#bsd angst

you briefly close your eyes at the contact of his lips against your feverish skin, mumbling something inaudibly. perhaps an apology or just his name—he isn’t quite sure.

the blood loss isn’t severe. he’s seen worse, way worse. yet, you still look like you’re about to faint. it’s probably the adrenaline wearing off, leaving your body in a state of pure exhaustion.

chuuya gently picks you up, being careful not to accidentally brush against any of the deep cuts on your wrists. you whimper anyway.

your body relaxes ever so slightly in his arms, the familiar grip and scent soothing you, just a bit. he carries you toward the bathroom, gingerly helping you settle on the edge of the bathtub.

he makes sure you’re steady, holding you for just a while longer, giving you another kiss on the top of your head. you lean against him, burying your face in his side to shield your eyes from the stinging brightness.

chuuya lets go of you eventually, though, as the pungent smell of copper invades his nose. he grabs a first aid kit and a fresh cloth, which he wets at the sink before returning to you.

he kneels down in front of you again, gently taking your hands in his and squeezing them reassuringly. you can’t bear to look him in the eyes, feeling ashamed as you almost withdraw your hands.

chuuya doesn’t let go, though. instead, he only holds your hands tighter, frowning at the fact that you don’t feel comfortable letting him take care of you. then again, he can’t blame you. he doesn’t burden you with his worries either.

he turns your arms over, revealing your soft skin marred with deep cuts and slashes. they look like you used one of his blades he keeps lying around for safety purposes.

you lower your head, turning more inward as guilt washes over you. “i’m sorry…” you whisper, your voice rough as you swallow thickly.

chuuya doesn’t respond. instead, he takes the wet cloth and dabs at the edges of the cuts you made. you flinch as the rough material grazes your wounds.

he has half a mind to keep everything sharp locked away in the future, and half a mind to never leave your side again. however, he knows both of these options would never work out and would probably make you feel even more uncomfortable around him.

maybe even less like a human but more like an object he wants to protect—and that’s something chuuya would never want to make someone feel, especially not you. for all that, he knows what it’s like to not feel human. to constantly question your own thoughts and feelings, to deal with a sick mind.

he doesn’t understand your pain, not truly anyway. but he relates to it on a level only he can. he just can’t relate to your utterly stupid and awful coping mechanisms. this simply isn’t his cup of tea, and it unfortunately reminds him of another troubled soul.

sometimes he wonders if he’s enough for you. enough for you to cling to your life and keep holding on. in the end, he wasn’t enough for dazai, who keeps craving something more fulfilling and meaningful to his life, even though there probably never will be anything that fills his void.

and chuuya is just so fucking scared that you need that too. that he can’t fill the void you’re so desperately trying to fill.

you glance at chuuya, his quiet and thoughtful demeanor sending another wave of panic through you. is he thinking of leaving you? of never wanting to see or speak to you again?

you know you’re disgusting. you know you can be a lot, especially in these moments. you know you’re difficult to handle. and while chuuya has never in his life expressed even an amount of distaste towards you, you wouldn’t be surprised if he just pretended all along. and you wouldn’t blame him either.

chuuya notices your underlying panic. he can practically feel it from how tense and nervous you look, and he hates that he’s probably the one making you feel like this.

“hold still,” he mumbles, still dabbing away at your cuts. once he decides they look clean enough and all the dried scraps of blood are gone, he applies a thin layer of petroleum jelly around your cuts to keep the area moist.

his movements are tender against your irritated skin, but despite how gentle he is, you still feel a burning sensation whenever he gets too close to a cut.

applying the ointment is sort of tedious and takes chuuya some time. enough time for you to stare at his face and imagine the most gruesome breakup you can think of.

you don’t even realize that he’s already laying out gauze on your wounds and securing it by wrapping bandages somewhat tightly around your wrists.

eventually, chuuya looks up at you with a serious expression before standing up fully again. he stands between your legs and strokes your hair affectionately, pulling you closer against him.

you briefly close your eyes, enjoying the warmth his body radiates. “come on, let’s get you to bed,” chuuya says, picking you up in his arms again. you let him without protest.

he makes sure not to step on any of the medical treatments he left out in the open. he’ll take care of it tomorrow, as well as the bloodstain you left behind on the carpet in his bedroom.

he carefully sets you on top of the bed, your shirt riding up just a little. you don’t mind, though. chuuya looks down at you, his gaze lingering on your bloody sleeves. he walks to the closet and grabs one of his own shirts.

“arms up,” he demands, and you follow through with his request. he takes off your shirt, looking you over just in case you hurt yourself anywhere else. when he doesn’t find any more cuts, he dresses you in his shirt, wiping away your dried tears with the end of his own sleeves.

you simply gaze at him with half-lidded eyes, pulling him closer by his waist. your thumbs begin to trace circles through his clothes, and chuuya regards you with a small chuckle. “what are you doing?”

“nothing,” you answer after a long moment of silence, your hands moving down and along his belt. you tug at it hesitantly, almost testing the waters.

you’re aware this isn’t exactly the best moment to ask for intimacy, especially this kind of intimacy. after all, you definitely don’t look or feel your best right now.

but all of this can be pushed aside. you just want—no, need—this kind of reassurance from him. you need to know he isn’t disgusted by you or mortified by your self-destructiveness.

chuuya’s smile drops as soon as he realizes what you’re asking him for, and he gently takes your hands in his, stopping you from going any further. “we’re not doing this. not tonight,” he says calmly but firmly, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

your breath hitches at that, and you look away, feeling just a bit humiliated and pensive at his polite rejection. “is it because… you don’t find me attractive anymore?” you ask quietly, a sense of insecurity washing over you.

you bring your arms closer to your stomach, trying to hide them. you suddenly grow more aware of your surroundings, of what you did, and how much pain you must have inflicted on him.

of course he’s not going to want to sleep with you after that. god, how can you be so foolish? “sorry, that was a stupid question,” you mutter, your voice even quieter than before.

chuuya sits down beside you at that, looking at you with a heavy heart, unsure of what to do. he knows words are useless here and not his strong suit anyway, so he does what makes the most sense to him.

reluctantly, he leans in, stopping just a moment away from your face to think this through again. “fuck it…” he murmurs, exhaling shakily before tilting your head to face him. he rests his hand against your cheek, his thumb grazing the thin skin under your eye as he gently presses his lips against yours.

you’re startled for a moment but instantly return the kiss, practically melting into him. eventually, he brushes your hair out of the way with the hand that’s resting on your face and drags his lips lower.

he begins to plant light kisses along your sensitive skin, his other hand slowly slipping beneath your shirt. it’s warm against your skin, but doesn’t move any further.

“nothing you’d do could ever make me not want you, sweetheart,” chuuya whispers against your throat before moving to press his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling. if he could, he would take you right then and there. but he knows that would be unfair and wrong on so many levels.

“but you don’t want this, at least not right now,” he says reassuringly as he pulls away. “besides, you’re too tired anyway. you’d fall asleep before we even get to the good part.” he laughs softly, the thought of you falling asleep during sex amusing him. it wouldn’t be the first time.

a small smile graces your lips as well, and you bury your head in the crook of his neck. you wrap your arms around him, and he does the same, tracing soothing circles against your back.

“tell you what, if you still feel like this first thing in the morning after a good night full of sleep, i’ll gladly scratch that itch,” he mumbles, making your cheeks heat up.

you just nod and hum in response, your lips grazing his neck ever so slightly. it tickles him just a little. “i love you, chuuya,” you say, your voice laced with deep affection and adoration.

“i love you, too,” chuuya says faintly, tightening his grip around you, and you know he won’t let you go for the rest of the night.

note.: i am actually trying to slowly get back into my writing and i feel like it’s working! might even get into a writer’s rut hihi but yeah- question, how are we guys feeling about some criminal minds content??? maybe in the future

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ — @illchooseanamesoonipromise , @xyliskz , @justyna4a , @idiasplayertwo , @warm-gamer1121 , @sakui1 , @secretlyasnail

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Therefore, food had always been the battlefield. Chuuya had no words for how your face tightened whenever a meal was placed in front of you, how your laugh sounded strained when he joked about how little you ate. At first, he thought it was preference, something trivial. But then came the patterns. The way you’d push food around your plate, the careful excuses that masked avoidance, the too-frequent trips to the bathroom after meals. He dismissed it, once, twice, too many times, unwilling to shatter the image he had of you—unbreakable, invincible, beyond fragility.

Until one day, he couldn’t.

Upon a quiet night, after a grueling mission, the two of you were eating together. He had cooked, something rare, almost celebratory. He wanted to see you smile, to hear your laugh ring genuine, unguarded. But the moment was stolen by the slight twitch in your brow, the way you forced yourself through each bite like it was a penance. And then you were gone, chair scraping against the floor as you muttered some excuse about needing the bathroom.

The mafia executive wasn’t sure why he followed. Perhaps it was the gnawing pit in his stomach, the accumulation of every unease he’d ever felt about you but hadn’t wanted to name. Or perhaps it was the way you hadn’t looked at him when you stood, the way your eyes seemed fixed on something far, far away. Whatever it was, it pulled him from his seat, silent, careful, until he stood outside the bathroom door.

A choked sob, raw and jagged, as if your chest was being ripped apart—the sound hit him. Then came the gagging, the frantic, broken attempts to purge what little you’d eaten. His heart clenched at the sound, a violent, suffocating force that left him frozen for a moment too long. When the retching stopped, there was silence, and then another sound—one that would haunt him far longer than any gunfire or scream. You were crying, but it wasn’t the kind of crying he could soothe. It was feral, unrestrained, the sound of someone drowning in their own skin.

He pushed the door open, and the sight gutted him.

You were on the floor, knees pressed to your chest, fists clenched so tightly your knuckles were white. Tears streaked your face, mixing with the remnants of your futile attempts to purge. Your shoulders shook violently, your breaths ragged and shallow, as if the weight of existence itself was pressing down on you. too lost in whatever storm was tearing you apart from the inside, you didn’t even notice him at first.

As he called your name, his voice broke, soft but weighted, you flinched as though struck. Your head snapped up, eyes wide and wild, filled with a mixture of shame, fear, and something he couldn’t name.

“Don’t—don’t look at me,” you choked out, your voice shattered, hands scrambling to shield yourself from his gaze as though his presence alone was enough to destroy you.

But he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. How could he, when the person he cherished most in the world was falling apart in front of him? When the strength he admired so fiercely had been a mask for a torment so profound it left you hollow? His hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling—not with anger, but with helplessness. Chuuya Nakahara, the Port Mafia’s finest, a man who had survived horrors most couldn’t fathom, didn’t know how to fix this.

And yet, he moved. Slow, deliberate, he crossed the space between you and knelt down, ignoring the mess, ignoring everything but you. He didn’t speak. What words could possibly touch the depth of what he felt? What comfort could ease the anguish that had been festering in your soul long before he’d ever noticed? Instead, he reached out, his gloved hand trembling as it brushed against yours.

Although you tried to pull away, he held on, firm but gentle, grounding. Your protests were weak, broken, crumbling under the weight of his quiet persistence. Eventually, you stopped fighting, your hand going limp in his as the sobs wracked your body anew. He pulled you into his arms then, holding you like you might shatter, like the world itself would crumble if he let go.

Heavy and suffocating a silence followed. Though in it, there was an unspoken promise. A vow etched not in words but in the way he held you, in the way his gloved fingers gently stroked your hair, in the way his own shoulders shook with the weight of what he’d just realized. You weren’t invincible. You weren’t unbreakable. But you didn’t have to be. Not with him.

Truthfully, chuuya didn’t know what came next. He didn’t know how to help you, how to fix the cracks in your foundation. But he did know one thing: he would never let you face this alone again. You were his pride, his light, the fire he’d chased his entire life. And no matter how fragile that flame might be, he would protect it with everything he had—even from yourself.

,

Dazai had always known how fragile you were, even when you didn’t realize it yourself. It wasn’t just your body, though the sharp lines of your frame had always seemed on the verge of disappearing, as if you weren’t fully of this world. No, it was something deeper—a fragility that resided in the quiet spaces between your laughter, in the way your eyes lingered on the edges of mirrors as though you feared what might look back at you. He had been drawn to it, at first. That strange contradiction of strength and delicacy, the way you carried yourself like a wisp of smoke in a room full of storms.

But even smoke can suffocate.

It began so subtly that Dazai almost missed it. The way you picked at your food with a practiced indifference, your careful avoidance of meals disguised as nonchalance. He watched you fold excuses into your routines like origami, delicate and precise—“I already ate,” “I’m not hungry,” “I’ll grab something later.” Lies so thin they barely held their shape, but he let them pass because he thought he understood you. You were his quiet escape from the chaos, a tether to the normality he so desperately sought. But now, as the days turned into weeks, and your sharp edges grew sharper still, he realized your fragility wasn’t simply a part of you—it was consuming you.

The obsession, your obsession, was was unsettled him the most. The way you clung to control, as if it were the only thing keeping you alive. He saw it in the numbers you counted in your head, the mental calculations that flickered behind your eyes whenever food was near. You moved constantly, restless and relentless, as though standing still would unravel you. And yet, despite your need to escape the shape of your own body, he saw how you lingered in front of mirrors, tracing the lines of your collarbones and ribs with trembling fingers. You hated what you saw, yet in that hatred, you found power. A twisted kind of triumph.

Dazai, for all his sharpness, didn’t know how to confront it. How could he, when you had built your cage so carefully, so intricately, that he feared any wrong move might trap you further? He watched in silence, a ghost hovering at the edges of your pain, his own heart growing heavier with every meal you skipped, every lie you told, every step that carried you further away from him. Naturally, you didn’t know, couldn’t know, how much he had come to love you—not in fragments, not as something fleeting, but entirely. Utterly. You thought you were a passing indulgence, something temporary to fill the void in his life, but you were so much more than that.

Fighting demons, he waited until the night he couldn’t stay silent anymore.

You’d spent the day evading food with a grace that was almost artful, your avoidance so practiced it might have been rehearsed. By the time evening came, you were a shadow of yourself, moving through the room like a ghost. Dazai sat at the edge of your shared space, watching as you ran your hands over your arms, up and down, like you were trying to prove to yourself that you were still there. Your fingers brushed against the sharp jut of your bones, and for the briefest moment, your expression flickered—triumph, control, and then disgust, so fleeting he might have missed it if he hadn’t been looking.

“You’re hurting yourself,” he said, his voice soft but resolute.

Hands lingering in the air before it dropped to your side, you froze “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you murmured, the lie falling from your lips like ash.

He stood then, crossing the room in slow, measured steps. There was no anger in him, only a sorrow so deep it felt like drowning. “You do,” he said simply. “You’ve known all along. You’ve been counting every bite, every step, every ounce of control, but you can’t see what it’s doing to you.”

While your chest tightened your eyes darted away from his, searching for an escape. “I’m fine,” you whispered, but the words rang hollow, as brittle as your frame.

“No, you’re not.” His hand reached out, but he stopped just short of touching you, as though afraid you might break beneath the weight of his concern. “You think this is control, don’t you? That if you can keep shrinking, you’ll finally be enough. But you’re already disappearing. You’re fading, and I…” Being the first sign of the turmoil raging beneath his calm facade, his voice cracked, “I can’t lose you to this.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable, spilling over as the dam finally broke. “I don’t know how to stop,” you confessed, your voice trembling with the weight of your admission. “I don’t know how to be enough for you, for anyone, for myself.”

Closing the distance between you then, his arms reached around your trembling frame. You felt impossibly small against him, as though you might dissolve entirely if he held you too tightly. “You’ve always been enough,” he murmured into your hair, his voice low, raw. “I didn’t fall in love with you because of how you look, or because of the shape of your body. I love you because you make me want to live. Don’t you see? You’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive, and I can’t lose that—not to this, not to anything.”

Then you collapsed against him, your sobs muffled against his chest as his words sank into the hollow spaces inside you. For the first time, the control you clung to felt less like power and more like a chain, one you weren’t sure you could break alone. But in Dazai’s arms, in the steadiness of his voice, there was a flicker of something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

And for a moment, in the fragile quiet of that night, you allowed yourself to believe it.

,

When you came back from the hospital, Akutagawa thought you were better. Not whole—he knew better than to believe anyone could walk out of that kind of war unscathed—but better. You were quieter, more restrained than before, but he chalked it up to the aftershocks of what you’d endured. He wasn’t one for excessive concern or sentimentality, so he gave you space, trusting that your resilience would guide you forward.

Working alongside him, just as you always had, you carried out the ruthless tasks of the Mafia with precision and poise. But there was something in your movements that had changed—something more deliberate, almost rigid, as though you were holding yourself together through sheer will alone. At first, he dismissed it as adjustment. You’d been through a storm, after all, and even the strongest took time to rebuild.

What he didn’t see was how the storm had followed you.

In the dead hours of the night, when you were alone in your quarters, the thoughts crept back in—quiet at first, like whispers. You’re too much. You’ll fall apart if you let go. Control is the only way. They slithered into your mind, wrapping themselves around the fragile progress you’d made, and you welcomed them like old friends. You told yourself you’d stop before it went too far, that it was just temporary, just a way to feel steady again. But control was a ravenous thing, never satisfied with half-measures.

Like an old, repeating pattern, you began skipping meals—not all at once, but enough to convince yourself it wasn’t dangerous. A missed breakfast here, a lighter dinner there. You avoided eating in front of Akutagawa whenever possible, claiming you weren’t hungry or were too busy. When you couldn’t avoid it, you picked at your food, calculating every bite, every calorie, with a precision that bordered on obsession.

Of course, you thought you were hiding it well. Learning to wear looser clothing to disguise the weight you were losing, staying late in the training rooms, pushing your body until exhaustion numbed the gnawing hunger, you told yourself this was strength, that the growing sharpness of your cheekbones and the hollows beneath your collarbone were proof of your control. But the truth was, you were spiraling, and you were too afraid to stop.

Akutagawa, on the other hand, didn’t notice at first. He was consumed with his own duties, his own battles, and you were careful to keep your mask intact around him. But as the weeks passed, he began to see the cracks. The way your energy faltered during missions, the unsteady tremor in your hands when you thought no one was watching. He noticed how your voice grew quieter, how your laughter—rare as it was—disappeared altogether. And then there was the weight.

Now you looked fragile, as though a strong wind might shatter you. He told himself it was stress, that you were still recovering, that if it were serious, you would tell him. You had promised him once, after all, that you wouldn’t keep him in the dark again.

But you didn’t tell him.

One evening, after a particularly grueling mission, he caught you lingering in the shadows of the Mafia’s base. You were leaning against the wall, your arms crossed tightly over your chest as though trying to hold yourself together. He approached silently, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the gauntness of your face, the dark circles beneath your eyes.

“You haven’t been eating,” he said bluntly, his voice low and steady.

Stiffening, you didn’t turn to face him. “I’m fine,” you replied, your tone carefully controlled.

“No, you’re not.”

Heavy and unrelenting, his words hung in the air. Slowly, you turned to meet his gaze, and for a moment, he saw the truth in your eyes—the fear, the shame, the desperation you’d been trying so hard to hide. But just as quickly, you looked away, your mask snapping back into place.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, your voice sharper this time. “I don’t need you to worry about me.”

He stepped closer, his presence as unyielding as his gaze. “This isn’t about need,” he said. “It’s about what I see. And what I see is you killing yourself.”

As your hands clenched at your sides, your nails were digging into your palms. “You don’t understand,” you said, your voice breaking despite your efforts to keep it steady.

“Then make me understand.”

For a moment, the room was filled with silence, heavy and suffocating. And then, like a dam breaking, the words spilled out of you.

“I thought I could handle it,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I thought I was past it, that I could stop whenever I wanted. But it’s always there, Akutagawa. The need to control, the fear of letting go. It’s… it’s like drowning, but I’m the one holding myself underwater.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he reached out, his gloved hand resting gently on your shoulder. “You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly. “You never have to be.”

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. “But what if I can’t stop? What if it’s too late?”

“It’s not too late,” he said firmly. “And even if it takes everything I have, I’ll make sure you remember that.”

There was no grand gesture, no dramatic declaration. Just the quiet promise of someone who refused to let you fall. And for the first time in weeks, the walls you had built around yourself began to crack.

a/n: i‘d like to leave a few words actually, i got this request around midnight but i wrote it on sitting and got pretty emotional (yikes) i never wrote something like this so it might come off as stiff. i had anorexia myself, and am now still dealing with bulimia. help. i spent all my teenage years counting calories. i still do , sometimes. this disorder leaves you with nothing but despair. i don’t mean to romanticise it so i tried making it realistic — though it probably sucks. well whatever. if anyone is struggling with this, please get help—even if it’s just online, reaching out won’t make it disappear but easier. love you all so much!