The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

all of your flaws are aligned with this mood of mine


Dazai—looking soft and curious, all his ruthless edges tucked away somewhere under that faint wondering expression he got when staring at friends who puzzled him, when staring death in the face, when staring at his partner doing something utterly inexplicable but somehow not annoying or disgusting.

This was Dazai and Chuuya didn’t care if it was weird or they had jerked their heads away from each other just moments ago in distaste for manners, habits, and their endless stream of insults. This was Dazai and he wasn’t fighting back (like he ever did) or pulling back (like he ever did) or pulling one of his stupid blocks or evasive maneuvers. He was letting Chuuya shove him against the wall, letting him bury one gloved hand in the soft messy hair, letting him pull Dazai’s head down to his own level so their mouths were at the same height, and letting himself be kissed by someone he’d never particularly cared for.


The First Time Through


“I’m not going to talk like a fucking girl!” Chuuya practically growled at his annoying partner.

“Bet you will!” Dazai singsonged back. “If I win this game, you talk like a little rich girl and ask nicely for what we need.”

“And if I win,” Chuuya countered, “I grind your into the pavement and then you torture it out of them.”

“But Chuuya! I’d need my face for that.”

“Fine, you torture it out of them, then I grind your face into the pavement.”

The two eyed each other.

“Deal.” Dazai grinned.

Chuuya checked his game console for foul play.

A Miscalculation


Drunk Chuuya was handsy, Dazai was discovering. (more…)

Ruffled Feathers


“They’re not erogenous,” Chuuya pointed out for the umpteenth time.

Dazai didn’t pause a moment in his intent, thorough examination of every feather and curve of Chuuya’s wings. It would have been too much to expect a compliment, but the attention was enough to bring a flush to Chuuya’s cheeks anyway.

“Have you ever tried to let go and fall?” Dazai asked thoughtfully, a dreamy tone in his voice.

“What?! No!” Chuuya yanked his wing away from Dazai’s groping fingers.

“Chuuya! Don’t be like that!” Clingy Dazai followed after. “Your wings are so nice!”

Chuuya groaned but let him touch.

Against Better Judgement


“I’m not (more…)

In the Throes


“Why aren’t poisons ever painless?” Dazai whined loudly, an unwelcome annoying background track.

“We both trashed the rival gang and their pet snake,” Chuuya told his awful excuse of a partner and slapped half the paperwork in front of Dazai. “We both write up the report.”

Dazai stared between the paper and Chuuya, eyes wide, then his hand went to his forehead and his head went back dramatically. “So cruel! I’m in the throes of poison here!”

“You won’t die,” Chuuya reminded him. “Write, you pathetic snake-seducer!”

“I was supposed to die!”

“Well, you didn’t.” Chuuya really wished he had.



“You’re the god of what again?” the current avatar of the god of death asked.

“None of your business,” the much shorter redhead replied.

They were just teenagers and probably had no business being avatars, but gods never bothered much asking the mortals that channeled them.

“But we’re partners now, Chuuya!” Dazai persisted. “Surely it’s something to do with Death!” Be careful who you want to meet, Dazai thought. He just might keep you around.

Chuuya recoiled. “Passion,” he replied bluntly.

“Passion.” Dazai blinked. “Passion?”

Chuuya’s body language was tense, but he refused to elaborate.

What he was refusing to tell his new ‘partner’ was that he wasn’t the avatar of the god of passion. He was the god of passion—full of all the pleasure and violence that generally entailed. He was the avatar of another power though because it didn’t seem to care whether it channeled its way through a mortal or a young god who just happened to be wandering the earth when the last avatar of calamity died.

“What exactly are you passionate about?” Dazai asked, wide-eyed. “I’m looking for a beautiful woman to—”

Chuuya shoved him into a tree. “Not that kind of passion.”

Mismatched Expectations


Chuuya had been worried about the whole biological process of kemmer (more…)

No, Without Appeal



“But Chuuya! You haven’t even heard what—”



Dazai’s whine only got more indignant the more Chuuya refused to even listen to whatever his request was, complete with putting on his headphones and blasting rock music loud enough that he could practically see Dazai planning on teasing him for impending deafness later.

But Dazai was too terrifyingly chipper, and Dazai always had ulterior motives, and Chuuya was not in the mood.

Dazai lifted the headphones from Chuuya’s head and held them out of reach, one hand on Chuuya to stop his Ability. “I need you, Chuuya!”


End of the World


The last time Dazai kisses Chuuya is at the end of the world, Corruption unleashed in all its power, Chuuya’s head thrown back in laughter. Red light paints Yokohama with destructive glow.

It’s beautiful, terrifying, perfect—a double suicide neither of them had planned but neither regret.

Because destruction can save, and they’re stopping the end of the world. This is for everyone else, one last sacrifice.

The last moments are theirs, Dazai tasting the blood of Corruption in his mouth as he holds Chuuya and sees the light in his eyes one last time before everything crumbles to dust.




The refrain that binds them together, that tears them apart.

Live. You’re you.

People live to save themselves.

You started to want to live.

Born together in a day, in a single battle, reborn in another, in a single night.

Why couldn’t you live with me? Chuuya almost wonders. They’d been equals. They’d never made each other dependent. They’d never given the other unease and betrayal. Why, Dazai?

Not that he wanted him close, wanted him near, not that he wants him close now. But he looks in the eyes of his one-time partner grimly, the old words hanging, “We should just give up and die.” So cheerful, so fascinated still by the end of life. And yet, this closeness to death, wasn’t that Dazai’s way of living? Why would he go elsewhere to find it?

“Whenever you say something like that, like I really had a choice.”

You’re not going to die here.




Whenever Dazai looks wistful, Chuuya notices it’s in moments they’re talking about drinking or a certain intelligence officer in the upper echelons of the Port Mafia or a certain lowest-ranking member of the same.

It’s never for things, like innocence or goodness or family or anything others seem to allow it to cross their face for. It’s never for someone like Chuuya.

He’s met them both, considered Sakaguchi Ango competent and professional. Oda looks at Chuuya like he’s listening with everything he is or, gently, doesn’t really look at all.

Chuuya isn’t Dazai’s friend. But then, he’s always known that.

On the Matter of Clothes


“I hate everything about you. Your hair. Your clothes.

Chuuya could almost believe it with how intent Dazai was on getting those clothes off him. A glove on the floor, thrown with venom. The jacket. The cardigan. The shirt. As if each item had personally offended him. Chuuya hadn’t let him remove the hat and now was glad of it.

Dazai’s fingers lingered against the choker, and Chuuya shot him a skeptical look when he left it.

“Everything?” he asked, finding a reason to grin smugly.

Dazai huffed with that disgusted look he reserved for Chuuya. “Everything.”

The choker stayed.



Neither were ever going to admit they’d wanted this, Chuuya’s teeth ripping through bandages and Dazai’s nimble fingers stripping off every single piece of clothing he hated. They buried hands into each other’s hair, Chuuya might have put some effort into tearing it right off Dazai’s scalp, and let the intensity of their combined heats drive them to do things no one should have to with someone they hated.

“I hate you,” Dazai whispered like an endearment.

“Shut up,” Chuuya hissed back, but didn’t stop touching.

It’s not like there was anyone else they could be this vulnerable with. Partners.

More than a Warm Body


“Chuuya.” Dazai’s voice was warm and husky, the syllables of his name curling around him like a tangible thing. Dazai’s mouth was on his neck, even warmer, and Chuuya wasn’t exactly trying to free himself from being backed up against a wall.

But this wasn’t what he wanted. It’s what he told himself as Dazai kissed him, reminded his body despite times he’d imagined things like this. His partner didn’t actually care about Chuuya, and Chuuya wanted more than a warm body and mock intimacy.


He pushed back.

Dazai blinked at him, surprise slowly filtering through the lust.


Change of Plans


He had a plan, a perfect plan even. All it required was Chuuya to cooperate.

Dazai considered that and changed the plan. The only part Chuuya would cooperate with was the one that ended with Chuuya’s fist or foot through the middle of Dazai’s chest, and he wouldn’t fake it, so Dazai would have to think of another way to leave the Mafia and take Chuuya with him.

He didn’t need to drug his partner’s drink, kidnap him, and blow up his car to cover their tracks.

On the plus side, death by Chuuya was still a very real possibility.

Early to Bed


“Dammit, Dazai, you are nothing but skin and bones!” Chuuya complained as he shoved his extremely bony elbow into Dazai’s side to shove him over some.

“Chuuya!” Dazai ignored the hypocritically bony elbow in his gut and wrapped his arms around his short, hot-tempered partner. If he was getting shoved to the floor, he was taking Chuuya with him.

It was a brief struggle, which Chuuya normally might have won, but somehow he ended up flushed red and under Dazai.

“Stop hugging me, you bandaged octopus bastard!” Chuuya muttered.

“I think I’ll sleep here,” Dazai disagreed to Chuuya’s futile sputtering.



“Early stages,” the doctor went on and Chuuya barely heard him, still stuck on such completely unexpected results.

It was his second annual hanahaki screening. Kouyou had insisted from the time he hit puberty that he use a fake identity and show up dutifully at the hospital a city over to get them.

He also wasn’t in love.

“There isn’t anyone,” he cut impatiently into the doctor’s rambling. “I’m not in love with anyone.”

The doctor blinked. “Well, you’re a teenager. It may be puppy love and go away.”

“Familial love?” he asked hopefully. Maybe it was Kouyou.

But no.

A Fishy Proposition


“So what kind of fish are you?” Dazai asked skeptically.

Chuuya shot him a rude glare and a ruder gesture. “I’m not a fucking fish, mackerel.”

Dazai’s eyes widened. “Could you? Fuck me, that is?”

The look on Chuuya’s face was priceless, clearly torn between killing Dazai on the spot and his stated desire to never give Dazai what he wanted. “No,” he finally settled for saying.

But his face was a little red. Was he angry or— “Did I make you blush?” Dazai asked leaning in.

Chuuya pulled him into the water with a splash. “I’m not fucking you.”

Comfort Care


Chuuya always assumed the reason Dazai was an attention whore was because Dazai was one of those people who needed to be fussed over whenever he was hurt.

Which made it annoying when Dazai insisted on treating Chuuya like he needed to be fussed over and comforted in the aftermath of Corruption.

“Go away.”

“What if you died in here?”

He didn’t need Dazai bringing him food, checking his bandages, not when Chuuya itched to do the same for the guy with nothing worse than a broken leg. He hated Dazai, so he resisted.

Dazai petted Chuuya’s hair.

Chuuya groaned.