You leave her room, your unease building into dread rapidly, like a snowball rumbling into a full blown avalanche. You look down on your shoes as you find yourself walking towards Chuuya's room, knocking on it before entering.
"Chuuya?" You ask. He's working on some paperwork when he looks up, his smile quickly turning into a look of concern when you look at him with hazy eyes. The scribbling of his fountain pen comes to an end as he stands up, but you're pointing at him with a shaking finger.
"You lied to me," You say, "You lied to me alongside Mori."
A look of realisation washes over him, "Princes—"
"You watched it all happen."
He tongues the inside of his cheek, a war in his mind, "How'd you find out?"
"Dazai told me," You sneer when his expression immediately turns into that of anger, "Your enemy, the man you hate the most in the world, told me that you, alongside Boss, lied to me."
"That slimy bastard. Why're you still talking to him?" He's crossing towards you, his ability triggering with each step he takes. There's a look of rage, almost bordering on betrayal, as he approaches you; a look of love that has subverted itself in expiration, "Don't talk to him ever again. I'm telling you to not even look at that bastard anymore."
"He tells me the truth," You look down at your hand and its fading, becoming transparent, and you see the carpet behind it. You shake your hand and it remains translucent, devoid of its usual weight of colours, "He tells me what it is."
"I can do that instead for you," He argues back, his voice snappy and overflowing with greed, "Don't fucking interact with him anymore."
You blink hard and your hand regains its vigour and opacity, "Everything's getting worse, Chuuya. I don't think you understand."
"I'll help you." He grabs your collar and smashes his lips against yours; the kiss is searing, almost as if he was branding you, as if he was protecting you, as if he was killing you so that he could have you to himself, body and soul. His lips are sinful, screeching with overfilling, undulating desire, reminiscent of that when you were both children and testing the waters of sexuality, gingerly touching each other in places that were a foreign territory, a pleasurable territory.
But it's different this time. He knows what he's been doing. He knows your body like the back of his hand. He's been dreaming of doing things to you ever since you had defected, ever since you had left and fled the dark waters of the Port Mafia, seeing you on the faces of other women that he couldn't bring himself to touch, feeling that it would be pseudo-infidelity, despite having no established relationship with you.
The kiss is filled with desire, and you find yourself tearing up in the midst of all this passion.
How passionately you desired to be held. To be held without any other ulterior motives, to be held without knowing there was something behind you, poised with a knife, ready for the blade to embed itself in you within any fluid movement. You stumble onto his bed.
"You hurt me," You murmur against him, and he bites down on your lower lip gently.
"I know," He says, taking the coat off of you, "Take this shit off."
You obediently comply, your hands shaking to the extent you were unable to unbutton your shirt. His gloved hands stop you.
"We don't have to do this if—"
"I want to," You say. Your voice cracks, and you find yourself sobbing, "I want to. Please, just put me back together. Put the pieces back together."
He looks at you with a flash of regret in his gaze, before it disappears and is replaced with determination. He helps you unbutton your shirt, fingers shaking in anticipation, and rips your bra off of you with a ferocity that was common in Chuuya's world. He finds himself swallowing back spit at the sight of your naked body. How he had craved this body for years since your disappearance, dreaming of it and martyring himself for it as a religion. He sees religious iconery in the crevices, the folds, the curves, and it calls his name when he runs a hand over the plains of your stomach. It's smooth to the touch, and slightly heated, as if you were fevering up to his touch.
"Did you miss me?" You whisper, your voice bordering on a whimper when he takes off his gloves with his teeth, eyes never breaking contact with yours; there's devotion in those eyes of his, swirling and lapping against the grey-blue irises, and you swear you can hear his heart thudding in his chest and throat when you lift a hand to touch his skin through his shirt.
"I missed you just like how I remembered you," He says, smirking when you look embarrassed at that admission. You swallow heavily when his hand toys with a breast, pawing and moulding at the flesh as though he was a cat playing with a ball of yarn. Libido grows in your lower abdomen when he leans down and suckles onto your neck.
"Stay with me," He whispers against your throat, as if on the verge of biting it.
"Where else am I going to go?" You whisper back, your hands raising to comb it through his vermillion hair.
"You have everywhere to go," He says, slowly unbuttoning his vest and his shirt underneath, "Stay with me. I'll kill anyone if you go to them."
"Brutal as always, Chuuya," You say, toying with the end of his hair, "Brutal."
"For you, always," He says. His fingers reach down and slip past your unbuttoned trousers, past your panties, and into your cunt. A throbbing clit under his mercy as he gently pinches it, before swirling his fingertips over your needy hole. You mewl, a tear dripping down the side of your face; whether it was from frustration or despair or neediness, you didn't know. But what you did know, despite the blurring images of memories in your head, was that Chuuya was there, here with you, touching you as if he had missed you, yearned for you for all of time, like Judas wandering in Hell for years, unable to see Jesus' face for all of eternity; the bible is a love story. He watches you intently as your face contorts into pleasure; into desperation, fingers busy as they slip into your cunt.
"Feel good, pretty girl?" He murmurs against your ear. His smooth voice makes a vicious shiver wrack through your back, grinding back against his palm so that it would brush against your clit, "I'll take that as a yes."
His fingers make a squelching noise as he bottoms out knuckle deep, curling the tips to brush past your sweet spot. You let out a yelp that sounds like a cry for help, muffled by your hand.
"Don't," He snarls, "I want to hear you."
"It's embarrassing," You whine, "We haven't done this in years."
"I know. That's why I have to hear," He says, rubbing the heel of his palm against your engorged clit, making your eyes widen and a moan to escape your mouth, "I need to."
His ability triggers; pins your hand down onto the bed with a force that you know you can't fight back. After all, who can fight with gravity?
You certainly couldn't.
He certainly couldn't stop gravity, despite being its manipulator, from falling into your embrace, into your arms. Falling into you.
What a messy thing to do: fall.
He licks up the tear dripping down your temple: tears carry creative power. When touched, they create conception. How he had missed the salty tang of your sweat and tears in the midst of passion, like a starved beast begging for his thirst to be satisfied from his deleted other.
Relapsing into you.
"God, I missed this fucking cunt so much," He groans when he slips his fingers out, relishing in the slick that conjoined his fingers together, dripping down his knuckles and onto his wrist, "I'm going to fuck you senseless, princess."
"Please," You reach out for him, "Make me feel better."
He accepts your neediness with a kiss, moaning deeply into your mouth when he slides in, the bulbous head of his cock popping in before the rest of his length slides in, "You're soaked. Did you miss me that much?"
"I need you." Your body seized with painful pleasure, your head thrown back with a soundless scream when his cock throbs inside you at your admission. He doesn't give you a moment to adjust before he's thrusting frantically into you, setting a painful and brutal pace from the get go.
"You're so fucking tight. Your pussy's sucking me in like it doesn't want to let go." He grunts from above, sweat beading on his temple. The wet noise of his cock driving into your cunt makes you wild, clawing at him needily with your nails digging into his ample flesh. You're wailing when you can feel a distant orgasm building from the way his hip's rolling against your clit deliciously. Drool slides down the side of your mouth when the head of his cock jabs against your g-spot, and alongside the firm circles around your clit with his dexterous fingers, you're overwhelmed and ferociously approaching your end.
"I'm gonna—wait, wait!" You try to push him off, feeling your abdomen flex and curl at the foreign sensation building in your body. He doesn't. He fucks you harder, brutally smashing his hips into yours until your body's jostling up the bed, shaking and making it creak with every messy thrust. Slick splatters all over his hips when you let out a tormented wail of an orgasm, fluid squirting out of your hole hard enough for his cock to slip out and messily rub against your clit. He slaps his cockhead against your cunt before slipping it back in, cumming with a harsh grunt inside of you. The moans he's making are only making the curl of pleasure in you blaze into an inferno. Tears are welling in your eyes at the overwhelming pleasure when he doesn't stop.
"Shut up, shut up," He smashes his lips against yours, teeth clashing as he swallows your overstimulated moans with his. You look at him with pitiful, tearful eyes, at his mercy, "Just kiss me."
What was it that you felt for this man?
Love?
No, love was too powerful; it was more so a blend of homesickness, nostalgia, and longing—hiraeth, as they called it. A pull on the heart that conveys a feeling of missing something irretrievably lost. You missed him. You missed being back where you first started; there is a certain unsettledness in going back to a well-walked path and realising you have not changed at all. A certain sort of sadness that wells in your chest like a bead of blood to a cut: slowly, but poignantly.
The translucent sheet slowly lifts off of you, seductively, malignantly; and you begin to see.
A stag man before you. His horns are growing larger and larger. And you know it's trying to bait you, trying to get up on your face and make you fall back onto yourself like a second self was waiting for you, waiting to catch you and torment you in your own alienation, but you won't do it; not this time. It's trying to make you scream. Make you throw Chuuya off of you and shake in your own madness.
That stag man is part of you.
The Port Mafia needs you unstable? Then you shall be, in all its glory, in all its bloodiness.
You close your eyes and accept the kiss: You are who you are. There is no fighting it no more. Though a tear falls from your eye at the admission. An open wound.
An admission of a wound.
"Don't talk to the suicidal bastard again," He says, after the zenith dies down into a peaceful, post-orgasmic stillness, "I'm right here."
You hum, drawing imaginary shapes on his shapes, "I don't know."
"Hah?! What do you mean you don't know?"
"You keep lying to me," You say, your voice quiet and soothing to hear; it is like a balm to Chuuya's raging inferno and it stills him just so that he could hear it, "I need someone else to see what's happening. He has no loyalties to the Port Mafia, and that makes him dangerous. To you. To Mori. It makes him see."
"I can help you see," He argues back, "Don't interact with him at all. If you do, I'll strangle him myself."
"Dazai and I have no other relationship than being two peas in a pod that has once defected from the Port Mafia," You say, ceasing your drawings, "Once accomplices. But nothing compared to what you had with him."
"He was once my comrade," Chuuya says, his heart thudding angrily, "Soukoku was a thing of the past. A disgusting past."
"I know that," You soothe him with a gentle pat on the chest, before continuing to draw circles and shapes with your finger, "I know how it feels. It was Scalpel for me. "
Chuuya contemplates on telling you the truth, and his hatred for Dazai and you to be communicating reaches its peak when you look up at him through tear dewed lashes, pupils enlarged as if drinking him in, filled with formative sway, as if enticing him into emptying everything into you, like expensive wine to a jewel-embedded chalice. His soul sways at the incarnation of desire before him, looking up at him with nothing but newly developed trust in your eyes; and he breaks apart, like the split second of fine china hitting the ground.
"That psych eval I gave you," He says, very carefully, "Was forged."