A bunch of unrelated fics of SKK.
(Mostly centered around Hurt Chuuya and Comforting/Caring Dazai.)
Total Word Count: 125k+
Note: I take no credits for this fic. Itʼs currently an on-going series on ao3, posted by a friend of mine. Iʼve already ask...
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Summary: Chuuya watched and wondered.
Wondered what his life wouldʼve been like, what kind of a person he wouldʼve been if he had made different decisions, if he didnʼt care so much about everyone and everything. A rush of overwhelming emotions hit him with enough force to knock him down, leaving him gasping for air as the blood continued dripping down his arm, nearly forgotten.
Or: I hurt Chuuya again by making him hurt himself. Dazai is, once again, in the right place at the right time to comfort the redhead.
Warnings: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Depressed/Crying Nakahara Chuuya, Soft Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya, ⚠MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNINGS: SELF-HARM AND DEPRESSING/SUICIDAL THOUGHTS⚠
Word Count: 8861
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Why is it that we talk least about things we think about the most?
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His chest hurt.
It always ached in some sort of way, no matter where he was, who he was with, whether he was alone or had company, of his friends, family or foe, it never stopped hurting. In some moments, Chuuya could easily ignore the ever-persistent ache, whenever it seemed dull and he could push it to the back of his mind. In other moments though, he almost felt as if he struggled to simply breathe with the painful tightening of his chest and his throat closing up.
For those days, he tried his best to stay locked up in his office.
Missions were often scarce, so he was mostly assigned paperwork. Half of which was already written down with the last task of simply going through the words. Such days felt like a blessing and a curse. Chuuya didnʼt have to deal with enemies or handle missions, he didnʼt have to face anyone he knew in the building since he was known as a hard worker, and the excuse of doing paperwork was too good to pass up.
Now, sitting behind his desk on the floor with his rolling chair pushed back, he leaned his back to the wood. Using his Ability to open the secret compartment area he had installed into his drawer, Chuuya levitated a small pocket knife towards himself, sharp and glinting in all itʼs glory. His coat was hung over the back of the chair, his shirt sleeves folded back and his gloves still on. Chuuya crossed his legs, using his right hand to pull back the sleeve further, grabbing the hovering knife with the same hand once done.
Chuuya felt grateful of the fact that his office didnʼt have any cameras.
He barely registered the fading scars and the recent lines he had inflicted a few days back. Bringing the knife down, he gently placed it upon his skin, his mind blissfully silent of harsh words and impulsive demands, fully focused on the shining knife pressed against his pale skin with a familiarity that comforted him, in a sickly sort of way. He slowly placed pressure onto the handle, sliding the blade across, watching with an entranced look as red droplets beaded onto the surface.
