#Protective Chuuya

[lover-of-midnight]

Self-Destruction

Dazai glared as he looked at the river, hearing the water rushing through underneath the bridge. He closed his eyes for a second as he took a drag from the cigarette. He could faintly feel tears burning his eyes as he tried to ignore everything.

Limbs trembled as he forced himself over the railing, his fingers tightened around the railing. Everything in him screaming that he needed to end this. The only way to end everything is to leave, leave permanently.

Still, he couldn’t help but think of his stupid dog, the one person who always cared, even when he made it as if he didn’t.

A pang went through his heart at the thought of Chuuya, knowing that his death would hurt him, but still, he would be better off without him here anymore. That in the long run, he would be better off without him.

“Stupid mackerel.” The voice was harsh as it pulled Dazai slightly from his thoughts. Anger radiated from the older teen as he glared at Dazai. “And what are you doing?”

Dazai was silent for a few seconds, as he tried to gather his thoughts, ignoring Chuuya who was walking closer. “How did you know I would be here?” He couldn’t bring himself to look at Chuuya his eyes still firmly on the river.

“You always go to the rivers when you are in a bad mood,” Chuuya said it as if it were the most obvious thing. “What’s wrong Osamu?” Chuuya leaned next to Dazai, his voice softened slightly, blue eyes taking in the river rushing beneath their feet.

Dazai was silent, unable to answer the question. Still unsure of how to tell people what was going on in his head.

The silence was stifling between them as they just looked at the river, Chuuya taking in the why, Dazai moved his hand around the railing, ready to jump and pull him back if needed.

“Do you want to come to my apartment? I have some cigarettes and wine that we can share?” Chuuya spoke up after a while, tiredness clear in his voice. Knowing that there is nothing he can say or do that will change Dazai ‘s mind. But still, he wanted him safe and sound, so the best was to just get him away from here.

Dazai’s fingers clenched around the railing as he glanced upwards, trying to blink away the tears that were burning his eyes.

“Why are you here Chuuya?” His voice broke slightly, a part of his mind just screaming, that Chuuya was only here because he needed him for something. Still, he wanted some calmness.

“Because I care about you. You are my friend, the one that knows me, even when you piss me off you managed to get a smile out of my face. The world would be bleak without you in its Osamu.” Chuuya bit the last part out as if the words were forced from him.

But still, it seemed that it was the right choice to make as Dazai relaxed slightly before he forced him back to safety.

Chuuya held out his hand, waiting for Dazai to slip his hand into his. He gently squashed his hand before they started to walk back to Chuuya’s apartment.

Chuuya stood in the door, the apartment smelt of smoke making him wrinkle his nose slightly. But still, Dazai was fast asleep on his couch, blood-thick with alcohol. He was safe in his apartment and for that, Chuuya is all that matters.

He quickly went to grab a blanket, wrapping Dazai up into it, as he moved back to go to his room, he couldn’t help but look back a sad smile on his face. As he whispered. “I care about you, stupid fish.” He whispered the words before he disappeared into his room.

Hoping that a new day would be a better day.

Ao3 Link

[lightning24680]

ᴅᴏ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴꜱ ʜᴀᴜɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴɢ? ᴄʜ.1

Hi guys here is the first chapter, of my soukoku fic where Chuuya goes back in time to stop Dazai from leaving the Port Mafia. This is not going to be accurate to canon timeline, since this is my own fic it will follow whatever crazy plot/ timeline I create lol. I will be doing my best to keep the characters not OOC, however if there are some OOC moments sorry! Without further ado enjoy!!! Let me know what you think! ~Lighting 24680

It was a dark night on the streets of Yokohama. Fog covering the stillness of the water under that fateful bridge where a certain bandaged soul had found a men-tee of who with that encounter had found a family and a home. This bandaged soul of course has a name, a name both feared and respected even in the darkest parts of the city where only the dangerous and gifted go. That name is Dazai Osamu, and for Dazai's men-tee Atsushi and co-worker Ranpo it was a name invoked to aggravate the dark and dangerous such as a certain Port Mafia executive and the Port Mafias "dog". Of course for a person as calculating and broken as Dazai he was given a title to fit after all as the former youngest executive of the Port Mafia he didn't make it with nothing to show for it. The Demon Prodigy didn't make it there without memories that haunt even him.

Only one person had ever come close to understanding the complicated and hidden mystery of the person behind the mask of the Demon Prodigy. Of understanding Osamu. That title was a facade hated by it's owner as much as it's owner hates himself. For all his faked exuberance and mischievousness with a smile perfectly crafted to never slip, Dazai is disturbingly emotionless with an intelligence that had and will save him and the agency from destruction countless times. He's emotionless in the way that a mirror in a dark room will always show you a reflection but it will be shrouded in shadow. Until with no warning the door to the room is opened and cracks of light shine on the mirror and suddenly your eyes that were dull and blank now have light in them and for a moment you can see into the mirror before the door is slammed shut again.

There was only two people who had been able to open that door before and only one remaining who still can. This person as you can imagine is special to Dazai, not that he'd ever willingly admit to his rival being able to see him in a way only one other person has, not that he'd ever admit to caring for the Port Mafia executive he'd once called his partner. No he'd never admit to caring for Nakahara Chuuya...at least not by saying it outright.

Currently said executive is speeding along the roads in a red glow telling of his ability "𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖘𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜" a set look laid upon his face as he drove on his beloved motorcycle to the looming tower of the Port Mafia headquarters where he had been summoned from a mission by his boss, the bastard leader of the Port Mafia Mori Ougai. As Chuuya slid off his motorcycle and sped through the doors and into the elevator,blood left over from his previous mission slowly dripping down his coat he wondered what his boss had called him for he'd asked well not really it was more of a demand than anything to come meet with him immediately. Chuuya's face went hard with wondering what was so horrible that his boss had demanded him to immediately meet him.

As the elevator dinged and opened letting him onto the floor where his boss' door faced him. As Chuuya opened the door he found his boss sitting at his desk awaiting him. Before Chuuya could sit down or ask Mori what was happening and what he needed to do three words left Mori's mouth that left Chuuya stiff and shocked still, dread and irritation filling him. "It's about Dazai".

[hitmyheadagainstthewall]

The light covering everything in yellow, orange and red

Summary:

Dazai himself was there beneath the dim light from the sign, leaned against the doorframe, his partner was wearing a hospital gown—looking recklessly pathetic.

“Hey," Chuuya acknowledged.

“Hey,” Dazai responded.

-

or, Dazai got captured and Chuuya takes care of him on the aftermath.

In less than an hour the stool where he was sat was left empty, and Bar Lupin was ten-yens in debt. He never liked sake, anyway.

For weeks, or months, perhaps—long enough for Chuuya not be able to say with the tip of his tongue and quick thinking—, his colleagues in Port Mafia were not able to organise a reunion, or just talk with each other outside of a bloody mission, the heavy weight of lives over their shoulders, the aroma of madness, and grief.

Somewhere inside Chuuya, deep in his guts, at the bottom of his mind, he missed it.

The warmth that domained his chest when he was around his people, familiar faces everywhere he gazed, he missed it; the heat of the alcohol sliding down his throat and sitting wrong into his stomach, as his organs had shifted placement, however it was mixed with himself amid of his drinking companions—felt like home.

(One day, in his forsaken life, he will outgrow it. He will find comfort at his own singularity, and trust no-one but himself, because nobody is worth it. There , he was sixteen, and he was human.)

God knows that he had not been able to enjoy it for at least a year. He doesn’t have the time.

Dazai. Dazai Osamu.

The contradictions of his partner made him capable of appearing in the rushen encounter of his friends at the Bar Lupin, in the first place.

Dazai had become a enduring partner, not only because of the boss orders, where neither of them had the whim to disobey, but because Chuuya started to understand the person fighting at his side better than his own skin—and it was not the easiest—, and he was determined to learn even more of Dazai’s depth, as well the weight of his mind.

It had maintained him occupied.

They had been tossed back and forth, mission after mission; days, weeks, closer to months, where they had the misfortune to spend together with no outside communication, stuck with each other in hideouts scattered everywhere, and locked inside cells into enemy’s territory. Just so Mori would give them a tap on their shoulders (or a punishment—even though he never received much of those, and he was not as stupid as Dazai liked to pretend he is.)

Chuuya hated him.

His partner; annoying at the best, with his talking and with his gestures, just altogether provocative. They could (and would) wrestle for days, non-stop. Nevertheless, Chuuya had seen Dazai build brick-by-brick of a new wall of his facet towards foreign people, but keep the old, chipped on the borders ones towards him—all masks made from clay, sagging within the heavy gravity.

(He will understand, in the future, that he had mined on dead soil. Nevermind Chuuya gave Dazai his truth, and his soul, Chuuya never gave Dazai purpose.

How selfish can it be? Expect compassion from the inhuman. Fortunately, he expected nothing at all.)

Chuuya was not the most academically gifted person to wonder the Port Mafia’s paths, no matter how much it hurts him to admit; he, as well, struggled to understand the simpler of schoolarity subjects, biology, quimics, mathematics—he understood physics, nonetheless, or at least the most important slice of it.

“Osmosys,” Dazai had humbled for Chuuya once. His provocative tone falling into a soft sigh, more thoughtful, “is the easiest way to learn about anything on this planet.”

Himself, was the gravity pull, and he comprehended easily, with the littlest complies, as he fell into Dazai Osamu’s orbit. Albeit, every object with mass has the urge to fall.

He needed a fucking break.

Their operation—the one that Dazai commanded from afar, and Chuuya obeyed because in some point between trying to crack his partner’s cranium open against the wall but also preparing hot cocoa for their sore throats during nights neither of them were going to sleep, he gave Dazai his life—was a success, at least for their superiors.

His partner gave the command to evacuate their man, despite Chuuya’s angered barks towards the enemy’s base (how antagonic to say, considering what he is). That day, Dazai muttered towards him, “Take control of the mission— don’t question it at least, alright? Be back here when I give you the sign.” He might have added a “Good dog!” he doesn’t remember.

The mission was for the recovery of leaked confidential files; it took weeks, and yet Chuuya was not aware of what those files contained. Leaked, a formal way to say the papers were transferred from the underground by a traitor, unknown, that was able to come out clean.

Dazai was able to track down those documents into a building disguised as a Nonprofit Organisation amid the crowded urban centre. Chuuya knew that attacking a “light-hearted” business was not close to being one of the cruellest things the mafia could do to protect its own interests.

But they did not.

They did not, and Dazai disappeared for a weekend after that short command.

The sign came as a phone call. An exchange: his partner’s life or the precious documents he knew nothing about.

Chuuya and his men were at the building’s entrance not an hour after, and he invaded with nothing more than a knife on his left hand.

It was the scent of blood, and the loose track of footsteps that led Chuuya towards Dazai; the gravitational pull, where he keeps falling, falling, falling, all the downsteps from that mouldy staircase, and guides him towards the centre.

Albeit, Dazai is almost unrecognisable. He found Dazai inside of an interrogation cell, lacking his coat, and his tie. Dazai stayed, as still as a marble statue, handcuffed to a metal chair.

All he could think was: “This fucking idiot…”

No self-destructive behaviour of his would condicionante him to be tortured from own whim—but, again, Dazai was just something else, with an impressive lack of surviving skills.

The door crinkled with his gravity, dented as a soda can within his hands. He was not capable of seeing the cell’s depth—he could only curse towards the walls he couldn’t gaze, and hoped the dim red-light from his ability was enough to guide him frontwards, and it was, until it flickled.

His right foot stepped over a wet, sticky puddle.

Chuuya was comfortably familiar with the No Longer Human. Chuuya could explain the feeling as sinking, misstepping, or just jumping and never finding the floor, Dazai had explained to Chuuya his ability was as bugs crawling beneath thin skin. He felt the urge to call his partner dramatic, however he couldn’t, not when Dazai looked at him like he was gazing himself through Chuuya’s eyes.

It was impossible for him to not shiver, the couple of seconds after he realised he had sunk his feet is partner’s lake of blood; the chair in the middle of the puddle like the centre of a spectacle.

“Dazai,” he begged. Chuuya’s hands drew his companion’s head upwards, who had lolled back and exposed neck; and he jumped, heart dropped into the bottom of his stomach (falling, falling, falling), and the distant whir from No Longer Human, as he accidently gaze directly on Dazai’s open eyes, no bandage around his useless eye, as looking towards the bottom of burnt caramel. “Snap out of it!”

The absent mist covering Dazai’s eyes cleared as he shook his partner's head back and forth—he did not want to think how terrifying it was, the body heavy within his hands, looking lifeless, his partner.

Dazai blinked, slow, and Chuuya could almost see the boom of his pupils, enlarged unnaturally, it almost hid the bursted capillaries from his sclera, through the murky cell.

Dazai grinned. “It took you enough time.” Dry blood that had flowed from his nose flaked.

“I should leave you here.” Chuuya leered.

He did not. The tramble of his hands proved it as he moved towards the handcuffs, winced as his knees sank on the bloody mess, just to figure both thumbs were dislocated, and the metal slided down his nude wrists.

As soon as Dazai could move, he stood, rapidly, and stumbled a few steps towards the door before stilling. 

“Hell, you must be out of your mind,” Chuuya mumbled and straightened his legs.

His hands drew towards Dazai’s back right away; he felt the body slightly swing against the palm of his hands, as how buildings wobbled during wind storms. “Oi!” he said, and Chuuya snapped his fingers in front of Dazai’s nose, anxious to clean the dissociated gaze that worked as a cloud, it had prinprinks of light that he could recognise on the same eyes when Dazai drunk cheap whiskey after three days without eating nothing more than chips and peanut.

Before he could think—Dazai’s eyelids, looking so heavy, sluggishly closed—, his partner’s body slumped.

He seized Dazai’s both arms and dragged the limp body towards his chest, fixing his sprawled limbs on his hold, the elbow pierced his shoulder (he ignored, for his own sake, as his hand ran towards the neck, as his breath hitched before he could find the constant beat from the heart, and he swallowed the lump of panic stuck on his throat, because Dazai felt dead. Dazai collapsed as he had his strings cut, and he felt so, so scared.)

“Fucking bastard Dazai,” Chuuya swore, whining. Dazai’s weight firm against his back, lanky arms wrapped on his neck, and Chuuya pretended not to eye the nails chewed to non-existence, as he climbed the staircase, the warmth of hot blood spilled on his jacket as wine was able to make him wince, but all he felt was too lazy, too slow rise and fall from his partner’s breathing.

Mori appeared, like he always seemed to do to leer Dazai at his worst, and most vulnerable parts, however it only made Chuuya sick on the stomach rather than confidence that his companion would be safe within his boss’s gloves.

Beneath the moonlight, accompanied by the stars, he could hear the distant whir of sirens from vehicles he was so used to the sound, Mori hoisted Dazai from his hold as someone picking a feral, stray cat, and tapped his shoulder two times—Chuuya blamed the burnt to his aching limbs, and not because the touch from his boss was so foreign to him, and the presence was so hefty, that he was terrified of the superior gaze.

“You did a good job, Chuuya-kun,” Mori sang. “I think you deserve a break, don’t you think? How about a commemoration?”

The Bar Lupin was filled with known faces, nonetheless the stool he commonly sat was empty. He soon became familiar with the side-looks he received, no matter how much liquor he had drank. One small talk with a group of friends he engaged with was enough for him to realise he knew none of these people—and the heat from the partnership was only the burning throat from a quick shot he took to ignore how he felt misplaced.

“The warmth that domained his chest when he was around his people, familiar faces everywhere he gaze, he missed it”— and, yet, all he was capable of thinking was Dazai Osamu.

Leave the stool as more of an easy decision than he wanted it to be. He wanted to struggle with it for a while, he wanted the urge of following his partner to hell and back to be difficult, a pin in the back of his head; nevertheless before he could think straight, his legs were wandering the Underground paths, where he knew his partner would be awaiting for him.

Chuuya had called himself independent—he never bent under superior’s wishes without bickering, without fighting back. His partner’s contradictions conditioned him, in some way, to not give up his will, and never give people the force to fold his power. Yet, his loyalty was never something he could work with, carved on stone and his flesh as the burning swirl pattern from Arahabaki, both Dazai and him knew that outstandingly well.

Wind blew and tousled his knotted hair, and he still wrinkled his nose with the smell of salt poured on his face; he dwelled in Yokohama’s pathways since the first thread of his memories, snuggling with homeless, pathetic kids to expel the deadly cold from their small bodies, and he lived exclusively for the city, for those people, however he never got used to the sour whiff streaming in the air, too familiar, almost nostalgic, even that he never left.

The way his veins ran inside his body are the same from the streets that contrived the nerves of his home town, and he had ranged those dropping-drunk, bled out, with blind eyes—he arrived just in time.

When his face got lighted with more than the thin veil from the moonlight and now with the neon sign from a foreign clinic, it being the only enlightened structure into the whole street, he was already shivering. The dry blood from Dazai on his back created a cold crust on his jacket that sent shivers down his spine.

And Dazai himself was there, which made him release a chuckle, beneath the dim light from the sign, leaned against the doorframe, his partner was wearing a hospital gown— looking recklessly pathetic.

Dazai’s skin was ashen, and the bandage around his face was loosely back but not on his arms—Dazai was a mosaic of scar, stained glass teared until it returned to sand—then he scraped the harsh skin until it drew blood—suddenly it wasn’t as funny. He looked lanky without them, sprawled limbs and joints pointed out from the muscles.

“Hey,” Chuuya acknowledged.

He noticed the black and blue bruises, fingerprints and memorable sore from punches that gave Dazai life, nevermind how unbelievable it may have sounded.

“Hey,” Dazai responded.

His voice was rough on the edges, like the burnt ledge from a paper, and weary. Chuuya strode towards Dazai and cupped his corned hands—he ignored the constant quivering, since he knew Dazai, when Chuuya weared such a thin jumper he could see the skin beneath the cloth, his hands were the only organs he could not control, always gesticulating and shaking…

“Huh,” Chuuya breathed. “I expected for you to look more–”

Dazai sneered. “Fuck up?”

A nose tugged on his scalp, the faint blow of his partner’s inhale made his guts wiggle with joy, something as stepping over hot sand with bare feet, and something like pride, because he knew Chuuya was the only that Dazai started contact with; Chuuya was the one who Dazai talked about nightmares, and Chuuya was the one who Dazai snuggled when he was sick—not Ango , not Mori.

(Not Odasaku—it would be a lie.)

He tightened his hold on the hands, and Dazai rested his cheek above his tousled velvet hair, just breathing. “Yes, jackass.”

Dazai hummed, “They’re more into waterboarding, you know?” he drawled, “and a little bit of carving, but they’re so, so bad at it, Chuuya, and too talkative, as well–”

“Carved?” He interrupted his partner’s humbleness.

“Oh,” Dazai breathed. Swiftly, he withdrew—Dazai’s nose wrinkled after the light itch from his hair, and he absolutely, utterly, abnormally hated how his heart stuttered, too fond and with beyond care—, then moved way slightly the fabric from the gown and showed bandages that balled from his chest to his stomach: scattered slashes of blood leaked from the white bandages, distant from each other, but still near for Chuuya to understand a pattern.

It remembered him a little excessively like Mori…

He leisurely brought the tip of his finger towards the woven cotton, but stopped himself as Dazai winced.

Dazai must have, too, Chuuya wondered. He was not the one to miss irony when he saw it.

Dazai’s right hand attempted to escape his loose grip, going towards his free arm, however Chuuya stopped him by clutching the fingers.

“Ouch,” Dazai verbalised, suddenly remembering Chuuya from the dislocated thumbs from earlier that night. “I can’t believe you just did this to me, Chibikko–” Chuuya growled. “Hurting me like this. When I’m already miserable. When at the verge of death.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Chuuya groaned, “you can’t shut up. You just can’t.”

They kept humbling at each other, insutes and words they can barely hear, or understand leaving their mouths. Nevertheless, at every moment, at every bastard mackerel, petite mafioso, fucking wimp, shorty slug they leaned more and more against each other, until the point where he sustained the slim body from his partner with his own, and dug his heels onto the paved street.

In some minutes, or hours, perhaps, it was going to sunrise, and the last thing he wanted was to be standing on a random pavement in front of a clandestine hospital clinic Mori must had built with the money he gathered from a million others clinics, scattered through all Yokohama, with the limp body of his partner, and Chuuya was tired.

He was tired— tired from the investigation that endured days alone, from the sleepless weekend, from seeing Dazai teared as a ragdoll, and of sitting on a stool thinking about his partner. He got tired from the feeling of home Dazai had brought, of thinking of him, and talking about him, and the lack on his heart where his idependency used to live, of a past where he did not knew Dazai; he missed it, whole-heartedly missed it, but could not bring himself to live like that again.

Chuuya, then, lazily kicked Dazai’s left leg, and he fell hitting his shoulder onto Chuuya’s chest, as his leg shook and bent. Dazai whimpered, loudly and childish, and Chuuya rolled his eyes even though he was only fifty days apart in age.

Inhaled, they still smelled like blood, like madness, and grief. Exhaled, the sky became pink in front of his eyes, a ray of sunshine, light piercing the heavy clouds and the injustice from the silent nights.

“I waited for you,” Chuuya said.

“I know,” Dazay muttered, “me too.”

The trip towards the apartament had them panting—Dazai puked once, and Chuuya had to stop merely three times to not do the same due pure and unfiltered exhaustion, his limbs costing all his energy to simply lift. They sat against each other as the lifter climbed through ten floors, and Chuuya did not even live in the penthouse.

As they arrived the sun was glowing outside, the sunrays covering everything in yellow, orange and red like oil paint, leaking through the gaps underneath doors and narrow windows.

Dazai looked as ashen as he did before, eyes closed and leaned against the wall from the hallway as Chuuya attempted to open the lock from his own apartment, and he could see the veins that contrived beneath the eyelids, as well the rapid back and forth spasms from his pupils; oily hair clung on his forehead and pale lips like white marble—it made Chuuya wonder how much of a good idea was bringing Dazai from a hospital to his house.

Sleeping while standing up was not something that fitted well on Dazai, it appeared too vulnerable, and weak, for a mafioso with a nickname as cruel as Demon Prodigy, or a fame of a heartless, inhuman death-machine, and his partner would be contorting if anyone could see him in this state, but not with him— there, the pride again, warmer and more colourful than the sunrise.

“C’mon,” Chuuya mumbled after unlocking his door—on the third key, as well. His brain felt like cotton, or milk inside his scalp. “Get in, Mackerel, I’m not carrying you inside.”

He did.

They did not take off the shoes, nor his carmesin-covered jacket, then uneven footprints scattered over the carpet, of mud and dirt. “Heavy mother-fucker,” Chuuya lied, his partner was concerningly light, on thin ice for him to him to feel the ribcage. He carried his companion by the armpits, then Chuuya pushed Dazai onto the sofa, the body collapsed, slouched on the leather.

“You’re a meanie,” Dazai whined. “I’m very high,” Dazai added, for no particular reason, half-lidded eyes staring towards the dim yellow lights.

“Are you, really?” Chuuya arched an eyebrow. Dazai nodded. “Good, so I don’t need to waste proper medication on you.”

“Chibi–” Dazai’s hands moved towards his both bare arms—it was a habit that could not vanish, Chuuya was sceptical it ever would—, he firmly moved the hands away. “I’m itchy.”

“So put on some pyjamas, and go to sleep,” he growled.

“You know that’s not how it works, petite.

“You need to stop callin’ me that,” Chuuya humbled, finally, finally, removed the tight shoes from his feet, waggling his toes. He felt so relieved he pretended to not hear the giggles from when he lost balance and was close to stumble over Dazai. “I am growing, on my way to tower over you, I just need time!”

“Hum,” Dazai closed his eyes, “I bet your motorcycle that it’s not true.”

Chuuya removed his jacket, the blood flaked away, tearing over the fabric like clay. His face reddened, heated with familiar anger—more familiar than those people, than the Yokohama streets, a different kind of warmth from enragement only Dazai could have brought. “That’s not how bets work, dipshit.”

I am home, he felt, I don’t want it to end.  

“Where are you going?” Dazai asked after Chuuya rubbed his feet on the carpet, grounding himself, and dragged his weary body forward in the living room.

“I’m gonna’ shower, what do you think I’m doing?” Chuuya stopped with a hand seizing his wrist.

“No, that won’t do,” Dazai hummed. He opened his eyes, poodles of burnt caramel, or toffee apple, and Chuuya got distracted by it— for some forsaken second he was lost within them, for a split second…—, swiftly he was being pulled over Dazai’s damaged body. “Now, sh, sh, sh, sh, calm down, dog.”

“What the fuck?” Chuuya yells, his head resting beneath his partner’s chin, he felt as much as he heard the heart beats constantly, and the rise and fall from his chest—the chin tugged on his hair, then Chuuya held his breath for merely seconds, exhaling accompanied with the soft breath from his partner. Tangled legs and sprawled arms, Dazai’s hand kept clutching his wrist, and other hand lolled outside the sofa. “Dazai, let me be, I’m disgusting.”

“I don’t remember you from havin’ such low self-esteem.” Dazai sighed. “Just go to sleep, Chuuya, we can resolve everything tomorrow.”

Gravitational pull: everything with mass has its own orbit, and everything with mass is attracted towards its force— it was the law of Physics, raw and bare, when Chuuya snuggled closer to Dazai, arms wrapping firmly on his back and Dazai did not flinch.

“‘Solve everything tomorrow’ isn’t just you being lazy until the problem is over?”

They breathed with one another. One soul from two bodies. He can feel every every flapped from his eyelashes, or every gasp from the narrow gap on the mouth, and the snorts, and the uneven pace from the heart—and it was not as overwhelming as it was supposed to be, it felt as a continuation of his body, it recorded him Dazai was alive beneath him.

“You know me very well! Now, sleep.”

The lights were on, and Chuuya spended the next ten minutes thinking about the stool, he thought if the people were already with their heads resting over the pillows, if there were family waiting from them wild awake. He thought about the blood from that cell, whether it was blown up, vanishing without remains, or whether it was cleaned new.

Dazai rested a lazy hand over his curls, and the thoughts suddenly didn’t matter.

“Good night, Mackerel.”

Dazai did not respond, because he was already asleep.

[etrevil]

Chuuya's great sacrifice of taking Dazai so nobody else suffers in a relationship with him

original post by nico

[hyakkigura]

(cropped) for the moment I hate it but 15!chuuya my little baby he’s cute

I don't usually post my sketches because I hate them but I thought I'd share one for once (I'm just looking for an excuse to be active on tumblr)

[caelanglang]

dear diary… one day I met the little prince…

but just as the storybook said… we got separated… all I know is that somewhere out there… we see the same stars…

ps. they found each other again...

[petitesmafia]

random thought but bsd yokohama is the most dangerous place bc it has Chuuya. but it’s also the safest place bc it has Chuuya if u know what I mean

[lady-tortilla-chip]

Also I do seriously think Dazai told Chuuya to sit out moving Fyodor’s body. Just on the off chance that something happened, as far as they know Dazai’s immune to whatever Fyodor’s ability is. Chuuya wouldn’t be. I have a feeling Dazai didn’t want to take the risk.

[yuyonyu]

Kyouka and friends 🤍

ft: skk

[sableeira]

It’s cute that fyodor calls skk’s bond shallow. I guess ace’s documents about the port mafia’s abilities didn’t include a detailed report about the time in stormbringer where chuuya hung dazai upside down a pole and spins him around. I don’t think fyodor would be able to call their bond shallow if he knew how unhinged and perfectly executed that was without any verbal communication between the two of them.

[astereux]

Day 3: Pandemonium night (WIP)

[lover-of-midnight]

Sleep Deprivation

“Osamu, you need to wake up.” Chuuya’s voice was soft but at the same time firm. His heart aches a little bit as tiredness drags them both down, but they need to be awake. The mission is almost finished.

Brown eyes finally opened, glaring slightly at him, as he leaned against Chuuya, breathing slowly. A pounding headache made him want to say screw it and just get some rest. Uncertain of how long he actually went without sleep.

“How long has it been, Mackeral?” Chuuya kept his voice low, as he gently rubbed Dazai’s back. He had a feeling that the younger had been running on no sleep since the start of the week and it was already weekend again.

“About a week.” His voice was slightly slurred as he tried to sit upright, nauseous made him groan as a whimper crept through his lips.

Chuuya frowned slightly, but he forced it away again. “Alright, just take it easy, we are almost done. Then you can sleep.” He whispered the words as he saw the enemy coming closer. With a quick kiss, he got up.

It didn’t take him long before he managed to clean out the enemy. A feral grin formed when the people fell before him.

Dazai forced himself upright, legs trembling beneath him, as he was forced to walk forward. It took everything in him to not scream in frustration as he closed his eyes for a second trying to gather his bearings.

Immediately Chuuya’s attention turned to Dazai, as he rushed over, pulling Dazai against his chest, feeling him crumble against him. With ease, he picked up the younger just holding him close as he made his way out of the forest.

“Go to sleep I have you.” He whispered the words as he felt Dazai’s body relaxing against him. Sleep finally dragged him under.

Ao3 Link

[lightning24680]

BSD Fanfic idea/Scenario?

Hi everyone! I've finally finished my finals and now that I've gotten all that studying done and the actual tests as well out of the way I'm free to unleash all the ideas I've been dying to write.

I've been thinking of this particular idea for a while and since I quite literally have not at all been able to find a story with this idea I've been left with no choice but to write it myself!

What if Chuuya traveled back in time to stop Dazai from leaving the Port Mafia? No this is not a beast au idea, but the idea is kinda half-baked in my mind though and as usual I have no plot plan but I really want to write this so you can expect me to post this story in a few days!

[originalartblog]

Detective Murase survives and lives through the events of Storm Bringer. He learns (most of) the truth about his brother, N, and Chuuya, and doubles down on bringing Chuuya to a world of light, feeling somewhat guilty and responsible. Chuuya finally goes along with it.

Chuuya, out of the PM but without a group to latch onto, shadows Murase during his work, and quickly faces the limitations of the system supposed to bring justice. He starts doing "vigilante" work, helping Murase "conveniently" find evidence, and acting indifferent when culprits that had to be released "mysteriously" go missing.

Murase is not stupid, but there's no stopping this overpowered teenager who's angry at the world. He needs an output, a purpose, and, well, there's this detective agency employing ability users they've been working with...

[etrevil]

Chuuya only cares about the laws if it can get Dazai behind bars

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

When discussing or analyzing Dazai, one thing I hope you will keep in mind when reading anything I write about him is that from my perspective, he is always, always both.

What do I mean by this? Well, I find there tends to be a general split among people who hold the opinion that "he's a manipulator and will always be manipulative" and "he's doing his best to be good and helpful and live up to Oda's last wishes for him", of which, neither is completely right - because he is both. But even among the people who hold to this dual-nature interpretation, I find that his individual actions and motivations still tend to be thought of in a dichotomous manner - is it manipulative, or genuine?

Again, I think it's always both.

Dazai has a very pragmatic view on a lot of things - he is always looking for the usefulness of things and people so that the situation turns out in his favour. He's incredibly adept at this, and his prediction and placement and careful reveals are all manipulation tactics to get his allies and enemies doing exactly what he needs them to. I don't think anyone can contest this since we see it over and over in the series.

But that's not all there is to it. He's not solely manipulative and he does, to some extent, sympathize with others - I think there are several instances of this in the series, but I want to stress that this has been apparent since Chapter 1!

For context, Dazai is recalling what Atsushi said to him a few minutes earlier, but it's very interesting that it should be this specific part of the conversation. He could've flashed back to the part where Atsushi said he had nowhere to go; no money, no food - he is about to trick him into joining, after all, and this is the key piece he uses to basically force Atsushi into the Agency. But instead it's Atsushi's self-deprecation that catches his attention, and it really does, because even during the conversation, he turns to look at him after he says this with an odd expression.

You could say that this makes Atsushi easier to manipulate, if that's your angle, but that can't be solely it, because in the later conversation with Hirotsu, we know Dazai was planning to bring Atsushi into the Agency and set him up as one half of the new Double Black the moment he met him. The panel shown there is the riverbank, set much earlier in the day than this scene. He was already planning to pair him with Akutagawa since he figured out he was the tiger, so what's with this reaction?

Well. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best.

He manipulated Atsushi into joining with the intention of utilizing him in his future plans. He also helped him and gave him a place to belong, and importantly, he likes this kid! It's both.

I think much of it might be that his brain just kinda works way too fast - he's such a natural at crafting these elaborate plots and seeing how things connect and gathering useful people like resources that it's practically automatic - though this is not a great means when you're trying to be a kinder person. There's an omake, I believe, that has him saying "I like using my head for justice", i.e. using these underhanded means to act for the better. Not great, but those are the kind of gifts he has. He's way more suited to exploitation, but is choosing to use these tactics to save people now, which is quite reminiscent of what he tells Kyouka. Kyouka's talents lie in killing people - when what you're good at isn't who you want to be, what do you do? Well, I expect you use what you have, even if it's not ideal.

Now, about the current situation with Sigma - I think he definitely likes him, and is intrigued by him and his situation. We did get a little thought bubble where the guy amusedly compares him to Atsushi, and you can't tell me he doesn't care about Atsushi (listen to the onsen drama cd, or read 55 Minutes if you somehow don't believe me). But also, it's undeniable that Sigma is in a very vulnerable position of being homeless and having had no one be genuinely kind to him before. His trust is very easy to earn, and with the latest chapter, Dazai has now saved his life multiple times. There is, as always, a practical purpose he needs him for. And I have to be somewhat amused because Dazai is quite literally telling Sigma everything he ever wanted and needed to hear. It's a brilliant means of quickly endearing himself to Sigma - but I don't think that's all it is.

Look. The most honest moments we get in this series from Dazai are, interestingly for an expert manipulator, when people are at their most vulnerable. In spite of every pointlessly cruel act he inflicted on Akutagawa, his first meeting with him was open and transparent; much like the orphanage director, it seems he thought this treatment would make him strong and adaptable (he's wrong but that's not the point of this). He cuts Kyouka off in irritation and says "don't give me that" when she implies that she would fail the entrance exam. He tells Atsushi it's normal to cry after losing a father figure and to feel however you feel, even if that person caused you nothing but incredible pain and cannot be forgiven. He refuses to entertain Sigma's assumptions that Dazai sees himself as a superior being to him.

Selective honesty can also be utilized to great effect; Mori does this, and undoubtedly it serves this purpose for Dazai too. But I want to stress that I do sincerely believe this is all still honesty from him. Manipulation, or genuine?

Both. It's both.