#agravaki

@agravaki​ said:  a reminder that i love your sigma sm aaaa !!!!

❝ chuuuuuuyaaaaaa~ ❞ so calls the singsong voice of the mafia executive, who appears suddenly behind chuuya. ❝ say, chuuya . . . where’d your hat go? ❞

there’s a smirk on his face, and it is plain to see why . . . the hat that chuuya had been wearing just moments ago now sits, lopsided, on dazai’s head.

@agravaki​​​ said: ❝ you’re just a little man in a little hole the world forgot to bury. ❞ // @ lucifer from ... arahabaki!chuu ?

( ARCANE SENTENCE STARTERS )

   “  How  funny  to  come  from  something  barely  even  heaving  through  dusty  lungs.  “

   Lucifer  regards  the  god  in  his  palace  halls  with  a  searing  gaze  that  rivals  the  very  heart  of  creation  ,  gold  that  burns brighter  than  any  stars  or  metal.  He  is  beautiful  and  so  far  from  the  legends  and  stories  of  humans.  There’s  no  ruined  skin  and  ugly  snarl.  Wings  whiter  than  snow  and  edged  in  gold  dazzle  ,  a  sharp  contrast  to  the  midnight  silk  hair  that  spills  around  his  elegant  and  seraphic  form.  There’s  something  enchanting  and  elegant  even  in  the  simplest  movements  ,  the  embodiment  of  beauty  and  perfection.

   But  his  aura  is  far  from  delicate  ,  far  from  helpless.  It  spills  into  the  room  like  fog  ,  of  danger  and  raw  power  as  he  descends  the  steps  to  close  the  space  between  Heaven’s  formerly  beloved  angel  and  the  forgotten  god.  

   “  Are  you  trying  to  describe  yourself  ?  Humanity  has  me  carved  into  their  very  existence.  Even  nonbelievers  write  poetry  and  metaphors  of  me  ,  retell  my  story  and  carve  statues  and  paintings  of  me.  The  believers  cower  ,  or  pity  ,  or  wonder  about  me.  “  He  waves  a  hand  with  dismissal.  “  But  unlike  others  ,  their  faith  does  not  affect  me.  Whether  they  believe  or  not  ,  it  holds  no  influence  on  me  like  it  does  the  archangels.  “

   His  gaze  softens  as  he  stares  at  Arahabaki.  “  But  they’ve  forgotten  you  ,  haven’t  they  ?  Destroyed  your  temples  and  followers.  Corrupted  your  legends  of  being  a  god  of  ironmaker  , of  strength  ,  or  protection  ,  and  made  you  into  a  story  of  a  beast.  Of  mindless  violence  and  destruction  and  calamity  so  that  other  gods  might  shine.  How  much  do  you  remember  ,  o’  guardian  god  ?  “  Lucifer’s  voice  is  nothing  short  of  pure  silk  and  melodic  symphonies.  “  Every  story  needs  villains.  Humans  so  love  to  turn  their swords  against  their  own  gods. It’s  not  your  fault.  Humans  love  cruelty  ,  to  inflict  on  each  other  and  those  who  once  aided  them. Broken  ,  flawed  creations.  “

‘ you’re late. ‘ he stands in the doorway with arms crossed, a stern scowl on his face. he taps his foot, gearing up for a lecture. he supposes he can’t be too angry; he knows better than anyone else what it’s like to work too hard and give too much of yourself to your job. they were similar in that way, pillars of their respective groups that tended to take up too much of the burden. 

he can tell he’s gotten into some sort of fight, getting scuffed up in the process. he clicks his tongue, yanking him inside by the arm and already pulling a damp cloth out to wipe at his face. the fussing’s already begun. 

and that’s all the permission he needs, immediately running forward and scooping the other up in his arms.

he skipped school that day. he hadn’t told chuuya, of course, getting out of the car like he always did. but once chuuya drove away, he turned right back around. he walked to the closest convenience store, getting himself some snacks and a soda, and went to the park. he sat there, eating his chips and listening to music through his headphones. he didn’t know why he wasn’t just honest with chuuya; it’s not like he’d be mad. he guessed he just didn’t want to disappoint him. and he didn’t want to go. 

a mission gone wrong, a rarity but something that manages to always do the most damage. the woman sits, curled up, in the darkened alleyways, her hand pressing harshly against a deep wound on her side - but it is not enough, for she bleeds elsewhere. a miscalculation and clumsy fingers. silently listening to the echoing of the city, breathing slowly, welcoming the pain (makes things real, feel less like a ghost despite the irony, more alive when she’s close to death than anytime else). she’s content to sit here in silence for hours until she can manage to stand up, and yet footsteps ring in her ears. she tenses, tries to get to her feet and yet finds that her legs have become numb and useless beneath her.  she doesn’t expect to see red hair and that stupid hat. almost laughs. did the noise draw him in or the familiar smell of blood? it hurts to look at him. her fire is a burning ember, glowing coal of broken heart pieces laying shattered against the floor - they glow for a moment, but fade out into nothing but ash blown away with a breeze. but his; oh, how it climbs higher and higher, engulfing oxygen with an eager tongue, bursting with crackles and although it may wane, grow small, it never extinguishes. her flame can’t compare. did she too used to be like that? eager and ready to fight against whatever threw its weight against her? it’s hard to remember (because of the blood or because such memories do not exist?), and so she doesn’t try for much longer, smiles at the executive enemy? friend? walking mirror? though it is more grimace than anything.