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Summary
And gradually, Dazai had learned to love this existence, at least as much as immorality could be loved by someone who had never wanted to live in the first place. He had learned to love the hunt, the kill, the endless nights. And he had learned to love Chuuya again, or perhaps for the first time in this new form.
And Chuuya? Chuuya had learned that he would do anything, anything, to keep that love. To watch Dazai indulge in the pleasures this cursed life had to offer, to see his eyes light up with manic ecstasy as he fed. To hold him in the aftermath, blood smeared across marble floors and his pale skin, when the world felt as if it was reduced to something that belonged only to them. To feel his slim fingers tighten around his wrists. To feel his cold lips on his body, marking him the way an artist signed his finest work.
So if Dazai wanted a villa with a stream and an apple orchard, then Chuuya would gladly empty it of every living soul and hand it to him like a gift.
or—vampires skk in the victorian era, emptying a spanish villa from its owners, and drowning in each other while blood drips from their lips. featuring chuuya's obsession bordering on violence, even for vampire standards.