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NEW CHUUYA OFFICIAL ART FROM HARUKAWA AHHHHHH

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this is so cute ToT

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There’s an ache in me shaped like someone I haven’t met yet. What the actual fuck.

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It feels like summer. ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙

The kind where the window is cracked open just enough, letting in a breeze that flutters the curtains—soft, slow, unhurried. The scent of linen, warm and clean, mixing with the sun that spills onto wooden floors. A book left open, its pages shifting slightly, like it’s breathing.

Somewhere outside, there’s birdsong. Distant, but there. A reminder that the world is awake, even if you’re still wrapped in the kind of morning that lingers.

⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙

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A Taste of You

A Chuuya Happy Birthday special

The apartment was dim except for the halo of golden light circling the table—four little candles stabbing into a crooked, imperfect cake. The room smelled like butter, vanilla, and something warmer beneath: Effort. Sacrifice. Love.

You stood by the table, wiping your hands nervously against the fabric of your bottoms. You’d changed into something soft and simple—not seductive, but comfortable. Honest. You wanted him to see you as you were: someone who couldn’t afford much, but loved him so hard it ached.

You heard his keys at the door. His shoes hitting the floor. Then the weight of the day falling off his shoulders. The light from the hallway spilled into the room—and then, silence.

“…What the hell?” Chuuya murmured, voice gravelly with confusion and fatigue. He stepped inside slowly, his hair wind-tossed under his hat and his coat slung over his shoulder. His eyes found yours—and softened instantly.

You looked so gentle in the candlelight. So nervous. Like your entire heart was standing there on trembling legs. “Happy birthday,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He blinked once. Then again. “You remembered.”

“I never forgot.” He took another step forward. His gaze flicked to the cake, then back to you. “Did you… bake that?” You nodded, biting your lip. “I know it’s not pretty. I messed up the frosting, and I didn’t have the money to buy decorations, but—”

Chuuya reached you in two strides, his gloved hand lifting to cradle the side of your face. “Hey.” His voice was low, steady. “You made me a cake. You made me this.” His thumb stroked the edge of your cheek. “You think I give a damn what it looks like?”

Your throat tightened.

“I just wanted to make today feel… real. Like someone was happy you were born.” He exhaled, and it sounded like something heavy breaking. And then—he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fiery. It was slow and aching, the kind of kiss you only give someone when you need them like air. His lips molded against yours, warm and searching, his hand sliding back into your hair. You melted into him, breath catching as he deepened the kiss—gentle at first, then hungrier.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath fanned your lips. “You could’ve given me just that,” he said hoarsely, “and it would’ve been the best birthday I’ve had in years.” Your hands clutched at his shirt, anchoring yourself. “I wanted you to feel loved.”

“I do.” He kissed your temple, then your cheekbone. “God, I do.” He eased you back a step until your hips touched the edge of the table, the candles flickering. “Can I try it?” he asked softly. You nodded. He released his grip on you, stepped to the side and sliced a piece of the lopsided cake. You watched his movements—graceful, deliberate—even as your breath stuttered from how close he stood. He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Then looked at you like you’d just offered him something sacred. “It tastes like you,” he murmured. You blinked. “Wh-What does that mean?”

He set the fork down, brushed the plates aside just enough to clear space, and closed the distance between you. His hands found your waist, guiding you gently until you were seated on the cleared edge of the table—beside the cake now. The candles flickered behind you. You gasped as he leaned down to whisper:

“Sweet. Soft. Fucking addictive.” His voice dipped lower. “Now I’m starving.”

You trembled. “Chuuya—”

His hands gripped your waist tighter as he pulled you against him, his nose brushing along your cheek, down your jaw, over your pulse. “You pour your soul into everything, don’t you?” he murmured, kissing the underside of your jaw. “Even a damn cake.”

“I didn’t have anything else to give,” you whispered, fingers clutching his shirt like a lifeline.

“Yes, you did,” he rasped. “You gave me you. That’s more than I’ve ever had.”

He laid you down onto the table, careful of the candles, careful of your clothing. His hands ran up your thighs as he stepped between your legs, his breath thick with emotion and want. “Let me thank you properly,” he whispered, lips grazing yours. You exhaled shakily, threading your fingers through his hair. “Please.”

And then—he kissed you again, slower, deeper. It wasn’t rushed or carnal. It was worship. It was hunger buried in love. His hands moved with aching patience, memorizing every inch of you like you were a prayer he’d never learned to say out loud.

Time melted while the candles burned low. And between cake crumbs and kisses, you made him feel more wanted, more human, than all the fine wines and tailored suits in the world ever had.

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I love your writing sm!!!!

Thank you! This means so much to me 🥹❤️

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Dazai with Chuuya even as a grown ass adult is like the annoying little kid on the playground at recess who's run out of ways to annoy you and argue with you, but he still wants your attention

he's a grown man with grown insults

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April 13th — The Day I Chose Myself

I am not broken.

I am not too much.

I am not a mistake for having loved with all I had.

I release the weight of those who could not hold me.

I reclaim the parts of myself I gave away trying to be enough.

I no longer ask to be seen I know my worth.

Love does not require my suffering.

My softness is not weakness.

My story is still unfolding and I am the one writing it now.

Today, I celebrate my freedom.

Today, I come home to me.

(And when April 13th rolls around next year, I’ll celebrate it properly with softness, with strength, and with cake. Always cake.)

—Wenélie

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they are puppy dogs

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IM THE ANON WHO REQUESTED THE BEAST READER AND ADA DAZAI PROMPT AND OH MY GOD IT WAS WONDERFUL!!! 🥹🥹 you did such an amazing job with Dazai’s slow descent from confusion to analyzation to horror on what Beast!Reader told him about their world that felt so him, he didn’t react outwardly but he felt it and the “How can he go back to his normal when he was given the knowledge he became something he hated the most?”

Was such a good quote, you are quite literally one of my favorite authors like oh my god Don’t DOUBT YOURSELF YOU DID AMAZING 💕💕💕

Ahhh thank you so much for this message, seriously! I don’t even know how to express how much it means to me. I’m so glad you enjoyed it that much! That piece was honestly a little out of my comfort zone since I’ve never gone that intricate or emotionally layered with my BSD writing before, but your request inspired something really special. I always wondered how Dazai would react to that version of himself—but then again, who’s to say he isn’t already aware? That’s what makes writing him so hauntingly fun. The fact that you caught onto his inner unraveling and that line landed the way it did? I’m gonna cry. That means everything. Thank you for trusting me with the idea and for being so kind. You made my entire week. 🥹💕

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Idk if requests are still open or if you even read the beast manga at all buttt i think with how you write you’d do a wonderful job at the idea

But do you think you could write Regular/ADA!Dazai meeting Beast!Reader? The idea is that Ada/regular!Reader was hit with an ability that switched them with their beast counter part, and this version of them was dragged down the dark void thats Dazai Osamu just like he did with Beast!Chuuya, Atsushi & Kyouka, and now ADA!Dazai is forced to acknowledge that there is a universe out there where he ruined them, he hurt them and yet they still love him and stay by his side even if it hurts.

We Loved You in the Dark

Content Warnings: Emotional trauma, psychological manipulation, implied gaslighting, Stockholm syndrome, grief, references to abuse (non-physical), self-worth themes, typical violence (implied)

Author’s Note:

This story was a deeply personal attempt to explore the emotional weight of an alternate universe where Dazai’s choices turned darker—and how that version of him might affect the people closest to him. I tried my best to capture the request with as much care and intensity as I could, balancing lyricism with heartbreak.

If some parts feel confusing, I truly apologize—this was a heavy one, and I wanted the tone to linger in the quiet, between the lines. Your thoughts, interpretations, and feedback mean the world to me.

Writing this also inspired me to finally go back and finish the last volume of Beast—I’m currently wrapping up Stormbringer, and stepping into that headspace again definitely fueled the heart of this piece. Thank you for reading. ♡

ᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳. ᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳. ᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳

The first thing you notice is the ceiling. White. Quiet. Sterile. You blink slowly, fingers twitching against warm fabric. There’s a blanket tucked over your shoulders. A soft hum in the air—lights, maybe. Somewhere nearby, a window lets in pale morning sun. It smells like antiseptic. Clean. Like a hospital.

Or—

And then—you see him. Sitting in the corner of the room like a dream you weren’t ready to remember. Osamu Dazai.

His legs are crossed, one hand resting under his chin. That brown trench coat. Slouched posture. Those dark, impossible eyes tracking your every breath. You speak without thinking.

“…You stayed?” He tilts his head, and his mouth lifts into something familiar. “Of course. It’s not every day someone collapses right outside the office.” You blink. Once. Twice. The office? “You… brought me here?” “Where else would I take you?” he says lightly, voice playful. “You’re not the easiest person to carry, you know. I think I deserve a thank you.”

Your stomach twists. Something’s wrong. But it’s him, right? It’s always been him. You sit up slowly, arms sore, body tight with the tension of old bruises—healed-over habits your muscles haven’t forgotten.

“I didn’t think you’d come back.” Dazai blinks at that. “Back from where?” You try to smile, but it falters. “Wherever you disappear to when you’re done punishing me.” His expression flickers. “…Pardon?” But you don’t notice it. You’re already folding in on yourself, hands wringing the blanket.

“I get it,” you say softly. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Just—tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.” His voice is quieter now. Measured. “What I need?” “I mean, if this is about the last mission, I didn’t know the kid was going to fight back, and I didn’t mean to disobey—” “Hey,” he says suddenly, and there’s something real in his voice now. Something sharp. You flinch. Not at the volume—but at the tone. At him.

Your eyes dart to the door like you were calculating how fast you could run. What the hell happened to you? He keeps his voice level. Gentle. Steps closer, slow and deliberate. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says carefully. You frown at him, confused. “…You’re not angry?”

“No. Should I be?” You study him like a stranger wearing the face of someone you know. “You’re not… You’re not yelling. Or cold. Or…” His heart drops. Something awful takes shape behind his ribs.

You think I’d hurt you. That I have hurt you. You’re not just scared. You’re remembering. But of what?

He crouches down beside the couch, not touching, just watching. “Do you… remember how you got here?” You look at him again, and something in your face changes. Your eyes flicker around the room. The furniture. The light. The warmth. “…This isn’t my apartment,” you whisper.

“No,” he says. “This is the Armed Detective Agency.” Silence. You stare at him. At the sunlight streaming across the polished floor. At the warmth in his voice that doesn’t fit the shape of the man you know. And your mouth moves before your mind can stop it—“…You’re not Dazai.”

His face stills. Not a blink. Not a breath. Just stillness. Because it’s not just confusion in your voice. It’s horror. Like you’re staring at something wearing the skin of the man you love—the man you survive—and realizing too late that it doesn’t recognize you back. The coat is different. The voice is close. But the way he looks at you—no calculation. No leash tightening around your throat.

Where’s the sharpness? Where’s the cold smile that means you’ve disappointed him again? Where’s the warning in his silence? He says your name—gently, almost tender—and your body goes still.

No. No, no, no—he doesn’t say your name like that. He never says it like that. You press a hand to your chest. Your heart is beating too fast. “You’re not him,” you whisper. “You’re not—you’re not Dazai.” His stomach drops. Not because you’re scared of him. But because he doesn’t understand why. You’re shaking. You looked at him like he was salvation a second ago—and now he’s a ghost with the wrong face. What the hell is going on?

He crouches down slowly, voice steady, quiet. “I’m right here,” he says. “You’re safe.” But the moment he moves, you shift—subtle, instinctive— like you’re bracing for a blow that isn’t coming. And that is what breaks him. You’re afraid of him. But you’re not running. You’re waiting. Waiting to be punished. Waiting to be forgiven. Waiting to be his. But not this version of him. He reaches out, stops short of touching you. “Tell me where you came from.” You look at him again, and it’s not confusion anymore. It’s grief. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “But it’s not here.”

After you’ve settled, you sit across from him now, still in that borrowed blanket, hands gripping onto it. You haven’t looked at him since you said it. “You’re not Dazai.” He hasn’t moved since. But he watches you closely, patiently, like you’re a riddle only he knows how to unravel. The silence between you is tight—sacred. The kind that knows a single wrong word might shatter you both.

And then—“I used to follow the sound of his footsteps like prayer,” you whisper. “Even when they led to dark places.” Dazai’s brows lift slightly. He doesn’t speak. You’re not looking at him. You’re somewhere else. “I wasn’t afraid of dying,” you continue. “Not really. I was afraid of being left behind. Of being discarded before I was useful enough. Before I made myself… indispensable.” Indispensable. He’s heard that word before—used it himself.

To justify people like you. People who stayed. You look down into your hands like it might reveal the rest of your thoughts. “He never hit me,” you murmur. “He didn’t need to. There are softer ways to hollow someone out.” Your voice grows quieter. More distant. “He would disappear for days. Come back smelling like rain and blood and secrets I wasn’t allowed to ask about. But if I opened my arms… he’d sleep beside me like nothing happened. And I’d let him.” Your fingers tighten around themselves. “I thought that meant he trusted me. I thought it meant he needed me.” You laugh, but it’s soft and broken. “It just meant I was convenient.”

No names. No places. Just him.

He. Me. Another me.

You speak about him like a myth. Like a story told by someone still living inside it. Port Mafia. You haven’t said it. But it’s obvious now. That’s where you are from. That’s where he kept you. And you loved him. You feared him. You still do. And yet, you sit here now—so quiet. So careful. Like a porcelain thing someone taught to be useful before beautiful.

And he wonders—Would I have done the same? If Oda hadn’t died… would I have found her too? Would I have kept them in my cage, called it love, and convinced them to thank me for it? His throat tightens. I know the shape of that cruelty. I’ve worn it before. “You loved him,” Dazai says finally, voice low. You nod. “Of course I did.” “Why?” Your gaze drifts toward the window.

“He was constant,” you murmur. “He was terrible, but he was there. He noticed when I bled. He always knew when I lied. He remembered how I took my tea, even if he never made it. He would tell me I was his, then leave me to prove it.” You exhale shakily. “And I did. I always did.” And Dazai realizes—You didn’t escape. You were ripped away. You were displaced into a softer reality—his reality —and now you’re grieving the man who weaponized your love.

And the worst part? You miss him. The version of me that broke you. You’re still speaking in fragments. Your voice has softened, but your words are razors.

“He was brilliant,” you say. “A god to the ones who couldn’t see him clearly. And even the ones who did… they followed him.” Dazai doesn’t speak. He’s frozen. “Chuuya,” you continue. “He hated him. But he would’ve torn the world in half if Dazai asked. Like a dog straining against a leash he begged not to need.” Chuuya too? Even in that world… even there, they were Double Black. “Atsushi was worse,” you whisper. “He wanted to save people. And Dazai taught him how to destroy instead. He said it was mercy. I think he believed it.” Your hands curl in your lap. “And Kyouka… She smiled when he praised her. That was all it took. Just a few words, and she became a weapon for him.” You laugh, but there’s no joy in it. “He broke all of us. But we thanked him for it.”

Dazai’s heart feels like it’s caving in. Your voice is too calm. You speak like you’re reciting a lullaby. “And me?” You finally meet his eyes. “I knew he didn’t love me. But I still love him. I let him strip me down until there was nothing left but his name in my mouth. And I never once asked him to stop.”

Dazai is spiraling. You’re not just a victim of another me. You were his acolyte. You believed in his violence. Found meaning in his indifference. And you stayed—because he taught you how to need him.

He sees it now, in the way you sit too still, like moving wrong might upset the air. In the way you scan him constantly, like reading a man who’s always two lies ahead. In the way you never ask him for anything. And this version of me—this monster—still made you feel like he was all you had.

He reaches for you. Carefully. Gently. He means only to comfort you. His fingers brush your wrist—bare skin against bare skin. The world stutters. There’s a flash behind his eyes like lightning without thunder. Your form flickers—shifts— snaps.

And just like that—You’re gone.

And in your place: You. The real you. Curled under the blanket with wide, panicked eyes, gasping for breath like you’ve just surfaced from drowning.

You blink at him, confused, tears already spilling down your cheeks. “Dazai?” you whisper, lost. “What… what happened?” His hand is still on your wrist. But it feels like he’s miles away.

It was his ability. No Longer Human—a passive reflex. He didn’t mean to activate it. But now that version of you is gone.

You’re back in your reality. Back with him. With the version of himself that never left. That twisted love into survival. That raised devout monsters with soft eyes and firm hands.

And now, everything is back to normal. Except him. Because how does he go back to the jokes, the coffee, the Agency cases—knowing that out there, in another reality, he never left?

That there’s a version of him who stole loyalty from the broken. Who weaponized love and called it devotion. Who let a person rot in the name of staying close.

And they still thanked him for it. Still loved him. Still whispered his name like a prayer with no god at the end. He sits beside you while you cry, grounding yourself. And he wonders—quietly, painfully—what the other him would’ve done in this moment.

Would he have held you? Would he have punished you? Or would he have turned away, smug in the knowledge that you had nowhere else to go?

And then, softly, you reach for his hand. He lets you. But even as your fingers curl around his, warm and trusting and present—Dazai can’t help but think… There’s a world where I broke you. And you let me. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.

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Oh my gosh your writing is 👌. Do you take requests?

Hello! Thank you so much, I’m really glad you enjoy my writing. I do take requests! I’m a little behind at the moment, but I’m still open to new ones so feel free to send them in.

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💌 BSD Men & Handwritten Notes Hidden in Your Things ✉️

Because sometimes, love is found in the smallest details.

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💌 Osamu Dazai – Little Games, Little Confessions

Dazai’s notes are a game.

You find them in your coat pockets, tucked between the pages of books, slipped into your bag when you’re not looking.

Some are teasing.

“I saw you looking at me earlier. Falling for me already, bella?”

Some are poetic.

“If I leave before you wake, don’t think of it as me disappearing—think of it as me waiting for you in another moment.”

And some—the rare ones—are real.

A napkin from the café you both love, with only five words scribbled in his elegant handwriting:

“You make the world bearable.”

You never bring them up.

And neither does he.

Because Dazai will never say these things aloud.

But he knows you find them. He knows you keep them.

And that—that is enough for him.

💌 Chuuya Nakahara – What I Can’t Say Out Loud

Chuuya doesn’t write notes often.

But when he does—you keep every single one.

They’re never long, never dramatic—just small things, things he wouldn’t say aloud but still wants you to know.

Tucked inside your wallet:

“Buy yourself something nice. And don’t argue.”

Slipped under your coffee cup in the morning:

“You didn’t sleep well, did you? Take it easy today.”

And sometimes—the ones that mean the most.

Left beside your pillow when he has to leave for a mission before you wake up:

“I’ll be back soon. Be safe. I love you.”

(That one, you keep in your nightstand.)

Because Chuuya doesn’t say these things often.

But when he does—he means them.

💌 Fyodor Dostoevsky – Messages in Riddles and Ruin

Fyodor does not leave notes.

He leaves challenges.

You find them in the books he lends you—passages underlined, cryptic quotes with no explanation.

“Is it possible to love and still be cruel?”

“To know someone is to destroy them. Do you agree?”

Sometimes, it’s a chess move written on a torn scrap of paper, left on your desk, as if waiting for you to make the next move.

But one night—you find something different.

A letter, folded neatly, hidden under your pillow.

Not a riddle. Not a test.

Just one line.

“I will never ask you to stay, but I will always wonder if you will.”

And suddenly—you realize that even Fyodor Dostoevsky has things he is afraid to say.

💌 Nikolai Gogol – Do You Know the Magic Word?

Nikolai’s notes are pure chaos.

Scattered everywhere—on the fridge, in your shoes, attached to the ceiling somehow.

“What do you mean this isn’t the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you?”

“If I disappeared tomorrow, would you miss me? Trick question, I already know the answer. (You totally would.)”

“Do you know the magic words? (Hint: it’s ‘please give Nikolai a kiss.’)”

But then—there’s one that’s different.

No jokes. No games.

Just a single note, folded small, hidden in the sleeve of your coat.

“I know I make it hard to tell, but you are the only thing I’ve ever been afraid of losing.”

And for once—Nikolai does not ask you if you found it.

💌 Sigma – I Hope You Find This

Sigma’s notes are careful.

Neatly written, placed somewhere he knows you’ll find them but never where you expect.

Inside your favorite book:

“I noticed you like reading this before bed. Sweet dreams.”

Tucked into your luggage before a long trip:

“If you get anxious, just remember—I’m waiting for you to come back.”

And once—one that makes your breath catch.

A note he must have written long before he had the courage to give it to you, one that somehow ended up between the pages of an old journal:

“I think I love you. I don’t know if I should.”

When you ask him about it, his face flushes, his hands gripping his sleeves.

“You… weren’t supposed to find that one.”

But you’re smiling.

Because you did.

And maybe, deep down, he wanted you to.

💌 Ryunosuke Akutagawa – Words Are Not Easy for Me

Akutagawa does not know how to express himself.

So when you start finding his notes, you’re shocked.

A folded scrap of paper slipped into your bag before a mission:

“Be careful. Don’t be reckless.”

A small card tucked between the pages of a book he gave you:

“I don’t know what you like, so I chose something I thought was good. Let me know if I was wrong.”

A short letter, written in careful, deliberate strokes, as if he spent too long trying to make it perfect.

“I don’t understand why you stay. But I am trying to. I don’t know how to say this in person, but I… care for you. Even if I don’t always show it.”

(That one, you hold onto the longest.)

Because for Akutagawa, love is not spoken.

It is written.

In stiff, uncertain words.

In quiet, careful notes.

In ways he will never say aloud, but hope you understand anyway.

💌 Ranpo Edogawa – If You Need Proof, Here It Is.

Ranpo’s notes are ridiculous.

Written in crayon, scribbled on candy wrappers, left in your pocket when you aren’t looking.

“If you’re reading this, you owe me a snack.”

“I’m a genius, and you love me. What a great combination!”

“I know you miss me right now. Even if I’m in the same room. (Admit it.)”

But then—a different one.

Taped to the corner of your mirror, written more neatly than usual.

“I never write things down when I don’t have to. But sometimes, I like to remind you that you matter to me. Even though you already knew that, didn’t you?”

And when you ask him about it, he just grins, stealing a bite of your snack.

“What, you wanted me to say it in person? Too bad, I already wrote it down.”

But later—when he leans against you, his head resting on your shoulder—

You hear him mutter, “Just so you know… I meant it.”

And that—that is why you keep every single note.

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There’s something so endearing about the little notes left behind—playful scribbles tucked between pages, heartfelt words slipped into coat pockets, a simple “thinking of you” on a post-it by the coffee cup. Love doesn’t always need grand gestures; sometimes, it’s found in ink-stained fingertips and the quiet reassurance of I am here, I love you, I remember you. The smallest acts of love are often the greatest, not because of their size, but because of the thought woven into them—the gentle proof that someone’s heart lingers with you, even when they’re not there. ♡

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🍊Squishiest baby in existence