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bnesszai · 17 days

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dazai and kunikida with 'rain'? :3

Kunikida glances at his watch.

It's 10am and Dazai isn't in the office yet and it's raining outside. He tries to shake his thoughts back to the paperwork in front of him. It isn't unusual for Dazai to run late.

Another 5 minutes pass and Kunikida looks at hos watch again, glances outside, and then scratches the sides of his head. He needs to focus.

When Kunikida looks at his watch for the third time, it's just past 11am and he has written two whole sentences. The rain outside pounds on the windows and ceiling. Dazai still isn't here.

Sighing, Kunikida gets up. He paces around, sits back at his desk, clicks his tongue and stands back up.

After three minutes, Atsushi asks, "Kunikida-san, are you okay?"

"I'm taking an early lunch," he says, grabbing his umbrella and practically sprinting out of the office.

The rain has not let up all day. It's pouring and the occasional gust of wind sends the drops whipping in various directions. Kunikida can't properly see out of his glasses anymore. He curses, but doesn't slow his pace. He's searching for an idiot and the only way to find them is to look in the obvious spots.

A busy intersection shows no signs of his partner. The bridge nearby is empty. The riverbed lacks the waste of bandages.

He almost gives up, except his phone still has zero notifications and the rain falls harder.

Finally, after exactly eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds, Kunikida finds them. It isn't a busy street, but Dazai does still stand smack dab in the middle of it. The few cars that pass honk their horn, swerving around them. Dazai doesn't react. They simply stare up at the sky, still as ice.

"Dazai!" Kunikida yells over the downpour. No response. He runs over. "Dazai, what are you doing?"

Dazai hums, but does not otherwise respond. They're soaked, hair plastered to their face, bandages looking wrinkled and uncomfortable. Their clothes hang uselessly, unable to protect them from the increasing amounts of rain.

"Dazai," Kunikida says more gently, moving the umbrella so it covers them both.

This, finally, garners a reaction. Dazai moves their head down, slowly, trance like, and look at Kunikida. Their eyes are hollow.

"Dazai, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." Their voice is rough from disuse, strained from something Kunikida can't see.

"Let's get you somewhere warm."

"Warm...." Dazai says and an empty, awful smile pulls at their lips. "I wonder what that's like."

Kunikida feels like someone has punched him straight in the ribs. "Come on."

"Kunikida-kun should just leave me here," their voice is flat and so, so far away.

"Idiot," Kunikida says, "as if I'd ever do that."

#okay i am cutting myself off #damn i thought this would be short but alas #fear not Kuni drags Dazai home #gets them cleaned up and in dry clothes #makes them a simple soup that they can manage to get down #and Dazai just slowly comes back to themself after a couple days<3 #thanks for playing!#ness writes

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m4nd0l0r · 2 years

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Terrors Blind Men from the Present.

Description: Guilt drowns him, leaving him with his only saviour, the one who looks exactly as his mother.

Ship: Marc Spector (w severe mommy issues) x GN! Reader (who looks similar to his mother)

Word Count: 2k

Author’s note: WARNING! This deals with nightmares of past verbal abuse, mommy issues, PTSD and forms of trauma study of Marc, so please have discretion when you read this fic as it might trigger people who have gone through this- especially since this fic has such little comfort 😭 This idea of mine came up to me after listening to these songs: Class of 2013 by Mitski, Eric by Mitski, and I’m not a Child by Kuriyani… really says something about the amount of mommy issues in this bad boy huh… (pls read tags if you think marc is ooc) (alsp reblogs and interactions appreciated!! <33)

“Mom?”

The first word he says in dawn, a haunting voice comes out of his throat as it spits it out, his eyes splitting open to the cascading nothingness, and he feels wetness coat his face. The moon haunts his now awakened state, its rays showers itself to his skin, and he only feels heaviness in his chest.

He hates to sleep. To go close his eyes, and yet his mind stays wide open, to the abyss, to the fortress down under. His mortal ears let him hear the crying, her screaming, his shouts. It was all glorious and nauseous, all nothing but a mush of emotions down his stomach.

There was no such thing as peace in his mind, it was all but rugged cliff edges, to drag him down to the abyss like a dream, a dream that rushes heat to one’s palms. One that has him shaking when he wakes in cold sweat.

His hands were always translucent in these visions— as he would clasp his fingers on the rough ground. Looking up, he would only see depths of coarse, shimmering sand, slowly.. but surely.. falling, threatening to drown him.

And it would, always opening a sinkhole to the bottoms of the darkness- no, the bubbling stream of water. Inky hands grab onto them, one would wrench away, cry out to your protectors as it drags them to the depths.

But he does not, even if his god- the one he has enslaved himself to— who he had worshiped, praised, and the one he has shed blood, parts of his own flesh for. The one who promised to save him- to give salvation. No, he does not call him.

The man has lost his dutiful faith to the lost gates of wherever, as he now locks it into a tight seal. Never to break, to waver. Promising that he will never relapse into the role of a reaper he remembers he cried out to you, saying that he dreaded waking up, knowing he was a murderer.

He remembers thinking that you would scream at him like she did. That it would be his fault for letting himself be dragged into the convoluted web of a god. But you did not, only squeezing his hand as you look at him with pure adoration.

But he would hear his voice scream, crying out the same he used to as a child, as he drowned into the destructful streams from loss of a brother leading to a god’s bidding. His voice unheard to the abyss as he’s pulled down under, to the murky swamps of misty depths of the sea.

He feels it consume his entire being, the dark matter swarms his goose-fleshed skin. Was this death? Was he.. dead?

He remembered how his father would say about death, before the waters took his own brother, before his mother had grown mad— He told Marc- that it was.. peaceful. That it was kind to those who pass. That it was fucking mercy.

But as someone who barely got to grasp the hand of his brother to safety- as he takes his last breath— Bubbles comes out of his mouth, and his body limping, letting the current take him— His body taken out of the water, all bluish and green and lifeless— Marc retches, it was unkind.

How the gods made us all believe that it was emancipation- that it was the aid to the noise that has plagued your lives as you lived on doing the bidding of the gods. It was sadistic, and it was masochistic of them- of him to follow it.

Though with all of the excuses- the only one at fault was him. Him alone. It was all his fault. He believes, he knows that he was a foolish child, diving himself head first into the delusions of immaturity- to lead his brother Randall into thinking that he would be safe, that he as the older brother could take care of him.

Randall was his responsibility, he was entrusted by his mother to look after him. He had no time to be impulsive, to further deepen his way to painting himself as a jester, as a reckless child.

He should have stopped himself- shouldn’t have uttered the words to venture their way to the cave— Randall would have been safe, he would have been spared from the reaper’s blade. But he was not, and Marc- the culprit- had to pay for it.

From his own mother’s hand.

And he would hear her in his dream. Her voice was also so clear. Fresh into his ears, driving him into madness.

He would rise up from the water that seeped into his nostrils, trying to drown him in slumber. He would hear his own voice- not his now deeper- more grown one— it was still.. juvenile. Young.

“Mom? Mom!” He cried out in his dream, a call in need, his then smaller figure tried to reach out to her, his mother.

He was a baby bird starving, cold from the lack of feathers, and he awaits the mother bird with sustenance- with dirty worms— but it would be enough. But he receives none, not even a single maggot to feast on- to live.

But she swats him away, like he was some sort of pathetic bug. Disgust feels her drunken eyes, her lips turn to a smear, and she stays silent.

She does not speak to his pleas, she never did.

“Mom please.. please!” He shouts, “I’m sorry. I’m sorr—“ His voice lets out, a croak of a plea— a prayer of a lowly man to the one he tries to pardon for.

“YOU! You let him die!” She cuts him off finally, rage filling her tongue like a poison viper, venom threatening to spill, and violence would paint the walls red.

“This was all your fault. All your fault!” He would hear her say, “You were supposed to protect him! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KEEP HIM SAFE!” She pushes down a table to the ground, glass exploding from the impact.

A canvas of terror is drawn from her- and he is her subject. Marc only flinches, tears already spilling his eyes, risking him to black out- to switch with Steven. But this time he doesn’t— safety is far from his grasp and he stays- to suffer.

His body slides down to the wall, his hands already covering his ears. He forces himself to not squeeze his eyes, to not have the leftover tears spill out- to not catch her attention and add fuel to the fire.

“You should have been the one who died! Not him! Not my Randall!” As if he were not also her son. Her flesh, her blood. He tries to open his mouth but a lump in his throat stops him, silencing his pleas. Please don’t leave me, Mom. I need you. As much as you- we need... needed Randall.

Please don’t stop being my mom. But he never got to say it. Only breathing in the stuffiness of his nose.

Even though it stung, burning his chest as a bigger wound opens up, bleeding through, his eyes would only close, lips pressed into a thin line as he would tilt his head down in shame, defeated, filling his veins. “I know. I know.” Would be his only answer.

You stir awake next to him, your eyesight bleary as you try to get up from the sudden creak from the mattress. It was always like this at night, his nightmares growing worse as the celestial moon glooms back to the dark sky.

“Marc?” You call his name out of concern. He turns, hearing her voice instead of yours, his eyes widen and his arms suddenly on you, holding you close as he heaves heavy breaths. “Mom.” He calls you. Your face only grimaces.

“Marc, baby, it’s me.” You remind him, he was not back home, in the dark crevices of his room, crouching away. He was here, in his own flat, your arms on his body, trying to give him comfort from your growing dire.

You’ve seen photos, seen how she had your eyes— the most defining feature of any man. You had every other part that she also has- even her fucking voice. It made you.. anxious. Wary even, it makes you think.

Everytime you look in the mirror, all you see is the woman who’s twisted Marc this way. The woman who ripped and tore him to the brim, reducing him to a reserved shell.

He is a loving man, always leaving you kisses, trying to cook you soup even though he would almost burn the kitchen down. Even so, you cared for him, you would give your heart to him if he ever asks you to— but you can’t help but feel guilty for something you haven’t committed.

But you can’t help but think that you were a catalyst. Did he really love you the way you did? Or was it only because of the face you possess? The want of a different chance with his mother? A new beginning of peace? Through you? You can’t help but let the seed of doubt spurt out, growing into a thorny tree, ready to stab through your own heart.

You felt as if you should be questioning him- asking him— heaving bitterly on why, why did he lead you to this fragile dance. Why was it hurting them both, as if you were frolicking on glass with bare feet with him, blood streaming through. You knew- deep in your gut that he hated looking at you. Who wouldn’t hate looking at the one who has pained you?

You see how his eyes traced its way to you, watching you like you were a haunting face. How there was a fiery glint in his eyes but it always melts into a loving stare. You never know what to feel each time you notice it.

But you’re taken away from your trance, as you hear his choking voice. Realization has his heart drop to his stomach.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He repeats all over, tears swarming in his eyes. “It’s all my fault. My fault.” choking through his hiccuping, you only clasp him harder, feeling his hands clutch on your sweater, on your warmth like a child. Your worries could wait, pushing back your own emotions.

Now was not the time to add even more pressure to the already cracking man, you focus on calming down Marc, rubbing soothing shapes onto his back. “… I forgive you, I forgive you.”

It hurts to see him like this, strong strong Marc, how he likes to appear to you and to others, and yet from one nightmare, he breaks down like hardened clay. “You were just a little boy, you hear me? None of it was your fault.” You coo at him, holding his face in your hands, your fingers palm off the tears dropping from his ducts.

“I shouldn’t have.. shouldn’t have brought him to that cave..”

“It’s not your fault, Marc. You were just a kid.” You whispered, still grasping onto him. He only shakes his head, breathing out as you feel his shoulders shudder by your chest. “Please don’t leave me..”

Your heart breaks from his words. “I.. I would never leave you, Marc.”

“I love you too much to let you go.” A final nail to the coffin, you spit it out. You kiss the crown of his skull, and he burrows himself further unto you.

All of those words were all he wanted to hear from her, and you’re giving it to him so easily, as if he’s done no wrong. For once he does not hear her from your mouth, nor does he see his mother’s face on your worried face. He only sees you.

His mind slurs from the grief, as if drugged from all the terrors clasping on him. And yet he does not think the same, that he deserves forgiveness, especially from you. He deserves punishment, Marc thinks, and it was as evident as his crimes.

The moonlight dies out, sinking away. He only cries and weeps, afraid that the same inky hands from his sleep will be coming to get him. To bring him back down to his mother’s wrath, away from your love unlike hers.

Your own glossy eyes watching his trembling chest breathe in.. and out, leaving you with the broken pieces his own mother has laid for you to clean.

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