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.


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.

Blood, Bone, Ash


A/N: I took a little poetic license with the way Nagare’s power works, and I definitely didn’t get these two quite as far along the curve as I hoped, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Every person is strong or weak themselves. We can give them each their own opportunity to save themselves.

Green power leaks out of the hole where Nagare’s heart ought to be. It doesn’t even bother Mikoto anymore, not that he ever paid it much mind. He slams into Nagare, so he gasps, panting as his dark hair curls with sweat and his limbs tremble under Mikoto’s hands. He has the Green King in front of him, bent over, face down, and there’s nothing gentle about it.