#soft skk

Skktober - Day 7 & 8 - Flowers & Smiles :)

i mean ermmmn if you want ehe no pressure <3 (i just like their ot3 dynamics, feel like skk as a ship is so deeply connected it slots in pretty well with a third too. kinda like cats from the shelter you have to adopt together if you get what in mean 😭)

Welcome Back, Idiots I Dazai Osamu x Reader x Chuuya Nakahara (Poly! Relationship)

Summary: Your dumbass boyfriends come back from Europe—with broken bones, emotional baggage, and a baguette. Domestic chaos ensues.

A/N: Thank you for requesting, love ♡ I don’t usually write poly, but this request was too fun (and too them) to resist. Thanks for trusting me with your idea, love—hope you enjoyed the mess 🥰

MASTERLIST

The airport was packed—buzzing with reunions, the scent of cheap coffee, and the mechanical voice of the PA system reminding everyone to “please watch their belongings.” You stood near the arrival gate, heart thudding, a cardboard sign clutched in your hands that read:

“Welcome Back, Idiots ❤️” 

Short and sweet

Flufftober Day 28 - Taking a Bath Together

Total Time Taken: 1 hours and 34 minutes

Sketch below the cut!!

but not kiss ; soukoku

synopsis: within shared glances and knowing looks, dazai and chuuya contemplate missed opportunities.

for my 100 followers event: gift for @chuupaws

author's note: AJAJAJAJJAJA first installment of my event… sorry this took a long ass time i'm writing a long ass shin soukoku fic and another skk fic at the same time (nolifing this shit on god) i hope you like this a lot oomf!! ty to @multjverse for beta reading. (great writer too go support my moot guys…) extra tag : @ejkreader

read on ao3!! 

The clock reads 4:34 am.

It's too late to sleep, and it's too early to wake up. The little pocket of time within the small hours of the night is where it doesn't feel quite right to exist, but one does so anyway.

A sigh breaks the monotony of the early morning world. It's still dark, but the chirping of birds sounds to Dazai's ears like a death knell. A pillow curved under his arm—an inanimate, unnatural hug; sake bottles emptied and repurposed as vases. Their flowers are wilting in a shaded corner, bandages strewn across the futon—tonight, he doesn't want to be in his room.

Everything in it reminds himself too much of who he is, and tonight is not a night where he can survive his mind's glaring self-critic. Much less the shame that it will inevitably bring. The shame that never really went away.

He pulls the covers over himself again, turning on his phone. The blue tinted light burns his eyes, but tonight, he's hoping for something to be a distraction from the general discomfort of being alive. It's a crude sentiment, but that was the simplest way for him to put it.

His fingers scroll through the mindless recesses of the internet, and each piece of information leaves him a little more bored than the last.

No matter where he is or what time it is, it always seemed like the world was an unceasingly burning dumpster fire.

And it spins around regardless.

Sickened by online cynicism, he looked through his contacts. Maybe talking to someone would help, although not in the way of confiding in someone or asking for comfort, but rather mindlessly amusing oneself with mutual nonsense.

It was unreasonable for anyone to be awake at this hour. He knew that while scrolling past Kunikida and Atsushi. But the contact that his trembling finger hovers above now would certainly be awake.

Naturally, there should've been no reason to hesitate. Or atleast, there would not have been if not for the loaded implications of a call at this hour.

His fingers clasp into his palm, nails digging in as if looking for something to fill the empty space between his hands, something tangible and real. Presence, not pain.

The winter air nipping at his skin through the open window makes Dazai feel strangely raw, and so he decides against calling, if only to not reopen another wound.

Instead, he slings his coat over his shoulder, stepping out into the night.

—

The half-eaten moon hangs above in Yokohama's dark night.

The shadows of people that walk in alleyways and paths riddled with puddles flicker about like phantoms on the exposed brick walls and naked concrete. Chuuya's long shadow, looming over him, follows the same principle.

Between the intersection where the dark meets and kills the light, he leans on the wall to rest. The surface is cold and damp from recent rain. Outside, on the main street, the warm halogen lights reflect on the wet pavement. Chuuya looks in the direction of the light, then grimaces as though it were a personal slight. It stings his eyes, though he can't tell if it's just the strain or the sleep deprivation. Likely both.

Stumbling into the main street, he wondered how ridiculous he looked from the perspectives of the other passerby in the crowd. Still, was there any shortage of drunk men in this city?

By the way he almost got hit by a car as soon as he crossed the street on the pedestrian green lights, it seemed like if they weren't drunk, they certainly were sleepwalking in some way or another. The listless, indifferent looks of other people is not what Chuuya focuses on often, but tonight it seemed strange.

Something stood out to him, in a blur. A flash of beige, something that elicited recognition within. The precarious feeling of a singular moment, but when he looks that feeling crashes and burns. It's not him, just someone with a similar coat.

The question as to why his head snapped to look so fast was something he pushed to the back of his mind.

After all, his presence would only make things worse. There was little reason to think about that man on a good night, even less on a night like this—exhausted, out of his own head, moving through the night as if on autopilot. It was inevitable, maybe, the way the days seemed to blur together. Clock in, do what's asked of you, give orders, make people bite the curb, report in, clock out. Time was warping in a subtle, insidious way. The details of the recent days were melting into one another. Half baked thoughts cloud the mind even now. More so in an alcoholic haze.

The days feel like a loop.

Sometimes Chuuya felt his life was going in circles. Something to gain. Something to lose. Year by year, endless waltz.

But if it was all repeating, how many times will it be before he's learned his lesson?

Something to mark tonight. Something that feels real. What Chuuya thought he needed was a break from the monotony. Not simply another flavor of violence, but something that made a difference.

Maybe that's why his mind was connecting everything towards Dazai again. No matter what insult Chuuya might think of for him, for once the idea of him started looking like a solution instead of a problem.

But maybe that in itself was the issue. The idea of him. Not Dazai, because he isn't here, hasn't been for years. More so the ghost of Dazai that lives in his thoughts. A projection of memories, pictures that flit together to make something that feels close enough. A fever dream apparition that Chuuya played around with.

If Dazai was in front of him right now, what would he do? Ask for an explanation? Smash his face into the pavement? No, perhaps ask him how it's been lately. Like they're good friends. The idea of it makes him want to gag.

The thought experiment is over. The idea of Dazai breaks down at that point, when it starts to feel real. When the wound is still as fresh as the day it was made. Like the cut on the roof of his mouth that his tongue can't help but keep pressing.

Chuuya thinks of it, maybe more than he should, what he would do if Dazai was here.

But he'd rather cut off his own arm than feel the way he did back then.

The train station at this hour is nearly empty, save for those that work night shifts. The tired silhouettes of office workers and salarymen settle into the background with ease once they shuffle into the train. Everyone looked like a copy of each other.

Everything looked like a copy within a copy.

Chuuya blinked the sleepiness out of his eyes, laying sideways on the seat. In truth, the distance was short enough to walk. Maybe he should've done just that.

Maybe, if he had been a little more late, he wouldn't be in this situation. Outside of the train station, near the bridge, spotting the familiar beige once again.

Only that this time, it wasn't a mistake or a trick of the eye. It's Dazai that he can see in the peripheral of his eye now. But his attention isn't on Chuuya. It's fixated on the water below, but it's not the singular, tunnel vision stare he's seen before.

He doesn't move his foot forward over the drop, as if calculating just how high it would be, and whether the depth would be enough to kill. Only bandaged fingers tapping on the banisters with a carefree air.

It's hard to tell what Dazai is thinking tonight.

Chuuya knows that if he's close enough to see that, he's close enough for Dazai to see him.

And even then, neither of them say anything.

It's not very like them, is it? At any given moment, they should be at each other's throats. They should be having petty arguments or kicking at each other.

Atleast then, Chuuya would know what to do.

But this is not the idea of Dazai, this is Dazai himself standing there by the edge of the bridge. It's that something real he's been looking for. Yet when it is right here, Chuuya doesn't feel like it's the hour for it. Not the hour for questions and answers, or for violence and jokes.

Only the time for a look of faint recognition.

And for a second he can almost think that Dazai's gaze has drifted towards him, to the corner of his eye.

But in that short second, there is only inaction.

Only a glance that says, no, not tonight.

Then Chuuya already knows that even if he had a question to ask tonight, he wouldn't know how to say it. That despite the fact that he wants to know if everything is alright now, if things are working out—he wouldn't ask.

Whether Dazai is in a good or bad place, he wouldn't mess with that.

It'd be easy to fall into familiar patterns again, if he really wanted to. It'd be easier to be just the two of them, but not yet. Maybe not ever. Not in the same way.

Chuuya looked away first. It's been a minute since either of them had moved, but a minute is enough.

Eyes on the sidewalk, he starts walking home again.

There, the idea of Dazai had faded away, in a sense, because the question had already been answered. What would he do if Dazai was here in front of him right now?

Nothing.

He would leave the wound alone for once—the cut on the roof of his mouth, no matter how warm it is.

—

The river current is lazy tonight.

Dazai thought that the strange feeling this night brought with him would disappear if he just got a change of scenery.

That sort of general discomfort of being alive still clung to his skin for some reason. The water below is calm and warmed by the summer heat, and for a moment, he feels envious.

Dazai knows the drop. Ten feet. It's not that high. It's only the fact that there is any distance in the first place that evokes the thought of crossing it. Even if he has closed that gap before.

Dazai's life consisted of falling. Continuously. One big fall or several—that was unclear.

All he knew was that, in some or the other way, he was going down.

The weight to his limbs might've been exhaustion from not sleeping or eating enough, but it made no difference. It only facilitated that feeling.

Endless falling. Strange sort of stasis. Never here nor there, never above nor below. Even if he would've jumped off that bridge, he wouldn't have felt comfortable either on the ledge or in the water.

No, it would have been that split second of free fall that he would've craved.

Tonight, he didn't feel like dragging himself out of the water again. So he stopped looking at the height and looked at the flowing river for what it was—a river instead of a device for his death. Scenic enough if he hadn't seen it so many times already.

The seconds pass quietly, and eventually it is no longer on the forefront of his mind.

Right now, his thoughts occupy themselves with the vision of a fiery mafioso who was looking—no, staring—at him from a distance.

Dazai knew he was there; it would've been impossible not to notice his presence immediately. He'd know Chuuya even if he was blindfolded. That spark of recognition never goes away.

Tonight, the distance between the two of them feels more than it has been in the past few years.

Somehow, it is the kind of distance that Dazai would like to fall into. The gap that he didn't feel like he could bridge.

Not yet.

The timing was off, he knew that. The moment he was going to open his mouth, turn his head, Chuuya had already begun walking. The moment disappeared like that in a split second. Dissolved into that same mundane space where time goes to die.

Maybe it's stupid to think what he could've done or said in that minute.

Maybe it's stupid to think about why he was so quick to hesitate.

Something in the air feels like it's shifted again, and it feels strange. Missed connections clinging to the mind—that tiny fall between expectations and actions. Once Chuuya was too far away to reach, Dazai took his eyes off the river. Going back to the mundane, he observes the warmly lit streets in the distance, hands in his pockets.

With a mind burdened by tiny realizations, Dazai idly wondered if he should go home now.

Then again, home without Chuuya feels like such a strange place.