#straycat's 1k follower celebration

[straycat-writes]

jaaneman // जानेमन  // جان ِ من (nakahara chuuya)

jaaneman // जानेमन  // جان ِ من (persian, n.) - “soul of me” or “life of me”; gender-neutral word for sweetheart or darling

requested by: anonymous

notes: post-corruption conversations, in honour of chuuya’s birthday. and also because i was supposed to have written this ages ago. not proof read because i’m lazy and tired.

When Chuuya woke up, he was disoriented for a while. Every bone in his body screamed in agony, and his quickened breaths made it feel like he might as well be swallowing crushed glass. There was a pounding ache in his skull that dimmed all other sensations in comparison, and for a moment, he wished he would just lose consciousness again.

He knew he wouldn’t, though. This wasn’t the first time this was happening, and although it was every bit as shitty as every time else, at least he knew what to expect. His senses were out of focus, the sounds of his surroundings only incomprehensible static, while his eyes registered vague blurs of movement.

He blinked once, then twice, then several times before he could finally focus.

“You’re awake.” She murmured, and Chuuya heard the smile of relief in her voice before he saw it.

She was sitting beside him on the bed, knees drawn up to her chin. Slowly putting her hand on one of his limp cold ones, she smiled wearily. She looked tired, and he wondered how long she had been sitting there. He wanted to say something to reassure her, but his throat felt too scratchy to speak. He tried to sit up slowly, but his stomach suddenly clenched violently.

He shot out of bed, despite every single muscle in his body pleading in protest, and ran into the bathroom at record speed.  As he hurled up the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl, he heard her rush into the bathroom after him. She sighed, before coming to crouch down beside him, holding back his hair as he retched some more.

Chuuya heaved for what felt like minutes before he finally slumped back down onto the floor. Wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, he leaned his head back and closes his eyes.

“Feel better?” she asked softly, brushing some strands of his hair out of his eyes, and he wondered if he should tell her that she was miserably failing to hide the concern in her eyes.

“Not…really.” The two words took immense effort for him to get out. His voice sounded scratchy, though from disuse or from the vomit, he couldn’t tell. “How long was I out for?”

“A couple of days, give or take.” She replied.

He lightly rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Jesus…”

A vague sequence of events was reconstructing itself in Chuuya’s dazed mind. Despite his explicit threats, he was sure Dazai must have left him after he passed out, right where they ha faced that Lovecraftian monstrosity, and Mori, knowing Dazai better than anyone, must have sent someone to retrieve Q and Chuuya.

“Mori-san had me dropped right back home?”

“Along with your coat.” She shrugged, “You did tell him you don’t like hospitals, after all.”

Chuuya got up on unsteady feet, shakily making his way towards the sink. That was true, he hated hospitals. But it wasn’t her job to clean up after his mess either. He could only imagine what it must have been like for her, being handed his broken and bloodied body and asked to keep him alive.

Speaking of, there was not a spot of blood on him now. Chuuya felt a pang of guilt, as he imagined her all alone with his unconscious body, scrubbing the blood from his clothes and desperately trying to hold him together. He knew he wouldn’t have died, but that did not make it any less damaging.

He got out of the bathroom after cleaning himself up, still swaying slightly on his feet. She had gone to fetch him a towel, which she handed to him now.

He sighed, slumping back down at the edge of the bed, elbows propped on his knees, both hands supporting his still aching head, “…I’m sorry.”

She raised a confused eyebrow, “What for?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely around himself, “Everything. This shouldn’t be your problem.”

“Come on,” she rolled her eyes, coming to sit beside him “You know it’s not like that.”

“No? You must have been scared.”

She sighed deeply, then leaned slightly sideways, resting her head on his shoulder. Chuuya could tell she was just as exhausted as he was.

“I was…” she admitted, “I always am, every time you use corruption. But what am I supposed to do about it, Chuuya? I cannot just up and leave.”

His heart thudded once in his chest, “Why not?”

She laughed lightly, but then stopped when she looked up at his face, “Oh, you’re being serious? You have got to be kidding me. Why do you think, dimwit?”

He didn’t reply, just looking at her with wide, questioning blue eyes.

She sighed, averting her gaze, before she finally murmured, “Because I love you…What do I have to do to get you to believe that?”

Chuuya’s heart swelled slightly in his chest. He did believe her. There was not a doubt in his mind that she loved him. He was just afraid that she might love him a little too much.

He placed one hand on her cheek lightly, dipping to place a short, chaste kiss on her lips, “I don’t deserve you.”

“Neither do I deserve you.” She laughed lightly, “Guess we’ll both just have to settle.”

Chuuya smiled. He loved that about her. She never let him say anything negative about himself, always turning his words around until they sounded…merrier somehow. Chuuya was…rough around the edges, and even though he was very much alive and burning with life and power, he always felt as if there was something missing without her by his side.

“Are you hungry?” she asked after a while, “I can fix something for you.”

“Nah, don’t bother.” He waved a hand, “I’ll probably just throw it back up.”

That was just another one of the many post-corruption side-effects, but Chuuya was used to it. Nevertheless, she stood up.

“Then I’ll make you some chamomile tea, that might help settle your stomach. How does that sound?”

He smiled, “Lovely. Thank you, love.”

She smiled, bending down to kiss his cheek once, before leaving. Chuuya watches her retreating figure, head swarming with a million thoughts.

He goes on a lot of overseas missions, for some reason, Mori-san prefers him for that job. Just last month, he went to some central Asian country, which might be an odd thing for him to remember right at that moment, except he remembered that people there called their loved ones ‘jaaneman’, which literally means ‘soul of me’.

Even back when he had first heard it, the term had reminded him of her. But right now, he quite literally felt their weight. Soul of me. It was true. If Chuuya was the fire, the life inside of a body, she was the soul.

Each time he used corruption, he felt hollower than the last time, like something had just been taken from him. His only solace was to crawl back into her arms, because no matter how bloodied or broken, he knew she would always take care of him. Because she made the emptiness go away.

How fitting, he thought with a rueful smile, he was only alive until his soul refused to leave him. And luckily, she was holding on tight. He loved her, so much more than his own life, so much more than he could ever put into words. He sighed, getting up and swaying slightly,

“Chuuya ~” he heard her call from the kitchen, “Come, your tea is getting cold.”

Despite the ache permeating every inch of his body, a small smile tugged at his lips. “Coming.”

[straycat-writes]

la douleur exquise (dazai osamu)

la douleur exquise (french n.) - The exquisite pain of wanting the affection of someone you know you can never have.

requested by: anonymous

notes: set in the dark era, stream of consciousness

He is the most beautiful thing you have ever laid eyes on. Him, with his tired eyes and an abyss for a soul. You look at him and you feel like you’re gazing at a hurricane; sudden, powerful, violent, devastating, and utterly magnificent.

He is a walking, talking catastrophe. He has destroyed everything he has ever touched and he wears the darkness in his soul like a pitch-black crown on his head. The bloodstained bandages are there to keep that darkness from escaping, and to keep what little is left of him from falling apart. His veins carry within them the screams of countless people, none of them louder than the ones in his head, and he lets them pile up like dusty, forgotten trophies in the back of his head. Sometimes, you wonder what it’s like inside his head. You can never bring yourself to think for too long.

Despite all of this, he is still the most beautiful thing you have ever laid eyes on. They call him the scariest man in all of Yokohama, and you see why, you do. Just not when he’s sitting beside you on the barstool, telling you about that one time he made the world’s best tofu, and then accidentally hit his head on it, or when he throws that stupid Gameboy of his at the wall in frustration because he once again lost to the final boss, or when his eyes are bright and cheeks rosy because he had a little too much saké and now he cannot stop gushing about how soft your hair is.

You wonder if he does that on purpose, pretending to be clueless because he knows what a hurricane it stirs up in your heart, or if he really doesn’t know. That’s a silly thought. There’s nothing Dazai is clueless about, ever. There’s just something about that hollow gaze of his, that even with one eye bandaged shut, you still feel like you’re naked in front of him, like he can see you right to your very bones. You cannot hide from him.

Then, he does know. He just doesn’t care. The thought makes it feel like somebody put an ice-cold knife right through your heart. He doesn’t care. Why would he? He is a supernova, bright and flaming, dangerous, burning, and so damn beautiful, while you’re just a mere human being. He is like an ancient, haunted cathedral, holy but stained with blood, and you can stand in the middle of the ruins and admire it all you like but it can never do the same for you.

So many faces. He has so many faces, and you have seen them all. You’ve seen him on his worse days, when he’s barely successful in keeping the roaring void inside of him from spilling out. You’ve seen the ruthless youngest executive, the demonic prodigy without a heart, as he questioned his hostages and then broke their bones one by one. And you have also seen the scared boy that hides behind all the bandages, the one who has been turned down by Death time and time again but still won’t stop knocking at her door. You wish he would stop.

One night, he turns up outside your door. It’s 2 AM, and he smiles as you open the door but there’s no mistaking the vestiges of red rimming his eyes. He lets himself in, and you barely have time to register that the bandages that used to cover half his face are missing, before he pushes you to the nearest wall and kisses you.

There is a fierce kind of hunger in that kiss, a desperation, as if he’s looking for something and failing again and again. He stops to let you breathe, and you feel like you’re noticing the emptiness in his whiskey-coloured eyes for the first time. How do you get so empty? You want to ask. Who takes it out of you?

You don’t stop him when he kisses you again. You don’t stop him when he leads you to the bedroom in a frenzy of breathlessness and wandering hands. He came to you looking for salvation, and you know you can’t give him that, but by god, you can try.

His hands in your hair, your clothes on the floor, limbs tangled with each other’s in the bedsheets…He doesn’t love you, a voice in your head says. The knife in your heart twists. I don’t care, you reply.

The next morning, he’s gone before you even wake up. You find yourself alone, the sheets beside you cold, empty, and still smelling like him. You cry. Then you get angry at yourself because damn it, you should have been expecting this. But hope is a surprisingly hard thing to kill.

You would realize later that he wasn’t just gone from your bed or your house. He was gone, in every sense of the word. Gone from sight, gone from the mafia, gone from your reach. Not like he ever was there. To you, Dazai Osamu had always been like a sunset. Glowing, beautiful, transient, and so far out of reach that you could barely even feel the warmth. You don’t expect a sunset to admire you back. But you love it all the same.

You will always love it all the same.

[straycat-writes]

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 (oda sakunosuke)

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 (japanese, n.) - the feelings, scents, or images that evoke memories or anticipation of a particular season.

requested by: anonymous

It was spring the first time he saw her, the mild early April air carrying with it the scent of freshly bloomed flowers. She was curled up with a book in a quiet corner of the quaint little café he used to frequent, completely lost as the words on the pages painted a picture in front of her.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Oda must have stood there for a full five minute, wondering whether or not he should approach her and strike up a conversation. With mellow sunlight streaming in through the window beside her and a steaming cup of coffee on the table, she seemed almost too serene, too…picturesque for him to disturb her.

But humans have an innate instinct, a tendency to notice when they’re being looked at. She looked up from her book, slowly taking in her surroundings before her eyes finally landed on him. Oda would have liked to look away, should have looked away but he couldn’t bring himself to. When he blinked slowly, she gave him a dazzling smile, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

He approached her, a charming smile gracing his handsome face, “Is this spot taken, ma’am?”

“Not at all.” She smiled, gesturing in front of her, “You’re very welcome to stay.”

He sat down, looking at the blue and gold cover of the book still glued to her hand. On France and Poetry. He raised a curious eyebrow, “Baudelaire?”

“Among others.” She nodded, rather wistfully, “Baudelaire was insanely talented, but it’s a shame he has become so synonymous with French poetry that people barely pay any attention to others.”

“And who do you think deserves more attention?”

“Well, many others.” She said, then smiled sheepishly, “Although I have an affinity for Paul Verlaine.”

Oda laughed, “Ah, one of the romantics*. I must admit they do have a dreamy quality to their musings.”

Her eyes lit up at that, “Right? I understand the appeal of realism and all, but nothing compares to this particular form of expression, and Verlaine definitely did it better than anyone else.”

“That might have had something to do with his muse.” Oda reflected, “They do say he was on love with Rimbaud.”

“He shot Rimbaud.” she laughed, “Twice.”

Oda grinned coyly, “We all have our love languages.”

They sat there and talked for hours, about anything and everything, and each time she laughed at something he said, Oda swore he heard windchimes somewhere in the distance. It was almost evening by the time they realized that they couldn’t stay there forever, curled up in a world of their own that started and ended in a cozy little café. When she left, all Oda was left with was a messily scribbled phone number and beautiful name to go with it. He smiled.

It was summer the first time the thought crossed his mind that he might be falling for her. They had been going out for a few weeks now. It was a stiflingly warm night, and the smell of freshly mowed grass mingled with that of the salty sea breeze as they walked back after having dinner together, his hand intertwined with hers. They had stopped at the docks to admire the nighttime sea for a moment, when he finally plucked together the courage to tell her what he did for a living, telling her that it was fine if she wanted leave after this.

She cried. Each tear felt like a rip in Oda’s heart and he desperately wanted to console her, but he wasn’t sure if she would like being touched by him now. Then she got angry.

“You told me you wanted to be a writer.” She said through gritted teeth, “Tell me, then. Have you ever taken a life?”

The question took Oda by surprise. It took him a while, but he answered nonetheless, “…Never.”

“Why?”

“Because…” he began, then frowned, looking down at his feet, “Because then I wouldn’t have the right to be a writer anymore.”

More tears spilled down her cheeks, “Then why do you consider me shallow enough to leave you now? Do you really think that low of me?”

Oda was dumbstruck, unable to articulate even the simplest of thoughts. He had been ready for anything she might have had to say, but not this. Even after he told her everything…she still refuses to leave?

“Say something.” She frowned, lightly putting a hand on his chest, “You cannot hope to be a very good writer if you cannot even find the words to articulate –“

Oda couldn’t stop himself. He kissed her. The kiss was soft and true, tasting of subtle longing and slightly of the saltiness of her tears. And something else he couldn’t put his finger on, something far sweeter and much more delicate. They were both out of breath by the time he let go, and as he looked at the small smile fighting its way to her lips, at her rosy cheeks and shining eyes, Oda was sure he was in love.

It was autumn the first time he told her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. It was once again a lazy afternoon, and they were lying on the bed in his small but airy two room flat, limbs tangled with each other’s and a thin cotton sheet the only thing covering their naked bodies. She traced little circles on his chest with her finger.

“Sakura really looks up to you, you know?” he said out of the blue.

She smiled, “Yeah? Well, she’s a good kid. So are the others. You’re doing a great job, Odasaku.”

“You think so?” he murmured, turning on his side to face her, “I just…I don’t want to make any mistakes when it comes to them.”

“And you won’t.” she said, lightly cupping his cheek. His crystal blue eyes looked even more breathtaking when the golden autumn sunlight hit them like that. “You know why? Because you’re a good man. And because I would never leave you to do this on your own.”

Oda’s eyes widened, a strange kind of warmth spreading throughout his chest. “Do you really mean that?”

“Every last bit.”

For a brief moment, he thought he saw every beautiful version of future flash before his eyes. A beautiful sea-side cabin, where the salty breeze accompanies him as he writes everything he has ever wanted to put down on paper. Stories of people and lives and love and beauty. Stories about the kids, about her and about himself being forever locked in her embrace. It was a beautiful version of reality, one he wasn’t sure he deserved but one he wanted nonetheless.

And here she was, telling him she wanted the same thing.

He sighed, dipping slightly forward to rest his forehead on hers, “Sweetheart…whatever will I do without you?”

“That’s irrelevant.” She murmured, place a small kiss just at the edge of his lips, “Because you won’t ever have to find out.”

It was winter the first time he realized just how out of reach that beautiful reality really was. The world had never been fair. Bad things happened to good people everyday and the pursuit of happiness was utterly meaningless. Everything was meaningless. God didn’t exist, and if he did, he wasn’t worthy of being called one. What kind of cruel, sadistic God allowed innocent children to die at the hands of mercenaries?

Oda Sakunosuke had nothing left to live for anymore.

Or so he thought. If he had put aside the sheer rage coursing through his veins and clouding his eyes for one moment, he would have realized that he had one last solace left in the world. One last chance at salvation, waiting for him to crawl back home to her and into her welcoming embrace. She would weep with him, weep for him and soothe him as he screamed his throat raw and let out every last bit of pain and ache the world had shoved into him. And regardless of the amount of blood on his hands, she would gather him up and piece him back together again.

But rage and hopelessness and sheer, white hot fury had blinded Oda, and he could no longer see anything but red. Gide wanted a reckoning and Oda would give it to him, even if it ended up destroying him in the process. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

There were a few thoughts that crossed Oda’s mind as he lied there in Dazai’s arms, his heartbeat slowly failing him.

One of them was that he wanted a cigarette, which is an odd thing to think as you’re dying, but he allowed himself the liberty. The second was that he would never be a writer now. But that hardly mattered at this point. The third was that Dazai was crying. Oda had never seen him cry before, but he figured it was good for him, because underneath that fragile façade of the horrific ‘demonic prodigy’, Oda knew he was just a scared, broken little boy who just wanted to feel something other than empty for once. If his death was what pushed Dazai out of the darkness, then Oda wouldn’t consider it to be completely in vain.

The last thing he thought, as his vision began to grow darker and darker, was that there was a girl still waiting for him at home. They had had a fight before he left, and he had left her crying on the doorway in the biting evening air that chilled everything to the bone. He had left without telling her where he was going. He wished to God he could turn back time, even for a little bit, and say all the right things to her, or at least a proper goodbye. But it was too late for that now.

She would probably get the news from Dazai. He wondered briefly how she would take it. Would she cry? Would she get angry at his foolishness? Would she despise him for leaving her? If she did, he thought, he wouldn’t blame her.

Gide was dead. Oda had had his revenge, his hollow moment of triumph. But he didn’t feel any better. All he felt was this all-pervading sense of cold emptiness, knowing that his momentary victory came at the price of leaving two people behind to pick up their broken pieces. To clean up the mess he created.

He was very cold now, and too drained to open his eyes anymore. As the last of his strength left him, he only wished…something good comes of his death.

*romantics here refers to being part of the early 19th century literary movement, Romanticism, and has no relation to the present day connotations of the word.

[straycat-writes]

saudade (edogawa ranpo)

saudade (portuguese, n.) - a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost.

requested by: @starryneve​

Most days, she was able to push all thoughts of him to the back of her head and go about her life. Most days, there was enough to distract her and keep her from dwelling on the past and all that used to be. Some days, his face wouldn’t even cross her mind. Other days….other days, he ruled supreme over her thoughts. Every place, every person, every thing would somehow inevitably remind her of him, and no matter how much she tried, he would refuse to leave her head.

Today was one of these days.

Although, that might have had something to do with her recent return to Yokohama. Walking through the streets, she couldn’t help but think that the city hadn’t changed all that much in the last decade or so that she had been away. The Yokohama bay bridge was exactly as it had been, standing tall in all its majestic glory. The streets were mostly unchanged too, lined with many of the same shops that she used to frequent with him.

“You don’t understand, (y/n). I ~need~ a cupcake.”

“No, Ranpo. You want a cupcake.”

“Whatever, it’s the same thing! Now, can we please just go?”

She laughed as the memory popped up suddenly. He was beyond fond of sweets but so incredibly terrible with directions and used to get lost if she didn’t accompany him to places. She wondered if his navigational skills had got any better in all these years, but then shook her head. Knowing him, he had probably got worse.

She crossed the road, looking at all the faces in the crowd surrounding her. She didn’t know what she was hoping for. That she’d somehow run into him after all these years right where she had left him? For all she knew, he may not even live here anymore. Still, she could hope.

They were both just kids back then, and she couldn’t even remember she had ended up becoming friends with that strange, genius boy with a sweet tooth. But she had, and he had ended up becoming an inseparable piece in the puzzle that comprised her life. A piece that was missing now, leaving the place where it should have been feeling so terribly empty and there was nothing she could do about it.

The last time she had seen him, they had gone to get ice cream. She remembered because the moment she had broken the news to him, the one had fell from his hand.

“But…but you’ll come back…right?”

“…I’m sorry, Ranpo.”

He had got upset, more so than she had ever seen him before, and stormed away from her. She had been worried about him getting lost but didn’t want to make him angrier than he was. That was the last time she saw him. He didn’t even come to see her off the morning she left with her family. She didn’t blame him, not really. She had sprung the news on him with no warning, and his anger was justified. But it still hurt. Most of all, she wished they hadn’t parted on such sour terms.

The bell over the door tinkled as she entered the café and she sighed in n bliss at the warm, mellow smell that greeted her. She still had a few minutes until she had to be at the job interview she had scheduled for today, and figured grabbing a coffee beforehand would make her seem at least somewhat more awake and alert than she really felt.

The lady behind the counter gave her a warm smile as she ordered her drink to go. Minutes later, she was handed her order and she thanked the lady. As she left the café and stepped back out into the cold air of the outside, she was almost knocked over by someone who came barreling into her from the side. Luckily, she didn’t lose her balance and only spilled some of her coffee. She looked at the young, white-haired boy who had crashed into her. As soon as he was back on his feet, he bowed to her in a distressed manner, apologized profusely and ran off, presumably to wherever he had been going in such a hurry in the first place. She sighed and shook her head.

Yokohama was still as strange as it had ever been, its people as eccentric as she remembered them. She had barely been back for two days when some lunatic covered in bandages had leaned down in front of her and asked her to strangle him with her ’beautiful hands’. She had refused, of course. But she really hoped she didn’t run into him again.

As she reached her destination, she double checked the address in her phone. Second floor, it said. She looked up at the building and frowned. It didn’t really look like the place any respectable firm would choose to operate from. Oh, well.

She climbed up the stairs, looked around the hallway before finally spotting the door labelled with the name she was looking for. She could hear noises coming from inside, most of it probably just harmless chatter among colleagues, but it was interspersed with some yelling too. She knocked.

The door was soon opened, and in front of her stood a tall, slim man with dirty blonde hair and glasses. He was dressed quite proper, with beige pants and a matching vest over a black shirt. He looked at her and said something. But she didn’t catch it. He looked at her concernedly and said something again, but all her attention had been captured by something else. Someone else.

Behind the man, there were several people inside the office. But all of them blurred together when her eyes caught on him. He was lounging back on a chair, feet propped up on a table and eyes closed lightly. When he finally opened his eyes, her mouth dropped open in surprise.

Green. His eyes were…so very green. And so beautiful and so very familiar.

When he finally saw her, he froze. Staring at her with wide eyes, she figured he was experiencing the same thing she was: a painfully complete loss of words. But she was forced herself to finally speak.

“…Ranpo?”

The single word had barely left her mouth before he got off the chair so quickly he almost fell off in the process. He took one step towards her, then two.

The next thing she knew, he crashed into her full speed, engulfing her in a bone-crushing hug.

[straycat-writes]

jiāoqiǎnyánshēn // 交浅言深 (fyodor dostoevsky)

jiāoqiǎnyánshēn // 交浅言深 (chinese, v.) - to have a deep and intimate conversation with a stranger 

requested by: anonymous

notes: i haven’t had this much fun writing anything in a long while! I hope whoever requested it is still around, and pleeease do tell me what you think!

You look down at the thin file in your hand, a frown lining your face.

Name: Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

Origins: unknown (presumed Russian)

Age: unknown (presumed early to mid-twenties)

Ability: unknown

“Is that really all we know? His name?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Ango Sakaguchi is leaning against the wall across from you, arms crossed in front of him, “We don’t even have a photograph. He won’t let us take one.”

You look up, “Won’t ‘let’ you?”

He shrugs, “No one wants to take the risk of forcing him.”

A frustrated sigh escapes your lips. Perhaps that is understandable, though, you think. You had heard of what happened when Ango and his team had gone to apprehend him.

He was supposed to be transferred to a maximum-security prison in Europe, especially made to contain dangerous ability users. But before that, the Special Abilities Division wanted to see if they could get anything out of him.

That’s where you came in. Specializing in criminal psychology and one of the best in your field, there had rarely ever been a person who didn’t talk when you asked the questions. And since you owed a favour to Ango, here you were, having abandoned whatever job you had previously been occupied with.

Ango straightens himself and motions for you to follow him. Tucking the practically useless file under your arm, you let him lead you through the level until you arrive at a pair of twin metal doors. He opens one of them, and you follow him inside. There was nothing inside the small room except for the door you just came in from, and a large glass window through one of the walls.

On the other side of that window was Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Your eyes widen. Whatever you had been expecting him to look like, you certainly hadn’t thought it would be this. A tall, emaciated, and sickly pale man with dark eyes and even darker hair. He is sitting with his head bowed, hands bound by metal cuffs fastened to the table in front of him.

Very slowly, he looks up, as if feeling your gaze on him even through the two-way mirror. With eyes that you could have sworn are staring directly at yours, a thin smile stretches its way across his pallid lips. You unconsciously take a step back, trying to suppress the shiver that runs down your spine.

Ango shifts beside you, “Unsettling, isn’t he?”

“That’s…one way to put it.” You murmur. Unsettling, yes, but also so fascinating. “What do you need from him?”

“Anything you can get.”

You sigh, “I’m a psychologist, Ango, not a magician.”

“I know.” He replies, “That’s why I said anything you can get.”

You stare through the window for a few more seconds, before inhaling deeply and leaving the room. The other door you had seen on your way in is quite a bit sturdier than the one you had just left through, and it creaks on its hinges as you push it open.

Fyodor doesn’t move at all, continuing to stare at the two-way mirror that showed him nothing but his own pallid countenance. It’s only when you saunter directly into the centre of his field of vision that his eyes finally flit to you.

You clear your throat discreetly, “Good evening. I’m – “

“The shrink they sent to make me ‘talk’.” He tilts his head slightly to one side and smiles, “Pleasure to meet you.”

His voice is deep, and heavily accented, with a rich but unnerving timbre to it. Up close, you can see his eyes much better, and realize that they are actually of a deep and unnatural shade of violet. It suits him, you find yourself thinking, even if he does look like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

Berating yourself for getting distracted, you flip open the file, “So, Mr. Dostoevsky – “

“Please, devushka.” He interrupts, then smiles, “Call me Fyodor.”

You look up at him, unimpressed, “I’m not here to make friends with you, Dostoevsky. I’m here to gather information.”

He chuckles, “Ah, that’s right. Information. And what exactly do you want from me?”

Ignoring his question, you look back down at the file, “Multiple first degree murders, attempted murders, acts of terrorism, assault….you have a rather impressive portfolio here, no?”

“I’m delighted you think so,” he trills, “But that’s not quite the aesthetic I’m going for, I’m afraid. It’s a little too, well, beneath me.”

“You strap bombs to children and use them to manipulate people far better than you, and then have the nerve to say it’s ‘beneath you’?”

“Am I supposed to feel bad about that?”

Your gaze snaps back to him sharply, and you try not to get too angry, “You know what? Let’s begin with that. Why did – “

“Let’s make a deal, devushka.” He interrupts you yet again, leaning slightly forward, his shoulder length hair slightly obscuring his face, “A game of sorts, if you will. I will answer one question of yours, and in return, you’ll answer one of mine.”

“You’re in no position to make any demands from me.”

“I know.” He says simply, “But if you’re really as good as they say you are, you’ll humour me.”

You narrow your eyes at him, his confident tone never faltering for a minute. “…Fine. You’ll answer first. How long have you been in Yokohama?”

“A month, give or take. What did they tell you about me?”

“Enough. Who are your collaborators?”

“I don’t have any collaborators. Only accessories.” The handcuffs jingle as he leans back languidly in his chair, “What is your name?”

You pause. “That’s…none of your business.”

“Come on, milaya.” He smiles in amusement, “You already know my name, it’s only fair I know yours.”

You frown at the overly intimate nickname. He just blinks slowly, long lashes shadowing the tired violet hues that never seem to leave yours. You swallow, “It’s…it’s (y/n).”

The way his face brightens, confident and victorious, makes you want to berate yourself for giving in. He’s sitting in a chair handcuffed to the damn table, you’re supposed to have the upper hand in this conversation!

“Lovely name, indeed.” He murmurs. “Tell me something, (y/n). Do you think there is a god above?”

What?

“I…I don’t know.” You say, after some thought, “It’s my turn. What is your ability?”

“I do believe there is a god.” He says, completely ignoring your question, “But he’s tired. Tired of caring about this sin of ability users that is devouring the world.”

“Answer the fucking question.”

He tilts his head, “All abilities are born of sin. Does it really matter what mine is?”

“You used it to murder dozens of people in cold blood.” You state coldly, “So, I’d say yes.”

“Fair enough.” He says with a chuckle, then leans slightly forward, “But tell me this, was it really murder if I only freed them from a cruel existence?”

Your psychologist brain went into overdrive. That single sentence reeked of delusion and a hundred unresolved issues, and even through your professional excitement, you were getting kind of scared, “…What?”

“It’s a rotten world, devushka.” He states matter-of-factly, “It’s better to die than to live amongst this steaming pile of filthy sin called humanity.”

You look at his sickly pale countenance in mute wonder. He really is beyond fascinating, a corrupted enigma, and there’s nothing you want more than to stay and unravel him painstakingly slowly, layer by layer. Unfortunately, you have a job to do.

“That’s really not true, you know.”

“Oh? You don’t think the world is full of sin?”

You shake your head, and he laughs.

“Tell me about yourself, then. Have you never committed a single despicable act in your life?”

The question takes you by surprise, and you find yourself at a loss for words. His gaze doesn’t leave yours for a second, making a chill run down your spine, and you unconsciously lean back a little, “I…that’s not – “

“Are you really telling me you have never hurt anyone? Never acted cruelly or callously? Never stepped on anyone weaker than you to get where you are? Are you really telling me your soul is completely free of any blackness?”

For every inch you leaned back, he leaned forward, until you were staring at him with wide eyes, and heart hammering in your chest.

“Ah. So, I am right.” He smirks once he sees the look in your eyes, “You are just as tainted as the rest of them. What was it? Did you tell some heinous lie? Did you destroy someone? Did you kill someone?”

“I – I didn’t – “

He’s right, he’s right, you did lie and ruin and destroy and kill –

“Tell me what you did, milaya.”

Your breath is coming out short bursts now. “Nothing! I didn’t do an – “

He’s right, he’s right and you know it. There’s no sin you haven’t committed, no sacrilege you’re not guilty of. There’s no forgiveness for you.

“That’s not true! Stop it!” you cry, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

He looks at you something almost akin to sympathy in his eyes, “Fragile little humans. You’re all the same. Covered in sin from head to toe and yet pretending you’re holy.”

“Stop it, please!”

You try to push yourself away from the table, but he grips your shaking hands with his cuffed ones and pulls you back forward. His hands feel icy cold on yours. He takes one look at your wide eyes and trembling lips and laughs.

Just the sound of it makes every single drop of blood freeze in your veins.

Evil, cruel, sinner, with your tainted, misshapen, and blackened soul, forever damned to hell. He’ s right, he’srighthesright -

“Sin, my love...lives in your very veins.”

You let out a bloodcurdling scream just as the door is kicked open, several armed people rushing in at once.

“That’s enough! Restrain him!” you hear someone yell and immediately, Fyodor is ripped from his chair and away from you. They push him forward roughly onto the table, releasing his hands from the attached cuffs and binding them behind his back instead.  

Your hands still feel cold where he had gripped them, and you can’t bring yourself to move.

“Get him out of here, now!” You hear the voice yell again, and think that it might be Ango, but you’re not sure.

You’re not sure of anything anymore.

Fyodor smirks at you one last time as they drag him away, a look of utmost satisfaction on his face, as if he had just won some unspoken competition between the two of you. Perhaps he had.

Someone puts a hand on your shoulder, shaking you gently. Maybe someone is even saying something to you, but it doesn’t really reach you. Your vision is glitching in and out of focus, and your head is filled with static and screaming.

You stare straight ahead at the wall, your gaze dazed, blank, and empty. A lone tear slips down your cheek.

Sin, my love...lives in your very veins.

[straycat-writes]

ya’aburnee // يقبرني (dazai osamu)

ya’aburnee // يقبرني (arabic, phr.) - “you bury me”; wishing for a loved one to outlive you because of how unbearable life would be without them.

requested by: @prophetparadox​

warning(s): Allusions to suicide and suicidal behaviours.

The dim twilight filtering in through the window casted strange shadows on her face. She wasn’t looking up at him, instead choosing to wordlessly focus on skillfully wrapping new bandages around his arm. He normally preferred to do it himself, as he wasn't particularly fond of the vulnerability that came with letting someone else do it. But he was so, so tired.

Even now, as he sat at the edge of her bed, he couldn’t remember ever actually asking her to do that. But then, there are a lot of things the both of them do for each other and neither talks about. It’s better that way. Even so, the silence in which they sat was getting more and more painful.

A cold draught blew in through the open window and Dazai shivered. It was January, but it might also have had something to do with the fact that it had barely been half an hour since she had dragged him out of a river and he was soaked to the bone and wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants as she replaced his soiled bandages.

He wished she would just…say something. Anything at all. She could scream and yell at him for all he cared. Hell, he wished she would scream and yell at him, he deserved it. But he couldn’t stand the silence.

“…(Y/n)?”

“Hm?” she said, barely audible and without looking at him.

He frowned, “…Please talk to me.”

She tied the end of the bandage into a knot and gave it a light tug, then sighed and finally looked at him, “What do you want me to say?”

He paused. What did he want to hear from her? Words of comfort, reassurances, ‘it’s okay’? None of those really felt right. Because none of those were true. Nothing about Dazai was even remotely okay.

And yet, here she still is. Why is she still here?

“Because I love you.”

He blinked up at her, confused, “What?”

“You’re thinking why I haven’t left.” She said non-chalantly, as if merely stating facts from a book, “It’s because I love you.”

Dazai knew it wasn’t easy to read him. Maybe she just knew him a lot better than he thought. A lot better than he knew himself. She was sitting beside him on the bed now, one of her hands over his. Her fingers were freezing, he noticed, then thought what an odd thing it was to pay attention to at such a moment.

“Are you mad at me?”

She gave a dry laugh, “As if that’s going to solve anything. It’s not like me being mad at you will keep you from trying again.”

Her words were blunt and pointed, but not really said in a manner intended to hurt. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a dull ache in his chest, as if he was doing something very, very wrong but couldn’t figure out how to fix it. How do you fix something you’ve only ever seen broken?

“I…I’m – “

“Don’t.” she said abruptly, shaking her head, “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

“But – “

“No.” she held up a hand and sighed, “Just – don’t, Dazai.”

He looked at her for a long moment, trying to drink in every subtly nuance of her face. She was shaking slightly, as if it was her who got completely drenched and not him, and no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t remove that frown of worry from her face. At an uncharacteristic loss for words, he just nodded and looked away. Just as well, he thought. There was nothing he could possibly say to her that wouldn’t sound like a hollow apology, a fake reassurance. An empty promise.

Hollow, fake, empty. He almost laughed at how succinctly those words described everything about him. As if that was all he was, and nothing more.

Beside him, she sat still, looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face. Then she let out a deep and tired sigh. With on hand placed on his cheek, she made him face her.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing you do when you space out on me and drive yourself mad in your thoughts.”

He looked down at his hands, his arms that she had gently wrapped bandages around not moments ago, and he frowned as he noticed that the bandages felt…softer, somehow.

“Dazai…” he heard her mumble beside him, “I…I’m not going to ask you to…make any promises you can’t keep.”

She was fiddling with her fingers, and Dazai could see the struggle going on behind her eyes, the struggle of everything she wanted to say but didn’t know how to. Things like this get particularly hard when neither of the two people involved are any good at talking, but he would take the stumbling awkwardness over the radio silence any day.

“I know…there’s nothing I can really do to…I don’t know, fix it, I suppose.” Then she looked up at him and a gleam of sheer determination crossed her eyes, “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you succeed either.”

He gave her a confused look, “What do you…what does that mean?”

“It means that you can keep trying to kill yourself all you want, over and over again, as many times as you like, but as long as I’m here, I’m not going to let you die.” She said, surprisingly without a single waver in her voice. And then, without any warning, tears started leaking from her eyes.

“I don’t care if you don’t think life’s worth living, or if you think it’s mechanical or grey or ‘oxidizing’, whatever the fuck that means. I don’t care!” She said with such a feverish intensity that Dazai could do nothing but listen mutely. “And – and I know it’s incredibly selfish of me but… You’re not allowed to die before me.”

With more tears falling one after another, she pointed an accusatory finger at his chest, “I won’t let you. Because I can’t do this shit without you, I don’t want to. And if I have one fear in life, just one fear, it’s that I’ll have to keep on living after you’re gone. You can’t do that to me, I won’t let you. So, no, you don’t get to die just yet.”

Her breathing was shallow by now, eyes glassy and cheeks tinged with red, and Dazai would have made some stupid joke about double-suicide, if his heart didn’t feel like it had been ripped out from his chest. Time seems to slip Dazai often, and he didn’t know how long they sat there, not looking at each other, the sounds of their breathings the only noise in the room. How do you recover from a conversation like that? Then she took in a deep, shaky breath and wiped her eyes, before getting up from the bed.

“I’ll go make some coffee for you.” She said, managing a small smile, “Put on a shirt, you’ll catch a cold.”

With that, she bent down and placed a feather light kiss on his cheek, before walking out of the room. He sat there, staring at his lap, lightly touching the spot on his cheek where her lips had just been. It was a long time before Dazai felt functional enough to even reach for his shirt.

[straycat-writes]

l’appel du vide (nakahara chuuya)

l’appel du vide (french n.) - “the call of the void”; the instinctive urge to jump from high places.

requested by: anonymous

warning(s): Alcohol, swearing

You sighed as you dropped into bed with a dull thud. The clock on the bedside table blinked 2:00 AM, and after the incredibly long day you had just had, you wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers and not emerge for a full 24 hours. That, apparently, was not to be, however. You were teetering on the edge of sleeping and waking, just about to fall asleep, when your phone began to ring on the bedside table.

Mumbling a curse under your breath, you sat up in bed and rubbed your eyes. You reached for your phone, your bleary vision not allowing you to check the caller ID as you picked up the call.

“Hello?”

“(Y/n), hey!!!” said a slurred male voice from the phone, “How are you, baby??”

You blinked, then frowned, “…Chuuya?”

“Who else?” he said cheerily from the other end, before letting out a string of vile curse words as you heard something crash loudly in the background.

You sighed, already feeling a headache coming on, “Why are you calling so late, Chuuya? And are you drunk?”

“I just wanted to hear my darling’s voice, is that too much to ask for?” he whined, “And yes, I mayyybe be a little tipsy, but that has nothing to do with it.”

“Not your darling.” You muttered under your breath as you frustratedly threw off the covers and got off the bed, searching for your keys, “Where are you?”

In Chuuya’s vocabulary, ‘a little tipsy’ meant ‘wasted off my ass and on the verge of passing out’, and whatever history the two of you might have had, you couldn’t leave him be when he was like that.

He paused, as if to consider what to say, “So-somewhere…drinks…bar…I don’t know.”

You rolled your eyes, “You know what? Nevermind, there’s only one place you frequent anyway. Just…stay there. I’ll be there in a few.

True to your words, five minutes later, you were in your car driving towards Chuuya’s favourite bar in the dead of the night. You ran a hand through your hair, muttering to yourself in frustration, “Why, why, why did this idiot call me of all people?”

It had been a month since you had seen him last. All you remember of that last encounter was a lot of screaming and yelling at each other interspersed by strings of curse words before the inevitable ‘I want to break up’ came. You didn’t even remember which one of you had been the one to say it, but frankly, it didn’t matter. It had been said, and that was that. You had completely cut yourself off from him after that, in order to wallow in your sorrow alone and in peace, and as much as it pained you to think about now, the thought of how Chuuya might be holding up hadn’t really crossed your mind.

The answer to that was obviously ‘not good’, as it became apparent once you parked your car outside of where you thought he might be and went inside. Chuuya was getting chastised by the bartender, but he didn’t really seem to be listening, instead looking spaced out and smiling like an idiot. In hindsight, you should have seen this coming. Chuuya has never been too good at dealing with stressful situations, and only has two sorry excuses of coping mechanisms: destroying something or getting drunk off his mind. When he saw you, his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“(Y/n)!!” he trilled, “You’re here.”

Choosing to roll your eyes in favour of gracing his wasted ass with an answer, you went up to him and tried to get him to stand on his own two feet. After apologizing profusely to the bartender on Chuuya’s behalf, you managed to half lead, half drag Chuuya back to your car. You dumped him unceremoniously into the passenger seat before getting in yourself. But instead of starting the car, you just sat there for a while, arms resting on the steering wheel and head resting over them. How did we even get here?

Back when the two of you had still been together, you used to think you’d spend the rest of your life with him. That was before everything went wrong. It was no one’s fault, really, and after a month of shutting yourself away, bingeing on ice-cream and crying yourself to sleep, you had just about convinced yourself it wasn’t meant to be, and that you were both better off away from each other.

But then this bastard decided to drunk dial you in the middle of the night, and here you were.

You felt a slight tug at your hair and looked up to see Chuuya twirling a lock of it in his fingers, “I love your hair. It’s beautiful.”

“Shut up, Chuuya.” You muttered, moving his hand away from your hair as you started the car.

“But I want to talk!” he whined, before quietly adding, “I missed you so much.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that, but you willed yourself to keep driving, “Just…please shut up.”

When he didn’t say anything for a while, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His head was resting against the window, eyebrows scrunched up as he stared outside with a very displeased expression on his face. Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out how to.

There were dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in days, which he probably hadn’t, and your heart clenched in your chest. You knew Chuuya had little in the way of self-care habits, but you hadn’t thought it would get this bad. Any third person looking at the two of you would have immediately pointed out that the look of exhaustion on his face mirrored the one on yours, but the thought never occurred to you.  

“Just what the hell have you been doing to yourself?” You mumbled quietly to yourself, not really expecting him to answer.

He heard you though, even through his drunken haze, and let out a bitter laugh. It sounded almost sober, and that surprised you enough to look over at him again. His eyes were glassy and rimmed with red as he looked at you, and even though he definitely wasn’t sober, he looked slightly more in possession of his wits.

“The past month has been the worst in my life.” He said after a while, “Hell, I haven’t got so pissed drunk since that shitty Dazai left.”

You sighed in frustration, “And what do you want me to do about it? I’m the last person you should be coming to.”

“Maybe. Probably.” He mumbled, “At this point, I’m really not sure what I should be doing. I…wish you’d just listen to what I have to say.”

“Listen to what you have to say? There’s nothing left to be said, Chuuya.” You said, getting increasingly distressed as you tried to keep your eyes on the empty road, “It’s done and over with, and just when I thought I’d come to terms with that – “

“I know, I know.” He interrupted, a strange kind of desperation lacing his voice, “But will you please, please just hear what I have to say?”

As if I have a choice, you wanted to say, but didn’t, and he took your silence as a yes.

“I miss you, (y/n), so much. And I know it doesn’t…doesn’t mean…much to you, but I’m so sorry.”

You snorted at that, and he fixed you with an incredulous look. You shook your head.

“I really am, and I – I don’t know what I was thinking, I just – “

“Chuuya.” You interrupted, “You’re just rambling nonsense now. Just…shut up, we’re almost at your flat.”

He sighed, “I…I guess I was just afraid.”

“Afraid?” That had piqued your interest, and the question was out before you could think the better of it.

He was hesitant at first, but then nodded, “Being with you…it felt – felt like walking the edge of a cliff. Not in a bad way, of course, but it felt so…foreign, I guess you can say. I have never been so utterly and completely in love with someone, and I knew if I accepted that and fell over the edge, you would be right there to catch me. So that’s not what scared me…”

You were listening to every word that tumbled out of his mouth with the utmost attention, partly because you were genuinely curious, and partly because you knew he would never talk this openly if he were sober. So, even though some of what he said hurt, you listened.

“What scared me was that…I…I often found myself actually wanting to…jump off that metaphorical cliff. Each time I realized what I was thinking, I would be horrified, because…well, it meant letting myself go, and you know that doesn’t have any good connotations for me. I didn’t know if I should, if it was the sensible thing to do, or even the right one, but…I don’t know if you’ll understand, (y/n), but being so completely in love with someone that you want to completely hand yourself over to them is…frightening, to say the least.”

All this time, you had been listening to him in mute wonder, not wanting to interrupt whatever trance he seemed to be in. He got scared and left you…because he loved you too much?

When you didn’t say anything, he cursed under his breath, “Damn it, this is harder to explain than I thought it would be. I’m not doing a very good job, am I?”

“What? No, it’s just…” You wanted to say you understand, you really did, but you weren’t sure if that was quite true. By now, the two of you had reached his flat, and you parked the car in front of his building, looking over at him frowning.

“Shit…I’m sorry, I just…fuck!”

“Chuuya.” You interrupted, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Chuuya! Look at me. Calm down.”

He sighed, then looked over at you with sad, red rimmed eyes, “It’s just…I’m sad. I’m sorry. I suck. I love you.”

Neither of you said anything for a good two minutes after that, just sitting in the car and listening to each other breathe. Then you sighed.

“Well, you’re certainly very eloquent for someone as pissed drunk as you are.”

He blinked at you, confused, “What?”

You shook your head and smiled at him, a thin, watery smile that dripped with sadness, but a smile nonetheless, “Let’s get you inside.”

You weren’t even sure if he’d remember any of this in the morning, or if he really did feel the way he had just described, so scared to love you, to be in love, that he pushed you away. You had no idea how to handle this, and the ache in your head just kept getting sharper and sharper. For a moment, you even caught yourself thinking that maybe it’d be better if he didn’t remember anything in the morning. That way, the both of you could go on living your lives as if nothing happened. But could you live with such a big ‘what-if’ hanging over your head?

As you drove back home in the dead of the night, after putting him to bed, you decided you weren’t ready to find the answer to that question yet.

[straycat-writes]

ichigo ichie // 一期一会 (akutagawa ryuunosuke)

ichigo ichie // 一​期​一​会  (japanese, phr.) - “one life, one encounter”. Once in a lifetime, never to happen again 

requested by: anonymous

The first time he met her, they were both very young. Way too young to be where they were, but the world doesn’t care about stuff like that. He had just been led into the building that the Port Mafia called its home, and everything around him felt much too colossal and intimidating and beyond his reach, because he was just a child and the world was, indeed, too big.

With so much fear and apprehension coursing through his veins, he almost didn’t notice her small figure in the periphery of his vision. She was hiding behind another, taller figure, trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible. But with curiosity getting the best of her, she couldn’t help but slightly peer out from behind the beautiful red-haired woman, to whom she still clung to for dear life.

As he looked at her wide eyes, full of wonder, staring as he and his sister were led away, he had the strangest urge to stop and stare too. She looked about the same age as him, and he briefly wondered what misfortune had befallen her for her to end up here, and whether it was greater than his own. But he didn’t have time to give it much thought. The man wrapped in bandages, the one who had picked him off the street, looked back at him and there was just something about that one glance that seemed to turn every single drop of blood in Akutagawa’s veins to ice. Despite being merely a couple of years older than him, there must be a reason they called him the scariest man in all of Yokohama. So, he clung tighter to his sister and didn’t look back.

The second time he met her, he was almost on the brink of death. He had to do it, he needed to. He needed to prove to Dazai-san that he was strong enough. But he wasn’t. And now he was lying in a dirty back alley, bleeding out from his stomach as the world faded from his vision, because he was weak, and pathetic.

Her voice was the only thing that even faintly made it past the loud ringing in his ears. From where he was lying on the ground, barely able to move, he saw her rush over to him. She dropped to her knees beside him, eyes wide and frantic as she fumbled for something to stop the bleeding with.

“Why would you go that far!?” she ranted desperately, swearing under her breath as she tried to make her scarf into a makeshift tourniquet for his wound, “Are you a complete idiot!?”

Akutagawa coughed, and even through the pain induced haze, he could remember wondering why she was helping him. They barely knew each other, aside from occasionally passing by in the hallways. He didn’t think they had exchanged more than a dozen words in all this time.

Then came the anger. At the enemies he had failed to capture, at her for being so patronizing, but most of all, at himself for being so mortifyingly weak, and letting anyone see it. He was just about to scream at her to leave him alone, when a voice interrupted, and they were both frozen stiff.

Akutagawa screwed his eyes shut, half hoping that the earth would swallow him whole. Anything was better than opening his eyes and seeing Dazai looking down at him with poisonous disdain in his eyes. But he deserved it, deserved whatever was coming to him, because he had been weak and pathetic and useless.

“Leave.” Dazai said to her, and she got up mechanically and left without a word. He didn’t blame her. She ducked out of the alley from right beside him, but Dazai’s gaze was fixed on Akutagawa, still laying on the ground, bruised and bloodied. There was not a drop of sympathy in his eyes.

The third time he met her was on the worst night of his life. Imagine you’ve been running after something your whole life. It’s right in front of your eyes, so close you can almost touch it, but every time you try, it moves just a millimeter more out of reach. Yet you keep trying. And then one day, it just suddenly disappears and you realize that all this time you never had any hope of succeeding at all.

Dazai-san had left. He had just gone and left, disappeared overnight and Akutagawa knew he wasn’t coming back. He doesn’t remember how many things he destroyed that night, or how many people he killed or maimed in his frenzy. What he did remember was that he didn’t stop until he couldn’t physically stand up anymore, and she was the one who was sent to retrieve him after the carnage. She wordlessly helped him to his feet, put him in a car, and drove him back to the bleak and threadbare flat that passed for his home. As if he had ever had one of those.

The next morning, by the time he was lucid enough to understand it, she had left too. Had followed right in Dazai’s footsteps and taken with her a piece of him he didn’t even know he had. And even though he didn’t think there had ever been anything inside of him to begin with, Akutagawa had never felt hollower in his life.

The last time he saw her was four years after that. She looked….different somehow. Brighter and more carefree, although he could still see that characteristic look in her eye that people who have once been a part of the mafia can never seem to get rid of. He had just turned the corner of a street, hands buried deep into the pockets of his coat that was still splattered with blood from his last job, when he saw her. She was standing at the florist’s shop, picking out flowers as the shopkeeper made a bouquet. Akutagawa stood frozen in his tracks, unsure of what to do.

Sometime after she had tried to save him in that dingy back alley, he had realized that he still had her bloody scarf with which she had tried to staunch the bleeding. So, he washed it as best as he could, and thought he’d give it back whenever he ran into her. But whatever perfect opportunity he was looking for never presented itself, and before he knew it, she was gone and all he was left with was the scarf of the girl who had saved his life.

That scarf usually went with him wherever he went, for some reason, and right now he was glad of that fact because it gave him a reason to approach her.

Hands still jammed deep into his pockets, he walked up to her wordlessly and coughed slightly to get her attention. But instead of turning around, she froze. It had been years, and it was just a cough, but there was no way she could ever forget him.

“Akutagawa.”

When she finally did turn around, the look on her face was not what he had expected, and all words seemed to flee from his mind. She looked alarmed, eyes darting every which way, as if trying to calculate the best route to escape. She looked scared.

“I –  this - “ he cleared his throat again as he produced her scarf, “This is yours.”

She looked down at the faded garment in his hands, and something in her eyes softened a little. “You…you still have that old thing.”

His eyebrows raised in involuntary surprise. Did she think he would have thrown it away? He quickly replaced the expression on his face with his usual scowl, and thrust the scarf at her, “Take it.”

She shook her head, smiling faintly as she pushed it back, “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?

She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned around, took the flowers and paid the florist. When she faced him again, her face was lined with a conflicted frown, as if two different urges were battling in her head.

“I’m leaving Yokohama tomorrow.”

Akutagawa stood there mute for a while. But I’ve only just found you again, he wanted to say. “Wh – where are you going?”

She shrugged, “Anywhere. Nowhere in particular.”

“You’re running from something.” He said, more as a statement than a question.

“You could say that, I suppose.” She ventured, “It’s this place. I don’t want to be haunted by it anymore.”

“So…”

“So,” She gave him a forlorn smile, “You hang on to that scarf for now. Maybe we’ll run into each other again someday, in some other place…under different circumstances. You can give it back to me then.”

Words failed him at that, and even if they hadn’t, she had barely stopped to wait for him to reply. Giving him one last smile, she turned around and walked away. He didn’t follow her.

To any passer-by, the sight might have seemed strange. A boy in a black coat standing in the middle of the road, open mouthed and clutching a scarf. Maybe we’ll meet each other again someday, she had said…What a blatant lie, he thought and scoffed. Fate doesn’t just throw around happenstance like that. He looked at the scarf still clutched in his hand, and gave a dry laugh when he drew the parallel with himself. Nobody wanted either of them.

Standing there in the midst of the busy road, he wondered how many people will leave him this way.

[straycat-writes]

jiāoqiǎnyánshēn // 交浅言深 (l lawliet)

jiāoqiǎnyánshēn // 交浅言深 (chinese, v.) - to have a deep and intimate conversation with a stranger

requested by: @spooderhearts22​

Ryuzaki had gone missing. Well, perhaps that’s overstating things. He hadn’t been seen in the taskforce headquarters the whole day, which was unusual for him, to say the least. Still, he was a grown adult and could take care of himself….right?

That’s what Light had said to everyone to try and ease their concerns, but he wasn’t so sure of it himself. He wasn’t worried about Ryuzaki’s safety. Far from it, in fact, and he was sure the others weren’t either. All they cared about was solving the Kira case.

Having recently regained his memories, Light was actually surprised at how smoothly his plan had worked up until now. But he needed to keep his guard up if he wanted it to keep succeeding, and not knowing Ryuzaki’s whereabouts made him very uneasy.

To cause Light this discomfort hadn’t been Ryuzaki’s intention when he had left the building without telling anyone, but it was a very welcome by-product indeed. He wasn’t complaining. Even now, as he walked the streets of Tokyo, he wasn’t sure why he had come out or where he was going. It was so unlike him. Yet, all he knew was that he had suddenly felt that he needed to get out of there. The walls of the building, despite how big it was, seemed to close in on him from all sides, and even the presence of the people inside felt suffocating.

He hadn’t realized how long he had been wandering around aimlessly like that, hands shoved into his pockets, but presently, he found himself in a park. It was evening now, and he frowned when he realized that he didn’t remember actually walking here.

Something very soft brushed across his ankles and if he hadn’t been so deep in his thoughts, Ryuzaki might have actually jumped from surprise. Looking down, however, he soon realized it was just a harmless cat. He smiled and bent down to pet it. The cat readily bumped its head into his hand.

“You don’t seem to be a stray.” He murmured, looking around for any signs of its potential owner, but there wasn’t anyone in the immediate vicinity.

He got up and sighed, before sitting down on a nearby bench. It wasn’t ideal, but he was tired. The cat, seemingly having taken a liking to him, jumped up to sit in his lap. The cat was completely white, with blue eyes and a fluffy tail. Ryuzaki sighed, absentmindedly petting its head.

“I’m right, I know I am. Light is Kira, there’s no two ways about it.’ He muttered, then looked down at the purring feline in his lap, “What do you think?”

The cat meowed loudly and he nodded in agreement, “Right? I know.”

Just then, he heard a voice calling a name from somewhere in the distance. “Atticus? Atticus!”

…what? The calls continued, before the person finally spotted him on the bench, “Ah, there you are!”

It was a girl who hurried up to them, skidding to a stop in front of the bench as she tried to catch her breath. The cat in his lap, who was probably named Atticus, he realized, meowed loudly as it jumped down from his lap and went to rub against her ankles.

“I hope he didn’t bother you too much!” she said apologetically, “He has a habit of running off…”

“Not at all.” He shook his head, then raised an eyebrow, “Atticus?”

The girl laughed as she took a seat beside him, hauling Atticus up into her lap, “Yeah…I didn’t want to go with the generic Snowball or something, you know?”

He nodded, then laughed to himself a little as he saw the myriad of bewildered expressions crossing her face as she took a better look at him. Was it the way he slouched? Or the way he was dressed? Either way, it was always amusing for him to watch strangers try to make head or tail of it, of him, and fail miserably.

Still, at least she was polite enough to not stare or comment. Instead, she asked him what his name was.

“Just call me Ryuzaki.” He replied, not even bothering to hide the obviousness of the lie.

She laughed, “Alright then, Ryuzaki. What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?

She shrugged, “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would want to spend his evenings strolling in the park.”

“Is that so?” he smiled, “Then what kind of guy do I seem to be?”

She took that as an opportunity really look at him, her gaze taking in all of him. She did this for a long minute, before letting out a sigh, “I…really can’t tell much, to be honest. Except that you look conflicted about something, maybe.”

He didn’t answer her for a while, instead absentmindedly petting Atticus, who had jumped back into his lap in the meantime. “…How far is one justified to go to prove they’re right?”

He had said what came to mind, but he hadn’t really expected her to answer. At worst, he had thought she would call him a weirdo and walk away with Atticus, and at best she’d just laugh and ignore him. She did neither.

“Well, it depends on what exactly one is trying to prove themselves right about.” She said thoughtfully, “What are the stakes?”

“People’s lives.”

She looked taken aback at that, but recomposed herself quicker than he expected, looking at him as if to gauge whether he was being serious or not. After a while, she nodded, “In that case, one should definitely go as far as he can.”

“Even if it causes a lot of collateral damage?”

“Well, are you sure you’re right?”

“I am.”

“And are you sure there’s no other way to go about this?”

“I…” he hesitated for a while, then sighed, “It’s all I know.”

“Then you should keep doing what you’re doing.” She said with a smile, “Nothing comes for free, you know. And this may sound like bad advice, but when the stakes are this high, you don’t have time to dwell on your regrets.”

He blinked and looked up at her, surprised at the determination in her voice. He hadn’t noticed when she had shifted from using ‘one’ to using ‘you’ in the conversation, but for someone who knew as little as she did about the true nature of what they were talking about, her words made a lot of sense to him.

“Oh, would you look at that?” she said suddenly, looking up at the sky, “It looks like a storm’s gathering.”

He followed her gaze and sure enough, the sky was overcast with grey clouds, threatening to spill over any moment. She got up to leave and looked at him apologetically,

“I had such a nice time talking to you, Ryuzaki.”

He got up, handing Atticus back to her and shooting her a rare smile, “Likewise, miss…”

“Right.” She laughed, “Maybe I’ll tell you my name the next time we run into each other.”

He shoved his hands back into his pockets, “What makes you so sure that will happen?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just a feeling.”

With that she turned to leave, waving to him once as he watched her retreating figure. Soon enough, she had disappeared from his sight. He sighed. Despite what she had said, he wasn’t sure whether they’d ever see each other again. For a few days now, he had had this feeling of impending doom looming over his bed, almost sounding like faint church bells in the distance….

The early November air felt especially biting through his thin shirt, and he shivered a little. Taking one last look up at the sky, he turned to walk back the way he had come.

[straycat-writes]

kintsukuroi // 金繕い (levi ackerman)

kintsukuroi // 金繕い (japanese, n.) - “to repair with gold”; the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken

requested by: anonymous

notes: this is a mess, but my god I enjoyed writing it so much

Tomorrow is the day. The Day of Judgement, when the Survey Corps is going to lay siege on the monstrosity waiting just inside of Shiganshina. The Beast Titan.

I wonder how many people we’ll end up losing this time.

You gritted your teeth. Just thinking about him – it – makes you sick. Too many of your friends had lost their lives at its hands. So, no matter the cost, you were going to make it pay.

However, at the moment, that wasn’t your biggest priority. It was just about midnight, and you noticed the bright full moon shining in the sky as you made your way up to the terrace of the Survey Corps barracks. There was someone else who really shouldn’t be left alone right now.

Levi was standing at the edge, leaning slightly forward, elbows propped on the railings.

“Would it be useless to ask you to come to bed now?”

I’m worried about you.

“Probably.” he replied without turning around.

Don’t be.

You sighed as you went to stand beside him. He was looking out at the still midnight scenery. There was no one out on the grounds at this time of the night, and Levi thought it looked equal parts serene and desolate, bathed in the moonlight.

While he was busy staring at nothing in particular, his thoughts a million miles away, you were looking at him. For once, he didn’t look as put together as he usually did. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, the top few buttons open, and the cravat missing.

You put a gentle hand on his shoulder, “We’re going to do this, Levi. We’re going to succeed.”

“You think so?” His voice was devoid of any intonation as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

You nodded, heartbeat quickening suddenly for some reason, “We have to. We don’t have a choice.”

The sheer determination in your voice sparked some degree of surprise in his eyes, and he gave a momentary curious glance before averting his eyes again.

“We have to succeed.” You added quietly, “If not for ourselves, then for our fallen friends.”

For a moment, a haunting, nihilistic thought crossed your mind, about how none of it mattered, that even if you did manage to take down the Beast titan, your friends would still be what they are: dead. Your eyes widened and you quickly shook your head, trying to squash the thought before it could proceed any further.

Levi frowned, seeming to notice the change in your demeanor. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” You say, almost automatically. “I just wish you’d get some sleep tonight.”

He scoffed, “Ridiculous.”

“I thought you’d say something like that.” You smile, trying to lighten the mood, but you couldn’t even make the smile reach your eyes.

How could you? Tomorrow could very well be your last day on earth, or worse, his last day. Your heart twisted violently in your chest and you squeezed your eyes shut. You didn’t want to think about this, about any of it, about anything at all.

Levi raised a thin eyebrow, before finally turning fully towards you, “Alright, spit it out. You’ve been acting really weird, and I want to know just what the hell you’re thinking about it.”

You swallowed hard, but then sighed, looking up at him with a defeated expression on your face, “The same bullshit you’re thinking about.”

He looked surprised for a moment, before his face returned to its usual deadpan expression, “Is that so?...I see.”

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. There was a chill in the night wind, and you felt like it could touch you right to your very bones. Still, it was nothing compared to the ice in your heart.

“…(Y/n)”

“Hm?”

“Are we bad people?” He asked, so suddenly that you’re taken aback. You frown, looking at him with confusion.

“What do you mean?”

He scoffs a little, “I don’t know. I just think sometimes that we must have done something terrible in our past lives, to end up in this hellish nightmare.”

“You’re wrong.”

The words came so suddenly that even you were taken aback yourself. Your voice was firm, and so determined that he couldn’t help but listen.

“You’re wrong.” You repeated, gentler this time, “We’re not terrible people, Levi. We’re just…people, who were thrust into this nightmare without being consulted, and yes, it is unfair, it is terrifying. But we have to face it. We have to be brave and survive, because that’s the only right anyone is ever born with.”

“None of us are perfect, not by a long shot.” You gave a dry laugh, “We’re cracked, damaged, sometimes downright broken. The cracks show sometimes, and that’s alright. We’re allowed to let them show, allowed to scream and cry. What we’re not allowed to do is give up. There are so many people inside the walls, who are counting on us to keep them alive, Levi. We can’t let them down.”

“The people inside the walls…” he mumbled, for once sounding unsure of himself, “They’re the only reason we can’t give up?

You frowned, “Well…no. Of course not. We can’t give up because there are still so many of our friends who are alive, and they deserve to stay that way. Erwin, Hanji, the rest of the Survey Corps, that trio of brats from Shiganshina…all of them. And…us.”

“Us?”

You remained quiet for a while, aware of his burning gaze on you but reusing to return it. Then you inhaled shakily, before finally giving him a soft smile, “We’re good people, Levi. We deserve a happy ending too. A soft epilogue…”

Something in your lover’s silvery eyes softened, and he gave you a long look, filled with adoration, love, and something else, more tender than either. Then he lightly put one hand on one side of your head, pulling you forward and placing a light kiss on your forehead. He encircled you in a tight, welcome embrace, and you found yourself being able to feel the steady beat of his heart. It relieved you, for some reason. His arms around you were the only thing that even remotely eased the ice inside of you,

You loved, more than your own life. So, it didn’t matter if you didn’t believe half the words you had just said to him. At the end of the day, humanity’s strongest soldier was still just as human as anybody else, and you just told him what he needed to hear. You loved him, so much more than your own life.

So, it didn’t matter if you lied a little.

[straycat-writes]

nepenthe (aizawa shouta)

nepenthe (greek n.) - something that can make you forget grief or suffering.

requested by: anonymous

The glass slipped from his hand and within seconds lay shattered into a thousand shards at his feet. He cursed under his breath in annoyance. This was the third time this week something like this had happened, and Aizawa’s patience was running thin.

It had only been a few weeks since the USJ incident, and even fewer since he had been discharged from the hospital. His arms were still covered in bandages and his movements felt uncoordinated and erratic. Every single one of his bones ached, in a way that bones are not supposed to ache, and he hadn’t even had the worst of it. At least, he thought so.

“You done breaking things yet?”

The voice came unexpectedly, and he would have been startled if it hadn’t been so very familiar. He turned around, only to see her leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, arms crossed in front of her. She sighed and shook her head, coming over to help. He averted his eyes, and when she asked him to leave, he didn’t need to be told twice.

It was a few minutes later that she joined him, holding a fresh glass of water for him. She handed it to him and crawled into bed beside him, and immediately he felt so much warmer than he had been moments ago.

“Why didn’t you just call me for help?”

“Because I’m not a damn invalid.” He scoffed,

She sighed, “I know that, Shouta. But you are hurt. You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know?”

“I can get a fucking glass of water by myself.” He growled, then muttered to himself, “Or at least, I should be able to.”

She lightly ran a hand through his hair and watched him melt into the touch, “It’s only been a few weeks. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

He mumbled something incoherently as he unconsciously snuck closer to her, and she laughed. He looked up at her with a mock frown on his face, “Don’t patronize me.”

“Alright, alright.” She smiled, “It’s just that…it’s painfully obvious what you’re thinking, Shouta.”

“Yeah? And what am I thinking?”

She shrugged, “That you should’ve done better in that confrontation at the USJ, that you…should’ve held your ground longer, done better…Am I right?”

He didn’t answer her at first, instead choosing to fiddle with the hand that she had laced with his a few moments ago. Then he lightly nodded his head.

“I just…they wouldn’t have got hurt if I had been more competent.” He sighed, “Even now, I should be out there in case anything happens. Instead, I’m stuck here recuperating.”

“Is it really that bad spending time with me?”

He rolled his eyes, “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“I know, I know.” She chuckled, “I’m kidding. I know I’m a joy to be around.”

“You’re a pain in the neck, is what you are.” He scoffed, but the smile that fought its way onto his face belied his words, and she knew she had won.

Snuggling closer to him, she lightly kissed his cheek, careful not to aggravate any of his injuries. When he felt her fingers gently caressing his hair, he felt so blissful, he almost fell asleep.

“Thank you.” He mumbled, low enough he wasn’t even sure if she caught it. She did, though.

“For what?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know. Being here. You just…make everything better somehow.”

“Is that so?” she smiled, “I’m glad. Now get some rest. You barely ever sleep anyway.”

The gentle movements of her fingers on his head were already too soothing for him to put up much of a fight, and he didn’t need to be told twice. Soon enough, he had dozed off beside her into a much-needed slumber.

She looked at his sleeping form, eyes full of adoration but also tinged with concern. His injuries had been really bad and when she had seen him at the hospital, she had almost broken down. And yet, the idiot thinks he should have tried harder…

Sighing, she closed her eyes too. He was a stubborn idiot, she decided. But she was in love with said stubborn idiot, and there was nothing to be done about that. He’d just have to come to terms with the fact that she’d never let him shoulder any grief or suffering alone.

[straycat-writes]

sarang // 사랑 (oda sakunosuke)

sarang // 사랑 (korean n.) - love, that says “i wish to be with you until death.”

requested by: @3rdgymbros​ 

“I don’t like your job.”

Oda had laughed at that, a deep, full laugh that reverberated throughout his chest, making you feel the vibrations where your head rested, just below his chin.

He was laying on the couch, cradling your frame on top of his as you tried to snuggle further into him. The late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the window coloured his hair an even starker shade of red, and you admired as it emphasized all the curves and angles of his face.

“I know, right? The working hours are ridiculous.”

You snorted, “Right, the working hours, and not the guns and the violence.”

You knew him, knew his ambitions and motivations, knew the bends and curves of his mind like the back of your own hand. You knew the man lying locked in your embrace and if there was one thing you were sure of, it was that no matter how much death and blood and misery surrounded him, he would never let it colour him.

And yet…

Long, thin fingers gently caressed your hair, and if it were possible, you would have leaned even further into him. He smelled of pine cones, fresh laundry, and the faintest traces of gunpowder. You smiled faintly to yourself, thinking that there’s just something so undeniably Oda about that combination. It was a while before the serene silence you had found yourself in.

“You’ve been awfully quiet. What’s going through your head?” he asked, but then shook his head, “Wait, I have a guess.”

“Oh, yeah? And what is that?”

“You’re thinking I’ll get myself killed one of these days.” He said non-chalantly.

You frowned. That was indeed quite close to what had been going through your mind, but you hated to hear him say it. It sounded so…wrong, as if just saying it was a bad omen.

He laughed good-humouredly, “Don’t worry, babe. I’m not dying anytime soon.”

“You sound awfully confident.” You tried to joke, but the tightness that had gripped your chest at his words didn’t ease at all.

“Of course.” He smiled, playing along with your jest, “There’s still so much I have to do, after all.”

“Right, right, the great ‘bucket list of achievements’ Oda Sakunosuke has to accomplish in his lifetime.” You turn in his arms to get a better look at his face, “What exactly does it consist of? Aside from being a writer, I mean.”

He seemed to give the question serious thought for a moment or two, “Well…I really want to get a cat…”

“Odasaku.”

“Alright, alright.” he laughed, “Fine. I…I really want to see the kids grow up, you know? And there’s this brat of an executive too that is in need of some serious therapy. I want to help him.”

Your features softened as you looked at him. His voice took on a certain determined quality whenever he talked about the orphans, or anyone he wanted to help, really. Like it was his duty to make everything right, no matter the consequences. He seemed to be staring off into space, gaze empty and yet so full of everything. Then he looked at you, and a smile slowly began to tug at his lips.

“And of course, the most important one.” He murmured softly, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you looked up at him with wide eyes. His clear blue eyes were already on you, a contented smile gracing his lips. That smile that still made your heart do flips in your chest. You felt heat starting to creep up to your cheeks and being at a loss for words, you buried your face in his chest.

“You’re so adorable,” He laughed, subtly tucking some loose strands of hair behind your ear,

Lying there so impossibly close, limbs tangled with each other’s, you couldn’t remember ever being more…content. The mellow winter sunlight streaming into the room was warm, and cocooned in your lover’s arm, you felt safe. The rhythm of his breathing, combined with the subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand almost lulled you to sleep, and as you drifted off, you found yourself thinking This. This person right here, he’s the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.

Life, apparently, had other, much crueler plans.

[straycat-writes]

Here’s a list of which prompt went to which character, so you can check if yours made it:

la douleur exquise  - Osamu Dazai

saudade - Edogawa Ranpo

fanaa // فناء - Katsuki Bakugo

finifugal - The 11th Doctor

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 -.Sakunosuke Oda

gibel // гибель - (yet to be decided.)

hiraeth - Nikolai Gogol

ichigo ichie // 一​期​一​会 - Ryuunosuke Akutagawa

jaaneman // जानेमन  // جان ِ من - Chuuya Nakahara

jiāoqiǎnyánshēn // 交浅言深 - L Lawliet and Fyodor Dostoevsky (yes, I cheated a little and accepted both because I love both of them too much)

kintsukuroi // 金繕い -.Levi Ackerman

l’appel du vide - Chuuya Nakahara

nepenthe - Shouta Aizawa

retrouvaille - L Lawliet

sarang // 사랑 - Sakunosuke Oda and Lelouch Lamperouge (cheated again because I cannot say no to Lelouch, haha)

ya’aburnee // يقبرني - Osamu Dazai

raison d'être -.Osamu Dazai why is this fucker so popular

Thank you so much to everyone who requested, I’ll put these out over a few weeks. Those who requested off anon will be tagged in the post once I upload it, while the anons will simply have to keep an eye out, I suppose.

I’m so sorry if your request could not make it in time, but you’re free to request it separately whenever requests are open or if I’m holding another event. Thank you 😊❤️❤️

[straycat-writes]

Straycat’s 1k Follower Celebration

Did ya’ll think I forgot? :P Well, I didn’t, and that means you have to put up with more of my self-indulgent writing, woohoo!!  🎊 🎉

First of all, I love all one thousand of you, and am so thankful for everyone who reads, comments on, and reblogs my writing, it means so much to me, you have no idea  💕 Believe me, I read every single one of your comments and tags and each time, my heart grows ten sizes  ❤️❤️

Now, let’s get to it, then! Here’s how this works:

Below the cut is a list of unusual one-word prompts. 

The words are from different languages and have various obscure and beautiful meanings in short, i’m very much in love with them. 

What you’re supposed to do is send me a word + a character and I’ll write a scenario based on it! 

I’ll only take a particular prompt once, and take requests on a ‘first come, first serve’ basis, That means once a prompt has been requested for any character, it will be crossed out.

One last thing, I would reeeeallly appreciate it if you could request for characters who are not Dazai. Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely in love with the bastard, but I’m kind of burnt out writing for him :( 

There are plenty of other characters and even fandoms to choose from. This is not to say that you’re absolutely not allowed to request Dazai. If you think a prompt suits him particularly well, then by all means, send it in. Anyway, prompts below the cut!

la douleur exquise (french n.) - The exquisite pain of wanting the affection of someone you know you can never have.

saudade (portuguese, n.) - a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost.

fanaa // فناء (urdu, n.) - destruction of the self; “destroyed in love”

finifugal (adj.) - hating endings; of someone who tries to avoid or prolong the final moments of a story, relationship, or some other journey.

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 (japanese, n.) - the feelings, scents, or images that evoke memories or anticipation of a particular season

 gibel // гибель (russian, n.) - not death, not suicide, but simply ceasing to exist; deteriorating in a way that is painful for others

hiraeth (welsh, n.) - a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

ichigo ichie // 一​期​一​会  (japanese, phr.) - “one life, one encounter”. Once in a lifetime, never to happen again.

jaaneman // जानेमन  // جان ِ من (persian, n.) - “soul of me”; gender-neutral word for sweetheart or darling.

jiāoqiǎnyánshēn // 交浅言深 (chinese, v.) - to have a deep and intimate conversation with a stranger.

kintsukuroi // 金繕い (japanese, n.) - “to repair with gold”; the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.

l’appel du vide (french, n.) - “the call of the void”; the instinctive urge to jump from high places.

nepenthe (n.) - something that can make you forget grief or suffering.

retrouvaille (french, n.) - the joy of meeting or finding someone again after a long separation; rediscovery.

 sarang // 사랑 (korean, n.) - “i wish to be with you until death.”  

ya’aburnee // يقبرني (arabic, phr.) - “you bury me”; wishing for a loved one to outlive you because of how unbearable life would be without them.

raison d'être (french n.) - the most important reason or purpose for someone or something’s existence. A reason for being.