#lou's lits

[loulits]

Headcanon: Chuuya being on the ceiling is never planned—it just happens

One second, he’s standing like a normal person. The next? He’s casually upside down on the ceiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Half the time, he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Someone pisses him off? Gravity shifts before he even thinks about it. Need to get out of a conversation? Ceiling. Dazai being insufferable? Ceiling. Need a moment to process? Ceiling. At this point, the Port Mafia barely reacts. New recruits get spooked when they realise Chuuya is watching them from above like some kind of feral gargoyle, but the executives don’t even bat an eye. Meanwhile, Dazai has an entire catalogue of dumb jokes. “Flew too close to the sun again, Slug?” “How’s the weather up there?” “Should I start leaving food on the ceiling for you?” One day, Chuuya’s going to lose patience and dropkick him from above. Someone please draw feral gargoyle Chuuya on the ceiling I will love you forever...

The Many Uses of the Ceiling: A Chuuya Headcanon Compilation

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[loulits]

｡‧˚ʚ Dazai and Medication Intolerance ɞ˚‧｡

Thinking about the idea that Dazai is allergic to most strong pain medication—morphine, opioids, heavy sedatives… and how much that quietly explains. And not in a mild way either. I’m talking— ✶ nausea so violent it’s worse than the injury itself ✶ heart rate that won’t stabilise ✶ breathing that goes shallow in the wrong way ✶ dissociation that isn’t the kind he chooses ✶ or even his ability interfering in ways no one can reliably predict Because here’s the thing—Dazai gets injured. A lot. Gunshots. Stabbings. Whatever the hell he’s doing off-screen. And we know, canonically, he hates pain. He avoids it. Even his suicide attempts lean toward methods that minimise suffering. And yet—we almost never see him react to pain like a normal person. We never see him reach for anything to dull it. So I keep coming back to this: what if he simply can’t?

The first time it happens it doesn’t look like a pattern—just a bad reaction. Dazai goes too still. Too pale. A pulse that stutters where it shouldn’t. Breathing that makes even trained medics hesitate. So they adjust. Different drug. Smaller dose. Worse. By the third time, it stops being coincidence. And somewhere, in neat clinical handwriting, it gets recorded: —adverse response to opioid analgesics. avoid where possible. And Dazai learns that reality long before he ever sees it written down. Pain, he can work with. Pain can be measured. Observed. Endured. Filed away. Pain is predictable. Medication isn’t. Medication is loss of control. A variable he can’t account for. A risk where the outcome isn’t relief—but absence. His body slipping out from under him in ways he can’t interrupt once it starts. So he stops taking it. And that’s where it shifts. Because this isn’t just about medication. It’s about limitation. Dazai doesn’t just dislike pain. He learns, very early on, that pain is something he cannot safely escape. Other people get injured, and there’s an end point. Relief. Sedation. Something to take the edge off. A guarantee—however small—that it will stop. Dazai doesn’t have that. For him, every injury comes with a calculation: endure it or risk something far worse than the injury itself And once that becomes your baseline—of course you hate pain. Not just because it hurts. But because it traps you there. And Mori would be the first to recognise that—of course he would. The absence of requests. The way Dazai goes still instead of tense. The way he endures rather than bargains. Most people ask for relief. Dazai… adapts. But he doesn’t correct that. If anything—he refines it. Nothing obvious. Nothing that could be called cruelty. Just efficiency. Bandages applied neatly. Wounds cleaned without pause. Stitches taken as if the question of pain never needed asking in the first place. And Dazai learns what’s expected of him. Not through orders—Mori rarely needs those. Through pattern. If he doesn’t ask, the process is faster. If he doesn’t react, it’s cleaner. If he makes it easy, it becomes routine. So he does. He talks through it. Jokes. Distracts. Turns it into something almost entertaining—just enough that no one lingers on what’s missing. Just enough that it looks like a choice. Because that’s safer, isn’t it? Safer than admitting there’s something he can’t afford to risk. By the time he leaves the Port Mafia, it isn’t even a decision anymore. It’s just how he functions. He's loud about small pain. He complains. He makes a spectacle of it. ...And that’s exactly why no one looks for what’s missing underneath it. Dazai still hates pain—just not in the way people think. Not just because it hurts—but because, unlike everyone else in the room, he doesn’t have a safe way out of it. For him, it’s never been pain or relief. It’s pain… or the very real possibility of not waking up at all. Which means even his so-called “easy way out” was never actually easy. And that’s the part that changes everything.

[loulits]

｡‧˚ʚ Secretly Married SKK HC ɞ˚‧｡

Thinking about secretly married SKK headcanon with hidden rings (thansk Ene) Dazai keeps his ring on a chain under his shirt, close enough that it rests against his heart. Chuuya hides his under his glove, never taking it off unless Corruption forces him to. It’s their secret tether, a promise kept quiet in a world that wants to take everything from them. Now imagine: Dazai getting kidnapped (again). He’s tied up, bruised and bloodied, but still smiling that lazy, infuriating little smile because that’s what he does. Which, of course, only pisses his captors off more. So they go further—ripping away his coat, tearing at the bandages, stripping him of every layer he wears like armor. And then they freeze. Because there, catching the dim light, is a silver band resting against his chest. “Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” one sneers. “Who’s the unlucky one?” The words have barely left their mouth when the walls shudder. A low tremor ripples through the floor, followed by the distant boom of an explosion. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling. Another blast follows, closer this time—the lights overhead flicker, pipes groan, the air feels charged like a storm about to break. The room goes tense, hushed. Nervous glances pass between the men. They know that kind of power. Everyone in the underworld knows who carves paths like that. But none of them say it aloud, not yet. And Dazai... Dazai just lowers his gaze to the ring swaying faintly against his ribs. His lips twitch, like he’s the only one in on the joke. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost bored, but the words cut with a weight that lands in the gut: “Mm. Unlucky’s close… but no. I’d call him catastrophic. And my husband.” The third blast snuffs the lights out completely. Darkness floods the room. And right on cue, the chaos begins.

[loulits]

｡‧˚ʚ Pokémon Trainer Dazai ɞ˚‧｡ —affectionate menace edition

thinking about Dazai as a trainer who absolutely refuses to battle properly— —but still somehow wins anyway. Like. On paper? He’s a disaster. ✶ never shows up on time ✶ forgets he’s in the middle of a match ✶ gives commands that sound like he’s joking ✶ looks like he’s about to forfeit at any second ✶Half the time he’s just standing there like he wandered into the wrong gym by accident. And yet—his win record is obscene. Because Dazai doesn’t battle head-on. He studies. Not just Pokémon types—but people. Patterns. Habits. Timing. Hesitation. By the time a match starts, he’s already figured out: ✶ which Pokémon you’ll open with ✶ when you panic-switch ✶ what move you rely on when you’re cornered. So his commands sound lazy, offhand, almost careless— —but they land exactly where they need to. And his team? Oh. His team is weird. Not in a strongest meta picks way. In a why do these Pokémon listen to him? way. (more on that later) And then there’s the way he treats Gym Leaders. He doesn’t respect the system. Doesn’t care about badges. Sometimes he wins and just… doesn’t take it. Leaves the badge sitting there like it never mattered. Except for one gym. He always shows up on time for that one… Bonus dialog because i refuse to be normal about them: Chuuya: You’re… actually early? Dazai: How rude. I can be punctual when I want to. Chuuya: You don’t even collect badges. Dazai: Correct. Chuuya: Then why— Dazai: Because I like seeing you annoyed. Chuuya: I’m banning you. Dazai: You've been saying that for years. A beat: And yet—you still haven’t figured out how to beat me. Chuuya: … Dazai: Or stop me coming back. Chuuya’s glare sharpens—something quieter underneath it, something worse: Keep talking and I’ll make sure you don’t leave the arena. Dazai: Mm, you can try. Soft, almost amused: But you won't. Chuuya: … Send your cat bastards out. You're finished.

More BSD x Pokemon bainrot to be found here! Because apparently there's a masterlist now... (help)

[loulits]

｡‧˚ʚ Pokémon (Dog) Gym Leader Chuuya ɞ˚‧｡

thinking about Chuuya becoming a Gym Leader but refuses to specialise in an actual Pokémon type. Like the League keeps trying to classify him. Fire type? Dark type? Rock type? No. Dog. Not canine-adjacent. Not “technically this one is Rock type so—” Just Dog. The League originally assumes it’s a joke because a lot of his team overlaps with other gyms anyway. Arcanine is technically Fire. Lycanroc is Rock. Houndoom is Dark/Fire. Boltund is Electric. So they try to file him under Fire specialisation. Chuuya looks at the paperwork like it personally insulted him. Because the problem is that Chuuya didn’t build his team based on battle meta or elemental synergy. He built it based on vibes and loyalty. Every single Pokémon on his team is some variation of: ✶ aggressively loyal ✶ dangerously fast ✶ built like it could maul someone ✶ will absolutely throw itself into a fight without hesitation Which, frankly, the League should have realised earlier is exactly Chuuya’s brand. So now the League database has a completely unofficial classification that everyone just quietly (begrudgingly) accepts: Nakahara Gym—Dog Specialist And every challenger eventually has the exact same conversation. Trainer: So what kind of Gym Leader are you, Nakahara? Chuuya: Dog. Trainer: …That’s not a type. Like, do you mean Fire? Dark?— Chuuya: Dog types. Trainer: That’s still not— Chuuya: Arcanine. Houndoom. Lycanroc. Boltund. Mabosstiff. Trainer: …Those are just dogs. Chuuya: Correct. Trainer: The League doesn’t recognise— Chuuya: They will. Bonus concept I cannot stop thinking about: Dazai shows up to challenge the gym. Except he doesn’t use a normal team. He just keeps bringing cats. Every. Single. Time. And Chuuya is standing there like this is the single most disrespectful thing anyone has ever done to him.

[loulits]

｡‧˚ʚ Bickering SKK HC ɞ˚‧｡

Thinking about SKK and how their bickering is basically its own language. Everyone else hears them and thinks it’s pure chaos—insults flung like knives, tempers razor-sharp, two people seconds away from tearing each other apart. But underneath all that noise, there’s something no one else can hear. Something only they’ve ever learned to read. Mid-mission, Dazai calls out, “Try not to trip over your own feet, midget!” and to the untrained ear it’s just mockery. But Chuuya shifts three steps left without hesitation, because that’s not an insult—it’s a warning about a sniper waiting to line up the shot. Or Chuuya spits, “Stay out of my way, bastard!” and Dazai instantly alters his path, because he knows what that really means: I’m about to bring the building down. They fight like it’s breathing. Quick, relentless, unrelenting—but threaded through every word is a kind of trust that doesn’t need soft edges. It’s precision carved out of years of blood, betrayal, survival. Their voices don’t just clash—they sync. Even when it sounds like they’re breaking each other, what they’re really doing is keeping each other alive. And maybe that’s the part that cuts the deepest: no one else will ever understand the language they built out of venom and fury. No one else could ever translate the care that hides in the bite. It belongs only to them, forged in the worst parts of themselves and the only person who ever stayed. So when some rookie steps in — “You two need to stop fighting and focus!” — both of them snap back, perfectly in sync: “We are.” Then they turn away, back into the fray, back into the shouting. Because what looks like hatred is the closest thing either of them has to intimacy—and the only language they’ve ever trusted each other to hear.

[loulits]

1) Emotional Ceiling Time

When Chuuya is overwhelmed, sometimes he just removes himself from the situation. Not physically leaving—just… relocating. To the ceiling. Out of reach. It’s his version of taking a deep breath. Dazai: “I take it things aren’t going well.” Chuuya, sprawled upside down, whiskey glass dangling from one hand: “…What gave it away?

2) The Existential Ceiling Crisis

Sometimes, Chuuya just ends up on the ceiling and doesn’t know how or why. One second, he’s pacing. The next? He’s upside down, staring at the floor like it personally wronged him. The worst part? It’s contagious. One time, he was ranting mid-argument, gesturing wildly, when Dazai pointed up at him and said, “You realise you’re on the ceiling, right?” Chuuya paused. Looked down. Looked back at Dazai. “God fucking dammit.”

3) The Passive Aggressive Ceiling Move

Chuuya doesn’t storm out of arguments. He just removes himself from them. Mid-fight with Dazai? He’ll cross his arms and float straight up, glaring down like a disappointed parent.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

[loulits]

｡‧˚ʚ Dazai Hiding Injuries ɞ˚‧｡

thinking about SKK headcanon with the hiding injuries trope. Imagine this: Dazai takes a hit mid-mission. Not enough to drop him, but enough to tear deep. And because it’s Dazai, he says nothing. Keeps smiling, keeps bantering, keeps playing the part until the mission is over. Because showing weakness? Not an option. Not in front of anyone. But Chuuya knows. Of course he knows. He’s seen the way Dazai’s steps falter just slightly, how his left hand keeps ghosting near his side, how the jokes get a shade too sharp when he’s covering pain. He doesn’t call him out, not in front of the others. He just waits. Hours later, when the dust has settled and the others are gone, Chuuya corners him. The smirk’s still there, like Dazai really believes he can bluff his way out of bleeding. “Take off the coat.” “I’d rather not strip for you here, Chuuya, we don’t have candles—” “Coat. Now.” And when he finally yanks it off, the bandages are already blooming red. Too much red. Chuuya swears under his breath, anger flaring because this idiot would rather bleed out quietly than admit he’s hurt. And Dazai, pale but grinning, just murmurs: “See? You notice everything. I don’t even have to tell you.” Like it’s a compliment. Like it isn’t breaking Chuuya apart.