#When Love is Gone genuinely made me cry and buried itself deep into my subconscious

[runawaycarouselhorse]

The third panel absolutely killed me, I love when his puppet face collapses in on itself like that, it's just. SO EMOTIVE, so full of disgust and chagrin!!

You want everyone to be able to slot into a pride and prejudice au but no one can accurately fit into the niche that Mr Darcy and Elizabeth have cornered which is completely and uniquely deranged and sophisticated in a way no marvel character, nay, not even an over watch character, can dare compete with

[todotodorito]

Soukoku Week Day 2- Scarcity

Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs

Pairing: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya

Other Characters: Oda Sakunosuke

Warnings: Alcohol Usage Inspired by Hotarubi No Mori E and Pushing Daisies( @zellyfishnaaa saw a thing on Oz’s BSD Discord server and asked me to write it for Day 2 uwu)

Read on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14845580

Enjoy~

The first and last time Corruption spoke to him, he swore he'd never activate it again.

~

The words flowed from his mouth, so naturally Chuuya wouldn't have noticed them if it weren't for the fact that the voice wasn't one he recognized.

“O grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me again.”

He hadn't the slightest idea what happened afterwards.

The true form of his ability had manifested itself deep within Chuuya, and for a split second after being touched by Dazai Osamu, Chuuya thought he was dead.

That is, until the voice appeared again.

“I am you, and you are I, without the other, we are nothing but dust.”

He saw Dazai through the red haze of his mind, and choked out a whisper before surrendering to darkness.

“Don't… touch me…”

~

The first two days after he'd woken up, he shook uncontrollably. He'd refused to speak to anyone, not even Kouyou, whom he'd grown to be exceptionally close to.

Everyone left him be.

Poor thing, they said when they thought he wasn't listening. He must have been scared out of his mind.

Yes, he was scared. But not of Corruption, the entity that had been part of him for as long as he could remember. Not of how much pain he had to go through in the process of its activation.

No, fifteen-year-old Nakahara Chuuya was afraid of something else.

~

There wasn’t an inch of ground around them not covered in blood. Even they, themselves, were clad in metallic crimson, from their fallen opponents. Silence reigned and bloodlust hung in the atmosphere, sending out a grave warning to whoever might dare to cross their paths.

Soukoku was here.

Chuuya looked over to his right, where Dazai stood unmoving. Dark shadows reflected in hazel orbs that stared down at long-dead enemies. Chuuya counted to twenty before his partner snapped out of his reverie to revert back to his usual annoying self.

“Ah, Chuuya, they were strong, weren’t they?” A smirk was apparent on his sculpted face. “Too bad they had to meet us.”

Easy enough for him to say. Dazai had left him to handle most of their targets, only stepping in once in a while when he saw Chuuya was struggling. In fact, while Chuuya had gotten several vicious slashes to his side and his coat ripped to shreds, the only visible injury on Dazai was a slight gash on his cheek. Chuuya was already used to it.

Rolling his eyes, he made for his exit. The cleaners would arrive to clear up the mess afterwards. His job here was done.

“Wait for me!”

There was a sudden flurry of movement. Chuuya’s breath hitched, and he jerked aside, just barely missing Dazai’s outstretched hand.

Both froze.

“Chuuya…”

Dazai’s voice broke. He lifted his head to meet Chuuya’s soft gaze. The expression on the brunette’s face was almost unreadable, but it pained him all the same. The redhead braced himself for the tremendous guilt that was bound to follow the impending question, the very same one he’d been constantly asked the past three years-

“Why won’t you let me touch you?”

~

It never stopped hurting. Chuuya was enchanted by Dazai’s sharp features, captivated by his fluid movements, enamored by his rare, genuine smiles. He longed to be with him, cherish him and it drove him mad with frustration being so close to him, yet never being able to make physical contact with him. He wanted so many things- to love him and have his feelings reciprocated in return. To have his world no longer scarce of the touch of his beloved. But their abilities created an allegorical barrier between them, a line Chuuya could toe, but not cross.

That’s why, when he arrived at Lupin’s that night, it was with the intention of drinking his sorrows away. He waved the bartender over and ordered a glass of Beaujolais.

“Nakahara-San, fancy meeting you here.”

Chuuya turned away from his wine and saw a tall figure wearing yellow coat.

“Oda-San, hello.”

Oda Sakunosuke, the mafioso who didn't kill.

“Mind if I sit next to you?”

Chuuya nodded his head towards the vacant seat beside him, and watched as the older man settled down comfortably before ordering a drink.

Silence fell upon them as the two took sips from their glasses.

“Dazai talks about you a lot.”

Chuuya merely bit back a retort. What else would come out of that shitty mackerel mouth other than words that spoke ill of-

“He tells me you have beautiful eyes, I can see why he’s head-over heels for you.”

Said eyes widened. Under different circumstances, Chuuya would have thought Oda for a fool.

But the latter wasn't lying. Every feature of his face portrayed a look of honesty, through and through.

The whole truthfulness of the matter was almost enough to break him down.

“But he’s always wondered why you wouldn’t let him beside you.”

Chuuya buried his face into his arms, leaning his head against the cold wooden table. Clumps of long, fiery red hair settled around him. His plan on drinking himself silly had evidently backfired. He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand…

“He doesn’t know how much I want him too, doesn’t know how much it hurts being with him every single day, yet unable to reach for him,” Chuuya muttered with just enough volume for Oda to hear him.

Perhaps it was under the influence of alcohol, but Chuuya can’t remember when he started spilling everything to his companion: Corruption’s words, mixed emotions of love and fear, powerlessness and loneliness he could not help but feel.

“I see,” Oda offered, none of the half-hearted sympathy Chuuya hated, and was bound to receive if he hadn’t been conversing with Oda. The stoic man was quiet, deep in thought.

Chuuya could tell why Dazai adored him so.

“Nakahara-San, if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly are you afraid of?”

Death? That wasn’t it. Working in the Mafia, he no longer felt the urge to flee from the unforgiving clutches of death. He’d learnt to embrace it, be one with it.

Leaving his family? Well, he’d come to care for those of the Port Mafia as his family the past three years he’d been working with them. It would be sad to have to part with them, but he was sure they would do fine without him.

His voice grew soft.

“I'm afraid of losing him.

“Even if he loves me back, everything would've been for nothing if- when- I'm gone.”

The climax of the moment passed quickly, and Chuuya released the breath he’d been subconsciously holding in. Facing the harshness of reality, opening up about the fear he’d been trying to hide for the past three years, it made his eyes brim with warm tears.

“Well I think…”

Chuuya glanced in Oda’s direction.

“The fact that you two love each other means that it won’t be for nothing.”

They fell silent once more, letting the soft melody of the music in the background bring them back to their train of thoughts.

And when Oda stood up to take his leave, Chuuya spoke up.

“Oda-San? Please, call me Chuuya.”

~

He’d had the whole of the night before to ponder Oda’s words. And throughout it all, his heart palpitated wildly, reminding him that he was alive- and very much human.

All humans fear, do they not?

That night, Chuuya made a decision.

~

“Hey Dazai? Meet me by Yokohama Bay tonight…”

~

Would he show up? If he did, would he be surprised? Would he feel anything at all?

As Chuuya waited, he thought back on the call he’d given Dazai that very morning. It was the first thing he did when he woke up. He could not- would not- keep running away anymore. He would not keep Dazai waiting anymore.

And when the brunette finally appeared, he knew he’d made the right choice.

“Oda-San spoke to me,” Chuuya started, looking into Dazai’s pupils. The bandage over his right eye had been removed, and Chuuya saw, for the first time in what seemed like forever, a pair of hazel staring back at him.

“He did me, too.”

His lips trembled ever-so-slightly. Chuuya felt his own two feet quaking.

“You know what will happen.”

It was coming, the moment Chuuya had been preparing himself. The moment that would pass as quickly as it came…

“Are you sure about this?”

And when Chuuya nodded, Dazai smiled.

He ran into those wide, welcoming arms.

And for the first time, he felt warm.

It enveloped him in its kind embrace, sheltering him from the bitter cold of reality. Chuuya wrapped his arms around Dazai’s neck, pulling the latter closer to him. Dazai cupped his cheeks and hummed his name.

“Chuuya, Chuuya…”

And the two knew nothing but love and happiness.

The tears slid down his cheeks when the tingling sensation started. Light-headed, he pulled away, smiling and crying, drunk on the touch of Dazai’s fingertips, the feel of lips on his…

Bathed in shimmering shards of gold and silver, Chuuya leaned towards his partner for the last time in this life.

“I love you…”

~

They parted and, for a split second, Dazai saw stars in his eyes and happiness in his smile.

Then he was gone.

It wasn't as if he hadn't expected it to happen. He'd suspected it would've ended like this, but he knew Chuuya wouldn't have it any other way. And Odasaku’s last words merely confirmed his hunch.

“Chuuya… loves you so. I’m sure you understand everything…

“Leave me, and go be with him…”

Yet now, tears fell from his face and onto the smooth cloth of Chuuya’s coat, soaking it with physical embodiments of his pain and sorrow.

An envelope peeked out a pocket. Dazai knew, without a doubt, that it was addressed to him. He choked back a sob and pulled it out.

It read:

‘Dear Dazai,

The day I found out about this side of my ability, I'd already accepted my fate. It was only a matter of time, but knew I would meet my end in your arms- the way I wanted it.

I'm sure you've figured it out already, but this damned ability of mine is the only thing holding me together. Without it, I am but soul without a shell. Without it, I would disappear to nothing at all.

But despite that, I longed for your touch; the feel of your skin on mine. And I loved every moment we shared. Even if it’s just once, but once is more than enough.

That's why I hope you forgive me for leaving. I regretted none of it, and I hope you felt the same.

Thank you for being mine.

With love,

Nakahara Chuuya.’

Dazai fell to his knees.

He clutched his clothes and screamed his name.

The world stilled.

[noir0neko]

revived- myg(m/a)

the right things to do are usually the hardest.

(m)-mature, (a)- angst / 2.2k words / f*ckboy!yoongi / enjoy !

reqs; can you do Suga angst and smut? Surprise me I love all genres! (+) could you possibly write some fuckboi yoongi anything works thanks bb

It’s a quiet feeling.

Attachment. Dread.

It builds and mounts in the pit of your stomach like a silent viper. A slithering, snaking mess that twists itself around your throat in a beautiful encapsulating hold.  A blindness in your eye, a deafness to your heart, an inability to breathe for fear of it letting go and forcing your entire body to collapse on the ground.

He kisses you. He holds you tight. He asks you to trust him.

But you can’t.

But you can’t let him let go.

You always left the door unlocked, his sign he could come in. His entrance to your room, to your bed, to your heart through flicks of his fingers and movement of his mouth. How odd it is to feel his breath along the most vulnerable parts of your soul. How destructive it is to have all of your ‘I’s’ turn to ‘we’s’. How demoralizing it is to experience his touch in every single recess of you, to drown in him, to watch him watch you above the waves as you sink and sink and sink…

And not be allowed to reach back.

Yoongi always said he loved to be in control, that he wouldn’t let you fall where he wasn’t, couldn’t watch you leave where he stayed. That excited you, a companion, a constant, a lover. But there is a difference between lover… and him.

Where is the companionship in feeling deserted? Where is the constant in being rejected, then accepted, then rejected again? Where is the love in being hurt? You see nothing here. Nothing but attachment. And dread.

His footsteps are on the tiled floor, his shoes are off, the door is being swung shut. He is here, left and come back again just like all of the times before. You sit up on the couch, venture to ask where he was. He shrugs. And fearing the answer you don’t push more. You know where he was. Not with you. Not thinking about you.

His weight lifts you up on the cushion and he gives you a warm smile that immediately melts all the anger in your stomach. How is it possible to go from hating to loving someone so quickly? His hand is on your thigh, bare skin burning to the touch. You smile back, pretending to be okay. Confrontation is fear, confrontation is hurt and exposure and vulnerability and attachment.

You know why Yoongi’s here. And it’s not to sit on the couch and watch anime with you or eat snacks. It isn’t to ask for his clothes or give you back that stolen movie he’d taken ages ago. He’s here to push you on your back, to destroy your heart by ruining your bed.

“How are you?” He asks, and you feel a jolt in your soul, a glimmer of hope shining in the darkness. When was the last time he’d wondered how you were?

“I’m great, how are you?” you respond so convincingly you almost believe it, trying to remember some good things you’d felt in the last six days since you’d seen him just in case he asked. But of course, he wouldn’t, giving you only another shrug.

A sort of silence encapsulates the room, your mind circulating as his thumb circulates higher and higher up your leg. “I have something for you… in my room.” You say, using the excuse to change location as you get up and he follows you into your room.

The lighting is soft in the gentle twilight, bed cleanly made and fan casting optical illusions on the ceiling with its spinning. You open your nightstand, pretending to search for the gift you’d given him and feeling his presence get closer and closer behind you.

“I could have sworn it was in here somewhere….” You trail.

“It’s fine,” he grips your hips, turning you to face him, “you can give it to me later.”

Yoongi kisses you, slow and sweet and seemingly so sincere, mouth wet and savory. Leaning into him, you close your eyes and pretend that everything from the past few months never happened. He never left you, he never hurt you, he never broke your heart.

“That’s right, baby,” he whispers softly, shooting a line of pure liquid pleasure down your throat with his breath, reaching his fingers beneath the hem of your t-shirt to pull it from your body. The temperature is spiking, his fingertips melted fire against the thrumming heat of your skin. He came in your favorite button down polo, buttering you up with appearances knowing full well you would do whatever he damned pleased, wherever he wanted to be pleased.  

Pushing you back onto your bed, the first creases of desperate love wrinkle the duvet. Your pajama shorts are off, his sweats are gone, and his shirt is easily gliding over his head with your wandering hands. His lips move to your neck, and you muffle out your thinking and force his name up your throat, a feeling of satisfaction soaring in your soul when he smiles in triumph. The affair between you two was one of mutual and self satisfaction, appeasing his whims appeased you and you appeasing his whims greatly appeased him to the point where appeasing you wasn’t a conscious thought anymore.

At a certain point he passed the point of reciprocation. The three month milestone quickly becoming a gravestone for all give and no take. For nothing but repetition, the same feeling recycled and an endless addiction for pain that neither one of you could curb, except in the moments that he gave you enough to keep your hope hanging on for dear life.  

He wastes no time in spreading your legs apart with his knee, all business and no party, quickly sliding on a condom before moving into you at full force. You release another appropriately placed moan, jerking your body in feigned reaction to his entry. But truthfully, you can barely feel him, barely register any pleasure in your nervous system over the dread of emptiness that would come once he left you again.

The truth hurts.

But lying hurts worse.

“God I love you.” He says, gratitude tightly woven into his groan.

“No,” you squeeze your eyes shut so you don’t have to look at his face. “You love to fuck me.”

He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t even flinch to deflect or refute your words. It hurts, not the sex, not the constant throbbing of him along your velveteen walls or the sensation of his breath along your neck as he buries his addictions in you again and again and again. It’s the principle, it’s the fact that you know it’s not supposed to be like this. That you’ve been breathing in his intoxicated air, his heavy cologne, his sweet promises, his silences that you shove words into so you don’t have to think about the distortion of your reality.

Continuing to close your eyes as tight as you can, you try desperately to lose yourself in the feeling of him. You hadn’t came once in all the years you’d been together, faking it for the sake of lying, for the sake of his ego, and for the sake of your own denial. His hands, somehow in a world of their own, migrate to your swollen clit, rubbing circles into the pink nub with fiery fervor. The sensation completely ignites your body, a genuine cry of ecstasy echoing in your room and fingers digging into the soft satin to gain control over the powerful waves of lust coursing through you.

Your walls tighten, intent on pleasuring Yoongi and getting him off as far as you can, and the motion brings him back to himself once more. His hand leaves, your chest heaves, and the pressure relieves, back jerking in loss of the potentially orgasmic contact.

Maybe if he realizes he needs what only you can give him, you won’t feel so insecure about being abandoned. But abandonment goes beyond the physical state of being, abandonment reaches deep within the intellectual, mental part of your heart. It’s the oppression of silence that chokes your throat when you’re next to him, it’s the pins and needles in your feet as you walk along eggshells to meet his pleasures, it’s the knife you stab yourself with in the back when you touch him, hug him, kiss him.

Future plans made and then erased, marriage proposals dreamt then buried, songs dedicated then given to someone else. Love is a slip n slide, an adventure full of rashes and blind spirals.

His fingers pinch one of your pert nipples, taking the skin into his mouth and sucking harshly to draw an appropriately placed moan out of you. You can sense him getting close, aware of him trying to get you to join him, to ease his own guilt. His length slides with blessedly torturous friction against your walls, and the carnal pleasure he seems to be receiving from the sheer happiness of being inside of you is so rewarding. You can feel him, trying to tighten every muscle in your body to force yourself to get as close to the edge as he is. But something holds you back, the rushing up your spine stood right before it can explode, and instead of falling with him you are still standing alone.

Squeezing your eyes until red dots your vision and arching your back you moan and breathe at a rapid pace, jerking your hips to meet him and tightening your walls and pulling his hair and whispering his name and swallowing the lump in your throat and curling your toes. He smiles, against your chest, releasing into the condom and freezing his hips in place before collapsing down next to you. Yoongi’s hair smells clean and fresh, running your fingers through it and daring to open your eyes to stare at the ceiling.

White. Tears running down your face. His breathing settles, you blink the water away, and suddenly he’s up looking at you, a pure, beautifully painful smile on the lips that have kissed you so many times. He hums, eyes moving from your face to the glowing clock on your bedside table.

“I have to go,” he rolls off of you, feet hitting the floor and shirt thrown haphazardly over his body before you can turn to watch him leave. He has to go back to the place from which he came. Away from you. In a world of his own, one that does not include you even in the depths of subconscious.

You were nothing until you were beneath him.

He slides his pants on, not looking at you when he leaves your bedroom and pulls out a dining room chair to put on his shoes. You sit up, taking in a long breath and blink slowly, staring at the hardwood of the floor. The door is opened, swinging, and just as you round the hallway corner, Yoongi looks back at you.

“When are you going to let me go?” 

The unsaid question both breaks and frees you, watching silently as the door clicks closed and he is gone as quickly as he appeared. The chair is pushed into the walkway, his scent lingering in the space just enough to suffocate you with his absence. With the ever coming sensation of moving on.  

You think of all the things you were giving up.

Small kisses. Passionate hours between bedsheets. Quiet smiles, loud words, tiny butterflies as he grabbed your hand. You were giving up companionship, the stable instability of love, of the heart. You think of the happiness you felt when he said he loved you. And you felt the hope of what you could be when things were going well. You were giving up hope. You were giving up a huge part of your soul that you had buried in him. A huge part of your self worth, your self respect, your self love.

But you were also giving up the feeling of being worthless, the feeling of his disrespect, of his lack of love. You were giving up night crying, morning crying, day crying. You were giving up the empty feeling that resided in the pit of your soul when he ignored you, when he hurt you, when he left you and didn't seem to care about you. The anger, the anxiety, the absolute bone shattering, heart clenching, spirit drowning sense of giving so much and getting so little.

You’re giving up the part happiness.

You’re giving up the larger part hurt.

Sometimes you have to learn to give up what’s not good for you.

And maybe you've been waiting for him to revive you, but the only person who can truly revive you is yourself.

Stepping forward with shuffling feet, you gain static, collect electricity, and feel the shock of the metal doorknob as you reach for the lock. The shock of surrendering, the initial pain, the rush of adrenaline, the relief.

Click.

The letting go.

~Admin Eggplant