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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Summary:
Friends, colleagues, and even people he considered his family members seemed to bypass him, their lives overflowing with love and laughter, thriving in the warmth of others while he remained behind the glass, just out of reach.
Chuuya reckoned he should be full of hope and dreams, yet here he was, drowning in a sea of unresolved grief and heartache.
The enormity of loss threatened to suffocate him; he had grown so accustomed to being a second choice that he hardly remembered what it felt like to be someone’s first.
Or: Chuuya, exhausted, snaps and self-harms. Dazai helps him feel better.
Warnings: TRIGGER WARNINGS! EXPLICIT $ELF-HARM, SU¡CIDAL THOUGHTS, BLOOD, AND MILD PANIC ATTACK! Refrain from reading if any of this triggers you.Depressed Chuuya, Hurt Chuuya/Caring Dazai, Angst with a Happy Ending.
Word Count:5,389
✒
In the vibrant heartbeat of the city, where the skyline kissed the clouds and neon lights flickered like restless spirits, Chuuya lived in a place that felt more like a prison. The walls of his apartment held echoes of laughter that had long withered away, and the windows framed a view of bustling lives he no longer felt a part of. At an age he had never thought he would reach, Chuuya was already weary, remnants of hope scattered like dust on his forgotten dreams.
Chuuya sat alone in the dimly lit space, his heart resonating within the four walls. It was a luxury space, high above the rumble of a city that never slept, filled with memories he could neither cherish nor forget. Around him, the scattered remnants of a life once vibrant cluttered the sleek surfaces: photographs of friends taken long ago, boxes left unopened atop dusty shelves, remnants of bonds that had frayed past the point of repair. The only sounds to accompany him were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the building settling—a reminder that time indeed marched on, regardless of the emotional stillness that enveloped him.
Chuuya’s days blended into each other in a suffocating cycle.
The nights began with coffee that tasted bitter, a reminder of the sweetness that had eluded him. He’d dress in clothes that felt like armor, preparing for another night at his job of being almost seen, always in the background of everyone else’s vibrant narratives. Friends, colleagues, and even people he considered his family members seemed to bypass him, their lives overflowing with love and laughter, thriving in the warmth of others while he remained behind the glass, just out of reach.
