#I never thought writing nice Chuuya would be so difficult

[unicornpopcorn14]

13 for the ship prompt! :D

Ship Prompts 13- Write about your ship celebrating one of the members birthdays. Ship chosen: Queerplatonic Skk I got carried away with this (3.5k words aaaaa) 😭😭 Hope you enjoy it, Darcy!! :D

Saccharine

“You’re aware what day of the year it is, right?”

Dazai’s eyes widen, fork still in his mouth as the chatter of the restaurant fades in his ears. It’s been four– almost five years, surely Chuuya isn’t alluding to that. The moment he meets the other’s peeved face, however, his mouth gapes, with the fork still inside it, and whispers in horror,

“Don’t-”

Chuuya cuts him off with an exasperated sigh, “I enjoyed those 51 days of me being a year older, but alas. The time has come for me-”

“Do not-”

“-to be nice to you for the whole day…”

“NOOOOO!!!” He grabs his hair as he lurches back, other customers turning to their table, “Chuuya, if you’re a sadist, I’d much rather find out in better ways!” He bangs on the table with flat hands, to which Chuuya’s veins bulge at, “Would you quit with that awful annual torture-?!”

“Come on, you do this every goddamn year!” Chuuya bickers back, “Indulge a little in what I put myself through for your ungrateful ass.”

“You do it because I don’t like it!”

“Well, true.” Chuuya shrugs, leaning back with folded arms, “But don’t you get at least a little tired from doing this shit constantly? I’d say this is a much needed change of pace-”

“First of all, how dare you suggest that this ‘shit’ is but a front. Maybe you can’t help but pretend to hate me– and I get it, after all, who could resist my charm? But I truly hate you-!”

“Uh huh.”

“-Second of all, I’d rather stay alive than ever go through that quote-un-quote: ‘needed change of pace’ for the third time in my miserable life!”

“That so?” The smirk that Chuuya wears sends Dazai’s long-have-been-numb nerves prickling in foreign agitation that he hasn’t felt in a long time-

“Oh my.” Chuuya’s tone and eyes instantly soften, and Dazai recoils back before he can help it, “Miserable life, Osamu? I’m so sorry to hear that. We can talk about it, you know-”

Dazai clasps his ears shut, “Shut uuuup!!!”

“As you wish,” Dazai grimaces even further because Chuuya just listened to him, “but do know I am always here to talk, yeah?” Chuuya unsheathes one of his gloves to take Dazai’s hand into his own, expression so uncanny as he genuinely smiles at Dazai. The brunette feels sick-

“I’ll avoid you for the whole day if you keep this up!” He threatens crackly, can’t bring himself to take his hand away, “The Agency is definitely pummeling without me helping with the paperwork.”

Chuuya normally would tell him that he slacks on the job anyway, but now he just simply closes his eyes, that same damn smile on his face, “Just say the word, and I’ll give you all the space you need. Never doubt that, mackerel.”

The pet name doesn’t grant him the normalcy he’s desperate for when Chuuya says it in that tone of voice, “No- You’re not supposed to-!” Dazai can sense that his lack of acutely predicting Chuuya’s responses might drive him crazy very soon, so he attempts to try to calm himself, “Aren’t there mafia business for you to attend, Mr. Executive? Does Mori even know you’re here?”

“Don’t worry, Osamu, I freed the whole day just for you.”

“Stop calling me that-”

“Anything you want-”

“Raaaaaghhh!!!” Now he takes his hand back, clutching it on his chest as if he’s been burned, “You’ll crack. You’ll definitely crack. There is no chance you’re keeping this up forever. Your tiny brain won’t handle it!”

But he knows that isn’t the case, because Chuuya’s tiny brain had handled it for the whole day during his seventeenth and eighteenth birthday, and now at 23, his tolerance to Dazai’s insults have significantly heightened, to the brunette’s sheer disdain.

Chuuya tilts his head a little, hair swaying, completing his sickeningly sweet demeanor, “I’d do anything for the most precious person in the world.”

“Eugh- I think I threw up in my mouth a little.” He gags with a fist on his mouth, voice groggy-

The waiter comes up to them, telling them that the other customers have complained about Dazai’s occasional shrieks. Chuuya, still so freaking sweetly, informs her that they were leaving already, pays the restaurant without complaining once about Dazai never pulling his own weight, and they take off.

“This is a nightmare.” Dazai says after a long moment of silence between them, something that never happens, “My feisty dog is suddenly nice, he’s definitely transpiring something wicked against me!”

Chuuya- Chuuya laughs, “You know you’re ridiculous with that…” He doesn’t say it meanly, wiping a tear, which Dazai’s brain haywires at-

“Really, now? Laughing at calling you my dog?” The smallest of frowns dares crease his forehead, “This is too much, even for you.”

“What? You’re funny.” Dazai’s face pales- greens even, “So, where do you want to go, birthday boy?”

Dazai bristles at the nickname, then inhales to calm himself, an idea springing up, “Fine. You asked for it, Slug!” He knows just the perfect way to break him, “We’re going to the arcade.”

He sees the flash in Chuuya’s eyes, and deems himself victorious. Chuuya would never maintain this bullshit at the arcade given his ridiculously competitive nature. He’ll definitely scream at Dazai once or twice out of habit more than anything-

Nothing.

Clearly Chuuya’s willpower has also improved through the years, because there isn’t a single aggressive shout, there isn’t any accusations of Dazai tampering with the machines (he had), and though Chuuya laughs and enjoys the rounds, what he utters after his loss is the straw that breaks the camel’s back,

“Aw shucks. Good match, that was fun.”

Dazai leaps from his seat and turns around the machines to reach the redhead, grabbing his cheeks with panicked eyes, “Chuuya, Chuuya are you in there?! I think you’ve been possessed!” He speaks to the eyes, sensing their amused confusion, “Do something to tell me you’re in there! Any sign!”

Chuuya smiles.

“Ahh!” Dazai lets him go instantly, “Begone, demon!!”

“Come on, now.” The not-Chuuya says fondly- eughhh, “Up for another round?”

“No!” This didn’t work. Dazai needs to think of other ways, make up a plan. Operation: exorcising this cloying demon out of his partner begins in-

“How about we go to my apartment? I have a surprise for you.”

Dazai’s eyes dart as his mind runs in terrifying speeds, addressing the other without looking, “I don’t trust you with surprises right now. You may be small, but you’re no less terrifying.”

Chuuya chuckles, “You’ll love it, trust me-”

Dazai gets into a fighting stance, gasping, “Do not speak of trust with that tone of voice, not-Chuuya!”

Chuuya chuckles again, and his silky tone coaxes him to follow him to his apartment, nevertheless. Dazai can’t believe he’ll have to endure seven more hours of this, planning to break a thing or two of Chuuya’s belongings out of spite if nothing else.

“Don’t think your façade is fooling me, I can see right through you!” He announces impatiently from the couch, leg bouncing up and down as Chuuya pours drinks from the kitchen, “You gagged at least twice through this, didn’t you? Admit it.”

Chuuya laughs again, a record in Dazai’s book. This is so ridiculous. “Stop cracking me up, I can’t pour the drinks.”

Dazai sulks, sinking into the couch, “Shut up…” But it’s weak, replaced by flusterment he can’t ebb down. He feels suddenly helpless with the lack of the reactions, and wonders if he’s losing his touch. The antique vase looks like it wants to crash into the floor in full speed so much right now.

“You’re a little red.” Not-Chuuya is suddenly in front of him, sitting down as he gapes up at him in amusement, “Cute.” He attempts to give Daza his drink.

Dazai, with crossed arms, huffs and turns away, “I’m not talking to you.”

“Why? Did I do anything wrong?” Chuuya asks gently with a smile, placing the glass on the table. Dazai turns even further in order to hide the other from his peripheral.

No, you didn’t. And that’s the problem.

“Your hair looks soft. Fluffy.” Dazai suddenly feels fingers running through the back of his head. His noddle whips so fast his neck feels like it cracked,

“Ew, ew! Don’t touch me, cheap-Chibi-replica!!” He doesn’t exactly flinch away, fuming, “The real Chuuya calls my hair a dirty mop all the time! Do better!”

Not-Chuuya brushes his bangs this time, fixated on them as he speaks, “Maybe he never told you those things because…” He pauses, eyes down-casting a little. Dazai begged him to say ‘you’re a pain in the ass’. It’s what he expects, it’s what makes perfect sense, it’s what aligns with the Chuuya he knows like the back of his hand, pleasepleaseplease-

“…he never really thought he deserved you enough to do so.”

Dazai rigids, “WHAT?!”

“He’s afraid of things he’ll lose.” Chuuya, to Dazai’s absolute disdain, explains, “So he tries his best to push everyone away. Everyone he’s sure will be too precious to him, everyone he’ll latch onto just a little too much, he tries his best to maintain his distance from th-”

“Chuuya, I have never been more serious with you in my life: Please stop.” Dazai numbly says, suddenly so, so exhausted.

The redhead’s mouth clasps, as per request, but he clarifies that it still isn’t over, “Only six more hours and I will.”

“Why?” Dazai stresses, uncomfortable, “You can end it here. Nothing obligates you to-”

“You never asked for your surprise.” Chuuya cuts him off.

Dazai blinks, turning to him, “If I see it, will you stop?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Of course I will.” Dazai rolls his eyes, “Now, on with it. If it gets the real Chuuya out, then the sooner the better.”

Chuuya smiles, but there is something solemn regarding it. He gets up, with Dazai observing his every move, and scurries through a drawer big and wide enough to accommodate stacks of files and documents. Dazai’s eyes narrow, never taking interest to rummage through this particular drawer for how boring its contents appear to be, but now his interest in piqued, as Chuuya finds what he’s looking for with a small: “Aha.”

Dazai thinks he sees an envelope in Chuuya’s hand as he ambles closer, but that can’t be right-

“Here.”

“Your surprise is a letter?” Dazai truly hasn’t been more confused in his life. He hates that he can’t see where this is going, inspecting the brown envelope as he speaks, “Chuuya, I don’t think there is anything you can’t verbally say to me now, do you? This is usele-”

His eyes widen, breath catching in his throat as he reads the name embedded on the paper.

From: Odasaku

Time seems to stop while Dazai reads the nickname once, twice. It’s in English cursive that can never be Chuuya’s handwriting, and his hands tremble ever so slightly the moment he registers the credibility of what he’s holding. This is real.

“You- wh-” He looks back and forth between the envelope and Chuuya’s gentle eyes, gaze never seeming to want to leave either.

Chuuya sits on the couch, voice subdued, “Your Executive desk was cleared by me after your defection, as per my own request. I was admittedly selfish– looking for anything you might have left for me before you left. Something to explain, anything-”

“Chuuya-”

“Hey, let me finish, will you?” Chuuya sends him a soft smile in reassurance, “I found this instead, read the first two paragraphs before I closed it again. It explained everything I needed to know, Dazai.” He leans back, drinking out of the wine glass, “You can read it privately if you want.”

But Dazai doesn’t get up, scrambling to take the paper out with shaky fingers. His heart wildly throbs once a long wall of text meets his widened eyes,

This is but my latest prose as a person worthy of being a writer, a person who is not tainted with blood. Dazai, if I die before seeing you one last time, I do not wish to end things between us on such terms. There is a lot I wish to tell you before I leave…

Dazai reads every word, eyes welling against his will, making the letters blur and scramble as one. Oda speaks of their time together, his fondest memories, his ideals- tells him he would’ve left a letter for Ango hadn’t it been for the circumstances. Tells him the name of his adopted children, the characteristics each of them had.

I, truly, have considered you one of them.

Oda informs him of how much he resembled a burnt black cat the first time they met, how he doesn’t seem as burnt now. Dazai chuckles wetly as Odasaku says that he’s happy he’d known him, even for a short while, even in their circumstances.

Whatever path you’ll choose after what occurs, please remember this:

The brunette suddenly hiccups, an ugly sound seldom forced out of him. He covers his mouth, finds his lips too shaky to form words, heart feeling more than all it had felt in almost half a decade-

“He said he’s proud of me, even before knowing I’d defect.” He isn’t sure why he’s whispering this to his partner, “He-” His cheeks feel wetter than before, to which he looks at his hand. Droplets of salt continue to fall on them so assertively, he thinks they might cause them to bleed,

“What is this- what have you done to me…?” Dazai knows he’s crying, he just doesn’t know why he can’t will himself to feel numb again. Everything is hazy and sloppy and wet, and he keeps the precious paper away, afraid it will get caught up in that uncontrollable mess…

“Do you hate it?” Chuuya asks faintly, with some regret in it. Dazai shakes his head, leaving the letter on the table-

“No, I don’t but- these monstrous things won’t stop.” He croaks as he wipes with both hands on his face, and to his horror the tears double, the sobs get even more violent, “I think I’ve been possessed, too…”

“Hey, come here…” Chuuya guides him through his fit, which Dazai blindly follows, till he finds himself with a weight on his laps and both arms and legs embracing him. Dazai latches back so tightly, trembling as he puts all of his force into the fists that both hit Chuuya lightly and grab the back of his shirt with. He doesn’t have to wipe the tears when Chuuya’s garment acts as a napkin, soaking every single thing he wishes to hide.

“He said he’s proud…” Dazai repeats, squeaks, burying his nose into the warmth of his partner.

“That he did.” Chuuya’s ungloved fingers caress his hair, and don’t stop until the persistent tears finally stop flowing. Dazai stays huddled in the warmth for more seconds despite himself, selfishly wishing to steal it all, before shifting to indicate his desire to draw away, and Chuuya instantly gets off of him.

He can’t bring himself to look at the azure pupils no matter how hard he tries, eyes shifting away to the table and the carpet and the hands on his lap.

It has been long since he’s felt this bare, much less over a gift. He had received many birthday presents in the last two years especially: Ranpo would give him all the sweets he could offer, Kenji crops from his field, Kyouka pretty daggers, Atsushi hugs and flowers, the Tanizaki siblings a cake of their making, Yosano fancy wine bottles, Kunikida would treat him to a meal, and Fukuzawa would orchestrate the whole party…

While it would all be appreciated, he never really felt any joy over being one year older. Most times he regrets ever living this long, so he doesn’t regard the gifts or parties done in his honor with as much gratefulness as he feels he’s supposed to.

But this? This one letter lying opened on the table?

It might be the best birthday gift he’d… ever received.

And he wants to let Chuuya know that.

“Uh.” What was he supposed to say again? What did normal people say in situations like this? Thank you? Sorry? “You’re… appreciable, slug.”

That was neither- what the fuck, brain??

Chuuya would have pointed his terrible attempt at being grateful out at any other day, but now he simply smiles relievedly,

“I’m glad you like it.”

This version of his partner is starting to prove that he isn’t so bad, after all.

Dazai frowns, still avoiding eye-contact, “No, um, what I mean is… mmmm….” He sinks so far in the couch, till only his head is reclining by the back of the seat. He crosses his arms and averts his face, physically forcing himself to say it, “tnks…” he whispers.

“Hm?”

It’s a beat, then Dazai roughly flops his head on Chuuya’s lap, because he can’t articulate his appreciation with words, and thus wants to show it by doing something Chuuya likes, which is having to look down to see Dazai instead of the other way around. He feels the other tense for a second before his hand reluctantly cups his brown hair in question.

“Thanks.” Dazai grits into Chuuya’s pants, then rolls on his back, finally meeting the amused blues, “Don’t get the wrong idea, demon, you won’t catch me saying this to the real Chuuya at all. But you get a pass. Only this once.”

“Might as well feel honored, huh?” Chuuya chuckles, and it’s truly genuine.

A small smile cracks Dazai’s face for a mere second. Wannabe-Chuuya is really more acquainted to handle these moments than regular Chuuya. It’s definitely why he waited for Dazai’s birthday to hand the letter to him– an excuse to show his raw and real care that Dazai undeservedly bathes himself in.

“So, do you want him back, now?”

Dazai doesn’t, but can't ever shed light on contradicting himself, so he dramatically says instead, “I’ll think about it.”

The redhead’s brow ridges, though not with his typical ‘I’m done with your bullshit’ frown. It’s with a smile.

He wonders when Chuuya ever learned to be this good of an actor.

Dazai feigns a long sigh, “Fine, you can stay a little longer…” then pauses, blinking upwards, “Wait- am I betraying real-Chuuya that way?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t mind.” Chuuya says as he strokes Dazai’s unkempt bangs away from his face.

Dazai’s mouth curls in displeasure because he likes it, “I hate you.”

“He hates you too, buddy.” It’s better to hear it in third person, like this part of Chuuya forever believes he is worth not being hated, “Wanna spend the rest of the day here or go somewhere else?”

“Energy’s gone, not-my-Chibi.” He twirls the long end of the fiery hair in a finger, “Outdoor activities will be a chore…”

Chuuya shakes his head and rolls his eyes in fondness, “This might be the lamest birthday setting ever.”

“That’s exactly right.” Dazai sneers, “But when were we ever conventional with the way we do things?”

“Touche. At least I got a cake and a candle.”

“Ugh, no. You know I hate formalities.”

They carry it out anyway, with Dazai ruining Chuuya’s attempts to sing properly, and Chuuya being patient through and through.  

His partner must have expected Dazai to want to stay home after receiving his gift, because they spend the next six hours doing everything Dazai likes– They play videogames, they cook and Dazai makes the kitchen an unsalvageable mess, they wildly dance together and stumble on their feet, they watch murder mysteries and brain rotting soap operas in a pillow fort, they play with cards and Chuuya loses every single time.

It's until there is fifteen minutes left till midnight, with Dazai getting his hair braided, that he finds himself glancing back with a devious idea in mind. Testing Chuuya’s willpower one last time wouldn’t hurt, would it…?

“Ah, so. I hate to admit it– who am I kidding, no I don't,” He gives an exaggerated winces as he glances back, “but I maybe, sorta bleached all your coats while you were in the restroom when I was mad at you.”

Chuuya pauses his braiding, staring at Dazai for a long while… then all of the veins on his body pop-

He gets yanked backwards by the hair, “Ow, OW!” Dazai laughs because finally, “My, Chuuya, you’re back sooner than expected!”

Chuuya grabs him in a chokehold, which Dazai tries to escape from, “I can’t fucking take it anymore,” He growls, and Dazai laughs even harder, “My coats? MY COATS, DAZAI?!”

“It’s tie-dye season! Never heard of tie-dye season?!” Dazai slips downwards, successfully scrambling away as Chuuya attempts to grab him but he isn’t fast enough-

“GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE!!”

Dazai's half-done braids bounce as he sprints, “Bring nice-Chuuya back first!!”

“SAY GOODBYE TO HIM FOREVER, BASTARD!”

“What?! Noooo, call me Osamu one last time!”

“IN YOUR WILDEST FUCKING DREAMS!!”

They pause the chase when Dazai’s behind the kitchen counter and Chuuya’s outside, if only to catch their breaths, “You know, if it weren’t for the fact that me being nice isn’t as effective on you, I’d have made it a staple on your birthday as well!”

Dazai grins evilly, as Chuuya pales.

“How would that go, again?” Dazai taps his chin, “Oh, Nakahara-Sama, You’re so smart and cool.” Chuuya’s face turns green, the piled urge to vomit since he’d started his act finally getting to him, “You are definitely not a dog and you’re actually the perfect height, goes nicely with your figure and strong build-“

“No, fuck! Euuugh!!!” Chuuya actively empties his stomach in a conveniently placed bucket, Dazai claps in victory,

“Aha! Maximum damage!!!” He points at him, “What comes around goes around, Slug!!”

“You’ll fucking pay for that!”

Chuuya breaks the door of the kitchen down, adding to the unhopeful mess Dazai’d made. Their wild goose chase keeps going till three in the morning.

And Dazai? Keeps laughing till all his heart’s content…

[akutasoda]

Hii! I absolutely love your writing!

Could i request dazai (and any other characters if youd like) with an softhearted s/o whos mother is very manipulative and just falls into it like she deep down kinda hates her mother cause her mother has all control of her life whenever shes around her and she has to put on an act of being perfect 24/7 for her mother and she cant even tell her mother that she feels horrible and tired becouse of this cause of the manipulation and she would feel bad for her mother

Im sorry if its confusing or written wrong english isnt my first language!

mother knows best

synopsis - when their s/o has a manipulative mother

includes - dazai, chuuya, nikolai

warnings - gn!reader, reader has a controlling mother, fluff, angst with comfort, hints towards murder, manipulation, wc - 717

a/n: hii! thank you! :) just wanna say if anyone has a similar situation to this please speak up, i know it may seem difficult to do but it helps so much

osamu dazai ★↷

↪he absolutely loved how genuinely kind and sweet you were. he found it hard to believe somebody like you really would date someone like him.

↪he thought it was rather nice that you're mother always reached out to you and checked ok you often. but from around the second time he saw your mother around you he knew something was up.

↪he would catch the very quick tenses and looks of gatred before you put on your best smile and continued being kind. he never said anything because he felt like it wasn't his place to get involved in your family affairs.

↪but he really couldn't help but ask after your mother always seemed to decide what you were doing and when - especially because you became so tired looking.

↪and when he asked you really couldn't help but finally let it all out. all the years of your mother controlling your life, making you feel horrible and how you felt so helpless. all dazai could do was hold you and let you get all your feelings out.

↪he knew a thing about manipulation and so had no issue in stepping in himself and started to remove your mother's control. little by little ridding you of the manipulation from your mother until she could finally leave you alone.

chuuya nakahara ★↷

↪he really felt someone as sweet and kind as you shouldn't end up with someone in his line of work but he'd allow himself as he really loved you.

↪seeing how close you and your mother were made him feel happy for you. he did think it was really sweet and he could only wish for that sort of relationship with family - that was until he started seeing some signs.

↪he started getting an off feeling whenever your mother spoke for you, deciding what you were doing. he started really disliking your mother after seeing how tired you were becoming.

↪he wouldn't hesitate to voice his concerns to you and your mother and hated the fact that she still answered for you. so instead he asked you directly and wanted an answer, he wouldn't want you to be hurt by your own mother.

↪and when you finally let all your feelings go he only offered you his undivided attention and support. he absolutely hated how someone that was your family could do this too you and so would happily intervene.

↪if you allowed him, he would be brutally honest. sparing no sympathy in his words and telling your mother outright to leave you alone and to let you be your own person and wouldn't let up until she got the message.

↪if you didn't allow him, he'd begrudgingly step back. but he'd still oppose your mother very happily and would always make sure that she let up her control of your life slowly and subtly.

nikolai gogol ★↷

↪he thought you were the absolute sweetest. your genuine kindness would be something bew to him and he quickly learnt to happily indulge himself in it. he practically clings to you for affection

↪he also liked how close you were to your mother. he admired that connection to your family and always thought it was sweet. but he very quickly started thinking the opposite.

↪he would note how she always spoke for you and decided what you did. how you always seemed more fake when she was around, which was often, and how sometimes you'd even become tense.

↪he would have no issue in asking about the whole situation but he gathered it was probably sensitive so he would wait to ask you in private. he would listen diligently to your worries and how tired you were.

↪hearing about how your mother controlled you made him quite upset. it really went against his whole desire for freedom and so he'd be willingy to do absolutely anything to help you regain that freedom.

↪if you were fine with it, he'd happily be brutal with it. now i wouldn't go into details but he hasn't exactly got a moral compass and would happily dispose of your mother.

↪but if you disagreed with his methods he'd become more subtle. removing your mother's influence bit by bit until you could completely remove her influence over your entire life.

[whorefordazai]

Ayo, I know ur requests are closed, but I saw your gender bent hc, and honestly the boys being the ones genderbent would be 👌👌👌

I had too much fun writing this 😏 and was kinda confused on what pronouns to use when describing them so uhh (him/her???)

bsd boys: gender bend edition

ft. dazai | chuuya | oda | aku x reader

genre: fluff, slight nsfw

warnings: slight depictions of sex

Dazai

Y’all think normal dazai is pretty? Just imagine him as a woman 🙈 FUCKIDN LORD🏃🏼‍♀️

Just imagine him with long messy brown hair, the same outfit but like hotter.

If he were to become a woman out of nowhere, the first thing he’d do is flash himself in the mirror to inspect his boobs🕺

“Wow...these look so majestic, I feel so lucky😧 is this what you do every time you’re in front of a mirror, belladonna?”

“...not every time...ಥ‿ಥ”

Would definitely boost his ego 100x more because now he can seduce men too😏

But dazai, why was seducing men your first thought 😄

Imagine giving dazai head oh fuck

“Y-y/n...” Dazai’s soft moans whimper from under you. You chuckle onto the soft skin between his legs. His hands grip the sheets and he tilt his head back in pleasure.

“Make some more noise for me, pretty girl.”

Anyways😏🤚

Getting his first fucking period. He has no idea what to do haha! Blood is everywhere, his stomach hurts, he feels as though he really wants to kill himself right this moment.

“I hate being a woman ಠ_ಠ”

“Babe, you should get used to this.”

You help him clean up and get him some light snacks along with a heating pad. Both of you snuggle up on the couch. Your arms wrapped around Dazai’s small figure🥺

“Y/n, can you sleep on my boobs?”

“...why ᇂ_ᇂ?”

“I wanna see what it feels like ◕ ◡ ◕”

“...okay ʘ‿ʘ?”

You softly lower your head onto his chest, careful not to hurt him. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you bury your face in his shirt.

A giggle escapes Dazai’s lips. “Wait, that tickles!”

“Squish...squish...” you mumble, softly squeezing his boobs like a plushie.

“Okay, how do they feel ^ｰ^?”

“...very nice. They feel very nice ಠ◡ಠ”

He wears some of your clothes on the daily, but now he’ll wear almost half your wardrobe.

He feels really pretty in all those dresses you have oh my🙂

Chuuya

He’s already so hot and pretty, just imagine him as a girl. HOLY FUCK🏃🏼‍♀️

Curly red hair, that signature fedora, and even that choker around his neck. BUT ADD BLACK EYELINER OSHHS

He would definitely feel a little weird in his new body. Wouldn’t exactly like it at first and will definitely be complaining.

Give it a few days and let him look in the mirror and see how hot he looks as a woman😏

“Y/n...you’re still...attracted to me, right?”

“...babe, you have no idea ●‿●”

His attitude is the same so now people are even more scared of him. At first glance someone would think he’s just a cute little sweet girl but then BOOM he kicks them 20 feet into the air (only if they piss him off)

He now has the double struggle of being short and being a girl 👩‍🦯

FASHION SHOWS !!

This mf loves styling himself and looking really damn good, so once he finds out there’s a whole new world of outfits he can try on as a woman...just know you’ll be shopping for a while.

He’s a fucking mafiosa, always dressed in sleek black outfits with a hat that lets his red curls peek out. The black lace veil hiding his blue eyes just pulls the whole outfit together so well

He sometimes lets you do his makeup cuz he thinks he looks prettier with. The both of you will paint each other’s nails (he is somehow is very good at it. Anything you wanna tell us, Chuuya🧐?)

You thought you liked chuuya dominant as a male? Honey, you ain’t ready for him as a woman🏃🏼‍♀️

“Am I making you feel good, baby?” Chuuya looks up from the space between your legs. A few strands of his red hair fall onto your skin as he moves them away. You shiver, feeling his smooth fingertips dangerously graze against your core.

You can only nod, feeling his soft lips leave a trail of kisses on your inner thigh. The faint print of red lipstick followed the trail.

RED LIPSTICK ON YOUR INNER THIGH HOLY FUCKSJ🏃🏼‍♀️💨

Oda

I’M GONNA CRY he would be (already is) SO HOT

At first he wouldn’t have much of a reaction like, okay? I’m a woman now.

Little does he know there’s more to it than that😆

He’d go about his day like normal, sometimes even forgetting that he’s a woman now. But his hair keeps getting in his face?? Men keep staring at him?? Some kid thought he was his grandma??

It was sweet at first, but it was so overwhelming and uncomfortable.

He comes home, in slight frustration. Exhaling as he closes the door and begins to take off his coat, something harshly tugs at his hair.

His hair was stuck on the mf zipper ಠ_ಠ

You try to hold in your laughter at his misfortune. “Here, let me help.”

While you’re untangling his hair, his face remains still and stoic. “When will this be over ᇂ_ᇂ?”

He is actually very suddenly interested in skincare. Why? Not sure.

He sometimes sees you putting on all these serums and face masks but never felt the need to ask you about it. Plus, you sometimes helped him shave-that was the closest thing to skin care this man has ever gotten to.

But now he has a face of a woman, so his skin feels a lot smoother and softer. He thinks to himself, should I be taking care of it?? What were all those things y/n was putting on her face🧐?

WAIT THATS SO CUTE OSKJS🏃🏼‍♀️💨

So you help tie his hair into a pony tail and the both of you put on face masks😆

He somehow really enjoys doing all these self care tasks that he’s never thought about in his life🤔

Imagine the both of you sitting in a bathtub, rose petals covering the water. Your heads are wrapped up in towels as you sip on wine. Cucumbers are placed on Oda’s eyes.

He could get used to this😏

Sexy time🙈

He’s a very quiet dom on the usual, but suddenly he’s very vocal when he gets his pussy ate‼️

He’ll love it when you top. Now he kinda knows how you feel when he’s pounding into you 😏

If oda actually had kids as a woman, he would a A HOT MILF😳

Akutagawa

He’d be like what the fuck is happening ಠ_ಠ?

Wouldn’t give much of a reaction on the outside (pretending to play it cool) but on the inside he’s having 20 mental breakdowns at the same time.

Please help him😁

He’ll definitely dismiss you saying “I can handle it myself ಠ_ಠ”

“Ryu, your hair is in knots and you’re limping on your heels ◔_◔”

“...ಠ~ಠ”

Taking a bath is now even more difficult for him. He feels embarrassed even looking at himself. His chest has these two lumps and his hips suddenly have curves and his skin feels smoother and softer.

His boobs catch his eye in every outfit he wears. No one else really notices or cares except him. Finally one day, he’s had enough. He stomps to you with a determined face, pointing at his chest.

“I want these off. Now ᇂ_ᇂ”

“...I don’t think it works like that...◕ ◡ ◕?”

Eventually he’ll have to adapt. He’s still the same person but just imagine aku as a hot emo goth girl 🕺

Will be 10x scarier than before now that he’s discovered black eyeliner and actually likes growing his nails out (reminds him of claws to rip off people eyeballs)

It’s a love/hate relationship tbh LMAO sometimes he loves how powerful he feels in high heels. Other times, he hates how others look down on him just because they underestimate how powerful he is (even as a woman)

Can I just add, Atsushi almost did a double take and called aku “the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen” before he found out it was aku ಥ‿ಥ

Aku noticed, Atsushi noticed that he noticed, and they both just decided to keep silent and move on as if it never happened 🤝

[xo-cuteplosion-xo]

I don't know if this counts as a comfort request, can you do a Chuuya and Dazai comfort request of them comforting/saving the reader from a abusive parent?

Yes, this is, of course, a comfort request, if it helps you feel better, than it counts. I’m sorry if this doesn't live up to expectations though, abuse is one of the few things I struggle with writing for personal reasons (don’t worry, it’s nothing physical, just a lot of mental strain loves), so it won’t be detailed or thoroughly explained, more hinted/briefly mentioned. Since the request was vague, I was unsure what kind you needed, so I went with what I’m more comfortable writing. With that out of the way, here are 2 small drabbles.

Saved from an abusive household (comfort fic) |Dazai, Chuuya x Reader|

Warning: Emotional and (maybe some hints to physical) abuse

Words- 1141 (combining both characters totals).

Dazai-

590 words

To say he was angry was an understatement. He never understood why his emotions were so, so uncontrolled when it came to you. He was hardly in terms that he may actually love you. With the wind blowing over your face, whipping through your hair, he couldn’t help it. Noticing every mark, the tears, everything. He noticed it despite how you acted like everything was fine. The hoarseness of your tone was too great a signal that, well, you had been crying longer than he had been standing here. Dazai wanted to know, no, he needed to know who had made you so upset. He felt, odd as it may sound, protective. He would never strike out against you or raise his voice. He’d never hurt you, not in any way. So the flinch you made when all he wanted was to cup your face, to whisper that he loved you, it hurt. He couldn’t keep his face from showing the shock. His eyes darting around for any other signs. Clearly, he’d noticed before, but you always rode it off.

Standing within the brutal rain, you watched Dazai with a clouded mind. There are… many ways that often go unnoticed to the public. While cuts are difficult to hide, the scars on the mind… are impossible to see. What is not shown on the surface is never seen. Anxiety, depression, social awkwardness, the flinch brought on by a loud noise or voice, the shaky trembles of hands when being scolded. Signs that go unnoticed, so as Dazai looked at you with eyes full of anger and pain, he waited until you flew to his chest and broke down. His hands never once left your back. His voice a mere whisper as he ran fingers and told you the best news of your life. “You can live with me. It isn’t much, but its, it’s better than going back there.” His voice held so much anger, disgust, and pain you thought he may drop you in bed, then run to kill the two who told you over and over how much they loved you, only to contradict themselves. 

He did something along the lines of that. When you were asleep in an oversized shirt and a pair of sweatpants far too long for your legs, he sipped from the agency-provided room, and well, he went straight to the place he knew you lived. It happened to be on your file in the agency. He didn’t bother knocking, but instead picked the front door lock with skilled ease, and underneath the clap of thunder and flash of white light, he slid inside. Dragging water into the room where two older adults lay. As if they didn't notice their child's absence. So pulling out his gun, he shot at a perfect angle. A direct middle between heads. He watched them scramble awake, only to see he was already gone within shadows. He played the part of a demon for you tonight. Raising their paranoia as far as he could, before appearing with a dramatic flash of lighting having calculated the right timing. He warns them if they ever tried to make themselves the victims, or if they set a pinky on your skin, he’d make their lives a living hell. After all, he was once Dazai Osamu, the demon prodigy, the youngest mafia executive. It wasn't a title he liked anymore, but he would admit returning to such a mentality for a bit would be alright, if it meant protecting you from pain.

Chuuya-

551 words

Beneath the rays of moonlight showering through a ginger held you tightly in his arms. Tonight he played the part of the big spoon, cuddling you close to keep you safe. It was always like this in storms. His arms wrapped around you, running down your arms. His lips on top of your in passionate breaks here and there. The two shared wine and laughed away the storm. Every time you jumped, he dropped to kiss your shoulders and between your neck. He kept trying to comfort you with all he could. He never felt it was enough. Especially after the ones that were within seconds of another. The louder the tremble, the more you shook, so when four or five repeated in a row he worried. Sure, it was normal to be scared of storms, but you were scared of the noise in general. It was an issue he had hated because, well, we all know Chuuya likes to yell a lot. He never realized till he was actually angry with a coworker, the flinch you make is an expectation, like your bracing for something. That’s how he found out. The next morning, how you claimed to be too sick to go home. The way you wanted to stay with him on your week off. How you'd rather just keep working.

“I’ll kill them.” It wasn’t anger directed at you, and he kept his tone soft, despite how difficult it was. Behind his clenched teeth, dagger-like glare, and the snarl, he was positive he’d frightened you accidentally. “Let me kill ‘em.” He grumbled, shoving his gloves into pockets as he tried to reel in his temper. He doesn't give two shits if they are your parents. So telling him no is frustrating. Clearly, if they did this, if they could be cruel enough to make their child afraid, then they didn’t deserve somebody so forgiving and kind like you.

He let you stay the day with him. There was no way he’d make you go home. Not when he’d seen how terrified you were when he tried pushing you out the door. He’d cuddled and spoiled you rotten with gifts all day. And when you finally crashed, his lips tapped your forehead, and he was gone. Searching through records till he found the address. He was straight to the point, breaking a window with a nice kick. His feet heavy with gravity as he grabbed the collars of those two blind bastards. Yes, he knew he could make it worse. However, that would only happen if they were not afraid of him. An overprotective guard dog. Trust me, this is one loyal bastard you never want to cross. He couldn’t kill them, but he could hurt them. He could yell at the top of his lungs and shout in their ears. Send them in walls, maybe break a finger, or two. On his way out, when the couple stood shaking with fear, his head tilted back just enough to see the scene he’d made. “Hurt them again, and I won’t listen. You’re really lucky, my baby has a golden heart that forgives so easily." He half-expected them to call the cops, but he guessed that meant angering the mafia more. What could he say, he was a pretty well-known man.

Tags (if you wish to be added send an ask) : @jadegreenimmortality

[dreamkidddream]

Hello sunshine, would it be possible for you to write me some headcanons for my beloved Chuuya, Dazai and Atsushi? I was thinking about them having a fragil health s/o? Maybe they work an office job in the ada/pm and they somehow fall for the s/o? I hope this is no trouble and you have inspiration to write this. If you don't like this you can just ignore it. Thank you very much :)

Hi anon! Thank you for the request! So I’m assuming that when you say fragile health s/o is that the reader can get sick easily/overall very weak? I hope that I got the interpretation right, and I didn’t please feel free to send it in again so I can do it over for you. Reader is gender neutral, and hope you enjoy!

TW: Suicide (Dazai’s part, nothing heavy is mentioned, and it’s only in one line) and Abuse (Atsushi’s, nothing heavy is mentioned)

Easily Sick/Weak S/O with: Chuuya, Dazai, and Atsushi

Chuuya

Oh man, he hated this feeling. He already hated you even working in the Port Mafia (even though he was there too), but he hated it even more since you were weak physically

Don’t get him wrong, Chuuya knows that you’re a strong person through and through, but it was so easy for you to get hurt or sick working on the field, it honestly made him worried

What also made him worried was how he was falling for you and quickly. He’s an executive! He doesn’t have the time for romance, and what if (really when if because he wants you so bad you have no idea) someone decides to come after you because of your ties with him? It was already so easy for him to lose you now, he didn’t want to chance things and speed up the process

But, you were just...a really great person. You were determined, always kept your head up, didn’t take anything from anyone (you backtalked Mori once and still walked away with your throat intact, so that was a sign), and it didn’t help that you were really easy on the eyes (he couldn’t help it, you were already attractive, and those things were just icing on the cake for him)

Chuuya didn’t know how you could stand being in a stuffy office all day, so he always stopped by to check on some “information” for some “case he’s working on). It started out genuine, but then it became a daily occurrence, even on his rare days off. 

One thing about him is that he’s a true gentleman, he knows how to treat his partner right. Bringing lunch to you, flowers sitting on your desk for no reason with a random note (”Hope you have a good day”, “Saw these when I was out, made me think about you”, “These don’t even compare to how beautiful you are, inside and out”, etc.), driving you home no questions asked, even offering you his favorite bottle of wine to share

He knows that he’s being cheesy but he was pulling out all the stops just for you

He knew it was risky for you to be out all the time, so whenever he did finally ask you on an “official” date (you thought sharing his wine was a date but he said that he wanted to show you off, not just in the office), you guys were either in a fully reserved restaurant or at his place. Seriously the way his place looks was like luxury! Damn you knew his job paid good money but wow! This was better than going out honestly

He confessed when you went over to his house one night. It was a particularly rough day for you both, and you just needed some reassurance which Chuuya was happy to give. It seemed like he went on for hours, but really it wasn’t too long, and you were in tears by the end of it. When he ended it with, “anyone would be beyond lucky to have you (Y/N), and I wish it were me. I wish I would have the chance to show you how much I really do love you, words aren’t enough for me. I’ll take the chance if you let me, and I swear you won’t regret it. Be mine, (Y/N), I’ll treat you like you deserve, and you deserve more than the world.”

You both understood the risks that came with dating you, but he swore that he would protect you with his life. If you did get sick, he couldn’t be there for you during the day because of his work, but he made sure to text you every hour on the hour to check on you and as soon as he got home, it was caretaker mode until you both went to bed

He bought you your medicine, the fluffiest pillows ever known to man, I mean did everything and anything. The dude was loaded, money was not an issue obviously

Chuuya is a great boyfriend, and will honestly do anything it takes to keep you safe and happy. He loves you after all, and he doesn’t mind all the extra work that comes with it (he doesn’t even see it as work, just precautions, which still isn’t a problem)

Dazai

He was not only worried about your health and safety, but also the fact that he was falling for you. Dazai was a very secretive person who didn’t like to show his true feelings, and he was scared of what he’s feeling for you. Him being attached and actually caring about people never paid off for him, as his past would tell you...

But here you were, being a bright, shining light in his cruel, bleak, dark world. He tried to keep his distance at first, but he couldn’t help but be drawn to you. You were so fun to be around, despite your condition! You always helped as much as you could in the office, being the first one to pick up on his work when he was too lazy busy to complete it and having reports ready for any meetings, even on short notice. You looked out for him, both as a coworker and as a caring friend, and he could tell

You even helped him annoy Kunikida sometimes, which just made you even more stunning in his eyes

He felt himself falling for you more and more everyday, finding excuses to stay in the office just to be next to you. “(Y/N), please don’t strain yourself my dear! Let me handle this for you, I would be a terrible suitor if I didn’t.” “Dazai, I just have to staple these- nevermind, thank you my knight wrapped in bandages!” 

Kunikida would of course hate this and drag him out every time, but all that it concluded in was Dazai whining and complaining about how it was so unfair that he was being kept from his “precious (Y/N)” and how they must be so lonely without him. It got to a point where Kunikida made a compromise with him: if he actually does some work and help on the field missions, then he can spend more time with you in the office

I feel like they forget that Dazai is actually crazy smart and most likely already knows the culprits to whatever cases that they are handling, and he was definitely waiting for this outcome. No extra work for him and more time with you. It’s a win-win!

When he does eventually accept that he was in too deep, he started to take his advances in a more serious manner (I mean he was always being serious but he was not going to hold back anymore). He’s a great listener, so anything that said wanted that was said in passing conversation, expect it to be on your desk with a little sticky note. You had a strong craving for something? What do you know, Dazai brought just enough for both of you to share (and he gave you the bigger portion of it). You want to go see the stars? Sounds like the perfect date night for you two!

That’s how he actually confessed to you, right underneath the stars. It was perfect, you guys were away from everyone, having an amazing time just stargazing. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this at peace, and you were to thank for that. He knew that while he was risking his life on a daily basis, but you were constantly fighting for yours. You couldn’t even go on a mission with how easy it was for you to get an injury you couldn’t recover from. But he had faith in you and in himself, that he wouldn’t let another person that he cares for perish in front of him. He made that promise to you, and that he would do everything in his power to keep it. He will not fail you

After that night, your dates were usually held at your place, and it ranged from cooking together to having movie nights. You didn’t have to spend money really, you were both fine in the house in each other’s arms. And if you did get sick, you thought he was clingy before, WHEW did it get more intense

You had to push him off of you too many times to count. What part of NO HUGS did this man not get?! You were already suffering, he didn’t need to either. He did try to make this a double suicide opportunity though, and you were not very happy

Was banned from cuddles for 3 weeks straight, it was pure torture for him

You were Dazai’s distraction from this horrible joke he called a life, and he was welcoming of you. He embraced you, never complained about your weakness or anything. You were someone that he can proudly say that he loves, and that won’t ever change

Atsushi

He was so nervous, so scared. He doesn’t even know how to look everyone in the eye, how was he suppose to admit that he started to like you more than a friend?!

Atsushi was in love with you, I mean he was in deep. He couldn’t help it! You’re just so nice, so easy to talk to, always there to give him a pep talk and just keep him in high spirits. It just wasn’t fair what hand life had dealt you. He wanted to spend time with you outside of the office, but due to your delicate situation, he was so scared to. What if the Port Mafia tried to strike and he wasn’t strong enough or quick enough to protect you? He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if you died because of him. He wouldn’t be able to live-

So he tried (keyword: tried) to spend time with you at work. But with Kunikida on his ass about work, and Dazai being Dazai making his life difficult for his own amusement, made it difficult. Every time he got a chance, before he could even speak a word, someone needed him for something. If he did somehow had the spare time to talk to you, he would either choke or say something that he really meant but chickened out last minute and tried to change it (which was kinda your fault, you like to tease him sometimes too)

“So, um, (Y/N). I remembered that you said you liked that one takeout spot, so if you want I can bring you some back?”

“You would do that for me, Atsushi? Wow, it’s almost like you’re like my boyfriend!”

“Yep, I don’t mind! It makes me happy when you’re hap-w-WAIT HU-“

But besides that, he always checked on your whenever he got back from his missions (even if he was the one injured and bleeding), brought you back small trinkets or food, and always walked you home, not caring if it was out of his way

He hated that you were confined to the office majority of your time working, but he was worried that literally anything could and would happen on his watch, and he didn’t want to risk it. With Kyoka tired of watching him in distress and even Dazai showing a sliver of compassion for him, they helped him set up an inside date

But first, he had to ask you. Dazai wanted him to do some elaborate, over the top, proposal for asking you out (which Atsushi was pretty sure that he just wanted him to panic and embarrass himself) and Kyoka suggested that he gets you tofu (which he was also convinced that she just wanted some again). He decided that he was just going to have to suck it up, and do it himself. He has been through Hell and back, and if he survived that, then he could ask you on a date damn it!

So he finally got some courage, and directly went up to your desk. When you looked up, you flinched back. What was with the intense look in his eyes?! But you realized soon enough when he bowed and asked you to come over for a date. And of course you said yes!

The date was marvelous, and the poor boy was sweating so much you thought he was going to pass out! Whatever Dazai and Kyoka did to the place blew his expectations out of the water. Latern lights strung up along the walls, your favorite meals readied, little messages stuck to the wall made just for you, and the biggest/most comfortable blanket fort that you had ever seen. It sounded so simple, but one look into your eyes and you were overjoyed. He really did mean it that it made him happy that you were happy

He confessed with you snuggled into his side, so anxious yet at ease. Despite everything that he has gone through, you were brave too. You were stuck in that stressful environment, had a body that could quit on you after one bad day, yet you still encouraged him every day, every time you spoke to him after he’s had a bad day, or an encounter with Akutagawa. He was so convinced that he didn’t you, that he didn’t deserve anything good in his life after the abuse he endured at the orphanage. But you didn’t let him believe that for a second, and he’s indebted to you for that

He poured his heart out to you that night, and ever since, he’s been a lot more confident, both in his ability and in himself. You gave him that push in the right direction to trust himself more, and everyone could see the change (Dazai was pretty proud to be honest)

Dates after that were spent at his apartment, relaxing. Once in a blue moon, you guys would go to the arcade where he won you guys matching Tiger phone charms (he was a little embarrassed but he loved you and the charms too much to let it affect him)

If you did become ill, he would panic so bad that you had to bring him back down to Earth while hacking up a lung (not literally but it felt like it). He tries his best, he’s a little shaken because of how distraught he would get due to your fragile body, but he does care for you pretty well. If you need anything, he was too scared to leave you so Kyoka would be his go-to (with the promise of tofu afterwards)

(But don’t worry she’s a little worried for you too)

Atsushi knew he could never forget the horrors that he experienced at the orphanage, but you reminded him of the strength he had to not let it hold him back. He was your hero without a doubt, but you were his in the sense of how strong you really are, and how you didn’t know or believe it when he told you. You became an overall positive influence on his life, and helped him see life a little brighter and more meaningful. He loves you more than you could imagine, and he would continue to prove it to you in everything that he does.

[keepyourlife]

What fics do you like/read/recommend?

Difficult question, cause recommendations I can give but only very limited.

What I like? Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff, damn it I also read Smut sometimes, AUs (I mention something about that later). Basically: I want to suffer, I want to cry, but give me a happy ending. I LOVE good interpreted characters and I LOOOVE well-written relations. What I mean by that is, basically, if a sibling relationship is weirdly written, I tend to just.. not read the story at all. Does that make sense? Whatever.

While I read a lot, I rarely save what I read and more often than not I kind of.. lose half of the fics I read? There’s one I am currently obsessed with, which I found via @worstloki:

doubt truth to be a liar. absolutely amazing tbh. it’s about a younger Loki suddenly appearing in the Avengers Tower, without any memories about what happened (post Ragnarok), it’s got trans Peter & cultural differences between Asgard and Midgard I find quite interesting. Cause while I do know that comic Loki mentioned that the concept of gender and sexuality do not exist in Asgard the way they do on Midgard (I think that is what he said), I found the differences portrayed in that story very believable and also super interesting, cause I didn’t think of that? Especially interesting when you know a bit about the Viking age and its culture, which MCU Asgard clearly was set to resemble.

So, next I need to put a little disclaimer about myself: I normally do not like Reader fics, because more often than not they’re super ooc and I just find this whole.. “y/n” thing kind of offputting and it just makes me uninterested very often. However I have a friend who do likes these kind of stories. And she lets me know. And she needs someone to talk about these stories, so there’s that. And I read a handfull of them and tbh only those I actually find 1. well-written, 2. well characterised & 3. no darn use of “y/n”, cause no I never imagine myself there, I create characters in my head for each story.

A Job Million PRs Would Die For by @saiansha. Jesus fucking christ the amount of times I re-read this story. Honestly, it is, I think, the first Reader fanfic I read in my entire life, was super weary at first cause. idk. I know some people on this website (and AO3, let’s be real) that just post very weird stuff. This one has an interpretation of Loki that I can 100% believe and it is one I support. That was one of my main reasons to continue reading, but it’s also the general writing style that I like and that there’s a Reader character, who is not a helpless damsel in distress. Ultimate proof of that was the most recent chapter. (dear author knows my thoughts, I dared to dm cause I was just. very enthuasiastic about this story)

Broken Crown by @michelleleahhh​. Second one I started reading at one point cause my friend kept asking me to read it. a kind-of AU? It’s set in Asgard. That’s what you need to know. Again, a story that had me from the beginning, once I started. For the writing style and for the characterisation. The story really had me guessing sometimes, cause,, well-written! and really good dialogue!! damn you Freya!! and a decent Reader character that doesn’t have me ripping out my own intestines. (also very enthusiastic about this story, yes this phrasing as a meaning)

Foruneyti by Evaldrynn or @foruneyti (I tagged the blog for the story here, too, don’t mind me pls) Also kind of an AU, basically just Asgard. Anyway, I am so in love with the aesthetic this story gives me. It’s hard to explain, but after 85 chapters I just have this very clear picture in my head of what I think this story looks like. Now, Reader here is also good and well-written, the Original Characters are likeable and not super overpowered, neither is Reader. The canon characters are, in my humble opinion, interpreted nicely and tbh for some reason I just always imagine them in this comic style, rather than the way the films portray them.

Of Different Emotions by @wanderingworldwarrior. my. goodness. I am in love with these stories and I am just. so desperate for an update. idk if we will ever get one, but honestly, I re-read it this week and. Just stopped after the second part, cause I can’t deal with the pain of the third part one more time. First part is set pre-Thor 1, second part is set during Thor 1 and the third during The Avengers. I love the Reader character a lot and the Original Characters just. belong so much to the story. idk I just love the way this story is written, I love the characters, I just love it a lot, alright.

Onwards to anime. Bungou Stray Dogs:

where your loyalties lie by writingfromtheshadows. this!! story!! it’s so good!! it’s a Yakuza!AU and oh my gooood. It’s all just so so well put, compared to canon and I love the dynamics Dazai and Chuuya have here.

Forgettable Significance by Witheryvine. THIS STORY. took my sanity, threw it out of the window and then spat on me. It broke my heart so very often, cause it manages to make you question yourself. morals about relationships out of the window. I re-read this story like five times.

still still still by toriosaurus. I was waiting, desperately, for every single chapter. This AU gives me everything I need and more. I remember doing fanart for this story and being very proud of it, even though it did no justice to the original story. Normally I am not a fan of, idk what to call it, no power AUs because most people just do the thing wrong for me. But this one hits.

If I recommend Twist and Shout now I get thrown into Turbohell, so idk if you want a very sinful Destiel fanfic, then read

Hot Water by Chiyume. I was 16, I decided to read Destiel fanfictions and this one kind of did it for me.

Don’t @ me. I really read a lot more than this, but I suck at organising myself and I just barely ever save shit. Also it’s late, I’ve been on a video call with my friend for over three hours now and I just like to clown when I am tired. Anyway, I used to bookmark Destiel fanfics back in the day and the rest is just. Read it, kudos, comment, and then I forget to save. The multichapter fics are often still in my subscribes, but sometimes. just.. not.

[misstinfoilhat]

Whumptober 2019 #5: Dragged Away - Bungou Stray Dogs

Chuuya closed his tear-filled eyes and hid behind two chubby, small hands, wiping vigorously at the shameful wetness that spilled down his cheeks. Kouyou lead him calmly yet firmly away from the garden where just moments before, he had briefly socialized with the first kid he'd met since being taken into this strange house (with all of these even stranger rules).

He couldn't understand what they'd done wrong; he was just trying to be nice. He thought that was what you were supposed to do when you met other kids that seemed a little on the outside. Kids that were different. The school he went to before (before the lab and before abilities and before being alone), always told him to include everyone. But, clearly not. Not here. Because here, everything was backward and upside down- so stupid. No one was friendly, no one wanted to play or talk and no one ever seemed happy. Everyone was just cranky all the time and telling him what to do. Or, what not to do. People didn't use to tell Chuuya what to do. People were supposed to be afraid of him. All the other kids he'd met since he got his powers were.

This kid, however, Dazai was his name, was not. He wasn't frightened at all. Actually, he claimed that Chuuya’s powers wouldn't work on him. Hah, they'd see about that! ...if-if they ever got to meet again. It looked like Dazai wasn't supposed to go outside. That eery doctor who would treat them when they got hurt during training sessions had come and taken him. He was mad. Chuuya supposed Dazai seemed to be a bit too injured to be out to play. Half his face was bandaged and his arm was in a sling, and he was walking with a crutch as well. Actually, Chuuya hadn't been able to find an inch of skin that wasn't covered in band-aids or bandages. Chuuya had asked what happened to him, but Dazai only made jokes or tried to create other diversions. Chuuya wondered if it was Dr. Mori who'd done it but didn't dare to aks. And then, Dr. Mori came outside and he finally knew.

It was the first time Chuuya had ever seen him angry. He would usually smile and laugh, and sometimes give him candy if he did good and didn't cry when he got treated. Still, there was always something ominous about him. He always seemed dead tired, or like, his smile never truly reached all the way to the creases of his mouth.

And when he found them he'd grabbed Dazai by the hair and dragged him away. The crutch was still lying scattered in the dirt. There was a long trail from Dazai's broken leg being hauled through the mud and wet grass, and a couple of scratch marks in the spots where the young boy had been able to tear himself away from the violent grasp and tried to crawl to safety.

To Chuuya. And Chuuya had been too scared to help. -            -            -            -            -            -            -            -            -            -         Once inside, Kouyou finally turned towards the disdraught redhead. She layed two manicured hands vigorously on his shoulders and leaned down to address him on his level.

“It's okay. There's no reason to cry,” she said decidedly, but couldn't keep her voice from showing just a sliver of sympathy. “B-but...” Chuuya choked out but was quickly interrupted by the graceious woman.

“No buts. It's not your place to question any of the executives. I need you to remember that.”

The small-statured youngster tried to hold back the drops of salted water that were now pooling freely down his face. He rubbed furiously at his azure eyes. I won't cry I won't cry I won't cry...

“Okay, chibi?” She smiled and cupped his cheek lightly while wiping some escaped tears away with her red-painted thumbs. He whispered something shaky and inaudible, and clutched his shaking body against hers, holding tightly around her narrow shoulders and felt how his heartbeat was beating twice as fast as hers. “I'm sorry sweetheart, I can't understand what you're saying,” she cooed comfortably and patted his back.calmingly. “W-who's wiping Dazai-san's tears away, ane-san?” he sobbed quietly, and burried his face in the pink kimono that always smelled of floral perfume. Smelled nice, smelled safe. Like home, and, maybe even... love. If he was allowed to think that. He wanted to believe that, so best not to ever say it out loud.

And Kouyou said nothing. Chuuya understood that that was answer enough. Because there was no one. Chuuya was all by himself, but Dazai was alone. No one would blow cooling air when he scratched his knees. No one would bring him dry clothes after being caught in the rain. No one would tuck him in and offer reassuring words at the end of a difficult day. At first, Dazai had been curious and awestruck by Chuuya, and Chuuya had felt good. Cool and maybe even important. He'd shown off his powers (well the gravity-one not the other 'cause that one was bad and he wasn't allowed t'was forbidden) and they had played on the swing set. It was really the only thing Dazai was able to play on with the injured leg. Then Dr. Mori dragged him away by the hair and Dazai hadn't done anything. As soon as Mori caught him, he'd just gone limb. Completley blank and unfeeling and he had somehow just shut off. This wasn't the first time something like that had happened. That much was clear even to someone as young and (despite everything and maybe a teeny bit less than other’s his age) naïve as Chuuya. Chuuya didn't know what was happening behind the closed doors of Mori's research room. But he knew he wanted to find out, once he was stronger and could control his powers better. He would rescue Dazai because Dazai was just a kid like him and wasn't supposed to be lonely and broken and afraid.

That evening, as Chuuya comforted himself, lying half asleep, resting his head on Kouyou's lap, he decided what he needed to do.

“Ane-san?” he murmured hoarsely. Small lungs tend to get tired when crying for hours. “Quoi, mon petit chèri?” she answered absentmindedly, and continued reading through her reports.

“I'm going to be an executive one day,” he stated determinedly. “Really?” she mused pleasantly, creaking her heavily painted eyes in a genuine smile. Chuuya nodded, full of spirit.

“Yeah. I'd- I'd make sure that everybody gets tucked in at night,” he explained weakly, before trailing off in pure fatigue. It had been a long day. Kouyou finally put down her notes and stroked his ginger locks carefully. “And why is that, mon ami?” “Because,” Chuuya yawned heavily. “When I didn't have you, I always cried at night,” he explained simply, nuzzling his face into her lap. Kouyou's eyebrows creased worriedly. “...and, I think maybe Dazai-san does that too.” -            -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -        

After tucking Chuuya in that night, kissing him on the head and telling him how proud she was of him, Kouyou snuck down and into the infirmary. Mori had gone home for the night, leaving Dazai shackled to the disproportionally large hospital bed. From all the new bandages, she understood that it had been a difficult day for him too.

He was laying soundlessly, motionlessly in the huge bed, likely in a drug-induced sleep. She sat gingerly on his bedside and held her hand on his forehead, feeling soft skin disturbed by rough band-aids and scars. The poor kid hadn't been out of this infirmary since he got here. Not until today at least.

The truth was, that Kouyou had seen the frail raven-haired child limping around in the garden for a couple of minutes before she sent Chuuya outside to play with him. Her trainee would do good to spend some time with kids his own age- and this kid would definitely benefit from it too. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. Now, she sat back with two traumatized children, one psychologically and one (at least- but probably not only) physically. She hated it. Hated this situation, how it made her feel and what it did to these boys. Because in the end, as much as they were trying to make unfeeling killing machines- they were only children. 6 year-olds. As much as they'd been through, nobody could deny the number of their years.

And in the end, there was only so much she could do- and that was for only one of them. At least, until her coworker would let go of this sick obsession he had with this kid. Her eyes almost overfloated when she noticed the child flinch in his sleep as her hand trailed down the side of his face. The tight knot in her stomach grew even firmer and she had to brace herself not to sob. She had seen too much hurt for her own short lifetime. And she would do whatever she possibly could to ease whatever pain she surrounded herself with wherever she was. She carefully tucked him in and kissed his forehead, telling him goodnight and sleep tight before she returned to her suite and started writing a long and thorough request to the mafia boss, on how and why her's and Dr.Mori's students should start a training schedule together as soon as possible. The request would be re-sent and changed several times the next couple of years until finally, the boss accepted it. Dazai was already broken beyond repair. Chuuya had become a headstrong and (admittedly) short-tempered young man, and she couldn't help but wonder how their relationship would've turned out if she'd been successful at this project a few years earlier.

If she had been more insistent and vocal about it, instead of as careful and shy as she was back then. If she had stood up for a defenseless child and stopped him from being dragged away from his only desperate hope for safety. But at least now, both of them could look after him. Even if he would never admit to it out loud, she knew Chuuya would be the first to unleash hell on whoever tried to harm Dazai, and vise Versa. Because no man would be left behind. Not even the ones who were dragged away.

[chouetteffraie]

2, 8, 6 and 13 for Dazatsu! I'm a newcomer to your blog but your Dazatsu stuff SENDS ME...

Ah, well, welcome to the blog! I hope you enjoy your stay

OTP asks (still open!)

2. If they could each describe each other in one sentence, what would it be?

Atsushi would probably say something like, “I think Dazai-san is so smart and surprisingly kind, and I think he tries really hard to be a good person even though I already think he’s one of the best.”

Dazai might say, “Atsushi, my adorable, precious little kitten, my snuggly bear, my love, the light of my life-” and continue until people start throwing things at him to stop.

In private, if Atsushi needs positive reassurance, he’d say in a really hushed voice, “Atsushi, you are the best man I’ve ever met and I’m so proud of everything you’ve done and everything you are…and that somehow I’m enough for you.”

These are run on sentences but since they’re spoken I figured I could cheat~

6.What is/are their love language(s)?

Atsushi…is probably quality time or words of affirmation? This is kinda difficult! He isn’t one for the nicer things in life, and he’d much prefer a nice date with Dazai at home then something fancy. Snuggling on the couch or early in the morning while it’s raining and they can just hold each other and talk- that’s his ideal time with Dazai. But he also likes telling him nice things, like, “I’m always so impressed with you” (their duality card literally says that on the home screen box!) or “You’re doing so well at work!’ or “Thank you for taking care of me.” Just little things so Dazai knows he’s appreciated.

Dazai is probably acts of service. He’ll do little things behind the scenes, especially if their things he can write off as not having actually done them to keep his careless facade. Atsushi’s having a hard day? Isn’t it Dazai’s turn to cook dinner? Has it been a while since they’ve had alone time? Maybe Atsushi would appreciate a cleaner house to come home to… He’s also big on physical touch, though the more serious stuff is in private. In public he’ll gladly hold Atsushi’s hand or hug him, but at home there’s plenty of just….holding him close and kissing him all over his face or just….touching, He likes the reassurance that he’s real.

8.What were their first impressions of each other?

Atsushi was a little preoccupied when they two of them met, but he could tell that he was very handsome and charismatic within a few minutes of meeting him, even if he was a bit annoying. He probably didn’t even start wondering about his personal life until they waited in the warehouse for the tiger, and even then it was more of a, “Hm, surely somebody like him has a girlfriend…I wonder what she’s like. She’s gotta have the patience of a saint.” It isn’t until he starts working with him and getting to know him does he start to develop a little crush.

Dazai probably thought Atsushi was cute, dumb, and pitiful when he first met Atsushi (asdlkfd he needs to calm down he’s so mean!) We have to remember, Atsushi had gone like a week without bathing, eating, drinking enough water, sleeping enough…he was looking rough, and Dazai could tell. However, he could also see the Atsushi he eventually came to love that first day since he’s very perceptive- not everyone would jump in the river to save a drowning man when they’re on death’s door themselves. If anything, he was curious, but pleasantly surprised that the only impression he was right about was that he was cute. 

13. Name something they would never do for the other person. (angst :discord pensive emoji:)

ah, this one’s really hard! hm…

Atsushi would never follow Dazai’s plan if he knew (or thought he knew) that it meant innocent people would die that he could save. Atsushi values life too greatly and doesn’t value his enough. It doesn’t matter if Dazai insists he stays because if he doesn’t he could die and he’s too important to the mission, to him, Atsushi would never be able to forgive himself if he just stood by, knowing people were dying. He’d probably sneak away, too, meaning if this really was a lethal mission, Dazai wouldn’t know he was there until it was too late. (In retrospect, he’d curse himself, figuring he should’ve known and planned for it and he never should’ve trust Atsushi with that information or his heart.)

Dazai would never completely quit his manipulative tactics no matter how much Atsushi begged. The idea of losing control is just too scary. There’s too many people after him, too many things he cares about that he could lose. He has to keep Akutagawa and Chuuya under his thumb, he has to send people into missions as a cover for himself, he has to, he has to. Atsushi barely escapes them himself, but Dazai withholds himself from manipulating Atsushi because he’s worried eventually he’ll manipulate him into staying with him instead of actually being loved. Everybody else can’t escape. If Atsushi asks desperately enough, he’ll lie and say he’ll ease up on it, only to do it behind Atsushi’s back.

[bs-dogs]

Reason Living

Summary

Nakahara Chuuya. Bold. Confident. Dramatic, with just the right amount of flare.

Behind the mask, there’s little Chuuya can do to keep the tremors, the lassitude—  the void that threatens to consume his entire being—  at bay.

And then suddenly he’s switching bodies and falling for a stranger who has dead eyes, a familiar face and a name that tastes like hope and regret on his tongue. There’s a shift in Chuuya’s chest that feels like it should’ve been there all this time, and breathing comes easily to him now.

So what do you think would happen if Chuuya stopped switching bodies? Find out why, of course!

(or the Kimi no Na Wa AU nobody asked for, but here it is. Complete with idiots!Skk pining for each other, fluff, angst, time travel and 2 people trying to find their place in this world.)

CH 1

As Melos lay with arms and legs flung out on the ground, sleep began to overcome him. But then, suddenly, a murmuring sound reached his ears. Raising his head slightly, he held his breath and listened. The sound came to somewhere nearby. Rising falteringly to his—

A knock on the door interrupts Chuuya’s stream of thought, cutting off the vivid imagery that was building up inside his mind. He jumps slightly at the sound, not even noticing how his hand is tired after gripping the pen too tightly, and that the playlist he had the mind to play before working has already stopped. Now, he sits disgruntled on his swivel chair, alone and surrounded by silence with a short manuscript in front of him.

Whiplash. That’s the word to describe what he’s feeling right now. There’s a sense of nausea after being pulled back with enough force to startle him, and then there’s the familiar feeling of apprehension that quickly reestablishes itself into the groves of his weary body.

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to anchor his mind back to the real world. Reaching out, he grabs the small Sheep plushy besides his pen holder, grounding himself with the texture. It works, and he sets it down before looking out of the window. It’s dark out, something that doesn’t really shock him since he has the tendency to forget the passage of time whenever he’s focused on something.

Shooting a glance at the clock to his right, the hands point to ‘7:48’. He isn’t given the chance to think about who might be visiting him, of all people, this late into the evening for another knock makes itself known this time with a little bit more force behind it.

“Yes, wait up,” Chuuya says, voice lighter than he feels, and stands tiredly after pushing himself away from his desk. His feet gently pad across the room to reach his front door, not even bothering to look through the peephole to check who it is. Pausing before opening the door, Chuuya takes a couple of breaths to mentally ready and compose himself before opening the door. 

‘It’s showtime.’

With his best smile in place, Chuuya greets the visitor, a close friend of his— really, his only friend at this point. 

Opening the door wider, it takes a moment for Chuuya to get over his initial shock, “Poe! What brings you here?” He asks and gestures for the shy man to enter. The man ducks slightly under the doorframe, his impossibly tall build making it difficult for him to enter— his hand protecting the raccoon on his shoulder, Karl, from knocking into the frame. Being a smaller person than the foreigner, Chuuya can’t help but be a tad jealous of the man’s height. It’s an ugly feeling which he tries his best to dismiss.

“Oh, I just thought to check on you and stuff…” His voice is almost a whisper, trailing off at the end as if unsure. 

They sit down on Chuuya’s couch, one of the few things of luxury in his apartment, and let a moment pass in silent as Karl titters downward and on his guest’s lap. Once Poe has situated the two of them comfortably, the man takes note of the singular light source and the disheveled desk before opening his mouth, “Did you get too engrossed in your work again that you forgot, Chuuya?” He asks in his soft voice, aware of how much of a workaholic Chuuya is.

All the man in question can do is laugh awkwardly, swiftly flicking the lights on, “Well, you know me…” Chuuya is a little bit blinded by the sudden brightness and laughs lightly to try and mask it, “Would you like some tea? Coffee?” He offers, already halfway to his small kitchen when Poe politely refuses, “No, I’m good. I already ate something.”

“Oh, okay then.” He sits down again, his brain scrambling to think about why Poe would visit him so late.

‘He already passed me his draft, and we had lunch the other day so…’

As if hearing his thoughts, Poe heaves a sigh and chuckles, “We were supposed to meet by the café, remember?” The brunet chuckles, “I invited you…”

Then it suddenly clicks for Chuuya and his chest tightens, “Oh!” He exclaims “The date with the cute guy! I’m so sorry I forgot.” He looks down, voice taking an apologetic tone, “I swear I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine. It looks like you have a lot of work to do, so I understand.” Poe kindly says, pausing his petting of Karl to pat Chuuya’s shoulder in reassurance before retreating to Karl’s fur once more. The smaller man smiles at his effort, appreciative especially since he knows of the author’s shyness and aversion to physical contact, “So, how’d it go?”

Poe’s face reddens at an alarming rate, sputtering as Chuuya leans forward and teasingly grins at him, “It was, uh, nice. We just talked and ate and…”

“And?”

It doesn’t take long before he caves in, “We agreed to meet again next week,” He pauses, biting his lips, but it’s obvious to Chuuya that he’s happy with the way the corners of his lips lift up, “Ah… And he… I think he flirted with me?”

“Hot damn, our precious boy bags himself a second date!” Chuuya laughs. At the sudden loud sound, Karl skittishly stands up in alertness before trying to sleep again. The next time Chuuya talks, it’s comparably quieter, “It’s a good thing I didn’t third-wheel, eh?”

“You wouldn’t be bothering us though, he likes debates.” 

“Are you saying I like to argue?” Chuuya can’t help but tease, drawing in his eyebrows and pretending to frown. Poe doesn’t buy it though, choosing to simply smile at him, “Chuuya! I could never!”

They both share a laugh, a nice ambience settling around them. Talking to Poe really calms him down. It really is nice to have a friend or two, Chuuya supposes. He grew up as a very quiet child, rarely letting anyone in— his cold and closed off demeanor only intensifying after that incident a few years back. Over time, he did shake off the hard exterior and began to try the whole “friendship” thing again. Chuuya ponders that it paid off quite well, if his nice chat with Poe is anything to go by.

They met each other almost a year ago, when the man was looking for a new editor for his novel after his previous one, Lovecraft, suddenly disappeared from the face of the Earth. Luckily for him, Chuuya saw his online ad and the rest is history. The writer is quite skilled, his works mostly science fiction and mystery, and Chuuya admires his passion for literature and writing.

“It’s one of his works, isn’t it?” Poe’s voice cuts through the comfortable silence between them, eyes resting on the manuscript on Chuuya’s desk, “The one you’re working on right now?”

Speaking of skilled authors…

“Yeah,” He starts, “The style, the aura, the feel…” Chuuya struggles to find the correct word to explain how he just knows that it’s his work— the mysterious author Chuuya’s been handling for all of 4 months now. He uses different pseudonyms, affirmed by his boss when he once thought to ask, but the distinctive tone and presence of his writing stays the same. Something about the way the author uses word and symbolism is striking, almost alluring, and the literature-geek inside him just melts every time Mori hands him another manuscript.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t even really need to proofread anything; the grammar is absolutely impeccable, so he spends his time just absorbing the story, Chuuya doesn’t understand why his boss still sends them to him if everything is flawless already, but he’s not really one to complain.

“Well, what name is he using right now? What’s the manuscript about?” His guest’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. 

“Kuroki Shunpei. It’s a retelling of one of Schiller’s, about friendship and trials.” He starts, “It’s amazingly short, the shortest I’ve ever handled of our mystery person— but I’m sure it’s him.” There’s conviction in his tone, certainty clear in his eyes. Maybe it’s only a gut feeling, but Chuuya’s instinct and intuition have never failed him before.

Poe hums, “That’s new. Isn’t he more of a darkly personal introspection kind of person? Maybe it was, um, written experimentally?”

“Maybe,” Chuuya considers this, “But I haven’t really finished reading yet. I was actually hoping on doing everything today since it’s not as long.”

“So that’s why you were so invested, you were pining away at your mystery guy.” Poe says, tone flat and eyes twinkling. Chuuya thinks he sees smugness in there somewhere.

“Pining? I was just reading, you moron.” To which Poe replies, “Oh, I know you. If anyone had to court you, they’d make sure to send you disgustingly purple prose because of your disease.”

“Say that one more time, I dare you.” Chuuya says, trying to exact the respect he deserved because he is the host here, damn it!

Poe just languidly stares at him, “Chuu-nii, think about it. Maybe he’s your, uh, soulmate or something? Why would Mori even give you the manuscripts if they’re already perfect as is? Maybe there’s a hidden message or a code…”

“First of all, you are older than me, and I don’t have some stupid high schooler disease. Second, there are no hidden messages. And what if he’s an old guy?” Chuuya almost shrieks at Poe, words starting to jumble together the faster he speaks, “And, you know, you’re a mystery writer, not a romance writer for fuck’s sake!”

“So, you checked for secret messages, huh?” Poe raises an eyebrow questioningly, his amusement radiating off him in waves. Chuuya ratters on, sharp sounds and indignant noises as he tries to save himself from the slip-up, “That’s not it at all! I was just— How— What?” His brain short circuits, regretting all of his past choices that’s led to this bout of teasing.

Karl skitters off of Poe’s lap and onto the floor before being scooped back up again, this time being settled against Poe’s chest, “Relax,” He says, lips twisting up, “I was joking anyway. But I do hope we find out who it is.” 

‘We’, Chuuya thinks. It’s the first time someone he’s only known for so long used that word in conjunction with him, and it’s a nice feeling— like someone is on your side for once. He warms at the thought and inwardly promises to himself to make it up to the man.

“Yeah, I do too.” 

-

He closes the door behind him, slowly making his way to the kitchen and grabbing himself a glass of water. The cool liquid is a welcome feeling as it slides down his parched throat, drinking greedily after talking for a long while. He glances at the clock again, idly wondering how he survived interacting with a human for 2 hours straight. Chuuya sets the now empty glass on the counter with a loud clunk, the harsh sound cutting through the heavy air like a butter knife, and contemplates whether he’s hungry enough to want to eat. It takes him a few minutes before ultimately deciding that no, he’d rather sleep because talking really does take a lot more energy out of him than most people. Besides, it’s not really the first time he’s skipping so he’s quite sure that his stomach wouldn’t protest that much after all this time. 

Sighing, he closes the lights and feels the tension from his shoulder lift slightly. The cover the shadows provide him is a much needed comfort— Chuuya’s always preferred the dark over brightly lit rooms. There’s something about people not seeing him and feeling invisible enough to let the cracks through that makes him feel more human than when he stands under the spotlight. Or maybe because it’s the familiarity of having your environment match how you feel that puts his mind at ease? Whatever it is, all Chuuya knows is that he feels safer now.

It doesn’t take long for his eyes to acclimate to the dark; his body already accustomed to the way his apartment is laid out to the point where he could live comfortably even with his eyes closed. He doesn’t trip over wires or stray papers or the books haphazardly strewn about, doesn’t bump into the corners of his desk and bookcase as he goes into his room. Chuuya hasn’t cleaned in a while because of work, but even then he still knows where everything should be in the organized chaos.

He doesn’t change clothes since he didn’t really go out earlier today, and barely goes through his nighttime skincare routine. Chuuya doesn’t really see the point of taking care of himself if no one is going to see him on a daily basis anyway, but he was brought up to at least maintain his cleanliness and appearance.

His adoptive mother— Kouyou, or Ane-san as he likes to call her— beat the need to look presentable into him the moment he stepped foot in her teahouse. And even after years of moving out, he still can’t shake the need to stay clean and hygienic as much as possible. He supposes that he should thank her for that, since he would be akin to a hobo by now if she didn’t raise him to be so prim and proper.

He pats his face dry and looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes trail after the dark bags and tired expression and thinks he looks miserable. He does feel miserable, so he gives himself that, and proceeds to brush his hair. The split ends are troublesome, but he makes it through with only a few red strands sticking to the brush before his arm tires and the giant need to just lay down and rest consumes him. Sluggishly, he drags himself to bed and just stares at the ceiling.

Despite the fatigue that uncomfortably settles in his body, he can’t sleep— and Chuuya’s just so tired of everything but of course he can’t sleep. He thinks about what’s wrong, as if he can list down all the things that’s wrong with him before the sun rises up in a few hours, before he finally gets up and turns the fan on. The sound of the machine whirring does little to calm him down, but it’s better than wallowing in silence. He never could sleep in the quiet, the static blaring in his ears somehow louder than the occasional loud shouts coming from the unit next to him, so he does his best to get comfortable. Chuuya readies himself for another night of terrors, already anticipating the way smoke clogs up his nose and the way heat tickles his skin.

He hopes the empty feeling that continues to persist inside is gone the next day before he surrenders himself to unconsciousness.

-

The next time he meets Poe again, it’s in their favourite café. It’s two days after they last saw each other, but Chuuya can’t really remember what happened yesterday. Maybe he got drunk. Remembering how tired he felt the other day, he wouldn’t put it past himself to try and drown himself with wine. The fact that he woke up with an unsettling feeling in his stomach just cements his theory. Must be a weird hangover.

Poe is waiting for him at their corner, a milkshake already in front of him, “Chuuya! Are you really sure you’re okay enough to go out? We could always reschedule.” The concern is palpable in the man’s tone, his soft voice hurried and fretful. 

Chuuya thinks it’s because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.

“I’m fine,” he says, “And I wanted to make it up to you anyway.”

“For what?” Poe asks, hands stilling from scratching behind Karl’s ears, his head tilting slightly in question.

After sneaking a glance at the counter and noting that the line is, in fact, longer than usual, he answers, “For ditching you the other day?” Maybe Chuuya should wait until the queue is shorter? 

“But you already did?”

This makes Chuuya halt, confusion tearing its way through his mouth, “What?”. The question slips from his tongue, his mind automatically forcing himself to Think, damn it! What did you do yesterday?

Poe stares at him, trying to find a hint of whatever it is he’s looking for before carefully responding, “You did— yesterday, remember?” He says, “You suddenly called me and we ate in your apartment and talked about your mystery author.”

It takes a few minutes for Chuuya to recover from his brain short-circuiting. Distantly, he notices how his breath is getting a little bit labored and shallow and how he’s shaking. He doesn’t feel like himself right now— doesn’t feel like it’s his body and feels more like an outsider privy to his thoughts.

“Oh… Maybe I got too drunk to remember.” He tries to laugh it off, sounding like he’s convincing himself rather than Poe, “I don’t really remember much. Did I do anything stupid?”

The man takes another sip from his milkshake, already halfway through and it reminds Chuuya that he still needs to order, “You did say a lot of, uh, dark things…”

Warning bells sound through his mind.

“Like, you know— Chuuya, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I know how it feels like and I care about you, okay?” Poe continues to worry, eyes strong and vulnerable. His hands fidget, like he wants to reach out and touch Chuuya and reassure that he’s okay, “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything…”

Chuuya now knows it’s not because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.

Thoughts of hot chocolates and banana bread fly out of his mind. Faintly, he feels the back of his eyes warm and thinks that there’s a slight possibility that he might cry. He takes a deep breath in, counts from ten just like his therapist told him and tries to relax. It’s hard— harder than usual, like he’s sinking deeper and deeper into the ground and right now he feels like he doesn’t want to breathe anymore.

He tries anyway.

“Thank you,” He finally murmurs, “ I— Fuck…” The words are like broken glass, slicing at his lips the moment they try to break free from his mouths and it stings, “I’m not…”

Chuuya came here today with a slight bounce in his steps because he missed feeling okay when talking with Poe, so he surely didn’t expect to be talking about this. It’s like a slap to the face— like a cold bucket of water being dumped on him because he sure as hell wasn’t ready for his only friend to learn about this.

It’s like a breach of privacy. He was trying so hard to seem fine and okay— he should be fine and okay, damn it— so the fact that Poe thinks he’s not is throwing Chuuya off right now. In retrospect, it was a bit outlandish to think he could take this dirty, dark little secret with him to grave. Soon, preferably. But now the cat’s out of the bag, and he really wishes he didn’t wake up today.

How funny and coincidental is it that someone probably borrowed his body for a day and they’re just as, if not more so, miserable as Chuuya? Because if it were Chuuya, he’d keep up the façade as the workaholic, the outgoing and headstrong and stubborn person until the day he finally died. But he wasn’t Chuuya. He wasn’t Chuuya yesterday, and he slipped and now the first friend he’s had the pleasure to have in years knows how ugly and pitiful he is. 

Something warm presses against his shoulder and he looks and sees Poe looking at him with his arm outstretched. There’s no pity, no disgust, just resolve and worry and a promise. 

“It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s okay.”

Oh fuck, Poe is going to realize that meeting Chuuya was a mistake sooner or later. He’s going to finally figure out that Chuuya isn’t really who Poe thinks he is and that he’s a fake. Oh fu—

“It’s okay to not be fine.”

Chuuya tries to remember if anyone ever told him that. He’s not sure.

-

The man— Poe, his name is Poe— stares at him worriedly. It finally occurs to him, in order, that:

a.) He probably shouldn’t have said that.

b.) He’s not himself right now.

“Chuuya, are you okay?”

c.) He definitely shouldn’t have said that.

He laughs it off, waving his hands. The lower-pitched tone scratches against his voice box and he feels like a stranger and an intruder and that he shouldn’t be here. He feels like this is a fever dream, like something from a movie or a novel. He thinks, ‘If this is a fever dream then why couldn’t I have just dreamed about Odasaku?’ and promptly shuts that thought down because does he really want to wake up crying and shaking inconsolably again?

He smiles, “I’m fine.”

Hi everyone! I’m vvv late but here’s my work  for the bigbang! I’ll be queueing my work over the next few hours. Thanks for reading and see y’all in the next one!

Links will be provided at the last post, thanks!

[mahkaria]

Of novelists and strays dogs - Chapter one

The angel at the top of the bridge :

In Yokohama’s dark streets walked a man. None of his physical traits particularly caught attention. Curly chocolate hair and a symmetrical face. Some could have called him handsome if not for the almost sadistic grin he carried.

No one could have guessed this young was actually one of the most feared executive of the Port Mafia coming back from a mission.

His day had been exhausting and as it was often the case after this kind of day, a thick oppressive mist had invaded his mind. Without thinking, his steps led him to a bridge.

Under the moonlight, the streaming water had the appearance of melted silver. It shifted and slidded as if under the influence of a snake charmer.

“How beautiful.” He whispered, mesmerised by this spectacle.

Without thinking anymore, he let his feets leave the ground. The last thing he saw before hitting the liquid were two golden eyes.

Nakajima Atsushi had been spending a perfectly nice evening. After finishing his work for today, he had decided to go out in order to refresh his mind and seek inspiration for the next day.

It would be days before the moon show the entirety of its pale beauty. No reason to worry about any furry problems…

A few months before, he could have barely imagined life could be so pleasant. No physical or verbal abuse and the possibility to do what he liked most.

As he strolled in the streets, he often wondered if he truly deserved what had happened to him. Sometimes, during the night, he barely managed to keep the cruel voice out.

Those nights, Kunikida-senpai always answered his phone and talked to him until sleep claimed him.

He sighed softly and focused once again on what was around him.

Students were coming back from the university and employees were going out from bars. They emitted happiness like the sun emits light. Sometimes, Atsushi liked imagining how their life went.

However, this time, he needed a calm place in order to progress on his work. He still remembered the bridge, the first place of Yokohama he had seen. That’s where he decided to go.

His apartment wasn’t so far from his goal and a few minutes were sufficient to reach it.

He sat on the border, took out his notebook and started writing.

Or at least he tried.

Footsteps caught his attention. He lifted his head.

A man stood there, a bit older than Atsushi himself.

He then proceeded to jump into the river…

Wait what?

Atsushi stood up like a spring as a splashing sound made itself heard.

What’s just happened?

Then :

This man needs help.

He jumped. 

Water cradled him like a loving mother. He felt himself drown slowly.

Goodbye, oxygen, you’ll no longer burn my lungs.

Gravity pushed him toward the river’s bed which would soon also be his if things went his way. How ironic for gravity to be one of the cause of his death. Chuuya would be proud.

I don’t want to think about the hatrack during my lovely suicide, Dazai decided quickly.

Breathing became more difficult. His body froze and burnt at the same time.

It would soon be over.

Soon.

Soon.

Until it no longer was.

Slim yet strong arms caught him and took him away from Death’s soft lips, carrying him back to the riverbank and life.

A kid ? was his first thought.

Then : Damn, I was so close this time.

He allowed himself to fall asleep.

Atsushi didn’t know anything about medicine and first aid techniques, yet he could say with almost total certainty that the man was alive. His chest rose slowly as if he was only taking a nap. In his relief, he barely cared about all the bandages which covered the man.

What am I supposed to do ? Maybe I should call Kunikida-senpai ? He might know what to do…

Just as those thoughts formed, the man (teenager? Did teenagers wear obviously very expensive suits?) opened his eyes. He blinked slowly and rose.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“I am… still alive? Why?”

“What- What do you mean “why”?”

Cinnamon coloured eyes turned their attention to him.

“Are you the one who saved me boy?”

Atsushi’s whole body hurt. Holding someone bigger than him had stolen a good part of his stamina. His clothes stuck to him in quite an unpleasant manner. He nodded softly.

“Aren’t you quite a little annoying stray?”

His tone was soft and calm but Atsushi felt ice bite his skin. This man, he…

Just as frost appeared, it melted away. Instead of the cold cruelty his eyes had carried, they now held a genuine curiosity.

“What were you doing here ? Were you also trying to commit suicide?”

“What, no ! Wait - suicide?”

“Quite eloquent, I see… Anyway, boy, shouldn’t you be home at this hour? Something unpleasant could happen to you.”

He barely bit back his comment “Are you going to hurt me?” and didn’t say anything. Shivers ran through his body. If he hadn’t been afraid of the consequences, he would have run away. For a moment, they both stared at each other like two statues.

After a while, the man smiled.

“It was quite rude of myself, wasn’t it? Insulting you after you bothered rescuing me. Can I pay you back in any way?”

Being polite had always been an obligation to Atsushi. A consequence of his often timid nature and of the orphanage.

The other part of himself still yelled at him to escape. All his predatory instincts deserting in front of someone who hadn’t even reached adulthood.

“There is no need, sir.”

A bright grin settled on the other’s face. Like a cat who just caught a bird, Atsushi couldn’t help but think.

“Are you sure?”

As he was about to agree, his stomach betrayed him and growled. They both were silent.

“May I buy something to eat?”

“You don’t need to.”

“Don’t be like that, boy, I’m going to think you’re scared of me. You’re not, aren’t you?” He smirked.

Now, he looked at him like a scientist curious to see how his experiment would turn out. In front of his hesitation, his smile (if it was possible) grew wider.

“Of course not, sir, I just need to go get my bag at the top of the bridge.”

“I’ll wait. Don’t run away, okay?”

“O-of course !”

The kid was funny, Dazai decided. A jumpy little thing who tried to appear brave. He liked it. A good person who didn’t want to hurt anyone, be it physically or emotionally.

This kind of person was rare to come upon, even in the world of light. He hadn’t exactly planned to torture him (the word was a tad too strong to describe his behaviour) but come on - he had failed his suicide and had nothing else to do to purge his mind of everything.

What should he have done ?

Behave ?

Boring ~

He led the kid toward Lupin’s and used this time to watch him. Silver - almost white - hair which fell on his shoulders and golden eyes. Puberty still hadn’t hit him. How young was he exactly? Dazai had never been good at determining someone’s age. He only dubbed people in two categories “useful” and “useless”.

He still wasn’t sure in which category he was going to put the kid.

Shivers and sneezes shook Atsushi. That’s not how he had expected to spend his evening. Following a stranger in an area of the city he had never explored wasn’t exactly a part of his plan.

“Excuse me, s-sir -”

“Name is Dazai.”

“Dazai-san, where are we going ?”

“Somewhere I like spending times to. Don’t worry I’m not going to kidnap you.”

Saying it aloud wasn’t really reassuring but it was too late to go back. He had the intuition running away from Dazai wouldn’t be possible as long as the teen focused on him.

They arrived to a dark alley and went into it. Things didn’t seem to improve.

In front of him, a sign where Lupin’s was written. It had been washed away  by time and rain and thus had adopted a upsetting yellowish colour.

“Let’s go inside, then !” Dazai announced cheerfully.

They started walking downstairs. Muffled voices could be heard but some in particular seemed to increase Dazai’s already excited mood.

“So they are here tonight ! This night is getting more and more interesting.”

They arrived to a poorly lit room where few people were chatting. However, only those at the counter seemed to interest the strange man he had just met. Next to them stood a calico cat, busy cleaning itself.  

“Odasaku ! Ango ! I brought us a new drinking buddy.”

This is not going to happen, Atsushi quickly decided. Maybe if he slipped away now that Dazai no longer looked at him… However, the cat didn’t want to stop playing with his prey. A bandaged arm encircled his shoulders and brought him in front of the two men.

The first one, a severe almost austere man with round glasses stared at him.

“Dazai-kun, he is a child. He can’t drink alcohol.”

“Nonsense ! I had already started drinking at his age !”

This time a mischievous smile had settled. He didn’t really believe what he was saying, he only wanted to provoc the other. A new mask had appeared. Atsushi wondered how many of those he had.

Ravenous, mirthful and playful. How many facets did his personality have?

Maybe thinking about it would only end up in an headache. Some people were like water, no matter how long you spent you’d never be able to totally get them.

As lost as he was in his thoughts, he took quite a while to really see the other man. Wine coloured hair and an almost aloof expression.

“Good evening, sir.” He stuttered.

“Call me, Odasaku.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Atsushi bowed.

“Not fair, Odasaku has already activated his overprotective mother hen mode.” Dazai winced.

“What’s your name?” Oda continued, obviously used to Dazai’s antics.

“So that’s what I forgot to ask him !”

“You brought him here without asking his name, Dazai-kun !”

“Ango is scary when he wants to be. ~”

“I’m Nakajima Atsushi.”

Odasaku smiled softly. His blue eyes shone gently.

“Do you want to eat something? This bar doesn’t have a wide variety of food, maybe we should go to a restaurant... “

He often forgot to eat, still not quite used to have access to food. The fact his deadline was approaching didn’t help.

“Odasaku ! Don’t steal him away, I’m the one who said I’d buy him something to eat.”

He had for Dazai the kind of strong affection and tolerance a  person would have for a younger sibling.

“Nakajima-kun, won’t your parents worry if you don’t get home soon?”

He didn’t know how much he should tell them but in reaction to Oda’s encouraging expression he found himself saying :

“There are no risks. I don’t have parents.”

Moment of silence.

“Well, Odasaku sure is going to adopt him now.”

“Are you living with relatives, then?”

“No, I- I have no idea who my family is. I’m living in a small apartment.”

“Really, how are you paying for it?”

His answers  had revived Dazai’s curiosity or maybe it had just been put on hold for a moment.

“I have a job.”

“Aren’t you a bit too young?”

“I-”

“No, don’t say anything, I’m sure I can guess what you do, Atsushi-kun.”

Why had such a joyful person tried to take his own life?

Don’t be an idiot. Do you really think depressed people wear a distinctive sign?

Depressed? Could he be ?

“You probably can.” Oda agreed. Then to Atsushi : “You should sit, no point in staying up.”

“I definitely can’t fail if Odasaku has faith in me. Well then, let’s get started, you’re quite a scrawny kid so probably not a physical job. Not a governmental job, no matter how hypocritical they are, they wouldn’t appoint someone underage. So, something linked to entertainment, isn’t it ?”

“You’re right.”

Him, being smart was hardly surprising. Someone who had played him as if he was a mere musical instrument couldn’t be totally stupid.

“It’s legal, I presume ?”

“Dazai-kun…” Ango warned him.

The fact he even had to ask told him more than he wanted to know about Dazai’s line of work.

“Can you sing, Atsushi-kun?”

“I’m a writer, or at least that’s the closest word to describe what I do.”

He wrote books, they seemed to be successful but he didn’t know why, so yes, it was a pretty good way to describe it.

“Really?”

This time, it was Odasaku, not Dazai who had spoken.

“Do you like reading, Oda-san?”

“Yes, I’d also like to write if I can, one day.”

“I’m sorry if it comes out as rude, but, why don’t you do it now?”

“I don’t deserve to write about life, not for the moment.”

“Writing isn’t about deserving something. I would never have been able to if it had been the case.”

A new staring contest was his answer. Maybe, he should have kept quiet.

“I’m sorry, I should take my leave.”

He stood up but as he was going to walk away, his feet came into contact with soft fur.

The ground met his face far too quickly for him to react.

Hurg.

Could this situation even worsen?

“Are you alright, Nakajima?”

“Yes, Ango-san. Thank you.”

“Should we go outside ? A bit of fresh air will help.”

“Please, don’t bother. I’m perfectly fine.”

The cat softly purred against his legs, unaware of the stir he had just caused. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Let’s get you something to eat.”

“I’m the one who invited him. Don’t steal him away.” Dazai pouted once again.

“Then, we should go somewhere where you can buy him something.”

“There is a good restaurant two streets away.” Ango said.

As he was busy listening to them, he didn’t notice the cat playing with his bag. Only when what it contained fell loudly on the ground did he realize it.

“Is that Tsukishiro Ren’s novel? Did you take inspiration from his work?” Oda asked.

“O ! Odasaku went into his fanboy mode.”

“His stories are good.” The older explained.

“I read a few of his short stories. It can be a bit hard to read per moment but it’s really interesting.”

Atsushi felt his cheeks burn. Getting praises hadn’t become any easier.

He inhaled deeply but it helped as much as pouring oil on a wildfire. A part of him hoped they hadn’t noticed his reaction. Yet, even after such a short amount of time, he had the strong impression nothing could escape Dazai.

“Interesting.” Dazai merely said.

“What do you mean?”

“It seems you finally got to meet one of your favorite authors, Odasaku.”

Fa- favorite author? I’ve only published two short stories collections !

“You’re Tsukishiro-sensei, Atsushi-kun?”

“Please don’t call me “sensei”.” He blushed.

If Ango still seemed doubtful, it wasn’t Oda’s case. He had merely accepted the fact that a well known author happened to be a twelve years old child.

It must be nearly impossible to shock him, Atsushi concluded.

“If Dazai says he is, it’s probably true.” Oda added.

“Still, he is far too young, how old are you exactly?”

“I’m twelve.”

“That’s what I mean, how could he- Are you some kind of genius?”

“I’m really not.”

He’d always remember. Those lonely days he’d spend, doing nothing but chores and how imagining stories had been the only way to live. To go further away than survival.

How it had helped him to keep his already severely wounded humanity. To remain sane.

You couldn’t spend your days doing one activity and not at least get a little good at it.

Oda-san nodded softly and led them outside.

“So what do you want to eat?”

“Anything is fine.”

“Come on ! You must have a favorite kind of food.” Dazai pushed him, putting back his arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry about money.”

“I-I wou- wouldn’t mind ochazuke.”

A soft chuckle escaped Dazai.

“Ochazuke it is ! I hope you both don’t mind.”

“Not really.” Ango answered.

“I don’t really care.”

“Let’s go then, it would be a shame if such an interesting kid died of hunger after all.”

Interesting?

Why did this word seem to foreshadow awful things?

Before this moment, Dazai had barely paid attention to Tsukishiro Ren. He had heard about him from the slug and Ane-san but hadn’t cared. Why would a novice novelist interest him? He would probably disappear in a few months as it was often the case. The entertainment world could sometimes be as merciless as the mafia’s.

Yet, he had to admit his surprise. For such a young and bland person to be an emerging celebrity. It definitely deserved a place in the “useful” category.

He looked at him, at Nakajima Atsushi and how he tried to convince Odasaku he didn’t need a fifth bowl of ochazuke. A useless battle really, his slimness had condemned him to be taken care of by the assassin.

Ane-san liked describing his short stories as “bittersweet”, how they captured the darkness of the world without removing hope. Despite her so-called hatred for this feeling, the woman would always have a romantic heart and be sensible to the subject.

The dwarf liked them for how dynamic and epic they could be. He couldn’t hide his enthusiasm when a new story was published.

Maybe he could advantage of it.

“Atsushi-kun, would you mind signing me one of your book?”

“Of course not, Dazai-san.”

Ango sneaked a suspicious glance. He must have guessed what he wanted.

“I only have this exemplar, though, and it isn’t in its best shape.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not a problem !”

The boy took out his fountain pen and quickly wrote in it before giving it to Dazai.

“I hope you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will !”

After this, the meal quickly came to an end.

As Atsushi was about to walk home, Oda interrupted him. In his hand stood a paper with number on it.

“If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate, I’ll help you.”

“Thank you, Oda-san.”

“And I’d like to thank you for what you said sooner.”

“It’s nothing. I look forward to the day I’ll be able to read one of your story, Oda-san.”

An almost shy smile bloomed on the man’s face.

“Maybe I’ll send you one of my draft. If they can be given this name.”

“Thank you. I’ll make sure of reading it.”

“Have a good night, Nakajima. Please be careful on your way home.”

“I will. Good night.”

Dazai stood on his bed, wide awake. Once again, sleep had deserted him. How pleasant it would be to fall asleep forever. To finally get away from this overwhelming exhaustion…

He closed his eyes but still nothing. How he loved insomnia... Well, better not waste time on this endeavor.

He stared for a moment at the book he had brought back. Why not after all? He was bored and at least, he’d learn more about the kid.

He opened it and started reading

[izanyas]

Cross My Heart

For the Soukoku Trope Bingo, prompt: Office Life. (There’s no office but trust me)

rating: T/M-ish Words: 10,000 Warnings: talk of difficult first times and hurtful words, Fyodor, mentions of erotic cannibalism. I swear this is a fun fic.

Cross My Heart

Long ago, knowing himself and his sleeping habits more than he liked to admit, Chuuya had set his morning alarm as the most strident and unbearable ringtone available in his cell phone. He had spent about half an hour after buying the device carefully comparing marimba tunes and shrill sirens until he settled for a long, awful note of pure agony. It guaranteed to actually wake him up in time, even at the price of his mood and eardrums.

That very morning, he regretted it more than ever.

Pain started beating at his temples the second the thrice-damned phone screamed at him. He spent a moment struck dumb by it, moaning pitifully, until at last he found the strength to roll to the edge of his mattress and pat blindly around. His finger slipped twice over the screen of his phone before he managed to turn off the alarm and find silence once more. He would have found relief in it if not for the crushing embarrassment that immediately swallowed him.

At least his hangover quickly dissipated it. His dry mouth tasted as if something had died in it; he was certain he could smell beer on his clothes and hair—beer—and so Chuuya painfully tore himself away from the relative warmth of his bed and stepped into his ice-cold apartment. The shivers that struck him when his bare feet touched the floor were almost worse than the nausea.

He turned on the electric heater with some regret, knowing he wouldn't stay long enough to actually enjoy it, and hurried to the bathroom.

"Fuck," he said as the tepid water pouring from the showerhead struggled to warm him up. He punched the tiled wall with weak fists and said again, "Fuck."

He repeated it a good dozen times.

Five agonizing minutes of brushing his teeth into a semblance of freshness and scrubbing his hair clean of spilled booze later, he stumbled out of the stall.

Winter wind slapped harshly at him the second he stepped foot outside his building. He had no appetite for anything not coffee and so did not make his usual stop at Akutagawa's bakery on his way to the office, though he waved at the man when their eyes met through the glass door. Chuuya pulled his beanie down over his damp hair in vain effort to keep warm, cursing himself for forgetting his gloves at home. He could feel his knuckles dry by the second.

"You're late," Kunikida snapped at him when he pushed open the door.

He still handed him a mug full of coffee, though. Chuuya took it with a bit more desperation than he liked to show. "Good morning to you too," he replied. He gulped down a good half of the beverage before adding, "And I'm not late."

"You were supposed to be here at seven-thirty."

"It's seven thirty-five."

"Dostoyevsky doesn't tolerate tardiness—"

"God, please lower your voice," Chuuya moaned, dropping into his desk chair. "My head's about to explode."

Kunikida inhaled almost comically. His voice was nothing short of a shrill when he asked, "Are you hungover?"

"I'm fine," Chuuya mumbled. "Please stop screaming."

"In the name of—I asked you, you, to do this interview because I thought for some foolish reason that you were the only person in this place I could count on for professionalism, and you show up drunk to a meeting with the most influential author in Russia? Should I just close down the newspaper now? Should I resign?"

"Fire me if you want," Chuuya moaned, "but for fuck's sake, stop yelling."

It was futile begging, of course. Chuuya sipped the last of his coffee to the sound of Kunikida waxing poetics about how terribly the interview would go with Chuuya in that state, how Dostoyevsky was known for ruining the careers of journalists he found rude or unkempt, how Chuuya had brought shame not only on himself but on every one of his colleagues with his actions. Any other day Chuuya would have perhaps taken the words to heart—though seven years of working daily with Kunikida had weaned him off of absorbing the man's anxiety like a sponge—but not today.

Today, mortification for what had transpired the night before won over any other shame.

Please let it have been a hallucination, Chuuya thought, face pressed into the rim of his mug to try and drag in every last drop of caffeine. Please let me have dreamed it all up.

Kunikida, the bastard, slapped Chuuya's synopsis down onto the desk as noisily as he could. The ringing ache that the sound brought to Chuuya's forehead was almost enough to make him cry out. "I spent my evening greenlighting this for you, in case you care, you drunkard. You better make Dostoyevsky and the rest of the world believe you're the poster child of abstinence. Otherwise never mind getting fired, I will kill you."

Chuuya massaged his temples and nodded empathetically.

He didn't need to go over the synopsis in detail—he'd written the damn thing, he knew what was in it, and he knew Kunikida would not have made any big amendments. Kunikida had reduced the wordcount for the portrait in order to make more room for the interview, but Chuuya would still have a good three pages of next week's issue to write anyway. The day promised to be absolutely wonderful. He didn't even like Dostoyevsky's damn books.

An hour later found him with a stable enough digestive system to handle solid food. He walked the way back to Akutagawa's bakery for proper breakfast and sat at one of the tables there rather than his office. He'd had enough of Kunikida's I'm Very Disappointed In You glares for the next year.

"Someone overindulged," Akutagawa rasped at him as he brought the mountain of croissants Chuuya had ordered, as well as his second cup of coffee, sweetened this time.

"Shut up and give me my sugar."

"Nice photos, by the way."

Chuuya froze, one third of a croissant halfway to his open mouth. "Thanks," he replied, hoping Akutagawa was speaking of his double-page on the city's underground hip-hop scene and nothing else.

Akutagawa stayed as infuriatingly unreadable as ever. He stuck the bill under Chuuya's croissant-plate and walked back to the counter without another word.

Chuuya checked his phone's gallery under the table the second he was gone, feeling like a piece of gum stretched to the very limit. He found nothing at all past his latest screenshots of Kouyou's Snapchat, yet the fact did little to reassure him.

He still had an hour before his appointment with Dostoyevsky. Despite suffering the worst hangover of the century, Chuuya was confident enough in his preparation for the meeting that he chose to work on his other papers instead. He left the bakery with enough time to walk to the InterContinental Yokohama Grand Hotel, since of course someone like Dostoyevsky would decide to crash there instead of the many more affordable options, and was sorry to discover that his hair was not completely dry yet.

At least the sun was up now. Chuuya warmed himself to it and kept his dry hands in his pockets, bag slung over his shoulder, walking briskly. Seagulls cried along the seashore, flying low over the returned fishing boats in search of leftover catches. Amidst their voices shone those of the fishermen themselves, now done selling the fruit of the night's work and drinking coffee around fire-barrels. Chuuya stopped next to a group of them and asked to take a picture, thinking distantly of writing something for the next morning's edition of the Yokohama Mainichi, who still often accepted extra work from him.

The picture came out wonderfully: five grinning men with sun-tanned skin and rough hands, waving at the objective. He thanked them and gave them his card.

It put him in a better mood. He arrived at the InterContinental with ten minutes to spare. Fresh air, coffee, and conversation had soothed his headache into something more manageable; Chuuya was beginning to believe that perhaps the day would not end up being utter shit, when fate decided to remind him that he was her chewtoy.

"Fancy meeting you here, Chuuya," Dazai said, leaning against the hotel's façade.

Chuuya's headache came back with a vengeance. "Get the fuck out of my sight," he barked.

It didn't matter that his face had turned hotter than lava in the second it took him to appreciate the obscene bend of Dazai's body against the white wall. Insulting Dazai had become more than just habit—it was a safety measure, a defense mechanism. It was survival instinct.

Dazai's smile turned wider. He looked infuriatingly well-rested considering that he couldn't walk in a straight line the last time Chuuya had seen him. "I'm quite well, thank you for asking," he went on, pushing himself off of the wall. The suited man by the hotel's entrance had not stopped staring at him, or at the costly camera strung around his neck that Dazai cared more about than his own dignity. "Please stop leering at me like this, I'll blush."

Chuuya reeled back physically, face burning, rage and embarrassment warring for his attention. "Fuck off," he said between clenched teeth, "you have no business here."

"On the contrary. I heard there was a famous author around, I'd hate not to do my job properly."

"You call what you do a job?"

Was Dazai incapable of smiling without looking like he was eating something deliciously forbidden? He seemed a second away from wetting his lips in lustful appetite. "Let's not get into that again," he replied. "I think we reached quite a satisfactory agreement over the old feud last night, don't you?"

He winked.

Torn between the urge to strangle the man and to vanish on the spot under the assault of the night's memories, Chuuya decided that inaction was the least risky path to pick. He walked past Dazai's lanky body and toward the guard observing them, showing his press card to him. A second of unintelligible mumble later and the guard said, "You can come up," before giving him Dostoyevsky's room number.

Chuuya had been to lavisher hotels than the InterContinental before—the architecture was nice and the view impregnable, but ultimately it was only a four-star—so he lost little time to the familiar squeaky-clean employees and design armchairs populating the lobby. Most of the tenants were only just waking up at this hour; Chuuya waited behind three breakfast trays for the elevators to arrive, hoping they would be spacious enough for him to squeeze in. He didn't fancy having to climb the whole way up.

He did find room, though one of the trays dug painfully into his hipbone. The employee pushing it gave him an apologetic glance. Chuuya smiled quickly at her.

There was no one left but him by the time he reached the highest floors. Chuuya stopped by the fancy mirror stuck in the middle of the hallway to check up on his appearance; his hair had known better days and his lips were chapped, but there wasn't much he could do about that. He fished an elastic band out of the garbage lining his coat pockets and tied his hair up quickly, not bothering to check for chapstick in his bag. He knew where he had left it: on the counter of his kitchen, next to his gloves and sense of self-worth.

He knocked twice on the fine-wood door of Dostoyevsky's suite. At the sound of someone saying, "Enter," in English, he pushed it open.

The suite was as expected: a narrow but long room with wide windows, a ridiculous bed, a living area with comfortable couches and a minibar. The flat screen TV was running some nature documentary or another in low foreign whispers. Russian, Chuuya thought.

He turned his head aside when the screen went black.

"You're punctual," Dostoyevsky said, in Japanese this time. His voice had that odd flatness that many foreigners shared when speaking the language, as if he were talking over a single note. He put the remote down and gestured to the couches, adding, "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for accepting to meet us," Chuuya replied, bowing quickly. He handed his card to the man, who took it without so much as a glance—odd again, but nothing Chuuya had not seen before while dealing with foreigners. "I'm Nakahara Chuuya of the Weekly Harbor."

"I know. Shall we, then?"

Something about high-rise buildings always distracted Chuuya. Already he could feel his attention slipping from the man himself and veering toward the windows, the expanse of blue sky and even bluer sea. He thought for a second of the men he had met earlier, whose photograph was safely stored inside the camera slung around his shoulder.

"Right," Chuuya said, focusing once more on Dostoyevsky. He wasn't here to daydream. "First off, should we conduct the interview in English, or…?"

"I'm proficient in Japanese," Dostoyevsky replied without a hint of arrogance. Or as though his brand of arrogance were fact, not subjection. "It should be easier for you."

"I speak English," Chuuya retorted.

So far Dostoyevsky's attitude reminded him a bit too strongly of the ulcer in human form he had met minutes ago—his face warmed again at the memory of him, at the flashes of the night past lighting up his mind in languid, warm colors—but at least Dazai had the decency of playing up his arrogance. He was confident, but tiny bit apologetic about it.

It took Chuuya a good second to remember what Dostoyevsky had done to that journalist from Time Magazine he had deemed too rude; he paused in the middle of taking out pen and paper, glancing quickly at the man. There was a faint smile on his almost non-existent lips.

"I apologize," Dostoyevsky said, meeting his eyes. "I didn't mean to insult you. My only thought was that I would greatly enjoy hearing you speak your own language more."

Chuuya stared at him. "Sure," he said at least, not knowing how else to answer. "Do you want to take a look at my questions before we start?"

"No need."

Chuuya's recorder was thankfully still at eighty-three percent of battery—he hadn't thought to check before coming—so he put it on the table without further ado, the extra mic plugged in and turned toward Dostoyevsky.

"I'm here to ask you about your new book, of course," he started, flipping quickly through his exemplary of the book in question. He hadn't liked it, but he liked failing his boss even less, and so many pages were dog-earred or scribbled on. "You were kind enough to give the Harbor your first Japanese interview about it—when did you start writing it?"

"Eight months ago," Dostoyevsky replied.

He sounded expectant. No doubt wanting Chuuya to gasp, or stare at him with wide eyes, or accuse him of lying. While a three-hundred page novel finished in half a year was an impressing feat, however, Chuuya rather thought he must have written twice as much in half as much time every year since he started working.

Novelists really were too full of themselves.

"That's impressive," he said blankly, eager to get the ego-stroking over and done with. "I'm sure you've already read all about how well-received it's been this week alone. Several critics all over the world have it pegged as Booker Prize material. What do you think about that?"

"I wonder if it would be remiss of me to say I don't care for such things."

"You don't care about the Booker Prize," Chuuya repeated a tad dryly.

"I'm afraid not."

"So you wrote this book in English and not Russian, for the first time in your career, for no reason at all."

"I wouldn't go that far," Dostoyevsky said with all the airs of a teacher indulging a rowdy student—Chuuya felt himself tense up the way he did whenever Dazai had the gall to insult his intelligence, except that none of the conflicted arousal he felt around Dazai followed. "My reasons were purely artistic. I felt that I had reached the limit of my abilities in Russian; I wanted to shape my words in a different way."

"Your last book disappointed a lot of people," Chuuya acquiesced, watching his notes without seeing them, his pen tapping lightly on his notebook. "So you agree with the critics about reaching your limits."

"I disappointed myself more than anyone else with Crime and Punishment," Dostoyevsky replied. "Perhaps I relied too much on previous successes and did not give it my best. I felt that I had to come back to the basics afterward—to strip myself down to the bone, if you will, and try and create newness after being rid of the old."

That was more humility than Chuuya expected, even as wrought in heavy-handed metaphors as it was. "Well, it looks like you did a great job," he said more kindly, "considering I haven't read a single literature column not singing your praise in the past few days."

"You flatter me."

I do not, Chuuya thought, writing down Dostoyevsky's words in quick notes. He usually enjoyed literature columns. He'd have to wait until the Cannibalism hype was gone to enjoy them again.

"Let's talk about Cannibalism, then," he went on, glancing at his questions. He had ended up skipping over the one about Crime and Punishment being so bad that its author had apparently received letters asking him to pay back his readers in actual money, but he could still mention that in an editorial somewhere if need be. Maybe even in Dazai's dishrag of a magazine. "The least I can say about it is that it's vastly different from your previous works. You usually veer toward sociology in your novels, anthropology even, but this one is all about psychology and base individual desires. Why?"

That part was the easiest. One thing about novelists was that they never failed to talk for hours on end about their own works, no matter how unsuccessful. Chuuya contented himself with nodding and humming at the appropriate times, putting down quick-worded notes with one hand and tapping on the arm of the couch with the other as Dostoyevsky spoke of catharsis and inhumanity and the true shape of the soul. This was why Chuuya generally avoided pseudo-psychology in novels and preferred it in raw, poetic form—it felt less like their authors relished in misery than they tried to expose it, to shine a lamp around until something shone back.

With the way Dostoyevsky spoke of his two main characters, it felt positively voyeuristic. Chuuya asked a few other questions, about mundane life things, about stylistic choices in specific excerpts, about inspirations and dislikes. He took pictures. He scratched notes down until his fingers stained with ink.

"Aren't you afraid of backlash?" Chuuya asked about half an hour later, once the man was done prosing. He had to bite back an unfortunate yawn—he had mastered the art of retaining a blank face when he did it. "You're famous over the world, but Russia isn't the safest place to be writing anything not heterosexual at the moment."

"I admit that was one of my reasons for picking English when the story revealed itself to me," Dostoyevsky replied. "I knew I would have an easier time getting published in Great Britain this time. But no, I don't fear backlash. I technically did not break the law, and if I were to be sued or attacked for my work, I could just leave."

Chuuya thought of the many people who couldn't leave. "Right," he said, keeping his voice even. "What about backlash not related to Russia, then. What about backlash from readers."

"I don't expect bigots to understand—"

"I'm not talking about homophobes."

Dostoyevsky marked a pause. "Ah," he let out. "You've heard about that."

Chuuya didn't tell him that he had no need to hear anything. "The sexual aspect of Cannibalism is evident," he said, looking down at his question list, which nowhere featured what he had just asked. "But you didn't make your characters lovers. You made them enemies, and wrote a story twisted beyond measure—they literally end up eating each other."

Dostoyevsky seemed oddly calm considering his reputation with journalists who antagonized him. He hadn't let go of his half-smile, or of his piercing yet bored gaze. His eyes reflected the sky outside in purplish tints.

"I take it you didn't enjoy the book, then," he said. He seemed amused.

"I didn't say that," Chuuya replied, his brain going overdrive in search of how to save face. "Like you said, I've only been reading blogs and such. They were, uh, vocal about their dislike—I thought it might be interesting to bring it up—"

"You are mistaken if you think that I wrote a twisted story."

Chuuya's pen stopped tapping his paper. He stared at Dostoyevsky with disbelief hung from his tongue and asked, "How so?"

"It is true that there is no small amount of violence in the imagery I used," Dostoyevsky answered. Chuuya hadn't noticed before just how close to him the man had sat, preferring the other side of the couch to the armchair opposite him. Their legs knocked together lightly when he shifted on his behind. "But I never aimed to write anything but love. A passionate, all-encompassing sort of love."

"They eat each other."

"Isn't it fascinating?"

"Fasci—"

Chuuya found himself wordless. Cannibalism was the first of Dostoyevsky's books he read from end to end—the others he had tried and found mind-numbingly dry, regardless of their value from a social or scientific point of view—and he couldn't remember spending a more awkward time reading anything. It wasn't just that the imagery was violent, that the gore and erotica in it were conjoined to the point of being indiscernible; he had read and enjoyed such books before. He had enjoyed such poetry.

But Dostoyevsky hadn't made him feel love. Obsession and lust and the cruel, ardent desire to own and control, yes, but not love. The two heroes had simply hated each other so much that they went mad with it.

"Have you never felt such a thing—" Chuuya jumped at the sound of Dostoyevsky's voice so close to him and realized that the man had shifted even closer, his words now soft enough to feel like a breeze by Chuuya's temple—"a love so complete, so painful… It is more than obsession, more than simple anger. It is the purest and rawest form of love: it consumes you, and makes you want to consume it back."

Chuuya shuddered. "I've never felt anything like it. It sounds horrifying."

"That's a shame."

"What?"

Dostoyevsky was definitely getting closer. Chuuya started getting cross-eyed trying to meet his stare and opted to look somewhere above his ear instead. Shivers erupted up his spine. Suspicion simmered in his belly. When Dostoyevsky's fingers touched his shoulder lightly, Chuuya felt as though spiders were crawling there.

"I think you would look beautiful like this, Nakahara Chuuya," he murmured.

Chuuya's brain froze. He didn't move at all as Dostoyevsky's hand ran from one shoulder to the next, stroking a line of bare skin at the base of Chuuya's nape before his whole arm rested around him.

No way, Chuuya thought.

No way, he thought, and yet there it was, Dostoyevsky's hand massaging his shoulder and their thighs knocking together as he made his move in the most ridiculously creepy way—Hell, Chuuya had looked less like an idiot the night before with his entire self soaked in wine and beer—

The door rang before he could get his bearings back and slap Dostoyevsky's face with his own three-hundred pages of shitty gore porn. This time it was Dostoyevsky's turn to stop in his tracks. Chuuya saw irritation flash over his face in the most evident show of actual emotion the man had demonstrated so far, and wasn't that telling.

"You should get that," Chuuya said, not trying very hard to hide his relief. He wasn't sure how Kunikida would have reacted to I accidentally knocked out the world-famous author you worked so hard to get an exclusive interview of. "Might be important."

Thankfully, Dostoyevsky complied. His face returned to its apparently usual state of mild self-jerking amusement, though perhaps less easily than before. At least he didn't try to do something stupid like try and kiss Chuuya after being refused. Never mind Kunikida's reaction; Chuuya would rather avoid the pain of pressing charges against a celebrity for assault.

He worked frantically at recovering his composure while Dostoyevsky made his way to the door. Part of him wanted to bash his own head in, part of him was still busy crying out from his hangover, and part of him found the situation so ridiculous that he almost wanted to laugh. Almost.

As if to prove to him once more that yes, things could always get worse, the door opened to none other than Dazai.

"Mr Dostoyevsky!" Dazai exclaimed in his poorest version of English, arms open as if to hug the man, stepping into the room without waiting for invitation. "I have to say, it is so, so delightful to meet you at last."

"Who are you," Dostoyevsky said, loud but level, at the same time as Chuuya groaned audibly.

"And if that isn't my least favorite kid-sized reporter—"

"I will make you swallow your camera if you say another word, Dazai," Chuuya snapped in Japanese.

He had hoped to say it quickly enough for the foreign Dostoyevsky not to pick up on it, but he had obviously failed. "Dazai?" the man repeated with recognition in his voice. Chuuya rubbed his face tiredly. "As in Dazai Osamu, the paparazzi?"

"I prefer calling it 'investigative journalism'."

"And I would prefer if you didn't barge in on my interviews!" Chuuya yelled, standing up from the couch. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Did you forget about the part where you're supposed to stay outside people's homes and at least pretend you're not grossly invading their privacy?"

"I take it you two know each other," Dostoyevsky drawled, and he didn't sound amused anymore.

"Oh, Chuuya and I go way back," Dazai replied.

He strolled through the room as if he owned the place, aiming straight for Chuuya's side and leaning against the back of the couch, completely at ease. He shot Chuuya a quick smile.

"We went to school together, you see," he added. "Chuuya's never forgiven me for having better grades."

"I find that hard to believe," Dostoyevsky commented.

"Because it isn't true," Chuuya interjected. "Now get the hell out of here, Dazai."

"But I came to fetch you! Kyouka-chan said that Atsushi-kun told her that Gin-chan texted him that Akutagawa desperately needs you."

"What—wait. Akutagawa?"

Dazai nodded, falsely somber. "Akutagawa."

Chuuya glanced at Dostoyevsky. He would have liked to jump on any excuse to leave even if it weren't Akutagawa—he did not feel like suffering a repeat of Dostoyevsky talking murder at him while trying to make a move—but if Akutagawa really needed him, then he had no qualms whatsoever.

"I'm sorry," Chuuya said, bowing briefly to Dostoyevsky, "both for Dazai being here and for cutting our meeting short. I know Akutagawa—if he needs me, then it must be important."

There was a brief silence. Dostoyevsky hadn't moved when Chuuya straightened up; his odd-colored eyes roamed over Chuuya's face briefly before his answered, static, "No need to apologize. I hope you have enough to write your paper."

"I do, thank you."

"Be sure to send it to my agent when it comes out."

Chuuya nodded, uninterested in prolonging his stay any further. He grabbed his bag with one hand, Dazai's arm with other, and walked out of the room. He felt Dostoyevsky's eyes on him until the door closed between them.

He dropped Dazai's arm as soon as that was done.

"I'm certain there was a bodyguard here when I came in," he said, hurrying to the elevator.

"Oh, Ivan?" Dazai was walking close behind him, close enough for his toes to knock into Chuuya's heels every other step. Probably on purpose too. "We're fast friends now. Unfortunately it seems I put laxatives instead of sugar into his coffee when he asked me to get him one."

"You're disgusting."

"And yet so clever."

"Does Akutagawa actually need me for anything?" Chuuya asked, suddenly realizing how stupid he had been. Akutagawa didn't need to go through anyone else to call him, let alone Dazai. "Don't answer that. Of course he doesn't."

Chuuya felt something hard press into the side of his arm. Dazai took his pen back once he had Chuuya's attention—or maybe once he was sure that poking him with it would bruise—and smiled at him more sweetly. "You looked a bit cornered in there," he said. "I thought you might want to take a break."

Chuuya stared at him. Dazai stared back, grinning. He couldn't quite keep the horror out of his voice as he asked, "I looked cornered?"

The elevator chose this moment to arrive with a soft sound. Dazai strolled into its golden cage with his hands in his pockets, relaxed as ever, that annoyingly handsome smile still twisting his features.

"Oh no you don't," Chuuya said as Dazai took out his phone and made as if to check up his social media—all of which Chuuya had blocked years ago. He snatched the device from him. "What do you mean I looked cornered?" he asked.

"I mean literally. Had you up against the side of the couch, didn't he?" Dazai clicked his tongue in pity. "Classic move, but a little old-fashioned."

"How the fuck do you—"

Chuuya reeled back; Dazai had suddenly raised a fist to his face, and for a second he had the absurd thought that the idiot would try to punch him, before he blinked and realized that Dazai was holding something.

He took it from him, ignoring his own blush when their fingers touched. It was a tiny object, spherical and shiny, with only a tiny On/Off button on one of its ends… "Is that a camera?"

"One of Kajii's latest inventions," Dazai said, plucking it out of Chuuya's hand. He slipped it inside his coat pocket. "Remote controlled, including moving around in any direction. You'd be hard-pressed to find something smaller or more mobile. I was watching your interview with Dostoyevsky live, just had to slip it under the door and let it do its work."

"I don't know if I should be impressed or terrified that a rag like Port Mag has Kajii working for it," Chuuya muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Also, great, you saw me almost get felt up by that creep. Today just keeps getting better and better."

"I won't tell anyone that you like skinny Russians with greasy hair, I promise."

"Fuck off. You dated that weird sociology chick for half of our senior year, you don't get to say shit about me or my tastes."

Chuuya did not think about how much of that year he had spent drinking himself into oblivion or sleeping his way through the rare gay, bi, or fucking curious guys of their university. He did not.

Their elevator stayed empty but for the two of them until they reached ground level. Chuuya blinked when the sun hit his eyes through the bright lobby; he walked out after Dazai, keeping some distance between them just for the hell of it. Fewer room service employees were around now, and more clients had come down from their rooms to enjoy the lobby, to look at the several restaurant cards, to book sports equipment. Chuuya and Dazai had to squeeze closer together to slip out into the street; a woman carrying her own height in shopping bags was coming in.

Chuuya rummaged through his pockets until he found the very bottom of a bag of tobacco, some cigarette paper, and his last two filters. He sat down onto the edge of the sidewalk. "I'm going home, and I'm going to sleep until I either die or hunger wakes me up," he declared, before putting one of the filters between his lips. His last sheet of paper was crumpled, but it would have to do.

"Sounds like a plan," Dazai replied from above him.

"And then I'm going to write the most scathing portrait of Dostoyevsky ever printed and sold. I'm going to make him miss when Crime and Punishment came out."

"I rather thought this was one of his least awful works, actually."

Chuuya, tongue still out from licking the paper close, looked up. Dazai was staring down at him with another one of his best smiles. Fighting off the blood immediately flooding his face, he took his tongue back and asked, "You read this guy?"

"Sometimes. Stalking—I mean, investigating celebrities is very tiring work, you know. Most of them have such boring lives, it takes days or weeks for anything interesting to happen." Dazai's tone turned plaintive; Chuuya rolled his eyes. "It's always good to have a book on hand during the long hours."

"I can't fucking believe you decided to do that with your life," Chuuya groaned. His lighter took a few tries to work, but the wait was worth it for the first inhale. Shivers crawled up his scalp. "Mister straight As," he added, exhaling smoke with each word. "Did his senior internship at the Mainichi Shinbun and ended up writing about idols dating in secret. Your creative writing pal must be so proud."

"I'll have you know Odasaku always reads my articles, thank you very much. It's Ango who's ashamed to be in my presence."

"Right, spectacles was the business student, not Oda."

"You have such good memory for such a tiny person."

Chuuya gave Dazai the finger and tried not to notice how happy he felt at the sound of his laughter.

It was hard not to think of the unthinkable, though. With his work for the day mostly done and no one around him aside from Dazai and a few passersby, his mind strayed to more visions of the previous evening. His fingers clenched around his own thighs with the memory of touching another's. He once more felt the shame of letting go of his hard-earned composure for a moment of weakness.

"Why are you here," Chuuya asked without looking up. His cigarette was already half-consumed; he took another drag anyway, trying to make the best of it. "You've already got your dirt on Dostoyevsky, and on me, by the way. No need to rub it in."

Instead of responding, Dazai said, "The only issue with such a small camera is that there's no way for it to catch sound as well. Kajii said he's still working on creating a mic powerful and small enough for that."

"I don't give a shit what Kajii's camera can and can't do, Dazai. I'm not a stalker."

"I meant that until I came in and actually heard you talk to Dostoyevsky, I had no idea if you wanted to kiss him back." Chuuya choked in the middle of his inhale. Smoke burned his throat and scratched his lungs, and he coughed loudly into his hand. He almost missed what Dazai said next: "I could only see about half of your left side. All I saw was that guy eyeing you like a piece of meat and putting an arm around you before I rang the bell."

"You think I'd want to kiss him?" Chuuya protested, strangled.

"I thought I wasn't allowed to comment on your tastes, Chuuya," Dazai replied innocently.

"Ugh." Chuuya choked out his cigarette, too disgusted to enjoy the last of it. He rose to his feet with another grunt. "Well, thanks for ringing. I definitely was considering knocking him out with his stupid book."

"I think that's the most use one can make of Cannibalism," Dazai mused, stroking his chin. "What terrible prose."

"I don't want to hear that from someone who unironically wrote the phrase 'sweet nectar of life' in an econ midterm."

"Really, you remember things too well."

Chuuya smiled a little quickly, a little sadly. Only when it's you, he thought. "I should get going," he said, patting his bag. "Need to give Kunikida a copy of those before he starts digging his own grave in despair."

"Wait, Chuuya."

He tried to tell himself not to listen. He tried to make himself ignore Dazai and walk away. But the sound of his name in Dazai's mouth, in Dazai's voice, was as always too compelling to resist. Chuuya turned around slowly, one hand wound around the strap of his bag tightly enough to hurt.

Dazai hadn't moved. He still wore that smile, the one Chuuya had dreaded and longed for in equal measures through years of knowing him. It softened the line of his jaw; it creased the corners of his eyes.

"We should probably talk," he said, oddly gentle. As if trying not to scare off a wild animal. "About what happened last night."

"Nothing happened last night," Chuuya replied immediately.

His heart had frozen solid in his chest and all the air in his lungs seemed to have turned to glass, but he still answered. He still kept his voice even. He had prepared for this, he told himself, the day he walked up to Dazai with his heart full of wonder.

"Well, thankfully we were in no state to have sex, but—"

Something in Chuuya broke down in exhaustion. "Look, Dazai," he interrupted. Unable to look him in the eye, he turned his head aside and stared at the gleaming ocean. "I know you think you're so hot and everything, but please. I was drunk, I got lonely, and you were there." He swallowed and continued in the same tone: "Don't embarrass yourself more than you do on a daily basis."

There. That should do it. Dazai had never reacted well to being rejected. It didn't matter that he had never been interested in Chuuya in the first place, his pride wouldn't allow it. Better things go this way than the other way around, with Chuuya having to hear him spell the many ways they were destined for failure or incompatible sexually or any other bullshit excuse Dazai used to give the partners he dumped.

But Dazai did not rise in offense. He did not laugh cruelly or make fun of Chuuya's height, or clothes, or general state of being alive and around him. He hummed softly and said, "That's not what I remember you telling me."

Chuuya ground his teeth together. "I didn't know what I was saying," he lied, "I was wasted. I would've told a potted plant I was in love with it if it agreed to sleep with me."

"That's too bad."

Chuuya had not expected that.

He dared not move as Dazai approached. He dared not speak when Dazai wrapped one loose arm around his shoulders. What he felt then had nothing at all that he could compare to, no instance of attraction that he could use as basis for how to proceed. His back prickled with goosebumps not at all owed to the cold; his nape turned rock solid, his shoulder-line tense as a steel cable, when Dazai's chin rested above his head.

"I was thinking," Dazai went on, apparently unbothered by the fact that Chuuya was having a stroke right against him, "maybe we could go get lunch together and talk for a bit, if you have time."

"If I have time," Chuuya said blankly. His lips were very close to Dazai's collar.

"Yes. Right now. You and me. No wine because I'm still hammered, but next time, maybe."

"… Next time?"

Dazai laughed. He leaned back to look down at Chuuya, and with the hand he did not have gently squeezing Chuuya's shoulder, he flicked Chuuya's nose.

"Fuck you!" Chuuya roared reflexively, slapping Dazai's fingers away. "What the hell was that for?"

"I'd like you to regain the use of your remaining neuron, please."

Chuuya rubbed his nose and glared at him. He knew his horrid blush was probably ruining the effect, but it was a matter of principles. "I'm listening," he spat out.

"Good," Dazai replied, "because I do so hate trying to plan dates with someone who's too busy getting lost in my beautiful face to respond."

"I was not getting lost in—date." Chuuya swallowed; his hand lowered. "Date?" he said again.

"Date," Dazai parroted. "If you want to let me show you more than some awkward public fumbling, of course, but if you like that better…"

His voice dripped with sarcasm. Chuuya knew the sound of it by heart; he knew, also, that Dazai used sarcasm as both sword and shield. There was no irony to be found in the dip of his smile, though. There was no lie hidden in the touch of his hand against Chuuya's shoulder, no cruelty in his dark eyes.

"You're not messing with me," Chuuya said in wonder.

Dazai's smile twisted at the corners, turning self-deprecating. "I'm not," he replied.

Promise, Chuuya wanted to say, like the child he had once been. Cross my heart.

He had spent too long watching Dazai, close and far, to hope for such a thing.

"Dazai…"

Dazai took his hand back. Chuuya had not prepared for how cold his neck would feel without it. "I can't," he said, forcing every word past the ugly despair unfurling in his throat. "If you're just looking for a quick fuck then I'm not—"

"I'm not looking for sex," Dazai cut in. "I'm not, Chuuya."

Chuuya wondered what it said about him that he was as ready to believe him now as he had been ten years ago, high off of his first kiss and ready to entrust the world to the boy with honeyed words. Dazai must be able to read him now as easily as he did then; he must be laughing, in some dark part of himself, at the naïve idiot in front of him who thought a kiss was a promise.

It all came down to whether Chuuya was ready to trust him again, in the end.

"Just lunch," he said tentatively.

"Just lunch," Dazai replied. "For now."

"If you—"

"You'll kill me and make sure no one finds enough pieces of my body to glue back together. I know."

Chuuya huffed, fighting off a smile. "As long as you know," he mumbled.

Dazai's fingers were warm against his, soft despite the biting cold and his own lack of gloves. Chuuya made such a comment out loud to mask just how red the contact had made him; Dazai laughed and talked about the special hand lotion Kajii had created because he was so tired of hearing Higuchi complain about dry skin.

They walked together into the late morning hours, attracting looks here and there that neither felt like acknowledging.

There was warmth to be found there, in the middle of winter, like a fist-sized sun following them everywhere their linked hands went. There was a promise.

  ten years ago

 Chuuya fell in love with his lips pressed to another boy's, in the middle of the loudest house party he had ever gone to, one hand holding a half-full can of beer and the other lost into silky black hair.

He lost his virginity in the guest room of a classmate whose name he couldn't remember; he followed the guidance given to him, gorged himself on chuckles and shared breaths and slow, roaming hands. He felt discomfort and he felt pleasure. He lay naked under the thin body of another classmate, unable to keep his hands from touching and touching and touching long after the deed was done and the boy with black hair had fallen asleep by his side.

He was giddy. He was happier than he had ever been. He repeated the boy's name in his head until all other thoughts were drowned: Dazai, Dazai, Dazai.

"Dazai", he whispered in the stained bed, watching streetlight stripe the ceiling through the cracked blinds darkening the window.

Dazai, he thought, imagining sitting by the dark-haired boy in class and holding his hand under the desk. He pictured them as seniors waiting for graduation, as young men in a small house, as old men in a big one; he saw them stroll the eras of life hand in hand, until they could one day close their eyes and say, "I have loved and been loved."

Dazai, his heart sang, thinking of soft lips giving hard kisses, of a sweet voice saying sweet things, of a boy's hands on him and in him, squeezing him to orgasm as one squeezed the very soul.

When Chuuya woke up in the morning, Dazai was gone.

It did not take long for Chuuya to find him again. They shared many classes, after all, and he could never forget the face of the one who had upturned his entire world in the space of an hour. He had not thought anything of Dazai before that house party; now Dazai was all he could think of.

The unraveling of Chuuya's brand new world went a little like this:

"Hello," a word, spoken with more timidity than Chuuya had ever felt or expressed. Four times that shyness could perhaps approach the amount of love he also poured into it.

"Who are you again," an answer shaped like a question, the breaking of a promise that Chuuya realized to late he had been the only one to make.

A needle in his eye.

Chuuya's love was a weapon, and that day, in that noisy hallway, Dazai took it by the pommel and stabbed it into his heart. He laughed when he seemed to remember; laughed when he seemed to understand. With each shake of his shoulders, with each pitiful glance shot at Chuuya by Dazai's friends standing behind him, Chuuya felt his love bleed him of a little more faith.

"You know what," Chuuya said with what was always left to children once faith was taken from them—lies: "You're not really that much of a looker when I'm sober. You were right to leave, I might've puked on you."

Dazai's laughter abated. His cruel smile was so strange, so different from the bright-eyed pleasure he had shown that night with his lips pressed to Chuuya's lips. "Really," he said. "The way you were acting, I thought you might want to go again in the morning, but you're way too much work for way too little benefit, you know. I didn't feel like giving my energy for such a mediocre lay a second time."

Chuuya would spend many months after that day hearing those words ring through his head. It would take him even longer to heal from them in full; to stop feeling as if his pleasure had to be earned whereas his partners' was owed. But Chuuya couldn't know. He couldn't realize, past the immediacy of his embarrassment, of his shame, that he had been hurt more than superficially. So Chuuya reacted the only way he knew how.

Firstly, he said, "I still got you to fuck me, didn't I," and ripped a smile out of Dazai's friends, earning his first victory.

Secondly, he swore to himself that he would never trust Dazai again. That he would make Dazai his enemy and nothing else for as long as he lived.

And as the months went by, so went his hurt, until one morning he woke up feeling less burdened by it. Until one day he could sleep with someone else and not remember with aching shame what he could've done, should've done, to make it better for Dazai. To make it so Dazai would want to stay.

He antagonized Dazai in and out of class. He allowed the rest of their peers to think it a game of sorts between them, a way of friendship perhaps, in any case a source of entertainment. He saw Dazai's initial affront melt into habit; he wished his own feelings could know such fading out.

Chuuya fashioned himself Dazai's enemy because he couldn't be his love. And as the years unfolded and each new hand in Dazai's hand made his own ache, Chuuya learned that love, unlike shame, never quite vanished. That it always left an outline of itself, like washed-out ink on paper.

  ten hours ago

 "I think you've had enough," Dazai said, and suddenly his hand was between the rim of Chuuya's glass and Chuuya's lips—an unbreakable barrier of flesh.

Were he more aware of himself and his decade-old resolutions, Chuuya would have simply leaned back in his chair and insulted Dazai. Instead he allowed his lips to touch the skin of Dazai's hand for longer than necessary, not wary enough of the confused glance Dazai gave him.

He leaned back in his chair. He waited until the world stopped turning quite so much. Then he grinned at Dazai and replied, "Fuck you."

"Always so polite," Dazai sighed, "it's a wonder anyone hired you after college, you know."

"It's a wonder your stupid ass still knows how to process thoughts with the garbage you write," Chuuya retorted.

"I'm the most successful journalist of PM! People love my articles."

"People would smear their faces with pig shit if we told them it has anti-aging properties."

"That's a good idea, actually."

At this point Chuuya couldn't remember why he was at this bar, or why Dazai was with him, any more than he could remember the number of refills he had ordered. Something vague about Akutagawa and Atsushi—a party—an engagement, maybe. He would remember in the morning. He just knew that he needed to be sad before he could allow himself to be glad.

At least until Dazai had walked in and greeted him with the usual insults, and Chuuya had realized that being mad was just as good an alternative. Especially in such company.

It had been a few years since he and Dazai drank together. Chuuya tended to avoid drinking around him even back in school for fear of what he could do or say, but now the risks were minimal, he thought. He only saw Dazai once every other month or so when their jobs happened to make them cross paths. He hadn't had a conversation longer than a few seconds with him in recent memory.

Surely there was no risk now.

"Easy," Dazai said, long after cutting off his life supply of booze.

Chuuya had felt steady enough to walk on his own and promptly fallen down the second his feet tried to hold his own weight. Dazai hadn't quite managed to catch him, but at least he was helping him up, and Chuuya felt no need at all to resist leaning into the opening of his arms.

Dazai steadied him step by step toward the door, quickly murmuring to the bartender that Chuuya would definitely be back to pay the bill, yes, he would make sure of it.

"Fuck the bill," Chuuya bellowed.

Several people in various stages of inebriation answered him with cheers.

Pressed as he was against Dazai's chest, he could feel each breath, each word. Dazai laughed from deep down his torso; Chuuya felt it between his shoulder blades and laughed in turn.

"I drank twice as much as you did and I'm still gonna have to walk you home, aren't I," Dazai declared, frog-marching him toward the exit.

"Sucks to be you."

"You have no idea. I'm stuck with a short redhead and it's not even a hot one."

Chuuya groaned. "Fuck off," he said, "you weren't saying that when you met me."

There was a brief pause. Dazai's torso was very still against Chuuya's back.

"Come on," he said at last. "Let's get you a taxi or something."

Things, as they were wont to, did not go according to plan.

Dazai made a valiant effort to appear composed until they reached the exit, but he did drink twice as much as Chuuya, different alcohol tolerances notwithstanding. He was in no state to walk a straight line on his own, let alone carry Chuuya's slumped body along. They knocked into a couch by the front door that had earlier been occupied by a group of college-aged kids, and while Chuuya's fall was somewhat cushioned by Dazai's own body, Dazai had no such protection.

"Fuck," he grunted.

Chuuya's blood ran molten at the sound of it. "You just swore," he said, turning around and digging one painful elbow into Dazai's soft belly. "You said fuck!"

"It happens," Dazai replied, slightly winded. He pushed Chuuya's elbow aside. "Did you think I never swore?"

"I don't know. I just thought you always spoke asshole, which is a fancy language with no swear words."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

Dazai laughed again. Chuuya watched him do it without so much as a smile of his own. He had forgotten just how much of his time in school he had spent waiting for that laughter; how many hours he had spent spying over books and computer screens for a hint, a trace, of the smiles Dazai had once given him.

Dazai's voice died out when Chuuya touched his face. He seemed suddenly so much somber. Chuuya's fingers traced the line of his jaw as lightly as they could.

"I like your laugh," he said.

It seemed like the most natural thing to admit.

"You do?"

Chuuya bit his lip. "I don't know why it has to be you," he said. "Every time I think, 'this is it, I'm over it', and then you reappear into my life and fuck it all up again. It's like you're designed to be a nuisance."

"While I'm flattered to hear it, I don't really know what you're talking about," Dazai commented, smiling lopsidedly.

"Shut up," Chuuya replied. He tapped one of Dazai's cheeks as patronizingly as he could; it dimpled under his skin as Dazai smiled again, and Chuuya felt his own humor vanish. "It's just always been you, Dazai, even when there was someone else. You've been so unfair to so many people and you don't even know it."

"Chuuya—"

"Hush," Chuuya cut in, "you talk to much."

He dug his fingers into Dazai's hair and kissed him.

It felt so right. So good. Despite everything, the years and the hurt and the shame, Chuuya had never enjoyed kissing anyone as much as he enjoyed kissing Dazai. He didn't try to deepen it, aware on some plane of consciousness that Dazai was a little surprised. There were still tears in his eyes when he pulled away anyway. One of them fell on Dazai's cheek, and Chuuya wiped it away with his thumb.

"You are such an asshole," he told Dazai, whose wide eyes now stared at him with an emotion Chuuya had no strength to analyze. He barely noticed that one of Dazai's hands had grabbed his hip. "You broke my heart, you know. Sure, I probably needed the lesson, but did you have to be such a dick about it?"

The hand at Chuuya's hip tightened its hold. "I'm sorry," Dazai said.

Chuuya laughed. "You're not," he replied, "but that's fine. It was a long time ago anyway."

"I—"

Dazai never finished his sentence, though Chuuya waited him out as if to say, You see. I was right.

There was no one around them. The couch they had fallen next to was hidden in an alcove of the bar, far from prying eyes. The sounds of laughter and clinking glass still reached them, but Chuuya heard it all as if through a thick wall. His eyes were on Dazai; his ears tuned to Dazai's breathing; his fingers stuck to his skin as if melted into it.

He stroked Dazai's forehead, his nose, his lips. He cupped his palm around the full of Dazai's cheek, scratched at the hair behind his ear. All that time Dazai himself was wordless, his bright eyes meeting Chuuya's like two glowing beacons.

"I loved you," Chuuya said, "and you broke my heart."

Dazai breathed in, out, in again. Chuuya felt warm air slither in-between his fingers—heavy, damp, dried with wine and whisky.

How he wanted to kiss him again.

Did you know it was my first time? Chuuya wanted to ask. Do you know how long I spent afterward watching you and imagining you always kissing me, always making love to me, until we grew old and wrinkled?

He didn't ask, because he knew. He knew that Dazai had known. He knew that Dazai knew now from the regret in his eyes and the hand squeezing Chuuya's hip; and he knew that Dazai had no better way of handling rejection now than he did ten years prior.

So Chuuya chose to tell Dazai something he didn't know. He said, "I'm still in love with you."

Dazai opened his mouth, but Chuuya put the flat of his palm over it to silence him.

"I never stopped being in love with you," he continued, heedless of the heat gathering in his eyes. "Not for one second since you kissed me for the first time."

Dazai couldn't speak with Chuuya's hand over his mouth, but his eyes spoke for him: That's impossible.

"Is it?" Chuuya laughed. "I was a stupid kid, eighteen years old and never so much as held hands with anyone, and suddenly you were right there. Confident and hot and you picked me, you kissed me and took me to bed and made me forget how afraid I was." Dazai's free hand wrapped itself around Chuuya's wrist; Chuuya sighed and leaned down until their foreheads touched. "That shit lasts, Dazai. You don't even realize how good you were to me that night, or how much it fucking hurt to hear you tell me I wasn't good to you."

Dazai pulled Chuuya's hand away. "I lied," he said almost breathlessly. "That day, I don't remember what I said to you exactly, but I know it was a lie, Chuuya, you were never bad—"

"I know," Chuuya said, smiling. "I just didn't know back then."

Chuuya hadn't yearned to see Dazai express regrets. That wish had been too far buried under his own shame. In the time it took him to understand that he had nothing to be ashamed of in the first place, any desire to see Dazai repent felt too exhausting to consider. Chuuya ached now at the sight of it. He watched regret color Dazai's own face and found no catharsis, no closure, of any kind. He pressed their lips together again more out of desire to stop watching than anything else, and this time Dazai wasn't caught by surprise.

There was a hand in Chuuya's hair, a tongue on his lips, a knee between his own; Dazai leaned up and into him, tilting his head to press further in. Chuuya didn't think for one second of refusing him. He didn't think at all, really, except to realize that the furnace inside his belly was not the fruit of illness or injury.

He moaned into the kiss. He panted through his nose over Dazai's burning face, both hands framing him as if scared of letting go. He felt Dazai's fingers tugging at his hair almost feverishly—felt his knee press up between Chuuya's thigh and his hand slip beneath wool and cotton to find bare, hot skin. Dazai trailed his fingers up Chuuya's ribcage; Chuuya bit his lip and pulled away, only to find solace at the crook of his neck, against his beating pulse.

"Love you," he said. "You stupid, brilliant, utter dick of a man."

Dazai's pulse sped up under his mouth. His breathing stilled. Chuuya closed his eyes and said it again.

And again, and again, and again.

  now

 "By the way," Chuuya said halfway to the nearest affordable restaurant. His hand was still comfortably caught in Dazai's, and his face had yet to turn a color other than pink. "You didn't happen to send anything to Akutagawa last night, did you."

"You mean the selfies I took while you were drooling all over my face? They're in my Instagram story."

"I will fucking end you."

[astreetcarnamedwynn]

writing rambles

Updates for days 2 and 3.

Worked On: Still untitled Bungou Stray Dogs fic 

How Long: About 2 hours in total

How Much: Almost 700 words in total. I had sketched out the third section, started to take it in another direction, and then shifted back a bit. Akutagawa is a tricky character to write, especially guiding him through a plausible emotional awakening.

Excerpt: Akutagawa has always prided himself on his ability to accept the harsh truths of life. Perhaps that’s why he’s had such a difficult time accepting this particular truth, for it is not harsh at all.It is soft, and softness fled Akutagawa’s world long ago.

He stands in the shadows of Harbor View Park and watches the weretiger, who sits on a bench, his legs stretched before him and his face tilted up towards the sun. He looks at home, embraced by the sun that resides in his eyes. 

At that thought, Akutagawa averts his gaze. Six months ago, such a thought, ridiculous in its poetry, in its sentimentality, would never have passed through his head. But six months ago Akutagawa had not known the weretiger, he had not stared into his eyes, twilight and gold, and felt their fierce gaze as they fought, first each other and then side by side.

They are supposed to be fighting now, Chuuya sending Akutagawa to the Detective Agency with a lead about a man named Tolstoy, a former associate of Dostoevsky’s, who may know of his ability. Akutagawa was supposed to fetch the weretiger so that they could investigate the lead, but the weretiger had not been at the Agency. Dazai, though, had been, and he had directed Akutagawa here, to this park where the weretiger apparently liked to spend his lunch when the weather was nice.

Akutagawa glances back at the weretiger. 

He shifts on the bench. He glows in the sun. 

How could a child of the moon be so at home in the sun?

[ol-razzle-dazazzle]

A Moral Compass Directs You to a Bar

An attempt to properly give Kunikida and Chuuya the correct characterisation they deserve, also with some shippy stuff. I tend to see these two mischaracterised and flanderized in fanfics so I figured I'd try kill two birds with one stone here, anyway- enjoy. --------------- It was a late night for Kunikida. It always was. While he never was one to show his nervousness (or at least he considered himself as such), it was difficult. He was walking along, flickering through the pages in his notebook. It didn't matter where he was or how he was going, but it was hard. The city was somewhat salvaged, and he didn't want to look up at the debris that lingered around the place. He felt sick. He felt like he failed. Fukuzawa was talking about him the other day, how he was to be the next successor for the Armed Detective Agency. Sure, it figured that he fit the bill, and was the 'ideal' person for the job but... a smashed car, he looked to the side, there was brown, but the rusty colour of dried blood. He was in a seedy area, and the police hadn't cleared everything up. How many people had died? And in the end, it wasn't even him that saved them. Kunikida always helped, of course he did- he always tried to be the best person, from taking extra missions because of urgency or just cleaning up around the office. He held himself to a high standard, why wouldn't he? But he always went through the same thing. The schedule would always be uninterrupted, the 'ideal' would never come about. It hurt, though he resists and persists, but it still aches. Especially ever since...everything with the Azure King. He brushed it aside, but it all managed to catch up with him. With a sigh, he glanced up at some dimly lit bar, well why the hell not? Well the first few reasons include safety, drinking clouds judgement but oh he's already through the door. This is stupid, this is the kind of behaviour that gets people killed. There weren't many people, a metaphoric twist in the knife. "Just a...glass of cold water, to clear my head." Kunikida murmurs to the barkeep, knowing it's not going to stay for that long. A voice almost speaks his mind, "You come all the way over to this hole for a glass of water? I can't tell whether you're an idiot or you want to pretend you have class." The seat next to him gets occupied, and Kunikida freezes, hands clutched to his notebook. "I'd rather not get into a fight drunk, considering your reputation, Nakahara." Kunikida squints at him, unsure as to why the mafiosi hasn't changed in his disposition. "Look, normally I'd love the chance to pound one of you into the ground, but with everything going on lately, the Mafia's wanting a little break from wars." He gives a smirk, "How about a little truce, huh? We can even make a toast if you want." Kunikida shakes his head, but sets the notebook aside. "Seriously? You think I'd lie to you? I mean, I don't want to have to answer to /him/ again anyway." "I know you're honest, but I'd rather not sully myself with the likes of you." Chuuya frowned, a finger moving to the notebook, "Ideal, hmm?" It was swiped away, earning a glare from the other man. "Calm down, I didn't mean to disarm you." Kunikida sneers, "I know that, you're a man of class and an idiot." Chuuya accepts the verbal blow, smiling, "See? Now we're getting somewhere. Barkeep, two glasses." Now with a swirled glass in hand, Chuuya leans back into the seat. "One glass, enough to stir the senses, don't you think?" Kunikida takes a sip, "I suppose, they say a glass a day prolongs your lifespan." "Especially if you're a lightweight, like yours truly." "I don't drink often." Kunikida looks at the pooled red. "Not ideal?" "Stop going on about that." "Well, I don't know much about you outside of files, so that's all I have to go off." Kunikida grits his teeth, "and I don't have much to know about you apart from being a reckless, brutal, drunkard who can't mind his own business." "Well none of those things are true, to that extent- I feel the records flanderize me." "And my ideals are important to me, which is why I can't stand going against them. It's why I go against people like you." Chuuya frowned, "And how's that been going for you so far?" Kunikida stiffened. "You came all this way because life is going along to your little storybook? I can't believe that." "It's not." Kunikida mumbled, "Things haven't been going as planned." "No shit." Chuuya took a sip, raising a glass, "Tons of our people died in all that mess, a lot more than you'd think." "And who is 'our people'? The same criminal dogs who kick morals to the curb?" The glass in Chuuya's hand dropped, rattling. "Well, allow me to enlighten you. Do you have any clue why a mafia is made?" "It's a crime syndicate used to earn money." Kunikida stared back. "I'm not asking for dictionaries, dipshit. The very first one, why was it formed?" Upon seeing no answer, "It was to protect everybody who couldn't go to the police because they were corrupt." "How dare you say that we're-" "You misunderstand. I just mean that not all of us are 10 million yen orphan tigers or math teachers with a lucky break." Chuuya stares at him, "I'm not completely devoid of human sympathy, we all have standards." Kunikida raises an eyebrow, "I don't get why you're telling me all this." "Because I want you to stop being so stupidly strict on yourself and just at least try to enjoy yourself." "Is that where Dazai got it from?" "No, I'm just...look, I feel like fucking shit right now, so I figured 'misery loves company' and that I would at least try to be civil." Chuuya settles his head on the table. "I don't want to sleep because I wake up every morning and there's less people. You can sense it in the air." "That pungent scent of failure." Kunikida looks down. "Yep." Kunikida sighs, clinking his glass with Chuuya's. "To impossible to achieve standards." Chuuya merely nods, propping himself up on the chair. "So what's gotten you all upset? You're the one that gets all the credit, after all, that agency." "It's...a lot of things. Mainly that I didn't do enough." "I hear that. Fucking Akutagawa fixed up everything, my subordinate! Can you believe that shit? And what did I do? Just stand around, doing a few flips?" "You did look rather cool, Kenji couldn't stop talking about you afterwards." "R-Really?" The flush came too quickly on Chuuya's face, coughing. "Didn't expect that." "Not to mention Lovecraft, he was difficult enough regularly with the other one, let alone with that...ability?" "Would you have liked to have seen my kickflips then?" Chuuya smirks. "Yes, I would." Kunikida rolls his eyes. "Well, when you lay it all out like that it sounds like we did quite a bit." The two sigh, "But it wasn't enough." "They always say 'you did the best you could', but you know deep down you could do more." Kunikida flicks through the pages, uncaring of he glances. "Well, you know- there's always a difference between theory and practise. You could specifically plan everything to its best potential, but when it actually happens it never works out that way." "That just means you have to try harder." "What it means is that you have to allow room for 'error'. You got a pen?" Chuuya asks, a hand splayed out, as he scrawls what he said, on the back page. "Don't rip it out, will you?" "Thanks for the free calling card. If there's every any handwriting analysis I'll be sure to know if it's yours." Kunikida jokes. "Nah, we get Elise or Mori to write those anyway, they prefers it like that." Chuuya waves a dismissal hand, "Besides, it's nice to have something on record that isn't 'idiotic aggressive drunkard'." "And what, you're going to update my own 'file'?" "Maybe, but it's nice to know you aren't half as annoying as I thought you'd be." "Likewise." Kunikida took back his pen, writing once more. "Hm...? 'Can't be in the Port Mafia'? Wait, this is under 'ideal partner'." Chuuya exhales, "Well that's fucking rude. You had to add another restriction just for me." "Well it's like you said, I can't achieve a perfect ideal, because life doesn't work that way." "What's this? You think I'd be a decent partner except for that one part?" Kunikida merely sets judgement aside, and sets his lips on Chuuya's own. Objectively, it wouldn't be perfect, but the imperfections made the world around him soften slightly. "Well my ideal is to not have anyone from the Agency, so I guess that doesn't work out nicely." But it did, and for a while it felt like those contradictions made sense.

[izanyas]

oh!!! oh!!! for the skk prompts (if you're still doing it) would you mind doing a "meet the fam" one if that's not too terribly difficult?

probably not exactly what you expected but this reminded me hardcore of Owe No Debt so i couldn’t resist writing one of the extra scenes that didn’t make it to the story.

warning for very vague references to abuse.

–

“I don’t care what Ace said,” Dazai drawled, looking over the boxes full of apples in front of him. “If he wants me to handle that mess he’ll have to take it up with Mori.”

The man next to him, one of Ace’s underlings—though slave might be the right word, considering the awful collar—whimpered pathetically. Dazai hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings since getting to the marketplace, so he had no idea if he was even being watched. He technically didn’t have anything pressing to do for the day, and it had only taken one of Chuuya’s disgusted glances at how pale and sickly he knew he looked to decide that he might as well go out.

He’d been doing a lot of that lately, trying to make Chuuya’s opinion of him shift somehow, for better or worse. He couldn’t quite stop thinking about the way Chuuya had looked a few weeks ago, stepping into one of Akutagawa’s training sessions to carry a message and blanching, almost freezing at the sight of what they were doing.

Dazai frowned at the apple he was holding, dismissing the heavily annoyed glance that its seller was giving him. He didn’t think he’d been standing there that long, but obviously, he’d missed some time again.

“Please, Dazai-sama,” Ace’s man said once more.

It could’ve garnered some pity if Dazai had any pity left in him.

“No,” he replied. He handed money over to the vendor lazily, taking a bite of the apple. It was the sharp, acidic kind, the one he liked best. All the others were too sweet.

The man shot him one last dark glance. Dazai gave it back with a hollow smile.

Then he leaned into the handyman’s side a whispered, “Now get out of here before I kill you,” into his ear.

He didn’t have to repeat himself.

Dazai leaned against the back of the open truck. With its rows of colorful fruit, it looked a little like a great gutted beast, would have painted a gloomier picture if not for the rush of people walking in front of it. He ate the rest of the apple without tasting much of it, contenting himself with glancing over the boring faces around him. He amused himself for a moment by imagining each of them as human, as living creatures. His mind strained at the effort, though. He didn’t know anyone on this side of town, had come here precisely because of it—the fact that Ace had sent someone on his tail just to ask him to fix the entire drug bust mess he had made with the police two days ago irritated him.

Someone bumped into him from the side, and the apple fell from his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” said a voice—a woman’s voice, he confirmed, meeting its owner’s eyes.

Something about them made the sick-sweet retort building on his lips halt.

“It’s nothing,” he replied, peering at her.

“Oh, I’m so—” she seemed to fret for a second, looking between his hands and the fallen apple—“let me buy you another, I’m so sorry—”

“Miss, it’s fine. I was almost done with it.”

He was used to people getting nervous around him, but never quite that way. The woman obviously wasn’t scared of him—the chance that she even knew him was so slim as to be nonexistent—but she looked like she was scared of something anyway. There was a nervousness to her that felt very familiar. As if she was ready to jump out of her own skin.

Dazai looked her over for a second longer. She could have been anywhere between forty and fifty years; short, black-haired, sporting that same slightly-disheveled long cut that all mothers seemed to have. Her face was very lovely. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her in his life.

Yet there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. A drag of old suspicion in his belly.

“Please let me buy you a new one,” she said, bowing lightly.

Well. It wasn’t as if Dazai had anything better to do.

He followed after her toward the side of the truck-shop. Its owner seemed about as unhappy to see him now as he had been the first time, though he smiled at the woman. Probably because she bought a whole lot of other things, on top of the apple.

Dazai took it from her with a whispered thank you, which she waved off nervously. 

“Do you come here often, then?” he asked, when it looked as though she was ready to walk away from him. 

He didn’t want to let her go before figuring out why she intrigued him.

The woman flicked a nervous glance to his face. Dazai could only thank coincidence that he hadn’t been injured there in a while; he was free of cuts or bruises, both eyes open to the light of day. He knew he looked younger than his height made him out to be—the women seemed to notice it as well, and something flickered over her face, aching brightly for a second, before she finally relaxed.

“I live just up the street,” she said. “Are you—not from around here?”

“I’m not. My name is Dazai, by the way.”

“Fuku,” she replied. She didn’t offer a last name. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Lovely to meet you too,” he muttered in answer.

He couldn’t stop looking at her face. The was something—the shape of her eyes, the structure of it… She withstood his scrutiny with good grace, though he could tell that she was growing uncomfortable by the second. It was understandable; she was a woman, shorter and frailer than him, standing here behind the thick of the market as he stared at her like a creep. And he had never been very good at making people feel anything but scared or angry in his presence anyway. Only Odasaku, Ango, and Chuuya ever viewed him as something worth more than fear and hatred.

“I’m sorry,” he let out, looking away at last. It cost him to have to ask, but he did it anyway. “Say—have we ever met somewhere before?”

“I don’t—I don’t think so,” Fuku replied. Her voice was faint.

“I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“I really don’t think so, Dazai-kun.” She added, “I think I would have remembered you.”

Most people did.

Still, that was disappointing. Dazai let his interest fade into boredom once more. It was out of habit and nothing more that he told her, “I must have seen you in a dream and wished to meet you again, then. You’re very beautiful.”

There was a second of silence; then Fuku snorted, something loud and entirely different than he would have expected out of a timid-looking person like her—he couldn’t help but look again as her lips lifted, as she replied, “You’re a little too young for me, boy. Even if I wasn’t married.”

Her smile wasn’t at all timid. It grew boyish on her, hesitant but frank, not at all the gentle curve of the mouth that he had waited for. It looked so out of place. It made her eyes thin and dimple. It twisted sideways, a little, as if she didn’t know how to do it more gently. 

Dazai knew that smile.

“Married,” he repeated through a haze.

There was no way. There was no way. He had spent months looking back then, almost an entire year trying to figure it out, there was no way the answer had been sitting here this entire time—

“Do you have kids?” he asked, controlled, polite. As if he was making small talk and nothing more.

She had all of his active interest now.

Her smile faded naturally. So naturally that anyone less observant than him would have missed the old shadow in her eyes, would not have associated it to the hint of permanent sleeplessness that her makeup hid poorly. “I have two,” she replied.

“How old?”

Fuku’s mouth shook for a second.

“The youngest is only three,” she said eventually. “The oldest…”

Her struggle was too obvious for him not to make note of it. If he said nothing, it would become suspicious. “Oh,” he intoned, in what he hoped was a compassionate enough voice. “I’m sorry.”

He felt greedy.

She shook her head at him, immediately bothered by the thought of imposing on him. “No, I, I shouldn’t speak of it to a stranger—you’re so young.” Her words were soft as she said it. Her gaze struck with misery as it washed over him. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” he answered.

“Seventeen,” she repeated. Like the number was haunting her.

They fell silent for a moment. There was no way Dazai would let her go without prying every detail he could out of her and confirm what he already knew, giddy, at the hollow of his heart; but he couldn’t insist so obviously without startling her. 

It was a surprise when she raised her head and asked, “Would you like to come over for tea?”

She sounded a little desperate, a little aloft with nostalgia. Loss was so strikingly present on her, grief breathing out of her every word, that it was a wonder she could speak without crying. That she could laugh at all. Her shoulder shook once as she awaited his answer. Dazai was so familiar with the gesture—made in nervousness or irritation or sometimes, the most wonderful times, embarrassment—that he had to restrain an outright grin.

“I would love to,” he said darkly.

She smiled at him again with a hopelessness made habit by the years; and in every line of her face, grieved and stubborn, Dazai saw Chuuya.