blueyescape

[blueyescape]

@osarina

[ r18 ]

[blueyescape]

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[blueyescape]

[blueyescape]

I've had this idea stuck in my head all day

[blueyescape]

SELF LOVE

synopsis; It happened during a mission that should’ve been routine.

Chuuya Nakahara was facing off against a powerful ability user threatening to tear Yokohama apart. When negotiations failed and the situation turned critical, he made the only choice he could—he activated Corruption.

But something went wrong.

Dazai wasn’t there to nullify it this time. Chuuya pushed past his limits, forcing control through sheer will. Gravitational energy spiraled out wildly, warping the air, shattering concrete. Space itself began to twist.

Then came the sound—a deafening, unnatural crack—as if the sky itself had split open. Above him, a rift yawned wide, glowing with violent, violet light.

He barely had time to curse before it pulled him in.

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store flickered above you with all the charm of a dying firefly. It had been one of those days—micromanaging boss, a printer jam that somehow spits out fifty blank pages and none of your actual report, spilled coffee down your sleeve, and the final insult: the last chocolate milk on sale was snagged by a toddler with sticky fingers and zero remorse.

You clutched your bag of essentials—eggs, ramen, and a stubborn belief that maybe tomorrow would be better—as your phone buzzed in the pocket of your jeans. The sky outside had already surrendered to dusk, bleeding orange and indigo across the quiet parking lot. Your footsteps echoed softly against the pavement, the breeze still clinging to a summer warmth that didn’t match your mood, carrying the faint scent of asphalt and distant fast food grease.

You were halfway to your car when you saw him.

A man stood by your car, his silhouette sharp against the fading light. He looked like he had fallen out of an anime convention—or maybe a particularly dedicated TikTok. Long black coat, worn boots, fingerless gloves, and a tilted fedora that, annoyingly, worked on him. His strawberry blond hair caught the amber light of the streetlamp overhead, casting faint shadows across his face. Head bowed. Hands in his pockets. Still as a statue.

You slowed, mid-step.

Wait a second.

No.

No. Absolutely not.

There was no way Nakahara Chuuya—the Nakahara Chuuya—was standing next to your 2011 hatchback like he was posing for the Blu-ray cover of Bungou Stray Dogs: The Isekai Arc.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Still there.

Your brain threw up static. For a second, all you could do was catalog the ridiculous accuracy. The coat. The hat. The height. The sheer attitude. Someone went all in on this cosplay. Maybe there was a con nearby? A TikTok skit? One of those weird promo stunts?

You’ve watched Bungou Stray Dogs, read the light novels, maybe fallen a little too hard for the short-tempered Port Mafia executive once or twice— And yet—

He looked up.

Your breath hitched. Grey eyes locked onto yours, piercing and cold. Not the blank kind of cold, but the sharp-edged kind—wary, calculating, dangerous. You swallowed your nerves and tried to play it cool, shifting the grocery bag in your arms as you walked closer, your smile doing its best to scream “friendly civilian”

“Hey!” you called out, keeping your voice casual. “That’s an insane cosplay. Did you make it yourself or—?”

You didn’t get to finish.

He straightened up in one smooth motion, and his expression shifted like a storm front rolling in. His eyes narrowed—steel grey, sharp as cut glass, and absolutely not playing—like you’d just spit in his drink.

“Don’t take another step.”

You froze mid-stride.

His voice was low, raspy with a slight accent—Japanese, but laced with something rougher. He raised one gloved hand. The air around him shifted. Denser. Heavy. Wrong.

Your car shuddered.

Without so much as touching it, your car began to lift—just an inch or two, tires dangling as the car floated like it had suddenly decided to ignore gravity.

You stared. Your heart slammed against your ribs once, twice, then began sprinting like it had just realized it was in danger.

“I’m warning you,” he said, expression like steel. “I don’t know what the hell this place is, or who you're working for—but if this is some kind of Agency trick you’re apart of—or whatever this world’s version of it is—back off.”

You did not, in fact, back off. You stood there like a frozen idiot, half because you were too terrified to move and half because your mind was tripping over the words this world’s version like a loose wire.

He wasn’t acting.

This wasn’t a skit.

Your car was floating. 

Your thoughts short-circuited.

“…That’s my car,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between panic and disbelief.

There was a beat of dead silence.

You gestured helplessly to the plastic bag in your arms. “I just bought eggs. Could you, uh, not drop it?”

He blinked, clearly not expecting that.

Another beat of silence. He squinted at you, eyes narrowing as if trying to decide whether or not you were a threat—or just stupid.

His eyes flicked from your face, to the bag, to the car. Something shifted—his stance, maybe his breathing—and slowly, almost begrudgingly, he lowered the car with the same unseen force, letting it settle to the ground with a low, rubbery squeak of tires meeting pavement. No crash. No damage. Just the quiet thud of gravity being returned to normal.

You stared, wide-eyed, as your car settled back to earth with a reluctant squeak of tires.

But a moment after the wheels touched pavement, the alarm blared—headlights flashing like a miniature rave. The sedan honked like it had opinions about the entire situation. You flinched, nearly dropping your groceries as the shrill sound tore through the otherwise quiet night. And it seemed like you weren’t the only one surprised, as Chuuya flinched, brow furrowing, one hand twitching instinctively toward his coat like he was ready to crush the thing into a metal cube.

“Shit—Hey, hey—it’s fine,” you said quickly, fumbling for your keys.

You pressed the unlock button. The car gave a stuttered chirp and the lights dimming into a sullen stillness. The silence that followed felt just as loud.

Still rattled, you walked around to the back door and opened it, crouching to gently place the bag of groceries—especially the eggs—on the floor of the backseat. The scent of plastic, detergent, and cheap car freshener hit you all at once, weirdly grounding.

You shut the door gently with a soft clunk like making sudden moves would provoke him.

Then you glanced back over your shoulder.

He hadn’t moved. He was still by the front passenger side, arms crossed now, watching you with unreadable eyes. That same worn coat shifting faintly in the breeze, fedora shadowing his expression.

Right. Okay. This was happening.

You hesitated. He didn’t look like he was going to attack you—but he didn’t look like he trusted you, either.

“…Do you… want to sit? We can talk.” you asked finally. “In the car?”

There was a beat of silence.

For a moment, you weren’t sure he’d heard you.

Then, without a word, he walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and slid in. No hesitation. Like it was a decision already made. He sat rigidly upright, arms folded, gaze forward, and slammed the door shut hard enough to make you wince and your rearview mirror jump.

You blinked.

“…Okay. Sure.”

You rounded the front of the car, opened the driver’s door, and slipped into your seat, stealing a sideways glance at him as you pulled it closed. The interior filled with the faint click of the locks engaging, the creak of your seat, the hum of reality trying to catch up.

You started the engine. The soft hum of the AC filled the quiet, the vents clicking faintly before cool air began to circulate. You adjusted it absently, more out of habit than comfort, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel.

The silence stretched.

It wasn’t hostile anymore. Just… heavy.

Like both of you were waiting to figure out which direction this conversation would tilt.

Just the two of you sitting there in a car in the middle of a half-lit parking lot. One of you a completely average human with a nine-to-five software job and a caffeine habit. The other a mafioso with a gravity-defying ability from a fictional universe.

You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, glancing sideways.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t move, either—just stared straight ahead, jaw tight, fingers twitching slightly on his knee like he was still trying to process the sky.

Finally, you finally broke it, voice soft but steady, “...Do you… know where you are? Or how you got here?”

He didn’t move.

You added, more carefully, “This isn’t Japan. And it’s definitely not your world.”

That got his attention.

He turned slowly to look at you, eyes narrowing with the slow realization of something even he hadn’t wanted to admit until now. Not just lost. Not just disoriented.

But displaced. Across continents. Across universes.

And very, very far from home.

Chuuya’s eyes were still locked on you—quiet, sharp, and unreadable—but the silence between you had shifted. Not hostile, not tense. Just… uncertain. Like the ground was no longer where either of you had left it.

You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, inhaled through your nose, and exhaled slowly.

Okay. Okay. You were sitting in a parked car with an anime character. A fictional anime character who had casually floated your Honda Civic six inches off the ground like it weighed nothing. And now you had to explain... everything.

“So,” you started, trying to sound calm and not like your brain was still quietly screaming. “Do you… remember what happened? Before you ended up here?”

Chuuya tilted his head slightly, gaze narrowing. “I was on a mission. Ability user with spatial warping powers. Things went south fast. I used Corruption. Dazai wasn’t there.” He looked out the windshield now, brows drawn. “I pushed too far. Couldn’t control it. The energy warped—everything. Space. Air. Light. It felt like…” He trailed off, mouth tightening. “Like I got ripped sideways through reality.”

Corruption. No Dazai. Space tearing open. That violet rift.

You let out a shaky breath. “Cool, cool, cool. Um. So. Okay.”

He turned back to you slowly, brow furrowed. “That doesn’t sound very cool.”

You let out a slightly manic laugh. “Right, yeah, it’s not. Not at all.”

There was a beat of silence, then you bit the bullet.

“So, uh…” You bit your lip. “I don’t know how to say this in a non-insane way, so I’m just gonna say it. You’re… fictional.”

He blinked.

His expression didn’t change at first. Then his eyes narrowed, hard. “What?”

You winced. “Okay—okay, bad phrasing, terrible phrasing. Let me back up.”

He didn’t say anything, but the temperature in the car dropped by like ten degrees. But that probably was just the AC.

You gave a weak laugh. “I mean—you’re real. I mean, obviously, you’re real. Trust me. Sitting right there. Super real.  Infact, you threatened me with gravity like twenty minutes ago. Very real. But here? In this world?” You hesitated, words tripping over themselves. “You’re not supposed to be real.”

His brow furrowed, shoulders tensing.

You powered through your verbal crash. “What I mean is—in this world, you’re not, like… You know, in this world, you’re… a character. Fictional character. In a series. Anime. Manga. Light novels. You’ve got fans. People cosplay you. You have, like, fan edits. Playlists. Entire wiki page. Fanfics. Merch. The whole package.”

He blinked slowly, and somehow that was worse than if he’d yelled.

“I’m sorry—fanfics?” he repeated flatly.

You made a small choking sound. “Let’s circle back to that part later.”

Nothing but silence

His expression didn’t change, but the shift in the air around him was immediate. Like he’d gone cold beneath the heat of the AC.

“Are you screwing with me?” he asked, voice low.

You shook your head quickly. “No. I swear. I know it sounds completely ridiculous, but—yeah.”

His jaw tightened, and you could see the wariness settle into something sharper—something bruised. “You’re saying everything I know—everything I’ve done—none of it exists here? That my whole life is just some entertainment product in this universe?”

“…Kinda?” you said weakly. “But not you you. I mean, yes you, but—look, this world is just different. We don’t have ability users. No Port Mafia. No Armed Detective Agency. But you—your story—exists. It’s well-known. You’re kind of a fan favorite, actually.”

He didn’t look flattered.

In fact, he looked like someone had just told him gravity wasn’t real anymore and he was expected to be fine about it.

You hesitated. “I know this is a lot. Believe me, it’s a lot for me too. I was just trying to buy eggs.”

Chuuya stared at the dash for a moment, then leaned back in his seat with a soft thud and muttered, “I’m gonna kill Dazai if this is his fault.”

You huffed a half-laugh. “Well, at least that’s still on-brand.”

He gave you a look.

You raised your hands. “Hey, I didn’t write it.”

next part.

[blueyescape]

harukawa drawing chuuya tatted up is crazy

@chuellas how do you feel 🎤

[blueyescape]

ᡣ𐭩 WITH NO ONE TO SHARE THE MEMORY OF FROST

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you can't keep going on like this. it's been six months since you took over as boss of the port mafia—six months since you killed mori—and nothing is adding up. you don't understand why you did what you did, and everyone always hits you with the same reasoning: it was for the betterment of the port mafia. you can't accept it, and you need answers, but you can hardly breathe with all of the enemies circling yokohama. you allow yourself one night of freedom. you shouldn't have.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: LETS GOOOOOOOOOO YAYYAYAYAYAYYYYYY INSTALLMENT ONE POSTED AT LAST. PLSSSSS CIVZAI NATION, I HOPE YOU GUYS DIDN'T LEAVE ME </333333 i hope you guys enjoy the first part MWAH MWAH <333 civzai fridays will be every other friday from here on out! so next one is coming the 27th. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader, both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too tho), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

Red was once your favorite color.

Every Monday morning, you would start the week off with a fresh set of red roses in the vase on your desk, courtesy of Mori. He sent it with a note, usually asking you to do something for him or bemoaning the fact that you ignored another invite to brunch. You hardly ever read the notes he would send along with them, and sometimes you would toss the flowers too if he pissed you off enough the week before, but you never could help the small smile that curled to your lips when you first walked into your office and saw them every morning without fail.

Every Tuesday at three in the afternoon, you would meet Elise for teatime. She would shoo Mori out of his own office and dart around the room trying to finish setting everything up before you got there, not knowing you were already leaning against the door watching her scramble. Her red dress fluffed out around her as she panicked to get the cookies presentable, and she would screech when she saw you standing there watching her, slamming the door in your face until she was ready to let you in.

Every Wednesday, you would go down to the ports to ensure that all the week’s shipments arrived without any trouble. You would come back to your office late in the night to write up the report for Mori to review in the morning, and you would always find a drawing waiting for you. Usually just of you and Elise, but sometimes she would add in Mori or Chuuya or Kouyou, or all three—she always drew you in a red dress because she wanted you to wear one to match her, but you always said no, and she added little hearts along the border of the paper. You think she must’ve spent hours making sure that they were all even. Unlike Mori's notes, you kept every drawing from Elise in the top right drawer of your desk.

Every Thursday, Mori would send one of his direct subordinates down to your office as a messenger to invite you to dinner with him on Friday. You hardly ever looked up at the man, always too busy with your own work, only barely catching sight of the red tie he wore around his neck before you told him to get the hell out of your office.

Every Friday, in spite of your complaints, you would meet Mori for dinner at a rooftop restaurant in Naka-ku. You arrived five minutes late, just to keep him sweating, but his expression always lit up at the sight of you entering the private room. He never sat down until you did, so when you entered the room, he would be standing next to his seat with his hands behind his back, red scarf hanging around his neck and a ribbon of a matching color tied around yours—the only time you ever used to wear the gift he gave you back when you were a child. 

You never realized how much comfort a color brought you until you were deprived of the very things that you associated it with. Now, Elise’s dress haunts you around every corner, and you see Mori’s reflection in the mirror every time you dare to look into one—their blood stains your hands no matter how hard you scrub it away. The very color that once brought you solace is now the cause of your heartache.

Your throat swells as your hand closes around one of the wilted petals lying on the desk you’ve long abandoned, looking down at the drawing on the wood surface that must’ve been left months before. You haven’t been back to your office since taking over Mori’s, and you regret coming down here as soon as you step into the suffocating place where time seems to have come to a halt.

It’s been six months, but you’ve hardly had the chance to even mourn. You don’t even know if you have the right to mourn. This is on you, isn’t it? Your decision, your coup—not only were you the one to make the plans, you were the one to look him in the eyes and pull the trigger… and for what?

You let out a shaky breath as the withered petals crumble in your hand, letting them fall back onto the cool wood. You sigh and turn your back to them, leaning against your old desk, head hanging down. A mistake because your gaze immediately lands on the scarf that you pulled off Mori’s corpse. You swear you can still see the blood dripping off of its ends, pooling on the ground below you.

Luckily, the sound of someone opening the door to your office draws your attention away. Your gaze lifts until it lands on Chuuya, whose hands are shoved in his pocket as he looks over you quickly, a concerned expression clear on his face.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone,” he murmurs. “Why didn’t you tell Klaus or Akutagawa where you were going? Me?” 

You exhale deeply, shaking your head as you look away, gaze settling on the skyline of the city and the rising sun in the distance. The night is over, and any peace you might’ve had is gone with it. You miss when night raids and compromised weapons shipments were the biggest stress you had. Now, you had to deal with them, and you had to spend every waking second in heated discussions with the government, trying to dissuade them from sending in the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama.

They want someone to blame for the conflict with the Guild that rocked the city and the video that was released of you half a year ago, and they can’t get you now that you’re the only thing holding the East’s criminal underworld together unless they want an incident to put the Dragon’s Head to shame. They want Klaus if they can’t have you—they haven’t said it explicitly, but you know it’s true—and you’re not giving him over, so you’re desperately trying to brace yourself for a potential conflict with the military police. 

“I’ve hardly had a moment alone since I took over, Chuuya,” you reply after a second. “I’ve had someone with me every hour of the day. I’m in our main headquarters, I can afford to step away for fifteen minutes.”

“You’ve had six assassination attempts on you within the past two weeks. Three in this building,” Chuuya counters coolly. “You’re trying to risk everything we did just for fifteen minutes alone.”

You inhale deeply, jaw ticking at Chuuya’s comment. You know that he’s right—a few moments alone is not worth the potential risk that comes along with it. You don’t have an offensive ability or really any way of defending yourself if you’re ambushed while alone, but there’s only so much you can take of people hovering around you every second of the day. If it’s not Klaus, it’s Akutagawa. If it’s not Akutagawa, it’s Chuuya. If it’s not Chuuya, it’s Iceman and Albatross. If it’s not Iceman and Albatross, it’s Atsushi and Kyouka. You can sneak away sometimes, usually when it’s the Flags assigned to you, but those moments are far and few between, certainly not enough to rid you of the suffocation you feel on a daily basis.

“Give me a break,” you say quietly in response, the fight draining out of you. “Please.”

Chuuya falters at the frailty in your voice, shoulders slumping as he makes his way over to you. His eyes are heavy with emotion as they scan over you, and your lashes flutter when he reaches out to cradle the side of your face—the leather of his glove is achingly familiar against your skin. You can’t help the way you instinctively lean into his touch.

He lets out a long breath before stepping closer to you, pulling you to his chest. You’re boss of the Port Mafia now, and you can’t afford to show any weakness unless you want people to take advantage of it, but you’re in the privacy of your old office with your most trusted friend, so you allow yourself to sink into his arms, face dropping to rest in the crook of his neck. His hand slides to the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your waist. 

You can’t remember the last time someone held you like this. You want to savor it, but you don’t let yourself. With Chuuya’s body flush against yours as he comforts you, you can feel his heartbeat, though he’s become adept at lying to you with a straight face over the past half a year, his heart won’t lie.

“It’s been six months, and I still can’t understand why,” you say quietly, eyes sliding open, but you keep your head resting on his shoulder as you feel him tense.

“Why?” Chuuya prompts you to explain, trying to keep his voice light and conversational, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up.

“Why I killed Mori,” you say, gaze trained on Chuuya’s neck as he visibly swallows.

“It was for the—”

“For the betterment of the Port Mafia,” you finish before he can. “That’s what everyone tells me, and that’s why I remember doing it.”

“Then, what’s the problem?” Chuuya asks instead of confirming that it’s because that’s what happened—a mistake. “Hm?”

“You know something that I don’t, Chuuya.” You finally voice the suspicions that have been plaguing you for months. Chuuya’s heart rate spikes, and it’s all the confirmation you need. “I see. And you’re not concerned that I’ll order you to tell me what you know?”

“Don’t,” Chuuya says tightly. “I won’t forgive you for that.”

You exhale deeply. Having gotten what you need, you pull away from Chuuya, evading his gaze when you catch the hurt expression that crosses his face when he realizes you only indulged in his comfort to get information from him. You look down at your desk, fingers brushing the note Mori left for you with the now-withered roses six months ago. You haven’t opened it yet, and you don’t plan to, but you let your fingers trace the cursive hime on the front of the envelope. 

“At least tell me if I did the right thing,” you whisper, voice hoarser than you intended for it to be. “Please, Chuuya.”

“I wouldn’t have supported you if you didn’t,” Chuuya tells you after a few agonizing seconds of silence. “Cao Xueqin just landed in Tokyo. Mishima is hosting him until we get there. Are you ready?”

It’s his way of telling you to drop the subject—you can’t be centered on the past when there are threats at your doorstep just waiting for the first opportunity to strike—but it’s hard for you to move forward when you don’t even understand your own motives for killing your-

For killing Mori.

It’s for the betterment of the Port Mafia, but everything Mori has ever done has been for the betterment of the Port Mafia. Something just isn’t right about the reasoning—even if he did make questionable decisions concerning the Yakuza syndicates and outright bad ones against the Guild, it wasn’t enough to justify your eagerness to displace him as boss. Your ‘driving motive’ was the hand he supposedly played in your arrest half a year ago, conspiring with Ace to use you as a scapegoat to get the government off the Mafia’s ass but…

Your hand flattens against the note he left for you, eyes lingering on the roses he made sure to replace every week without fail.

He would never do that to you. You know in your heart that there’s something else going on, but you don’t know what, and you don’t know why you’re unaware of it. It’s hard for you to focus when you feel like you’re not understanding something so fundamental. 

You need to know why. You need to know why you really killed him, you need to know why you don’t know, and you need to know why Chuuya knows but won’t tell you. 

But first, you have to deal with Cao Xueqin.

“Yeah,” you finally say. “Yeah, let’s go. Hopefully, this shit doesn’t take all day.”

From the way Chuuya grimaces, you have a feeling that it absolutely will.

------

Dazai doesn’t think about you anymore.

He doesn’t think about you when he wakes up in an empty bed every morning, and he pretends he doesn’t instinctively reach out for someone who is not next to him. He doesn’t think about you when he passes by a bookstore and sees the book he almost decided not to publish in the wake of your betrayal, and he pretends he doesn’t wonder whether or not there’s a bookstore close to the Port Mafia base, and if you’ve maybe seen it in passing. He doesn’t think about you while walking home after a day of lounging around the detective agency near Motomachi Shopping Street, passing by the ports to get to his apartment, and he pretends he doesn’t whip around when he thinks he sees a familiar figure shadowed by the setting sun.

He doesn’t think about you anymore. 

He really doesn’t.

Dazai takes in a deep breath as he adjusts his shoulder bag, attributing the way his eyes suddenly sting with tears to the midday sun shining directly into them. He shouldn’t be thinking about you, at least, but for some reason, you’ve already crossed his mind twice today, and it’s making him sick to his stomach. He knows it’s because he’s hungover, and whenever he’s hungover, he’s more prone to accidentally letting his thoughts run astray, but he wishes he would stop.

A part of him wishes that he could forget like you have. You took the easy way out by erasing your memories of him and going on with your life; he doesn’t haunt you the way you haunt his every waking second. You have it easy, and you don’t even know it. You don’t wake up with his name caught between your teeth like he does with yours. You don’t see him in the gaps between people’s faces on the street or hear his laughter in the wind like him. You don’t flinch when someone says the words forgot or abandoned, because those words mean nothing to you.

But for Dazai, it’s different. You’re in everything. He should hate you for wiping your memories clean of him, but he doesn’t. He envies you. He wishes that it were him. He told you once that he’d rather die than forget, and he thinks that maybe it still stands, because he can’t imagine a life without the memories of you, but sometimes… Sometimes, he thinks it might be easier. Sometimes, he wishes that it could be him who forgot, and you who was suffering being haunted by the ghost of him.

He’s moved on, he reminds himself like there isn’t still a gaping hole in his chest that he’s been trying to drink and fuck away for over half a year now. Nothing does the trick no matter how hard he tries to act like it does—taking someone else back to his bed is only bearable when he’s drunk enough to pretend it’s you, but it’s a double-edged sword in that once he’s drunk enough to start thinking about you, he can’t stop, and it always floods over into the next morning.

At least he’ll be at the Agency soon—he’s only a block away now, and then he can waste the day bothering them and trying to find some new inspiration for the new idea he had for a book. He hasn’t been able to get a single word down on paper despite making every effort. He’s resorted to filling up a journal with depressing poetry, hoping that if he rage writes and grief writes all of his emotions away, he’ll be able to move on and actually get to working on the new novel.

He isn’t exactly sure how he ended up with the Armed Detective Agency; he’s not complaining because he thinks the past six months would’ve been much darker without them in his life, but he does wonder why they took him in the way they did. He knows it has something to do with Yosano’s relationship with you and Ranpo supporting her, but he was surprised the rest were so quick to accept it.

“Hellooooo,” he sings as he enters the cafe beneath the Agency. 

The cafe manager immediately turns his attention to Dazai, a small smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Dazai-kun, do you want a coffee before you head upstairs?”

“No, thank you, Uzumaki-san,” Dazai replies. “I’m going to head up. I’ll be down in an hour or two to try to sway your lovely wife astray.”

He tosses the cafe manager a wide smile, but the older man only rolls his eyes with an exasperated smile. “You’re going to end up being whipped across the head with another wet towel, Dazai-kun.”

“Worth,” Dazai calls over his shoulder before disappearing up the stairs to the fourth floor.

Dazai pretends he’s not almost out of breath by the time he gets up there, flinging open the door dramatically with a “Guess whooo!” only to pause when he doesn’t immediately get a response. His brows furrow as he makes his way deeper into the office, snooping around a bit until he hears some noise from what sounds like the first conference room.

Dazai isn’t technically a detective, and he probably should just lounge in the waiting area until someone comes out who he can annoy, but they’ve let him get away with enough that he can’t help the curiosity getting the best of him. He creeps around the corner and sees the whole group of them sitting around a table in the conference room, looking at something projected on the screen.

Dazai only barely registers the way Yosano’s expression shifts as soon as she notices him, rising to her feet. In the back of his mind, Dazai knows he should scamper back into the waiting room and pretend he wasn’t snooping, but he finds himself freezing at the sight of the image on the projector, mouth going dry and blood running cold. 

“Dazai,” he hears Yosano say distantly, but he can’t even draw his attention away from the screen. “I texted you, I said you probably shouldn’t come in today, I-”

“My phone was dead,” Dazai replies, but his voice sounds far away, even to his own ears. “What is… Why…”

Why are you on the projector? 

It’s a faraway, grainy image of you, but it’s you—Dazai would recognize you anywhere, and he feels like he’s been punched. He’s over this, over you, he tries to convince himself of it over and over again, but he just can’t draw his eyes away. He hasn’t seen you since that last day at the safe house, and the sight of you again after all of this time is ripping open all of the wounds that for months, he pretended were healed.

You look different now—he expected it, of course, it’s been over half a year, but nothing could’ve prepared him for actually seeing you again. He almost finds it hard to breathe, lungs clogged and body tense. It looks like CCTV footage from the ports, you’re standing with Nakahara Chuuya and your subordinate, Klaus, and Dazai has never seen you so tired before.

Even back at the beach house when he cornered you into admitting what was happening and why you were being so cagey, it’s nothing compared to this. Even with the image being as grainy as it is, he can see the lifeless expression on your face, and even though he knows he shouldn’t, he can’t help the worry that bubbles in his chest. He should feel gleeful that you look as miserable as you do, at the idea that maybe you’re even half as miserable as he’s been without you, but he only feels concerned. And guilty. He feels guilty for accusing you of taking the easy way out when this clearly has not been easy for you.

Then, he pushes the thought away instantly. This was your choice. Dazai didn’t get a choice. There’s no reason he should be concerned, and there’s especially no reason for him to be feeling guilty.

“We got a request from the government regarding the Port Mafia.” It’s the President, Fukuzawa, who speaks up, and the surprise of it is enough to finally draw Dazai’s gaze off the screen.

“Sir, should we be—”

“It’s fine,” Ranpo interrupts, green eyes visible as he gazes at Dazai curiously before shooting a pointed look at Fukuzawa, waiting for him to continue. Dazai found that they don’t really question Ranpo much at all, so he’s not surprised when Kunikida backs down, even if he does still look perplexed as to why they’re telling Dazai the details of their new case. 

“The government was suspicious that there was a transition of power happening with how quiet they’ve been the past few months,” Fukuzawa explains, and Dazai swallows thickly, knowing exactly what power transition must have happened. “There’s been an uptick in activity the past month that they can’t handle on their own. This image was captured at one of the ports in Naka-ku four nights ago during a raid by the military police on a warehouse suspected of being owned by the Port Mafia. They were ready for it; twenty-nine officers were killed in the conflict that broke out, another eighteen still in critical condition. These three were at the center of it.”

“The one on the left is Nakahara Chuuya, a confirmed executive of the Port Mafia and one of the strongest ability users in the world. He’s been at the top of the nation’s most wanted list for years,” Fukuzawa continues, and Dazai has a feeling he knows that he doesn’t need to explain this, considering Dazai’s former relationship with a Port Mafia executive, but he supposes it’s better to keep up appearances. He wouldn’t be in the best spot if his connection with the Port Mafia became public knowledge—the less people who know all the details, the better. Even in this room, only the detectives are aware of Dazai’s past with you. “The young boy in the red is supposedly the new boss’s personal bodyguard—nineteen-year-old Klaus Mann, a wanted terrorist throughout Europe and Asia. Three years ago, he was added to the list of the Seventeen Worldly Evils at number nine after massacring several military units in Eastern Russia. Four hundred and thirty-six soldiers were killed in the rampage.”

Though Dazai thinks he should be more stuck on the fact that the stupid teenager that screeched at the sight of plastic skeletons in your apartment and looked like a kicked dog whenever you scolded him is on the list of the Seventeen Worldly Evils alongside some of the most villainous individuals Dazai’s ever had the misfortune of learning about, he’s more stuck on something else.

New boss.

His gaze drifts back up to your image on the screen, but this time, his eyes linger on the red scarf draped around your neck—the one he vividly remembers Mori wearing that day. Dazai knew that this was your plan, but it’s different hearing that you succeeded. It’s different knowing that you’re actually the Port Mafia boss now.

Does that mean that you killed Mori?

 If he weren’t so devastated over how things turned out for the two of you, he would almost be impressed that you were capable of following through with a plan like yours in the midst of the chaos and confusion of your memory being altered. But he is devastated, and angry, and resentful, so his jaw only tightens in frustration.

“New boss?” Dazai whispers, voice faint. He ignores the grimace that crosses Yosano’s face at his question to keep his eyes trained on you. He feels bitter again—angry—you could have succeeded with him at your side. You didn’t have to stoop to this; you didn’t have to—

“The woman in the middle is suspected to be the new boss of the Port Mafia,” Fukuzawa answers, and Dazai’s gaze averts to the ground immediately. “Under the new regime, the Port Mafia has expanded rapidly, and it’s left the framework holding this city together unbalanced. There’s no longer a functioning government check on the Port Mafia, which leaves them open to acting out of their jurisdiction.”

Dazai swallows as Fukuzawa clicks onto the next slide, gaze focusing on a vaguely familiar smiling face.

“The new mayor of the city,” Fukuzawa explains, although Dazai is fairly certain that’s not where he knows him from. “Walter Lippmann.”

“The actor?” Tanizaki asks doubtfully, brows knit together.

“And suspected Port Mafia affiliate,” Fukuzawa agrees, clicking onto the next slide, which shows that same man sitting with you and another familiar face. That’s right—he was one of the ones he met that day at the safe house, so is the other man sitting with you in the picture.

You don’t look quite as lifeless in this image—it’s less grainy than the CCTV from the warehouses—but you certainly don’t look happy. The smile on your face is convincing, but Dazai can tell that it doesn’t reach your eyes. He’s seen your real one often enough to know that.

“So what does the government want us to do?” Kunikida asks, straightening in his seat to frown at Fukuzawa. “If they can’t do anything, what makes them think we can?”

“They’re using us to knock the Port Mafia down a peg, obviously,” Ranpo says, unwrapping a lollipop and sticking it in his mouth, leaning back in his seat carelessly. “We’re not bound by the same rules as they are. They want us to either get proof to have Lippmann removed from office, or they want the kid, Klaus, so they can do something to prove to the rest of the world that the Port Mafia is still under control.”

Dazai suddenly doesn’t want any part of this. His stomach churns, and his eyes are a bit unfocused as he directs his attention to the wall. He wasn’t prepared to hear about you today—he hasn’t spoken about what happened to anyone, even Yosano, who Dazai is pretty sure has a good idea of what happened, considering her past with you. He’s tried so hard to pretend that you don’t exist, and he just wasn’t prepared to have reality tossed in his face like this.

Shit. 

He needs fresh air desperately; the room feels too stuffy, the air too stale, what little is getting to his lungs is not enough, and it’s making his head feel light.

“Are you okay?” He hears Yosano ask, but her voice sounds so far away. He wants to snap at her—does it look like I’m okay?—but no words leave his parted lips. “Dazai, you—”

“I need to step out. Ah, too much crab last night. Yosano-sensei, you're so right, I need to change my diet. Don't mind me,” he finally pushes out, voice wavering in spite of his attempts to joke around as he quickly comes back the way he came, only getting to the main room before he has to lean on one of the detective’s desks, hand pressed to his mouth as he tries to hold back heaves. He hears someone follow him, but he doesn’t bother to look until he feels them touch his shoulder—he knows it’s Yosano, but he still jerks away. “Don’t touch me.”

So embarrassing, Dazai thinks, desperately trying to get a hold of himself. He’s been careful to keep a light demeanor around the detectives. He doesn’t want to be too off-putting and push away the only people he has left, but he can’t help the way his body physically reacts to the image of you after all of this time, and he certainly can’t help the way his whole mind feels like it’s collapsing at the reminder of your betrayal after he’s tried to shove it away for so long.

He hates you, he thinks desperately, but even as the thought crosses his head, he knows it’s not true. He doesn’t think he could ever hate you, but he’s so… so angry. He’s so angry and resentful, and he’s hardly allowed himself to really come to terms with the fact that you forcibly removed him from your life by wiping all of your memories of him when you knew he needed you and when he told you that he would rather risk being with you than alone again.

Dazai usually has a silver tongue, but he can’t even put into words the pain that he’s been suffering every day knowing that you’re out there living your life unaware of his existence when six months ago you would look at him like he’s the only thing that mattered in the world, when you treated him like he was something worth risking everything for. He’s woken up drenched in sweat from nightmares where he would run into you again, and your gaze would flit over him like he’s not even there, like he’s no one. 

“Dazai, what… happened between the two of you?” Yosano asks after a moment, voice quiet. “I don’t… I still don’t understand-”

“Nothing, I'm fine. I told you, it's just the crab," Dazai replies, trying to keep his voice light and giving her a smile that he knows doesn't reach his eyes. She frowns at him, but he looks away, doing his best to pull himself together before he can embarrass himself even more. “I should go.”

“Dazai…” Yosano starts to say, but Dazai ignores her, fixing his shoulder bag and starting to make his way out of the Agency. He only stops when he hears Ranpo call his name.

“We could use your insight,” the detective says flippantly. “You know more about the Port Mafia than any of us. If we don’t succeed in at least one of these requests, the government plans on sending in the Hunting Dogs to deal with them, and if they do that… Well, let’s just say there’s a good chance Miss Coup D’etat ends up being their first target. They don’t want to target her, because as much as she’s been pushing boundaries with the government, the threat of her and the new Port Mafia is keeping a lot of foreign organizations out of Japan, but they will go right for her throat if they can’t get her in line somehow.”

Dazai stiffens at his words, an unsure feeling spreading through his chest at Ranpo’s words. Instead of agreeing, he gives the other man a dirty look.

“Ah, Ranpo-san, you really know how to make a man feel wanted,” Dazai sighs airly, ignoring the sting in his chest. “I wondered why you kept me around so long. This was why, huh?” 

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Ranpo says irritably, “I’m the greatest detective this world has ever seen—I don’t need you for anything. I don’t need anyone for anything.”

Dazai presses his lips together and is about to walk away, but freezes when Ranpo’s eyes open to focus on him. He thinks he’s seen the man open his eyes no more than a handful of times in the months he’s spent hanging around the Agency, and two of them were today alone.

“But no,” Ranpo continues, more serious now. “I didn’t agree with you hanging around here because we might need you in the future. I agreed because you looked lonely and like you needed someone.”

Dazai doesn’t respond. He shakes his head and turns to leave as he repeats more hoarsely, “I should go.”

“Think about what I said,” Ranpo calls after him.

Dazai has absolutely zero intention of doing that, but he does intend on getting shit-faced drunk to forget about everything that’s happened today.

------

You think this meeting would be far more bearable if you were drunk. 

For ten hours, you’ve been sitting across from Cao Xueqin, and you’ve made no progress since you first arrived. In fact, you think you might’ve taken steps backward, if anything, because you’re becoming increasingly more frustrated with how the man seemingly has a billion different ways to phrase the same request, and he’s becoming increasingly more frustrated with how you seemingly have a billion different ways to say no.

Having the Sun and Steel merge into the Port Mafia as a subsidiary branch meant that you were also acquiring oversight of their narcotics trade. It was the only condition Mishima had to the merger—he didn’t want to lose everything he built, and you could sympathize with that—and although you were displeased by the prospect of involving the Port Mafia with narcotics, the benefits outweighed the risks. 

Now, you’re faced with the consequences because, of course, Mishima didn’t tell you that he’s been in constant conflict with the Red Chamber over the shipping routes in the East Asia Sea. He was still dealing with the aftermath of a fight that broke out between the two organizations at sea when he agreed to the merger and didn’t find it prudent to warn you of it before you arrived in Tokyo to a displeased mafia boss who has lived by the eye for an eye principle his entire life.

Eighteen deaths, including one executive, for the Red Chamber, only nine for the Sun and Steel, no executives; and Cao Xueqin has the nerve to come to Port Mafia territory and demand the lives of nine members, including one of your executives, in recompense. You had half a mind to have Chuuya kill him the moment he made his demand, but it would only cause more issues in the long run—the Red Chamber is like a hydra, kill one head, and two more take its place. If you’re going to go to war with them, you need to salt the foundations their organization is built on, or you’ll never be rid of them.

And you can’t afford to do that right now because you still have the government on your ass and the threat of the Hunting Dogs hanging over your shoulders.

What a mess, you think irritably, cool gaze drawing back over to Mishima, who has the decency to be shameful as he looks away. You have a feeling that he did this on purpose—that this is why he was so amenable to merging with the Port Mafia. You’d expected more pushback from him than you got; you should’ve questioned it more than you did. The only reason they would jump to accepting this was if they needed the Port Mafia’s protection, but you’d been so overwhelmed with the coup that you took your blessings when you could.

Of course, they weren’t actually blessings. Nothing is ever that easy for you.

“Maybe we should come back to this another day,” you finally say, putting your cigarette out on the table. God, you don’t even want to know how many you’ve gone through today. It comes out like a request, but it isn’t really because as soon as the words leave your lips, you’re rising to your feet. “How long will you be in Tokyo?”

Cao Xueqin smiles thinly as he replies, “Until this is settled.”

“Lovely,” you say, careful not to let the distaste show up on your face. “Perhaps it would be more efficient if you were staying at a hotel in Yokohama—that way, we don’t have to travel to and from Tokyo just for negotiations.”

Cao Xueqin would have come to Yokohama to begin with if he had wanted to stay in the city. He doesn’t because it’s the heart of Port Mafia territory, and you know this, but you want to remind him that he has no right to make any demands of the Port Mafia when he’s too wary of it to even step foot in its city. 

His smile tightens, clearly understanding the point you’re trying to make, and he answers tensely, “It’s easier for us to remain in Tokyo.”

“I’m sure,” you reply, amusement audible in your tone. “I’ll contact you when I get to Tokyo tomorrow. Have a good night.”

You don’t wait for a response—usually, you would wait for the other party to leave in order to keep up appearances, but there’s no point in hiding your annoyance. Everyone in the room knows that neither you nor Cao Xueqin is pleased with how the day turned out, so there is no point in pretending, and you just want to get home. You need a drink desperately.

Chuuya trails behind you as you leave. Mishima is the one who comes to walk next to you, an awkward expression on his face. When his lips part to say something, you raise your hand to silence him.

“We’ll speak another time,” you say tightly. “Have a good night, Yukio.”

Mishima sighs, gaze lowering. “Have a good night,” he echoes quietly. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Another time,” you repeat, stressing the words this time as you give him a flinty look from the corner of your eye. Hearing his bullshit apologies right now would only serve to piss you off more. If he were truly sorry, he never would’ve hidden this from you to begin with. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Mishima replies, coming to a stop at the top of the steps while the three of you continue down to where Albatross is waiting in the car.

Before you get in the car, you turn to look at Chuuya. “Can you…”

You don’t have to finish what you’re asking for him to know what you’re going to say, which you’re grateful for because you never know who’s listening. But you don’t want Cao Xueqin freely roaming around Port Mafia territory, so you need him to go make sure one of Verlaine’s special ops units is in the area and can tail him while he’s in the city. 

“Yup,” he agrees, reaching out to squeeze your bicep before turning his attention to Albatross. “Get her back safe.”

Albatross waves his hand to dismiss him, rolling his eyes, and Chuuya scowls at him before casting you one last long look and taking off.

“Get her back safe,” Albatross mocks in a pitched voice once you sit in the passenger seat next to him. “The fuck else am I gonna do?”

You let out a huff of laughter, smiling down at your lap. Your fingers thrum against your leg as an idea comes to mind now that Chuuya is gone. You give Albatross a curious look from the corner of your eye as he pulls off the side of the street to start driving back to Yokohama. You give him a sweet smile that only makes him suspicious.

“I want to stop at a bar when we get back to the city,” you finally say firmly.

Albatross has the nerve to laugh in your face—the only person who hasn’t started treating you differently now that you’re boss. “Oh, I get it now—the warning wasn’t because of me, it was because of you. No fuckin’ way.”

Your brows furrow as you turn in your seat to face him. “I’m the boss,” you remind him. “I want to stop on the way back.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck,” Albatross says in response, giving you a pointed look before looking back at the road. “I’m the one behind the wheel. We’re not stopping at a goddamn bar. Drink in your office.”

You let out a frustrated puff of air as you look away. “I want one normal night, Albatross, please-”

“Sure,” he agrees too easily, so you know something else is coming. “Let me go get the Black Lizards set up around whatever bar you’re trying to stop at. We’ll make it a whole operation.”

You shake your head as you let out another sigh. “Forget it,” you murmur. “Let’s just get back to the base.”

Albatross groans. “Come on, doll. Don’t hit me with that.”

“Hit you with what?” you ask bitterly. “I dropped it, isn’t that what you wanted?”

Albatross rolls his eyes, but his lips flatten as he stares out at the road, a conflicted expression on his face. “Why do you want to go to a bar so bad?”

“I need a break from headquarters for the night,” you say quietly. You don’t know how to tell him that you’re haunted by the face of the very man you killed; that you can’t even look in a mirror without seeing him, that being in his office and sitting at his desk makes you sick to your stomach, that wearing his scarf feels like the weight of the world around your shoulders. So, instead, you just say, “It’s suffocating.”

But Albatross is Albatross, so he knows exactly what you mean. He always does. You want to hate the sympathetic look he casts your way, but you relax when he reaches out to squeeze your hand. Your fingers tighten around his instead of pulling away.

“I’ll call Iceman. He’ll meet us there, and we’ll wait outside, yeah?” Albatross finally compromises, turning his head to look at you. “No bringing anyone back to HQ otherwise Chuuya will find out. You find someone you wanna fuck, then we’ll bring you to one of our hotels and tell him tomorrow what you just told me. Deal?” 

“You’re so crude,” you complain, but you already feel a weight lifted off your chest at the realization that you won’t have to spend tonight spooked by shadows that take the form of achingly familiar figures. “... Thanks, Albatross.”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand again and letting your joined hands rest in your lap. After a few moments, he turns his head to look at you and says, “Just don’t fuckin’ tell Chuuya.”

You laugh. “As if I would.”

------

Dazai doesn’t know how he finds himself back at the bar he met you, of all places.

He hadn’t even realized where he was walking until he was standing outside with his hand around the doorknob. By that point, he was so desperate to numb all of the emotions that had been wreaking havoc on his chest and mind all day that he just gave up and went in, acknowledging that it probably wasn’t the best idea but too frustrated to care. 

He regrets it now, though—he feels like he’s suffocating sitting in the same exact seat he was in when you first walked through the doors the night the two of you met. His fingers are tracing the same etch in the wood underneath the bartop that he was fiddling with when he was rambling to you, and his gaze is trained on the top-shelf whiskey that you were drinking that night; it doesn’t even seem like it's been touched since then. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised—most people coming to this bar can’t afford that type of liquor anyway.

It’s almost dusk, and Dazai is still on his third drink—he went back to his apartment before heading to the bar, and he ended up lying in his futon staring up at the ceiling for hours until his thoughts became too unbearable to deal with without alcohol. He’s only just now starting to feel the buzz, and it’s just not enough; every thought that crosses his mind is centered around you. Memories of his time with you that you no longer have, questions about what you might be doing, fantasies of how things might be if you’d actually listened to him instead of going through with your shitty plan.

Dazai’s throat spasms as he takes another long swig of his drink—the burn in his throat isn’t enough to take away from the pain that shoots through his chest. He misses you. He misses you so badly that it physically hurts, and he wants to hate you for what you did, but he can't even bring himself to do that. He’s angry, and he’s hurt, but most of all, he’s frustrated.

Frustrated that you took away his choice.

Frustrated that you wouldn’t listen to him.

Frustrated that you erased all of your memories of him.

Frustrated that you left him alone when he asked—no—when he begged you not to. 

It’s all so unfair, and he knows life has never been fair. Dazai, of all people, knows that, but you were always fair to him. Maybe he’d gotten too used to it, but the most unfair part of all of this is that he can’t even bring himself to hate you. He wants to, he’s tried to, but the closest he’s gotten is the burning resentment he feels for you on nights like these.

Every time he remembers you’re out there living your life without knowing he even exists after all of the months you spent with him, it makes him sick with anger and distress. He can feel the bile rising in his throat and the acidic burn on his tongue because how is it possible that you can just not know him when you used to look at him like he was your entire world? 

Nobody had ever looked at him the way you did before, nobody ever treated him the way you did, nobody ever loved him the way you did, and nobody ever will again because you chose to go and completely cut him out of your life. The only person who ever loved him so unconditionally no longer even knows he exists.

He misses the door to the bar opening when he takes another long gulp of his whiskey, trying to ignore the sting in his eyes and the tremor in his fingers. He should find someone to distract himself with—that’s the only thing that sometimes works when he gets like this. If he leaves himself alone all night, plagued with thoughts of you, he’ll end up drinking himself to a bridge that he can never bring himself to jump over and end up sleeping on a bench in some shady park too close to the ports.

He’s about to turn around to seek someone out—he doesn’t care who, but he’d prefer if they had some similar features to you, that way, when he gets drunk enough, he can trick his brain into thinking it’s actually you—when his traitorous brain conjures up another horror:

How many people have you been with since you wiped your memories of him?

Dazai freezes in his seat as he stares down at the amber liquid sloshing in his glass—he’d slammed it a bit too hard on the bartop when the question crossed his mind, and he can vaguely see the bartender giving him a dirty look from the opposite side of the bar. Dazai has been with quite a lot of people since you left him, and he’s had the memory of you as a major deterrence, be it because some nights he gets too sick at the thought of anyone but you touching him or that the person he sought out realizes he’s a bit too fucked in the head and makes an excuse to leave, but you…

You don’t even have the memory of him as a deterrence, and Dazai knows better than anyone how sought after you were. It was the root cause of many of his insecurities when the two of you were together; he remembers the event he attended before the two of you were official, how people were drawn to you, put off by the fact that you were dancing with him. People would jump at the opportunity to be with you and—

Dazai feels sick, swiveling around in his seat a bit too quickly because he’s desperate for a reprieve from his own mind. He doesn’t even care who anymore. The first person who looks at him will do as long as they can take his mind off you. He just can’t deal with being stuck with his own thoughts as company anymore, and he…

Huh?

His gaze settles on a figure standing just a few feet away from him, and Dazai thinks that his mind must be playing tricks on him—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time in the past six months. He blinks twice, trying to clear his vision, and his brows furrow slowly in confusion when the figure doesn’t immediately disappear. His mouth goes dry, and his throat spasms as he tries and fails to swallow a sudden rock lodged in it. 

There’s no way-

“Hey,” a voice that’s unmistakably yours says easily, an inquisitive lilt to your tone as you look over him with achingly familiar eyes. “Have we… met before?”

[blueyescape]

If you're fifteen or older an still sleep with a stuffed animal please reblog this.

[blueyescape]

AHHHH OMG SHES SO PRETTY, THE PRETTIEST GIRL EVER AHAHAH OHHH LOOK AT HER GORGEOUS BROWN EYESSSSSS 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

coming out as a port mafia fem dazai with unreasonably long hair truther

[blueyescape]

they would have the same general plot, it’s just a matter of who takes which role LOL idk if i’ll write it but it has been ruminating in the brain for a while

[blueyescape]

FEATURING: osamu dazai

SUMMARY: six months have passed since you took over as boss of the port mafia, but nothing makes sense. you seek answers that nobody seems to have or is willing to give you, but one chance encounter at a bar with a strange author leads to everything unravelling. (fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, romance & angst, (temporary) amnesia, wc: tba)

AUTHOR’S NOTES: WAHHHHHHH GUYS IT ONLY TOOK A YEAR FHISJDJDJD BUT ITS FINALLY HERE i hope civzai nation is still alive otherwise i’ll CRY HAHAHAH did u guys wait for me please say yes </333 you guys know the drill: pls comment on this post if you wanna be on the taglist! first chapter next friday, and after that, every other friday! reblogs super appreciated!!

01: WITH NO ONE TO SHARE THE MEMORY OF FROST

02: A DEAL YOU CAN MAKE ON A MIDNIGHT WALK ALONE

03: I HAVE HOPE (SHE’S BLIND WITH NO NAME)

04: OH, HOW THE DARK AWAITS US

05: JUDGMENT BY THE HOUNDS

06: MEMORIES SNOW, MEMORIES MELT

07: LOVE IS LIKE A STAR (IT’S TRAVELLED VERY FAR)

08: I AM TAKEN, THE NIGHT HAS ME

09: THE WRATH OF THE DEVIL WAS GIVEN BY GOD

10: YOU BELIEVE ME LIKE A GOD, I BETRAY YOU LIKE A MAN

11: YOU BELIEVE ME LIKE A GOD, I DESTROY YOU LIKE I AM

12: CAN WE STAY AWHILE AND LISTEN TO HEAVEN?

[blueyescape]

This was sickening

[blueyescape]

honestly if you can't sit back and reflect on how your actions might have hurt someone and you always twist a narrative into making yourself the only victim, you really should not be surprised when people stop putting up with your shit lol

[blueyescape]

im being honest my account is essentially just a hoard. i reblog things that look pretty and anyone following me is immediately swamped by my own interests. this is the way it should be and this is the way it shall remain

[blueyescape]

almost time

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y’all ever read a fanfic that you cannot believe an author just wrote for free?? what an honor it is to read a piece of someone’s soul they shared out of nothing but love for a piece of media. what a privilege it is to be allowed their talent because you share an interest!!

[blueyescape]

SKIP AND LOAFER

synopsis; chuuya nakahara leaves behind the quiet, fading countryside he calls home with one dream—to become a government official who can bring life back to forgotten towns like his. Meticulous, stubborn, and burdened by pressure, he arrives in Tokyo with a map in hand, a speech memorized, and the naive hope that things will go smoothly.

They don’t.

Lost on his first day and teetering on the edge of panic, Chuuya meets you—an easygoing, observant foreign student with a sharp tongue and a warm heart. You're everything he isn't: relaxed, intuitive, and somehow always where the chaos is. But you're also someone who listens.

As classmates, you keep crossing paths.

You press the button on the vending machine, and with a loud clatter, a can of cold mocha drops into the tray. The sound echoes louder than you expect in the quiet morning. You bend down to grab it, just as the voice on the other end of your phone shrieks through your earbud.

"Are you seriously getting a drink right now?!"

It’s Yuzuki — your childhood friend and former next-door neighbor at your aunt’s place. The two of you only ever met during summer holidays, but since you moved to Japan for high school, she’s been your lifeline to normalcy.

"You’re going to miss the opening ceremony at this rate!" she scolds.

You crack open the can with a soft hiss. "That was a given, Yuzuki."

She sighs, long and loud — the kind of sigh that makes you grin. You swirl the mocha lazily in your hand, taking in the early chaos of the station.

Across the way, someone catches your eye: strawberry-blonde hair, sharp uniform, posture stiff with frustration. They pivot abruptly at the corner, muttering something under their breath. Definitely a first-year. Definitely lost.

"Don’t worry," you say into the phone, taking a sip. "Looks like someone else is gonna be late, too."

"What do you mean?"

"I just saw a kid in our uniform turn the same corner for the third time. Pretty sure they’re lost."

There’s a beat. "Wait, aren’t you going to help them?"

You watch the figure disappear again.

"Nah. I’m sure they’ll come back around. I’ll wait until then."

Another pause. Then:

"You’re the devil."

You laugh, low and warm. "Love you too, Yuzuki."

The call ends.

You lean against the vending machine, sipping your mocha in peace. Sure enough, five minutes later, the same kid rounds the corner again — this time looking like they just lost their last ounce of patience.

They drags their feet and leans against the wall, forehead pressed to the concrete in silent suffering.

You toss the can into the trash and make your way over.

"Hey," you say, tapping their shoulder. "You okay?"

They spins so fast you flinch, instinctively stepping back. Their eyes flick down to your uniform — and then, in the next breath, they grabs your arms.

You tense—just a little—but then they bow so sharply it nearly throws you off balance.

"How—how do I get to school?!"

...Well. At least he’s not a homicidal maniac.

You were now seated beside him on the train to school — and yes, he was a guy. Hard to tell at first with his hair, which was a little overgrown, stuck in that awkward stage between shaggy and styled.

“…So, where are you from?” you asked, casting a sidelong glance at him.

He looked absolutely drained, head tilted back against the seat. He muttered a town name you didn’t quite catch — not that it mattered. You’d never heard of it anyway.

He seemed annoyed, but it wasn’t directed at you. He was mad at himself — for getting lost, for needing help. His pride bristled in silence.

Trying to ease the tension, you offered a light confession. “You’re not the first to get lost out here. I once got on the wrong train line and walked halfway to a store that didn’t even exist anymore.”

He grumbled, letting his head droop. “Don’t jinx it. I still have to get home later.”

You watched him for a moment. His hands fidgeted subtly in his lap, and he kept smoothing the already-pristine lines of his uniform. His posture was rigid despite his exhaustion. All the signs were there — he was trying hard to hold himself together.

“It’s just an entrance ceremony,” you said gently. “It’ll be fine.”

That seemed to do the opposite of what you intended.

“I’m sure that’s how you see it!” he snapped, eyes flashing. But the words had barely left his mouth before regret washed over his face.

“I mean—” he started, but you cut him off before he could spiral.

“Oh look, our stop’s here,” you said casually, standing up.

He scrambled to his feet after you, clearly afraid to lose sight of his guide.

You both stepped off the train and blended into the morning crowd. As you pulled up your phone’s GPS, you tilted it slightly in his direction.

“It’s a straight shot from here…” you murmured, more to yourself than him.

Still, he leaned in to see — a little too close, clearly unfamiliar with the unspoken rules of personal space in Tokyo.

You looked up at him with a grin. “Wanna book it?”

His eyes lit up, and he nodded — quick, eager, like a puppy finally given a clear command.

You couldn’t help but grin wider.

You finally reached the school gates, lungs burning, legs jelly.

You bent over, hands on your knees, panting like you’d just run a marathon — which, to be fair, it kind of felt like. Beside you, the guy from the train wasn’t exactly fresh-faced, but he was faring better, only lightly winded. He’d made it a bit further ahead, stopping just past the entrance with his hands in his pockets, chest rising and falling steadily.

Of course he wasn’t dying. Of course.

A woman in a blazer stood near the gate — probably a teacher — but in your oxygen-deprived haze, she looked a bit like a watercolor painting. Still, you heard her call your name, and another right after — his, probably, though you couldn’t catch it over the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

Wordlessly, the two of you were ushered through the front doors and into the gymnasium, where the entrance ceremony was already in full swing. You followed the teacher without protest, barely catching your breath as the noise of murmuring students and echoing mic feedback washed over you.

You slipped into the back of the lineup with the rest of your class, squeezing in beside your new travel companion. He stood with his back straight again, all signs of his earlier fluster tucked neatly away.

You were just starting to zone out when the principal’s voice boomed over the microphone: “Next, the student representative.”

There was a beat.

And then, the boy beside you quietly stepped forward.

You watched as he walked to the front of the stage, posture sharp, eyes focused, the tremble in his hands almost imperceptible. And yet — he walked proud, polished, like he belonged there.

You watched as he stepped up to the stage; posture sharp, eyes focused, the tremble in his hands almost imperceptible. And yet — he stood proud, polished, like he belonged there, his back to the entire gymnasium, facing the principal with all the formality of someone giving a press conference. He reached into his blazer pocket — pulling out nothing.

A beat passed.

Oh. Did he forget the script?

But before the thought could even settle, he began:

“As the warm air of spring greets us, so do we, the 240 students of Tsubame High School greet our new life in our school—”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. He hadn’t forgotten it.

He had memorized the pledge.

You tried to suppress the smile tugging at your lips as he continued, voice steady and sure. He recited the whole thing — the awkward metaphors, the lofty hopes, the official school motto — word for word. Not a single stumble.

And then, just as the last line fell from his lips, the mask began to crack.

He stepped back from the mic with a short bow — still perfect form, perfect poise — but you could see it: the stiff shoulders, the twitch in his fingers, the way he didn’t meet anyone’s gaze. He was unraveling. Fast.

Without missing a beat, he descended from the stage and made a beeline for the exit, walking just on the edge of polite panic.

The teacher from earlier — blazer woman — moved to intercept him near the side door, calling his name and raising a hand.

He waved back. Sort of.

Then he doubled over and puked on her.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking. The entire gym fell into stunned silence — and then erupted with the teacher’s horrified scream echoing through the rafters.

You pinched the inside of your cheek to keep from bursting out laughing.

He really had memorized it all.

You walked down the hallway with Yuzuki beside you, the two of you weaving through the post-ceremony buzz.

“I can’t believe you actually made it to the entrance ceremony,” she said, glancing at you with a grin. “I thought you’d miss it for sure.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, I did too. But today’s just full of surprises, huh?”

“No kidding. I still can’t believe the representative puked on the teacher…”

You nudged her shoulder. “Shh—he might already be in class. That incident was embarrassing enough. Let’s not remind him.”

“Right, right.” She pressed her lips together. “We should be considerate.”

You stepped into the classroom and immediately spotted him — second row, second seat. Chuuya Nakahara.

He looked like he was trying to shrink into his chair, stiff-backed and pale, but clearly holding on to whatever pride he had left. You didn’t miss the way his fingers clutched the edge of his desk like it was an anchor.

You smiled and made your way over to him.

“Hey.”

That one word caught his attention—and, unfortunately, everyone else's. Heads turned. Eyes flicked to you. Not that you weren’t used to it; being the “odd-looking foreigner” came with its fair share of attention. But it didn’t bother you anymore. If anything, it made things easier.

Besides, you were cute. And you had a very beautiful childhood friend who was also a foreigner. The two of you were already conversation starters.

You leaned a little closer to Chuuya. “That was an impressive speech.”

“Don’t,” he muttered, clearly flustered.

You laughed softly, not unkindly. “What was your name again? I’ve got a terrible memory.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared straight ahead like if he kept quiet long enough, you’d go away.

Then, finally: “Chuuya. Chuuya Nakahara.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down—Chu…?” you tried to sound it out.

He glanced at you and added, “… -ya. Chuuya.”

You repeated it carefully. “Chuuya?”

He gave a small nod.

You grinned. “That’s a pretty name. I hope I get to use it often.”

His ears turned pink. His posture got even stiffer.

You leaned in just a bit. “Let’s be friends, Chuuya. Got a number I can contact?”

“O-oh. Yeah—” He fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it before rattling off the digits. You typed it in quickly.

“I’ve sent you a message. Did you get it?”

A second later, his phone pinged. He checked the screen and nodded.

You noticed the tiniest shift in his demeanor. His shoulders weren’t as tense. His grip on the desk had eased. Something in him—just a little—relaxed.

You smiled. “I’ll get to my seat before the bell rings.”

He nodded again, almost too quickly. But you caught it.

A few minutes later, just as you were sliding into your seat to the left and Yuzuki claimed the one to the right, you heard the girl behind Chuuya speak up.

“Hey, can I get your number too? Since we’re sitting close to eachother—-”

You glanced over.

Chuuya blinked, clearly caught off guard—but he nodded, repeating the same string of digits. She typed it in with a thank-you and a smile.

You didn’t feel anything sharp or jealous—just amused. You smiled to yourself, watching the interaction from the corner of your eye.

Then you felt Yuzuki nudge you.

You turned your head to find her raising her brows at you with that very specific look only best friends have. She tapped her phone screen and then pointed to yours.

You lifted your phone to check. A new message from Yuzuki: ‘you know him or smth?’

You tapped back with a faint smirk: ‘not yet.’

The classroom quieted as the door slid open.

The teacher walked in, the blazer she wore during the ceremony now swapped for a school-issued gym jacket. Her expression was composed, but the stiff way she placed the stack of papers on the desk betrayed her mood.

You glanced sideways at Chuuya. He didn’t look up — just stared straight ahead with the kind of guilt that sinks into your shoulders and stays there.

“I’m sorry I was late,” the teacher said, adjusting her sleeves. “There was a… circumstance.”

A few students stifled laughs. Others exchanged knowing glances.

She seemed young—likely in her twenties—and despite the rocky start, her tone lightened as she began handing out this year’s syllabus.

You felt a twinge of sympathy for both of them. The whole thing was… memorable, to say the least. Hopefully the awkwardness would wear off with time.

After the syllabus came a profile sheet for everyone to fill out. Basic stuff—name, birthday, hobbies, goals.

“There’ll be self-introductions tomorrow,” the teacher added with a smile. “So think about what you want to say.”

You glanced at the sheet, you weren’t sure what you’d write yet—but you knew one thing for certain.

You were curious to see what Chuuya would say.

Chuuya sat on the edge of his bed, a towel still hanging around his neck from his shower, his damp hair sticking slightly to his forehead. His phone was pressed between his shoulder and ear, the warm chatter of his childhood friend Yuan filling the room.

“So? First day in the big city—did it crush your soul or are you still intact?” Yuan teased through the line.

Chuuya huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back against the wall. “It was… fine.”

“‘Fine’ doesn’t sound convincing, Chuu.”

He glanced at the ceiling, not wanting to worry her. “Seriously, it was okay. I even made a couple of friends.”

“Wait, really? You? Friends?” Her surprise was dramatic.

“Yeah, yeah. Two girls, actually.”

A pause. “Girls?”

“One’s really fashionable. Looks like she belongs in a magazine or something. The other one’s a foreigner—she’s… nice.”

Yuan didn’t reply right away, but Chuuya could practically hear her smirking. “And they didn’t mistake you for a girl?”

He rolled his eyes. “Does it even matter?”

“Nope. Just curious~” she sang. “So tell me more about this nice foreign girl.”

Chuuya shifted on the bed, eyes narrowing slightly at the memory. “I got lost at the station this morning. She was there. Helped me out.”

“She sounds sweet.” There was a beat before Yuan pounced. “Is she cute?”

That made him pause.

His eyes drifted to the phone case beside him, the faint ding of your message earlier still fresh in his memory. The way you'd smiled. The way you said his name like it already belonged to you.

“…Yeah,” he admitted. “She’s cute.”

A squeal erupted from the other end of the line. “Oh my God, I’m so excited to be a third wheel on your dates.”

“Calm down,” he chuckled. “It’s not like that.”

“Yet~”

Chuuya shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “My uncle’s home. I should go.”

“Fine, fine,” Yuan relented. “But next time I call, I want updates. Plural.”

“Goodnight, Yuan.”

“Goodnight, lover boy.”

He hung up with a sigh—one that carried more contentment than exhaustion.

Chuuya laid on his back, one arm draped over his eyes as he heard the ceiling fan spinning slowly above him. His phone sat on the desk nearby, the call with Yuan still lingering in his mind.

It was his first day in the city.

Tokyo’s pace was blinding. Loud. Constant. And a part of him already missed the silence of home—the sound of wind in the trees, the buzz of cicadas in the summer, the faint creak of old wooden floors.

His village was beautiful. Old and proud, tucked away between mountains and rice fields. But like most rural areas, it had started to fade.

The population had dwindled. Schools had closed. Stores disappeared one by one until only the essentials remained. Government support was minimal, practically a shrug of the shoulders. They didn’t even plow the roads in winter anymore—not unless it was an emergency.

They wanted people to leave. To scatter. To fold in.

That wasn’t good enough for Chuuya.

That was why he was here. Why he had to do well. He didn’t just want a job—he wanted a seat at the table. He wanted to become someone who could change the way things worked. A government official, someone who could pull attention back to the places the country forgot.

He wouldn’t pretend his family had it the worst—his background wasn’t poor. Not like some of the others. If they wanted, his family could’ve moved to a bigger town years ago.

But that land, that house—that was home.

He wasn’t giving up on it.

The scent of dinner pulled him from his thoughts.

Chuuya sat up, brushing hair from his eyes, and stepped out of his room. The hallway lights were warm, and the clink of dishes told him his cousin was already setting the table.

Verlaine stood at the dining table, dressed in a half-buttoned shirt and sweatpants, placing down a pair of bowls with practiced ease. He glanced up as Chuuya padded in.

“Evening,” Verlaine said, tone casual but warm.

“Hey,” Chuuya replied, slipping into a seat. “Smells good.”

Verlaine gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’ll fill you up. How was your first day?”

Chuuya hesitated for a fraction of a second before smiling. “It went fine. Got there just in time for the ceremony. Didn’t get lost too badly.”

Verlaine arched a brow. “‘Not too badly’?”

Chuuya chuckled under his breath, then added, “Self-introductions tomorrow.”

“Ah,” Verlaine said, passing him a pair of chopsticks. “Got anything planned?”

“Not really. I’ll keep it short.”

“Mm. Don’t make enemies this time,” Verlaine said, teasing but not unkind. “Try opening up to people before you bark at them.”

Chuuya made a face. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You glared at your entire middle school homeroom for a week.”

“They were loud.”

Verlaine laughed. “So are trains, and you survived that.”

Chuuya shook his head, but he was smiling.

He reached for the rice bowl and took a bite. The warmth spread through his chest—part from the food, part from being here.

Tomorrow, he'd say something real. Not a speech, not some polished sentence. Just something that would let people see who he was, even just a little.

And this time, maybe he wouldn’t keep the whole world at arm’s length...