#// idk this was therapeutic to write out

[the-way-astray]

you guys know that instead of complaining that there's too much hate for a character in the main tag, you can just. make positive content and posts about that character yourself and block the negative tags right. you know this is a thing you can do. right

[icyfox17]

I love playing guitar. I love listening to music. I love making music. I love writing new songs. I love putting my own take on old songs. I loveee music sosbsosbsosbn

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I THINK I'VE SEEN THIS LOVE BEFORE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai finds himself back at your apartment in the weeks after the conflict with alexander pushkin while you're away in rome, hoping to push away the emptiness consuming him by dragging himself to the one place he's ever felt okay. it's not enough—not when you're not there—but he can't, and won't, ask you to drop everything you're doing to come deal with him and his fucked up head. luckily, he doesn't have to.

(wordcount: 5.8k; fem!reader, sfw, hurt/comfort, dazai depressive episode, implications of him having an eating disorder, mentions of past suicide attempts/self-harm, talks of suicide, dazai struggling with his place in the ada & struggling to find a reason to live, unedited.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: YAYYYYYYYY ANOTHER AGE 22 FIC!!! this one was rlly ifhasudfhasd idk i liked writing this one. i like getting in deep with dazai's mental health it's therapeutic for me LOL. but i thought this one was a long time coming honestly, dazai's first bad depressive episode since they reunite at 22. wahhhhhh they both love each other so deeply it makes me sick. anyway there's a waterloo reference in here u guys better catch it or ill perish.

Dazai doesn’t know how he got to your apartment. Doesn’t know when he got to your apartment. Doesn’t even know what he’s doing at your apartment. By the time he finally starts to drag himself out of whatever dissociated state he’d been in, the sun has long set and the stars are shining brilliantly outside the windows lining the far side of your room, and he finds himself curled up in a ball in the center of your bed.

The last thing he remembers is that he was at work. He hadn’t slept the night before, or the night before that, or even the night before that, but he’d managed to drag himself into the office two hours late with a stubble he didn’t trust himself to shave, dressed in the same crumpled clothes he wore the day before. And the day before that. And the day before that.

They’re in a disheveled heap on your floor now. Dazai absently takes note of their location near your door and then looks down at himself, realizing that he must’ve changed into a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt when he got here. They’re not one of the ones you keep around for him, that’s for sure—the pants are riding up his calves because they’re too short for him, and the sweatshirt is a bit tight around his shoulders.

It’s a little uncomfortable, but the fact that they smell like you trounces the fact that they don’t fit him properly. He still feels a bit hazy even now that he’s drawn out of his trance, but he manages to drag himself to the top of your bed and shuffle himself beneath your dark sheets, letting his head drop against your pillow, eyes sliding shut as he desperately inhales the familiar lavender and vanilla of your shampoo.

Surrounded by the scent of you, he can almost pretend that the weight of the blankets on him is your arm draped around him as you pull him to your chest. He can almost drive away that cold, empty feeling that’s been consuming him the past few days. He isn’t sure what triggered this—he thinks maybe it’s been looming since you came back to deal with Alexander Pushkin two weeks ago, since he had to come to terms with the fact that you are the enemy now. That things aren’t the same as they used to be, that they’d never be the same as they used to be. 

It’s not you and him (and Chuuya) against the world anymore—ninety percent of the time from now on, it’s going to be him against you (and Chuuya) against the world, and Dazai has never felt so entirely alone. And he shouldn’t because he’s not alone: he has the Agency, but… 

But it’s just not the same.

His eyes flutter back open, and he stares ahead blankly at the windows. His reflection stares back at him, inhuman and incomprehensible; his eyes are dull and hollow and far too black, looking more like they belong on a monster than a man, and his skin looks gaunt and pale, his poor eating habits catching up to him. No wonder Yosano has been so on his ass about nutrition, and Kunikida has been stopping by more often with meals that end up getting thrown out. He looks like a ghoul. A wraith. Ugly and uncanny—his rotted mind and heart finally reflect onto his physical appearance so people can see him for what he really is. A demon. A monster. Something that cannot consider itself human.

He can only draw his eyes away from his reflection when he feels his phone buzz—he would ignore it usually, but it’s a welcome distraction from the haunting image of himself right now. He scrambles, trying to figure out where he’d dropped it, and it’s only when his fingers close around the device that he can finally breathe again.

The screen is too bright when he clicks it on. He grimaces at the light burning his eyes, fumbling to turn down the brightness so he can actually see what’s on the screen. His eyes scan quickly over the notifications—a dozen from Kunikida, a handful from Yosano and Atsushi, and—

And three missed video calls from you.

You must’ve gotten the notification that he was in your apartment—either from the security system or your doorman, but he’s pretty sure that he was careful to avoid the man’s notice and the cameras around the building. He chews on the inside of his cheek as his finger hovers over the call-back button, unsure if he wants to even call you back. You’re busy, surely—you’re back in Italy dealing with Port Mafia business, and it should be almost the evening there. You have more important things to be doing than dealing with his fucked up brain.

Still, his finger betrays him, pressing down on the screen before he can stop himself. The dial tone rings in his ears, each second stretching endlessly, anticipation curling in his chest. He braces himself for your voicemail, for the impersonal automated message to remind him that you’re too far away, too unreachable. But then—

“Dazai?” 

Your voice is soft, slightly breathless, like you hadn’t expected him to call back so soon. He swallows, throat painfully tightening at the sound of you, unable to look down at his phone. For a moment, he can’t bring himself to say anything. The lump in his throat is just too big for him to force his voice past it.

“Hi,” he finally whispers. His eyes rake over your face greedily, and he’s grateful that he video-called you back. You look beautiful—always do, he thinks wistfully—but even more so today. You’re dressed pretty, lips painted red, and eyes all done up; you must be at an event because he can tell that you’re not wearing the suit you usually wear. He can see the straps of your dress, just barely visible in the camera. “You look pretty.”

“Hi,” you reply, matching his tone. “Are you okay?”

He exhales shakily, forcing himself to play his part. “Of course, bella,” he says, injecting as much of his usual teasing lilt into his voice as he can manage. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You don’t buy it. He knows you don’t. You never have.

There’s a pause on your end, filled only by the faint sound of movement, a rustle of fabric, and a muffled voice calling your name. A male voice. Dazai’s fingers tighten around the fabric of your sheets. He hates the ugly feeling that curls in his gut. 

Your voice softens as you finally say, “You’re in my apartment.”

“... No,” Dazai lies after a few seconds, turning on his side to curl into himself. “Are you at an event?” 

“Yeah,” you agree, eyes flitting to the side to give someone off-screen a small, dismissive smile. “I’m with Tolstoy and Goldoni at a dinner. We’re meeting with a representative of the Church later—we’re trying to figure out who exactly Fyodor Dostoevsky is. Goldoni invited Tolstoy and me to Vatican City because he thought the Church might have information that could be of use to us.”

“Sounds important,” he says quietly, and he hates how small his voice comes out.

The corners of your lips soften as you look at him, and Dazai is suddenly very acutely aware of how ghoulish he must look. He almost wants to turn the camera away from his face, but he knows that’ll only bring more attention to it.

“Not more important than you,” you tell him, and for a second, Dazai thinks he might cry, all of the tension in his chest loosening at your words. “I would rather be there with you.”

“Me too,” Dazai breathes out, lashes wet and fluttering as he turns his face out of view of the camera, wiping his eyes furiously. “I don’t know what came over me. I don’t usually let it get to me like this. I just—”

“Don’t you think that's probably why?” you ask him softly. Dazai’s throat tightens painfully—if his eyes slide shut, he can almost imagine your fingers threading through his hair as you speak. “It’s Thursday there, right? Are you going to work in the morning?”

Dazai peeks up from the pillow curiously, wondering why you changed the subject so quickly. He bites his bottom lip, wondering if this is your way of asking him to leave. “I—I don’t know. Probably not. I can, I guess—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt immediately, and he looks at you again, waiting for you to continue. “I’ll be back Saturday night, wait for me?” 

“If you insist,” he rasps, still a bit drowsy, barely able to hold his eyes open as he looks at the screen. He sees you smile lightly, and that’s worth the burn in his eyes that the light of the screen causes. “Are you leaving?” 

You pause, and he sees you look back at where he assumes the rest of the people attending the dinner are sitting, and Dazai’s heart sinks. His chapped lips part to tell you that he’s fine, to crack a joke or flirt with you just enough to convince you that he’ll be okay if you go, but all he’s able to do is take in a ragged breath.

“I can stay on the phone,” you offer. “I won’t be able to talk, but I’ll be here, at least.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

He doesn’t hear you immediately standing up, so he cracks an eye open to see what you’re doing, and his mouth dries when he sees you staring at the screen with an indecipherable expression. You look like you want to say something, but Dazai can’t fathom what it might be. After what feels like an eternity, your head finally drops a little.

“Try to sleep,” you murmur before he hears you rise to your feet.

You don’t say anything else to him, but you don’t hang up either. Dazai listens as you walk back into the dining hall and laugh when Leo Tolstoy accuses you of trying to ditch them. He hears you apologize and tell them that you had to take an important call. He listens as Goldoni chuckles and teases you about a ‘mysterious lover,’ and he listens as you brush it off with a laugh, but you don’t deny it.

Dazai closes his eyes again, listening to the distant hum of your voice, the way you navigate the conversation so effortlessly, the way you sound so at home in a world that no longer includes him. He hates it. Dazai has regretted his decision to leave the Port Mafia before, but never more than now. He feels so separate from you, the two of you are living in entirely different worlds now, and he just hates it. He’s not good at saving people, he’s not good at being good at all, and it’s so exhausting pretending to be—he’ll never fully fit in with the rest of the Agency, and now he doesn’t fully fit in with the one person who has always accepted him for him, and it’s because of his own doing.

Eventually, his eyelids grow heavy as exhaustion finally catches up to him. He barely registers the moment his grip on his phone loosens, nor does he notice when the tension starts to seep from his muscles. The last thing he thinks he hears before sleep claims him is the sound of you excusing yourself from the table and the soft whisper of his name as if checking to see if he’s still there.

And then, silence. For the first time in what feels like forever, Dazai sleeps.

---

You’re not entirely sure if Dazai will still be there when you get back to your apartment. You don’t even bother going to talk to Mori, even though you know you should be heading to his office immediately to debrief everything you learned from Goldoni about Dostoevsky. You won’t be able to focus until you know Dazai is okay—you know that look in his eyes more intimately than anyone else. The first time you saw it, you found him on the roof of your building, swaying precariously on the edge, and the last time, you found him slumped over in your bathroom with a razor blade.

You drop your suitcase haphazardly on the ground, glancing down the hall to his bedroom, but your gut screams to go up to your room, so you place the food you grabbed on the way back down on the table and take off up the steps to your bedroom. The door is open, and you slow to a stop when you see a small lump curled up beneath your dark sheets.

You exhale softly, a fond smile curling onto the corners of your lips as you slip your shoes off and make your way over to him. 

You climb on top of the bed, careful not to disturb him, and you pull the sheets back just enough so that you can see his head. He looks at peace—fast asleep, his phone resting next to his head as he lets out even puffs of air. You let the call finally drop when you got up to your apartment, so you take his phone to rest it on the nightstand before turning your attention back onto him.

You lift your hand to run your fingers through his hair, watching as he lets out a soft noise in the back of his throat before leaning into your touch. He’s been sleeping since you got on the call with him over twenty-four hours ago, and there are still dark bags beneath his eyes. You don’t want to wake him up, but you know him and you know he probably hasn’t eaten in days.

Maybe more than that, you grimace, fingers tracing over his face. He’s lost weight, you know that just by looking at him—his cheeks are a bit sunken, and even though he’s wrapped in your blankets, you can see how thin his frame is. Dazai has never been bulky, but he’s always been lean and toned—now, he seems almost frail beneath the blankets. You swallow thickly as you lean down to brush your lips against his temple, watching as he slowly stirs awake.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, still brushing your fingers through his hair as his hazy gaze slowly focuses on you. The pet name rolls off your tongue easily in spite of the fact that you haven’t used it in years—it’s reserved for Dazai, and it’s specifically reserved for moments like these.  “You awake?”

Dazai doesn’t respond. You don’t really expect him to. Your hand slides from his hair to cup his face, running your thumb over his cheekbone. He leans into your touch instinctively, and you can see his lashes start to flutter shut again.

“I brought food,” you tell him quietly as you shift to lay down next to him, slipping an arm around his thin waist to spoon him. You kiss his shoulder blade before nuzzling your face in the nape of his neck. “You should come eat.”

He needs to shower too, you think absently, but you have a feeling that’s going to be more difficult to convince him to do than eat. You can see the bandages on his neck yellowed and frayed at the edges—he probably hasn’t changed them in a concerning amount of time—and his hair is oily and greasy, all of the usual fluff gone. 

“I’m not hungry,” he murmurs. 

His voice is hoarse, a little over a rasp. You make sure to keep your arm around him as you prop yourself up on your other elbow, looking over him to catch him staring blankly into his reflection in the window. His eyes are dark—too dark and too empty, which means his mind has retreated back into a bad place. 

You press your lips together before coming to a decision. You take your arm from around his waist to lift it to his head, wriggling your hand under his cheek to forcibly turn his head up to the ceiling. His whole body falls onto his back when you succeed, and you catch a hint of displeasure in his eyes as he stares up at the ceiling—better than the emptiness. You don’t think he was doing himself any favors staring at himself like that. He’s never liked his own reflection.

“I brought your favorite,” you tempt, sitting up so that you’re kneeling next to him. You pull one of his hands into your lap, using your index finger to trace the lines on his palm and each of his fingers. “Come have a little.”

His expression softens as he looks down at where you’re tracing his hands. He asks quietly, “You brought crab?”

“Good crab,” you confirm. “From the rooftop restaurant in Naka that you like.”

He blinks. “They’re not open this late.”

You give him a smug grin and tell him, “They’re always open for me.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but he almost does from the way he side-eyes you. “You sound like Chuuya,” he mutters.

You ignore the insult and say, “Come eat.”

What little energy he mustered fades as his gaze shifts back to the ceiling. “I don’t want to move,” he whispers, voice little over a breath.

I can’t move, he’s really saying. His throat bobs as his eyes slide shut, and you let out a soft breath, lifting your free hand to caress his face as you lean down to press your lips gently to his forehead, tracing them over the bridge of his nose before brushing them against his.

“I’ll bring it to you,” you say quietly, shifting to get up off the bed, but you pause when he reaches out to grab your wrist. His grip is weak, fingers clinging to your suit jacket desperately, you probably wouldn’t have even noticed him grabbing for you if you hadn’t seen him move. “What is it?”

“Stay.”

“I’m not going far,” you tell him. “Just down the steps—”

“Stay,” he rasps out, opening his eyes to look at you again, and you freeze when you see the glassiness in them. “Please.”

“Okay,” you agree, shifting to lay with him again. Usually, he’ll curl into you when you guys lay together, but he stays flat on his back staring up at the ceiling. You lift your hand to turn his head to the side so he’s looking at you, and your heart clenches when you see the pain plainly visible in his eyes.

You don’t have to ask the question. Dazai’s lashes flutter shut, wet with tears he’s not letting roll over his cheeks. You run your finger over his cheekbone again, drawing small circles against his skin as you caress his face.

“I’m so tired,” he breathes out, voice hoarse. “I’m so tired. I’ve done everything he wanted, but nothing has changed. I still feel so empty, I still don’t belong there. I thought maybe once I started doing what he asked, I would change, I’d be better, I’d be good. Happier. But I still feel the same. I still want to die. I’m still me.” 

You inhale shakily. For as much as you’ve always known about Dazai’s unending yearning for death, he’s never actually explicitly said it out loud before, at least not to you. For a moment, your thumb pauses in the steady circles you’re drawing against his cheek, but you force yourself to speak. 

“You can’t live for someone else, Osamu,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You need to find a reason for yourself.”

“But what if I don’t have one?” Dazai asks, a ragged noise escapes his lips—a sob or an inhale, maybe both. His fingers are trembling in your hand; you think maybe you were wrong. Dazai doesn’t want to die, not really; he wants a reason to live desperately, but can’t find one, and without one, he doesn’t see the point in going on. “What if I don’t have one?”

“Then I’ll help you find one,” you say softly, your voice steady in spite of the tremor that runs through you. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay with you. We’ll figure it out together, you’re not alone. You’ve never been alone.”

Your hand slips off of his face when Dazai turns his head away, breath hitching, but you feel the tears finally start to roll over his cheeks as your hand drops to the mattress.

“But why?” he breathes out, voice wavering. “Why? I don’t understand.”

“Why what?”

“Why are you here? Why are you helping me? I left you, I left you and didn’t even say goodbye, and as soon as I came crawling back into your life, you let me. I know you left Rome early to come check on me. You never leave right after events, you wait a few days until the politics of it dies down.” His voice is pitched. Wobbly. It cracks over every other word, and he becomes more and more distressed with each passing second. “I don’t understand. I wasn’t even—I wasn’t even good to you back then. I couldn’t commit to you, and even when I did commit to you, I was still making things hard. I don’t understand why you’re here, why you’re with me when I only ever make life harder on you, I don’t deserve it. I—”

“Because I love you,” you tell him, sitting up to take his face in both of your hands to force him to look at you. The three words you never spoke before he left because you were afraid it would make him run, the three words you didn’t say back when they slipped from his mouth in the haze of pleasure, the three words the two of you have been dancing around for six years. He stares up at you, frozen, brown eyes wide and lips parted. “I love you, Osamu. I love you so much that it makes me sick sometimes. I love you even when you make things hard, I love you even when you run, even when you push me away, even when you disappear without a word and make me wonder if I’ll ever see you again. And I hate that I do sometimes, I really do—you drive me insane, but I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything.”

His lips part, but no words come out. His hands are trembling, but his grip finally tightens on yours. His chest rises and falls in short, uneven breaths, and you carefully pull him into your arms. He instinctively curls into you, resting his head on your shoulder; you bring your free hand up to cradle his head, fingers tightening around his other hand.

“I left Rome early because I knew you needed me to,” you continue. “And I didn’t want to wait for you to ask, because I knew you’d never.”

His breath hitches. “I just don’t understand. I—”

“You don’t need to understand, Osamu,” you tell him quietly. “You just need to let me love you.”

“I don’t know how to be loved like this,” he whispers. “I’m going to mess it all up.”

“Then we’ll fix it again,” you promise, kissing the top of his head. “We have the rest of our lives for you to learn, yeah?” 

Dazai’s nose brushes your jaw as he shifts his head to look up at you, and you let your head fall to the side so that you can look at him. His eyes are swimming with emotion as he lifts his hand to your face—his fingers tremble as they brush your skin.

“I love you too,” he says softly, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. It’s different hearing it now when he’s not drunk with pleasure, when he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. It makes your throat swell, makes your eyes wet and glassy. “So much. It gets me so twisted up inside that I can barely breathe. I thought of you every day we were apart. It drove me crazy—you don’t understand, I saw you around every corner, I heard your voice in the wind. I dreamed of you every night, and I hated waking up because I knew you wouldn’t be there. When I heard—when I heard you were sent abroad, I went back to your apartment—”

Your eyes widen, and Dazai buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“I thought I would feel better. Your apartment—it’s always where I’ve felt… okay,” he continues, voice muffled against your skin, “but it made me feel so much worse. I’ve felt so guilty over leaving you without saying anything. It’s been eating me alive for years and—”

“It’s okay,” you whisper when his voice breaks into a sob. “It’s okay. I understand now. I—”

“It’s not okay,” he interrupts, voice rising in pitch as he forces himself to sit up to look at you. You sit up with him—his pupils are dilated, eyes wild, and he’s no longer trying to hold back the tears. “It’s not okay. I hurt you, I left you. It hadn’t even been a year since Itou died, and I knew you weren’t okay even though you pretended to be. You needed me and I left you. And—”

“And I forgive you, Osamu,” you tell him, reaching forward to grab his shaking hands again. It scares you how much you realize you mean it—you don’t think the resentment will ever fully go away, but you do forgive him. “I forgive you for leaving. I’m glad you left, I’m glad you got out of there, I’m glad you’re with the Agency. Of course I’ll always be sad that we’re not working together anymore, but we’re still us, we still have each other and that’s what matters.”

“But—” he starts to whisper, nails digging deep into the skin of your hands, but you don’t pull away.

“There is no ‘but’,” you say quietly. “I know you can’t see it yourself, Osamu, but I do. You have changed since you’ve been with them. You’ve changed for the better. I knew it the moment we first saw each other after all those years, and I know it now.”

“Then why do I still feel this way?” he breathes out desperately, looking to you for an answer. “I don’t understand.”  

“You’re not just going to suddenly wake up one day and feel okay,” you say with a wry smile, reaching out to caress his cheek. “That’s not how it works. But you’re doing good, Osamu. You are good. If the me from four years ago met the you now, I would never believe that you’re my Osamu—you haven’t let yourself see how far you’ve come, but before we met in my office, the last I remembered of you was when you were an executive, so I can see it better than anyone. The boy I knew four years ago is not the same man sitting in front of me today. I forgive you for leaving because it makes me happy to see who you’ve become since you’ve been gone. I’m proud of you, Osamu—and I know he would be too.”

Dazai grits his teeth to hold back another sob, head hanging forward. You shift toward him to wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into you so he can bury his face in the crook of your neck.

“I hate that you always know what to say,” he mutters, fingers digging into the back of your suit jacket as he clings to you.

“Well, it is kind of my job,” you say dryly, lips curling up when he lets out a puff of air that you can only assume is amusement. 

“What about you?” he finally asks. You barely hear him since he’s speaking so quietly. “You could leave too. You could come with me. You could be good too—we could learn together.”

“Osamu—”

“You could,” he insists before you reject him, sitting back on his heels to look at you. “You could—”

“I don’t want to,” you tell him firmly, watching as his shoulders slump. “I’m not like you, or even Chuuya. You never enjoyed being in the mafia—you were the most successful executive we had, and you just didn’t care. You were only there because you were trying to find a way to spend your time. And Chuuya, he’ll always do what needs to be done to protect the city—he knows that sometimes you need to do bad things for the greater good, but he doesn’t like it.”

“And you?” he asks quietly.

“I love it,” you admit, swallowing thickly. “I don’t give a shit about the city, or the people, I like the money and I like the power and I like the fear and the respect and the love. I like having the most powerful men in the world in the palm of my hand, and I like knowing that if I wanted to, they would kill for me, die for me, start wars for me. I like that when I walk into a room with the Prime Minister, he’ll walk up to me for my attention. I like being wined and dined in foreign countries because all of their politicians and oligarchs want my favor. I love being with Port Mafia, Osamu. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to be good.”

You don’t expect Dazai to laugh, but he does. He barks out something caught between a sob and a laugh, pressing his hand to his mouth to smother it.

“And what does it say about me that you saying all of that made me hard?” he chokes out between either sobs or laughs, maybe both.

Your hand flies to your mouth to smother your giggle, but it’s to no avail, because when Dazai snorts, you can’t hold it back anymore. He leans into you as he bursts into laughter, and you press your face into the top of his head, burying your face in his hair as you giggle, absently wiping away the tears streaming down his cheeks.

When he finally starts to calm down, hysterical laughter becoming soft giggles, he lets out a heavy sigh. His lashes are still wet against the skin of your neck, and he’s still upset, but his shoulders aren’t tense anymore as he sinks into you.

“If you really think I’ve changed,” he asks, voice too small, “then how do you know you still love me?”

“Because you’re Dazai Osamu,” you answer instantly. “I’ll always love you—whether you’ve changed for the better or worse, I’m yours, and you’re mine. You changing just means I get the chance to fall in love with you all over again.”

A noise slips from his lips—you can’t tell if it’s a soft ‘oh’ or a gasp, but his arms tighten around you. After a few moments, he lets out a breathy, “I love you.”

You kiss the top of his head in response, running your hand up and down his spine absently before he finally lets out a heavy sigh and sits back on his heels to look at you. His eyes are heavy, and his smile is sad.

“Mori wants me back,” he says quietly after a moment. You inhale sharply, heart sinking as your hands drop back to your lap. “He’s mentioned it twice now. And you said it yourself, when he wants something—”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” you say firmly, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “I’ll handle it.”

“But—”

“Seriously, Osamu,” you say, and then add teasingly, “Don’t you still trust me? Didn’t you once say body, heart, soul, and trust?”

Dazai’s face instantly heats up. He rips his hand from yours to bury his face in his hands, letting out a long groan. “Can you not repeat all the embarrassing things I said when we were younger?”

“Please,” you laugh. “You don’t think me and Chuuya stopped re-enacting the ‘that’s why I love you’ just because you left, do you?”

“Oh my god,” he complains, falling over onto the bed to press his face into your pillow. You only barely catch the muffled, “I’m going to smother myself, and it’s on you.”

You laugh and shift to drape yourself over his back, kissing his shoulder blade before resting your head down on his back, drawing patterns on his back. “Anyway, I thought that one was cute, not embarrassing.”

Dazai only lets out an irritated grumble that makes you smile. 

“Ah, sweet hime, I’m going to have to disappear again for a few days after this one,” he sighs, turning his head to the side to look at you from the corner of his eye. You shimmy up a bit to press your lips to his cheek, watching his eyes flutter shut. “This is all just too embarrassing. You know how I feel about… talking and emotions.”

You can hear the disgust dripping from his words, and you laugh. “Tell that to someone who hasn’t had to talk you off the edge of a roof or wrestle you for a razor blade.”

His lips curl up into a soft smile. 

“Fair,” he whispers. 

You bite back a yelp when he suddenly rolls onto his back, hands darting out to shift you so that you’re lying on his chest instead. He reaches up to cup your cheek, and you let out a quiet breath when your eyes meet his. They’re still a bit too fragile for your liking, but there’s a peace that you’ve hardly ever seen before in them, and it makes your heart warm.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admits, running his thumb over your cheekbone, staring at your face like he’s trying to burn it into his memory. “Please don’t ever go somewhere I can’t follow.”

“Somewhere without you?” you tease. “Sounds dreadful.”

He lets out a laugh, but there’s something sad that lingers in his eyes, and it makes you pause. You remember the words he said to you after the near-successful assassination attempt on you four years ago—everything I never want to lose is always lost, I’m so scared that you’ll be next.

“You won’t ever lose me, Osamu,” you promise.

Dazai’s gaze lowers. “I hope not.”

[kainuhsblog]

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ where were you ?

prompt it's well into the day/evening and you/piwon haven't responded to an invite to hang out

pairing various!piwon x fem!reader

genre bf!piwon, husband!piwon, whatever you want them to be!piwon

warnings light mode, some sort of worrying from both ends, ignored messages, mentions of food, sho's own is shorter but i feel like he'd get to the point quicker so i'm sorry sho stans, i head cannon'd the tropes for them but they can be whatever you want fr

a/n hi! my promised p1harmony content is here ! one of two actually. the other one is a secret.😉 i had fun writing these, and idk they might seem a bit ooc but let me know. as always, requests are open! hope you enjoy🩷

want more piwon from me ? click my other post ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ i should scold you ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ right here !

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Yoon Keeho

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Choi Taeyang

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Choi Jiung

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Hwang Intak

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Haku Shota

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Kim Jongseob

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ Bonus: My Head cannons

Yoon Keeho ⤷Best Friends; bi-weekly shopping trips, always getting takeout, and loves teasing you. you're the younger sister he never had basically. keeho's the friend you can go to for literally anything, and you try to be that person for him as well. especially since you both find shopping to be therapeutic.

Choi Taeyang ⤷Childhood Friends; Met each other in 2nd grade, and you've been inseparable ever since. you know his entire family and he knows yours. your moms became besties because you guys are. they always ship you guys as well. such silly moms, hahaha

Choi Jiung ⤷Friends ... to lovers? you and jiung have been tiptoeing around each other since the sun hung up in the sky two years ago. one day you decided to just start pursuing him, so your advances are laid on really thick. i don't think he knows you're serious though ... you've always been a flirt

Hwang Intak ⤷Mutual Pining; it's no secret to the two of you that you're both helplessly in love with each other. you had asked him to hang out with intentions of it being a date ... thankfully he thought the same thing.

Haku Shota ⤷Best Friends; you two are the friends who love to go on random adventures together. shota's always down to travel with you, and you're always willing to follow him anywhere. he's always a joy to be around, so you tend to spoil him a bit too much.

Kim Jongseob ⤷Strangers to Friends to ?? you and jongseob met at a cafe about a year ago, and as a self proclaimed food critic, you both agreed on the fact that the pastries at that cafe were straight dog water. after talking for a bit, you exchanged contact info with him so you guys can hang out and criticize more cafes. somewhere along the way, he started to fall for you ... but you don't notice any advances from the guy. poor seobie

[mythalism]

i think what people need to understand is that no amount of essays assuring me of veilguard's strengths, of which i agree there are plenty, is going to change the fact that the emotional experience veilguard prompted within me (and for many others) while i played it was a deeply negative one. discomfort at best, painful at worst. im talking stomach aches. visceral, somatic creeping disappointment and dread that i tried to fight for hours and hours but eventually had no choice but to accept. i stopped wanting to play entirely around 30 hours. i felt vaguely ill. i felt anxious. i could not sleep for a few days. and im not saying i felt sick because it was so bad, but that i felt sick because of the sinking realization that i was about to be terribly, horribly disappointed after so, so long. you could call me dramatic and im sure someone will. idk what to tell you. my emotions manifest physically long before they become decipherable or understandable to me mentally, especially when they're 10 years in the making. probably an autism symptom. regardless, it was genuinely pretty awful, especially because i had immense good faith for this game. i was so hopeful and optimistic and generally thrilled and literally anyone who followed me before october 31 would know that. the emotional whiplash and crash was intense and devastating, and i was reeling for days. you cannot tell me that this experience was "wrong" or "toxic" due to it's negative nature. it was entirely involuntary and outside of my control, as i would expect many people's joy was. emotional reactions are not beholden to fandom discourse.

any post i have made criticizing the game since is attempt to make sense of the emotional roller-coaster of the past 10 years, this summer, and finally this game's release. i do not come on here and write out my criticisms of veilguard because i want YOU to dislike it too. the nature of my essays are not persuasive. if they do persuade you its just because i am a well-trained essayist. sorry. if they dont, great! that wasnt the point. i have no desire to change anyone's mind on the game, in fact i actually would not wish the disappointment i felt on anyone. the fact that i have a lot of followers who agree with what i say and who spread the thoughts i express across tumblr is literally out of my control. when i write out my long-winded criticisms, it is out of a need to express and externalize that sinking, cold feeling i had while playing, in pursuit of understanding exactly why playing that game felt that way to me. identifying, analyzing and verbalizing is the only way i have been able to process my experience. its confessional and therapeutic more than anything. it helps other people understand their own difficult emotional process with the game. its not an attempt to ruin your fun. my negative experience with veilguard does not invalidate anyone else's positive one.

i see so many posts acting like all criticism is an intentional, targeted hate campaign and i dont understand that assumption. to what ends? what would that achieve? why would i bother with such a thing? maybe that is some people's intention in the deep hater corners of this website, and im blissfully unaware. if it is, fuck them. its certainly the intention of annoying grifters, but i feel the distinction between transphobe grifters and devastated fans is pretty clear, so im not sure why the lines are deliberately blurred as if those groups are remotely similar. some of my criticisms come from a more objective place. the writing comes to mind, and it's a consistent criticism from thousands of players. but just because i consider it to be poorly executed, does not make it unlovable. and when i say that i think its poorly done, i am not saying that you cannot or should not love it, or that you are stupid for loving it. maybe someone out there is saying that!!! but i am not. things do not have to be perfect to be enjoyable. they dont even have to be well executed to be enjoyable. "i think x aspect of veilguard is poorly done for yz reasons" is a completely different sentence than "you should not like x aspect of veilguard for yz reasons". these are not the same statements. i see so many posts that are so vitriolic and acting like two experiences of this game cannot coexist, that one has to win and be objectively right, moralizing them on a false axis of positivity = good and negativity = bad, and acting like the existence of one negates the experience of the other. and why? why would that be true? i literally love so many things that other people think are absolute ass. i also love plenty of things that i myself think are actual ass. i love them anyway. this is allowed and really fun. i am not sure who told you that it is not.

however, i have just as much of a right to express my disappointment as you have to express your excitement. i am genuinely happy for everyone who loves the game, i am glad it resonated, or that you saw yourself in its characters, or that it just scratched your hyperfixation itch. but whatever je ne se quoi it had for you, it did not have for me. i have written out so much criticism about so many aspects of the game, but fundamentally what it comes down to and what i cannot express in words is that while i played after waiting 10 years for that moment, it felt wrong. it wasn't that i had specific expectations for game story that were not met, in fact, it exceeded my expectations in a lot of ways. i mean that in terms of how i felt, something was off. it did not resonate. it did not land. it did not hit the right cord with me. i did not have enough moments of joy to outweigh the feeling of emptiness. i did not walk away from it feeling the way that the previous games made me feel. and ive been trying to figure out exactly why that is for three months now by talking about it with people who feel similarly. i am not sure that i will ever be able to analyze my way into figuring it out. it might just have to simply be that it left me bereft.

and so my posts are not anti-veilguard hater propaganda to make you feel like shit for loving the game. rather, they are me verbally processing exactly why i feel like shit so i can hopefully stop feeling like shit. to assume that people who are trying to process these negative feelings are toxic and intentionally malicious is a projection made in bad faith. i love dragon age, and it is because i love it so much that it disappointed me, and it is because disappointed me that i have to verbally process it on tumblr.com so that i dont go absolutely insane. i tag my posts properly. i do not go into tags where i do not belong. i do not rage-bait. i am participating in post-partum dragon age therapy between me and my followers. if it ends up on your dash, sorry. my therapy is popular i guess. so please for the love of god enjoy the game, freely and enthusiastically. i am happy for you. i will sit here and be jealous that it spoke to something in your soul that it unfortunately did not speak to in mine, and nothing i say can take that away from you. please stop interpreting it as an attempt to.

[arminsumi]

Sleepyhead — 五夏

NOTE: idk if writing this made me sadder or was therapeutic either way let's cry together :')

SUMMARY — During your youth, you, Geto and Gojo made a magic charm that would reconnect the three of you in a different reality one day by a golden silk thread.

WARNINGS — not proofread, "just a dream" trope but really u just shifted realities and forgot your other life, angst, implied death / crossing over, based on the latest chapter bc i'm in pain and when i'm in pain i write 👍 sooo just in case: jjk manga spoilers (major char death, chapter 236)

Gojo caressed your cheek and muttered " You're such a pretty crier, but don't cry for me. Sh, I'm right here, baby, I'm right here. ", keeping his other hand intertwined with yours.

. . .

Your two eyes blinking out of a dream, coming back to reality. Or was it the other way around? Maybe you were awaking into a lucid dream.

At first it's a white space. A void. There's nothing but neutrality and emptiness. Then a golden silk thread is sewn across your chest. It leads down a corridor of white, one that stretches so far it almost feels like you're taking an infinite walk.

There's a door at the end, you open it. And all there is behind it is your old classroom, just as it was. There's Gojo Satoru, smiling that wide toothy smile like nothing in the world is wrong. And there's Geto Suguru, shaking his head and sighing a laugh over his best friend's ridiculousness. And there's Shoko Ieiri, peering over her folded arms as she rests her chin on the desk sleepily.

Walking obliviously into this memory while the real world continues on outside, you completely detach from reality and cross over. Why is it this memory ? It was such an ordinary day.

But it wasn't an ordinary day, you're mistaken; that day you wove a golden silk thread and imbued it with something, magic is a good word but no — it was an otherworldly "magic", something that's not sorcery.

You drift through this classroom memory, Gojo says hello and Geto smiles. Before you realize, you're floating past the exit door and enter another room — another memory.

It's then that you realize you're just drifting along the silk thread, hopping across each memory that you wove into it; their purpose to carry you over into another reality entirely.

More memories. More. And then some more. You're travelling through them, looking at them as if through a dream lens, half-detached, in a state of limbo. Not between life and death, but between realities where you're alive.

Maybe it was cruel.

The three of you leaving the world behind, shifting into different realities at your death, just so you could be happy and peaceful.

Final memories roll by, and you shift over; and in an instant, that whole journey seeps out of your mind.

You wake up just like any other day. Nothing is out of the ordinary. Gojo is crushing you with his weight, forcing you to blink awake and mumble groggily.

That was a long dream.

" Wakey wakey, sleepyhead — full body attack ! Okay, seriously, wake up. I want breakfast and I can't eat it unless you're with me. You know that. Why are you crying ? Did you have a nightmare ? Oh really ? What was it about ? "

Gojo follows you like a puppy throughout your morning routine. Though really, it feels like a mourning routine this time. Your chest feels so heavy, and you keep hugging him as if you haven't seen him in years.

" Hey, Suguru listen to Y/n's fucked up dream. It's insane, like a manga plot or some shit. Wish I had dreams of that. You should write it. "

" Oh ? Do tell. I'm curious. Aw, why the hug ? Y/n ? You okay ? Come on, let's make some pancakes. "

You watch the two of them in this ordinary habitat; Gojo lazing at the kitchen doorframe, talking about the awful ending to his favorite story.

" Y/n, you're zoning out. "

" Are you crying ?! "

" Sorry. I just missed you guys. I don't know why. "

" But we saw each other yesterday. We spent the whole night together. It was my birthday. "

" Yeah, and that's what's freaky; I feel like I just travelled for years. It feels surreal to look at the two of you. "

" Don't cry, come here. Satoru, take care of the pancake it's gonna burn. Y/n, wanna talk about it ? "

" No, I just want to hug you two. "

" GROUP HUG. "

" Satoru you're suffocating her. "

" Good group hugs are suffocating ! "

You stay with them in a long group hug. Everything feels alright.

" . . . the pancake is burning."

Suguru tends to it.

Satoru looks at you. " Cryin' ? Still ? Come here. You're so sensitive. "

He engulfs you in a hug again. Warm, soft, nice-smelling; this is definitely your ordinary reality. What a bizarre dream, though. Truly a bizarre dream.

" So how'd I die in your dream ? " he asks curiously.

" I don't want to talk about it. I just want to cry. " you choke, crying more into his chest. Suguru scolds him from the stove, while he scrapes burnt pancake batter off the pan.

Satoru looks down at you, cupping your one cheek, and says something that you swear you've heard before.

" Such a pretty crier. But don't cry for me. Sh, I'm right here, baby, I'm right here. "

© arminsumi

Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

[pedroscurls]

Hi! Idk if your requests are closed or not so feel free to ignore this but I’ve been going through a really tough time and I don’t have time to even breathe anymore so I was wondering if you could write something where Hugh just comforts the reader thanks!

safe with me (one-shot)

summary: hugh knows you've been having a difficult time and he hopes that he knows just what you need to help you feel better. pairing: hugh jackman x fem!reader content warnings: n/a, comfort / fluff, no use of y/n. word count: 701 a/n: to this anon, i'm so sorry that it took this long for me to fulfill your request. i hope things have gotten better since you requested this and if not, my inbox / messages are always open. thank you for requesting this (as i've been having a hard time myself with just life) - this was very cathartic and therapeutic for me. hope you enjoy. and as always, this is purely fictional! i mean no disrespect to hugh jackman.

Hugh knows you’ve been having a tough time lately, can see a change in your behavior even though you tell him that you’re fine. You smile at him, tell him that everything is okay, but Hugh knows that everything isn’t. Whenever you come home, he can see the distress and the exhaustion written all over your features and when he pulls you into his arms when in bed, he can feel the tension in your shoulders. 

It’s been like this for the last few weeks and Hugh doesn’t know if there’s anything that he could do that would help, that would alleviate the stress you’re feeling. If he could, he’d take it all away – whatever it is, Hugh would do anything to make you feel better. 

So, when you text him that you’re working late tonight, it gives him enough time to put his plan in place. He grabs two glasses of wine and your favorite white wine and ascends the stairs to go to the master bathroom. Hugh runs a warm bath for you, lighting candles around the bathroom. He looks around and bites his lower lip, slowly opening the blinds to reveal the skyline of the city. 

Hugh then jogs back downstairs to grab the bag of rose petals that he purchased earlier that evening and walks back into the bedroom. He scatters the rose petals on the white tiled floor and pours a good handful into the water. He hears his phone chime, but doesn’t have enough time to look at it when he hears you step inside the apartment. 

“Hugh?” you call out, a quiet sigh leaving your lips as you ascend the stairs. “You in the room?”

“Yeah, baby!” he answers. Hugh looks up when he sees you enter the bedroom and when your eyes meet his, he’s sure that he has done something wrong with the look on your face. Quickly, he steps out of the bathroom and walks over to you, his large hands coming up to rest on your hips. “What’s the matter? Is this too much? I just–”

Tears trickle down your cheeks and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, burying your face against the crook of his neck. Slowly, Hugh’s strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you tightly against him. “I’m not okay,” you whisper, voice trembling. 

“I know, baby,” he says quietly, moving a hand along your back. “But that’s okay,” Hugh reassures. “I’m right here.”

You cry against him, feeling like the last few weeks are finally catching up to you. You had tried to push it aside, tried to make yourself feel better, but it only pushed it further down. Being in Hugh’s arms, you finally feel like you can breathe, can finally get a glimpse that things will be okay. 

“I ran you a bath,” he whispers, turning his head to place a soft kiss on your temple. “You up for it?” 

You pull back and look up at him, wiping the tears away from your face. “You didn’t have to…”

“I know,” Hugh leans in and pecks your lips lightly. “I wanted to.” He releases his hold on you and instead reaches for your hand, leading you into the bathroom. 

You look around and bite your lower lip, tears again pooling at the corner of your eyes. “Hugh…”

“Too much?” 

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” 

Hugh smiles and turns to face you, gently reaching up to remove the blazer you’re wearing. “Far from it, baby. Now, let me take care of you. Will you let me do that?”

You nod slowly and look down to see your blazer pool at your feet. “Okay,” you whisper. 

Hugh hooks a finger under your chin, slowly lifting your gaze to meet with his. “Whatever you’re going through, I’m right here with you, baby. Now, let’s get you in the bath. You’ve been tense and I think you need a massage.” He smiles and pecks your lips lightly, pulling away only to help you disrobe the rest of your clothing.

You let out a relieved breath. For the first time in weeks, you feel the weight slowly begin to lift off your shoulders and that’s all thanks to Hugh.

[agirlwithglam]

How to survive the cold weather & be super cozy

this is your cute n cozy guide on not only how to survive, but thrive in the chilly weather! 🧸🍪🍂🕯️🤎

🍪 bake warm choc chip cookies! (the feeling of fresh warm cookies out the oven for you and only you to eat and no one else to take them🤤 that sounds amazing omg)

🍂wear fuzzy socks! getting into bed.. wearing socks omg could it be any better?! the fuzzier, the better🧦

🕯️light candles! light them up around your room to set the mood and actually feel like that it girl and super cozy

🛏️get fluffier pillows & blankets. there is nothing better than sinking into a warm bed with fluffy pillows & blankets. period.

🏰make a blanket fort. just a btw, you can do this alone & have the most fun ever. + you get to do it on your own terms & create it however you want! in the blanket fort make it all cozy, get the cookies or some hot chocolate and cuddle up with your favourite movie/ book 😍🍪

🫧have a warm bath. need i explain more? romanticise it like you see on pinterest 🤎

🎶create a specific cozy cold weather playlist and keep it playing in the background. ARGHH MOOD THAT SOUNDS TOO GOOD!! some song ideas: riptide, we fell in love in October, that’s so true, sweet nothing

📔journal. this year is coming to an end. write down all the lessons you learnt, how you grew this year, how you feel, all the changes big & small, what you accomplished, etc.

🎨paint on canvases. okay hear me out doesn’t that sound so cozy?? like it’s raining outside, and you’re just inside painting away. screw being ‘good’ at it. if you need to, gaslight yourself and call it hot girl art.

🎞️make photo collages. it can be of your life with actual pictures from your life or aesthetic photos from pinterest! idk what it is but this actually sounds so therapeutic, definitely recommend🤎

📖write a mini story, about autumn, about your life, about your feelings, about a girl who goes to a coffee shop and meets the love of her life, about a girl who has the best season ever, inspired by your fav song

[thatgiraffefromtlou]

The Aurora Project

(part 2)

(tumblr won’t let me tag part one for some odd reason but it’s in my pinned post! make sure you read that first 🫶🏻)

summary: as a result of a malfunction, you and ellie awaken from cryosleep aboard a spaceship with no memory. will you find evidence that you're more than just shipmates? something to give reason to your nagging familiarity to the stranger you wake up next to?

warnings: eventual explicit language, potential for smut in later chapters (depending), uh cringy teasing idk- Imk if there's more this is also pretty tame-

A/N: so erm this definitely isn’t the best work of mine i won’t lie to you guy. it’s only slightly proof read 🧍🏼 like i said the results of this election has my mind kind elsewhere, but writing is still very therapeutic for me and i really wanted to get something put out for you guys! plus im excited to post this and continue this story and i don’t want that to be taken from me. anyways enough about that i hope you guys enjoy!!

work count: 2.6K (ik sorry they will eventually be longer)

– Chapter two -

"Maybe your eye would work?" you break the silence, your voice echoing softly in the open space. You and Ellie sit on either side of the exit, your backs pressed against the cool, metallic walls. It took you two what felt like forever, but you finally found a door. The hope that cascaded through your bodies upon first seeing the door was palpable, a surge of excitement that quickly dissipated the moment you realized it was locked. The lock mechanism, a complex array of technological marvels you’ve never encountered, had multiple parts, but only needed one of the three ways to get through: an eye scanner, a password, or a thumbprint.

The eye scanner looked like a floating camera, or at least that's the best way you could describe it. It hovered eerily, set maybe a foot above a see-through keyboard that seemed to defy gravity. Glowing boxes surrounded glowing letters, numbers, and symbols, creating an otherworldly interface. It was strange, almost disconcerting, the way those two things seemed to float beside the door, as if held in place by some invisible force. In stark contrast, the fingerprint scan was firmly affixed to the actual door itself, a more tangible and familiar security measure. Either way, two of these things you thought Ellie might be able to manipulate, given her potential credentials.

"Huh?" Ellie turns her head to you, her brows furrowed in confusion and her upper lip slightly risen on one side, creating an expression of both intrigue and skepticism. "It's a shot in the dark but..." you begin, your mind racing to connect the dots, "Our name plates—only you had 'Dr.' in front of your name." You shrug your shoulders and lick your lips, your theory on the tip of your tongue. Turning your body to face more in her direction, your legs tucking slightly under your thighs in an attempt to get comfortable on the hard floor, you continue, "Maybe you have some form of authority here? I mean, hell, maybe you're even an astronaut? It's not too far-fetched considering our surroundings."

She looked at you with an expression that was a perfect blend of disbelief and flattery, as if you had just said the most absurd yet complimentary thing imaginable. Her eyes widened slightly, eyebrows raised, creating a very confused expression that spoke volumes. "Or," she countered, her voice tinged with a hint of skepticism, "I'm just a doctor who practices medicine and they need doctors in this place we're headed towards? It seems more likely, doesn't it?" Your shoulders literally slump at that, the weight of disappointment settling on you. "Yeah, you're probably right…" you concede, your voice trailing off.

You sit with your back against the wall again, the cool surface a stark reminder of your predicament. Your mind starts racing, deciding to go back to the drawing board. Maybe there's another door on the other side? Air vents? As these thoughts swirl in your head, Ellie suddenly stands up, her movement catching you off guard. She leans over slightly, putting her eye at level with the scanner, a look of determination etched on her face. You look up at her curiously, and suddenly there's a beep—a sharp, electronic sound that cuts through the silence—and the doors slide open with a smooth, hydraulic hiss.

You get on your feet immediately, adrenaline surging through your body, and she turns back to you, her face a mask of genuine shock mirroring your own. "No way..." you say in awe, your voice barely above a whisper as you look through the now open door. The view beyond is bleak, not really what you were hoping for. Just another long walkway stretches before you, more walkways branching off like a labyrinth of sterile corridors. "Guess I am an astronaut..." Ellie says quietly, a smile playing on her lips, tinged with a mixture of pride and bewilderment.

You look back to her, her smile a welcome contrast to the boring white hallway that seems to stretch endlessly before you. You can't help but smile back, a sense of camaraderie growing between you. "Of course you are," you say, your voice filled with a newfound confidence, "I'm never wrong." Ellie huffs air out of her nose in a small laugh, her smile widening as she shakes her head, a gesture that seems both exasperated and fond. She takes a deep breath, straightening her back again, and steps into the hallway with cautious steps. You follow close behind, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The doors close with a whooshing sound behind you both, sealing off the room you just left.

"Why'd you give it a try?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you as you fall into step beside her. Ellie shrugs, her eyes scanning the corridor ahead. "Better than sitting there with no solution," she replies, her tone matter-of-fact. She glances at you, a hint of amusement in her eyes, "and something told me you're never wrong or whatever." You smile as the warm sense of familiarity fills you again, this time less scary but just as confusing as before. It's a feeling you can't quite place, like a half-remembered dream or a song you can't quite recall. "Fair enough," you joke a little, your voice light.

Silence settles over the two of you for a moment before you speak again, "So, Dr. Ellie," you say, emphasizing her title with a playful tone, a little pep in your step, your body angled more towards her than forward. "What's our next move? Any pearls of astronaut wisdom to share with us mere mortals?" The question is wrapped in a layer of jest, but underneath, it's clear you're both grappling with the same pressing concern: what on earth—or rather, what in space—are you supposed to do now?

Ellie responds with a soft chuckle, her eyes never ceasing their scan of the corridors stretching out before you. "Well," she begins, her voice tinged with a hint of self-deprecation, "If I had to guess, I think our best bet would be to find some kind of control room or like a central hub. I mean.. there's bound to be a nerve center somewhere." As she speaks, her hands move in small, unconscious gestures, as if trying to shape her thoughts in the air.

She gives a little shrug, the movement almost diminishing the weight of her ideas. It's a strange contradiction—the self-assurance in her logic juxtaposed against a hint of awkwardness in her delivery. The dichotomy is intriguing; she clearly knows she's smart, but there's a flutter of something—maybe modesty, maybe uncertainty—when that intelligence is on display.

You nod, genuinely impressed by her logical approach despite her hesitation. "Makes sense," you agree, your voice trailing off a little as you mull over her suggestion. After a moment you ask, "Any ideas on how we might go about finding this hypothetical control room?"

Ellie's eyebrows lift a fraction, and when she speaks again, her words seem to require a touch more effort than before, as if she's carefully weighing each one. "Well, we could start by looking for signs, I suppose?" Her gaze flicks to you briefly before returning to the path ahead, a mix of consideration and caution in her eyes. "Or, failing that, we could follow the main corridor?" She gestures ahead with a sweep of her hand. "In my experience-“ she cuts herself off in a fluster. “Or what I think might be my experience, given our current memory situation—important areas are usually centrally located and well-marked."

You hum thoughtfully and nod, acknowledging the soundness of her strategy. "So, essentially, we keep walking straight until we stumble upon another door or some kind of signage?" A note of playful sarcasm creeps into your voice as you add, "Sounds absolutely thrilling..."

Ellie responds with an eye roll, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, softening the gesture. "Well, unless you've got a better idea tucked away in that sarcasm-filled brain of yours, Captain Quip, I think that's our best bet for now." She pauses for a beat, then adds with a touch of dry humor coloring her words, "Who knows? Maybe if we're really lucky, we'll stumble upon a space casino or an alien petting zoo along the way."

"A petting zoo?" you echo, latching onto the absurd image with enthusiasm. "Maybe they've got some kind of high-tech Noah's Ark situation going on up here." The mental picture draws a laugh from both of you, the sound a welcome break in the tension. As your chuckles subside, you're struck by a sudden realization. "You know what? I could really go for a drink right now. God, I'm thirsty. Are you thirsty too?" The question hangs in the air for a moment before you notice something's off. You turn, expecting to see Ellie beside you, but she's nowhere in sight. Confusion floods your system. Wasn't she just—

You’re quickly interrupted by the sound of your name being called. It's Ellie's voice, but it's coming from at least 20 feet behind you. You spin around, your eyes searching, and finally spot her. She's standing in front of a doorway, her arm extended, finger pointing at something beyond. "Look," she calls again, her voice a mix of excitement and wariness.

You quickly jog back to where Ellie is standing. As you draw closer, you see what has captured her attention: before you a mini hall, maybe 3 feet long ending with a small door.

Your gaze follows Ellie's pointing finger to the side of the door, where a placard identical to those at the foot of your pods catches your attention. The name 'Dr. Williams' is etched onto its surface, below her name is a simple +1, causing a small jolt of recognition to course through you. "Oh..." you breathe, the single syllable barely audible as it escapes your lips. Your eyes dart between Ellie and the plain white door, a feeling of apprehension swirling in your gut.

"Well, let's open it," you suggest, your voice a blend of impatience and nervousness. Ellie responds with a nod, her face showing her own set of conflicting emotions. She reaches out, her hand settling on the doorknob - a long, flat apparatus that stands out against the sterile white of the door. Your eyes are drawn to a peculiar smooth shiny black rectangle spot near where the handle attaches to the door, its purpose unclear but somehow significant.

Ellie's fingers wrap around the handle, and she attempts to turn it. The door remains closed, the handle refusing to even budge an inch. A look of frustration flashes across her face as she tries again, her knuckles almost whitening with the force of her grip. Still, the door doesn't budge.

You watch intently as Ellie's brow furrows in concentration, her fingers now tracing the outline of the mysterious black spot. Suddenly, Ellie's eyes widen with realization, and she presses her thumb firmly against the black square. The silence that follows seems to stretch for an eternity, both of you holding your breath in anticipation. Then, a soft beep fills the air, shattering the tension.

Ellie turns the handle again and the door responds with a soft click as she pushes the door open. You and Ellie exchange a quick glance, a wordless communication passing between you. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you both step forward in unison. The room is small, almost like a one room apartment. The white sterile walls not following you into this space. You both set forward, Ellie in the lead as you both wordlessly scan the room. The walls may be white, but the room itself is vibrant with personality and life.

Every available surface is adorned with an array of memorabilia - framed photographs capturing moments frozen in time, colorful posters that speak of diverse interests, and shelves lined with an assortment of knick-knacks, each telling its own story. These decorations form a protective cocoon around the full-sized bed nestled at the far end of the room, creating a cozy sanctuary within the larger space. The front area of the room seamlessly blends the functionality of a kitchen with the comfort of a living room, defying the sterile environment beyond its walls.

As you step further into the room, your senses are overwhelmed by a collection of different scents, each fighting for dominance in the recycled air of the ship. The rich, invigorating aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the smoky, complex notes of aged whiskey. A faint, earthy scent of stale marijuana lingers in the background. Underpinning it all is a warm, masculine fragrance - reminiscent of a what you’d smell when you hug a Southern dad, all sun-warmed cotton and subtle cologne.

Despite the main overhead light being off, the room is bathed in a gentle, welcoming glow. A strategically placed array of lamps and twinkling string lights cast a soft, amber radiance throughout the space. This warm illumination not only brightens the room but also seems to ignite a spark of recognition deep within you. As your eyes adjust and roam over the personal touches scattered throughout, you can't shake the feeling that this space is somehow intimately familiar, as if you've spent countless hours within these very walls, or at least around these things.

Ellie quietly calls your name, her voice tinged with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. You slowly turn around to see her sitting on what you presume to be her bed, a framed photograph clutched in her hands. You make your way over to her, each step feeling both familiar and foreign on the ship's floor. As you settle beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your combined weight, she carefully turns the photo to face you both.

The image captured within the frame immediately draws your attention. It's a snapshot of what appears to be a Halloween party, the background a blur of festive decorations and revelers. But it's the subjects of the photo that truly catch your eye - you and Ellie, looking carefree and happy, your costumes as whimsical as they are clever.

You find yourself staring at your own image, barely recognizing the person looking back at you. You're dressed in an elaborate moth costume, complete with intricately designed wings and antennae. Your costume-clad self is caught mid-motion, planting an exaggerated kiss on Ellie's cheek. Ellie, for her part, is sporting what can only be described as a lampshade on her head, her face alight with laughter and warmth.

The juxtaposition of the costumes isn't lost on you - a moth drawn to a lamp, a visual pun that speaks of inside jokes and shared humor. It's a moment of connection, of joy, frozen in time and preserved behind glass.

"Oh..." you breathe, the word barely more than an exhale. The photo feels like a key, unlocking a flood of emotions you can't quite place. Familiarity wars with the unsettling feeling of looking at strangers wearing your faces.

"Oh..." Ellie echoes, her voice a mirror of your own confusion and wonder. Her eyes flick between the photo and your face, searching for something - recognition, perhaps, or confirmation that you're feeling the same tumult of emotions that she is.

The silence stretches between you, filled with unspoken questions and the weight of implications neither of you are quite ready to voice.

A/N: hehehe lmk if you wanna be added to the tag listttttt

tag list: @autisticintr0vert (if you’re not tagged and asked to be, please check to make sure you’re ability to be tagged is on because your username did not show up!)

[nomniki]

stuck in your web ━━ jake sim ⟡ spiderman au

★ wc 1.3k warnings none note @soobnny u inspired me to write this while i was on the plane i’m actually insane my brain is rotting w spidey bf jake (proofread but idk if there r any mistakes rip sry pookies)

Not even your blankets could stave off the whisper of cold wind that followed Jake in through the window, a chill that was just as quickly chased away by his embrace. He slid in beneath your comforter, a drawn out sigh leaving his lips, one of which you learned as you turned around, was split and crusted with blood. Your hand found his cheek in the darkness, the other reaching out blindly for the light switch.

“No, don’t,” he grumbled halfheartedly, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades in a lazy attempt to hide the lasting damage of his latest fight.

Your fingers closed the switch and you turned your bedside lamp on despite his protests, propping yourself up on your elbow to better survey his injuries. Jake had made a terrible habit of assuming that slipping into your bed and just having you in his arms would solve all his problems, emotional and physical. As much as you despised the fact, that wasn’t true.

“Let me clean you up?”

You asked softly, brushing his bangs away from his face lazily, wincing as you felt his ordinarily soft hair crusted with something— blood, or dirt, you weren’t sure. In times like this, it felt like there wasn’t much you could offer Jake, and an inescapable feeling of helplessness swelled and formed a lump in your throat. He’d reassured you time and time again that your company was enough, but you figured the least you could do was clean him up to the best of your ability.

“No, let’s just go to sleep, I’ll do it tomorrow,” Jake mumbled, his eyebrows furrowed cutely and his words muffled by the soft cotton of your pillow.

You rolled your eyes, and gathered the motivation to slip out of bed— Jake let you go without any coherent protest, and you padded into the bathroom. The routine you’d adopted was methodical and you had to admit there was something therapeutic about it— saline solution, a glass of warm water, a flannel and the Hello Kitty bandaids Jake claimed to hate but never stopped you from putting on the lesser of his injuries. His arms wound around your waist as you perched on the edge of the bed, pulling you close enough that he could rest his cheek against your thigh.

“I’ll sleep easy knowing I’ve helped you, even a little,” you hummed quietly, running your hand through his hair, trying not to tug when your fingers caught on whatever it was that had gotten stuck, presumably during his fight.

“You’re helping me by being a good cushion,” he huffed, his breath fanning warmly across your bare skin and it was almost criminal how endearing he could be without trying.

“Jake.”

He sighed dramatically, shuffling to sit up in front of you, still in his spider suit— the webbed material had become oddly familiar under your fingers and it was with practiced ease that you peeled the suit away from his skin. Your heart was caught in your throat as you revealed planes of tan skin, terrified you’d come across an injury that couldn’t be fixed with pink—patterned plasters and a gentle kiss. Jake reached for your hands, grabbing your wrist and bringing your trembling hands to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m fine, really�� just a couple scratches.”

His reassurances did wonders to comfort you, and you swallowed down the anxiety in your throat, nodding and offering him a small, sleepy sort of smile. You traced the ridges of his collarbones, your fingers dancing over divots and muscles that contracted instinctively under your gentle touch. Jake slumped, relaxing into your assessment of his injuries, and it gave you a rush like no other knowing you were the only person he trusted with this.

“Keroppi or My Melody?”

You asked, a laugh dancing on your lips in the form of an amused smile as you held up his options— a square plaster with Keroppi depicted on the beach, or My Melody sat with a character you didn’t know the name of.

“Keroppi,” Jake murmured after a moment of contemplation, and you averted your attention from his pretty face to focus on peeling the paper backing off the plaster.

There was a cluster of small scratches along his ribs, raw and aggravated, and you frowned— Jake’s thumb reached up to push gently at your frown, and you bit the tip of his thumb playfully. He laughed, and the sound of it was the only plaster needed to soothe your worried heart.

“I can barely even feel ‘em, you don’t need to look so worried.”

“‘s my job to be worried about you, Jake.”

Jake let out a quiet huff, his bottom lip jutting out in a stupidly kissable pout, “it’s not your job, but it’s one of the many reasons why I love you.”

You were grateful to be sat with your back to the lamp, knowing the blush on your cheeks wouldn’t be illuminated.

“I love you too.”

“I know.”

You went through the motions of cleaning the rest of his injuries— thankfully, none of them were more than shallow scratches, and some warm water and a cloth had them mostly sorted. His torso was an array of carefully arranged Hello Kitty plasters, at least twelve pastel coloured, cartoon faces staring up at you with unseeing eyes. The only injury you hadn’t dealt with was his split lip, and Jake frowned when he realised you’d insist on cleaning that too.

“Ynnie, can’t you just kiss that one better?”

He pleaded, looking up at you through his lashes with the puppy—dog eyes that ordinarily would entice you into folding to his whims. You shook your head, placing your palms against his cheeks and squishing gently, forcing his lips into a pout. You leaned forward and kissed him softly, allowing the tension to bleed out of your rigid shoulders once you’d seen for yourself that he was truly okay.

“I can’t kiss it better, but I can kiss you anyway,” you murmured against his lips, pressing another chaste kiss against them before you pulled away, the warm, damp cloth in hand.

You cleaned the small cut as carefully as possibly, and if a minute or so of that time had been spent admiring the slope of his cupids bow or the criminally enticing pink of his lips, that was between you and God.

“Your pyjamas are in the wardrobe,” you prompted him— they were technically yours, but they had become a staple of Jake’s post—fight routine.

He rolled out of your bed still pouting, nearly taking your duvet with him before you tugged it back, hiding a giggle behind your arm. Jake threw his spider suit into the depths of your closet with the internal promise to grab it when he woke up, and suited up instead in fluffy Cookie Monster pyjama bottoms and a shirt he was sure had once been his. When Jake crawled back into your bed, he flopped onto your chest with no regard for your need to breathe.

“If college doesn’t work out, I don’t see why you couldn’t pursue a career as a mattress,” he mumbled, situating his cheek against your chest and ensuring he could feel the steady pound of your heart against his ear, “actually, that’s a terrible idea— I think if you ever let anyone else lay on you like this, I think I’d throw up.”

You let out a huff of laughter, your hands tangling in his hair like they belonged there, your eyes crinkled in amusement. Jake’s weight was familiar, and you relaxed under him, fumbling blindly for the duvet to pull it over both your bodies.

“Not a career path ‘m considering, so you have nothing to worry about,” you whispered against the top of his head, your statement punctuated by an unfairly soft kiss. Jake propped his chin up on your sternum, looking up at you expectantly.

“Goodnight kiss?”

You rolled your eyes in feigned exasperation, and leaned forward enough that your lips met in a sweet kiss, though you were mindful of the split that would take at least a few hours to scab over.

“You’re such a baby.”

“Your baby.”

“Yeah, mine.”

[shadowdaddies]

Omg it’s been forever!!! I have a request for Azriel!!! I was thinking, the reader is an amazing story teller and is known for being really creative and imaginative. At some point azriel asks if she’s ever thought about writing her stories down and he finds out that she doesn’t know how to write. Maybe juts some fluff with azriel and maybe cassian and rhysand teaching her how to write and like when she does something good azriel gives her kisses or something And then (sorry it’s kinda long) but maybe one day azriel asks her to tell him a story and it leads to some smut maybe… maybe where he’s kissing her neck while she’s telling the story I DONT KNOW I DONT KNOW but it’s been forever and I’m really missing requesting these! Love you 😘

Hey lovely! I've been having a little bit of writer's block lately and this was kind of therapeutic? idk but I had so much fun writing it💜💜

Inspired

Azriel x Reader

Warnings: smut below the cut, romantic sex, oral f!receiving

Nyx’s giggle rang through the room as you waved your arms dramatically, acting out the story as you told it. 

“The sorceress’s eyes glowed an eerie green light as she smiled, a snap of her fingers an order for the dragon behind her. Breathing a rush of fire, the creature lunged,” you continued, dragging your mate from his seat as you urged him to act out the scene with you. 

“...And then the handsome knight charged, his sword raised to strike the hideous beast.” Azriel raised his arms as though he were holding a sword. Rolling your eyes, you muttered, “no, Az. You’re the dragon.”

“Right, of course. My mistake, Handsome Knight,” he retorted, spreading his wings as he hunched slightly, his best effort at resembling a dragon. Your arms swung, mimicking the action as you told the story of slaying the mighty dragon, Azriel clutching the imaginary sword in his chest as he made a dramatic heaving noise, collapsing to the floor.

“What is going on in here?” Feyre teased, an amused smile on her lips as she leaned against the doorframe, hand on her hip. “Nyx, it’s time for bed,” she chided the pouting toddler, reaching a hand to carry him to his room.

“But momma, Auntie’s story!” Nyx protested, the deep frown on his face emphasizing the boy’s chubby cheeks.

“Yea, Feyre. What about the story?” Cassian protested, his eyes wild as he looked to you and Nesta for backup. 

Nesta scoffed, rolling her eyes playfully as she leaned into Cassian’s side. “I think we can wait until tomorrow to hear the rest of the story,” she promised, silvery eyes twinkling as she gave you a knowing smile. 

You turned to your nephew, giving him a kiss on the cheek goodnight as you promised to continue the story - and make sure Azriel knew his role better - tomorrow night. With another grateful smile, Feyre lifted Nyx into her arms, the boy yawning as he rested his head on his mother’s shoulder.

You turned to see Azriel still sitting on the floor, laughter bubbling up as you took his hands in yours. “You can get up now, dragon,” you purred, a gasp leaving you as he stood swiftly, scooping you into his lap as your mate settled back on the couch. 

“Where do you come up with these stories? They’re too good to just be bedtime stories for Nyx. I would read it in a book,” Cassian noted, flashing you a charming grin as he sipped his drink.

With a nervous laugh, you leaned into Azriel’s side, shaking your head as blush crept over your cheeks at the compliment. Nesta leaned forward, that warrior’s determination shining through her sharp features. “Really, you should try writing. I know some of the priestesses in the library have great resources and would be happy to help you... And so would I.”

Azriel’a arm wrapped around you, giving an encouraging squeeze as his lips grazed your temple. You turned to your mate to see hazel eyes shining with admiration as he grinned at you. “What do you think?” you breathed, nervously biting your lip as you awaited an answer.

“I think that you are the most beautiful, creative, talented, and kind person I have ever met, and I know many others would pay to hear what you have to say,” he murmured, finger crooking against your jaw as his lips pressed softly against yours. 

“All right,” you whispered, unable to hold back the bright smile on your features as you turned to Nesta. “I would really appreciate the help, if you wouldn’t mind.”

WIth that, you made plans to meet Nesta in the library the next day, starting a pattern of working with the priestesses and using the House’s resources as you learned the tedious process of writing a book. 

~~~

Exhausted, you trudged up the endless flights of stairs to your room, oblivious to your mate seated by the fire, who watched as you tossed your books, notes, and half-worked manuscript onto the nightstand. With a dramatic sigh, you flopped onto the mattress, burying your face in the pillows as you willed your head to stop pounding.

The bed dipped next to you, the familiar scent of cedar and rain instantly calming as Azriel’s hand touched your shoulder. “Everything alright, love?” he murmured, voice deep and soothing. 

You practically melted into his touch, reveling in the feel of his warmth as you rolled onto your back to face him. A scarred hand cupped your cheek, tenderness in Az’s eyes as he waited for your answer. “I’m just tired, Az,” you sighed, gesturing towards the daunting stack of papers next to you. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to plan out a story. It’s so much harder to actually write everything down, I don’t know if I can do it,” you admitted, tears springing to your eyes as you finally felt the overwhelming weight of your work.

“Hey, hey,” Azriel soothed, lifting you so that your back laid against his chest as his muscular arms wound around your waist. “You don’t need to do this if it doesn’t bring you joy, my love. I love you and your stories, no matter how you decide to express your creativity.”

Laying back against his chest, you leaned up to press a lingering kiss on Azriel’s cheek. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I do want to write. I feel so inspired, I just don’t know how to articulate it on paper, if that makes sense.”

Azriel hummed, his hands idly playing with yours as he thought. “What are you inspired by, love? What is driving your story?” You blushed, dipping your chin slightly as you curled further into your mate.

“My main character - he inspires me,” you admitted. “He is kind, thoughtful, willing to do anything for those he loves,” you paused, leaning your head against Azriel’s neck as you reached up to run a hand through his hair. “He’s devilishly handsome - with hazel eyes and dark, wavy hair. He makes everyone in his life feel special, but he is the most special person I have ever met,” you spoke, barely above a whisper as you pressed a kiss to his throat.

Waves of onyx hair brushed your cheek as Azriel’s head dipped, working slow kisses down the side of your face and neck before he settled on your shoulder, humming against the skin. “Why would you want to write about such a person?” he murmured, voice a low rumble as his hands slid down your body, fingertips skating lightly over your thighs, up to the waistband of your pants.

Breaths turning shallow, your mind reeled as you focused on the question. “Because... You make me feel a joy that I want others to see. You give me hope that I want others to have. You give me love that I want others to know is possible.”

Azriel’s hands continued teasing, feather-light touches across your stomach, dipping below the band of your pants as you bit back a moan. “Maybe, if I refresh that feeling, would you be able to ‘articulate’ it in writing?”

A knowing grin spread across your face, eyes glinting with mischief as you looked up at your mate. “I suppose that might help,” you teased, nipping at the skin of his jaw. 

Azriel wasted no time, his deft fingers sliding under the waistband of your clothes, a low growl vibrating through his chest as he felt how wet you were. One finger slid, tortuously slowly, through your folds, gathering your slick as he lightly brushed your clit.

Head thrown back against his shoulder, you ground your hips up against his hand, desperate for friction. “Az, please,” you begged, already breathless and craving his touch. A soft laugh left his lips as cool wisps of shadow twined through the fabric of your pants, pulling them down to expose your lower body to the open air of the room.

A soft mewl escaped you as the soft tendrils wound their way back up your legs, spreading them open for their master as he continued his slow, intentional movements against your core. “How do you want me, love?” he whispered, his smirk evident in his tone.

“Your hands, your tongue, please. All of you, Azriel. I need all of you,” you begged, fighting against his hold as your need overwhelmed your other senses. Without another word, Azriel lifted you from his chest, laying your head against the pillows as he shifted to lay between your legs.

“Don’t think, just feel, my love,” Azriel murmured, his warm breath fanning over your clit before licking a stripe up your center. You gasped, back arching as your mate pinned your hips down, spreading your legs open for access. Lips wrapped around your clit, sucking in rhythm with the finger that curled teasingly at your entrance. 

Head tossing back and forth against the sheets, you babbled incoherent pleas for more, a pleasurable gasp leaving you as he pushed his finger in, curling in tandem with his alternating sucks and kitten licks on your clit. He added another finger, the coil inside of you building as you neared the edge. 

Azriel hummed his praise against your writhing body, bringing your attention to the male before you. Your mate, who knew you better than anyone, made you feel like no one ever could from the day you met. As the coil inside of you snapped, you were taken back to your first time with Azriel - the euphoria of finding the only person meant for you, and joining with him as one. 

You came down from your high to see Azriel looking at you with an awed expression, his hand moving to wipe tears you hadn’t realized you’d shed. Turning your head, you pressed a kiss to his palm, guiding Azriel to lay on his back as you straddled his hips.

“I will always have inspiration, because I have known you,” you whispered, lowering yourself onto his length. The both of you sat there for a moment, basking in the tenderness of being one, when the idea struck.

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumbled, scrambling to reach for the parchment and pen on your bedside table, scribbling down your thoughts before they could be forgotten.

“What are you doing?” Azriel breathed out on a laugh, watching as you bit your lip, sheer focus and determination on your face while you wrote.

“I know the next part of my story,” you responded, a proud smile on your features as you set the paper aside. “Now where were we?”

Azriel laughed, a full, rich sound as he flipped you onto your back, lining up at your entrance as he pressed kisses all over your face. “You were meant to be a writer,” he teased, amusement clear in his gaze as he eased into you. Pure love and admiration flowed each way down the bond - the beginning of one of many long nights finding joy and inspiration in each others’ presence.

banners by saradika

[alaskan-wallflower]

the gang’s jobs/future work

Ponyboy: art/music therapy. Okay, I get the “English teacher Ponyboy” headcanon is really popular, but I also think that with all the trauma Pony went through, and with how artistically inclined he is, this would be a good work field for him. He wants to help people, because he realizes things are bad all over, and instead of using that trauma to hurt others like he’s been hurt, I think he uses it as a way to help others, and he himself probably vents best when he’s writing a poem or a song, or when he’s drawing as a way of venting, and that helps him help others. this may be more modern tho idk—however in the events of the book’s timeline I can see him volunteering at the library and waiting tables with Johnny.

Sodapop: Id love to say he opens a horse therapy sanctuary where you can send troubled kids to, because horses are really therapeutic and I’ve read stories about how going to them saves lives, and Sodapop is really in tune with his emotional intelligence and I think he would benefit from that, especially if it was self ran/started because he wouldn’t need a college degree to do it, because he started everything himself.

Darry: Darry obviously roofs houses, and his second job to me isn’t “stripping” (I really hate that headcanon but anyway) but is rather a daycare worker. I think Darry is really good with kids. He always looks out for the underdog. He knows what it’s like to grow up without a good parental figure (like Johnny and Dally), and he wants to give that to the kids he works with. I also think it could be interesting because male daycare workers, then and now, are really looked over, and are kind of disrespected in a way, so I think it can be interesting

Johnny: Johnny currently waits tables I think. During the book timeline, I can see him doing basic jobs teenagers do, like cashiering, waiting/busing tables, etc. After the events of the book, if he lived, he’d probably still be waiting tables, or doing something that can accommodate him, like stocking shelves or something. In the future I like to imagine he becomes a CPS worker, or a social service worker.

Dally: He’s done obscure jobs, he’s probably bartended for Buck, or he works at the rodeos. He doesn’t do much work because he spends most of his days in jail or doing something to be put in jail, and I don’t really think he’d do much as a fully grown adult. I can see him bartending though.

Two-Bit: Currently he’s unemployed. I don’t think he has a job as of now, and he’s never really had one, but I think sometime in the future he’d start taking his family life seriously and would pick up a job cashiering. I think he’d go into voice acting in the future though, or maybe go into something with cartoons. I dunno, I can see him doing something like that.

Steve: As of now, he obviously works in the DX, but this mayyy be an unpopular take, but I think Steve would enlist in the military. I think he would probably go into the military, because he wants to get out of Tulsa and away from his father, and I can kinda just see it. If he lived, he’d probably keep working at the DX, and maybe even opens up his own gas station? I’m not sure, haha

[whiskeyghoul]

All tied up || [Spencer Reid X f!reader] Pt.1

First time posting a fic here.

The idea of Spencer remembering all the shibari knots from a book gave me the incredible urge to start writing. This is part one and mostly setting up to part two where all the spicy stuff will happen.

Tags: Shibari, eventual smut, consent, (idk I am bad at tagging)

Part two

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"I actually heard it can be very therapeutic." Spencer Reid stood next to you as you were bent over a case file. The unsub would tie their victims up in intricate red rope, displaying them like a piece of artwork. Suspended in mid air their bodies hung from ceilings. You had made a comment under your breath as you watched the detail in the knots, nothing of interest. Either they'd been strung up post mortem, which seemed unlikely with the way their bodies were contorted. Or while the victim was alive and cooperating. Meaning the victims trusted the unsub.

You knew of shibari, had seen it once when you had stumbled upon it while researching a sexclub where a suspected unsub was picking his victims. It piqued your interest, seeing the knots tied carefully with enough slack to allow fingers to slip past the rope. The shapes accentuating the women's bodies, looks of content on their faces. You had quickly squashed the thought at the time. Not wanting to address your new found interest in the slightest. Hoping that if you didn't think about it it would go away. Unfortunately that hadn't been the case. You'd managed to find pictures of the beautiful rope designs people created and it only fed the flame growing inside you. But when Spencer made that comment as he looked over your shoulder. Something stirred inside. Like he knew what you'd been thinking about.

"I don't think they found this very therapeutic." You retorted, eyes focused on the paper again. If they hadn't been crime scene photos they could have been beautiful. Spencer placed one hand on the desk, the other on the back of your chair as he leaned over. The heat of his body radiating off of him. You kept your eyes on the papers, not daring to look up at your workplace crush. Who, in all his genius, was the most clueless person you'd met. "Right, I don't think they did. Still, it's interesting to see the great care the unsub took to present them this way. It’s like a piece of art, he takes pride in his work." Spencer commented, saying the words you'd just been thinking. "It could have been beautiful if not for the murder." you said a bit solemnly, not thinking about your words, still trying to figure out whether the unsub tied them up post mortem or not. Absentmindedly tracing your fingers over the ropes in one picture.

"Would you ever want to try it?" Spencer suddenly asked. Your head whipped around in surprise, staring at the man who was looking down at you. He was gauging your reaction, which now that you realize it, was way too obvious. He'd probably already caught on to the fact you'd been interested in shibari from the case before. A damn good profiler even if he was clueless about your feelings for him. "W-what? No, of course not." You lied, feeling heat creep up your neck as you averted your eyes from him. “Why would you say that?” You asked in turn, knowing he’d already caught you in your lie. “Just the way you said it could have been beautiful. I’ve read a book on it once…” The way Spencer said it was suggestive, knowing what he meant once he said he read a book on it once. He remembers it all, the knots, the ties. He was offering to help you get it out of your system. The way he trailed off made it non committal, it wasn’t a full offer but it was up in the air. If you wanted to go in on it he wouldn’t judge. “You have? Are you interested?” Your voice was low, barely above a whisper because you were still in the bullpen. Colleagues and teammates are still around to hear if you spoke too loudly. “We have Saturday off.” Spencer spoke, it wasn’t an answer but an invite. “We do.” You agreed, and that was it. “You could come over.” Spencer said, there was something in his voice. It was low and smooth. “I can. At 2?” You added before daring to look up at him again, he nodded his head with a slight smile. There was a flush on his face. “I’ll see you then.” He added, pushing himself off the table and returning to his own desk, your eyes following until he sat down.

Your mind was jumbled with thoughts about what could happen when you get to his place. Mentally you were still trying to grapple with the fact that he had invited you, but standing on the doorstep had been quite the wake up. You rang his doorbell and Spencer buzzed you in. You walked to the elevator, pressing the button and stepping inside to head to the second floor. Stepping out and walking past the other doors until you reached his front door. A deep breath. You raised your hand, a timid knock on the door that was opened just a second too quickly. Like he had been waiting for you. “Hey.” Spencer breathed out the word, a slight smile on his lips as he stared at you. You could feel your cheeks start to heat under his gaze. “Come in.” Spencer said as he stepped out of the way, letting you pass into his apartment. “Thanks.” You said as you observed your surroundings. You’d been in his apartment once before. It was lived in, slightly cluttered and warm. It smelled of books and coffee, some of his vices. His large leather couch was put to the side and the middle of his living room was currently a large open space. He’d prepared this. You swallowed thickly, knowing he’d taken care to get it all ready made you excited, a fluttering feeling settling in your stomach. The small bag you had taken with you was placed down next to the coat rack. Your jacket was slipped off your shoulders by Spencer, the motion making you look over your shoulder at him. He gave you a reassuring smile, warming your heart and soothing your nerves. “Do you want something to drink first?” He asked as he hung your coat away. “No, thank you.” You replied, wanting to get to it rather than stall. It would make you nervous again to wait. Wanting to get started almost immediately. “Alright, then let’s get started?” Spencer asked it, maybe to have clear confirmation that this was what you wanted. He fidgeted slightly, perhaps as nervous as you had been before. You nodded your head, the action seeming to calm Spencer slightly, his hands stopping from fidgeting. Instead grabbing the red rope that was laid out on a side table, pushed to the wall this time.

“How do we start?” You asked, having prepared by wearing a pair of soft shorts and a tank top. Spencer turned back to you, taking two strides before he was right in front of you again. Something in his eyes had changed from before. “Strip.” His tone was different, making a shiver run down your spine.

This was going to be interesting.

[murderofravens]

Hi Raven !

hope you are doing well love. Just wanted to compliment you and basically (or kind of yap idk) about LADYBUG. it was magnificent and beautifully written. It scratched a deep part of my daddy issues itch I didn't even know about. Once i was thinkin abt it and had tears in my eyes for a moment ......

I was also wondering how dad inhowould react to us wearing traditional/cultural clothes since I'm a south asian too (pakistani) and qameez, shalwar/kurtiz are an essential part of me or a sari too !

how would he react, what would he say. you can make this a short drabble or give me your thoughts. once again I would like to kiss your hands for presenting us with a masterpiece such as dad inho !!

thank you nonnie! and here's a little something i cooked up in 10 minutes, i hope it's good

pairing: hwang inho x south asian fem reader

warnings: fluff! inho calls himself appa, inho in a desi environment basically

"you're doing it wrong!"

"because you keep shaking!"

"it's 'cause you have that look in your eyes—"

"will you just trust me for once?"

you sigh in defeat, and inho chuckles— amused. you admire him like this— eyebrows furrowed in focus, pouty lips downturn. you love his mouth so much. his hands shake slightly as he applies henna to your hands; he's trying to draw a flower. don't doubt him— he's not a bad artist. he's a big fan of van gogh, studied a lot of art books. he liked to paint, back when he was younger. it was a therapeutic outlet. but this time your hand is his canvas, and he absolutely cannot mess his baby's design up.

"but the circle doesn't—" you whine, and he looks up. the warning glare he shoots you is playful, but it does the job of shutting you up.

"i didn't want to do it," he reminds you, finishing another petal, "but you forced me."

"i didn't force you into nothing," you pout, and he laughs. "will you write your initials into it?"

"are you sure?" he quirks an eyebrow, leans back to sir cross legged on the floor— your palm securely placed in his bigger hand. "your family would see the design."

you wave him off with your free hand, your bangles jingling with every movement. "not if you write it in hangul."

he grins and gets to work. you look at him fondly, and he pulls away proudly as he finishes the job. "any other complaints?"

"no, sir." you tease. you hold your hand up, brightly grin at the flowers he drew on your palm— he hid his initials within one of the leaves. it makes you blush. "it's perfect."

he gives you a victorious salute before grabbing your ankle. he places your foot upon his lap, "i got you a gift."

you blink at him, putting your hand to the side, careful not to mess his handiwork, "what gift?"

he brings something out of his pocket— an intricate gold anklet, laden with tiny bells. you gasp, and he gives you a wink before gently securing it around your ankle.

"pretty jewellery for my pretty girl." he mumbles. he lifts your foot and places a kiss to your ankle, making you blush.

"oh stop!" you giggle, pulling your leg away from his grasp. he chuckles along with you, and you rise from your seat and run around the bed. the anklet jingles with every step, and he chases after you— looking elegant as ever in his black sherwani. you went shopping with him and he saw the monster you turn into whenever you can't find the clothes that you like. that's why he didn't bother bargaining when you finally found something you thought was perfect— a pink chikankari dress, embroidered with white flowers and pearls. to match with you slightly, inho's carrying a pink rose in the pocket of his sherwani.

you look over your shoulder and in that moment he grabs the delicate fabric of your white dupatta and pulls. it slides off your shoulder and you laugh, turning around to grab it back with your free hand, dramatically covering the exposed skin of your neck.

"hey! not fair!"

"all's fair in love and war," inho replies with a theatrical edge to his voice, and with a strong tug he pulls you into himself. you collide into his chest and his hand wraps around your waist. you playfully glare up at him.

"come on," he leans down, brushes your noses together, "won't you give appa a kiss?"

your cheeks heat up and you huff, "let go! what if my father comes in?"

his eyes crinkle amusedly, "why, i'm right here."

"shut up," you chuckle heartily, your stomach erupting with butterflies. he leans down again, and you gently peck his mouth. he hums, and you sigh dreamily, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"it's beautiful." you whisper, "thank you."

"anything for my love."

you grin and lean up to kiss him again, but the loud knocking on your door separates you two. your mother calling your name and a bunch of aunts whispering in the background grabs your attention— and you and inho exchange a cheeky, knowing glance before moving to the door.

dating someone your father's age comes with it's risks but another glance at your henna reminds you it's worth it.

[theycalledmebaby]

LOVERS AND FRIENDS

| harringrovson x fem!reader |

-ALWAYS BE MY BABY

summary: Just a little flashback about meeting each of our boys. Super short lol 672 wc

warnings: idk, bad writing? none yet. This is just the beginning but still 18+

a/n: Hi! this fic is my baby and something that's been brewing in my drafts forever. I am not a writer by any means and this is simply self-indulgent/therapeutic for me. You can feel free to come along if you want!

series masterlist | series mixtape(coming soon)

Somewhere in 1995

Always Be My Baby by Mariah Carey quietly playing in the background

"But do I have to go, Mom? Wha... what if—" "Yes, baby, you have to go to school. We already talked about this," your mom says as she pulls into the parking lot. "Besides, Stevie will be there! You get to see him at recess, and I will be here to pick you both up after school."

You don’t remember the day you met Steve Harrington. Maybe it was childhood trauma blocking out memories before the age of 4. You’re unsure, but you know he’s always been around.

Your mom had you at a young age and struggled to make ends meet when she started working for Robert Harrington. Robert Harrington was a sleaze, but his wife, Jen, was an absolute sweetheart. She befriended your mother immediately and soon found out they had babies around the same age.

To make extra money, your mom started babysitting for the Harringtons. Your mom didn’t mind always having Steve with her. The Harringtons paid her very well, you guys got to stay at their very nice house most weekends, and you had someone to play with. It was a win-win.

No, you don’t remember meeting Steve Harrington. -But you do remember that day. The first day of kindergarten. The first time Steve Harrington kissed you.

He had met you in front of your new classroom. You told him you were scared; he grabbed your hand, gave you a light peck on the lips, and told you everything was going to be okay. You didn’t know it then, but from that day on, you were his.

You were always going to be Steve Harrington's baby.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere in 1999

You may not remember the day you met Steve Harrington, but the day you met Eddie Munson is etched in your memory forever.

It was early February, maybe late January. An early chilly Saturday morning, and you were sitting in the backseat of your mom's car, immersed in Mariah Carey's "Fantasy" playing on your Discman. The car was parked in front of a house you had never been to—the home of your mom's new girlfriend. Apparently, her friend had a son around your age, and the plan was to carpool together to visit your stepdad in prison since her husband(Eddie's dad) was also in the same prison.

As Eddie hopped into the backseat with you, a distinct scent of laundry soap and the faint aroma of the smoke shop your mom frequented enveloped the air. He smiled at you, and you couldn't help but notice his big, beautiful brown eyes. He asked what you were listening to, chuckled at your reply, and declared, "No, that shit is pop garbage. This is real music." With that, he placed his headphones on your head, and you were introduced to Metallica's "From Whom the Bell Tolls."

In that very moment, as this something-year-old boy gazed into your eyes and you listened to Metallica for the first time, something shifted within you. You didn't quite comprehend the depth of it then, being just a kid, but you knew deep down that this boy was special. He made you feel something you had never felt before, a feeling that lingered long after that day.

Yeah, you were never going to forget that day.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere in 2001

The summer sun beat down on the neighborhood streets, casting a hazy, golden glow over everything. You found solace on the porch steps of your new house, shaded from the heat, Eddie’s “The Marshall Mathers LP” CD playing softly in your ears.

Moving had its perks—peaceful surroundings and friendly faces—but you couldn't shake the nostalgia for the old apartment complex and memories of Eddie. Even if he was no longer your friend, you missed the sound of his skateboard rolling by or his obnoxious laugh when he and his friends were up to no good.

Lost in thoughts about Eddie, you barely noticed the sound of a skateboard approaching. The wheels clicked against the pavement, drawing your attention. Glancing up, you saw a boy about your age, his blond hair catching sunlight as he effortlessly maneuvered on the board.

He spotted you and skated over, coming to a smooth stop in front of your driveway. His gaze was cool, almost calculating, as he looked you up and down. Yet, his smile was warm and genuine, lighting up his face and his ocean blue eyes.

"Hey," he said casually, tinged with curiosity.

"Hi," you replied, unsure whether to be wary or friendly.

"Billy," he introduced himself, tilting his head slightly.

You hesitated before responding, "Nice to meet you, Billy." You shared your name and mentioned you had just moved into the neighborhood.

Billy nodded, his expression unreadable. "Us too," he replied cryptically.

"Us?" you echoed, intrigued.

"Yeah, me and my stepsis Heather. Just moved here from Cali," Billy explained, his tone nonchalant yet somehow aloof.

The way he looked at you with those dreamy blue eyes made you feel like you were in one of those cheesy teen rom-com movies Steve always tried to make you watch.

"What are you listening to?" he asked.

"Oh, um, it's my friend's CD, Eminem," you replied nervously.

"Cool," Billy said simply, then skated away, saying "Cya."

"Uh, see ya," you managed to respond.

That was the day you met Billy Hargrove. Little did you know then, what an impact that blond, blue-eyed California boy would have on you for the rest of your life.

[bellaxgiornata]

Heyy this may come off as a weird question but,

Since Ive gotten a boyfriend I haven’t brought the whole tumblr Matt Murdock stuff and idk how well he’ll take it. My ex was pretty much weary about it so idk how accepting your partner is or if you have tips on how go handle that talk jsjsj

Hey, friend! I don't mind answering though I'm not sure how helpful this will be, but I'll try! And I'll also put my response below the cut because it got long!

So in my previous relationships I never mentioned writing and reading fanfiction in the past. When I was in my teens and 20s, fanfic was basically nerdy and cringey and it's not something you really told people you took part in. So I always just wrote and read it in my free time and never announced it to anyone. But from what I've been gathering lately, that's a bit different nowadays.

Personally, I don't view reading fanfic as anything different than reading a book. In some instances a smutty, filthy book, but hey, it's not like those don't exist and aren't published. In my view, if it's not somehow negatively impacting your life or the relationship then there's nothing wrong with it. I can't speak to what issues your ex may have had, but I honestly don't see why enjoying silly fanfics for fun or an escape from reality because of a crush on a fictional character is something to be weary about.

For me, my husband and I have known each other since high school and I have always been open about wanting to be a writer. We lost touch when he moved to Alaska for college, but 5 years later when we reconnected and began dating again one of the first things he asked was if I was still writing. I've been fortunate to be with someone who knows how incredibly passionate I am about my writing and he sees me participating in fanfic as no different than writing a published series (which I'd like to someday do). He's also quite secure in our relationship and isn't jealous of fictional characters, and my interest in them doesn't have any negative effects on our relationship or my personal life. If anything, it's an escape and sometimes therapeutic for me to write out different stories. So he really doesn't care and is just supportive of me writing.

Long story short, I feel like it's up to you if you even want to disclose your hobby/enjoyment of fanfic. Personally, I don't think it's anything you should be judged for from a partner. Is it wrong for someone to love reading a ton of books in a particular series? Or who loves binging a TV show because they enjoy the world and they love the characters? Because I don't think so. I don't see how fanfic is any different even with a crush on a fictional character.

Hopefully this somewhat helped, but if anyone else has any thoughts or suggestions/tips to add on to this, please feel free! 💕