Warnings: mention of drugs, my amateur writing, other than that none <3
A/n: hello loves, this is my first drabble/fic on here and it's not been edited and idk if it made any sense but I hope you like the bit of softness. Firm believer Frenchie and Ben could be besties.
Word count: 781
~=°☆°=~
The smell of second hand smoke was familiar as it curled into your lungs upon entering the room. The offending blunt lay forgotten on the coffee table, along side the remnants of pills you dreaded to know the effects of. Opened snacks and sweating, half-drunk beers let you know that the munchies had come and gone.
In the center of it all? Your brother and his new found high-buddy, Ben.
You looked the pair over, with the fond type of annoyance in your eyes. And what a sight they were, Frenchie and Ben both fast asleep, the former with his arm thrown over the soldier, and drool staining his shirt where his cheek was resting, mushed up against it. Even Ben's own hand was lightly fisted in the material of Frenchie's shirt, and the thought of their reactions waking up, almost kindled a laugh deep in your chest. Instead you just sighed.
Their not-so-healthy habits worried you, of course, but looking at the tortured pair, capable of looking so at peace? Their worries expelled from their bodies and suspended in the mist of smoke above them?
Maybe it was worth the price.
Not that you'd tell either of them that.
Your flat palm made a sharp smack as it collided against the back of your brother's skull. "Bonjour mon cœur, rise and shine. You and your boyfriend made quite the mess, non?" You teased, a smirk curling your lips as the now-awake Frenchie scrambled away from Ben, using the back of his hand to wipe the drool off his face.
He glared at you, but you could tell it was half-hearted. You and Kimiko were the only two people on this planet he could not channel his anger towards. Home. Family. And so you decided its within your jurisdiction to rub some more salt into the wound, "And don't worry, I took a picture"
Giggling, you dodged the cushion that was being thrown your way, and ducked to kneel in front of Ben's still-sleeping form instead. Never one to back down, "Was that so you could photoshop yourself in my place cherie? Monsieur over here is a very good cuddler." Frenchie's voice was teasing, yes, but underneath it there was something knowing. And God no part of you wanted to address the heat in your cheeks right now.
Instead your hands gently slid up Ben's arms, across his broad shoulders, before tipping his chin up from where his head was slumped against his chest. "Hey, hey mon soldat, you're going to have a stiff neck, wake up."
The look in Frenchie's eyes was pure betrayal at the contrast of your soft approach to him. "Incroyable, your own blood gets abused whilst the little crush gets pampered."
"Shut up"
"Non y-"
"Shut. Up." You hissed as Ben groggily came to consciousness, and you dropped your hands, not wishing to be on the receiving end of a compound-V infused punch.
He mumbled your name in a way you'd never heard it before, riddled with sleep, quiet as if unsure whether you were real, or an after-effect of a dream. You repeated your earlier encouragement, and he rolled his head back in response, already experiencing the aches of his older joints.
Not that he'd let anyone know it, but your softness had corrupted him just enough to save a soft spot for you himself.
You ushered them off to their rooms, the dutiful mother hen of the group as always, cleaning up after the two, though Ben had remained planted on the couch watching you with a calculated gaze. He sweeped up the last bit of ash off the table, and sprinkled it in the bag you were holding, finally coming to stand.
The heat of his chest signalled that he had ended up much closer than anticipated, and you looked up, breath hitching as his eyes searched yours, jaw briefly clenching with something inscrutable. Ben's hand reaches up, fingertips light as they brush a strand of hair away from your face, something dangerously close to reverence.
His voice was tinged with a rumble from lack of use "Hmm.. you sure are soft on me doll." He watched smugly as your eyes widened, and lashes fluttered. "Why is that?"
Subconsciously you leaned in, his warm breath brushing against your lips, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. "I- you know mon soldat."
Ben's french was limited but he understood enough, the nickname folding into the part of his chest reserved just for you. He nodded, once, slowly, a single tip of his chin. Solemn and knowing.
"Yeah.. i think I do."
And when his lips met yours, it was clear he certainly did.
"You have no idea how easy you make it to love you."
that's me to you tbh 😌😚
.ᐟ ᝰ The Shape of Something Human ᝰ .ᐟ
In the rusted arteries of the Under-City, mechanic Dazai Osamu survives on late-night repairs, bad caffeine, and the company of his half-synthetic stray cat. But when the unmistakable thud of something—someone—crashing through his rooftop vents shatters the quiet, Dazai finds Chuuya on the floor of his workshop: wounded, furious, and missing a cybernetic arm.
Under the soft pulse of the greenhouse LEDs, a simple midnight repair becomes something far more fragile. Chuuya’s fractures—metal and otherwise—begin to surface, and Dazai’s carefully welded composure starts to come apart. And when his guard finally slips, so does the truth:
Loving Chuuya has always been dangerously easy.
Keep reading ⤵
╰┈➤ Or read more Cyber Chuuya AU here! ✨
Dazai scrubbed a hand through his hair, smearing oil and grease into the strands. Not that he cared. The mess suited him—matched the state of his workbench, scattered with screws, stripped wire, and one half-disassembled cybernetic arm lying guts-up like a corpse on an autopsy slab.
It shouldn’t have been this difficult.
A simple kinetic motor issue. A routine repair. He’d fixed dozens like it.
So why the hell wouldn’t this one cooperate?
He pushed his chair back and let his head tip against the back of it, eyes falling shut under the neon glare of the overhead strips. When he opened them again, he realised the outside lights had shifted from warm gold to cold blue. Night already. He’d worked straight through it again.
A sigh slipped out. He didn’t have time to stop—he had an order due at dawn, parts to salvage, credits to scrape together. He needed to finish or—
Mrrrp?
Soft. Accusatory.
Dazai cracked one eye open.
The scrawny orange tabby hovered at the edge of the light, visible only by the reflection of his mismatched eyes—one clear blue, the other a tiny orange lens Dazai had soldered together from scrap the night he found him in the rain.
He really should’ve left the thing there. He wasn’t exactly in a position to look after another living creature.
But the kitten’s tenacity… yeah. It reminded him of someone. Loud, ginger, infuriating.
A faint smile threatened. He quashed it.
“What,” he drawled, extending an arm toward the floor, “can’t you see I’m busy?”
Chibi clearly did not care about deadlines. He strutted forward, head-butting Dazai’s palm before weaving through his ankles, tail brushing his calf in a soft static crackle. Then he circled once, plopped down under Dazai’s outstretched hand, and demanded attention with another pointed mrrrp.
“Alright, Chibi,” Dazai murmured, rubbing behind the little synthetic ear. “Break time.”
As if he understood perfectly, the tabby scampered off, pausing in the doorway with his tail curled high in satisfaction. Dazai stretched until something in his spine popped, rolling the tension out of his shoulders as he followed toward the kitchenette. He needed caffeine before he even thought about touching that arm again—
—and that’s when he heard it.
T h u d.
Not quite loud enough to be alarming.
Not soft enough to be accidental.
Chibi reacted instantly—fur puffing as he snapped toward the stairs with a sharp yowl, then bolted up them like something had personally offended him. Dazai exhaled through a slow, knowing smile as he fished a fresh coffee from the cold unit, and headed for the metal staircase. He didn’t hurry. He never did, not when it came to him.
After all—no one else knew about the narrow pipe-access tunnel that emptied into his rooftop greenhouse. Which meant two things: he was desperate, and he didn’t want to be found.
And people only crawled through hidden vents when they were hurt—bad enough to hide it.
As Dazai climbed, the soft green glow of the greenhouse began to spill downward. LEDs flickered through dense coils of vine, humidity warming the air until the Under-City’s metallic chill thinned to something gentler.
At the entrance, he spotted Chibi first—fur bristling, back arched, tail ballooned. A warning hiss ripped from him.
Followed immediately by a string of muttered curses from somewhere behind the workbenches.
Dazai stepped up beside the cat.
There—hunched over one of the benches—was Chuuya. One cybernetic arm half-shielded behind his body like contraband, Dazai’s rooftop toolkit spilled open beside him. His jaw was set, shoulders tight with the kind of pain he clearly thought he was hiding.
“…nice of you to stop by,” Dazai drawled as he crossed the garden, Chibi trotting at his heel like a furious little bodyguard. “Though my repair shop is, tragically, closed to reckless idiots after midnight.”
Chuuya shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel.
“Your damn cat ratted me out again.”
“Chibi simply exercised civic responsibility,” Dazai said blandly. “He politely informed me that a gremlin fell through my ventilation.”
A short, irritated snort.
But Chuuya still didn’t move the arm he was guarding.
Dazai eased onto the stool beside him, eyes flicking to the pathetic struggle underway: Chuuya trying to hold the detached arm steady with his body while awkwardly wielding a screwdriver in his remaining—attached—hand. The tool wobbled, slipped, scraped metal. The components he needed to reach were far too small for him to manage one-handed.
The effort made something in Dazai twist—more than one reason, none he’d admit.
“I was joking you know,” Dazai murmured, voice softening at the edges. “Let me fix that.”
“Not asking for your help.”
Not don’t need it.
Not I’m fine.
Just that.
Dazai’s mouth tightened as he finally took in the full extent of the damage—wires peeled back, stress fractures spidering through the plating, insulation scorched black. This wasn‘t an accident.
Someone had tore it off.
And Dazai didn’t have to ask who.
He already knew. And he knew Chuuya would defend the bastard anyway.
So he didn’t press. Didn’t call him out. Didn’t make it a fight. Instead, he reached across the bench and held out his hand—open, steady. A request, not a command.
Chuuya stared at the offered palm. Then down at the screwdriver clutched white-knuckled in his grip. “…why.”
The word was barely audible.
Dazai almost said because you’re butchering the poor thing, but the hypocrisy hit him mid-breath—he’d spent an hour downstairs failing to fix a simple servo motor. So what came out was smaller. Unarmoured. True: “Because I care.”
Chuuya’s eyes flicked up—brief, startled—before he shoved the damaged arm across the bench. He braced his remaining hand over the port at his shoulder, jaw locked.
Dazai worked in silence for a while, watching him from the corner of his eye—the tightness in Chuuay’s mouth, the way his gaze kept drifting somewhere far away. When the quiet stretched thin, brittle, impossible to ignore, Dazai let out a quiet sigh.
“…Wanna talk about it?”
Chuuya went still.
Then gave a short, humourless huff. “Nothing to talk about.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” Dazai murmured, fingers working through a bundle of wires. “It’s practically your most human trait.”
“Sometimes I forget I was human at all...”
Dazai’s hands stilled mid-motion.
A tiny stutter. Barely noticeable.
Chuuya continued, voice low and tight: “I’m half replacement, half salvage. People look at me and see parts. A tool. Something they can patch up and send back out.”
His jaw clenched hard.
“And tools don’t get… cared about. They get used until they break.”
Dazai set his screwdriver down with clinical precision.
“Chuuya,” he said, tone flattening—too soft for indifference, too sharp for pity.
Chuuya didn’t meet his eyes.
“Hey,” Dazai tried again. “Look at me.”
He didn’t.
So Dazai exhaled, irritation and concern threading together in that way they always did around Chuuya.
“First of all,” he said, voice dropping, “you’re not a tool. If anything, you’re the most stubbornly human person I’ve ever met. Humans bleed. Humans argue. Humans feel things they’re terrified to admit. Congratulations, you check every box.”
A beat.
A beat longer.
“And secondly—thinking people don’t care because you’ve got metal instead of bone is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
Chuuya’s head twitched, just slightly—uncertain, defensive.
Dazai pushed on, “What you’re made of isn’t what makes you you. It never has been. and honestly—” he huffed, fingers sliding a wire neatly into place,
“—you have no idea how easy it is to love—”
He stopped.
Chuuya’s head snapped toward him, HUD flickering, pupils contracting like a camera lens snapping into focus.
Dazai went absolutely still.
Caught.
Mid-sentence.
Mid-confession.
His brain lurched, scrambling for something—anything—to throw over the truth.
“—your reactions,” he finished, too fast. “Human reactions. Love how—how human those are. Obviously.”
A terrible save.
Even for him.
He cleared his throat, reaching for that usual lazy lilt like a lifeline. “I mean—you’re tolerable. On good days. Rare days. When you’re not—”
“Dazai.”
The way Chuuya said his name—quiet steady, breathless—cut the deflection clean in half.
Dazai dipped his head, bangs falling like a curtain as he reached for a screwdriver he no longer needed. “Forget it.”
“No.”
Chuuya reached across the bench, his remaining had settling over Dazai’s—gentle, grounding. Not grabbing. “Say it again.”
Not demanding.
Not angry.
Just… there, bewildered. Like the concept itself didn’t fit his mind.
Dazai swallowed. His fingers twitched under Chuuya’s, every instinct telling him to bolt sideways into sarcasm or smoke.
But something else—something older, familiar—rose up instead.
The truth.
“You have no idea how…”
A breath. He finally looked up: “…how easy it is to love you.”
The greenhouse seemed to hold its breath—lights dimming in a soft pulse, leaves trembling in the faint ventilation breeze. between them the confession settled like a live wire.
Close enough to feel.
Too new to name.
And impossible, beautifully impossible to take back.
This AU was inspired by by @ardeidae-e and their amazing art!
Once again i'm so honoured to collab with Lu in our Tangled Hearts AU!
— Prompt Chaos (and Other Crimes): A BSD Ficlet Collection
A simple maintenance check devolves into something far more heated when Dazai pushes every limit—technical and otherwise.
Between sparks, laughter, and a heart that won’t stop syncing to his touch, Chuuya begins to wonder what part of him is machine…
…and what part still remembers wanting.
AN: Inspired by the gorgeous art by @ardeidae-e—the absolute heart and soul of this AU 🫶 I’m so ridiculously lucky (and eternally grateful) to be collabing with them on our fic, Tangled Hearts!
The workshop reeked of ozone and hot metal—the kind of sharp, sweet sting that clung to the back of Chuuya’s throat no matter how long he stayed away. The air hummed faintly, alive with static. Somewhere under it, so did he.
“Thought I told you to hold still,” Dazai murmured behind him, voice low and lazy as always.
“I am still.”
Chuuya’s tone came out sharper than he meant, tight around the edges. He felt Dazai’s chuckle more than heard it—a ripple of warmth against his spine—right before the next adjustment sent a shiver darting through his body.
A wire sparked. Not enough to burn, but enough to make his chest stutter—that quiet, mechanical skip under his ribs betraying him again.
“See? Jumpy.”
Chuuya shot him a look over his shoulder, half glare, half warning. “Maybe if you didn’t keep poking at live connections—”
“But that’s where the problem is.” There was a grin in Dazai’s voice. “Can’t fix you without touching the sensitive parts.”
“Shut up and finish the recalibration,” Chuuya muttered, jaw tight as another spark danced beneath his skin.
Dazai’s laugh brushed along the base of his spine, a static thing that raised every hair left on his body. “Can’t rush precision work, Chuuya. Especially when you twitch like that every time I touch a wire.”
Chuuya wanted to tell him to go to hell, but the words tangled somewhere between his throat and the sudden flare of contact when Dazai pressed a new conductor into place.
White-hot.
Too close.
His fingers clenched around the edge of the workbench, metal biting into metal.
Dazai’s hands moved like he was playing an instrument he’d built himself—every adjustment measured, every brush deliberate enough to make Chuuya’s breath falter. “You’re sensors are hypersensitive today,” he murmured. “sure you want me to keep going?”
Heat coiled beneath Chuuya’s skin like an overcharged fuse. “You stop now, and I’ll short your entire system myself.”
That earned a quiet laugh—softer this time.
Then silence. Just the scrape of a tool, the low whine of current, and the pulse beneath his skin thrumming in time with the hum of the room.
It always started like this—the lull between words, the hush before the next spark. Chuuya could feel the charge building even before Dazai touched him again, like his body knew what was coming.
Knew too well.
He told himself it was a calibration issue. Not a response. Not trust. But the hum under his ribs didn’t lie—it moved when Dazai did. Always had.
The bastard drew it out on purpose, he was sure of it—fingers slow, careful, lingering in ways that made Chuuya’s throat go dry. Every brush of contact lit him up in waves: a hum in his ribs, a flicker beneath his skin, a pulse syncing with the low rhythm of Dazai’s breath behind him.
And Dazai knew. Of course he knew.
“Sensitive, aren’t you,” he said once—quiet, almost fond.
“Guess it’s a good thing I like seeing you short-circuit.”
The words burned, but the sound of them stayed—too easy to recall every damn time.
Now, even without Dazai saying it, Chuuya could feel the smirk in his silence. The deliberate patience. The way his hand hovered just long enough to make Chuuya lean, barely, involuntarily, into the next touch.
It wasn’t pain. It never was. Just that sharp, sweet pressure building until the line between discomfort and want blurred out completely.
Chuuay exhaled and steadied himself against the table, pretending it wasn’t pleasure humming through him like current in the walls.
Pretending Dazai didn’t know better.
Another spark. A twitch.
Dazai leaned in, voice right against his ear. “So you do like it.”
“Ha—shut up—”
The protest cracked under his breath.
When Dazai twisted the final wire into place, the pulse in Chuuya’s chest jumped—steadying only when that hand lingered a second too long. The room narrowed to hum and rhythm: engines cooling, circuits purring, and somewhere in it the faint echo of a heartbeat that wasn’t just his.
Heat gathered under Chuuya’s skin. Not the kind that burned, but the kind that spread slow and bright until it filled the small space between them. Dazai moved carefully, always just shy of too much, and Chuuya hated that his body leaned toward the touch instead of away from it.
Then a thumb brushed the seam where steel met muscle. The contact was light—reverent, almost. Too human.
“Your heart’s syncing,” Dazai murmured. “Guess it still likes me.”
“Guess it’s defective.”
“Mm.” The whisper warmed the air near his throat. “Must be, if it’s still letting you pretend this doesn’t feel good.”
Chuuya bit down on a breath that came too fast.
“Fuck off,” he managed, but the sound betrayed him—rough, unsteady.
He didn’t have to turn to know Dazai was smiling. He could feel the attention, the way those eyes tracked the faint flicker under his skin: a pulse of light that wasn’t blood but still answered every beat of his heart.
The next adjustment wasn’t rough, but it pulled something deep inside him—a nerve, a thread, a live wire buried too close to feeling. His breath caught before he could stop it. The warmth pooled low, bright and dizzying.
He should’ve told Dazai to stop.
He never did.
“Admit it.” Dazai purred, “You like this just as much as I do.”
The words sank deep, thrumming through him like a low current. Beneath the noise of the workshop, he could hear it—that quiet buzz under his ribs, half machine, half heartbeat, refusing to settle.
And over it all, Dazai’s laugh. Soft. Certain.
A sound that would stay long after his hands were gone.
— Prompt Chaos (and Other Crimes): A BSD Ficlet Collection
and maybe omegazai? or dazai at a bad time? OR MAYBE CHUUYA POST-CORRUPTION??? :headbang:
.ᐟ ᝰ The Quiet After the Fall ᝰ .ᐟ
After Corruption tears through him, Chuuya wakes in a hospital—disoriented, hurting, and drowning in a fear he doesn’t fully remember. Panic claws up his throat, memories blur, and nothing feels safe.
Except the one person he least expects.
Dazai—quiet, steady, the only presence Chuuya can track through the haze—becomes the tether keeping him from slipping under, the quiet anchor in a room full of ghosts.
A moment suspended between fear and relief, where the fragile trust they’ve been building—slowly, silently, stubbornly—finally begins to show its shape
Keep reading ⤵
╰┈➤ Or start with the pre-ficlet for maximum feels ✨
Everything hurt.
And not the good kind—not the kind that left Chuuya pleasantly wrecked after a fight: muscles sore, limbs humming, that clean burn that meant he’d gone in hard, won harder, and walked out alive.
No.
This was worse.
Pain pulsed sharp beneath his ribs, flared down his arms and legs in waves—raw, electric. And underneath it all, a crushing weight, like gravity had doubled just for him. His breath stuttered, shallow and unfocused, as he clawed his way up from the dark.
A ceiling swam into view.
White. Too white.
Chuuay blinked against the glare, eyelids dragging like lead. Fragments of the night pressed in—battle, heat, the roar of Corruption tearing through him like fire in rotten veins—
—and the hand that caught him before he disappeared into the void.
Dazai.
That damn bastard.
In the shredded edges of memory, Chuuya saw him standing there, watching him fall apart with something almost… reverent in his eyes.
Reverent?
What the hell was reverent about that?
Something cold pricked under his skin.
Machines beeped somewhere too close, too steady, the sound threading straight through his skull. The sheets were stiff, scratchy. The air smelled wrong—sterile, chemical, sharp enough to sting.
A hospital.
Chuuya’s pulse spiked so fast it hurt.
His fingers curled into the sheets, weak but desperate, knuckles trembling. His body reacted before his mind caught up—breath shortening, throat tightening, a sick rush of déjà vu that made his stomach drop.
He knew this kind of quiet.
Knew these lights.
Knew the way the world felt when you woke up somewhere you shouldn’t be, somewhere people had dragged you once before—drugged, restrained, helpless.
He didn’t remember the details.
He remembered the fear.
He tried to push himself up—couldn’t.
Tried to steady his breathing—couldn’t.
Tried to think—absolutely couldn’t.
Panic surged, hot and choking, swallowing the edges of the room. His vision stuttered, the ceiling blurring, the fluorescent lights flickering like they were laughing at him.
He was not going under again.
He was not letting anyone near him again.
Not like that.
Not ever—
A shadow moved at the periphery of his blurred vision.
Long. Lean. Familiar in a way that cut through the panic like a blade. Perched on a cheap plastic chair like it was a throne he’d claimed just to irritate someone.
And even half-conscious, half-drowned in terror, Chuuya would know that silhouette anywhere.
Dazai.
He was slouched back, humming under his breath as he tugged the torn seam of Chuuya’s coat into something vaguely resembling order. Chuuya’s hat rested on the bed beside him; his gloves sat folded—properly, neatly—on Dazai’s knee, as if the bastard had taken his time with it.
When he noticed movement, Dazai glanced up.
“Well, well… look who finally decided to rejoin the land of the conscious.” A lazy grin. A teasing lilt. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. You drool, y’know.”
Chuuya tried to scowl but it came out a wince. “Shut… up.”
“Ah, eloquent as ever.” Dazai set the coat aside with exaggerated care. “I’ll grab the doctor. You’re overdue for a check now that you’re—”
“No.”
It slipped out too fast. Too raw.
Dazai stopped mid-movement, hand still on the chair’s armrest, one eyebrow rising. The teasing eased—subtle, but enough for Chuuya to feel the drop in the air.
Chuuya swallowed, throat tight. He hated this place. The smell of antiseptic. The beeping. The fluorescent buzz. The memories tucked under his skin like splinters. His voice cracked without permission.
“I just… don’t.” He shut his eyes, jaw grinding. “Not yet.”
Dazai stayed utterly still. No quips. No smirk. Just quiet consideration.
Chuuya shifted weakly, fingers clutching the thin blanket. “Just… stay. Please. Just a little longer.”
The moment stretched—fragile, uncomfortable, too intimate. Chuuya braced for the mockery. The smug remarks. The delighted little jab about fear.
But instead, Dazai exhaled something soft. Barely a sound, more like a surrender. He hooked his foot around the leg of the chair and dragged it closer with a slow scrape of plastic on tile—inch by inch until his knees brushed the side of the bed. Close enough that Chuuya could feel his presence, warm and steady, not looming but there.
Dazai leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low and quiet in a way he only ever seemed to use on Chuuya.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I’ll stay.”
Chuuya’s breath eased—just a fraction. Enough that his death grip on the blanket loosened.
Dazai didn’t touch him. Didn’t crowd. Just sat close enough that Chuuya could track him in the haze, close enough that the fear ebbing through his ribs could latch onto something real.
“Hurts, huh?” he asked.
Chuuya let out a shaky, humourless huff. “Feels like I got hit by a damn meteor.”
“You kind of were one.”
“Fuck off,” he muttered again, but weakly—almost grateful.
A faint smile curved at the corner of Dazai’s mouth, but the edges held no mockery. Just softness. Something careful.
Chuuya’s eyes slipped half-closed, breaths settling into something steadier. The panic didn’t vanish—it still burned low and sour in his ribs—but with Dazai right there, close enough to feel, close enough to track, it finally stopped swallowing him.
Dazai stayed where he was. Silent. Watchful. A barrier between Chuuya and the room, between him and the memories trying to drag him under. His presence was a strange kind of tether—annoying, familiar, inexplicably steady.
For once, Chuuya didn’t fight the comfort.
Didn’t hide the tremble in his fingers.
Didn’t push Dazai away.
He let himself breathe.
Let himself need the closeness, just for a moment.
“…thanks,” he whispered, the word cracking like something pulled loose from his chest.
Dazai’s expression shifted—barely, but enough. A softening at the edges. A quietness that didn’t feel like pity or victory, but recognition.
His reply came low, steady, almost gentle.
“Anytime, Chuuya.”
He didn’t say it like a joke. Didn’t say it like an obligation.
He said it like a promise—one he had no intention of breaking.
And before Chuuya could second-guess it, before he could brace for mockery or distance or the usual retreat, Dazai angled the chair just a little closer. He settled in like he was prepared to stay for hours, knees brushing the side of the bed, eyes fixed on Chuuya with a wary sort of protectiveness he’d never admit to.
The room still smelled like antiseptic. The lights still buzzed. The machines still beeped too steadily. But the terror eased. The walls didn’t feel like they were closing in anymore.
Because Dazai was there.
And as long as he stayed, Chuuya wasn’t alone in the dark.
For the first time since waking, Chuuya let his body go slack—exhaustion pulling heavy at his bones, panic ebbing enough for pain to turn dull around the edges. He drifted, not quite asleep, not quite awake, held together by the thin thread of Dazai’s presence.
And Dazai didn’t move. Didn’t tease. Didn’t look away. He kept vigil—quiet, steady, unshakeable—as if daring anything in the room to try touching Chuuya without his permission.
And Chuuya—finally, reluctantly—let himself believe that he was safe.
At least for now.
At least with him.
— Prompt Chaos (and Other Crimes): A BSD Ficlet Collection
Might I send in a little ❄️ for the winter prompts? I'd love to see your take on it-
.ᐟ ᝰ Where the Light Thins ᝰ .ᐟ
“Honestly,” Kouyou’s said—cool, composed, threaded with a blade of irritation that passed for concern. Footsteps followed, measured and unhurried. “You never did learn, lad. Ogai grows tiresome when his executives fall ill.”
Chuuya glanced sideways. “He’d be more annoyed by the extra paperwork than the fever,” He muttered.
Then, after a beat—less convincing—“And it’s not that cold, Ane-san.”
One perfectly shaped brow arched.
“…Fine,” he amended, lips twitching despite himself. “It’s a little cold.”
Keep reading ⤵
╰┈➤ Christmas Ficlets 2025: A Winter We Remember
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 [FINAL]
The cold didn’t hit all at once.
It crept in—sliding beneath the collar of Chuuya’s coat, settling across his shoulders, sinking into his hands. Not sharp enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him of every place he was holding himself tight. Every place he hadn’t let go.
That was why he was out here.
Chuuya leaned into the railing, glass loose in his grip, and watched his breath fog and vanish over the city lights below.
Inside, the party pressed in on itself—too many bodies, too much sound. Laughter swelling and dipping behind the glass. Music bleeding through in uneven pulses. Someone cheering too loudly, like the room needed convincing it was still full.
He took a drink, sharp and burning, and stayed right where he was.
The door clicked open behind him.
“Honestly,” Kouyou’s said—cool, composed, threaded with a blade of irritation that passed for concern. Footsteps followed, measured and unhurried. “You never did learn, lad. Ogai grows tiresome when his executives fall ill.”
Chuuya glanced sideways.
She stood beside him, shawl drawn neatly around her shoulders, dark hair stirring in the wind. Her gaze swept him in one efficient pass—posture too rigid, shoulders locked, the cold clinging stubbornly to his hands.
“He’d be more annoyed by the extra paperwork than the fever,” Chuuya muttered. Then, after a beat—less convincing—“And it’s not that cold, Ane-san.”
One perfectly shaped brow arched.
“…Fine,” he amended, lips twitching despite himself. “It’s a little cold.”
That earned a quiet exhale. Not quite a sigh. Then her gaze slid—not to the city—but at the space beside him. Empty. Untouched. Like Chuuya’d left room out of habit, not hope.
“You’re avoiding the room,” she said plainly.
Chuuya didn’t deny it.
“Ogai will notice,” she continued. “And if I send him out here, he will be insufferable about it.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Chuuya muttered.
Kouyou studied him for a long moment. Then sighed and stepped closer. Without ceremony, she slipped her shawl from her shoulders and settled it around his. The fabric was warm. Weighted. Familiar in a way that brooked no argument.
“Then don’t linger,” she said. Not gently. But not unkindly. “You’ve fulfilled your duty to the night.”
The door closed behind her before he could answer.
Chuuya stayed.
The warmth faded fast. The cold crept back in, nosing beneath the borrowed fabric. Inside, laughter surged, dipped, changed rhythm. Someone called his name and stopped when he didn’t answer.
Time passed.
Long enough for him to finish his drink. Long enough for the ache to settle properly. When the door opened again, Chuuya registered it distantly—just another sound in the rhythm of the night.
The door closed—the click quiet. Deliberate.
That, finally, caught his attention.
Chuuya knew that silence.
Knew the weight of footsteps placed with intention. Knew the quiet that wasn’t absence, but control—measured, waiting to be acknowledged.
“You’ll catch a chill.” Mori came to rest beside him.Close enough to be company. Not close enough to be comfort. “I’d prefer not to rearrange assignments over seasonal stubbornness.”
Chuuya snorted into his glass, eyes still on the lights below. “She actually sent you?”
“A suggestion,” Mori said. “I chose to follow it.”
“Lucky me.”
Yokohama stretched out beneath them, dissected neatly by streets and districts. Mori’s attention moved across it with practised ease, as if the city were a body already opened—every artery mapped, every weakness known.
“You have a habit,” he said mildly, gaze never shifting from the city, “of withdrawing when gatherings grow dense.”
Chuuya huffed. “What, you keep a little notebook on that too?”
A flicker of amusement touched Mori’s mouth. Gone just as quickly. “If I did, you’d be disappointed by how short it is. Your habits lack imagination.”
“You’ve always been consistent.” Mori adjusted his cuffs. “Perimeters. Rooftops. Balconies.”
A pause.
“Graves, once.”
Chuuya’s fingers tightened around the glass.
For a split second the city smeared—lights stretching, bending—before he forced it back into focus. Streets. Motion. Proof.
His gaze drifted anyway. To the space beside him.
Too much room there.
Once, it had never stayed empty—too close, too loud, too alive. Someone always filled the space whether invited or not.
Now—
“Crowds aren’t my thing,” Chuuya muttered, turning back to the city. “You know that.”
“Mm.” The sound lingered. Deliberate.
“And yet,” Mori added, “you tolerated them well enough before.”
The needle slid in clean.
He hadn’t meant to remember—
—the antlers had done it.
Plastic red. Stupid little bells. The room exploding into noise and motion and reckless laughter. Chasing him across rooftops and balconies like gravity was a suggestion, not a rule. Like tomorrow was guaranteed.
He could still hear it if he let himself—the scrape of boots, barked curses, the laughter—
—next year, shouted like a promise no one thought they’d fail to keep.
Chuuya shut his eyes, breath catching hard in his chest.
He didn’t need to look to know Mori was watching. The air had gone still—the way it did when attention settled and didn’t move.
“I once admired your refusal to linger,” Mori said at last.
Chuuya cracked an eye open. “Yeah?”
“It was clean,” he went on. “You mourned. You adapted. You moved forward.”
A beat. “This stagnation is new.”
Chuuya’s lip curled. “Careful. You’re startin’ to sound concerned.”
Mori’s smile was faint. “Guilt and concern often resemble one another. Especially when misplaced.”
“Misplaced?”
“You grieve efficiently,” Mori said. “For the dead.”
His gaze flicked once toward the glass—light, movement, fragile joy still breathing behind it.
“But you neglect the living.”
That one hurt.
Not because it was cruel—but because it was precise. Because some sharp, treacherous part of Chuuya recognised the truth under it.
He hated that part.
“You think remembering them’s a crime?” he snapped, too fast.
“No.” Mori’s tone didn’t change. “I think replacing the present with ghosts is.”
Chuuya barked a laugh—short, humourless. “You make it sound so fuckin’ tidy.”
“It often is.”
That was the problem.
He’d done tidy before. Buried people. Locked grief down hard and deep. Kept moving because stopping had never been an option. Because survival didn’t care how he felt—it demanded momentum.
And now—
Now he lingered.
Now he stood on balconies and counted empty space like it meant something. Like if he stared hard enough, the weight beside him might come back.
His grip tightened. Knuckles pale. Glass threatening to give.
I’m still here, he wanted to say. I’m doing my job.
The words stuck.
Because Mori was right.
And Chuuya hated him for seeing it.
“There was a time,” Mori continued, folding his hands behind his back, “when this behaviour wasn’t exclusive to you.”
Chuuya stiffened. Instinctive. Automatic.
“Another individual,” Mori said, voice even, almost fond, “was quite taken with high places.” A pause. “I invested considerable effort ensuring he didn’t fall.”
The space beside Chuuya widened.
“And he repaid that effort,” Mori sighed, “by drinking my best liquor and vanishing for days at a time.”
“That’s because he—”
The word broke before it could form.
Chuuya cut himself off, jaw locking. The name sat heavy behind his teeth—unsayable. Saying it felt like sealing the absence in place.
His gaze slid back through the glass instead. To the edges of the room. The places where noise thinned. Where someone used to linger, hands in pockets, watching without asking.
“You remind me of him,” Mori said. Not accusing. Not gentle. Assessing. “When you stand like that.”
Chuuya turned at last, glare sharp and warning. “Don’t.”
Mori held his gaze. Then looked away.
“You needn’t explain yourself,” he said quietly. “I’m well aware of who once occupied that space.”
Something tightened in Chuuya’s chest. Not a break—pressure. Steady. Insistent.
He scoffed, turning back toward the city. “You make it sound like I’m havin’ some kind of episode.”
“I make it sound,” Mori replied, “like you’re standing where you always stand when you don’t wish to be observed.”
Chuuya clicked his tongue. “It’s a party. I stepped out for air. That’s not a crime.”
“No,” Mori agreed. “But it is a pattern.”
The word settled between them.
“So what,” Chuuya snapped, shoulders rolling back, “you want me in there smilin’? Drinkin’? Pretendin’ everything’s fine?”
Mori didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was almost gentle. “Would you be?”
Chuuya opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The silence stretched—weighted, expectant.
He exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the cold, the rail beneath his palms, gravity doing what it always did when people didn’t.
“No,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t.”
That admission settled heavily in his chest.
“I don’t—” He stopped, jaw tightening, then forced the words out anyway. “I don’t fit in there tonight.”
“No,” Mori said simply. “You don’t.”
That agreement unsettled Chuuya more than resistance would have.
“Wandering suits you better when you’re like this,” Mori continued. “Movement. Altitude. Space to think.”
A pause.
“I want you accounted for within the hour.”
There it was.
Not concern. Accountability. Permission, granted. Leash intact.
Chuuya scoffed. “You worried I’ll disappear too?”
Mori smiled. Didn’t deny it.
“I worry,” he said, “about assets forgetting their value when left unattended.”
Chuuya snorted, sharp and humourless—but the tight coil in his chest eased all the same. He slipped the shawl from his shoulders, folded it carefully, and set it on the railing. “I’ll be back,”
Mori inclined his head. Satisfied. “I know.”
Then he vaulted the railing.
Gravity caught him—steady, familiar—and dropped him onto the roof below.
Yokohama opened up around him, vast and uneven, full of places where the light thinned and people slipped out of sight.
Chuuya set off without looking back.
If he happened to cross paths with someone who lingered at the edges—
That wouldn’t be coincidence.
Hello Anon~
thank you so much for the prompt! I hope you like where it went, even if I took it a little… sideways. You’re always welcome to send more prompts, and you’re never a bother. Anon or not—my inbox is always open 🤍
Merry Christmas!
Dividers by @cafekitsune @wcnderlnds @strangergraphics
❛ you have to step out of this darkness and let them see you for who you are, like i have. ❜ 🥰
.ᐟ ᝰ Edges of Light and Shadow ᝰ .ᐟ
Two years out of the Port Mafia, Chuuya Nakahara is supposed to fit in at the Agency.
But when Dazai drops dinner on his desk, old rhythms resurface—smoke, unspoken words, and the quiet that only they share.
Some shadows, it seems, never fade.
Keep reading ⤵
It had been two years since they’d left the Port Mafia.
Two years and three months, if you wanted to get technical. Chuuya always did.
Life underground with Dazai had been hard—sleeping in safehouses, moving every few nights, watching Dazai play half a dozen faces at once. But at least back then, they’d known what they were running from. Now, sitting under the fluorescent hum of the Agency’s office lights, Chuuya couldn’t tell if what they’d run to was any easier.
The place was too bright at night. Too clean. White walls, polished desks, the faint smell of coffee and printer ink instead of gunpowder. No cracks, no shadows, nowhere to hide.
He sat hunched over a stack of reports he hadn’t even started, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The silence pressed in close, the kind that made his chest tighten. Maybe he preferred it that way—no noise, no laughter from the other room, no reason to pretend he fit in.
The Port Mafia had been cruel, sure. But it had been his. He’d understood it. Knew the rules, knew the people. Here, everyone smiled too easily. Trusted too quickly.
It made him jumpy.
He didn’t look up when he heard footsteps in the hall. Didn’t need to. The rhythm was too familiar—lazy, unhurried, all confidence and no caution.
Dazai stopped in front of the desk, his shadow falling over the papers. For a second, Chuuya almost welcomed it—something dark cutting through all that sterile light.
A soft thunk. A takeaway box landed on the desk. The smell hit him before he saw the logo, rich and spiced and painfully familiar.
“Dinner,” Dazai said simply, already pulling open the bag. Chopsticks, sauce packets, a second box. “You skipped lunch again.”
Chuuya grunted, not looking up. “Don’t remember askin’ you to play nanny.”
“You didn’t. But you get cranky when you’re hungry. And I’m trying to work in peace.”
Dazai’s tone was too casual. Calculatedly casual. Chuuya didn’t need to see him to know he was watching, waiting. The bastard was baiting him—he always was.
He lasted another minute before the smell won. With a quiet sigh, Chuuya stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the chopsticks. “Fine. But I’m not thankin’ you.”
“Noted,” Dazai said, smiling into his next bite.
They ate in silence after that. The city lights spilled pale through the blinds, glinting off the paperwork spread between them. At some point, Dazai perched himself on the edge of the desk, close enough that Chuuya could feel the faint pull of warmth from his sleeve brushing his arm. Close enough that, for the first time in weeks, Chuuya’s pulse slowed instead of spiking.
He didn’t know why it always took him to quiet the noise.
He just hated that it did.
Chuuya reached for another cigarette, struck a match, and let the flame burn a heartbeat longer than needed before bringing it to his lips. Smoke curled slow from the corner of his mouth as he drummed his fingers against the desk—anything to keep his hands busy. Dazai’s presence hung there—steady, irritatingly warm. The kind of quiet that made him itch.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dazai reach out—lazy, unspoken—and tilt two fingers toward the cigarette. He didn’t even bother to ask. Just waited.
Chuuya sighed, muttered something under his breath, and passed it over anyway.
Dazai took a drag, slow and practiced, eyes half-lidded in the lamplight before handing it back. His fingers brushed Chuuya’s; deliberate or not, Chuuya didn’t know. Didn’t want to.
For a moment, it almost felt like before—long nights, half-finished reports, the hum of something sharp and unspoken between them.
Then the scrape of a chair broke the lull.
Dazai dropped into it backward, elbows hooked over the backrest, legs stretched out like he owned the place.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
Chuuya didn’t look up. “Doing what?”
“Pretending you’re invisible.” The grin was there, lazy and sharp. “Newsflash, slug—you’re not.”
Chuuya ground his cigarette into the ashtray harder than necessary. “What the hell do you care? You’ve already got them eating outta your hand. The perfect little detective.”
Dazai tilted his head, eyes catching the lamp’s glow. “That’s the difference. I let them see me. You haven’t.”
Chuuya scoffed, sharp and mean. “Yeah? They don’t know a damn thing about you, Dazai. You’ve got them fooled—same as always.”
Something in Dazai’s expression flickered, brief and human before he smoothed it over. “Maybe. But I’m trying.”
That pulled Chuuya’s gaze up, despite himself.
Dazai leaned forward, voice quiet. “You don’t have to trust them yet. Just… stop hiding like you’re still waiting for someone to shoot first.”
The words sat heavy in the air.
Chuuya looked away, jaw tight.
“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re built for the light. Some of us still burn in it.”
Dazai smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe. But I think you’d look good in it anyway.”
Chuuya froze for half a second—long enough for Dazai to notice—and then snorted, turning back to his report. “You’re full of shit.”
“Probably.”
They didn’t speak again after that. But Dazai stayed.
And for once, Chuuya didn’t tell him to leave.
— Prompt Chaos (and Other Crimes): A BSD Ficlet Collection
i cant keep control of these pesky elves, lou! (and no, not little chuuyas, contrary to what dazai says)
🎄 — “help me decorate the tree… i can’t reach the top.”
.ᐟ ᝰ In Good Hands ᝰ .ᐟ
Chuuya clocked him without meaning to.
Back to the wall. Hands in his pockets. Coat hanging loose, like he hadn’t bothered to decide how he wanted to stand. Watching the room through his lashes, attention sharp and lazy all at once.
Always watching.
Chuuya’s jaw tightened.
Fucking creep.
He looked away immediately. Pretended he hadn’t noticed the way heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. Of all the things he’d used his ability for—collapsed buildings, redirected artillery, split the ground open like it owed him money—this had to be the dumbest.
Keep reading ⤵
╰┈➤ Christmas Ficlets 2025: A Winter We Remember
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7
The Port Mafia Christmas party wasn’t a party yet.
It was stuck in the ugly middle—half-finished and already loud. Unspooled extension cords crawled across the floor like trip hazards waiting to happen. Someone near the bar was swearing at the sound system, sharp and creative. Pine cleaner burned in Chuuya’s nose, too bright, too artificial, barely covering the familiar undertone of gun oil and expensive cologne that never really left the building.
Akutagawa stalked past with an armful of tinsel like it had personally insulted him. Gin sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, patiently untangling a string of lights with the calm focus of someone who’d handled worse knots under fire. Kouyou stood off to the side, watching the chaos with a faint, knowing smile—hands folded, immaculate, and very clearly not helping.
Chuuya wasn’t on the floor with them.
He was on the ceiling.
Crouched upside-down, boots planted firm against the plaster, gravity curled tight and obedient along his spine. A glass of wine rested in his hand, surface unbroken despite the angle. He watched the room from above, eyes tracking movement out of habit more than interest.
Waiting.
He always waited.
The tree sat in the centre of it all—tall, artificial, and expensive in that aggressively corporate way Mori favoured. Someone had dragged it in earlier and declared it done, which was generous at best. The base leaned slightly to one side, misjudged and uneven. The branches were bare, though—no lights, no ornaments. Just crates stacked along the walls like barricades, half-open and untouched.
Because no one trusted anyone else to do it right.
Chuuya drained his glass and let himself drop. Gravity released him cleanly; his boots hit the floor without a sound. He set the empty glass onto the tray of a passing underling without looking and stepped toward the tree.
He knelt by the nearest crate, fingers brushing glass and ribbon, then rolled one shoulder—grounding himself. A small motion. Familiar. Necessary.
A flick of his wrist.
And Gravity answered.
Ornaments lifted in a smooth, controlled spiral—red and gold baubles rising like they’d always belonged in the air. Tinsel followed, unfurling in slow, shimmering ribbons. He guided everything upward with precise movements, seating ornaments into higher branches, spacing them evenly, adjusting by millimetres. The air hummed faintly with his control.
The room went quiet.
Then murmurs. People drifting closer. Heads tilting back. Someone let out a low whistle.
Every year, they forgot.
Every year, they stared.
Mori insisted on these things—big parties, loud rooms, forced togetherness wrapped in expensive decor. Chuuya thought it was stupid. Wasteful. Still… he supposed it did something. Kept people in the same room long enough to remember they were on the same side.
One ornament wobbled.
Chuuya’s focus snapped tighter, jaw setting as he corrected the pull. The bauble steadied instantly, settling into place. He set the last ornament, released his grip, and let gravity fold back into his bones where it belonged.
There. Efficient.
“Done,” he said shortly. “Don’t touch it.”
Tachihara stared up at the tree. “That’s actually—”
“Don’t.”
Laughter broke out somewhere behind him. A cheer. The noise rose again as the room finally tipped into something resembling a party. Chuuya stepped back, arms folding as he surveyed the tree.
It was… fine.
A little lopsided.
Overdecorated.
Not worth remembering.
Still—
The lights caught the ornaments just right, glass gleaming, reflections suspended for half a heartbeat longer than they should have been.
And something old tightened in his chest.
Another party.
Another tree.
Another box of baubles was shoved into his arms before he could object.
Chuuya caught it on reflex, fingers tightening around cardboard already creaking under the weight. Red. Gold. Glass so thin it made his palms itch, like it might shatter if he breathed wrong.
“Give us a hand, won’tcha?” Albatross grinned, jerking a thumb toward the tree behind him. “Shortass like me ain’t reaching the top.”
“Get a ladder.”
“And miss watching you show off?” Tross shot back.
“Come on. You know we’re not doing this without you.” Pianoman said easily, already steering him forward with a hand between his shoulder blades, “Stop being difficult and do the thing you’re uniquely good at.”
Chuuya clicked his tongue. “You’re all unbelievable.” He dug his heels in for half a second—out of spite more than resistance—then looked up.
The middle of the tree was crowded.
Ornaments clustered thick where Tross could reach, branches sagging under enthusiasm more than planning. The top thinned out fast, bare in a way that made the whole thing look wrong.
Lippmann hovered nearby, scowling as he plucked ornaments off and rehung them a few inches to the left, muttering about balance like it mattered.
Iceman crouched at the base, shoulder braced against the trunk as he adjusted the stand, nudging until the lean looked intentional instead of sloppy. Doc stood off to the side, sleeves rolled, eyes tracking the whole operation—only stepping in when something looked like it might fail.
And then—
Dazai.
Chuuya clocked him without meaning to.
Back to the wall. Hands in his pockets. Coat hanging loose, like he hadn’t bothered to decide how he wanted to stand. Watching the room through his lashes, attention sharp and lazy all at once.
Always watching.
Chuuya’s jaw tightened.
Fucking creep.
He looked away immediately.
Pretended he hadn’t noticed the way heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. Of all the things he’d used his ability for—collapsed buildings, redirected artillery, split the ground open like it owed him money—this had to be the dumbest.
And yet—
“Fine,” he muttered. “But if Mori walks in while I’m doing this, I’m blaming all of you.”
Laughter answered him. Easy. Familiar.
People drifted closer as he shifted the box in his arms. He felt their attention settle—felt the weight of eyes the way he always did, like pressure against his shoulders. He breathed in. Cheap wine. Gun oil. And underneath it, something warmer.
Human.
Real.
He rolled one shoulder. Let his stance settle.
Then he let go.
The baubles lifted.
Slow. Smooth. Exactly where he wanted them. Glass rising in controlled arcs, spiralling gently into place. The room reacted—soft sounds, someone clapping, someone else whispering his name. Chuuya adjusted the pull in small, deliberate movements, because yeah, he could. Because it was easy. Because it felt good to make something work.
Then someone bumped his shoulder.
Not hard.
Not apologetic.
Just enough.
The pull slipped.
The sound hit first—sharp, bright, wrong. Glass shattered across the floor in a cascading crash, fragments skittering and chiming as they spread.
Someone yelped. Someone swore.
Heat flared up Chuuya’s spine as he spun—
—and Dazai smiled.
Bright. Open. Unrepentant.
“Oops,” he said lightly, head tilting as he surveyed the mess. “That’s unfortunate.”
“You asshole!” Chuuya snapped. “You did that on purpose!”
Dazai blinked, wide-eyed innocence snapping into place so clean it made Chuuya’s teeth grind. “Did I?” His gaze slid past Chuuya for a heartbeat—taking in the small crowd, the attention still lingering. “Guess it got a little crowded. Hard to keep your balance when everyone’s watching, huh?”
The words slid under his ribs and twisted.
Gravity stirred, sharp and eager, red pressure humming low in his gut. He forced it down with a snarl—too many people. Too much collateral.
“Watch it,” he growled, jaw locked, shoving the power back into submission.
A shoulder pressed in at his side. Solid. Deliberate. Iceman. No grab. No force. Just weight, grounding him like a brace.
Then another presence—Albatross’s hand firm on his shoulder. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Don’t. Not for him.”
Pianoman stepped in last, close enough that Chuuya could feel him without looking. Calm. Unmoving. “Party’s full,” he said pleasantly. “No need for extra commentary.”
The pressure eased. Not gone—but shared.
Chuuya felt it then—at his back, at his sides.
People who had him. Who weren’t moving.
So did Dazai.
Chuuya saw it in the way his attention shifted—not the smile, not the posture, but the calculation behind his eyes. Counting hands. Weighing space. Reassessing the room.
The smile slipped. Barely.
Annoyance surfaced first. Then something colder. Like the board had changed without him noticing.
“Well,” Dazai sighed, clapping his hands together once. “Looks like I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
No one corrected him.
Good.
He stepped back, already retreating, hands sliding into his pockets like this had bored him all along. Like he hadn’t just prodded something raw to see what would bleed.
“Try not to drop anything else,” Dazai added lightly. “Would hate for everyone to see what happens when you lose focus.”
Something snapped.
Heat surged fast and hard, gravity roaring up Chuuya’s spine before he could stop it. He lunged, shrugging off hands, boots scraping as his body moved ahead of thought.
“OI!” He shouted—
—but Dazai was already gone, slipping sideways through the crowd, unhurried, coat brushing shoulders like he belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Da—!”
“—zai-san?”
Dazai blinked.
The lights were wrong.
Too warm. Too soft. No hum under his skin, no pressure crawling up his spine. Just the low murmur of voices and the faint clink of glass ornaments being shifted around.
“Dazai-san?”
Ah.
There it was.
Atsushi stepped into his line of sight, clutching a box of ornaments like it might bolt if he let go. He had that look on his face—the one that meant he’d already rehearsed the request twice and still wasn’t sure it was allowed.
“Oh?” Dazai said. “Yes?”
“Um—could you help?” Atsushi gestured vaguely toward the tree. “With the top. We can’t really reach it.”
Dazai took a second too long to answer.
Then he smiled.
It came easily. Not sharp. Not preformative. The kind of smile that didn’t ask anything of the room.
“Kunikida-kun isn’t offering his assistance?”
Atsushi winced on instinct. “He said no. It’s too early for the Agency party, and it doesn’t fit into his schedule.”
Naturally.
“Well,” Dazai said, already reaching for the box, “that’s simply unacceptable. A space like this requires balance. Harmony. Excessive cheer.”
“Please don’t,” Atsushi muttered, defeated.
Dazai laughed and took the ornaments from him.
No ability this time. No weightlessness, no careful adjustments to keep things from drifting. Just hands and the faint resistance of pine needles against his fingers. He worked upward one branch at a time, looping string, adjusting angles by instinct.
Around him, the Agency moved in loose, overlapping paths. Tanizaki wrestled with a string of lights that refused to cooperate. Kyouka had lined up ornaments by colour with quiet precision. Ranpo had vanished entirely—taking the cookie plate with him, if the empty table was any indication.
The room was loud in the way that meant no one was worried.
Dazai reached the top. No flourish. Just a simple ornament, set carefully into place. His fingers lingered for a moment to make sure it stayed.
“That should do it,” he said, stepping back. “Perfectly imperfect.”
Dazai waved him off. “Anything for festive morale. Especially when it inconveniences Kunikida-kun.”
He stayed where he was, eyes on the tree as the lights reflected off glass and tinsel. The colours blurred together pleasantly. Nothing pressed in on him. Not expectation. Not silence.
This time, when he looked around, there were people there to look back.
And for now—
That was enough...
Lo my darling, thank you so much for the prompt that sparked this ficlet 💕 I’m genuinely so glad I met you this year, and I’m endlessly grateful for your creativity, kindness, and encouragement. Wishing you the warmest, coziest Merry Christmas—and may your new year be full of good vibes, soft moments, and inspiration ✨🎄
Dividers by @cafekitsune @wcnderlnds @strangergraphics
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Something shifted low in his chest. Not pain, not yet—something older, instinctive. It felt like a pulse out of step with his own, searching for rhythm. He’d walled it off, starved it, until even he could pretend it wasn’t there.
And Chuuya—of course he’d felt the absence.
“Since when,” Dazai managed, rough as sandpaper. “do you run from a fight?”
Chuuya didn’t even look up taking the glass from his hand.
“Since my partner was bleeding out and pretending he wasn’t.”
Pairing: Dazai Osamu / Chuuya Nakahara
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Words: 4,285
Tags: Soulmates AU, Angst and (emotional) Hurt/Comfort, Injury Hiding (see link for further details!)
Synopsis ⤵
Dazai should have seen it coming.
A bullet, a wound, a pulse that was never entirely his own—one step too far, one heartbeat too close, and suddenly the past isn’t past.
When a routine mission goes wrong, Dazai is forced to face a presence he’s spent years pretending didn’t matter.
Enemies and partners, broken and stubborn, he and Chuuya discover that some tethers refuse to be ignored—
—no matter how hard he tries.
My gift to @xkaez for the SKK 18+ Gift Exchange!
I hope you enjoy it!
All dividers by @cafekitsune
My gift to @xkaez for the SKK 18+ Gift Exchange!
I hope you enjoy it!
All dividers by @cafekitsune
