#cause angst

darling saying you love something is positive. I love angst too!!

("Scarf")

Chuuya was once again stuck in the office room, alone. The space was vast in this place, the glass windows even more so as the light of dusk bled in through the flowy red curtains, flashing hues of pink and orange. Freedom was right outside the very walls he was caged within. And yet, it’s never felt more suffocating.

He sat in front of a mahogany desk with nothing but a pen and a few stacks of paper to occupy him. He looked over to a portrait that was set near the edge of the desk, but only briefly glancing at it. He tried to ignore the want to look back at it again, a man that used to be his age with his arms wrapped around the redhead, both laughing in the photo. Days like this, he rarely left his seat. Some would say he was practically glued to it, having to fix all the messes that Da—...the last Port Mafia leader had left before he…alledgedly committed suicide.

Just endless silence. Suffocating silence. He tried not to get distracted by the fact the only person that he ever cared about used to sit in this very seat up until a few days ago.

Nobody will ever know this pain, he thinks, determined and stubborn, despite all the 3 billion people on the planet, or atleast, roughly, they would never account to the grief that Chuuya was suffering. He never felt more alone. Standing by himself, barely holding an organization together, with nobody to truly support him other than the man that had died just recently. He dropped the pen. His arms were shaking again. Chuuya pushed the chair back and grasped at his scarf, a pounding headache making his way into his brain. He’d been ignoring the fatigue that had been hovering around him so he could focus on work. I’m fine. He tells himself, scooting the chair back forward, and placing the pen neatly beside the paper in its own holder so it wouldn’t accidentally leave ink blotches. “He doesn’t matter anymore.” Chuuya said it aloud, but it didn’t feel more wrong to announce those words. Chuuya tried to distract himself, closing his eyes briefly. The pounding headache eased when he did. It also renewed the exhaustion he’d been fighting for hours, and this time it made sure to sink its teeth in and not let go. The redhead wavered in his seat, pushing the paper away and crossing his arms, resting his head snugly across them. Just a few minutes, he convinced himself. And I’ll get back to work. Were his last thoughts, before he drifted into a deep, weighty sleep. *     *     *

The door creaked open. I slipped in. Easing the door shut behind me I lock eyes with the sleeping shape of the Port Mafia Boss. I grin. There couldn’t have been a more perfect time. I quickly cross the room and end up at his desk, making sure not to accidentally let my shadow pass over him, since the small change in temperature could startle him awake. Many say that taking Chuuya-san’s scarf was an impossible task. You’d die trying. But I wasn’t so sure. Just catch him off guard, and he wouldn’t be able to stop you. Slowly, I brought my hand to the blood-red fabric, tracing it with my finger, and carefully hooking it under some folded layers. I gave it a gentle tug, and the Boss shuddered, stirring but not waking.

So I continue. Unraveling it from his neck was a little bit of a task on its own without startling him awake. But I somehow manage. I hold the fabric tight in my hands, grinning from ear to ear psychotically. Goodnight, Chuuya-san. I think. You won’t be finding this for a while.

*     *     * A knock on the door woke Chuuya up with a start, his head snapping upward and swaying for a moment. His immediate reaction was to respond with an authoritative, “Come in.”, despite it sounding a bit softer than he meant to.

He realized it was a bit cold, but disregarded that fact as Atsushi came in, carrying a bundle of papers, looking at the sheets cradled in his arms. “I’m sorry for the interruption, boss, I know you're busy, but I need a little help with…” When Atsushi met eyes with Chuuya, he broke off. The door closed behind him. “Oh…um.” Atsushi blinked like a deer in headlights. “What?” Chuuya asked, trying to focus his hazy mind back into its natural order, eyes sticking together as if held by duct tape.

“C-congradulations?” The boy said, a small smile etched upon his features, and Chuuya squinted at him, the redhead wrapping his arms around himself, shuddering at the cold. “What do you mean, congratulations?” “Well…you stopped wearing it.” Atsushi impatiently bounced from foot to foot, promptly avoiding Chuuya’s eye contact as he looked out the window. “I’m glad you’re not dwelling on him anymore.” Chuuya flinched, but he first had to make sure they were talking about the same man here. “Who’s he?” Atsushi blinked at him, finally meeting his gaze. “Well, Dazai-san, of course.” Chuuya froze, and he suddenly started to feel some sort of crushing presence around him. Immediately he went to grasp at his scarf, starting to feel a traumatic attack ganging up on him, intent on smelling the fabric so he wouldn’t lose it. Except… His hand. Grasped on air. The room dropped several degrees. Atsushi could feel it. Could sense it. Hackles raised, he quickly excused himself in a rush, terrified. While Chuuya didn’t move for several seconds, eyes wide and unblinking. He didn’t breathe. He couldn’t. Harsh, cold claws raked down his spine as he slowly looked down.

Dazai’s scarf.

“Dazai?” The redhead called broken, a bit more desperately. It could even be called a wail. He took a step forward, his entire body shaking. Everything was crumbling physically around him as it was on the inside. His desk, reduced to splinters from the shield of gravity enveloping him. Chuuya couldn’t think anymore.

Dazai’s scarf. He ransacked through every available orifice, his fingers shaking as the crushing weight was slowly being piled on top of him to the point where he couldn’t focus, landing on his knees, the very gravity he manifested pulling him towards the earth.

The redhead couldn’t find the scarf.

Chuuya couldn’t find it.

He couldn’t breathe, his lungs constricted, as if tight coils wound around them, forbading him from drawing air.

Chuuya’s arm shot to his neck, grasping at his throat, tears welling at his eyes.

The more he felt, desperate to have simply imagined not seeing the fabric, the more his stomach plummeted, and he just couldn’t breathe, it was too much a task,  he was losing it, he lost it—The gravity field worsened and began to eat up at the room, inflating until it covered the entirety of the building floor, spooning up the walls and ceiling until nothing was left but a large expanse of cratered floor and vast, open sky.

The very freedom he seeked was right at his fingertips.

But it only caused him to suffocate all the more painfully, grasping at his hair and screaming. It was silent to his ears because he didn’t know why he was screaming anymore.

His thoughts had fled him. He bore no control of his body.

The redhead couldn’t even hear his wails of anguish as he continued to use the little air he managed to regain with each breath and use it to cry out.

Chuuya had finally, truely lost it.

Without Dazai’s scarf, or any reminisce of the man, Chuuya couldn’t hold the frayed ropes that he’d barely kept together so long. He let them snap, his power growing with his anguish, the gravity eating away at the building below him like a monster tearing a chunk out of a mountain.

The black hole surrounded Chuuya.

The tiny human with too much power.

The monster that could decimate the earth…for a measly little piece of red fabric.

“okay, okay, yes...yes i started flirting with you and got involved because i wanted a good story on you. but that’s...that’s not how it’s been for a while now, i stopped writing the story, this isn’t fake, maybe it started that way, but i promise you this is real for me. it’s not what you’re thinking, we’re not like that, i swear!”

@handtame sent: 🛑 ( a blood meme thats all i remember lol )

The stone floor is cold. It's always cold, but with her knees pressed into its grit Hope can feel the chill slithering its way up her thighs and hips. A ghost of an unwanted nightmare. That's what would have happened, she isn’t a fool – she isn’t a hopeful girl like her elder sister or pliant like her youngest sister. No she is just Hope; she is aware of what really happens to women in this world. There is a sick understanding that coils in her stomach and makes her feel slick with a tacky sweat. Her pulse is still rushing in her ears and her heart cannot seem to catch itself, it runs away in her ribs like a restless bird willing to kill itself to break free. Fear had caught her and defiance had nearly gotten her killed, but it's not her blood pooling out onto the floor. It is not her blood that stains the soft cheeks of Miriam’s face, or coats those nimble fingers of hers in a sticky red as it begins to dry. Oh there will be guilt that she knows. A revenant will appear for this crime and those gray eyes will stand before them both and sentence them to burn. There are two mouths that are gaping up at her, the thick and bruised lips of Lord Hartshire and the drooling slice that has torn his throat open. She knows she should be revolted and should shy away from such a scene; but the rage that slams itself around in her skull cannot seem to care. She wants to laugh, to howl a call that would send fear up his spine if he were still alive – but she remains silent.