#Rimbaud is cold. what's new

[unicornpopcorn14]

Was looking through a 'bsd official art' drive folder and found this

I'm sorry,,, no one talks about this official art??? Of Chuuya, Dazai and Rimbaud drinking boba??? At a normal location like a cafe??? And them being all chill???

I mean I have no idea what they're saying but Chuuya's expression can only translate to "I wanna beat this bitch up"

[chuubian]

Bulle fruit pancakes

Tags Arlecchino x fem reader, fluff, domestic life, anxiety, blood, death, soft Arlecchino, Arlecchino acts like an old man in this she’s my favorite gilf

Summary After a mission that nearly breaks you and Arlecchino apart, she decides she can’t let her job get in the way of your relationship. Living in the countryside after running away from the fatui can be scary. But Arlecchino finds a way to comfort and reassure you that you’re safe with her.

A/N: This is actually based off a conversation in stormbringer where verlaine tells rimbaud about his plan about running away and giving chuuya a normal life 😭😭 i wanted to cry during that and now i can’t stop thinking about it.

Images of Arlecchino, covered in blood and lifeless infront of you have haunted you since your relationship started. Her job is dangerous. Stepping out of line could lead to her being hunted down and killed. As her girlfriend, they wouldn’t hesitate to target you for revenge too. The fatui is not a philanthropic organization.

Her job requires her to constantly be away from home, sometimes you go weeks without hearing from her, wondering if she was killed— or, god forbid, captured and tortured. As a trained soldier, she would probably be able to handle it and escape, but it doesn't make it less frightening. There are still people stronger than her in this world— though it is very few.

On her last mission, Arlecchino is supposed to be sent to Inazuma for an undisclosed amount of time. Naturally, this revelation fills you with anxiety. How could they not know even a general timeframe? Was it this serious of an assignment. You begged her to please ask for a new assignment, but she brushes your worries aside. Telling you that you're overreacting and that if you can't handle it then there's nothing she can do to salvage the relationship, her cold red eyes staring into your soul, taking note of how you react.

You instantly go speechless, humbled by the threat. Sitting back down quietly, unwilling to lose her. Maybe it won't be so bad. She can still send letters. Arlecchino's gaze softens, leaning over you, kissing the top of your head gently. It was so sweet and intimate that you couldn't help but lean into her pleasant touch.

"I'll try to get back home as soon as possible. We can still write to each other."

Sighing softly, you look up at her. There was a flurry of emotions stirring up inside your chest. How were you supposed to be okay with this? You're brought back out of your thoughts by Arlecchino softly cupping your cheeks. Her nails, although sharp, feel soothing against your heated skin.

"It'll be fine. You worry too much."

Leaning away from her touch, you take a hold of her hands. You don't even want to look at her.

"How can you be sure? You don't even know how long you'll be gone."

Her eyes narrow, she pulls her hands our of your grip.

"I'm going whether you like it or not, it's my job. I expect you to reflect and come to your senses while I'm gone."

With that, she grabs her bags and leaves. Not even offering you so much as a goodbye. You sit in silence, feeling cold and abandoned. It's hard to even get up, your mind is filled with worries about what could possibly happen on this dangerous trip.

For the seven months Arlecchino is gone from home, she rarely writes. You can't really blame her, you don't respond to her letters either way. Nevertheless, you can't help feeling betrayed by her. She didn't stop to consider your feelings at all. It might be selfish, but you wish she cared more about you than her job.

When Arlecchino shows her disgraceful face around your shared house again, she's covered in blood. She doesn't wait for you to invite her in, taking the initiative to push past you, rushing into your bedroom and packing your clothes into a garbage bag. Stunned, you try to stop her.

"Arle! What are you doing?!"

She ignores you, seeming engrossed in her task. You try to pull her hands away, but instead of letting you, Arlecchino smacks your hand away. She looks back at you with a frenzied, irritated look on her face. It's clear you shouldn't mess with her, but you have barely talked to her in seven months, she can't force you to do anything. However, Arlecchino is nothing if not commanding and forceful. The look in her eyes chills you to the bone. Now you understand why she has such a high ranking in the fatui.

When she finishes packing your clothes, her cold hand wraps around your forearm- pulling you away from the bedroom, away from the house, and away from Snezhnaya. She doesn't speak until the harsh winter storms are far behind, in favor of the mild winters and humid summers of the Fontainian countryside.

"I'm leaving the fatui."

"What?"

She rolls her eyes, seemingly still aggravated.

"I'm leaving the fatui."

Your initial reaction is to doubt her new announcement. Even if she isn't lying- she betrayed you, she doesn't get to drag you away to Fontaine. But thinking it over for a few seconds, you realize something must've gone wrong. You take in her appearance, jacket turned brown. It makes you shiver, a sense of dread looming over you, the fright that comes with it sinks deep in your gut, making it hard to even move with the burden of your emotion weighing you down.

"Why? Did something happen?"

She moves to hold your hand instead, pulling you closer. The warmth radiating from her almost makes you forget about how stained her clothing and hand is.

“We’ll talk about it when we get to our destination, okay?”

You nod and follow her lead, unsure of what’s going on. Although the both of you aren’t speaking, it’s comfortable. The scenery of rainbow rose fields and exotic birds is a welcome change from the brutal blizzards that leave nothing but a white wasteland in Snezhnaya. As you both approach the cottage in the distance, you notice just how remote everything is. There's no people around at all, it doesn't seem like there's even any electricity. This is going to be a hellhole in the summer.

Arlecchino sets your bags down on the couch when you first enter, sighing softly. She starts taking off her soiled, blood covered jacket. Looking over her exposed arms, your mouth goes dry. It's been too long since you last saw her, and it was hard not to stare at her defined arms and strong back. She was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, her skin was glistening. You reached out to grab hold of her arm, finding it hard to resist. The feeling of her soft skin and firm muscles is invigorating. It's just so right. You're interrupted in your thoughts by Arlecchino sitting down and pulling you onto her lap.

"What are you thinking about, my love?"

"You still haven't explained anything."

While talking to her you can't help but run yours hands over her arms and shoulders. The years of training in the fatui have sculpted her like a Greek god, you can hardly even pay attention to what she says. She tilts your chin up to look her in the eyes, sharp nails digging into your jaw.

"i meant exactly what i said, I'm leaving the Fatui."

Scowling, you shake her shoulders. Why does she always have to be so tight-lipped?

"Okayyy but why...? This is so sudden! And especially for a harbinger its hard to completely escape, what if they come looking for us? You came back covered in blood, I was worried all seven months! We barely even talked in that time, so what gives you the right to drag me away from home?!"

You felt like you're going crazy, How is this normal in any way? Arlecchino can never just talk to you like a normal person. She shushes you by putting a finger over your mouth. Pushing her hand away, you glare at her.

"Why cant you ever talk to me like a normal person? Am i not worthy of knowing your thoughts? Or what you're up to?! Seriously you're so fucking condescending and irritating, Arle!"

She smirks in response. Seriously!?

"You're angry at me but you still use a nickname?"

You can feel your face get warmer, embarrassed and angry with her. She knows you too well, she always has to rile you up in the way only she knows.

"If you don't explain I'm walking the whole way to Snezhnaya."

Her grip around your waist tightens. She wasnt going to let her prized possession leave her so easily.

"Fine fine, Ill explain."

You cross your arms, waiting for the explanation.

"Look... I didn't want my job to get between us. You're more important to me than the fatui is so It's not a big deal okay?"

"That's it? You couldn't have told me that before dragging me to Fontaine?"

Gently running her fingers over your sides, she presses a soft kiss to your cheek. The tensions leaves your body at the tender show of affection. All the anger and worry dissipates, leaving your mind feeling light. It's a welcome change from the grim thoughts running through your head for the past seven months. It's amazing how easily Arlecchino can manage to lower your defenses- she's your biggest weakness and she knows it.

"I'm sorry, but i had to get us away from there as soon as possible... They'll definitely look for us but its okay, I'm here. I'll protect us. I've taken all the precautions i can. You trust me right?"

You nod, leaning in and resting your head on Arlecchino's shoulder.

"But... you're not even the strongest harbinger, what if they find us?"

She soothingly rubs your back. It's comfortable moments like this that remind you of why you fell in love with her. She's usually so cold and brutal, but during intimate moments she turns sympathetic and unguarded.

"They won't, i made sure."

"You came back covered in blood, I was so worried."

Your eyes start watering. During that period of minimal contact, your heart was aching for your lover. Aching for someone you assumed didn't feel the same way. The lump in your throat grows bigger, making it hard to breathe or talk properly.

Arlecchino lets you cry into her neck all night. Holding you tightly and never letting go. She could never even conceive of a world where your relationship isn't her top priority. A sense of warmth washes over you, melting away the cold lonely feeling in your heart.

It's been months since you ran away with Arlecchino. Months since you've been away from civilization and big crowds- but surprisingly, you don't feel isolated.

The paranoia of being found by the fatui never goes away. Slowly creeping up on your mind, becoming more and more persistent until it pounces- causing severe panic attacks and barbaric nightmares. Images flash before your eyes. Portrayals of Arlecchino collapsed on the floor, slumped over, covered in her own blood, eyes flat and lifeless. Your cottage has been ransacked and destroyed by those barbarians. All your furniture and clothing were scattered across the ground, some of them charred until they were unrecognizable. You could feel the heat radiating off the fire burning your back.

You tried to scream for help, but for some reason your voice wasn't working, your throat was closing. Your mind felt fuzzy, it was hard to think or move- like your legs were made of lead. You didn't even get to say goodbye. She was taken too soon.

Suddenly you were shaken awake. Eyes fluttering open, your cheeks were wet with tears and you could feel your heart tightening in your chest. Arlecchino's worried face was hovering above you. Gasping for air, you search for comfort in your lovers arms. Relieved to see her again alive, wrapping your arms around her and squeezing tight, leaning into the warmth- the life- radiating off of her.

"What happened, my love?"

She tenderly caresses your hair, running her slender and sharp fingers through the strands. It sends tingles through your scalp and down you spine, quelling the dull ache through your body.

"Y-you died..."

Your voice was shaky and weak. It was clear to Arlecchino that the nightmare had affected you deep to your core. She gently kisses your forehead.

"I'm here, I'm not leaving any time soon."

She gently pulled you back bed, laying you down in her caring embrace. The soft golden light of the sunrise is shining through the window and into your eyes. It made Arlecchino's smooth skin glow. She looks so heavenly, even with her messy bedhead. How had you landed someone so gracious and bewitching? She cooed softly, her enchanting voice lulling you into a dreamlike daze. Even with the horrible nightmares that haunted you, mornings like this were your favorite part of being with Arlecchino. She never fails to make you feel secure again.

After a few minutes of laying in bed and holding each other tightly, Arlecchino decides to get up, attempting to pry your arms off her.

"Noooo don't leave me!"

Whining, you hug her closer, refusing to let go of the human heater that sleeps on the other side of the bed. Unfortunately, Arlecchino is much stronger than you so she manages to get your hands off her, instead deciding to pin your wrists to the bed, straddling your hips.

"We have to get up eventually, my love."

Pouting, you start complaining and trying to free your wrists.

"But does it have to be now?"

She chuckles lowly, leaning in so close that you can feel her breath fanning over your face.

"Yes, it does."

Your heart is beating so fast, her face is so close, you can feel the electricity in the air. The heat radiating from her skin was making your face burn. It was hard to look her in the eyes, if you made eye contact you would probably burst into flames. But despite you avoiding her gaze, you could feel her staring at your lips, looking down at you under her, with your hair splayed out, so disheveled but still so beautiful. The butterflies in your stomach seeming to want to escape, fluttering against the walls of your stomach, making your muscles quiver.

She squeezes your wrists tighter, leaning in even closer. You could cut the tension with a knife. It was like there was a magnet pulling your lips closer, like the universe is working to bring the both of you together. Slowly, she presses her lips to yours. She tastes like heaven. Your head goes fuzzy and your body feels like it's floating. It's too soon after that, that Arlecchino starts pulling away. Her lips are parted, panting softly. Her eyes are darkened, her pupils dilated.

Suddenly, she sits up- looking high and mighty, like an ice queen.

"We need to get up."

She drags herself out of bed, giving you a playful smack on the ass.

"Agh!! you're mean!"

Smacking her hand away, you attempt to drag her back to bed.

"Come back!"

"Nope."

She smirks taking a hold of your hands, kissing the knuckles. It made you forget your goal. Before you could get back on track she pulls you out of the comfortable cotton sheets, wrapping her arms around your waist.

"Arle!"

She ignores your cries and carries you over her shoulders. You squirm and kick, trying to get free.

"Put me down!"

She holds the back of your thighs tightly, laughing at your struggle. Once you both arrive in the kitchen she finally puts you down on the kitchen counter. She stands between your knees, with her hands on your thighs.

"I told you we had to get out of bed."

"Well maybe i didn't want to."

"But i want you to, the sun is already up"

You scowl, pushing her hands off you.

"It's only seven! we should be sleeping!"

She shrugs, not seeming to understand the problem.

"I like waking up early."

You run your fingers through her hair, pulling her closer.

"You're like an old man, seriously why do we need to be up so early?"

She wraps her arms around your waist, pulling your bodies closer.

"The sun is up, it's time to eat."

You sigh, giving up on trying to convince her to be normal. Getting up from the counter, you walk around the kitchen grabbing ingredients and tools to start cooking breakfast.

"You better stay out of the kitchen, your cooking is deadly."

Arlecchino doesn't even try to argue, she knows it wont do any good. Sitting down at the kitchen table, admiring the view, she rests her chin on her hand.

It seems like a dream, the birds chirping in the distance, the beautiful flowers in the garden, the sounds and smells of your cooking- it all feels surreal.

You cut up the bulle fruits, mix up the batter, making Arlecchino's favorite dish-Hearthfire's trail, adding spices (which are desperately needed). You cant let her live on without spices anymore, it is physically hurting you to see her eat bland food. How does she even do it? She's just torturing herself.

After a few minutes of cooking you finally finish, giving her a nice big serving of pancakes with bulle fruit jubilee, and her stupid beloved Hearthfire's trail. She looks at it confused.

"Did you do something to it? It looks different."

"No... i spent so long making it perfect for you and you're complaining?"

She decides against pressing you for more information, trying some. Quickly, her face turns red. She evidently isn't used to eating anything other than bland meat. Regardless, she doesn't spit it out, deciding to swallow it before complaining.

"Why did you do this to me??"

Her voice is hoarse, you cant help but burst out in laughter. You've never seen her so flustered.

" Hehehe... Arle! you can't go on eating unseasoned food forever! It's time to be an adult."

"Seasoning is useless! If your food needs spices to taste good then its just bad quality."

Shrugging you point to her food.

"I worked very hard on that, you have to finish it."

She grumbles softly, complaining but doing as you say anyways. She sips her tea between every bite, suffering due to your little scheme. After she's done, she digs into her pancakes, seeming much more delighted at the taste of cold ice cream and sweet fruit on her tongue. You giggle watching her, amused by how weak she is to something so simple.

"Arle... How did you manage to get the position as the fourth harbinger when you cant even eat cumin?"

"Our position isn't based off food preferences, it's based on strength."

She clearly isn't as amused as you, her eyes narrowed.

"Still..."

"I just have a taste for quality food."

"I would hardly consider what you eat to be 'quality'."

"Hey! I eat your cooking, so that means you think your own cooking is bad."

Oh she thinks she's so funny. Groaning, you sit up straight.

"My cooking is good!"

"You don't seem to think so."

Scowling, you ignore her. You eat your pancakes angrily.

"Do you like my cooking?"

"No."

Her face betrays her words, she's smirking- enjoying getting under your skin. You decide you need to get revenge.... by wiping putting the whipped cream and ice cream from your pancakes on her face.

"I hate you."

She only laughs in response, wiping the cream off with her pointy fingers and licking it off. Her long forked tongue dragging over the blackened skin. She doesn't even try to hide her intentions, staring you right in the eyes with that evil, sinful stare.

The rest of the morning is a blur. You can only remember the feeling of pure bliss and the warmth of being in her arms. All the worries about the fatui finding you are completely forgotten when you're with her. Arlecchino makes you into a happier, more secure person. There's no other place you'd rather be.

[kyouka-supremacy]

BSD Official Guidebook Tenkaroku - characters profiles

Profiles from the season 3 guidebook. I heavily relied on automatic translators for this, so if you notice any mistake, please feel free to bring it to my attention. I'll be posting the Japanese original text in reblogs not to make this post too long. Other guidebooks profiles: Shinkaroku; DEAD APPLE; Gongeroku.

Fifteen arc

Osamu Dazai Age: 15 years old Height: 155cm Weight: 51kg Impression when he met Chuuya for the first time: “I'll never feel positively about him again” Places he would like to visit if he went travelling: Famous suicide (by drowning) spots What are the qualities of a “king”?: The ones of people like Mori-san

Chuuya Nakahara Age: 15 years old Height: 150cm Weight: 53kg Impression when he met Dazai for the first time: “There's trash all around” Places he would like to visit if he went travelling: I want to go to a trip overseas with my friends What are the qualities of a “king”?: Being strong

Arthur Rimbaud Age: 27 years old Height: 185cm Weight: 68kg What he believes are his strengths and weaknesses: Strength: having a useful ability / Weaknesses: being sensitive to cold Favourite type: A woman who can warm him up Motto: Always put the mission above everything else Something he wants right now: His lost memories of the past

Canon

Osamu Dazai Something they've been into recently: Showing everyone the footage of Kunikida going insane because of Q's ability Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: Since Ranpo-san is here, there can't be a “can't lose to anyone” What they want to overcome: Nothing at all

Atsushi Nakajima Something they've been into recently: Checking the bankbook page with his salary Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: He doesn't have any confidence in himself, so there's no such thing. What they want to overcome: I want to learn to have the common sense of and behave like a member of society.

Kyouka Izumi Something they've been into recently: Research on cooking for Atsushi Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: Gratitude towards Atsushi and the Detective Agency What they want to overcome: I want to become less startled by thunders.

Doppo Kunikida Something they've been into recently: Education for the increased number of new employees Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: Ability to plan, and passion to carry it out perfectly What they want to overcome: My own imperfections that sometimes prevent me from carrying out my plans

Junichirou Tanizaki Something they've been into recently: Visiting western pastries shops with Naomi Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: I'm embarrassed to say it, but supporting and protecting a certain woman. What they want to overcome: My indecisiveness

Kenji Miyazawa Something they've been into recently: Teaching farming to the members of destroyed gangs Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: Love for nature What they want to overcome: I want to be able to use a computer

Ranpo Edogawa Something they've been into recently: Initiating Kyouka to the deliciousness of cheap candies Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: I can't lose to anyone in anything What they want to overcome: I am perfect like I am now

Yukichi Fukuzawa Something they've been into recently: Showing up at a Go club Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: Excellence of subordinates What they want to overcome: The mistakes of the assassin from the past

Akiko Yosano Something they've been into recently: Collecting photos of dissected patients' internal organs Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: Human body dismemberment skills What they want to overcome: If possible, I want to save patients who have no choice but to die.

Chuuya Nakahara Something they've been into recently: Enriching his wine cellar assortment at home Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: Hatred towards Dazai What they want to overcome: When buying a big motorcycle, I want to stop checking whether my feet can touch the ground

Ryuunosuke Akutagawa Something they've been into recently: Searching for Dazai's house Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: I would rather have something that no one can beat. What they want to overcome: My nemesis, the man-tiger.

Ougai Mori Something they've been into recently: Coming up with new strategies to recruit Dazai Something at which they think they can't lose to anyone: Organization management techniques that request rationality and logic What they want to overcome: Buying too many clothes for Elise

Fyodor Dostoyevsky Age: Unknown Height: Unknown Weight: Unknown What he believes are his strengths and weaknesses: Strength: wishing for world happiness / Weakness: low blood pressure Favourite type: He loves all human beings equally Motto: Happiness in this world Something he wants right now: Someone to talk with who has the same brain as him

Katai Tayama Age: 23 years old Height: 175cm Weight: 53kg What he believes are his strengths and weaknesses: Strength: his life is not expensive (no expenses for transportation and socialization) / Weakness: if left to himself, he won't change his clothes Favourite type: A refined, dignified and gentle woman Motto: There are many dangers outside the house Something he wants right now: Faster communication networks

[wizardfrog69]

Hi hi! can i request for bsd men x reader who is a doctor and have the ability like machi from hxh?

Thank you for the request!

'•.¸♡ doctor ♡¸.•'

Doctor reader

Fluff

Masterlist

Enjoy!

Feat. Fukuzawa, Atsushi, Kunikida, Dazai, Katai, Mori, Ace, Rimbaud, Akutagawa, Hirotsu, Kajii, Oda, Ango, Fitzgerald, Nathaniel, Fyodor

Yukichi Fukuzawa:

He finds your ability very useful and will employ you if you already aren't an employee.

He will be as careful as always, not putting himself in harm's way, but if he does get a limb chopped off by accident he will come straight to you.

Your thread is useful for combat and traps, which is something he takes into consideration when planning out his schemes.

You and Yosano often work together.

If you don't want to leave your job, he will understand and not force you out of your work.

Atsushi Nakajima:

This man's limbs grow back like nothing happened, so your ability is useless/j

If he gets hurt during a mission, he would go straight to you to take care of him.

He's way too shy to admit it, but he really likes it when you take care of him as no one ever did, and he was forced to look after himself, it's nice to have a break from worrying about yourself.

Make him a ball of thread to play with (like a cat), and he'll be very happy and entertained for some time.

Doppo Kunikida:

He also thinks your ability is quite useful, and despite how much he does not want you involved in any missions, your threads can be useful.

If you do not work in the ada, Kunikida would often visit you after work, if you aren't busy.

He doesn't really want to visit you when he's injured so as not to worry you and cause you additional work.

If you do end up taking care of him, he will be very pleased and find comfort in your soothing touch.

Osamu Dazai:

He takes your ability to his advantage.

He may become a bit more careless (as if he isn't already) and put himself in harms way more, just to see your worried face and for you to care for him. At least that's what he claims.

He does always love it when you care for him, even if it's putting a plaster on a scratch on his face, which he obtained by "falling."

Katai tayama:

Since he never leaves his house, you can tend to him whenever you need to.

Katai doesn't get injured a lot, so you don't have to worry about him.

Ogai Mori:

Mori, being a doctor himself, obviously does not need any help regarding himself, but it would be useful to have another medic in the mafia.

Your ability can also be useful in combat, so Mori wastes no time trying to convince you to join the mafia. You probably don't have a choice since he's the leader, and it would be quite difficult to be with the leader of a mafia without being a part of it.

A new torture method is now being used in the mafia, cutting somebody's limbs off :)

Ace:

This little prick would put one of his collars around your neck, and you would be his personal doctor, tending to all of his wounds and stuff.

Don't worry, he won't exchange you for gems. You are just too valuable for that.

Arthur Rimbaud:

Maybe you could finally figure out why he's so cold all the time.

If you two are together, you probably work in the mafia, or the other place he's from.

He admires the work you do, human life (or any life really) is important, and you should receive the respect and loyalty it deserves.

Ryūnosuke Akutagawa:

He could care less about your occupation unless it benefits him, and in this case, it does.

You would often help him with his wounds and coughing, reminding him to eat and drink, etc.

Your threads are quite useful to him, and he could strategize your ability into something.

Ryūrō Hirotsu:

What a silly old man.

You could be his personal nurse instead of sending him to a nursing home.

Motojiro Kajii:

Tbh, I'm surprised he isn't dead, ik he doesn't get hurt by his bombs but like still

He would always come home with some sort of scratches, which you will place a little lemon themed plaster on.

Also, you call him a mad scientist, and it was probably his idea.

Sakunosuke Oda:

Finally, someone norm- oh wait, he's a skeleton. Ig you'll have to help him not be dead.

You would always have plasters on you with an animal print or something on them, usually for the kids Oda takes care of, but it wouldn't hurt to help someone else out who needs one.

Oda loves what you do and wishes to help you when you come home tired from a long day at the hospital.

The kids Oda takes care of do get sick from time to time, so you will end up getting them to feel better.

Hey, maybe you could stich the kids back together after the little explosion? Pretty please????

Ango Sakaguchi:

He's too tired to realise his arms have fallen off.

He would get sick from the sleepless nights, and you'd demand him to stay home, but he would go to work anyway.

Ango respects your profession greatly and would never dream of getting in the way of your work.

He understands all too well how work can deprive you of everything, so he doesn't really ask you of anything.

Francis Scott Fitzgerald:

You are working in his team of Americans (ew)

/j I just don't think the food in America should be eaten.

Anyways.

You will be the doctor of the group, taking care of anyone who is ill.

He will find your ability useful and will certainly take it to his advantage, money is after all (one of) the most important things in this world and Fitzgerald will get it any means necessary, unless that means hurting you (or himself).

He cares about his family, so he doesn't wish for you to die :)

Nathaniel Hawthrone:

I'm surprised he isn't blaming the devil for everything tbh.

He can use this blood as thread so you can go away now. Your ability is not useful/j

Its great that you want to save people! (Or the children of God, I forgot how religious he is).

He can help by praying for you and your patients. that's it. God is the best doctor, after all.

He doesn't typically cut off his limbs whilst in battle, but if he does, he knows you will always be there to help him if he needs it.

Fyodor Dostoevsky:

Your ability is useful to Fyodor and his gang of rats. You can stich limbs back on, and the nervous system will reattach itself like nothing happened, brilliant!

Fyodor claims he doesn't need a doctor or to be taken care of. In truth, he does, but he fails to admit it, fearing he may appear weak or dependent on other people. His feelings don't stop him from making you the doctor of a bunch of rats.

You may not be a vet, but it doesn't hurt to try!

༺♡༻ 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 ⋆ 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 ༺♡༻

I'm sorry I couldn't include everyone. It would have taken too long, and u would just be repeating myself, even though I'm already doing so here.

Happy pride month, everyone! So many people have come so far to allow us to be ourselves. It may still be difficult, but that is why we need to celebrate everyone!

I was recently binge watching some shows, so I added some more to the fandoms I write for if anyone is interested. To find the list, go to the masterlist -> the bottom of the post -> press 'Fandoms I write for, rules & regulations♡'

Have a wonderful day/night and enjoy pride month!

-love, Az

[midorishinji]

Clair de Lune

"One word from you will silence me forever, I hope you know that, but for that you need to say a word — your silence is distressing." "If one word would silence you forever, I hope fourteen are more than enough."

Sasuhina｜Oneshot｜Also published in Portuguese and on AO3

It was a lazy Thursday morning, in the middle of an unpromising autumn — or at least that's what Sasuke Uchiha thought. He tore one of the pages off the calendar without thinking much: today was September 22, 1988, the year in which the Iran-Iraq War came to an end, just over a month ago, after almost a decade of conflict; it had also been the year of the death of the Chinese president and the beginning of the USSR's economic restructuring, and the Gare de Lyon accident in Paris as well. It had been a troubling year to the world and, at the same time, a period of never-ending boredom for him, a mere high school student.

He left home for his first class of the day when it was early and the cold morning breeze dragged orange leaves away from the dry branches of the trees on his street. Next to him lived a fellow student and classmate, Hinata Hyuuga: the two hadn't really spoken to each other since they were children when they used to play together, and he rarely paid attention to her. Hinata had always been shy and reclusive, and this proved true even today when she walked every day protected from human contact by the headphones attached to her walkman. They didn't greet each other, as usual, they just followed the same path, in the same solitary and silent company as always.

Every second and fourth Thursdays of the month, the school newspaper was published, and Sasuke was an avid reader — not of the entire newspaper, but of a specific column, published by an author who hid behind a peculiar pseudonym, who wrote short stories. God forbid his swim teammates didn’t hear him say this, but he loved reading what that fantastic person, Charlotte Rimbaud, had to say!

Naruto, his best friend, knew this, and arrived at his locker with the most recent copy of the newspaper. — Your favorite author outdid herself this time, 'ttebayo ... I’ve read it, just out of curiosity, I mean, I wanted to see what it was all about since you like her so much, dattebayo …

— I like what she writes. — Sasuke corrected him, without taking his eyes off the math book he intended to pick up as he extended his hand towards the locker.

—Same thing, ‘ttebayo .

— I don't even know her.

That was the problem: Sasuke Uchiha, the boy who could have whoever he wanted in that damn school, couldn't have the only person he wanted because he didn't even know who she was. This bothered him, far beyond his wounded pride: it didn't matter if Charlotte Rimbaud didn't want him as a boyfriend, but perhaps as a friend or merely a fan, it would have been good enough for him. He needed to meet her and know what was going on inside the head of this extraordinary person.

— And you'll never know if you keep being a coward, dattebayo .

The bell rang before he could say anything else, and the two headed to the classroom. At the door, Sasuke bumped into his neighbor, who was carrying the journalism and literature club's attendance lists and other documents: perhaps that was a sign, he thought, before sitting down for Professor Kakashi's calculus class.

(...)

The end of the month always meant a lot of paperwork to fill out. Not that this bothered Hinata, she was already used to tedious tasks that allowed her to put on her headphones and let herself be carried away by menial tasks. At that moment, a new song served as a soundtrack to her duties: it was “Jane Says”, by Jane's Addiction; she had heard of them recently playing on the radio and she ran out looking for a cassette tape to record the song while in the first few seconds. It didn't matter that she had lost a couple of seconds of the track: the best things are discovered like that, by chance, and this loss was material proof of it.

The club room was already empty after four o’clock, except for her, who always stayed late to lock up the place and take care of the last details. It was during this moment of distraction that someone came in and suddenly took away her headphones, causing her to look up in annoyance. It was Sasuke Uchiha, from the swimming team. She knew they were neighbors, but frankly, she couldn't imagine why he was there. — Hey! — she said, taking the headphones back.

— Sorry, I’ve been trying to get your attention for a couple of minutes… — Sasuke said, very casually, as he observed the shelves full of books, carefully and meticulously organized — Anyway, I need a favor from you. I wanna know who Charlotte Rimbaud is.

—And why do you think I would know? — Hinata replied, without looking up from her papers.

— Because you are editor-in-chief of the newspaper and president of the journalism and literature club. Nothing is published without your approval. — what his tone of voice meant was: I'm not as stupid as you think.

— This means that I read what people submit for publication and I serve as a quality filter, that's all. Besides, has it ever occurred to you that anyone who is writing under a pseudonym is because they don't want to be recognized?

— Yes, but I need to know. I swear, I won't tell anyone, Hinata... I just need to know this.

She got up from her chair, taking the sheets of documents with her and giving a final tidy to a book that was slightly crooked on the shelf. — I can't help you, I'm sorry.

— A name, and I'll do everything else. She'll never know you told me. — the boy asked, blocking the path by placing himself in front of the door.

Hinata didn't give up, and turned the door handle anyway, forcing her way through. — I don't know if you've already considered the possibility, but not all the girls at this school are stupid enough to fall for your bullshit. — having said that, she put her headphones back on and, once they were both in the hallway, she locked the room and went to the principal’s office to deliver the documents. Meanwhile, Sasuke remained leaning against the wall, trying to come up with a plan to convince her to spill the beans.

(...)

— She didn't even want to hear what I had to say. She said she couldn't help me and that was that. And worse, she even said that not every girl in that school would fall for my bullshit! Can you believe it?

On the other end of the line was Naruto, who laughed at that crazy conversation. It was the first time he saw Sasuke Uchiha defeated to the point of not even being able to recognize it. —And is she wrong, dattebayo ? One time or another you were gonna fall off your high horse…

— I'm serious. I need to know who Charlotte is, and Hinata is my chance.

— One thing you already know, she's a woman, from what Hinata said... Why don't you try asking someone else at the club, 'ttebayo ?

— I've already tried: I spoke to Shino Aburame, and he said he didn't know anything. Sakura laughed right at me and said it's good that Hinata roasted me, so I can stop being an asshole. Kiba told me he didn't know anything either, but he looked so nervous that I suspect he’s lying…

— Then just go after Kiba and that's it, dattebayo .

— I tried, but he said that if I'm smart I'll get it, and that's it. After that, he hung up on me and he won’t answer my calls at all... And at school, he's avoiding me like crazy, I don’t know what else to do.

— Seems like nothing will come out of it then, dattebayo .

— My only option is Hinata. She has to give in at some point, right?

— I don't know, you know her better than me, 'ttebayo . Is she the type to crack under pressure?

Hell no, that's what Sasuke thought. They might not have been that close, but he knew that Hinata was as tough as nails, and when she got an idea in her head, there was no way to convince her otherwise: he remembered well when the school management tried to close the newspaper, and she just didn’t oppose it, she actually started the most successful publication right around that time and then managed to get a petition signed by the entire student body to convince the administration against closing down the newspaper. That's exactly how Charlotte Rimbaud's first story came about: out of spite. — Yeah, no, maybe that's not the best strategy... But I think you gave me an idea, so thanks anyway.

(...)

The following week, Kiba brought a stack of letters and left them on Hinata's desk, as she worked on the layout of the first page of the next edition very carefully. That broke her concentration, and she immediately questioned him. — What’s that?

— Letters from an admirer to Charlotte Rimbaud. He insists that they should be published in the newspaper for her to see. At first, I thought it was a prank, but we already have about fifteen stored in a drawer; it just seems like way too much work for a joke... By now, he should have given up if he wasn't serious. Wanna give it a read? — Kiba said, bringing the pile closer to her.

— No. As far as I'm concerned, you can throw it all away. — she replied, impassively.

— He said he won't stop sending until Charlotte answers him. He seems to be a pretty big fan.

She took the first one from the pile and opened the envelope.

“To Charlotte R.,

There's no one at this school who's a bigger fan of yours than me. I will continue sending letters until you answer, no matter how long it takes: you don't have to say your name if you don't want to, but I have so many questions and so much curiosity that knowing more about you would be enough. One word from you will silence me forever, I hope you know that, but for that you need to say a word — your silence is distressing.

Who are you, anyway? What do you like to do, to read? What kind of music do you listen to? What kind of TV programs do you watch? How do you manage to write your stories like that, so easily? What do you hide?”

— They're not signed, but the handwriting is the same, so they must be from the same person. — the Inuzuka said.

— You can throw it away. — Hinata replied, without hesitation. She felt her fists clench as she tried to control her reactions.

But Kiba had known her for way too long to see through that disguise. — Are you sure you don't want to read the others? They're not signed, like I said, but if I had to bet on a name, I think we both already know who it is, right?

— Sasuke’s an asshole, that's all. He just can't stand not having what he wants.

— And you're gonna let him send letters forever?

— He'll get tired soon and give up on this idea, and we'll be free of the problem.

— No, we will be pretending that the problem doesn’t exist, and that’s two completely different things. If I were you, I’d fix this.

With that said, he walked away from the table. They were the last two in the room, and soon, Kiba left her alone, while Hinata wrote down her response to a certain very persistent admirer on a piece of paper.

(...)

— She wrote back to me, can you believe it?

The excitement was noticeable in Sasuke's voice after he saw the small white envelope inside his locker. It wasn't signed or anything, but who else could it be? It had to be Charlotte! His insistence was certainly worth the price.

— And what did she say, dattebayo ? — Naruto asked, curious.

— I don't know, I haven't opened it yet… — the Uchiha unceremoniously tore open the envelope and then found the message that was there.

“If one word would silence you forever, I hope fourteen are more than enough.

Charlotte Rimbaud”

Naruto burst into infectious laughter, while his friend remained in disbelief. — Wow, what a woman… And she does have a sharp tongue, doesn’t she, ‘ttebayo ?

Sasuke, however, remained silent, still in shock. He had never imagined that his strategy would backfire…

Trying to cheer him up, his friend hugged him, patting the Uchiha on the back as they both walked to math class. — Give up on this while you're still on top, man. Actually, you’re not on top of it now, damn, dattebayo… !

— Your optimism impresses me. — the other boy grumbled. The classroom was still empty, as the bell hadn't rung, but little by little students began to arrive.

Naruto wasn't satisfied yet, of course, and needed to poke at the wound some more. — If you want, my mom has some Bonnie Tyler records to help you out, 'ttebayo , like “Total Eclipse of the Heart”, you know?

In the chair in front of Sasuke, sat the last person he wanted to see at that moment, Hinata Hyuuga, who arrived accompanied by Sakura Haruno, also part of the newspaper team. This certainly only worsened his mood, which became increasingly noticeable even to those who knew nothing about the situation. Like a good friend, Naruto added fuel to the fire: — Hey, girls, guess who just got dumped, dattebayo ?

If looks could kill, Naruto would be doomed by now...

— Do you have anything to do with this, Sakura? Talking shit about me to Charlotte would be very low of you... — the Uchiha said.

— You act like I need to talk shit about you to anyone, you worthless womanizer. — Haruno said, laughing, without having any real intention of offending him with the insults. The truth is that they both knew that he wasn't that bad, and that Sasuke Uchiha even had a smidge of ethics in dismissing suitors who didn't interest him and being straightforward in admitting that he didn't want anything serious. Not that that made him any less of a womanizer, of course.

— Maybe you should just give up. — Hinata said, very directly, as she put away her headphones and walkman in her backpack.

Sasuke sighed, regretfully. —That's what I'm gonna do. I promised her, didn't I? One word from you would silence me forever, as good old Mr. Darcy would say.

— I didn't know you liked Jane Austen.

— There's a lot you don't know about me, Hinata. Contrary to what Sakura thinks, I'm not a worthless piece of trash, no, at least not completely.

At least they both agreed on that. Part of ourselves is always hidden, like the dark side of the moon, and the face we show to the world is not always the face that represents us when we are alone. And sometimes we get this glimpse of who someone is when no one else is looking, which can be as surprising as swim team star Sasuke Uchiha reading “Pride and Prejudice” in his free time.

(...)

The remaining days of the month went away faster than they could imagine, and soon Halloween was knocking on the door, as was the promise of November. As promised, Sasuke didn't send any more letters to the newspaper's editorial office, and things seemed to be calmer, shrouded in the same haze of sameness as always. To his surprise, however, one rainy Tuesday morning an envelope appeared in his locker.

“If you still want to talk, Mr. Darcy, perhaps I will have some free time to read what you have to say. And, to answer your questions:

My favorite hobbies are reading and writing — my favorite book, as you may have already guessed, is “A Season in Hell”, by Arthur Rimbaud, a good last name for a pseudonym, don't you think? I like alternative music and my favorite artist is David Bowie. I don't watch much television, but I like watching new releases on MTV and watching movies, especially horror ones — my favorite is “Halloween”, even though I find the endless sequels detestable and just way too weak compared to the original. As for my writing process… I write the world as it is, beyond the appearances of normality, or as it should be; I like things that are interesting and out of the ordinary.

Charlotte R.”

To say that that letter had made him happy would be to underestimate his reaction: Sasuke Uchiha was ecstatic , and could barely control the stupid and stubborn smile on his face. It would be difficult to concentrate on training today, as he realized as he walked onto the school gymnasium. The place was almost empty, with few people watching the training sessions: winter was approaching and despite the pool being heated, it was still unbearably cold in the gym due to the lack of thermal insulation; it was probably the same feeling as getting inside a refrigerator, if he had to bet...

The coach, at the end, praised his performance and said that whatever had increased his motivation, it was good to keep close by — a thought that the Uchiha obviously agreed with.

Sitting down on one of the benches next to the bleachers, he saw a familiar figure, writing in a notebook. It was Hinata, and she didn't notice him until he was sitting next to her. — Writing much, huh?

This scared her and almost made her drop the notebook between the gaps in the seats. — Damn, Sasuke, what kind of idea, ugh…!

— Relax, I didn’t wanna scare you, I’ve just never seen you around here.

— Kiba is sick and someone needs to cover this fortnight's sports column, he's left to me, of course. — she explained, closing the notebook — What do you want?

— Nothing… But Charlotte answered me. I hope you don't mind if I send another letter to the editorial office, I don't know any other way of talking to her right now.

— It’s fine. — no questions, no complaints. This surprised him but in a positive way.

The one who actually had questions was Sasuke, who looked at the large mirror with an intricate, baroque-style frame, next door. — Is that yours?

— Yeah, a lady was throwing it out this morning, on my way here, and I brought it to take home later, Shino promised he would help me after he finished developing the pictures for the next edition. — she explained, tracing the arabesques on the frame with her fingertips. Thin, pale, and delicate fingers, like those of a pianist: Sasuke sometimes heard someone in the house next door playing, and now he was sure it was her.

Taking the mirror in his arms (which was quite heavy, he had to admit), he stood up and started down the steps. — Come on, I'll help you with this.

— I-it’s okay, Shino… — Hinata still tried to argue.

— Will take a long time, because developing photographs takes a long time. I know because my brother is a photographer, and I've seen him do it a million times.

The girl didn't answer, hiding her face inside the red scarf she wore, almost as red as her cheeks. Sasuke walked beside her, wondering how she had managed to carry that heavy thing to school, and where she could have stored it (probably in the club room, because it definitely wouldn't fit in the locker, it was too tall and large). What a determined mind, certainly…

Good thing the house was close by... Soon, they arrived at the Hyuuga family's yellow house, the one with sunflowers planted near the front window, from where it was possible to see the piano in the living room. — T-thank you... You don't have to be so nice to me, you know? I wouldn't ask for anything in return for letting you send the letters, you know...

— I know, and I know that I don't need to be nice to you or anyone else: I just wanna be. — Sasuke said, with a small smile of satisfaction. He was a person who didn't smile much — Are you sure you don't need help putting this up on the wall?

— No, my dad can help me with that, he should be getting home by now. Thank you, really, Sasuke.

It might not have seemed like much, but those simple words made a strong impression on Sasuke and, if he could describe it, he would have said that they melted his cold heart a little. There's a lot of beauty in being simple and to the point, and Hinata Hyuuga sure has a way with words, a certain firmness of character, he thought, as he walked into the house as well. It was a funny thought to have, accompanied also by a vague feeling of déjà vu .

(...)

Night fell and, for the first time in months, Sasuke heard the sound of the piano next door. First, someone playing a few stray notes, and then a familiar melody: "Clair de Lune", by Debussy. His mother, particularly, liked this piece: Mikoto, who was cooking dinner, stopped what she was doing for the next few minutes to listen to the music. Sasuke walked down the stairs and stood next to her, carefully savoring each of the notes, and the emotion behind them.

— Hinata plays so well. It's a shame she barely has time to play now... — his mother said, sighing deeply.

— I know. — Sasuke replied, in a tone of melancholy that he couldn't understand and, for the first time, there was a flash of pain in his heart, as if something was missing, and he couldn't understand exactly what it was.

He returned to his room after the song ended, still surrounded by a magical mist, which left him intoxicated. I wish I could’ve sat next to Hinata while she played, and recorded the song to listen to it countless times, or until the cassette tape fell apart from being used so much, just to be able to replicate the magic of that short moment a little bit more. He wrote, motivated by a hallucinated fervor, everything he wanted to say to Charlotte Rimbaud.

(...)

Half of October was gone in the blink of an eye, and the second fortnight would bring another publication of the newspaper, which Sasuke was very much looking forward to. Something had broken the ice between him and Hinata, which certainly surprised some and seemed expected by others, since they were now walking together, talking, to and from school, and he seemed to be hanging around the journalism and literature club more often than ever. The letters he exchanged with Charlotte became longer and longer, and he increasingly longed for answers.

It was a cold Friday afternoon when they were walking back home through an empty street. They knew that winter was approaching just from how the sky turned gray and dark so early, and the trees no longer had leaves on their branches.

— When are you gonna play again? — he asked, as they crossed the street towards the opposite sidewalk.

— Well, today, I guess? I don't know. Why? — the girl replied, while dodging a puddle of water, getting closer to Sasuke.

— If you’re gonna play "Clair de Lune" again, I want to record it. It's my favorite, and recently you've been playing it more often, I like it. My mom likes it when you play too, she always stops cooking to listen to you.

Hinata giggled shyly. — I can look for a cassette tape with the music already recorded by a professional pianist, I mean... It would be better than trying to use a recorder, I think the acoustics in my room aren't that good, and also, if I make a mistake...

— But it's different when you play. There's soul in every note, you know? Hard to explain.

She went silent for a moment, staring at the ground. — You know, it's funny you say that, because I think there's a little bit of me in that particular song. Not because I put my soul there, but because it has always been there , maybe even before I was born… Have you ever had the experience of recognizing something when you see it for the first time? Like déjà vu ... When I heard "Clair de Lune" for the first time, that's how I felt, as if I had already heard it somewhere, and suddenly the image of each note and my fingers playing the piano keys came into my head, even though it was long before I started playing, long before I understood anything about music. I just knew. My grandmother used to say that I was a peculiar child, an old soul, and maybe she was right about that, because I dreamed of the familiarity of old evening dresses and the glitz of the Belle Epoque , as if I had lived through it all and there was still a thread that tied me to the past, when I used to attend balls and waltz... — she paused and smiled — Or maybe I was just a very imaginative child and obsessed with a random historical period.

— My brother once told me that this reincarnation thing is probably true and that when we like people for no apparent reason it's because our souls have always attracted each other, gravitating around each other like planets around the sun. I found it very beautiful. I think he, like you, is also an old soul, and I am brand new, as modern as a color television. — Sasuke said, with a crooked smile — By the way, has anyone ever told you that you have a way with words? Right now, it’s like I felt a déjà vu too, as if I had already heard not those exact words, not those ideas, but this way, this soul behind it...

Pausing for a minute, suddenly Sasuke Uchiha felt terribly stupid, and realized the truth behind that almost comical situation: Kiba was right when he said that if he was smart he would get everything, and it seems that this thought had only occurred to him now. Arthur Rimbaud, who lived during the Belle Epoque, was an old soul just like the little Charlotte he finally met in person. — Charlotte... You're Charlotte, aren't you?

Giving up, the Hyuuga hid a little further inside the red scarf, as scarlet as she was. — Well... It looks like we've finally met, right, Mr. Darcy?

[silverbladexyz]

♤ Hey there, Silver! Hope you're doing well!! I'm always on a Stormbringer brainrot as well, especially with Rimbaud, I love that Frenchman waaaay to much-

Anyway! If you have the time, could you write Rimbaud reacting to a reader who get him a new winter coat and a scarf? I think he'd be really happy! I don't really mind on pronouns, whatever you're happy with!

Hope you're taking care of yourself, and putting yourself before writing!! ♤

Hiii Ember! I'm doing well, and I hope that you are too! And thank you so much for remembering about Rimbaud our underrated French spy!

The image does not belong to me. It belongs to it's original owner.

TW: None. Slight Stormbringer spoilers below!

A gift for you

It was winter, the season of cold and snow.

And it was just your luck that France had pretty heavy snow in winter this year. The snow was thick whenever it fell, it's white sheen ruthlessly covering everything it landed on. Footsteps quickly disappeared in the matter of seconds, leaving no trace behind. While one would think that this would be beneficial for spies, it was a meagre benefit compared to the largely increased risk of injuries and failure of the mission.

A lot more of your co-workers had started to wear thicker clothing which mostly consisted of long winter coats. Many accessories were worn as well, such as gloves, scarves, and ear-muffs, and the heaters in the buildings were always cranked up high. It stopped everyone from feeling cold.

Well, apart from one person.

"U-uh, Monsieur Rimbaud, are you sure that you'll be fine?"

"Brrr... it's alright, Y/N. The cold is only a small distraction; I'll be able to finish my mission without any disaster. Although I do wish it'll be warmer..." You looked at him in concern as he shivered violently. Even when he was dressed the warmest underneath the blazing hot heater, he still looked like he was only wearing a t-shirt and shorts in Antarctica.

"If only I had your ability... then I'd be able to make myself warm like a caterpillar in a futon..."

Ah, right. Your ability allowed you to manipulate anything that was to do with cloth. Which meant you could pull apart single pieces of fibres, or just control clothing on it's own. But not only did you have physical power over anything made from threads, you could also make the clothing become different temperatures, with no limit on how long it changed temperature for and how hot or cold it could get. You could even burn or freeze people with the clothing if you wanted. It was a formidable ability, one that had helped you immensely on your missions.

"But my ability could be dangerous if not handled properly. You know that." Rimbaud gave a miserable nod as he gave another shiver. Just looking at him made you feel guilty, because most of the time you just relied on your power to control how warm or cool your clothes were.

"Brrr... I have to head off now. I'll see you around." You blinked, then nodded, raising up a hand to say farewell. Lowering it down, you frowned as you recalled his shivering form. It was only just then did you realise how bad it had gotten. If he continued like this, his performance on missions would definitely be impacted; and that was something a spy wanted to avoid at all costs.

If only I had your ability...

Looks like you just found what gift you wanted to give him for Christmas.

~~~

December came quickly, and then the day approached where it was a public holiday for everyone. Well, only for normal civilians. For spies like you, it meant another day of highly-classified work.

You blew onto your fingers, your joints aching from working them a lot last night. The gift lay snugly in your coat, the product of so many months worth of blood, sweat and tears. Okay well, maybe not blood. In the place of blood was many sleepless nights alongside horrible coffee that kept you awake until 1AM.

Your eyelids were on the verge of shutting, but familiar black hair that appeared in the corner of your vision made you perk up immediately. Calling out his name, you jogged towards him, clutching the gift tightly against you. A wave of nervousness passed through you.

“Merry Christmas, Monsieur Rimbaud!” The Frenchman smiled a little, and opened his mouth to say something, only to sneeze again and shiver more violently than before. You hurriedly held out the package in your arms and he stared at it curiously.

“Here, I’ve got you a gift! I hope that you’ll like it!”

Rimbaud blinked as he accepted the gift from you with freezing hands. He stared at it, albeit a bit cluelessly, which made you feel a tinge of guilt for him. The spy probably hasn’t received a lot of Christmas presents before...

“Well, go on and open it! It was made specially for you!”

With shaking fingers, Rimbaud slowly took the ribbon off and opened the wrapping paper delicately.

The gift turned out to be a winter coat with a scarf alongside it.

“I know you’re always complaining about the cold, and that you have difficulty finding the right type of clothes to keep you warm. So I decided to make you your own winter coat and scarf. Don’t worry about whether or not they’ll help stop the cold. Because I’ve activated my ability on it indefinitely. You’ll never feel cold again with these on.”

Rimbaud slowly took them out with trembling hands. Yet they were not trembling from the cold.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

He put the coat on and wound the scarf around his neck. Your ability activated instantly, warming up the clothes, and in turn, warming up Rimbaud. The effect was instant; he stopped shivering, and his complexion even got a bit better.

You were about to say something when you saw him smiling the most genuine smile you had ever seen. It was tender and gentle, with warmth laced in it. If you had squinted and looked closer, you could’ve seen the faintest tint of pink on his cheeks. 

Smiling, you bid him farewell and left to continue with your day.

Gently grasping his scarf, Rimbaud smiled a bit. It was warm, yet lovely and soft.

Just like you.

Yes, I am soft for this French man >.< Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays everyone!

@pixyys @pianotross @chuuyas-beloved @fi-nn-losofia @nekokinax @xxelfmamaxx @yukitomybeloved @sariel626 @i-just-like-goats @ashthemadwriter @yuugen-benni @lakeside-paradise @irethepotato @voyagewiththesatan @scarletta-ruan @catzlivedforbsd @arisu-chan4646

[grymmnox]

weekly fic recs #28

uh. i think it’s 28? almost forgot ti was saturday,, whoops! my computer is struggling. so much. anyways, lets get into it. 

edit: I CANNOT BELIEVE IF ORGOT A LINK anyways its there now ok enjoy the fic

fandom(s): bungo stray dogs, the owl house (the finale aired,, i read some fics, ofc!)

ship(s): soukoku, shin soukoku, ranpoe, lumity, huntlow, and ofc some gen fics

Oneshots

Discovering My Inhumanity; UnfunnyClown - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 9.3k words | dazai & PM, dazai & mori, dazai & hirotsu, dazai & kouyou, chuuya & dazai, chuuya & dazai & rimbaud, dazai & Q, dazai & fyodor | READ TAGS

summary:

Some people go through their entire life without realising they have an ability. Osamu Dazai is not one of those people, no matter how much he wishes he was.

Five times Dazai learns something new about No Longer Human, one time he shares a discovery. (Au in which No Longer Human functions differently)

The Demon Prodigy; YunaYamiMouto - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 14.4k words | chuuya/dazai, chuuya & dazai, ADA & dazai, dazai & PM

summary:

The Demon Prodigy, basically a myth in the underworld, Port Mafia's most dangerous and precious asset, seemingly re-emerges after four years of silence. ADA is in hysterics. The Port Mafia is laughing their asses off. Dazai is Not Amused and Chuuya is less than Not Pleased with Soukoku's name being dragged through the mud. Shenanigans ensue.

To What End?; WaxWings (Greyality) - bungo stray dogs

mature | 2.7k words | chuuya/dazai, chuuya & dazai, dazai & mori, ADA & dazai | READ TAGS

summary:

"And you!" Yosano points an accusing finger in his direction, "Don't tell me you didn't know exactly what that sick fucking bastard had in mind. Don't tell me you didn't know that Mori wanted to--to--" Her voice falters, nausea and memories closing her throat all at once before she manages to spit out an acidic final accusation, "...you knew."

Ranpo refuses to meet her eyes.

"Of course I knew," He says, "But you know better than anyone that no matter our ability, there are some people that can't be saved."

"Dazai isn't some people."

----

Or I couldn't resist writing one of those fics where Dazai returns to the mafia to protect Yosano after the Hunting Dogs arc

Who Cares If It’s Gay, As Long As I’m With You; Mystic_Panda_4 - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 18.5k words | chuuya/dazai

summary:

Dazai and Chuuya have been engaged for just over five months now and Dazai is tired of waiting for a wedding. They've already told their coworkers, they've been fiancés for soooo long now, that really, they should just skip the wedding and go straight to the honeymoon right? And what better way to celebrate their honeymoon then by going on a road trip across the country they fell in love in. And of course, Dazai definetly has no surprises planned because what could possibly go wrong as Soukoku tackles America.

***

"Chuuya, look, there's a sign for Little Tokyo!" "No, absolutely not." "But wouldn't it be fun to see how accurate it is?" "Dazai, we are soaking wet and I personally am freezing, I am not making a detour in Little Tokyo so we can walk around wet and cold just to see how accurate it is." There was blissful silence in the car for a few moments, and then- "Chuuya, is it gay if we're in Japan but Japan is in America?" "Who cares if it's gay? As long as I'm with you, I'm sure you'll find some way to to turn it gay anyways." "Aww, Chuuya, I love you too."

all my own; halfbloom (diphylleias) - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 17.4k words | chuuya/dazai

summary:

“A day off?” Chuuya echoes, blinking slowly.

“Yes,” Mori repeats with a chuckle, but it sounds like an order this time. “A day off. Do with it as you please.” And right as Chuuya is opening his mouth to ask why, Mori perks up and says, “Ah, I instructed Dazai-kun to take the day off as well.” He smiles serenely. “So you two may spend it together, if you’d like.”

Chuuya’s eye twitches.

In between carnival games and ice cream stands, Chuuya learns a thing or two at seventeen about normalcy, cotton candy, and hand-holding.

Feet Over Harsh Ground; izanyas - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 8.1k words | dazai & kunikida & yosano, chuuya/dazai

summary:

When two foreigners ask the armed detective agency to collect something in the ruins of the military base near Suribachigai, Fukuzawa sends Yosano and Kunikida to investigate. Dazai, the agency’s newest recruit, asks to come along.

Alternately: Yosano accidentally makes a study out of Dazai, Kunikida is too tired for the both of them, and sometimes all it takes to open up is one too many drinks.

the wolves that guard their wounds; boopiejokes - the owl house

teen and up | 4.5k words | eda & luz, hunter & luz, eda & hunter, flapjack & hunter | READ TAGS

summary:

“Hooty, if someone’s here, why didn’t you—”

Luz’s eyes popped out of their sockets. “Oh…”

Hooty flicked his frightened eyes to her — and if something freaked Hooty out, then Luz was in the storm for something — then down at the boy on the ground who was painting the grass darker with his blood outside the door.

I Will Always Return; the_sentient_duck - the owl house

teen and up | 5k words | hunter & vee | READ TAGS

summary:

Once upon a time, Hunter met a basilisk, striking up a friendship that changed both of their lives for the better.

Frenemies; sakarrie - the owl house

general audiences | 3.2k words | hunter & luz

summary:

Hunter gets a mysterious message telling him to meet them at the night market. He really should have realized Luz would be behind this.

Or: Post-ASIAS, Luz doesn't like the idea of Hunter suddenly showing up at Hexside and almost kidnapping her friends.

Come Morning Light; Sokkas_First_Fangirl - the owl house

general audiences | 10.7k words | camila & hunter & luz & vee, camila & hunter, camila & luz, camila & vee, amity/luz, hunter & luz, luz & vee, camila & everyone, hunter/willow, gus & hunter | READ TAGS

summary:

Camila always dreamed of having a big family. She came from one, Manny came from one; they were in agreement that they wanted a whole bunch of kids.

Things didn’t work out that way. Manny got sick and that became the focus of Camila’s life. She tried to shield Luz as best she could, but Luz was growing up, growing wiser every day; she could see the dawning horror in her daughter’s eyes, the knowledge that Manny wasn’t getting better.

Manny died holding her hand and their dreams of a huge, loud family died with him.

Fate had other plans.

(Vee was hers in a heartbeat. Camila had a soft spot for Hunter, but she didn’t begin to think of him as hers until the end of the kids’ second month with her.)

*

Camila's always dreamed of a big family; she just didn't expect to become a mother of three in such an unconventional way.

Or, a study in Camila Noceda and her growing bond with Hunter.

Complete Fics

he’s got big sharp teeth (and big fat hips); bunterasu - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 3 chapters | 14.7k words | akutagawa/atsushi, chuuya/dazai, akutagawa & chuuya, poe/ranpo

summary:

Before Akutagawa could realize what he was saying, the words were tumbling out of his mouth and into the air between them: “Use Rashoumon.”

Akutagawa slapped his hand over his mouth so hard it stung. Atsushi’s mouth fell open, his ears going slightly pink as he processed what the raven-haired boy said.

“Excuse me?”

Akutagawa’s face was bright red under his hand. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Did you just suggest that I teethe on Rashoumon?”

“I said nothing of the sort, Weretiger!”

or, Akutagawa, Atsushi, and the universal teenage experience of teething.

Wrapped up in You; quinnlocke - bungo stray dogs

mature (altho i think it. could be rated explicit. sexual content) | 24 chapters | 100.9k words | chuuya/dazai | READ TAGS

summary:

Chuuya just wants to get through his day as a reptile expert, but there's a bandaged lunatic in his reptile house trying to get murdered by his snakes.

Saving the man's life is a courtesy, taking him home is just asking for trouble.

the blood on my hands is yours to keep; zyria - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 5 chapters | 13k words | chuuya/dazai, chuuya & dazai

summary:

Dazai and Chuuya have been in a secret relationship the entire time since Dazai defected from the Mafia. Everyone knows. Except Dazai, that is.

Or, an alternative retelling of the four year divorce where soukoku keeps in contact, because come on, four years is a bit too long to miss someone, even for these two idiots, probably.

"I'm betraying the mafia."

"Uh huh."

"We're enemies now."

"Sure."

Dazai sighs. Chuuya is always impossible, this is why he hates him so much.

"Why aren't you trying to kill me?"

"Why aren't you?"

Incomplete Fics

Dazai and Chuuya’s teenage camera roll; meezla - bungo stray dogs

general audiences | 14/20 chapters | 10.3k words | chuuya/dazai, chuuya & dazai, atsushi & dazai, dazai & kunikida, ADA & dazai

summary:

When Dazai's past at the Mafia is known by everyone at the agency and Dazai tells everyone that he still has his old phone, the agency can't help but go through it.

or

Dazai and Chuuya filmed a bunch of videos on Dazai's old phone when they were 15-18 and the agency watched all of them.

kerosene hearts; orphan_account - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 7/? chapters | 16.9k words | chuuya/dazai, akutagawa/atsushi

summary:

Chuuya doesn’t have any gloves on which he always wears, and the skin beneath is clear, pure, unscarred from Corruption and that these hands are not his. It takes longer than it should have, the knowledge settling in like a black cloud over his figure on the unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room in what must be an equally unfamiliar apartment that this is not his body.

This is Dazai Osamu’s body, wrapped in bandages and taller than he is and lanky and not Chuuya’s at all. // the body swap that no one, especially chuuya, akutagawa, atsushi (and by some extension, dazai) asked for. //

grim’s notes: obviously this has been orphaned, so don’t expect any updates lmao. still a good fic nonetheless

i’ll die in his cold, cold arms; venusdahlia - bungo stray dogs

mature | 24/? chapters | 115k words | chuuya/dazai | READ TAGS

summary:

“Dazai-san, you’re staring.” Atsushi noticed, finding a spot over the railing next to Dazai. “Hm. I guess so.” He replied, not looking away from the rink. Just for a moment, the brunet’s eyes reflected the bright light from the overhead lights, a bright glow engulfing them. “It’s not that often I have the time to see you guys act so barbaric, it’s very entertaining.”

Atsushi gave the other a light shove. “Is that really what you’re here to see?”

Annoyed, Dazai moved his gaze with narrow eyes towards Atsushi. Before he could shoot back at him, a loud yell from the rink interrupted them. “THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT, YOU LOUSY PILE OF BANDAGES?!”

-

Where after losing a bet, Nakahara Chuuya, a skilled but short-tempered hockey player, is forced to train with Dazai Osamu , the most annoying figure skater he had the misfortune to meet.

carrier pigeon boy; Anonymous - the owl house

teen and up | 3/? chapters | 15k words | belos & hunter, eda & hunter, eda & owlbert, eda & king, lilith & hunter | READ TAGS

summary:

“It’s a shame you have these… things,” they spat, lifting a wing up once again but with a lot more force, stretching it high and picking at the plumage. Their hand plucked a feather, inspecting it- and he held still, breathless, a drop of blood welling from the spine. “The curse of wild magic never leaves.”

“Wild… wild magic?” he asked, quietly.

They nodded. “It destroyed this village, our family. They took you hostage- are you alright?”

"I’m your uncle, Hunter. Uncle Belos.”

Making a grimwalker goes wrong, somehow. Maybe he used too much palistrom wood, or somehow finally using his brother's heart instead of bone had more of an effect than he thought it would. Because this one has wings. This one, isn't quite as witch or human as it is animal and other; wings like the palisman of the witch that lead his brother astray. The very form of the palisman that lead him away.

But maybe it's a good thing. Even if this one is cursed by wild magic, and couldn't even take on a humanlike form- and could become less than an animal, take the form of a bird, it just meant he didn't need to feel guilty when he killed it.

[straycatboogie]

2023/02/27 English

BGM: Pizzicato Five - 陽の当たる大通り

Today I worked late. It was quite a fine day, and I couldn't read Yasuharu Konishi's "My Beatles" at the reading time at the morning. Probably it was too fine and my mood got so excited that I couldn't face the book steadily. I gave up reading more and started enjoying soul music as Stevie Wonder, and talked with my friends about the topic of "analog" and "digital" on a group on LINE as I wrote yesterday, and also finished the homework of the English conversation class. A friend said to us that we should use the things what we can use, so we don't need to decide what we can't use to do at the first rapidly. We need to have a soft attitude to use them with the tactic of eclecticism.

Referring to that "eclecticism", we often wander whether we have to choose between two opposite things. They can be any large topic of "conservativism or liberalism", or "The Beatles or Rolling Stones", "Rimbaud or Baudelaire", "Godard or Truffaut", etc. It becomes complicated because people even make some parties about this problem. I believe that we don't have to be so serious, but just try to enjoy "anything good is good". We can stand by Giants even though we are the fans of Hanshin Tigers. If we decided to deny the opposite thing because of "I stand by this", it would bring a narrow point of view... I thought this by the message of the LINE group. We have to keep the wisdom of finding the right decision between two things.  

Writing the essay for the English conversation class, I thought that I am living in the "change of the era". When I was just 20, "Windows 95" was started to be sold and the internet was started to be used actually. In other ways, I admit that I know the era which the division of countries were hot as Cold War. And I also have watched the division has been melted by the globalization by the internet. The internet is, I also guess, also melting the wall between the city and the countryside, not only the wall between countries. Now, we can catch various new cultural news even though we stay in Shiso city, a countryside town. Indeed, city life has its greatness. But this life in Shiso suits for me.

Now is the era that we can live freely not only in this real world but in the virtual internet world with using various digital devices. I want to think the "real world's beauty" first with the expression supported by the era of that digital age. This world is full of beautiful things, and they are provided in front of us with 3D, dynamic scenery. And also, "now, this moment" is just the thing we can enjoy "now" (yes, this is tautology). "Now, this moment" is always in front of us which never will come back as the real time scenery... it reminds me of Sartre's philosophy. It is important for me that I can enjoy this miracle of living "now, this moment" which never come back again. Now, I am living the now, the moment with Pizzicato Five's elegant tunes.

[kaypeace21]

"Rebel robin" easterggs

- Robin's friend is a horror movie fan whos fav movie is evil dead (jonathan has a poster of it in his room)

- Robin's parent's car is the " dodge dart" a ref to Dustin's demodog-dart

-robin and her friends make analogies to zombies (like Will- the zombie boy).

- robin faints. And her friend milton says "blink once for yes twice for no". A ref to what Joyce said to Will in s1.

- robin's other friend has a little sister named el-ie who pretends to be a squirrel. A ref to el killing a squirrel in s2. This is also reminiscent of a scene from the st prequel novel ' suspicious minds' where young-kali pretended to be a tiger (the Hawkins school mascot) & a rabbit (Jonathan's hunting story).

- robin reminds me alot of the byers: she is into photography and rock like jonathan and even worked at the movie theatre like jonathan did in the og pilot. They both like David bowie and cook for their families. She also is poor and wears hand-me down clothes from relatives (like Will). She also is into existential philosophers. Which is also similar to jonathan who had a poster of the poet rimbaud in his room.

- robin is almost run over by a car by a bully while riding her bike: similar to Mike, Dustin, and Lucas in s2

- robin says the best accessory for a girl is her middle finger. Cue max giving the middle finger to billy in s2 XD

- robin (before Will dissapears) sees the quarry and gets uncomfortable and thinks of metaphorical monsters

- similar to how billy had baseball references (along with Will). Robin wears a baseball shirt

- her fav flavor of pie is cherry (like alexi and cherry slurpies). She also gets pissed at a guy sipping a cherry flavored drink- similar to hopper in s3 with alexi

- she cuts her hair and she describes it as looking like a lion. El and Will owned lion plushies in s1.

- robin refs Chicago (kali lives there) and NYC (hopper used to live there), and California (where max and billy used to live).

-tammy's fav song is total eclipse of the heart: the song Robin and Steve sang in s3. Tammy would often sing the song in robin and Steve's class.

- they make references to the hellfire club: she describes a time where she dresses like a cross between a nerd and a rebel. And a mom yells at her appearance saying she looks "goddless' . And another of Robin's friend (kate) is told ' what demon is possessing you, kate?" (hinting at the satanic panic). Meanwhile someone describes Mike and his friends as "hellions' as another hint to this. We also see how alot of parents got paranoid and a bit crazy when Will and barb dissappeared- prob foreshadowing the chaos that will happen if more kids dissappear in s4. Along with the satanic panic

-Robin is visiting her friend Kate at her house. Kate wanted to listen to Madonna together. Max and el listened to Madonna at el's.

- Robin's friend (kate) says "I dumped his ass" in reference to her cheating bf. A little nod to the m*leven breakup

- robin (like Will) felt excluded during the summer cause her friends kate and dash (Kate's now ex bf) were always making out . Sound familiar- cough m*leven

- robin annoyed says " makeouts, breakups and declarations of love all in the span of a week". Wow if that ain't a diss to certain pairing we know in s3 XD

- kate (like mike) says to Robin dating the opposite sex is a part of growing up . Which scares Robin (and Will in s3).

- robin has a nightmare of running down the school hallway with short hair (like el in s2 via the upsidedown)

- robin contemplates shaving her head (like el)

- robin says she likes to sometimes dress androgynous . And found a cool suit. Which we saw in s4 bts pics I assume.

- robin watches a music video where there are duplicate indianna joneses (could be a ref to all the billy duplicates in s3?)

- robin says " I stare at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back. I'm stuck and don't know what to do" a ref to the s3 song with robin called "the ceiling is beautiful"

- a character named Sheena reminds me a bit of Will or el . She is very quiet, queercoded, and is often bullied. And she finds mean notes and other things in her locker- placed there by bullies. A bit like how Will found the zombieboy note in his locker. But sheena can be another name for Jane so ...maybe foreshadowing of el/jane being bullied in highscool?

- when robin hears a hom*phobic comment on tv- she describes the anxiety like a ' thundercloud in a big open sky' and a "chill". Which reminds me of the mf being associated with clouds, thunder, and lightning. And the mf liking it cold.

- robin constantly describes the monster or shadow in her life- whether it be her talking about conformity or the problems of consumerism while she is poor (themes of s3).

- robin before realizing she was gay/crushing on tammy just says " I don't get crushes' which reminds me a bit of Will saying " I'm not going to fall in love" (as the lyrics are " love thats new to you, you open up the door')

-robin on her bike hears something (demogorgan) and runs back to her house , locks the door, and calls her friend- and the phone gets electrocuted. The next day Will is said to be missing. (Another Will paralllel).

- i was right about robin being in theatre. So we most likely will see robin in theatre in s4 (she also auditioned with a friend in the book). So for s4 my guess is she may be in the drama club with dustin- cause in s1 he had a drama shirt

- one of her friends is named milton. Since the documentary 'paradise lost' was on the s4 movie list. Its prob a ref to John milton who wrote the fictional 'paradise lost'. The character Sheena may be a ref to the 80s film/movies *where sheena (jane) was psychic

-Robin's gal pal (kate) and Robin eat m&ms and candies together. Kate jokes m&ms and candy bars are 'foods of the gods'. El ate m&ms in s3. They joke how talking about plural gods (instead of 1) would get them in trouble. In case you are unaware- kali (is the name of a Hindu goddess) and el (is the name of a cannanite god) .

-Robin also mentions hopper's car smells like eggos.

- robin tries running away (like el in s2, max in her novel, and jonathan also wrongfully assumed Will ranaway in s1 too).

-robin tries to get a job at Joyce's, than Bob's, and later gets a job where jonathan used to work

-bob newby describes the byers family as his "home" . Similar to how El describes the Hawkins gang as "home".

- robin says she was friends with barb before nancy. Suspiciously right after she says this- barb grabs Robin's hallpass that says ' glitch in the time space continuim. " the teacher who wrote this called robin a "glitch". Which makes me wonder if my did theory is right- but ...that certain powers at be may also alter memories or things so people assume said people have always been around.Mentioning it cause it seemed suspicious.

-not an eastegg but robin can't believe how nice Bob is. And Bob says the byers filled a hole in his life 😭 . She also felt an instant connection with Will and saw alot of herself in him.And asked if Joyce ever thought of moving like everyone suggested . One of the reasons Robin didn't like steve was because Steve never mentioned how Jonathan took innapropriate photos of Nancy. So everyone at school just knew jonathan as the quiet kid who takes pictures. So to everyone it just seemed like- wow you're bullying the quiet kid who's brother is missing and take away the one thing still left in his life that makes him happy. Which is why everyone assumes jonathan beat up steve later. Interesting to know how general Hawkins (not in the loop) viewed things

- the book referenced alot of previously mentioned movies on the s4 list or from prior duffer interviews...along with a few NEW movies ,books, plays, singers, and songs that I have to analyze for another day ...

[millennialgrandma]

July Wrap Up

Let's just all collectively agree to ignore the fact that my July post is coming to you live from the sunset of August, ok? I could have had this done weeks ago when I took some time off work, but I DIDN'T. It isn't like I read a lot, or even wrote a lot, in July. But life happens and idk, man. I'm in this weird little funk right now.

Things I Wrote

I spent most of July decidedly Not Writing™. Until the last week of the month, naturally, when I spent a couple hours each night putting together my entry for our second "Write This In Your Style" collection. The Bloody At Your Door collection went live on Aug 1, but I'm still counting it as July writing. Especially because it is anyone's guess whether I'll manage to write at all in August (the muse has been a fickle and elusive little bitch).

Anyways, my angsty little open-ended contribution is titled the nature of breaking (dramione, E, 5k). I'm begging you to check out the rest of the collection if you haven't already. I'm astoundingly lucky to call these writers my friends.

Things I Read

Get ready, because I'm about to blow. your. mind. THAT'S RIGHT, FOLKS! I READ A TRADITIONALLY PUBLISHED BOOK! And it is all @eggbagelsjr and @mightbewriting's fault. So what if the only book I read so far this year was a monsterfucking book? IT MADE ME HAPPY.

My fanfic track record for July is pretty abysmal. Outside of a multi-chap group read in the RoR discord server, I managed a handful of completed fics. I blazed through all of the available chapters for a deliciously depraved (new to me) WIP, and caught up on another. I have otherwise fallen behind on pretty much all of the WIPs I'm following.

Fiction:

Morning Glory Milking Farm by C.M. Nascosta (approx. 60k words)

Nonfiction:

Fanfiction:

Complete: (approx. 34.2k)

Best in Show by naughtybaguette (dramione, E, 6.6k)

The Nature of Seduction by @dreamsofdramione and @artofcrumbs (panville, E, 6k)

wanna lay my head where the cold wind blows by @one-equaltemper (dramionstoria, E, 7.8k)

Keep Swinging Your Bat My Way by @veelawings (dron, E, 1k)

Group Read: riddle me this by @megamegaturtle (dramione, GA, 8.1k)

Group Read: His Lucky Day by @monsterleadmehome (dramione, E, 5k)

WIPs: (approx. 217.9k)

Fervidity by @kittenshift-17 - Chapters 1 - 26 (dramione/sevmione/dramionbastan(?), E, 215.8k)

Where There's Smoke by @whimsymanaged - Chapter 4 (dramione, E, 2.1k)

Things I'm Currently Reading (Heading into August)

We continued our group read of @pacific-rimbaud's Love and Other Historical Accidents in July, flailing our way through Chapters 6-11. I'm still out here having the goddamn time of my life with this fic (the group finished it mid-August, but I missed the final chapter read and I'm still hanging on because I don't want it to end). I also hopped into another RoR group read for Chosen, by 5moreminutes. I only made it to the first read, so I'm just a couple of chapters in, but this fic is so wonderful and features Hannah Abbott as a side character and OH MY GOD I JUST WANT TO PUT HER IN MY POCKET AND KEEP HER FOREVER.

And since we're already ignoring the lateness of this post, let's also ignore that last month I said my July goal was to cross two fics off my TBR list, hmm? I do not wish to be perceived.

[popopretty]

Storm Bringer Spoilers (9)

I finally finished the translation of the last part in the epilogue where it is explained why Verlaine was still alive and how he became after that. Verlaine and Rimbaud’s relationship is just so sad :( 

Please feel free to re-translate. Just be aware that I don’t speak English or Japanese as my native language so I may make a few mistakes here and there. Also, some meanings might be lost in indirect translation. 

...

Going back in time.

The Demonic Beast Guivre appeared in the wood. Adam blew himself up. Chuuya opened the “gate” and defeated Guivre.

Four minutes and thirty seconds after that.

The place was the site of the collapsed highway overpass. Crushed foundation materials, concrete, wires, steel frames, cylindrical forms and such were scattered and piled up like dead bodies.

On the top of that place, Verlaine was in the progress of vanishing.

He couldn’t bend the tips of his fingers. His breathing was shallow. His vision was so dark and hazy that he couldn’t even see the stars. Verlaine is nothing more than a sealed string of codes. When the singularity lifeform that acted as his main body disappeared, his heart was slowly stopping due to the life-sustaining energy being depleted.

Verlaine’s thoughts were just as shallow and slow as his breath. Even on the verge of being engulfed into the hollow of death, his heart didn’t flinch one bit, nor did it seek for anything.

So this is death, Verlaine thought in his disrupted consciousness. It is not such a big deal as I thought. No groaning in pain, no crying of regrets, no distraught with fear either. It is flat and thoroughly empty. In the first place, my life is not a life that has anything to regret at this point. It is a life that should not have been born from the beginning. I didn’t live in a way as to regret anything either.

It’s just that, I caused troubles to so many people. The French government, my assassination targets, Port Mafia, brother. In the end, I didn’t get anything, even with all of that. That only is like a stain my life’s trail, that I regret a little.

Well, whatever. As you can see, I will die soon so forgive me.

His fingers grew colder and eventually he didn’t even feel the cold anymore.

His heartbeat weakened. And after a brief spasm...

It stopped.

His heart.

A few tens of seconds passed.

Verlaine realized that he was still breathing. At the edge of his field of vision, he saw something red. He turned his eyes to that. 

A crimson red cube was passing through his chest and surrounding his heart. That thing was making his heart move.

What the hell is this? Verlaine was confused. It was not because he did not know what the crimson cube was. He was confused because that was something he knew so well.

Why is it here?

“This is the first time I saw you in such a terrible state.”

How nostalgic was that voice.

Verlaine couldn’t believe his own ears. And when the person entered his sight, he started doubting his eyes too.

“No, no...”, Verlaine spoke in a whispering voice. “This can’t be happening. You can’t possibly appear here.”

“Exactly”, the person nodded. “However, showing up in the most unlikely places, at the most unlikely times, isn’t that what a spy is?”

That was Arthur Rimbaud.

A fuzzy outer jacket. A thick scarf around his neck. A pair of earmuffs made from rabbit hair on his head. Long, black hair and somewhat gloomy eyes.

He was the person who saved Verlaine from the lab, and his partner. And the person Verlaine betrayed.

The subspace created by the crimson cube was the sign of Rimbaud’s skill. All substances inside it can be manipulated at Rimbaud’s will.

“Paul, what have you learnt in the world of spies?” Rimbaud sounded surprised as he asked.

“That if you don’t throw away your feelings, you won’t be able to complete the missions, it taught me that much. But what are missions? And what are feelings? Is that to vent out all of my hatred towards human? Or is that to get a little brother? I rushed into this without knowing clearly which one was the mission, and this is the result. If I hadn’t told brother the way to stop Guivre, I would have been able to kill off all those hateful humans.”

“Ahh... I see, you are Rimbaud’s hallucination.” Verlaine said as if he was ridiculing himself. “You are the illusion that I see on the verge of death, the death reaper my guilts are showing me. Otherwise, there is no way Rimbaud who died one year ago would appear here.”

“I’m not a hallucination, neither a reaper. I am a ghost.” Rimbaud shook his head. “I have been waiting for you, in this country.”

Verlaine stared at the other silently, as if he was trying to understand what that existence over there actually was.

“No way, there can be no ghosts.” Verlaine finally shook his head. “Not because it’s unscientific. If you were a ghost and not an illusion, you would not be saving me like this. You would definitely curse me to death.”

“Why?”

“I betrayed you, and tried to kill you.” His cold voice echoed through the night.

Rimbaud didn’t say anything, he looked back at the collapsed Verlaine with calm eyes.

“What’s with those eyes? Be mad at me more, resent me more, punch me, kick me, strangle me, Rimbaud!”, Verlaine screamed, still lying on the ground. “I shot you from the back. That’s why that explosion happened. You were caught up in it and lost your memories, then died in this foreign country not even knowing who you were. If you are a ghost, then there is only one reason that you became one. That’s your grudge towards me, isn’t that right, Rimbaud!”

“It’s the opposite.”, Rimbaud shook his head. “I waited for you because... I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize? For what?” Verlaine frowned, not getting what he just heard.

“I wanted to help you. And I thought that I was helping.” Rimbaud leaned forward, holding his hand over Verlaine’s chest. “But what I actually gave you, was nothing more than the one-sided sympathy of a man who pretended that he understood. I can’t allow myself to just apologize. I have always been thinking about what I could give. And I finally got the answer on the verge of death. This is it.”

Under Rimbaud’s palm, the space cube grew bigger.

The thing that was at Verlaine’s chest earlier started to expand as if it wanted to shallow his whole body. Then it became huge enough to shallow both Verlaine and Rimbaud inside. That was the subspace created by Rimbaud’s skill. Inside it, Rimbaud is capable of doing anything. Except for bringing the dead back to life.

That exception seemed to be happening.

Verlaine noticed his own fingers twitching. They bent. It wasn’t an illusion. His eyes were also moving. His muddy vision gradually became clear.

“This is...”

Verlaine moved his arm. He twisted and raised his upper body up. He looked at his palm, at the back of his hand, squeezed it, then released it again. He felt his fingers being warmed up by the blood flowing in.

He tried to ask what was happening so he looked at Rimbaud who was there.

Rimbaud was not there.

He collapsed.

By Verlaine’s side.

“What is this?”, Verlaine asked in shock. “I see, you... you used your skill on yourself?”

“A method that I could use only once in life.” Rimbaud said with a faint smile on his face. “But it worked well.”

<The skill to turn humans into skills>

That was Arthur Rimbaud’s skill.

Transforming dead humans into a skilled lifeform, and using them freely inside the crimson subspace. The person who is turned will have the memories and physical capabilities of their past lives, they can even use skills. It is a skill worthy of a spy that is considered the most elite in Europe, the heresy of the heresies. 

Rimbaud used that skill on himself.

“It’s nothing to worry about. I am already dead.” Rimbaud said weakly. “What is left here is just information. But even if it is like that, I feel good. Because I could leave this to you.”

Rimbaud’s body started to glow in red. The way it glowed was familiar to Verlaine.

A redshift. (*TN: A term referring to an increase in the wavelength, and corresponding decrease in the frequency and photon energy. In astronomy, it happened when an object is moving away from us. Good luck Googling.) 

“Wait!” Verlaine who realized what was going on, reached out to the collapsed Rimbaud.

“Wait, Rimbaud. Don’t disappear!”

“Because you didn’t like my birthday present.” Rimbaud laughed apologetically.

“Just take this as a birthday present instead. Happy Birthday. I am happy you were born into this life.”

After that, the subspace contracted sharply, sucked into Verlaine’s heart and disappeared.

All that remained was the debris, and Verlaine, and the cool breeze of the night.

Verlaine walked two, three steps with the stunned look on his face. He looked around then sat down on the debris.

“Ha...hahaha.” He looked down and let out a dry laugh.

“Hey Rimbaud, you waited one year for me just to do this? For something like this?”

Verlaine knew, what Rimbaud had done.

To save him, Rimbaud had turned himself into a self-contradictory typed singularity.

Rimbaud, who had turned himself into a skill, used that skill again on his own self who was born as a result of that. Then he continued to apply that skill on his new self that was born. And by repeating this progress, he created a self-contradictory typed singularity. Then he gave that singularity to Verlaine, in place of the Demonic Beast Guivre.

Verlaine tried to stand up but he didn’t have enough strength and dropped his knees on the debris. He was weak. Perhaps, the singularity that Rimbaud created did not have an infinity output like the unlimited energy that the usual self-contradictory typed singularity emits. He could no longer use his inexhaustible gravitational skill like he did before.

But Verlaine didn’t find it particularly regrettable. 

Because he was regretting the thing that he just lost that very moment more.

“Why, Rimbaud?” Verlaine looked up to the sky. “Why did you smile at the end? I betrayed you, and you died because of that, you know?”

He knew the answer. He just didn’t want to understand.

Rimbaud, the man who freed him from Faunus and gave him the freedom to live.

Rimbaud, the man who trained him and raised him into a spy, the person who got through all the dangerous missions with him.

Rimbaud, the man who shyly handed him his birthday present.

“Why did you smile?” Verlaine spoke with a trembling voice. “If you turn yourself into a skill, you are no longer human. You will be nothing more than a piece of surface information with a human’s memories and personalities. You knew that for sure. Still why did you wait for me? Why did you have to go that far for someone like me, when you didn’t even know if I would come or not?”

Verlaine finally came to his senses.

The reason why he let Chuuya know how to defeat the Demonic Beast Guivre at that time.

He hated humans. He thought that it would be okay if everyone died. Yet, he gave out the hint to destroy Guivre. That was because he didn’t think that everyone should die, equally. 

There was only one exception.

One person worthy of affirming human beings.

“Sorry, Rimbaud.” Verlaine whispered behind his clenched teeth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to your friendship. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you when I received the birthday present. I am finally grieving the fact that you are not here anymore now...”

Verlaine said so with his trembling voice, as he sat still and looked up to the sky with his eyes closed.

He remained there for a long, long time, looking at the night sky.

...

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

...

Time pours on everything equally.

Verlaine didn’t die. After surviving with the life he got from Rimbaud, he was confined in Port Mafia’s underground shelter. That was what Verlaine wished for. There was already no place for Verlaine in the outside world. He had lost most of his gravitational skill and the only place he could escape the long and big hands of Europe was the hideout deep underground.

Also, he had no interests in the outside world. There wasn’t anyone he wanted to kill, nor anyone he wanted to meet. Apart from Rimbaud. 

And Rimbaud was no longer there.

At first, he just sat in the basement and spent all his time reading and writing poems. When he became bored with that, he started doing what Rimbaud used to do. Training the younger generation.

He hammered his assassination skills and knowledge into the Mafia’s elites in an underground training space. Gin, Izumi Kyouka, and many more.

Those mafias under his discipline all became top-class assassins in a short period of  time.

Verlaine didn’t reveal his feelings to anyone. He never told his apprentices nor the Boss the reason why he kept desiring that crippling life underground. 

When he was not training his apprentices, he just sat on his wicker chair, waiting for something. He never told anyone what he was waiting for. If he was asked persistently, he would just say “for the storm”. No-one knew what that storm was supposed to mean.

Six years later, Verlaine now has become an indispensable central figure in the Mafia, and risen to the position of one of Mafia’s five executives.

He is still sitting on his wicker chair, waiting for his storm even today.

...

[linklethehistorian]

Randou and the Sins of Season 3’s Fifteen Adaption (Part 50/???)

Bones’ Biggest Changes & Greatest Failures — The Tragedy of Arthur Rimbaud (29/?)

Ah, and speaking of that very visible struggle of Arthur’s, this is not the only scene within the original telling of Fifteen through which we can catch an extremely good glimpse of it in action; as a matter of fact, the one we were just talking about prior — in which Dazai confronts our helpless associate executive at the abandoned warehouse during the preparation for Chuuya’s would-be party — holds an even more clear exhibition of this trait, as Randou grapples with his inability to understand, keep up with, and satisfy his accuser’s demands.

When we look at the true version of this scene with this perspective in mind, the ebony-haired man’s simple statement of “Basis coming from you, I can’t imagine what it is” suddenly takes on a whole new level of importance, as we can at last appreciate it for what it truly was: an honest admission from Rimbaud that he could not even begin to fathom Osamu’s all-too-cynical, analytical, and cold thought processes — and indeed, how could he have? The ill-fated frenchman and the much younger mafioso-to-be were as different as night and day.

Try as he might, quite literally even to save his own life, Arthur — being the pure-hearted, kind, and selfless soul that he is — could never in a million years have hoped to truly comprehend the mind of such a person as the devilish prodigy in front of him, and he no doubt knew that mortifyingly well.

After all, while the only time we may have absolutely guaranteed to us through the book that they were well and mutually acquainted with each other was the past year following the old boss’ assassination — and truthfully, that alone should really be time enough to get to know one another fairly extensively, anyway — that does not necessarily mean that this is the whole extent of their history together, either; on the contrary, there is actually quite a bit of evidence to back up the notion that the bandaged teen and the raven-haired mafioso should very well have been introduced long, long before that, should one take a few moments to consider the timeline of events as we, at present, can best understand them.

Indeed, though it might at first seem that Dazai had only actively been involved and known in the Port Mafia after the arranged death of the predecessor, this is actually highly unlikely, for, if this were genuinely to be true, it would mean that the boy had absolutely no standing within the organization prior to that moment, and that lack of pre-existing credibility would have created a major flaw in the usurper’s plan — a mistake that I find it very hard to believe the ever-thoughtful-towards-the-optimal-solution Mori would have overlooked, to say nothing of the fact that it never truly caused any of the fatal problems it inescapably would have if it had actually come to pass. No, without question, it’s far more sensible to just conclude that Dazai was already a highly esteemed and trustworthy figure in the Mafia by proxy, and that he was chosen by Mori as an accomplice for this very reason.

And as for Randou, there can be no doubt that he also had been in the Mafia for quite some time before Mori had taken over, considering not only how clearly established it is within the novel that the Hyperspace wielder had already been cruelly toiling away at the front line under the old boss’ reign for a considerable period prior to the organization’s change of hands, but also the fact that Dazai even goes so far as to call him a veteran in the business during the events of Fifteen — a title that one would normally not be able to earn unless they had put in several years worth of work into a given trade. What’s more, when we take into account the knowledge that by the time in which the novel takes place, Rimbaud has now been stranded alone in Japan with a heavy case of amnesia for roughly eight years following the failure of his mission with Verlaine, the idea that he had been working within the infamous criminal enterprise for that entire span of time actually seems rather plausible.

I hardly find it outrageous, then, in light of just how little debate there can be that Rimbaud came to know exactly how dark, cynical, and complex the bandaged young man’s views of the world and people around him were, to say that when the moment came that he was saddled with such heavy charges, the knowledge of those views must have been especially hard on him, for many, many reasons.

Naturally, the most immediately evident of these, to the average person, might very easily be his inability to fathom Dazai’s basis for ultimately finding his testimony objectionable or otherwise suspicious despite his relative honesty — and understandably so, especially given that it was this very issue which caused him to make the remark which we were just now analyzing in the first place; however, noteworthy as that one example may be, if we are ever to truly grasp Arthur’s plight in this moment to its full extent and genuinely come to understand him properly as an individual, it is utterly imperative that we realize that the consequences of his innocence run much, much deeper than this alone — as do his causes for concern.

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[thepointoftheneedle]

BUGHEAD APPRECIATION WEEK: day three - favourite trope

I am a very simple creature so my favourite trope is the coffee shop AU.  I’ve written the little thing below the cut to celebrate it and as a thank you to the kind folks who have mentioned one of my stories this week. It honestly means such a lot! 

Betty tied the apron and stood attentively behind her shift manager, Kevin, as he showed her the idiosyncrasies and foibles of the huge Fracino espresso machine.  She was pleased to have got the job and wanted to present herself as an uncomplicatedly good hire.  The coffee shop was a five minute walk from her apartment and she liked the ambiance.  She’d been a regular since she began her research degree, stopping in often on her way to class in the morning.  It would give her a break from the solitude and intensity of her thesis and it would force her to interact with people, she needed the human contact.   After her initiation into the sacred rites of the machine Kevin gave her a laminated recipe card, took a seat on the other side of the counter and called out orders to her as she practiced. 

“Tall latte, three shots,” presented no problem and she even managed the leaf design in the foam with a reasonable degree of skill.  Kevin had clearly given his own order as a first trial because he took the drink from her hand and sipped it as he continued to put her through her paces.

“Medium cap, extra wet, rice,” was next, followed by “Flat white with legs.”  She turned out the orders competently although the difference between them was negligible. He tested her listening skills and her ability not to laugh at an order with the "Grande, bone dry, five-shot ristretto, extra-whip, two-raw-sugars cappuccino” and the "Trenti iced coffee, 12 pumps vanilla, 12 pumps hazelnut, 12 pumps caramel, 5 pumps skinny mocha, a splash of soy, ice, double-blended.” When he asked what she would suggest to up sell that customer she suggested a shot of insulin, which made the only client in the place bark out a laugh.  Kevin raised an eyebrow and she pointed at the millionaire shortcake instead and he nodded his approval.

“Ok, now for the real caffeine heads you need to get the serious drinks just right every time.” He had her draw a straight doppio, a ristretto, a lungo, a red eye and a black eye and lined them up along the counter.  As she served the last Kevin looked over his shoulder at the lone customer.  “You want any of these before they go down the drain, Hemingway?”

The guy looked up from his laptop and nodded, shuffling over and gathering up all of them in two journeys and returning them to his booth like a squirrel gathering acorns to tide him through winter.  “Thanks Kevin,” he muttered as he secured the last of his spoils.

“Don’t thank me, Betty here made them. I only worry that all that caffeine will stop your heart. An ambulance outside will do nothing for our reputation,” Kevin replied.

“I have a high tolerance.  For caffeine if nothing else.  And thanks Betty.  Nice to meet you.” He looked at her as he spoke and she was surprised by his eyes.  They were a striking blue green, not the brown she would have expected with his dark hair.  His eyelashes were unexpectedly long too, sweeping almost up to his brow line.  Now that he wasn’t hunched over the keyboard she saw that he was handsome in a poetic, sensitive, romantic kind of way.  He looked out of his time somehow, more suited to doublet and hose and rhyming couplets or drinking absinthe with Rimbaud.  But here he was, drinking free, cold coffee in Greenwich Village.  

“He’s a fixture and fitting, aren’t you Jones?”

“You’re my Café de Flore Kevin.  I’ll dedicate the book to your hospitality,” he smiled.  Betty liked the smile.

Over the next few weeks she exchanged a nod of greeting with Jones almost every day.  He was generally in his booth when she arrived at four and left around seven, gathering up his laptop and a tall Americano to go, as if he hadn’t already risked his sanity with the amount of caffeine he’d consumed.  “That’s quite a coffee habit,” she observed as he ordered another cup of drip coffee one afternoon.  

“I’m a machine for turning coffee into prose, got to fuel the engine,” he quipped with a smirk. It was clearly a line he used a lot.

The next day as he collected his to-go brew she asked him if it stopped him from sleeping and he explained that he worked nights.  “This’ll keep me going til four tomorrow morning.  It’s good to be able to hate your job with the required degree of enthusiasm.” He was funny in a dry, self deprecating way that she enjoyed.

She started to try to sneak him extras with his coffee, offering cookies and chocolate stirrers. He turned them down.  “I just like coffee with my coffee.”

“If you drink anymore you’ll start twitching.”

“No, I know my limit.  I stop when I start being able to see noises and hear smells.”

She began to tease him about the consistency of his ordering.  “Hey Jones, give me a challenge.  Order something milky with complicated syrups and whipped cream.”

“Coffee should be black as hell, strong as death and sweet as love,” he replied.  “That’s not mine by the way.  It’s a proverb from Turkey or somewhere.”

“But you don’t use sugar.”

“No, I replace the love with bitterness,” he laughed, returning to his seat with his usual drip coffee.

The next day she suggested a cortado.  “Come on Jones, let a little light into that darkness.”  He grinned and accepted a macchiato.  “Today a dab of foamed milk, tomorrow a vanilla latte with whipped cream.  You’ll find you can live without pure intravenous caffeine.”

“I can live without it but all the folks who remain unharmed because I am well caffeinated really don’t want me to skimp.  Anyway if you wean me off caffeine you’ll slash the profit margin of this place,” he smiled. “Not that I’m here solely for the coffee.”

She began to look forward to the jokes, to his familiar presence, to looking over at his long fingers dancing over the keys as he typed.  There were moments when she found herself imagining them moving over her skin that way, flushing and tightening her ponytail in confusion as if he’d be able to read her thoughts.

One afternoon she found him slumped in the booth, his head against the seat back, snoring softly.  She let him sleep until ten to seven before holding his Americano under his nose.  He blinked his magnificent eyes as he awakened and then shook his head to disperse the sleep.  She’d like to see that a lot more often, preferably from the adjacent pillow. “Thanks Betty, not enough coffee today and Jones without coffee is like… something without something…sorry, too sleepy for bon mots.”

 Betty learned that he was doing his MFA at the New School, supporting himself by working nights as a porter at Bellevue.  “Takes too long to travel all the way back to Yonkers between class and work so I hide out here and write.  Besides I live with a singer/songwriter so it gets sort of noisy at home.” Betty hid her disappointment.  Of course he had a girlfriend.  

“A musician.  Would I know her work?” she asked, twisting the knife masochistically.

“Him.  No, I doubt it.” He paused and then looked at her a little shyly through his untidy, dark curls.   “He’s playing downtown at the weekend and I’ve got a night off. You should come.” Betty reproached herself for her heteronormativity and smiled weakly.  She really didn’t want to see Jones and his boyfriend together.

“Oh I’ve got … stuff this weekend.  But thanks though.  I’m sure he’ll be great.”  

Jones flushed and looked at his feet. “I’m sorry if that was inappropriate.  You don’t come to work to get hit on.  Sorry,”

“Oh, no I didn’t think you were asking me on a date.  To your boyfriend’s gig?  That’d be weird.  Oh unless…Oh, I mean, weird was rude.  It’s totally your business but I’m not…like, I’m pretty strait-laced I guess.  But you do you…or whoever.  Sorry.”  Jones was actually laughing now.

“Archie’s my roommate not my boyfriend.  I wasn’t inviting you to a threesome.  I was asking you on a date.  If you’re busy or you’d rather I got lost just say so.”

The gig was the most fun she’d had since she moved to the city.  When he leaned in for a kiss her heart thumped like she’d just drunk ten shots of espresso. After the encore she put her hand on Jughead’s arm and looked into his eyes.  “Would you like to come to my place… for coffee?”

[straycat-writes]

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 (oda sakunosuke)

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 (japanese, n.) - the feelings, scents, or images that evoke memories or anticipation of a particular season.

requested by: anonymous

It was spring the first time he saw her, the mild early April air carrying with it the scent of freshly bloomed flowers. She was curled up with a book in a quiet corner of the quaint little café he used to frequent, completely lost as the words on the pages painted a picture in front of her.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Oda must have stood there for a full five minute, wondering whether or not he should approach her and strike up a conversation. With mellow sunlight streaming in through the window beside her and a steaming cup of coffee on the table, she seemed almost too serene, too…picturesque for him to disturb her.

But humans have an innate instinct, a tendency to notice when they’re being looked at. She looked up from her book, slowly taking in her surroundings before her eyes finally landed on him. Oda would have liked to look away, should have looked away but he couldn’t bring himself to. When he blinked slowly, she gave him a dazzling smile, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

He approached her, a charming smile gracing his handsome face, “Is this spot taken, ma’am?”

“Not at all.” She smiled, gesturing in front of her, “You’re very welcome to stay.”

He sat down, looking at the blue and gold cover of the book still glued to her hand. On France and Poetry. He raised a curious eyebrow, “Baudelaire?”

“Among others.” She nodded, rather wistfully, “Baudelaire was insanely talented, but it’s a shame he has become so synonymous with French poetry that people barely pay any attention to others.”

“And who do you think deserves more attention?”

“Well, many others.” She said, then smiled sheepishly, “Although I have an affinity for Paul Verlaine.”

Oda laughed, “Ah, one of the romantics*. I must admit they do have a dreamy quality to their musings.”

Her eyes lit up at that, “Right? I understand the appeal of realism and all, but nothing compares to this particular form of expression, and Verlaine definitely did it better than anyone else.”

“That might have had something to do with his muse.” Oda reflected, “They do say he was on love with Rimbaud.”

“He shot Rimbaud.” she laughed, “Twice.”

Oda grinned coyly, “We all have our love languages.”

They sat there and talked for hours, about anything and everything, and each time she laughed at something he said, Oda swore he heard windchimes somewhere in the distance. It was almost evening by the time they realized that they couldn’t stay there forever, curled up in a world of their own that started and ended in a cozy little café. When she left, all Oda was left with was a messily scribbled phone number and beautiful name to go with it. He smiled.

It was summer the first time the thought crossed his mind that he might be falling for her. They had been going out for a few weeks now. It was a stiflingly warm night, and the smell of freshly mowed grass mingled with that of the salty sea breeze as they walked back after having dinner together, his hand intertwined with hers. They had stopped at the docks to admire the nighttime sea for a moment, when he finally plucked together the courage to tell her what he did for a living, telling her that it was fine if she wanted leave after this.

She cried. Each tear felt like a rip in Oda’s heart and he desperately wanted to console her, but he wasn’t sure if she would like being touched by him now. Then she got angry.

“You told me you wanted to be a writer.” She said through gritted teeth, “Tell me, then. Have you ever taken a life?”

The question took Oda by surprise. It took him a while, but he answered nonetheless, “…Never.”

“Why?”

“Because…” he began, then frowned, looking down at his feet, “Because then I wouldn’t have the right to be a writer anymore.”

More tears spilled down her cheeks, “Then why do you consider me shallow enough to leave you now? Do you really think that low of me?”

Oda was dumbstruck, unable to articulate even the simplest of thoughts. He had been ready for anything she might have had to say, but not this. Even after he told her everything…she still refuses to leave?

“Say something.” She frowned, lightly putting a hand on his chest, “You cannot hope to be a very good writer if you cannot even find the words to articulate –“

Oda couldn’t stop himself. He kissed her. The kiss was soft and true, tasting of subtle longing and slightly of the saltiness of her tears. And something else he couldn’t put his finger on, something far sweeter and much more delicate. They were both out of breath by the time he let go, and as he looked at the small smile fighting its way to her lips, at her rosy cheeks and shining eyes, Oda was sure he was in love.

It was autumn the first time he told her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. It was once again a lazy afternoon, and they were lying on the bed in his small but airy two room flat, limbs tangled with each other’s and a thin cotton sheet the only thing covering their naked bodies. She traced little circles on his chest with her finger.

“Sakura really looks up to you, you know?” he said out of the blue.

She smiled, “Yeah? Well, she’s a good kid. So are the others. You’re doing a great job, Odasaku.”

“You think so?” he murmured, turning on his side to face her, “I just…I don’t want to make any mistakes when it comes to them.”

“And you won’t.” she said, lightly cupping his cheek. His crystal blue eyes looked even more breathtaking when the golden autumn sunlight hit them like that. “You know why? Because you’re a good man. And because I would never leave you to do this on your own.”

Oda’s eyes widened, a strange kind of warmth spreading throughout his chest. “Do you really mean that?”

“Every last bit.”

For a brief moment, he thought he saw every beautiful version of future flash before his eyes. A beautiful sea-side cabin, where the salty breeze accompanies him as he writes everything he has ever wanted to put down on paper. Stories of people and lives and love and beauty. Stories about the kids, about her and about himself being forever locked in her embrace. It was a beautiful version of reality, one he wasn’t sure he deserved but one he wanted nonetheless.

And here she was, telling him she wanted the same thing.

He sighed, dipping slightly forward to rest his forehead on hers, “Sweetheart…whatever will I do without you?”

“That’s irrelevant.” She murmured, place a small kiss just at the edge of his lips, “Because you won’t ever have to find out.”

It was winter the first time he realized just how out of reach that beautiful reality really was. The world had never been fair. Bad things happened to good people everyday and the pursuit of happiness was utterly meaningless. Everything was meaningless. God didn’t exist, and if he did, he wasn’t worthy of being called one. What kind of cruel, sadistic God allowed innocent children to die at the hands of mercenaries?

Oda Sakunosuke had nothing left to live for anymore.

Or so he thought. If he had put aside the sheer rage coursing through his veins and clouding his eyes for one moment, he would have realized that he had one last solace left in the world. One last chance at salvation, waiting for him to crawl back home to her and into her welcoming embrace. She would weep with him, weep for him and soothe him as he screamed his throat raw and let out every last bit of pain and ache the world had shoved into him. And regardless of the amount of blood on his hands, she would gather him up and piece him back together again.

But rage and hopelessness and sheer, white hot fury had blinded Oda, and he could no longer see anything but red. Gide wanted a reckoning and Oda would give it to him, even if it ended up destroying him in the process. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

There were a few thoughts that crossed Oda’s mind as he lied there in Dazai’s arms, his heartbeat slowly failing him.

One of them was that he wanted a cigarette, which is an odd thing to think as you’re dying, but he allowed himself the liberty. The second was that he would never be a writer now. But that hardly mattered at this point. The third was that Dazai was crying. Oda had never seen him cry before, but he figured it was good for him, because underneath that fragile façade of the horrific ‘demonic prodigy’, Oda knew he was just a scared, broken little boy who just wanted to feel something other than empty for once. If his death was what pushed Dazai out of the darkness, then Oda wouldn’t consider it to be completely in vain.

The last thing he thought, as his vision began to grow darker and darker, was that there was a girl still waiting for him at home. They had had a fight before he left, and he had left her crying on the doorway in the biting evening air that chilled everything to the bone. He had left without telling her where he was going. He wished to God he could turn back time, even for a little bit, and say all the right things to her, or at least a proper goodbye. But it was too late for that now.

She would probably get the news from Dazai. He wondered briefly how she would take it. Would she cry? Would she get angry at his foolishness? Would she despise him for leaving her? If she did, he thought, he wouldn’t blame her.

Gide was dead. Oda had had his revenge, his hollow moment of triumph. But he didn’t feel any better. All he felt was this all-pervading sense of cold emptiness, knowing that his momentary victory came at the price of leaving two people behind to pick up their broken pieces. To clean up the mess he created.

He was very cold now, and too drained to open his eyes anymore. As the last of his strength left him, he only wished…something good comes of his death.

*romantics here refers to being part of the early 19th century literary movement, Romanticism, and has no relation to the present day connotations of the word.

[scullymurphy]

New Story - It’s a Nevmione!

How You’re the Light Over Me

Pairing: Hermione Granger/Neville Longbottom

Rating: E

Length: 11,244, 2 Chapters

This story was a labor of love because I wrote it for my friend, @grangerdangerfics​, and collaborated on it with my other friend, @pacific-rimbaud​, whose gorgeous art you see above. Even if you don’t usually ship this pair (I know most of us are Dramione trash!), please come check it out for hot, sweet goodness.  

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381953/chapters/64260958

(Coming to ffn soon!)

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"Nooseweed. Here you are my lovely," Neville murmured as they approached.

"Such an ugly name for such a pretty little flower," Hermione said, kneeling down to touch a finger to one of the star-like blossoms dotting the grass. "The pollen is used to thicken potions annnd... help certain ingredients to blend better, correct?" she said, reaching into her store of potions knowledge.

"I believe so. Malfoy says he can't make a proper Draught of Peace without it. And it's called that because the roots are knotted. They're said to have a stranglehold on the ground beneath them. It's extremely difficult to harvest because if you break the knots rather than untying them, the blossoms instantly disintegrate."

"Fascinating," Hermione breathed, stroking the soft white petal and looking up at him. "And I get to watch you do it." She smiled, hoping to make up for any awkwardness she'd introduced earlier.

He smiled back and she felt like he understood and was telling her not to worry about it. "Yes. But first, lunch. I'm starved after that walk."

"Ooh, yes please," Hermione said, suddenly ravenous herself. They pulled a small feast from Neville's muggle knapsack: sandwiches, a wedge of good cheese, some early strawberries and a flask of cold mint tea. Hermione spread a wool blanket she'd enchanted to fit in her bag and they ate, admiring the beauty of the countryside and reliving their lucky escape from the commemoration ceremony. After a while, Hermione lay down from her sitting position with a groan.

"I'm stuffed," she said. "Shouldn't have had that last half-dozen strawberries."

"You just rest there, you gannet," Neville said, "while I get to work on these plants." He shot her a smile and began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

"Ok," Hermione said dreamily, closing her eyes against a shaft of sunlight that had broken through the cloud cover. After a bit, she heard Neville start an incantation and curiosity got the better of her, so she rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin in her hands to watch him work.

The harvest technique seemed to consist of a complicated combination of spellwork and intricate untangling of the plants' roots. It was fascinating to watch. Neville's concentration was complete, his brow furrowed as he knelt and whispered the magical words. Hermione's eyes went to his hands, which were deftly turning up the long spindly roots, his fingers working at the knots with patience and skill. Once the root was straightened, he caught up a dull silver knife and cut it while saying the final word of the spell, and a long string of flowers came away perfectly intact. Hermione gasped quietly at the level of magic she was seeing, watching him perform the same task again and again until he had around a dozen long strands of perfect white flowers laying in the grass next to him.

Hermione realised she had become quite fixated on his hands as he worked, his fingers supple and sure, his movements practiced. To her startled surprise, she was also becoming aware of a distinctive heat slowly building the longer she watched. She bit her lip as her eyes traveled up from his hands to his bared forearms and broad shoulders and then to his lovely profile, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. He really was the most gorgeous man. She'd always laughed along with him at the crushes and the comments and the slightly beefcake magazine features, but there really was something to it, wasn't there?

He turned just then and saw her watching him, sending her a glint of a smile and a flick of his brows through the final words of the incantation. She felt that smile right in places she never would have expected, and the simmering heat bloomed into something more. Hermione blew out a breath and rolled onto her back, resisting the urge to fan herself.

"All done," he said, flopping down beside her. "That was intense."

Indeed. "It looked it. Amazing spellwork," Hermione said, distracted and very aware of his body laid out next to her.

"Thanks," he said and sighed. "You know what else it looks like? Rain. We should probably head back."

Hermione opened her eyes, forcibly clearing away some very surprising images that had appeared there. Yes, her shaft of sunlight had most certainly gone and the clouds looked more threatening than ever. "You're right," she said, a bit flustered still.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I love your book reviews under the banner ‘Treat Your S(h)elf’ - nice play on words. You have such a wide and cultured range of interests that I really learn something new. Do you read poetry? What are your favourite poets? What are you currently reading?

I love reading poetry because as the poet Robert Frost put it succinctly, “Poetry is when emotion has found its thought, and thought has found words”.

Poets are before anything else in the words of W.H. Auden, “a person who is madly in love with language” and language is the bedrock of any culture and society and ultimately civilisation. When you truly think about it, poetry is meaningless when it has been left to gather dust on a piece of paper. It is simply a memory of an idea conjured up by a writer with something to say. Poetry must be read, it needs to be experienced because it keeps these ideas burning. These meaningful concepts about the nature of life, death and everything. Every time a person reads a poem, a new bright spark emerges in that person’s head. A new way of thinking, a new way of understanding. That is exactly why poetry must be read because it is the essence of our language.

The reasons I personally read poetry, you ask? Here are some reasons I can think of from the top of my head others are too personal to reveal:

I read poetry because poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn. And I read poetry because it is what happens when my mind stops working , and for a moment, all I do is feel. This is good therapy for me as I’m not the most openly emotional or prone to displays of emotion in public. It’s just not how I was built. Poetry helps one to feel. So some poems remain so close to my heart.

I remember when I was about to go on my first tour to Afghanistan I was quite calm and cold blooded because that was and is my nature. My father - who served with distinction in uniform like his father and grand father, and great-grandfather before him - was always proud and supportive of me being the black sheep of the family as the only girl in our family going through Sandhurst and now I was off to the last embers of a war in Afghanistan that everyone had forgotten about. He was concerned - like the rest of my family - like any loving parent about what might happen. But he didn’t question my professionalism or my abilities so he didn’t give me that lecture instead he thrust in my hand both classical literature (Thucydides and Homer in particular) and the works of selected poets. He told me poetry will save your life. He wasn’t anxious about my physical safety he was thinking about my soul. For what happens during war and what comes after if and when I come home. Long story short: poetry saved my life.

By nature I am restless to an incredible annoying degree. I fear being bored. I find it hard to sit and be idle. Poetry is my balm for boredom.

I am incredibly busy and I work punishing long hours. Time is premium. People make demands on me and my time. Poems are like super-condensed stories, and are therefore usually short enough to be read over your morning tea/coffee. In this fast-paced world we live in, sometimes poems are a better alternative to reading fully-fledged novels, or even short stories and poetry gives you the chance to continue to expand your literary horizons even during the busiest times in your life. And becoming more widely read is an incredible way to ensure you are continuously growing, and learning, while becoming a more cultured individual at the same time. There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you and when I read some of those beautiful pieces of poetry by my favourite poets it's like the paper is filled with the breathings of my heart.

The most frightening thing is people I know stop growing culturally after they leave university and get on with the business of life i.e. careers, marriage and family. Once on that treadmill they don’t or can’t stop. They are unable to step off and take a breath. Poetry gives you a breather and helps you to re-centre your priorities.  The more you read poetry, the greater your quest for knowledge awakens. Doorways will open inside your mind and unlock your hidden potential for a greater understanding of life. Anyone who reads poetry often can connect with this conclusive sentence formation that defines your very questionable outlook on life.

I also believe poetry allows us to be less rigid in our thinking with an authentic, personal touch. When I read poems, nothing is often straightforward. Every poem has a meaning hiding under it, but it is blocked by a myriad of literary devices such as metaphors and symbolism. It is important to be able to think more figuratively because it allows you to understand ideas and perspectives in a more abstract and possibly more meaningful way. Sometimes I find that having a single page of beautifully crafted words can be enough of a distraction to spark a sudden creative leap in my brain. There have been many times where I've miraculously thought of ways to solve a problem (big or small) purely because reading poetry forced me to think differently from the usual day-to-day thoughts required for general life.

Poetry is best read when you’re hidden from the outside world, in a quiet little spot, somewhere away from all the hustle and bustle. It is increasingly hard to do just that. I have so many demands on my time and limited space but I force myself to carve out the time and space to do this - one must try. As a rule I switch off all social media (not that I have many to begin with but most definitely my phone). The best time for me to carve out time is when I’m traveling as I’m able to shut out everything around me. Usually when I’m waiting for a flight in the business class departure lounge it’s quiet and not too many people to distract me and there is usually a delay to the flight. When I check into a hotel I feel a disconnect to the world around me. I feel like an alien. Poetry helps me to connect again. Poetry calms and focuses the mind. With poetry I can almost reset my day because it’s not just a time zone I have to get used to but also a state of mind - and especially if I find myself being unproductive too!

I often escape Paris and go into the countryside. I love going on walks, hikes, mountaineering, and other outdoor pursuits. It allows me the space and time to read poetry and reflect in peace. And of course I snatch time before I go to sleep to read a poem if I am not too tired.

The point is that I need the head space to absorb the poem and take some time to work out the meaning of the full entity. I try not swallow a whole book in one sitting, instead I read a few poems and leave the book until the next day or a few days depending on my schedule. Sometimes, you can read a poem again and you will find other meanings or pick up on information that you couldn’t see before. That’s poetry, you create the film, journey or picture inside your mind from reading the words on the page.

As for my favourite poets this is of course is a very personal choice. I didn’t read English at university but rather my academic interests were Classics and History, so I profess a very paltry poetic palate. Still, I’m grateful to those friends more versed than I to point me to other poets. So I do my best to keep an open mind and try and read poetry recommended by others or some thing that captures my eye when I browse through book stores or read it as a passing reference in a book I am reading. 

Different poets and poems are discovered at one stage of life and where I happened to live in the world and only take on another meaning when re-read them at another stage. So I tend to re-visit poets I used to read as a teen and then see how it resonates now.

The majority of my poetic readings are in my native English and Norwegian languages but because I have varying degrees of fluency in other languages (because I grew up there for instance) I love widening my poetic palate. One of my regrets is not knowing Japanese and Chinese to a sufficient degree to really read poetry in those languages even if I have basic fluency in literature and everyday conversation. So reading Ezra Pound is one way in English to appreciate these Eastern poetic influences. I’m also ashamed to admit that I only know a woeful smattering of words in Scotiish Gaelic - my Anglo-Scots father knows it fairly well but even he struggles - and really I must find time in the future to learn more of it because it’s such a fascinating language (not least because it’s also dying out and that is tragic).

So below is an eclectic and random list from the top of my head and in no real order of preference:

• Homer (Greek) • Sappho (Greek) • Rumi (Farsi) • Mirza Ghalib (Urdu and Farsi) • John Milton • John Donne • William Shakespeare • Dante (Italian) • Robert Burns • William Wordsworth • Samuel Taylor Coleridge • William Blake • John Keats • Emily Dickinson • Christina Rosetti • Gerald Manley Hopkins • Walt Whitman • Oscar Wilde • W.B. Yeats • Rudyard Kipling • Wilfred Owen • Alfred Tennyson • Rainer Maria Rilke (German) • Cavafy (Greek) • T.S. Eliot • Hilda Doolittle • Marianne Moore • Sylvia Plath • W. H. Auden • Olaf H. Hauge (Norwegian) • Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (Norwegian) • Aslaug Vaa (Norwegian) • Rolf Jacobsen (Norwegian) • Sarojini Naidu (Hindi) • Gulzar (Hindi)

Living in Paris I tend to read more French poetry these days. By osmosis it helps me appreciate the French language and French culture even more.

• Charles Baudelaire. • Paul Verlaine • Jacques Prévert • Arthur Rimbaud • Alphonse de Lamartine • Alfred de Musset • Paul Valéry • Paul Eluard • Jean Genet • Françoise Villon

Poetry is an art that combines the essence of life through the fabrication of reality. Poets challenge and nourish me with their wisdom, philosophy, love and journeys beyond what used to be the limits of my own creative imagination. They push my boundaries ever so more. In doing so they grow my mind for understanding, my heart for empathy, and my soul for wisdom. It would hard to disagree with Robert Frost who sums up what poetry means to me, “a poem begins in delight, and ends in Wisdom”.

Thanks for your question