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    Summary

    “Pretty,” Chuuya hums, the words warm against his shoulder. One hand leaves his stomach to latch around his wrist, thumb rubbing over the pulse. A shiver runs through Dazai at the soft contact, and he takes a steadying breath in, watching Chuuya move his wrist up towards his own mouth.

    He doesn’t have to say what he wants; they've done this enough times that Dazai knows what is expected of him. Tentatively, he presses his lips to his own wrist where Chuuya holds it to his face, his lips brushing over the edge of the redhead’s thumb in the process. There’s a long, thick scar there, crossing through a line of smaller ones before curving around one side of his arm. In the back of his mind, he remembers making it, remembers the sloppy way he’d cared for it afterwards, but then the thought is washed away when Chuuya hums contentedly in his ear. 

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