumming heart of Chuuya's apartement, Ranpo is not alone when he tells him his story. Chuuya urges him in the most obnoxious way possible to prove this to himself. He knows that it might not be something Ranpo is terribly aware of, or will choose to believe - but at least he's living it, right?

He takes every detail in, barely looking down to light his own cigarette, tapping the ash & focusing entirely. Chuuya busies himself in imagining the story winding around the room like the smoke out of their lips. It mingles on the floorboards. His surprise is thinly veiled at Ranpo's mention of his hometown; Chuuya's own birthplace was somewhere in the heart of the Yamaguchi Prefecture which, from his vague memory, was just as similarly vacant of bustling big city sights as well as perhaps a bit of his own southern dialect that Ranpo definitely should have informed him of earlier.

He exhales smoothly, watching Ranpo's figure waver, knowing the answer to his lull in conversation. The experience, not the boy, was unfamiliar, almost stilted, for Chuuya to form an empathy for - he cannot remember his parents, if they were even notable - his filthy urchin lifestyle was typical, yet perhaps gave him a lacking empathy as well, a wildness separate to the hospitable warmth Ranpo speaks of before the abruptness of his pause - suggesting, as Chuuya can guess easily, death. Though the mafioso does not feel the impact of this narrative personally, this is the first leg in realizing that Ranpo lost everything from an early age, and this sinks in deep, aching with a raw sorrow in the knowledge that he can never deliver Ranpo from that irreversible pain.

"I'm sorry." The mafioso says accordingly through the smoke, a murmur, a whisper through the pews of a church.

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hyperdetect:

   “  it’s your own choice whether you let others influence you , you know.  ”   a useless comment , more-so when ranpo knows he’s no ordinary man , and therefore he does not influence others normally. he can do so with ease if he genuinely attempts it , and when he isn’t even trying , it still comes sooner rather than later. he doesn’t know what chuuya means by such a comment – or perhaps he doesn’t want to try and know – but he leaves it with that answer alone.

   his hands twitch at his sides when the executive allows his hand to fall to his hand and brush against his leg. he doesn’t bother looking down , deeming it a pointless endeavor when the other’s still speaking to him. no , he doesn’t feel like it —– well , that isn’t true , he just doesn’t have the energy to think on or realize he has things he wish he could get rid of by word of mouth.

   ranpo has half a mind to decline him , but chuuya looks all too pleading with the way he looks at him , and he can’t deny that it’s cold outside. fukuzawa wouldn’t be too happy with him if , after being away for 2 weeks , he ends up taking more time off due to catching a cold. for that reason , the detective acquiesces , shrugging his shoulders a bit with a smile.

   ( it’s god-awfully empty , and he knows the ginger has definitely seen it before in dazai. he’s not fooling chuuya , or anyone for that matter – at least for now , until he’s himself again. )

   “  i don’t see why not considering i have nothing else to do. lead the way , chuuya.  ”

♠ The night yearns on after Ranpo's consent to the meeting, the wind whipping at the heels of the executive & the genius. A shadow falls across the doorway and down the metal staircase as Chuuya opens the door and beckons Ranpo inside, setting on the many warm lights around the tightly spaced home, the red walls and curtains ominous to some people - ominous with the lamps illuminating the windows from outside a strange shade of red as well, an off-putting glow to any passerby down on the street. It is a den of great quality to Chuuya, and inviting someone in is always an occasion - especially Ranpo, who Chuuya assumes is familiar with the place after spending weeks nursing him back to health.

The smell of the mulled wine fills the house for the next half hour. Chuuya pauses to hang up his coat and to fold his jacket, simply rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt and continuing with a strange patience and hypnotic movement in the process of ladling the liquid between various spices, his blue eyes half shut in a meditative expression before he sets off the heat.

"Sit." Chuuya offers briefly, setting down on the glass coffee table the two mugs (steaming, kiln-fired in green china - luxurious, yet austere in contrast to the setting; perhaps they were crafted in a local business, or a gift from his mentor?) and pausing. He stands with his weight to his hip at the side of the couch for a moment, dressed in all his expensive garments, struggling not to appear as if he's trying too hard in the soft, warm silence of the room. He leaves briefly and returns with two boxes of cigarettes, and then, finally sets himself down to join his companion, sipping the wine.

"Is this... Secluded enough?" Chuuya jokes, a chuffing laugh following suite. It fades into a small smile, and for a moment, his eyes dart to the ground - drawing up to Ranpo's face again, quizzical, deeply searching for some detail he has yet to examine. He folds his legs inwards slightly, the curve of his body sinking a little against the back of the couch, his hair pooled on the plush as he tilts his head to the side. "Well, detective, I'm all ears. There's not much else left for me to say - you've got the floor."

I want to hear your voice.

[nnakahara-blog]

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