#can y'all figure out all of them correctly

[camellcat]

I love being a multishipper

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 ICARIAN

FEATURING: beast dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai had known he was flying too close to the sun, he should have stopped himself while he still had the chance. {wordcount: 11.5k; fem!reader, romance & tragedy}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: installment fiveeeee otherwise known as part 2 of installment four LOL! ugh guys i'm dragging myself thru the trenches right now i'm so miserable - i wasn't even up to posting this today i won't lie but </3 i pulled thru </3 if only barely. fun fact this is actually only a 3 scene chapter but the second scene is just MASSIVE. i wasn't up to restructuring so you guys are just going to get it as it is. this is also unedited because i just wasn't up to it so bear with me regarding mistakes. JUST TO REMIND YOU ALL: the last installment is DELAYED - i have 3 finals next week and haven't had the time to finish it. it will be up by the end of may </3 sorry guys. wow this actually is attempt number three trying to post this correctly - i'm so shot

IMPORTANT NOTE FOR 17 & UNDER FOLLOWING THE SERIES: partially copy and pasted from badlands - if you guys read badlands, you know the deal. y'all knew what you were getting into. this is the smut chapter. but again, i'm not going to ask y'all to not interact/read a whole 12k chapter just because there's 4k words of smut, but i am going to say here the smut is in the SECOND scene. there is very little plot development in the smut itself, so i ask you guys, again, to respectfully scroll past it. i'll make the sentence when the smut starts red like this so you know that's when it starts, and then you can continue reading at the next divider. thank you for understanding! there is NO plot development in the smut, i'll reiterate that at the end where i put the summary in badlands, i restructured to make sure none of it was in it.

SMUT WARNINGS: unprotected sex, dazai cries </3 poor baby, sub!dazai, as always pussy drunk!dazai, bit of overstim on dazai's part too, jfhsuhdfsu i will say it starts on the bathroom floor so that might be a bit gross to some of you but dazai hardly even uses his apartment anyway so trust it's clean. bear with me. it just flowed from there i had to go with it. the story writes itself, i'm only the scribe. LOL let me know if i missed anything, i might have

SEE: UNREAL UNEARTH SERIES MASTERLIST READ: BADLANDS SIDE A

Dazai is hardly listening to the conversation at hand. They’ve been going back and forth for thirty minutes about inconsequential matters. Tolstoy is getting increasingly heated as he goes tit-for-tat with Nabokov, evidently the tripartite alliance between the Russian mafias is not quite enough to quell all of the bad blood that’s simmered between them, but something about the situation isn’t sitting right to Dazai. He can feel it in his gut, swirling in the depths of his chest—something is wrong but he doesn’t know what.

Mishima looks equally put out, gaze trained on Tolstoy and Nabokov’s conversation, occasionally looking back at his executives. Cao seems bored, head tilted back against the red cushions of the round booth as he smokes a cigarette; in all regards, he seems relaxed, but Dazai notices the way the fingers of his free hand are tense on the table, as if he’s bracing himself for something.

Something isn’t right.

Dostoevsky is cunning. Intelligent. He’s been lethally sharp in every universe that the other Dazais have encountered him in. He wouldn’t send Tolstoy and Nabokov into this meeting with them at each other’s throats like this without an ulterior reason. Dazai is missing something critical; he knows it’s not something as simple as wanting to give off the appearance of a divided front as means to get Dazai and Mishima to lower their guard. Nothing is that easy. There’s some ulterior motive that Dazai has to figure out.

Cao’s presence. Tolstoy and Nabokov’s blatant hostility toward one another. Mishima’s words from earlier, warning him that something seems to be brewing, that Tolstoy and Nabokov had been on edge since he arrived at the event hall. Dazai’s head hurts, and he can’t focus, not when you’re in the other room without him.

Already, he feels as if he’s been separated from you for too long, he’d been hoping this meeting was only going to last thirty minutes at most, and it’s been thirty minutes already and hardly any progress has been made. If Dazai didn’t know any better, he’d think that…

He’d think that Tolstoy and Nabokov were stalling.

At once, Dazai starts catching onto the things that he missed. The way Nabokov keeps glancing up at the clock on the wall above Cao. The way Tolstoy’s gaze keeps flickering to his phone. The way Cao’s attention seems to be elsewhere. 

Cao Xueqin. A Dream of Red Mansions. A scrying ability.

His heartbeat slows and Dazai blinks. Once. Twice. Blood roars in his ears as his gaze twists down to where his phone is laying on the table in front of him, on its face. Tachihara should have texted him to let him know that he got to you. Him or Chuuya. He usually reports to Chuuya anyway, so Dazai figured that Chuuya would’ve gotten the confirmation. He turns his head to the side to look at the executive from the corner of his eye, trying to keep his breath as slow and steady and natural as possible when he realizes that Chuuya is frowning with furrowed brows, looking at his phone. Unsure.

Dazia reaches for his own phone, fingers deceptively steady despite the way his insides are curdling with a sudden jolt of anxiety. His eyes zero in on the top right corner of his phone. No signal. Dazai has been to this event hall countless times in this life and dozens of others—there’s always service throughout the building. 

Unless it’s being jammed, that is.

Dazai’s blood runs cold, gaze dragging from his phone to the door that leads to the hallway connecting to the event hall where you are. He feels as if he’s been doused with icy water and lit on fire all at once. For a second, he doesn’t move—he’s not sure if it’s anxiety or fear, or both, but he knows it’s because you’re out there and Dostoevsky is plotting something while trying to keep him out of the picture in this meeting. 

He should have known better. Mishima had assumed that Dostoevsky wasn’t in the building—he had his three best scouts prowling the whole building trying to place the real leader of the tripartite but had failed. Nabokov had apparently told him that Dostoevsky had to stay back to handle residual business in Russia, a blatant lie, one that has had Mishima on edge all night.

The one with the overcoat. The clown.

Dazai stills as he remembers the white haired man who hung around Dostoevsky in some of the other universes. Not all of the other Dazais encountered him—in fact, Dazai thinks there were only half a dozen other universes where he met the man, he can hardly remember his name, but when he did…

Spatial linking. Of course Mishima’s men hadn’t been able to hunt down Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky would’ve predicted that the Sun and Steel would seek out the mastermind with their scouts. He used the clown to enter the building without anyone knowing after the scouts finished their hunt.

Dazai had missed a critical piece on the board.

Dazai rises to his feet abruptly, mind numb, eyes distant, and lips parted to speak but no words escape them. Tolstoy and Nabokov exchange a sharp, pointed look, pausing in their hostilities, and Dazai knows. He knows.

Dostoevsky is going after you. 

He hears Chuuya and Kouyou calling after him but it sounds like a distant buzz. His throat feels clogged, his heartbeat is erratic and uncontrollable, his ears are ringing. His surroundings are blurry, a part of him doesn’t even know where he is: the event hall, your apartment, in the cafe below the Armed Detective Agency, it’s all blurring together.

This is it.

His vision swims and his head spins. The hallway seems impossibly long, much longer than it was to walk to the room. He can hear Chuuya spitting curses, scrambling out of the room, and he’s sure that his other executives and the other mafiosos aren’t far behind, but Dazai’s mind is on a single track. He doesn’t know how fast he’s moving—fast enough that Chuuya is chasing after him but can’t catch him. Something is heavy and cool in his hand—his gun—numb fingers moving to click the safety off.

This is it.

He might enter that hall and find you dead, slumped over the bar he’d last seen you sitting at, blood splattered across your face. Limp, cold. Just like you were on your bedroom floor. In the booth at the cafe. He’s pulling you from the water. He’s screaming for Yosano when he’s with the Agency. He’s screaming for Mori when he’s with the Mafia. Sometimes he’s alone, and he has no one to call for help, so all he can do is hold you and cry. 

It’s his fault. He knew this would happen from the beginning. He knew that being with you would lead you to the same fate that you’ve met in every other universe because of him. He knew that being with you would be your death sentence, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

His vision swims again, the red and gold patterns on the walls of the event hall are indistinct blobs, he feels someone try to grab his wrist—Chuuya, probably—but Dazai rips himself free and pushes himself into the event hall.

He ignores the eyes on him and the way people all instinctively move away from the sight of him with his gun out, he’s sure he must look deranged but he’s hardly even keeping himself grounded to this reality. Pages pile around him, every single one has variations of the same scene that’s haunted him for almost eight years written on it; one is being written before his eyes, he can see the words appearing on the blank sheet. He needs to find you before it’s complete. He has to stop it.

His eyes cut across the room, toward the bar he’d last seen you at, and you’re there. You’re there. It’s almost enough to make him scramble to put his gun away, cover up his steep spiral of paranoia even if you are looking right in his direction and see the gun in his hand. He can hardly come to terms with the consequences of this, how you’re seeing him right now, because his gaze tunnels right in on the person sitting next to you and his world comes to a halt. 

He lifts the gun. He ignores as people shriek and scramble to the edges of the room. He ignores the look on your face as he moves closer to where you’re sitting with Fyodor Dostoevsky. He ignores the way Chuuya and Kouyou and Piano Man have all skid to a stop somewhere behind him, trying to figure out what to do. Dostoevsky’s hand is mere inches away from brushing against your body, it would only take the slightest movement and you would be dead. It would be a game of who’s faster: Dazai’s trigger finger or Dostoevsky’s ability. Dazai’s always been quick to pull the trigger but now, faced with your life on the line, when he should be at his best because of what’s at risk, he finds himself scared and unsteady. 

He can’t lose you. He can’t watch it happen.

He paces toward you slowly, steadily, he swears each step he takes echoes across the suddenly silent event hall. He doesn’t stop until the muzzle of his gun is pressed against the back of Dostoevsky’s head.

“Stand up.” Dazai’s voice is deceptively cold and steady for the rage and fear that’s clawing at his chest, threatening to take control.

Dostoevsky turns his head to the side to look at Dazai, faint amusement in his eyes. “Are you sure you really want to do this here, Dazai?” 

The mocking lilt his voice takes is almost enough alone for Dazai to pull the trigger. And if that wasn’t, the way Dostoevsky smiles at Dazai like he’s won is certainly enough to push him over the edge.

Before he can, he feels Chuuya grab his bicep hard. 

“You can’t do this here,” he hisses quietly. “If you kill him now on neutral territory, we’ll have all of the mafias in the Eastern Hemisphere coming after you and the government on your ass. You can’t do this here and you can’t do it in public.”

Dazai doesn’t care. He doesn’t care how many mafias come after him for killing on neutral territory when invited as a guest. He doesn’t care that the government will come after him for such a blatant murder. All he cares about is getting Dostoevsky away from you.

“Chuuya is right,” Kouyou murmurs, low enough for only Dazai to overhear. “We can cover this up as is. If you pull the trigger, there’s no hiding what happened here. You know better than this, boy. You won’t be the only person this affects if you do this. Think of her. She will be implicated for coming here with you. Lower the gun and let us handle sweeping this under the rug.”

Dazai can’t even bring himself to look at you. He’s scared of what he might find. But he doesn’t even consider lowering the gun, not until Dostoevsky raises his hands and slips off the bar stool to step away from you. Even when he does, Dazai keeps it trained on him, still tempted to blow his head right off his shoulders.

“I meant no harm,” Dostoevsky says smoothly. “I was intrigued, wanted to know the girl who’s managed to capture your interest. I must say, I see the appeal. Beautiful and intelligent, you have quite the eye, Dazai.”

Dazai’s lips stretch into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s not kind, and it’s mildly feral, and Dazai’s pretty sure he must look entirely deranged from the way Dostoevsky’s eyes widen in a mixture of surprise and entertainment, just enough to be noticeable.

“If you ever go near her again, I’ll put a bullet through your fucking skull, Dostoevsky.”

He should do it now. He should. Fuck Chuuya and Kouyou’s warnings, he should put a bullet in his head and be done with it, move onto handling Christie so that both of the major threats to your life are gone. But he can’t. If he takes this opportunity now, if he kills Dostoevsky so blatantly on neutral territory, the Pale Flame and Three Deaths will come at him in full force, and Dazai is sure the Red Chamber won’t be far behind them with Cao’s recent interest in expanding his business into Japan. And you’ll be caught in the crossfire of all of it, Dazai has ensured that by bringing you here. Dostoevsky must have accounted for all of this. He knew that Dazai would be put in a situation where either way, whether he kills him or lets him go, he’d be throwing himself onto a blade. 

Is that it? Killing you wasn’t the goal, was it? Exposing Dazai was. Forcing him into this impossible decision.

Did he really just fall into Dostoevsky’s hands so easily? Even with all of the forewarning the other universes have given him?

It’s you. You always make him reckless, his mind is never as sharp whenever you’re involved, muddled with thoughts of you, plagued with spirals of paranoia and anxiety that make him double guess himself. It’s like this in every universe—he becomes stupid, he becomes rash, he becomes careless. It’s you.

You.

Suddenly very hyper aware of your eyes on him, Dazai lowers his gun, gaze turning in your direction. Dostoevsky lets out one last snide comment, something toward you, telling you ‘don’t you see’ but Dazai doesn’t even process it, heart in his throat as he looks at you. He doesn’t know what he expects—fear, betrayal, even anger. He’s not prepared for the emptiness. He can’t read a single emotion on your face, your eyes eerily void of any feeling as you stare at him. 

He says your name quietly. His voice cracks. He should be embarrassed, so many people watching the scene play out, so many of his enemies and allies and subordinates, and he’s staring at you like a lost child with an unsteady voice, but he can’t bring himself to care. The fingers of his free hand are trembling, and the ones wrapped around the grip of his gun are so wound so tight that his knuckles are white. 

You’ve never looked at him like this before. Not in any universe. 

He thinks he might throw up. 

You’ve been mad at him before, scowling at him whenever he distracts you from your work and snarling whenever he makes messes that he never cleans up, but your eyes always stay soft in spite of the venom you spit. He’s seen betrayal on your face a few times before, screaming at him through tears when he got a bit too close to a successful attempt, cursing at him for trying to leave you, but you hold him so gently that it makes up for the harsh words. You’ve been scared of him once, when he lashed out so badly during one of his slumps that he nearly hurt you, but even then, you were more concerned for him then you were scared for yourself, speaking to him softly to settle him down.

He’s never seen this. He wants it to go away. Desperately.

“I’d like to leave,” you finally say after a few moments of silence, and your voice is so vacant of emotion that it leaves him feeling even more sick.

Dazai nods, because he can’t bring himself to speak. 

He holds his hand out for you, waiting for you to take it.

You don’t.

You haven’t spoken a word since the event hall, and Dazai doesn’t know what to do. He used to find peace in silence—for years, he’d become accustomed to it, isolating himself from everyone around him, keeping everyone at arm’s length. The most he ever spoke was a few sentences to give out orders to his executives; his voice had become hoarse and raspy over the years of self-imposed isolation, unused to being utilized. But the past few months with you have utterly obliterated any semblance of comfort Dazai had found in solidarity. 

It’s become entirely intolerable, the silence is making him sick with anxiety; he has hundreds of lifetimes worth of memories with you and he can’t even vaguely predict what to expect from you right now. You’ve been tense and cold since leaving the event hall. Dazai tried to open up a conversation in the car once but found himself promptly ignored. Chuuya tried to say something to you but only received the same cold shoulder. Even Albatross tried to lighten the mood when the four of you got in the car, but all you did was stare out the window with your back to Dazai. 

Now, you’re back up in his penthouse with him. You haven’t sat down. You’ve hardly budged from where you’re standing near the elevator—Dazai wonders if you’re scared of him now, if you want to be as close as possible to the only exit in fear of him lashing out at you. The thought makes him even more nauseous.

He doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He doesn’t want to sit down, he’s uncomfortable standing in the living room, waiting for you to say something, and he can’t bring himself to try to break the silence because if there’s one thing he learned very swiftly, it’s that he can’t handle being ignored by you. He’d prefer anger and hate to the stonewall iciness you’re giving him.

He can’t even fathom what you might be thinking right now. You’re not looking at him. You’re staring at the window that looks over the city, he can see the bright flashing lights from Cosmo World flickering faintly in your eyes. It’s so quiet that he can hear the distant honking of horns, police sirens coming from the streets below. 

He just wants you to say something, do something. Yell at him. Scream at him. Hit him or punch him. Anything is better than this. 

It feels like an eternity before you finally move away from the elevator. You still don’t speak, but Dazai watches raptly as you make your way into the kitchen. You fling open the cabinets, searching for something, and Dazai’s lips part to ask what you’re looking for but he decides against it. You stop with your jerky movements when you catch sight of the numerous bottles of sake Dazai has stored in his cabinets—room temperature, because Dazai can’t stand cold drinks, they make his teeth hurt. He watches you struggle to uncap it and his body itches to move toward you to help but he knows it won’t do any good. It’ll probably just piss you off more.

When you get the cap off, you’re immediately bringing it to your lips. One. Two. Three. Four large gulps before you put the bottle back down on the counter and turn to look at him. The emptiness in your eyes is gone, replaced by something caught between hurt and anger and betrayal. It makes his heart sink, but he thinks it’s preferable to the emptiness.

“You lied to me,” you finally rasp out, shaking your head as you pace behind the counter. There’s a whole length of a room separating the two of you and Dazai longs for your touch but he forces himself to stuff his hands in his pockets and keep still. “You lied to me, Dazai.”

“Osamu,” he corrects quietly without thinking, not liking the switch up. He’d finally gotten you to call him by his given name earlier in the night, he doesn’t want to lose it so quickly.

For the briefest of seconds, the hurt and betrayal in your eyes disappears and only fire rages in them. “Dazai,” you spit out pointedly. 

Dazai almost draws back, not having expected that. In all of the other universes, you’ve always been gentle with him even when you’re livid. You speak his name softly, even with a tight jaw and fisted hands—his given name, you’ve never used his surname against him like this before. Probably because most of the major fights he had with you in those other lives, it was months into the relationship; it’s only been a few weeks in this life so of course-

Dazai realizes, a bit dizzy, that he’s about to lose you.

You found out too soon. You found out through Dostoevsky, through Dazai's own loss of control. You found out in the worst possible way and you found out too soon.

Dazai is about to lose you.

“Okay,” he murmurs, not wanting to test your temper anymore, giving in as a means to try to soothe your anger, regardless of how much it might wound him because being wounded is nothing compared to losing you. “Dazai.”

His compliance seems to do nothing to quell your anger from the way you just scoff and shake your head again, looking away from him. You stare out over the city, dozens of emotions cloud your expression but Dazai still can’t predict what you might do next. He feels out of his depth, in murky waters with an anchor tied to his ankle.

“I knew it, you know?” you finally say quietly. “I knew it from the beginning, honestly, but I kept making excuses for you. I mean, the guns. The secrecy. You weren’t really subtle about it. Did you think I was stupid, or something?” 

“Never,” Dazai says honestly, without hesitation. He sees your gaze flicker down to the ground at his words, but you don’t make any move to speak again so he takes the opportunity to, in hopes that you’ll finally listen. “You’re the smartest woman I know. I-”

You interrupt him with a sharp laugh, it’s loud and almost cruel, and Dazai turns in on himself at the sound of it. He feels small and unsteady, like a child who’s being scolded by a parent. When you look at him again, your eyes are wide and wild, half-crazed in sheer disbelief. You don’t believe him. Of course, you don’t. It’s plainly displayed on your face. And why would you anyway? He’s given you every reason not to. 

“If you think I’m so smart, why didn’t you think I would figure it out?”

He tries to say that he knew you would. That he’s been living in fear for weeks that you’d finally see him for what he is but when he opens his mouth to say it, no words leave him. Like he’s frozen in fear, ice crawling through his veins, stones weighing on his tongue; he can’t respond, and he knows that he’s only condemning himself more. He tries to force something out but he can’t even make the barest hint of a sound. The mindkiller. He’s never responded well to fear, much less when you’re involved. 

You click your tongue, as if to solidify that his silence proves your point, or maybe you know what he can't bring himself to say and you just don't believe him. His stomach churns again, and dread spreads through chest when you say: “If I’m so smart, and I was going to figure it out anyway, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“You would have left.” Dazai is finally able to speak, but he speaks the wrong answer, clearly, from the way you let out another humorless, breathless laugh, eyes wide in disbelief. You look at him like he’s the most audacious man in the entire world. Maybe he is.

“Yeah, I would have,” you agree and Dazai flinches. “Without hesitation, without even looking back. And now, I can’t because you made me fall in love with you without even warning me about what I was getting myself into.”

Dazai’s heart should be leaping through the roof at your confession, but if anything, he feels even worse. His throat feels clogged and his chest feels so heavy. You’ve never regretted falling in love with him before. Not in any lifetime.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, because he doesn’t know what else to say. The words are still foreign on his tongue, he doesn’t think he’s ever apologized to someone in this life before the last twenty-four hours.

“No, you’re not,” you say bitterly, looking away. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to care so much about you that when you finally tell me who you are and what you do, I won’t be able to leave.”

Dazai stares at you, lost. He remembers how just the other day he was finding comfort in the way you could read him so easily, knowing he didn’t have to speak for you to know what he needed at the moment. He thinks he hates it now, because you’re finally reading deeper into his soul and seeing him for the sick, twisted monster he really is. Just like he feared from day one. Manipulative. Selfish. Undeserving. His fingers tremble in his pockets, nails biting into his palm so deep that he can feel blood trickling down his skin, but not even the stinging pain can distract him from the numbness spreading through him. 

“I didn’t-”

“Didn’t what?” you interrupt him. “You didn’t think I’d be upset? You didn’t think I’d be angry? Or maybe you didn’t think it would happen this soon? Is that it, Dazai? You thought you’d have more time to win me over in hopes that I’d take the news in stride. News flash, Dazai, no amount of time or charm would have made me accept this easily. Accept you easily. How could I ever accept any of this?”

Nausea rises to his throat so suddenly that he almost gags. He feels dizzy, taking a step back so that his back is against the wall, keeping him steady. Your last words echo through his head over and over again, he can’t escape them. The one person who’s always accepted him in every lifetime, the only person he was ever able to find a home in—how could I ever accept you? 

His cheeks feel wet, his eyes are wide as he stares at you. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t even think he could if he knew how to respond to that. His lungs are burning and his throat feels so swollen that even just the thought of trying to speak is painful. 

You let out a sharp breath, caught between a hysterical laugh and a sob as you press your hands to either side of your neck and pace across the kitchen. “What am I supposed to do, Dazai?” you ask, voice hoarse. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

He thinks it might be a rhetorical question, but he still forces out: “Don’t leave me.”

You scoff again, louder and harsher this time. Dazai’s eyes flutter shut as if to futilely minimize the blow. “I wish leaving you was still an option for me.”

Oh. He’s going to throw up. 

He wants to blame it on the alcohol he drank earlier in the night. He wants to blame it on the stress of the past few weeks. He wants to blame it on anything but this, even though he knows damn well that this conversation is what triggered the bile that rises to his throat. He forces himself to move, nearly tripping over his feet to get to the bathroom because he doesn’t want you to see him vomiting up his guts.

He hardly makes it to the toilet, crashing to his knees and clutching at the seat as he dry heaves. Nothing comes up—he hasn’t eaten enough the past few days to have anything solid in him, too busy with preparations—but he can’t stop gagging, eyes stinging with tears and throat burning. He doesn’t know how long he stays crumpled at the toilet, losing track of time entirely, a part of him just wants to stay there forever so he doesn’t have to go back out and face you. 

Evidently, he doesn’t have to go back out and face you because you come to him. 

He’s gagging again when he feels your hand brush his back, hesitantly at first and then firmly. Your touch is warm, and Dazai thinks he must look pathetic as he turns his head to the side to look at you. Your expression isn’t as harsh now, your eyes are still conflicted but your face is softer. After a moment, you take a seat on the floor next to him—you don’t say anything, but you let out a soft puff of air as you slip your arm around his shoulders once he stops heaving. 

He crumbles into your chest, body collapsing against yours. You wrap your arms around him, and at once, the numbness starts to fade away. His fingers clutch at your dress desperately, afraid that you’re going to disappear, but you only hold him tighter. You bury your face in his hair, forehead pressed to the top of his head.

“You’re so unfair, Osamu.” Your voice cracks, you’ve lost all of your fire, but Dazai finds no solace in it.

“I know,” he croaks out, throat scratchy and voice wavering. “I know.”

And then words are spilling from his lips before he can stop them, jumbled and hardly intelligible and he’s not even sure that you’re understanding what he’s saying but he can’t stop himself: “I tried. I tried to stay away, I tried so hard, you don’t understand. I knew it would turn out like this, I knew I would ruin you so I tried to stay away, but I’m selfish. I’m so selfish, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I knew better, I’m going to-you’re going to-”

The panic is returning, the words he wants to say but can’t push out are too damning: I’m going to get you killed. You’re going to die because of me. Dazai is breathing but the air isn’t getting to his lungs, his chest burns, and now even with your arms around him, the numbness is returning. It’s rapid now, spreading from his chest to his arms, down his abdomen to his legs; it’s going to consume him entirely, he can feel it, he can-

Oh.

Your lips press to his. Tilting his head back to angle his face up toward you, you lean down and press your lips against his, swallowing his words, his air, his panic. One of your hands cup his cheek while the other cradles the back of his head, Dazai can hardly kiss you back, his lips feel cold and prickly, but his eyes flutter shut as your lips move slowly and carefully against his.

Not for the first time, he thinks that he doesn’t deserve this. Especially not now. He tastes something wet and salty against his lips—he doesn’t know if you’re the one crying, or if he is, and he doesn’t want to know, so he forces himself to move. His arm feels heavy and clunky, and his fingers feel stiff, but he’s able to bring them up to your face, palms cupping your cheeks as the tips of his fingers tangle into your hair. He kisses you until his lungs are screaming for air, and even as he starts to feel lightheaded, he kisses you still, because your lips are the only thing able to push away the numbness overwhelming him. 

When you break away from him, you keep your foreheads pressed together, nose nudging against his. You share the same thin sliver of air and Dazai feels dizzy, he wants to kiss you again but he doesn’t think he’s capable of moving yet, so he only stays crumbled in your arms, waiting for you to grace him with your lips again. 

“I wish I still had the chance to be a better man,” Dazai says hoarsely, honestly, gaze searching yours desperately. “I would be. For you.”

Please believe me, he thinks to himself helplessly, because it’s the truth. He would try to be. For your sake. He might fail, he might be too far gone, his soul corrupted beyond salvation and his blood black beyond purification, but he would try. He would try so hard for you. But he can’t, not in this lifetime, not without risking everything he’s strove to protect since coming in contact with the Book. He has to stay the criminal, the monster, the demon so that you and Odasaku can live out your lives here. Until Dostoevsky, Christie, and any other person that could turn out to be a threat to either of you are killed, Dazai has to keep playing this role. He has to. 

You don’t respond. Dazai thinks it’s because you don’t believe him and it makes him feel sick again. His lips part to repeat himself but you only press yours against his, as if to silence him. 

You don’t believe him, the kiss confirms it, and his heart sinks but he can’t even bring himself to protest, to insist that it’s true. Instead, he decides if he can’t prove it through his words, he’ll prove it through his actions. Even though his limbs still feel leaden and clumsy, he forces himself into a better position, sitting up a bit more and bringing both of his hands up to cup your cheeks. He tilts your head back, leaning into you and slowly pressing you back against the floor and distantly Dazai recognizes that this is not the place for this but the thought is only fleeting, he’s too lost in the feeling of your lips against his and your body pressed to him.

And you let him ease you back against the floor. You let him tilt your head back and when his tongue darts out to swipe against your bottom lip, you part your lips for him. He doesn’t have to knock your knees apart, because you spread them just enough for him to slot his hips between them to keep your bodies flush. He wonders if you can feel how clunky his movements are—his fingers still feel heavy against your face and he can hardly hold himself up above you. He hopes he’s not crushing you with his weight, he might be, but you don’t seem to care. 

He pulls back to ask if you’re okay with this but you chase his lips and he lets out a soft, muffled noise when you tug gently at his bottom lip and bring your free hand up to cup the back of his head, fingers tangling with his hair, pulling him back down to you. You drag your lips from his to slide them down his neck to the edge of his bandages. He twitches a bit at the feeling, wondering if you’re going to ask to take them off, but instead, you just trail your lips back upward, nipping at his jaw, and he shudders.

And then he finally hesitates, pulling away and not letting you chase after this time. He weighs his options in his head anxiously. He feels like he should do something, that he owes something—a lowering of a mask, a show of vulnerability, you’re entitled to at least that much after everything he’s done. Aren't you?

You give him a curious look and he tries to respond—he does, his lips part for him to speak but nothing leaves them. He swallows thickly, eyes fluttering shut as he braces himself before trying again, bringing one of his hands to yours and wrapping his fingers around it gently, lifting it from his chest to the bandages covering the left side of his face.

“Take them off,” he tells you, voice hoarse and shakier than he would have liked.

Your eyes widen, and he shudders a bit when your fingers smooth against the bandages, uncertain. “Are you sure?” you ask him softly, bringing your other hand to his opposite cheek, cupping his face in your hands again, eyes searching to make sure he means it.

Is he sure? Dazai doesn’t know. He can’t speak again as he stares down at you; a part of him is nervous, and he doesn’t even understand why. You already know who he is, what he is, but a part of him still fears that once you actually see him, something will change. And it’s ridiculous, so many other universes you’ve seen him without his bandages and you’ve never made him feel uncomfortable about it. But you’ve also never used his surname against him during an argument in the other universes, you’ve never regretted loving him, and you’ve certainly never wished you could leave him. 

So, yeah, he thinks the anxiety of you removing his bandages and then seeing him in a different light might be more of a possibility in this universe than any other one. His body is more covered in scars than not, and he knows it’s not attractive; he thinks if he sees your expression shift in a negative way when the bandages come off, it might shatter him entirely.

Just the face bandages then, he bargains with himself, swallowing thickly as he forces himself to nod. You sit up from where you’re still laying back against the tiles, propping yourself on your knees to shift closer to him. 

Dazai thinks his heart might be in his throat when he feels your fingers unclip the clasp holding the bandages together around the left side of his face, eyes fluttering shut as you slowly unwind them from around his head. He isn’t sure why he’s so nervous for this part—there are no scars on his face, but he still feels distinctly vulnerable, like he’s giving you a window into himself that might reveal more than he means to. He can barely breathe as he feels the last of the bandages fall to the floor, he can hear you push them to the side. 

Still, he keeps his eyes shut, counting each second that passes. He’s anxious, can’t even bring himself to look at you until you cup his cheeks again. 

“Look at me,” you say quietly.

Dazai does as you ask, he always does. He doesn’t know what he expects when he opens his eyes to meet your gaze; he prepares himself for the worst, for a twisted expression or thinly veiled pity, but he finds none of it. Rather, your eyes are soft and fond, tracing over his face, looking between each of his. He can feel the pads of your fingers gently brushing over his cheekbones, tracing absent patterns.

“You’re so handsome, Osamu,” you whisper, one of your hands sliding behind his head, intertwining with his hair. “Why do you wear them?” 

Dazai doesn’t know how to answer that. His throat feels swollen at your words, eyes a bit misty and fingers trembling against your thighs. Instead, he breathes out, “Kiss me.”

And you do. 

God, when you kiss him again, it’s so intense that it has his head spinning. He doesn’t know how long he sits there kissing you, back against the cabinets with you half in his lap. It could be a few seconds, or a few minutes, or a few hours—he has no concept of time whenever his lips are against yours. It’s only when you press your hand against his shoulder, murmuring for him to get up, that he finally pulls himself away from you.

Dazai forces himself to push up to his feet—it’s much more difficult than he thought it would be, nearly tripping over his own feet, but you follow him up to your feet, steadying him when he almost tumbles over. You bring your hand up to rest against his cheek, fingers gently toying with the edges of his hair. He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment before he forces himself to look you in the eye. 

“You’re so frustrating,” you say softly, but all of the fire is gone, replaced by that same soft look you’ve directed toward him—not him—hundreds of times before. “You are so frustrating, Osamu.”

His throat feels tight again, the sound of his name on your lips causing a wave of warmth to spread through him, the numbness slowly subsiding.

“I know,” he whispers, swallowing thickly, and you sigh, gaze averting to the side for a moment before you look back at him. He still can’t fathom what you might be thinking and it scares him.

But then you kiss him again, your other hand coming up to his other cheek and his hands fly to your waist, holding you close. You walk him backward, out of the bathroom and into the hallway. His back hits the wall and you press your body close to his, and this time it’s you whose tongue is darting out to brush his bottom lip, urging him to part his lips for you. He does, and he thinks he might be in heaven when he feels your tongue dip into his mouth, sliding against his tongue. His eyes flutter shut, rolling back just a bit when you trace the back of his teeth with your tongue before sucking gently on his bottom lip.

Your hands slide down from his face to his chest, over his jacket, down to his waist. Your fingers hook in his belt loops and Dazai groans as your lips ghost from his down to his jaw, breath shaky as trail slow, wet kisses to the sensitive spot behind his ear. He can hardly do anything but follow along as you guide him from where he’s been backed against the wall into his bedroom, dazed and entirely consumed by your touch. His head already feels a bit fuzzy, breath hitching as your teeth graze his pulse point, kissing down to the edge of his bandages and then across his throat.

He barely even knows where he is until he feels the back of his knees hit his bed and he topples backward until he’s laying flat on it. His chest is heaving, head dizzy and breath shaky as you straddle his waist. You don’t kiss him again and Dazai wants to drag you down for another but he can’t even bring himself to move. His body refuses to cooperate, nervous that he’s going to make the wrong move.

“Do you want this?” you finally ask after a moment, voice raspy as one of your hands squeeze his gently, as if to get his attention. 

Dazai’s brows furrow a bit, lips parting to respond but for a second, no words leave them. You wait with the patience of a saint as Dazai tries to process what you’re asking and respond to it. After what feels like an eternity, he nods once. Of course, he wants it. You search his eyes as if to make sure he’s not just agreeing to agree, and once you’re satisfied, you continue you with: 

“And do you trust me?” you ask softly, your gaze gentle as it searches his face for the next answer.

Dazai doesn’t hesitate this time, and he speaks as he breathes out, “With everything.”

He can’t tell what you’re thinking, but your expression is still soft and your touch is still gentle as you run your thumb over his knuckles. Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the gentleness you show him. You lift your hand to cup his cheek and he leans into your touch, throat spasming beneath his bandages as he waits for you to say something. 

“Let me take the lead then,” you say quietly, his eyes widen a bit at your words. “I want to try something.”

He watches you carefully for a moment, guarded and studying you. He thinks this might be another first, and the thought alone makes him feel a bit giddy because he can’t recall any other life where you’ve ever been the one to take the lead like this, especially the first time the two of you sleep together. You look a bit anxious the longer he goes without responding, so he nods and says, “Okay.”

He’s pliant beneath your touch as you lean down to press your lips against his; he lets out a soft, muffled noise when he feels your hips shift, unintentionally grinding down a bit on his straining cock. He’s more hesitant this time in the way his lips move against yours, unsure of what to do with himself. His fingers twitch from where they're resting on the bed, itching to grab your hips but not wanting to make the wrong move.

This has happened every time one of you tries to take the next step, either he gets interrupted or he ends up getting cold feet because he’s scared of doing the wrong thing and making you uncomfortable. And it’s ridiculous because Dazai has so many memories, he should know at least vaguely what you like and what you don’t like but he thinks having the memories are a double-edged sword because he overwhelms himself if what ifs: what if he assumes you like something and you end up not liking it in this universe, what if he does something that you only liked after the two of you have been together for a while and you’re uncomfortable with him doing it because you’re not as comfortable with him. Maybe Dazai is just overthinking it all but how can he not when you’re involved. He wants everything to be perfect for you. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper, separating your lips from his just enough for him to answer your question. Your breath mingles with his and Dazai can hardly think straight; it’s hot, dizzying, there’s something so intimate about it that it makes his body fuzzy.

“Yeah,” he says, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at you. “It’s okay.”

You kiss him again. His lips move against yours desperately, needy, he’d be embarrassed if you weren’t matching his energy, but you are. He can feel your fingers tugging at his hair, your hips grinding down against his. Every time you start to pull away, he lifts his head from where it’s laying flush against the pillows, chasing your lips. 

He needs you. His hands slide from your thighs to your waist, keeping your body pressed to his. He’s needed you since the day he came in contact with the Book and learned about you, since the day he met you at the club, maybe even since the day he was born even if he hadn’t known it at the time. He thinks his entire life has led to this, to the two of you being together; your souls have been entangled since the moment you were born and he isn’t sure how he ever thought a life without you was possible. 

“I need you,” he gasps against your lips, hips jerking up just a bit to try to alleviate the pressure building in his lower abdomen, desperate to reach down and unbutton his slacks, but wanting you to make the first move.

Whatever nerves that have made him get cold feet all of the other times the two of you have tried to take the next stop are long gone. You don’t give him any time to wonder if he’s doing the wrong thing—the fingers of one of your hands intertwining with his dark locks, just tight enough to make him hiss into your mouth, eyes rolling back at the pleasant sting. Your other hand slides across his chest, even through his dress shirt, your fingertips seem to scorch through to his skin, leaving his body tingling everywhere you touch.

“You have me,” you tell him, breathless, and Dazai can’t bite back the noise that slips from his lips, wanton and obscene, borderline pornographic—if he was any more coherent, he might be embarrassed but he can’t find it in him. Not when he’s finally getting what he’s wanted after all of this time. 

His hands fly down to his slacks, he fumbles with the button and zipper before yanking them down just enough to free his cock and he watches as you sit back on his thighs, eyes wide and lips parted as your gaze focuses in on his cock, watching as the leaking precum dribbles down his length, alongside the vein running along the underside of his cock. 

“Please,” he breathes out, fingers biting into your thighs as he bunches your dress up to your hips, another low moan spilling from his lips just at the thought of what’s about to happen, lashes fluttering.

You don’t even take off your panties, clearly driven by the same desperation that he is as you slide them to the side and position yourself above his cock and Dazai gnaws at his bottom lip when he feels the tip pressing against your entrance. He can feel how wet you are already, so drenched that your slick is dripping down the length of his cock. His hips stutter up instinctively, but instead of pushing inside, his cock slides between your folds and he whimpers, arm flying to cover the lower half of his face. You don’t let him, fingers wrapping around his wrist to pull his arm from his face and pin it to the mattress above him.

“Don’t hide yourself,” you say softly.

Dazai thinks there must be stars in his eyes as he looks up at you. You’re so beautiful, lips parted as you pant softly, an adoring expression on your face as you look down at him. He loves you. He loves you, god, he loves you more than he’s ever loved anything in his life; he thinks that nothing the other Dazais ever felt for any of the other yous could ever compare to how he feels for you.

When his tip starts to push into your tight hole, all he can let out is another loud, lewd noise; his head falls back against the pillows. His ears are ringing, but distantly, he can hear you gasp. His vision is blurry as he forces himself to look up at you but Dazai thinks you look otherworldly with your head tilted back as his cock starts to stretch you out, lips swollen and wet from the kisses you’d shared. He thinks he must look insane, pupils blown wide and eyes wild as he tries to focus on the sight of you. All of the clever wheels that usually turn within his mind are crumbling.

His fingertips leave crescents in your thighs as you sink down on his cock slowly—too slow, it leaves his head dizzy as your warmth slowly envelops his length. He’s imagined this so many times before. Dozens. Hundreds. He has so many memories of the feeling of your body flush to his, thighs over his shoulders as he fucks you deep and slow, swallowing your moans, but he thinks that nothing compares to this, the sight of you above him, watching your body tremble and face shift as his cock stretches you out. He barely refrains from letting out a string of strangled curses, barely able to hold his eyes open to watch you. 

You give yourself a moment to adjust, and when you do, you look down at Dazai. He thinks he must look a mess—chest heaving, breath erratic, eyes heavy and lidded and entirely glazed over—but he doesn’t care, not with the way your hand slides up his abdomen, fingers tracing patterns along the bandages covering his body. You look beautiful—you always look beautiful—but you look extra beautiful right now, and he thinks he could stare at you forever and never tire of it. 

Experimentally, you roll your hips—it’s still slow, agonizingly slow—and Dazai throws his head back, another obscene moan spilling from  his lips.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his fingers falling from your thighs to twist the sheets below him, knuckles white. “Feels so good. So good.”

You let out a hum that’s caught between a moan and agreement as you continue the slow rolls of your hips, hands sliding up and down his abdomen in a way that’s deceptively innocent and soothing compared to how his cock is dragging along your walls. His body shudders at the feeling of it, heat pooling in his abdomen so quickly that it has his whole body tensing as he tries to push it away. 

“You’re so perfect.” Words spill from his lips, more of a babble than anything else as you lean down to ghost your lips over his jaw, nibbling over the bandages covering his Adam’s apple. It bobs beneath your teeth as he lets out another shaky noise. “S’like you’re made for me. I’d do anything for you. Anything. You know that, right? Anything you want, it’s yours.”

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, clawing at the sheets and occasionally reaching for your thighs, and he doesn’t know what to do with his body, hips jerking up at an erratic pace, like he’s trying to meet your pace but his body simply can’t match the slow rolls of your hips, desperate for more. He doesn’t know how you’re so put together—maybe you’re not, he can see through a blurry vision how your lashes are fluttering with each roll of your hips, breath shaky, but you’re just not as far gone as he already is.

“Anything?” you murmur, and he can feel your lips curve up against his neck.

“Anything.” His breath hitches, fingers reaching for your hips as he rocks his up into you, a desperate attempt to get you to pick up the pace. “‘d give you the whole world, burn it for you, anything you want, I’d give it to you.”

His hands slide up from your thighs to your waist as you lean down to press your lips against his in a deceptively innocent kiss. He tries to chase your lips as you straighten up but you don’t let him, one of your hands curling around his throat—not choking him, but firm enough that it goes right to his cock, lips parting in a silent moan—while the other braces back on his thigh.

He thinks that nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of you picking up the pace. His breath hitches, he chokes over a moan, stars sparkle in his vision as the tip of his cock presses deep inside of you. You sigh out his name and Dazai thinks this might be the closest he ever gets to heaven: you on top of him, cock buried to the hilt in your cunt, the sight of your blissed out face above him as his head spins. 

“Oh, fuck,” Dazai cries out, back arching and hand flying to cover his face again but the hand you have on his thigh flies forward to snatch his wrist before he can, pinning it back above his head. Dazai’s eyes roll back, you’re leaning over him entirely now, leaning most of your weight on the hand that’s pinning his wrist but the new angle adds pressure onto how you’re squeezing his neck, paring his airways just enough to make his lungs burn. “More. Faster, fuck, I-ah-”

His voice falls off into another moan, head falling to the side to press his cheek against the pillow. He thinks drool is starting to pool at the corner of his lips but he doesn’t care, he can’t even think at this point, too lost in the lewd sound of skin-on-skin, the sloppiness of his cock fucking deep in your cunt, your soft moans and gasps, lost in the feeling of your tight walls clamping down on his cock, the warmth, the wetness, your fingers digging into his wrist and the sides of his neck. He wants to tell you that he needs more but the words are garbled, entirely unintelligible. 

He forces his eyes back open, feeling the tears spilling over his cheeks just from the intensity of it all, the intensity of you. You’re gentle with him even when your hand is wrapped around his throat and his cock is splitting you open—he can feel the soothing circles you rub with your thumb, he can see the way you’re searching his face to make sure he’s okay. Dazai is just so overwhelmed that he can’t stop the way his next moan breaks into a sob; acutely realizing just how deprived he’d been of any type of care or love before meeting you, and forcibly coming to terms with the fact that he is never going to be able to go without this again, without you again. He’d known it to some extent before this, the thought of losing you and the light you bring him has made his stomach churn violently but this…

He’s torn from his thoughts when you suddenly stop the rolls of your hips, halting the spreading heat in his lower abdomen desperately. The noise that escapes him is something caught between distress and betrayal, dark eyes wide as he looks up at you questioningly, but the expression on your face makes his breath catch. Your hand slides up from his throat to cup his cheek, your other hand releasing his wrist so that you can hold his face between your hands, thumbs wiping away the tears spilling over his cheeks.

Distantly, Dazai recognizes that he’s still choking over sobs and that’s probably why you’ve stopped and that only rips his chest apart more because of course, you’re still putting him above you—even when you’re mad, even when you’ve just fought, when he’s betrayed you in a way that should be unforgivable, you’re still kissing away his tears and putting aside your own needs to take care of him

He doesn’t deserve you. Not in any universe, but especially not in this one.

He thinks he could stay here for eternity. Fuck the rest of the world. Fuck the Port Mafia. Fuck his plan. He just wants to stay here with you, your lips brushing his, sharing the same sliver of air. He leans into your touch, groaning against your lips when he feels your walls spasm around him.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes out, unsure if you can even understand him. “You’re so-”

His words fall off into another moan, and he can’t control his hips as they thrust up sharply against yours, another string of incoherent curses escaping his hips as your breath catches and you straighten back up, head falling back as you gasp his name.

Your nails dig crescents into his upper thighs through his bandages as you brace yourself back against them. You move your hips again—faster, this time, harder, and Dazai thinks his head is in the clouds. He’s so deep inside of you that he can feel everything, jaw falling slack as heat spreads through his body too rapidly for him to get control over. He wants to throw a hand over his mouth to muffle the lewd, pitched moans spilling from his lips but he can’t drag his hands from where they’re clawing at your hips, desperately trying to help you meet him with each thrust.

“I-hah-shit, I’m gonna-fuck-”

He slurs out your name and several obscenities, trying to warn you that he’s going to cum when he feels his cock twitching inside of you and his abdomen tensing, but you only lean down to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips and Dazai is gone. He wants to watch you, he tries, but he can’t hold his eyes open, they’re half-rolled back as he chokes over moans of your name, hips stilling as he cums deep inside of you. His body twitches, expression twisted as he presses his head so hard into the pillow that he thinks he might permanently indent it. 

His head is spinning, lungs burning, sweat beading at his forehead and hair matted to his face—he thinks he’s never cum so hard in his entire life; all of the nights he spent alone, desperately trying to fuck his hand to the thought of you in attempts to mimic how you’ve made all the other Dazais feel, to give himself some semblance of the pleasure you’ve brought him in other lives to hold him over on particularly lonely nights, they’ve never felt like this.

You don’t stop, even as he squirms and lets out jumbled pleas beneath you, body shuddering at the overstimulation but you’re too lost in chasing your own high now. He spasms beneath you, nails digging into your thigh as you fuck his cum deeper inside of you, bouncing on his cock desperately. He doesn’t care that the sensitivity is pushing his body to the brink, letting you use him however you want if it means he gets to see you like this. 

Dazai’s head feels light, pins and needles pricking his body—he thinks he might pass out but he forces himself to hold on, enraptured by the sight of you on top of him with your eyes half-rolled back, lips parted and throat bared to him. Your tits are half-spilling out over the low-cut of your dress and Dazai thinks you’re fucking divine. The only holy thing in this godless world. He wants to spend the rest of his life worshiping you.

“I’m gonna-” you gasp, head falling backward as one final roll of your hips that has your clit grinding against his pelvic bone sends you spiraling over the edge. 

Dazai wants to sear the image of you behind his eyelids, watching as your nails drag against his thighs, drawing red lines even through the bandages, back arching, head tossed back—your body is trembling violently as you cum on his cock, expression twisted and entirely blissed out, sobbing over his name. He chokes and gasps at the feeling of your cunt tightening around his sensitive cock again, jaw tight and spots dancing in his vision as he’s so abruptly pushed over the edge a second time, the coil in his abdomen tightening and snapping all within the span of a few seconds.

He’s still reeling when he feels you slump forward onto his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck, shivering in the aftershocks of your orgasm. He’s only half aware as he instinctively brings his hands up to rest on your hips, rubbing soft circles of your hip bones to try to soothe you. 

He shudders when you press a kiss to his neck right at the edge of his bandages, and then tilt your head up to press another on his jaw. One of your hands comes up to caress the back of his head, fingers carding through the dark locks in a way that has his eyes drooping shut. 

“We’re not done with this conversation,” you finally say after a few moments of silence, voice soft, breaking the silence. Dazai stiffens a bit, lips parting to respond but no words leave them. “... but let’s just lay like this for a while first, okay?”

He lets out a shaky breath, still not entirely convinced that he’s not going to lose you, so he lets his eyes flutter shut as he nods. He may as well bask in this for as long as he can, and if you notice the way his fingers dig just a little deeper into your skin after your words process, you don’t mention it. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “okay.”

Dazai wakes up the next morning and you’re nowhere to be seen. The bed is frighteningly cold next to him and his heart is instantly in his throat. He doesn’t waste a second before he’s sitting up in bed, looking around, eyes wild and heart racing. He doesn’t settle down, not until his eyes fall upon where you’re sitting curled up on the chair of the desk he never uses, eyes trained on the dark clouds outside the window, the beauty of the sunrise wilted by a morning storm.

“His intention was to make me leave you.” You’re not looking at him, but you must have heard him sit up. “Fyodor Dostoevsky. The things he told me, they were to make me leave you.”

Dazai doesn’t move an inch, throat swelling. He forces himself to ask, “What did he tell you?”

He isn’t sure if he wants to know.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say—Dazai thinks that it definitely does, but he bites back the questions that rise to his tongue because you’re clearly not about to budge on your answer. “Who is he?”

“A monster,” Dazai bites out, bitterness seeping into his tone as he leans back against the headboard, eyes still trained on where you’re curled on his chair, gaze distant. “You have to stay away from him.”

“Well, I didn’t intend on seeking him out,” you say it so dryly that Dazai nearly finds humor in it. Nearly. The smile that rises to his lips is mirthless at best. You turn to look at him, finally, and Dazai finds only cool indifference on your face; the fondness, the softness, the gentleness from last night are all gone. He wonders if you regret it, but he doesn’t let that thought linger, it’ll only make him sick. “... He doesn’t seem like the type to give up.”

“He never is,” Dazai murmurs, ignoring the brief, questioning look you direct toward him, mind drifting off to all of the Russian’s incessant attempts to take you from him in all of the other universes. “Did he tell you what his plan was?”

Dazai doubts it, but maybe there was something he said to you that shed some light to it.

“He didn’t have to,” you say quietly. “He wants Yokohama, for whatever reason—couldn’t figure that out, I think he’s looking for something—and clearly, he has to get through you to get it. He thinks the best way of getting through you is by taking me away from you first. That’s what I’d gathered from how he was talking at least, what he was saying about you, the way he was phrasing it. I’d put together enough on my own during the night to fill in the blanks. He told me things about what you’d done as… what you’d done as boss of the Port Mafia—things you’ve done to enemies… to allies. He told me that I’d see the real you as soon as you realize that the meeting he set up was a farce; that the mask you put up would crumble and I would see you for the demon that you are.”

Dazai doesn’t respond, jaw tight as he averts his gaze to the window—he’d played right into Dostoevsky’s hands. He can hardly bring himself to look at you; he wonders if you do see him differently now that the cloud from the night before has worn off, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Now’s not the time anyway, there are more pressing matters.

“... He’ll come after me again, won’t he?” you ask quietly. “Getting me to leave you willingly didn’t work. If he’s so set on me being the trigger to your downfall, then he’ll come after me again.”

He would. As he always has. Of course, Dostoevsky would try to get to him through you, he’s tried it in every universe, and Dazai hadn’t been careful enough. He hadn’t been smart enough. He’d known this was going to happen and was still arrogant enough to believe he could somehow prevent it. He was a fool, and he was a fool at the cost of your safety. He doesn’t know how to respond to you, he doesn’t want to confirm your suspicions, he doesn’t want to admit that this is all his fault, that he knew this would happen and was selfish enough to pursue you anyway.

“... I’m scared, Osamu,” you finally say quietly, and you suddenly look a lot smaller from where you’re sitting on his desk chair, hunched over with your knees tucked to your chest. “I’m really scared.”

Dazai’s heart claws up to his throat and he pushes himself out of bed, still dressed haphazardly in his suit from the night before. He makes his way over to you and kneels in front of you, hands curling around your ankles as he looks up at you.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he tells you, voice a bit more raspier than he intended for it to come across as. “I don’t care what I have to do to ensure it, how low I have to stoop. I will not let anything happen to you, do you understand?”

Your eyes meet his, and he can’t help but notice that doubt still riddles your gaze as you search his face, as if you want to believe him but can’t bring yourself to. A pit starts to grow in his stomach, wide and gaping as he realizes that this is all really about to happen, and one mistake on his part could lead you to the same fate you’ve met in so many other worlds because of him.

Finally, the doubt slowly clears as you let out a soft breath, nodding, and Dazai inhales sharply, laying his forehead against your shin as he lets his eyes slide shut.

He won’t let it happen. Not again. 

again there was NO plot development in the smut - you guys didn't miss out on anything, pinky swear. i restructured the scene to fit the only notable scene (bandage removal) into the part before the smut, so if that felt a little forced, that was why </3 it wasn't supposed to be there. i was struggling trying to figure out how to move it upward a bit. the only arguable "plot" development was dazai letting go of his control freakiness to let her take the lead

[wordsaresimple-imnot]

Pen pal's - Bill Guarnere x F!Reader

Summary: Bill's childhood friend and neighbor writes him a letter after Henry is killed. They keep writing each other throughout the war, but following the events after Bastogne Bill sends a final letter that might end their future before it can really start.

Warnings: she/her pronouns, reader goes by childhood nickname, angst (mentions of war & healing from injuries), does have happy ending.

A/N: I have the biggest respect for the real life heroes of WWII (and all other wars, past & current), this work & all other works is based on the actor(s) and character(s) portrayed in the Band of Brothers series.

A/N pt 2: Full transparency, this one sorta got away from me but I let my creative muse take over and here we are. I was sitting on this idea for a minute and honestly, I love how it turned out. Hopefully y'all like it too! Comments, likes, and reblogs please!! Thank you!

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

It was two weeks after Henry passed when a letter arrived for Bill. He didn't recognize the handwriting, but he knew the return address by heart. It was the house right next door to his childhood home. His suspicions of who it was from was confirmed once he started reading it.

Billy, I've spent the last week trying to figure out something comforting and eloquent to say but all I can come up with is; I'm so sorry about Henry. I can't imagine how you feel. I can't do much to make you feel better over there but I promise to help your mom and sisters with anything they need. You all have been a second family to me my whole life. I pray you stay safe and come home soon. Pip. P.S. I found this picture in one of my old journals and it made me smile. I hope it can do the same for you.

Bill flipped over the photograph that had been included and did, in fact, smile. It was three young kids laughing at the camera, completely covered in mud. He was pulled from the memory of that day when a hand grabbed the picture away from him.

"Henry, Billy, and me." Luz read the back of the picture out loud before flipping it around. "Who's the girl?"

"None of your business." Bill grabbed the picture back and stuffed it in his breast pocket, sending Luz a glare.

Not being fazed at all, Luz leaned over and skimmed at the letter Bill was still holding. "Billy? Who's Pip? Same girl from the picture?"

"Who made you the new Nixon around here? Fuck off, will ya."

"What's got Gonorrhea's in a twist?" Toye asked as he joined the two of them.

"Got some letter and picture from a girl." Luz wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"What, girl's not your type anymore?" Toye smirked at Bill.

"Both of you's, shut the fuck up. It's a neighbor I grew up with. She's like family."

"She cute?" Toye asked at the same time Luz said, "Is she single?"

"She's nothing to you two's or I'll break your jaws." With a final glare Bill folded up his letter and walked away. Toye and Luz smirked at each other, knowing this wouldn't be the last time they pissed him off about this mystery girl.

~~

Pip dropped the remaining pieces of mail on the ground and rushed to her room, eager to read the letter addressed to her in messy handwriting. She knew she was smiling like an idiot as she read it, but she didn't care.

Pip, I appreciate you reaching out and taking care of ma and the girls for me. I couldn't ask for anyone better to watch over them. You're picture did make me smile, something I haven't done much of lately. I can still hear our ma's chewing us out over ruining your dress. Said Henry and I were keeping you from being a 'proper lady'. And if I remember correctly your response was you'd be one "when pigs fly". Thanks for reminding me of happy times. Don't be a stranger. Billy.

Two weeks later, another letter arrived.

Pip, I saw a field with some horses in it today and I thought of you. How you always wanted to live just outside the city with some land to have a horse and lots of dogs. I hope you get to have that one day. Maybe I'll come by and visit when you do. Billy

The next day as Pip made to leave the house to drop her response off at the post office, she ran into her mother.

"Where you off to in such a hurry?" The gleam in her eye and glance down at the letter in Pip's hand made it obvious she already knew the answer. Pip decide to play along since she was an only child and her mother needed to fuss over someone now and again.

"Just sending a letter back to Bill." She'd stopped calling him Billy out loud to people, but that's who he'd always be to her.

"Yes, I saw he'd send another letter. His poor mother doesn't even get back to back responses that quick. Lucky girl." She mused, smiling at the blush forming on Pip's cheeks.

"It's not like that, we're just old friends."

"Of course. Well, check with his mother and see if they have any mail to send out along with yours." Pip nodded, gave her mother a kiss on the cheek and practically sprinted out the houses before any more questions or observations could be made.

~~

Bill couldn't figure out why he was so anxious after sending that second letter to Pip. She was just his neighbor, a life long family friend, like a sister... Well, not entirely like a sister. Henry always saw her like a sister, taking her under his wing and becoming the big brother she didn't have. His sisters saw her as an older sister, someone to play dress-up with and get boy advise from. But him...he'd never really seen her as that. She was family, absolutely. But not his sister.

When her response came, he wasn't sure if his anxiety got worse or better as he ripped it open.

Billy, I would have loved to have seen that field (although, maybe not during war time). I'm surprised you remember that, I think we were seven or eight when I came up with that idea. I never told you but I always imagined you'd live right next door to me and we'd see each other everyday, like we always did before this war. No matter where I end up, I'd still like you to visit. Pip

"Another letter from your 'family friend'?" Toye jumped down into the foxhole next to Bill.

"Why you sayin' it like that? She is a family friend. And what do you care who I get letters from?" Bill grumbled, folding his letter up and stuffing it inside his jacket.

"Luz said her name was, Pip. What's that about?" Toye asked, completely ignoring Bill's grumpy mood and response.

Bill gives a loud sigh, knowing that Toye isn't going to drop it and by extension neither will Luz until they've discovered everything to do with her.

"It's a nickname. Short for Pipsqueak. She was always this tiny little following me and Henry around back home."

"Sounds annoying." Toye says offhandedly, looking at his companion out the side of his eye. He see's a small smile form on Bill's face.

"At first, I guess. But honestly, it became so normal I never really thought about not including her in things." There's a long stretch of silence as they keep watch, then Bill speaks again. "She's family, but she's not my sister. Never has been. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, it does." Toye lights up a cigarette, passing one over to Bill. "Should tell her that someday." Bill doesn't respond, just lights up the cigarette and pulls a long drag from it.

~~

The weeks and months that follow are filled with countless letters sent back and forth. There's no declarations of love or detailed accounts of the war, just two people sharing memories or tidbits about their days.

Pip would fill in the blanks about what was going on with his sister's love lives; who was a bum, who seemed nice, who looked weird. Once she gave him the play by play, as she could remember it, of a dinner at his house with the whole family, her, her mother, and a new beau his sister Marie was dating. His name was Paul, but said to call him Paulie. Pip and his two younger sisters, Bianca and Isabella, were on the verge of giggles all night because his voice sounded so much like a parrot and they wanted to ask him if he wanted a cracker. Then there was the shameful cooking lesson their mom's tried to have with Pip, that resulted in five burned pies.

Bill would tell her about the country side they'd go through and different animals he would encounter. He'd also tell her about the guys and stupid shenanigans they'd get up to. How getting shot in the ass started to become an Easy Company right of passage. When he meets Babe, he tells her about another Philly kid that grew up not far from them and how he's alright. He tells her about a game of darts he played with Babe as his partner, against a George Luz and Buck Compton, saying how they lost but he knows if she'd been his partner they would have won because they always make a great team.

They share memories from their childhood, some including Henry some with just the two of them. When she comes across them, Pip sends old pictures of them for him to have. One he becomes especially fond of is them at 16; they're at the local fair, he's holding a huge teddy bear he's just won above his head with one arm, the other is thrown over Pip's shoulder and she's got her arms wrapped around Isabella's shoulders as the younger girl is standing in front of her. They're all smiling, but only Bill and Isabella are looking at the camera. Pip is looking straight at Bill.

He got a lot of ribbing and questions from the guys when that picture came, but he just told them all to 'fuck off'. By this point it was common knowledge that Bill did, but didn't, have a girl back home. The guys loved to annoy him but truly they were happy he had someone, not all of them did.

Slowly, almost naturally, the letter's started becoming more intimate. Not sexually but emotionally. Greetings went from Dear, to Dearest, then Darling, eventually landing on "My Billy/Pip". Signatures would mix some type of variation of "Love, your Billy/Pip" and "Always yours, Billy/Pip". There still hadn't been any type of declaration of feelings, but they'd often write each other about the future and things they wanted to do or see together. They were always together no matter the plan or idea that popped in their heads about life after this war.

Then one day, in a forest in the dead of winter, everything changed.

It had been months since Bill and Toye were shipped back to the hospital for their surgeries and rehabilitation before getting to go home. Months since he'd last responded to one of Pip's letters. He knew, she knew what had happened as he'd written his ma letting her know he was okay after a telegram went out about his injury from the army. He couldn't stand the idea of her being worried sick about him, not after what happened with Henry.

Pip never mentioned the accident, just kept her letters light and full of the day to day happenings. But they always ended the same way, "P.S. Take your time, I'm here when you are ready and I'll always be yours." Each new letter was like a dagger in his heart. He loved her, so much so that he was planning to ask her to marry him when he thought he'd be going home a whole man. But now, how could he ask her to be with him when he wasn't all she deserved?

One day, he grabbed some paper and a pen and started his own version of a Dear John letter.

~~

Pip was both relieved and terrified when she got a letter from Bill. He hadn't responded since being sent to the hospital to have his injury tended to. When his mother had gotten the telegram, all the army had said was that he was injured and being sent out immediately to their primary hospital. After what happened to Henry, she was in a terrible state so Pip pitched in as much as she could while wanting to breakdown herself. Soon enough a letter from Bill himself came and explained the situation as best he could and what was going on, but ultimately letting his mom and sisters know he was already. They'd all cried together when they read that. She waited weeks but no letter arrived for her. As time went on, she accepted that he needed time to heal and figure things out, so she kept sending him updates on his family and things in town, praying that one of them would trigger some type of response. Now she held one in her hands and she didn't know what it would contain.

Sitting in her room, she opened the letter and with each word felt her heart breaking.

My Pip, I am sorry I have not written. Truthfully, I have not known what to say. I know you must have gotten updates from my ma on my condition and I suppose that was the cowards way of letting you know and again, I am sorry. I didn't think this was how I would be telling you this but, I love you. I'm so damn, madly in love with you it's all I can think about lying here. But I can't keep this going any longer. You deserve someone not scarred, literally and emotionally, from this war and the horrors that have leaked inside me. I want you to have everything you've ever dreamed about. I just can't be the one to give it to you. I will love you till my last breathe. Love you always, Billy

With her letter crumpled in her hands, Pip curled up into her bed and cried until there was nothing left to come out.

~~

Bill knew he should feel lucky. Hell, he was the luckiest damn bastard he knew of right now. He was finally home after being away for years, seeing the worst of human nature, eating a home cooked meal surrounded by his mother and sisters that he'd missed terribly. But there was still a large aching hole in his heart the shape of the girl next door. He'd been home for a month and they'd yet to run into each other. He wasn't sure if he could handle seeing her after the letter he'd sent, but that didn't stop him from praying for just one glance.

His sisters had seen her a few times since he'd been home, but every time he asked how she was they just shot him a glare and changed the subject. They obviously knew enough to have picked her side and he couldn't blame them.

"You're awfully quiet tonight, William." His mother's voice brought him back to the present. "Everything okay?" He suddenly felt like a child again under her critical gaze.

"Yeah, I'm good ma." He slapped on a quick smile, which dropped quickly at hearing Bianca and Isabella snort and cough at the end of the table. "What's up with you two?"

"They're tired of you lying. We all are." Marie sent him a cold look.

"I'm not lying about anything." He clenched his jaw to keep his temper in check. These were his sisters, not the boys, he couldn't react like he wanted.

"Yes, you are. Pip is too. You're both miserable. We see it everyday. Just admit you made a mistake and apologize." Marie turned fully to face him and gave him a look that challenged him to deny any of it.

Before he could say anything, his mother cut in. "Girls, go to your rooms. I wanna speak with William. Go on." She gave them her no nonsense look when they didn't move fast enough. With a few grumbles they all left the room and the silence that over took Bill and her was tense.

"Ma, I don't want to talk about it." Bill sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"You don't have to speak, just listen, yeah? You're my child and when you have a child you pray that they find happiness and have all of their dreams come true. It sounds foolish, but that's the truth. Throughout the years, I've always believed that your happiness lie with Pip and when you started writing each other I knew I was right. Every time she would relay some story you wrote her or say "Bill said this, Bill said that" it was like looking in a mirror to when I first fell for your father. Once you've had a great love, you recognize it in other people. Now, looking at both of you all I can see is myself after your father passed. A sorrow that settles in the bones and your soul and never quite goes away. I know you had the best intentions in mind when you did, what you did, but if it's slowly killing you both inside was it really for the best?"

Bill couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, too afraid he'd completely break down, so he stared at his plate and fiddled with the table clothe. Eventually his mom got up, gave him a kiss on the cheek and left him alone with his thoughts.

~~

Two days later, Pip stood at the back door of the Guarnere house. She'd promised Bianca she'd help her pick a dress for her upcoming dance and after much back and forth, and almost tears, had agreed to come to their house only because Bianca swore Bill would be gone. As she entered the kitchen, she called out to Bianca but didn't receive an answer. She walked further into the house, heading towards the living room still calling out.

"Bianca? Anybody? Hello? I swear if she stood me up, I'm gonna kill her." Just as she finished her though out loud, she stopped dead in her tracks. In the middle of the room stood Bill on his crutches, holding her favorite flowers in one hand. Every time she opened her mouth to say something, she couldn't think of anything and closed it again. Eventually, Bill broke the silence.

"Don't be mad at Bianca, I bribed her to get you over here. I understand if you don't want to hear anything I have to say and walk out, but if you give me a few minutes I swear you'll never have to see me again if that's your wish." Hesitantly, Pip walked into the living room and followed Bill's lead by sitting on the sofa. Slowly she took the flowers from him and laid them in her lap, meeting his eyes.

"I've been practicing what to say all day, but can't seem to remember a damn thing now." He gave a humorless chuckled, clenching and unclenching his hands to steady himself. "What I did, all of it, is unforgivable. I...All I could think about in that hospital was all the things I wouldn't be able to do with you. All the things I might not be able to give you. I believed I was doing what was right, by pushing you away so you could find someone else. But underneath all of that I was scared too. Scared you'd see me now and think less of me. Would always look at me with pity in your eyes and I'd never be that great man you deserve. Now, I'm scared I've lost the only person that matters. Every day since I sent that letter, and especially since being home, it's felt like a wound is festering inside me and I can't fix it. I know I've hurt you, and I'll never forgive myself for that, but if you can just give me a chance to make it right I'll spend forever making it up to you."

Bill would've given her his beating heart if she asked for it. The longer the silence stretched, the more he was sure she would say goodbye. He held his breathe as one of her hands, shakily raised and cupped his cheek. She had tears in her eyes.

"How could I possibly look at you and think less? You've been everything I ever wanted since we were kids. And now everyone knows what I always knew, that you're a hero and a great man. We've had each other backs for forever, I don't think we should stop now. I don't care if we can't do certain things the way we talked about, we will find new ways to do them. All I want, all I've ever wanted, is you by my side. I'll accept your apology under on condition."

"Anything." His answer was immediate.

"Kiss me." The words were barely out when he pulled her closer to him and pressed his lips to her, firmly and with all the passion he had inside him.

Bonus scene: 6 months later

Everyone seemed to be having a good time; drinks were flowing, people were dancing, and in the corner taking a break from mingling, the bride and groom were sipping champagne and sneaking kisses.

"When can we leave?" Bill mutters, nipping her bottom lip quickly.

"I spent all day getting ready, I'm wearing this dress as long as possible." She half joked, taking a sip from her flute.

"I never said you had to take it off." Bill whispers in her ear, smirking at the blush on her cheeks.

"Control yourself and I'll let you take it off, however you want." She shoots him a wink and then grabs her purse, pulling a small box out of it. "Here, I have a gift for you."

Bill raises an eyebrow, taking the box from her. "What is it?"

"Just open it." She smiles at him.

Bill pulls the top off and pulls out a little figurine, laughing instantly. It's a small pig with wings attached. When pigs fly. He looks back and her and cups her cheek.

"I love you, Mrs. Guarnere."

"I love you, Mr. Guarnere."

[ahamkara-apologist]

Okay I kinda get being dissapointed at how they rushed the Sov sibling reconcilliation with just one conversation after drawing it out for months but y'all...this really isn't the end-all-be-all of Crow's character arc, nor is it necessarily out of line for him. His biggest weakness is that he's a bleeding heart who lets people walk all over him- remember how he decided not to get revenge on Spider despite Spider very literally keeping him as a slave? Or how he killed a psion because he was too empathetic to a hive guardian? As much as I love him, and as much as his love is a terrifying force when weilded correctly, he's soft and weak. He always has been. He was bound to forgive Mara eventually, esp. since they have a psychic twin bond going on.

I think y'all are also forgetting the fact that Mara has had quite a bit of character development over the past year or so and has very notably been more open about her emotions and better about keeping herself out of Crow's life- because she got bitchslapped by the reality of what she'd done to him in Season of the Lost and then got shaken to the core by her confrontation with the Witness in Witch Queen. She hasn't been 'defanged', she realized that the way she was acting qualified her to be a Disciple (aka the worst of the worst, the enemy she'd been hellbent on fighting this whole time) and that in tandem with Crow's rejection upset her deeply enough for her to change her behavior, which hasn't been as apparent until now. Idk how y'all can forgive how Uldren Sov slaughtered hundreds of Awoken citizens and wreaked havoc on the Reef but is changed as Crow without also acknowledging the fact that Mara herself changed as well. It's not as dramatic of a difference because it happened more gradually and without intervention from a Taken Ahamkara and the Traveller, but its still there and is the most apparent its ever been right now. It wouldn't surprise me if the reason why Crow is forgiving her now- apart from the fact that he's a softie and discounting potential Riven bullshit- is because she's proven she's changed by both keeping her distance and being more emotionally open with him, as well as open about how she knows she fucked up. That's the second thing Uldren wanted other than her approval, after all.

Also, it's been like, 2 years of Crow being pissed at Mara and avoiding her, so them starting to make up now is kinda necessary even if it feels a bit rushed. I personally would have loved to see more snark and nettling from Crow's end, bc I love conflict and sibling angst, but it really isn't out of character nor is it throwing away Crow's character arc. It would have if Mara hadn't changed, but she has. And while I myself love storylines where victims don't need to forgive their abusers and can exert their wrath upon them as they wish, the fact of the matter is that how such a situation needs to be dealt with varies immensely on a person-to-person basis, which the writing team has already proven they're capable of understanding. Just look at Calus's and Caiatl's relationship! That ended with no reconcilliation because Calus simply refused to change, while Mara has spent the past year trying to get Crow to feel comfortable with her as an equal in conversations and open up to him more and trying to break her habit of watching him like a hawk- aka, acting like an actual sister rather than the pseudo-mother figure she'd picked up from Osanna. Ofc Crow the softie is going to respond to that, esp. since he's got a psychic connection to her via Awoken Twin Magic and seems to have been walking Uldren's memories as of late. He just genuinely is really fucking bad at holding a grudge.

(And while its easy to go 'oh the writing is lazy and rushed', I also think its kinda sus that Riven specifically talks about the human wish to reconnect with family right after the Sov sibling talk happens. It wouldn't surprise me if she picked up on Mara's desire to reconnect with her brother and pushed Crow towards forgiving her. It seems like she's been trying to pull Uldren's memories to the forefront everytime she talks with him and that could be a big factor as to why he's been reflecting on them a lot recently)

[ckret2]

“He'd memorized the constellations outside of his plain when his starblind species didn't even have a word for ‘constellations.’” This is such a good line. (I think you meant to write “plane,” though.)

Did Bill’s dimension have a word for “star,” as in the shape? And did he connect it to the ones up-but-not-north before he left?

aprofessionallurker asked: Ah, never mind about the typo, I just saw the other ask about it. Innnnnteresting…….

Yeah lol. But I do appreciate that I've had two different people point out the plain/plane thing! Like sincerely—I'm always worried that my ADHD and I are missing a TON of typos and that everyone is too polite to point them out, but I want folks to point them out so I can fix them! This specific one happened to not be a typo, but the fact that y'all have pointed it out means you'd probably point out other typos too, which I'm always grateful for.

Star the shape as in ⭐️ the five-pointed one? They probably have a word for it, but since they can't see it from the top, the visual effect of the shape wouldn't have the same significance to them.

The word probably means something different depending on if they consider a star "five points like a pentagon, but with lines connecting each point to an opposite point instead of a neighboring point," or "ten points like a decagon, but half the points go in instead of out":

(they wouldn't be able to accurately draw the shape on a paper like we can, since their papers look like a line; but, to be fair, WE can't accurately draw a cube, since our papers look like a flat surface. And yet somehow we can make drawings we understand to be cubes so I'm sure they can make drawings they understand to be stars.)

If they're going by definition one, whatever word would translate into English as "star [as in the shape]" probably has a definition to them like "simple spirolateral pentagon." If they're going by definition two, it would probably translate like "isotoxal concave decagon." After all there's nothing innately celestial about a pointy five-pointed shape, it's just a geometric figure.

They also had a word for "stars" as in the celestial body: even though they couldn't see the third dimension, theoretical physicists measuring the effect of light on their world recognized the possibility that light emanated from a specific point outside of the visible world, in another dimension; and also the possibility that there were a multitude of diffuse weaker light sources that contributed minutely to the light they experienced.

They came up with words for "the primary singular source of most light" and "the multitudinous weak sources of the rest of light" that would be translated into English as "sun" and "stars," but in their own language they were considered terms for abstract unproven concepts. Like the way we use "graviton" and "dark matter" to describe thing physicists think might exist but haven't observed or proven.

Their words for "star [as in the shape]" and "star [as in the weak light source]" are completely unrelated. Bill did correctly figure out that the things he saw in the third dimension were the sun and the (light) stars, but he didn't associate the (shape) star with the celestial bodies.

Bill thinks it's kind of cute that humans named simple spirolateral pentagons after the distant light sources they see at night, even though the celestial stars don't look anything like that—either from the humans' perspective OR in actual fact. But he doubts they're gonna rename spheres "stars" now that their astronomy has advanced enough to know how stars really look. Still, the symbol they've named "star" is sorta romantic—gives the sense of something radiating out from a central point, like light from a star—kinda like how their "heart" symbol doesn't look like the organ but does look like two halves squishing together to form one whole. Visually poetic. Humans are good at that sort of stuff.

[steviewashere]

Let Me Make You Soup, Let Me Show You That I Care

(also on ao3)

wc: 4,149, Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Canon, Post Season 4, Sick Steve Harrington, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting (Though Not Extreme, For I am Emetophobic), Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve's Sucky ass Parents

(Also, I hope y'all don't mind me cross-posting some of my favorite one shots that I've put up on ao3. Figured I could push them to a bigger audience, especially those who don't use ao3).

--------

Steve gets sick often. Small colds, allergies, the dreaded flu. Maybe it doesn't help him that he's had so many concussions and injuries on top of that too. Left with debilitating migraines and aching sides and muscles that become overexerted too fast.

Safe to say, his immune system is now a pile of steaming dog shit.

He's become good at attempting to "take care" of himself. With his parents being absent nearly all the time, much of the recovery process and gentle care was left to Steve. His hands don't have the same soft and slim quality as his mother's did, though. Even if she doesn't make the effort to shove his hair from his sweaty forehead or massage vapor-rub onto his chest or squeeze his shoulders as he dry-heaves into the toilet. He can miss that.

It's also safe to say that Steve Harrington, best babysitter and lesbian protector, is absolutely terrible at asking for help. His idea is, Got myself into this mess, I can get myself out. His other idea is, I don't want to burden anybody; I've been that too many times.

He suspects that's why his parents aren't there now to tuck him into bed and check his temperature and read him a bedtime story. Even though, now, he's a nineteen year old "man." More like a bruised child trapped inside the buff body of an even more injured adult, left to his own devices and decisions.

Steve is miserable today. Woke up with a knocking headache, an itch at the bottom of his throat, tingly fingers, shivering limbs, and the need to massage his abdomen to elicit the vomit to come up sooner.

It's barely nine in the morning. Just cracked his eyes open. Which, are heavy with crust and too much sleep, yet not enough.

It's barely nine in the morning and all Steve wants to do is lay stiff on his mattress, a trusty tried and true trashcan on the floor, curtains closed, a heavy duvet draped over his legs, and the A/C set to sixty-eight degrees. That's what he does. Doesn't have the appetite for breakfast or water or Tylenol. He doesn't have the energy to lay on a towel on the bathroom floor, body curled around the base of the toilet bowl. And, he doesn't have the confidence to plead with somebody over the phone to "Take care of me, just this once and I'll repay you."

He's done that before to Tommy. The bastard never showed and Steve sobbed so hard at the thought of being left alone, that he hurled right onto the beige carpet of his bedroom. That's why the desk is stuffed into the corner. To cover what he couldn't even take care of.

Steve has decided to lay in bed today. Has already used the trashcan. Kicked off the duvet then whined then brought it back to his sweat drenched t-shirt hem, then said fuck this and ripped the shirt off his body.

The silk sheets against his rapidly heating body feels nice. Like laying on the kitchen floor, Steve surmises. And that makes him think of soup.

A hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. Something he's made himself countless times before. A recipe that his mom never perfected. It's just Campbell's, the instructions are on the label, yet it was never made correctly.

She'd do that. When her motherly instincts were at an all-time high. That had to be when he was probably five? Six? His mom would make a bowl of soup so warm and soothing that she would have to warn him about touching the ceramic. She would bring him a glass of orange juice and say, ever soft and comforting, "It'll help you. Mommy promises."

The juice would sting his throat and he would cough so hard she would start to worry about doing the Heimlich maneuver.

That's what his mother's "sick care" turned into. A glass of orange juice that only hurt, never helped, just made him think about swallowing glass.

Soup turned into a heat-until-lukewarm situation. Juice wasn't bought for him. His parents elected to buy "fancy juice" instead. Another descriptor for Mommy's self-healing alcohol problem, Steve began to substitute. He remembers the last time she ever made him anything or gave a shit about his weakened body.

Steve was eleven years old.

He eventually learned where to buy the Campbell's stuff. From Mevald's. Now he keeps a hefty supply in the back of his family's pantry. Ready for a day like this.

A day where at eleven, before noon, Steve has a sudden mouth watering appetite for measly chicken noodle soup.

He hefts his body into an upright position, feet planted onto the carpet, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the mattress, a quick glance thrown at the trashcan, and a heavy breath burrowed into the stale air. Right before he scoots to stand, he hears the telltale sound of Eddie knocking on his front door. A simple three pattern.

The rapping startles Steve slightly. He forgot that Eddie was supposed to come over. I'll have to send him away, he thinks solemnly.

"Coming!" Steve croaks to the bathroom floor. With whatever strength the knocking has given him, he tucks the trashcan under his right arm, creeps to the top of the stairs, and ever so carefully floats down them.

The can is set off to the side before he opens the door.

In the glow of the daylight, energized and cheery, is Eddie Munson. Wrapped in a leather jacket, hair tied up into a bun, jeans replaced with jorts, and a grin the size of the moon.

"Hey Stevie," he drawls as his lithe frame leans against the doorjamb.

"Hey man, listen..." Steve begins before being interrupted.

"Whoa, what's going on with you?" Eddie shoves into the house. His grin is set into a small frown and his eyes are glazed with concern instead of the excited energy equal to a golden retriever. "Did you get enough sleep last night? You could've called me if you had a nightmare."

That's something him and Eddie do. When one has a god awful nightmare about floating bodies and squelching flesh and sterile hospital walls, they call each other. Sometimes to just hear that the other is alive. Other times for a trip to one another's house. The phone calls could be Eddie recapping a campaign storyline or Steve bemoaning over a wretched, hag of an old woman that demanded a refund on an R rated movie her grandson finagled her into renting. Or just breathing. Steve's fond of the soft puffs of air that signal Eddie finally relaxed enough to go back to sleep.

"No, weirdly enough I slept way longer than I was supposed to. I'm just sick today. But, I'm fine. Or at least I will be, got a good grasp on this. Y'know, trashcan, soft bed, canned soup. Was actually coming down here to send you back home," Steve rushes out. He's out of breath and feels lightheaded. The headache has turned into a pulsating mess and his stomach churns violently. Before he can warn Eddie again to go out the front door and leave him be, Steve finds himself hunched over his trashcan at the bottom of the stairs, trembling with the force of his grip. One hand on the edge of said bin. The other, wrapping tendrils of hair around his fingers and pulling with enough force to surely rip out some of his luxurious hair. Which, really, is a sweaty disgusting mop today.

He feels the hand in his hair loosen. A smaller, slightly cold hand replacing it. But this time, the fingers work carefully to sweep back any loose strands. Another hand joins the mix. This one squeezes at his right shoulder.

Eddie is behind him, whispering and shushing, "You're alright. I got you, let it out." His cold skin feels amazing over Steve's damp forehead. And equally, his touches are soothing.

Steve coughs once, twice, spits the same amount, and then leans against Eddie with a heavy sigh. "Thanks," he mutters. He shutters at being oddly exposed. Now that he's realized his torso is bare and he probably looks as awful as he feels and now all of his guts are in a bin in front of him.

The bin gets shoved over to the left and Steve starts to get up from the hardwood floor. Eddie lifts him up and leans him against his side. "How about this? I'll make you something mild, get some water into you, and divvy up a couple Tylenol tablets. Your skin is hot and not in the sexy way," he chuckles.

They make their way to the living room. Steve is deposited onto the couch with a cushion shoved behind his back and the can placed appropriately at his feet, within arm's reach. Eddie adjusts his hair again, this time with the tie from his own hair, and leaves to the kitchen.

Steve is dazed. Hot all over. Itchy in some places. Runny nose, aching stomach, watering eyes, and throat so itchy he wants to dig his fingernails into the skin on his neck. This predicament almost makes him embarrassed, more ashamed than anything. He gets his ass handed to him annually and has to have people take care of him during the concussions, until he's given the okay to go home and grovel in silence. And he puts himself in situations he can't get himself out of. He's tired of it, he realizes. Feels the need to apologize to Eddie, make him cookies or something, promise to never make him do anything like this ever again.

When said man comes back into the room with three extra-strength Tylenol in his palm and a cold glass of tap water, Steve wants to cry. It's not until Eddie is setting everything down to pet at his hair and shush him again doe he notice, he is crying.

"Sorry," Steve's voice rasps. He takes a gasping breath before choking out another nasty, wet sob.

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's what your body has to do," Eddie coos.

"No, I'm sorry you have to take care of me," he breathes. That's tally number two for decisions Steve is making today. Some miserable, lonely, somewhat pathetic decisions.

Then, Eddie pulls back. His eyes are the size of saucers. And that small frown from earlier has turned into a deep-set, terribly worrying downturn. "You don't have to apologize for that. Not at all. You need help, I'm here for you. It's what we do, okay?" he murmurs. Steve cries some more at that. Choking on his tears, practically. Enough for Eddie to say, "Hey, breathe with me. I don't want you to make yourself sick again."

So they sit for a few minutes. Breathing. Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie's mouth, watching him count. And Eddie stares at his eyes. Trying to piece together all the little details about this version of Steve. The one not picking fights and towering over unlucky underclassmen and spitting venom instead of backing away when he's supposed to. This Steve that looks like a small, terrified, lonely little boy. Who feels the need to apologize for being a human being. Somebody that makes sure everybody is better off and happy and swooned over before taking an assessment of his own body, the injuries stitched into his side, and the possibility that someone also wants to make sure he's doing alright.

God, who is Steve Harrington, Eddie questions to himself.

Once the tears have subsided and breathing has been placed under control, Steve feels exhausted. Eddie seems to notice because he suggests, "Why don't you lay down for a while? Maybe snooze some while I make soup?"

Steve nods with slight hesitancy. "Can I—" he stutters, "Can I lay down in my room?" To Eddie, this is the quietest he's ever heard his friend. And that doesn't sit right with him. A man—bulky and toned, loud and sassy, bark with no bite—now sitting with his shoulders slumped, skin blotched in various shades of pink and red, breathing ragged, and looking at Eddie with terribly timid eyes. He's just a little boy, some part of Eddie whispers.

"Yeah man. 'Course you can. How 'bout you get yourself to bed, I'll follow behind with your can, give you your medicine, and leave the door open just in case you need something?" The nod Eddie gets back is so energetic, it's as if Steve wasn't sick to begin with. That part of him that's been whispering and wondering is now aching. All he wanted was to be looked after.

Where are your parents, Eddie wants to ask aloud. Who was here to take care of you, Eddie wants to dig.

In mere moments, Steve is tucked back into bed. The curtains are drawn to be almost completely closed. His door is left unlocked and gaping. There are soft snuffles drifting through the house. And Eddie finds himself in front of the Harrington's fancy electric stove.

Before he came back downstairs to cook, Steve whispered something about there being Campbell's in the pantry. "If you want to heat it up on the stove, that's what my mama did when I was really little. It's what I do now."

Eddie glances at the cans and makes a decision for Steve, He deserves better than a piss poor attempt. Homemade it is.

When he was little, Wayne used to make soup on sick days. Still does. During the recovery time when Eddie's sides were still sore with stitches and itchy with stretch, Wayne would bring him a bowl of soup and a tall glass of orange juice on a little tray. He makes a mean bowl of tomato. "Something my mamaw taught me and now I can show you," he had told Eddie.

As much of a bare wasteland as Steve's kitchen is—What does he eat, Eddie wonders—he manages to find all the ingredients necessary. After a couple cupboards are ripped open and some miscellaneous drawers sifted through, he finds himself stirring a simmering metal pot of something he hopes Steve can keep down.

Eddie wants to chastise Steve for even thinking about being sick alone. What a misery sentence. Was probably going to call Robin and say something about, "You don't need to worry. It's not bad. I'll just be out of work for a couple days." Then he would've trekked back upstairs, slow like molasses, and locked the door behind him. Would've laid in bed shivering and crying and barfing. Probably would have passed out by the time he was finally hungry.

Steve even apologized earlier for being taken care of. As if he was a burden. Made himself smaller and tighter and quieter, that's for sure. So Eddie won't do any form of chastising. That'd only make him disappear on himself more.

As the soup is being dished up with plain toast and a cup is being filled with pulpy orange juice, Eddie hears Steve startle awake upstairs. Goes from snoring almost as loud as Wayne in the winter to dry heaving, hard.

Eddie sets the made tray down onto the counter. He makes his way back to the front door and chucks his shoes to the side and hangs up his jacket. Then, tumbles upstairs just as Steve is breathing raspy again.

One. Two. Three knocks on the open bedroom door. And in the blink of an eye, Eddie is over at Steve's side. He's crying again. Nothing like the nauseous sobs from earlier, but sniffles and silent watery blinks.

Steve's hair is pushed back again. "What's goin' on Stevie? What happened?"

"N-nothing," he spits frantically into the air. Like a kid trying to hide a lollipop behind their back. A teenager caught with a lit cigarette in hand. The family dog with a sneaker in it's mouth being told to drop it.

"Okay. Okay, I won't push. But I brought you some soup and orange juice. It's not the best because there's so much pulp in it, but it'll do for now. Oh, and—" Eddie sings. He digs around in his jorts pockets for a small container. As he brandishes it just in Steve's line of sight, he says, "Found some vapor-rub in the medicine cabinet downstairs. Now it is a few months out of date, but that just means more will need to be appl—honey, what's goin' on?" he questions softly.

Steve's sniffles have turned into thin-lipped, eyes glazed and bloodshot, muffled sobs. He has a streak of snot dripping down on his upper lip and his chest keeps stuttering. Eventually, he chokes out, "You brought the soup to me."

And what a statement.

The sentence slaps Eddie across the face, causing his head to rear back. It confuses him, that's what it does. Obviously I brought him soup, what the fuck, he asks himself incredulously.

"Wha—of course. That's what you do when somebody is sick. You help 'em out, bring soup or crackers or whatever and make sure they're better," Eddie supplies as he wipes away the sweat and snot with his banana. There's a brief moment where the only sound is Steve crying. The room is dim and he seems more comfortable than when the door was initially answered.

Eddie thinks back to the apologizing. The making himself smaller and quieter. His hesitancy about wanting to sleep in his own bed. How his mom used to make soup. And the statement, "Got a good grasp on this." Pieces start to click, sirens sound off, door number three has opened and behind it is a shiny new car.

A horrifying realization. The easy solution to Eddie's childlike curiosity over where Steve's parents are. And that in itself makes him want to hurl into the trashcan or pull full force at his hair or sob.

His parents aren't here and haven't been in a long while, Eddie accuses.

"Oh, Stevie." He pets again at his drenched hair. "I'm not going anywhere, alright? You don't have to worry about that with me. Let me do what I need to do, but I'll be right here if you need anything."

"Okay," Steve whispers.

Within just a couple minutes, Eddie has Steve propped back up on a mountain of pillows. Some from the hall closet, the stale bedroom of his parents, and the ones from his own bed. He's changed the bag in the can with a call of, "It's alright, no big deal," after Steve's cry that Eddie didn't need to do that. A bedside lamp has been turned on. An ice cold wet rag has been situated over his neck. There's a thick layer of vapor-rub in his chest hair.

Then came the aforementioned lunch. It smells divine. As if God himself started a soup kitchen in the Harrington's desolate house. What's even better is that it's definitely not chicken noodle.

"I don't remember there being any cans of tomato in the pantry," Steve notes.

"Oh, well. I thought you deserved better than that crap. Made something Wayne usually serves up. Family recipe," he sings again.

"Oh," Steve breathes. His eyes feel wet again, but he fights every part of him that says to cry. He's done enough of that. "Y'know, you didn't have to," he says quietly.

Eddie makes the wounded sound of a shot dog. He finishes setting up the tray on the stiff mattress. Then, situates himself to sit on Steve's left, rubbing down his bare back. "I wanted to. That's all that matters. Now eat up before it gets cold."

And he does just that. The bowl is hot to the touch. Its contents still fresh from being boiled. Even the gulps of orange juice don't burn as bad as when he was little. Steve feels five years old again. He's anticipating the late afternoon lunch from his mom where she'll show him vapor-rub and a spoonful of Pepto-Bismol. In the living room, she's going to lay down, with him on top, and they'll watch reruns of his favorite cartoons. The curtains are closed and she hums lullabies as he drifts off to sleep.

Eddie rubs his back and hums songs and kisses his forehead gently. Which, Steve hasn't been given that amount of affection in a long while. And he honestly doesn't mind.

There's something that's been sitting between the two of them, a thing the size of a ten pound medicine ball. A word shaped like love and comfort. The space where Eddie shares stories about Uncle Wayne and his hibernation snoring when the temperatures drop and how he acquired every single mug on their wall. And in response, Steve listens and drips a couple droplets of how his mom would read Goodnight Moon and kiss him on his cheek or on summer days where they'd splash each other in the shallow depth of the pool. Before it became a graveyard. Or the loosely sketched outline of a mom and her child. His dad wasn't as close, but he'd play catch when Steve was still learning about baseball or share facts about his car that intrigued little eight year old Steve in a way no sport has ever done before. How he acquired the bowling pin from the one time his parents took him out for his birthday. The car painting being something his dad did in his spare time, not bought from some general store in the next town over.

Even in his sick state, Steve thinks about pecking Eddie on the lips. Wonders how smooth they are. If he uses chapstick. What flavor it could be. His mind supplies days in the future where they make soup for each other and shout about how excellent Hellfire was or Lucas' basketball game had been. Mornings shaped by soft snores and gentle touches and steaming cups of coffee. Nights wrapped around each other, cooing sweet nothings when the nightmares become bloody again, and sex that's slow and drawn out. Or the quiet moments where Steve needs a shoulder to cry on. And open arms so that Eddie is encased in comfort, even after everything.

At his final spoonful and dip of toasted crust, Steve whispers, "I love you." As treacherous as his mouth has been in the past, this final decision isn't as daunting as the rest from earlier today. Some part of Steve knew that it would come to a head and the words would spill from his lips like the soup on his chin.

Eddie hums beside him. He kisses Steve one. Two. Three times on the forehead. Then he sets the tray aside with all the empty dishes and the vapor-rub with three finger divots. He strips down to his boxers and a simple t-shirt. And he tucks Steve in as he scoots on top of the duvet to hold him.

"I love you, too," he responds. "And I'll be here when you get up. So get some rest and the next time you're awake, I'll go get some new orange juice and more ingredients for tomato soup and a container of unexpired Vick's."

Steve drifts off to sleep with his body curled around Eddie's side.

In the morning, the curtains are open and soft sunlight streaks in the bedroom. Eddie has left the house to do a quick grocery run, leaving behind a note of "Just lay back and relax. I brought the phone upstairs if you want to keep yourself entertained."

He calls Robin to muse aloud how excellent Eddie is. Their dance around each other now concluded over a simple bowl of soup. How nice it is to finally get the care he wish he had when his mom started to go away. Him kissing a guy before she could kiss a girl and her shriek off, "The next time I see you, I'm gonna give you the nastiest, biggest wet willy this world has ever seen. Trust in it, Steve Harrington."

The threat isn't an empty one, but it makes Steve chuckle anyway. Even though he still feels that encroaching violent twist of his stomach and a cough that could send him flat on his ass.

And when the phone call ends and Eddie is back inside with soup being made on the stove? Steve feels like maybe it's alright to rely on his true family when the time comes. He makes a promise to himself too that he'll learn how to make the best goddamned chicken noodle soup this world has ever tasted. All so that he can dote over Eddie the same. Make sure that he really knows just how much Steve loves him.

"I love you," Eddie breaths into his tussled hair later on the couch, where they're watching cartoons.

"Love you, too," Steve slurs as his body becomes heavier with sleep.

[radioisntdead]

I'd love to see a funny drabble or headcanons of teaching some of the older (date of existence old) characters modern slang.

Angel: Rizz~

Alastor: No.

Rosie: ah don't worry about it alastor, the boys too crude to have rizz, hes def. Delulu.

Alastor: NoOoooo.

Good evening my dear! I couldn't figure out if you meant hazbin characters like Rosie explain slang to Alastor or the reader doing that so I assume it's the latter so it's the reader teaching everyone slang.

It escalated slightly with the reader being invested in online drama, I was influenced by Nicole Rafiee's chronically online girl explains series

Chronically Reader teaching people slang and driving old people insane headcanons

Warnings: none aside but I think I lost braincells because I read articles on recent slang meanings, I felt like a 50 year old woman trying to figure out what slang her child is saying, was this how my mom felt when I was saying YEET for literally everything?? Also how many people are saying skibidi, gyatt etc etc for them to be considered slang??? IS THIS AGING???

Well, I'll be blunt, being chronically online is what probably got you sent to hell in the first place.

You got to hell and just decided to be a menace, which I respect, for better or for worse, in this case for worse.

When Alastor was alive his slang was Bee's knees, corn shredder, the Cats pajamas, etc etc and then you waltz in the hotel with all your "Rizz" and "It's giving Red-40 dye." It was like you were determined to drive him insane!!

Because you were!

He avoids you like the plague, and you hunt him down like the deer he is, like you stand outside his room with a board of modern slang + online drama because why not.

You recruit Rosie to help you and she's just all for it, you and her team up, Alastor was long overdo for his slang education anyways, when was the last time she told him what they meant? 2005? 2006? 2010?

I'm pretty sure everyone in this fandom agrees that Rosie keeps up to date with all the slang, I think she draws the line at whatever the fuck gyatt means.

I have personal beef with that word get it away from me.

Alastor doesn't like the majority of this "newfound slang" but he'll use it to troll people, like Vox.

He'll be beefing with him and just go "You have no Rizz." or "The rizzless TV box is Delulu" or something and Vox just blue screens.

Velvette definitely teaches him and pimp grimace the newest slang.

You get along well with her, y'all talk shit about people you don't know and spill the tea on the people you know, the DIRT you have on the other two Vees, and the mild dust specks she has on the hotel crew, like that acting exercise with Angel and Sir Pentious or the time one of the egg Bois got BOILED.

Angel dust knows the top coat of recent slang like Delulu or it's giving, the more elegant ??? side.

You can ramble to him about whatever influencer drama you know of, he's fully invested because so and so did WHAT and soso jiwa DID HUH?

Husk on the other hand...

There is not enough Alcohol in the hotel for this, you stroll up to the bar with a whole whiteboard of modern slang + meanings AND internet drama, he can't leave the bar and so he's just stuck listening to you and praying that the alcohol makes him forget.

It does NOT.

Do people still use bussin'?

He doesn't like that one.

You could teach modern slang to Lucifer, he WILL not use it correctly.

Niffty already knows all the fanfiction slang, from Omega-verse, to everything else, like what the fruits mean [Note I was looking up fanfiction terms to refresh my memory and good grace the FLASHBACKS to my Wattpad days. I DODGED SO MANY BULLETS.]

Now to the part I've been looking forward too....

SUSAN.

She doesn't like modern slang, she doesn't know WHAT your talking about, she is low-key interested in the influencer drama you talk about but everything else? she's going "Young people these days!" "The disrespect! What even is a Rizz? That's not a word!"

Don't you dare explain to her what a Skibidi toilet is, that will kill her.

She likes you though, congratulations you're used as the Susan distraction whenever she's nearby.

This time NOT TO JOJO SIWA'S KARMA MUSIC VIDEO

Good evening folks! I've found that chugging an energy drink has the same effects of me being very sleep deprived but more hyper, this was longer bUT it didn't save even though I HIT SAVE DRAFT.

Anywho I hope you enjoyed, thank you for tuning in, Tomorrow is angst day and I WROTE. Then Thursday is a more wholesome fic where as per usual Valentino dies.

Psst, you should join our discord!

[thesecretcornerintheroom]

1 Month

Part 2

Pairing: Oj Haywood x Black female reader

Warnings: Bondage, Angst, Yearning 😂 (so y'all, this is part 2, and it took me a while to figure it out I hope y'all enjoy 💕)

Word count: 22752

HA SO THE LUCKY SPECIAL WORKED said Emerald. I knew some weird shit was going on. He stopped grunting all the time and being grumpy, she said, laughing. “Can you shut the hell up?”I bit at Emerald. “You said you needed my help”. My tone was embarrassed partially by how loud she was and second by her statement. I haven’t seen Emerald in a month; a lot has happened, like a weird alien lingering around their farm. “That’s why you haven’t been coming around,” said Emerald as she leaned in. Her lashes touched her eyebrows with anticipation as her smile widened. Her gaze held my eyes with amusement and curiosity“damn, it was that bad. Should have fucked with me,” causing me to let out the loudest laugh. We’re in a dinner, drinking our milkshakes and sharing a fry, reviewing her research about this alien and the ranch. “What was so funny?” I heard his voice, and everything stopped, the laugh spilling out my body, the old music that blared through the dinner. I knew that voice, that deep country voice. I turned to see OJ; he was looking at Emerald and me. His body was more buffer, and his skin was glowing from sun exposure. He wore an old faded t-shirt, and his dark blue jeans faded from working. His gaze went from Emerald and fell on me. For once, I couldn’t read them well. It’s not like I ever could. OJ didn’t have a lot of facial expressions. I had to look back at Emerald, hoping she would save me. “I was telling her about that weirdo we met from the camera store,” said Emerlaed in a charismatic tone, “Angel,” said Oj. “yep,” we both said in unison. “Mhm,” he sat beside Emerald. “Alright, back to business. What the fuck is this over our ranch, and why is it here,” said Emerald noticing a shift in the room.

“Bye em be. Safe,” I said as she exited the car to walk into her new women of the week house. Emerald will still attend her bootie call even when supernatural things run around. Yeah, she said, walking away. “I’ll get you tomorrow, I assume,” said OJ passive-aggressively. She stopped and turned around, you assumed correctly, causing me to giggle as OJ drove off. I could feel the tension setting in. Who knew a 5’4 girl who Yaps with a loud voice was keeping the tension at bay? “So, how lucky will I be to see him in commercials?” I said, trying to make small talk. I can feel OJ‘s body tense, his eyes on the road. “He is supposed to be in a beer commercial” in about two months. “OK, well, that’s good. That’s exciting. I can’t think of the last time Lucky was in” before I could finish my sentence. He cut me off; “where have you been?” His eyes didn’t leave the road, causing my body to heat up. “I texted you and called you,” but there was no response. The only person you respond to is my sister for this:” I can tell you wanted to say more, but Oj never Said more. He only talked when he felt like talking. Oj saying this much was shocking to me. “I got wrapped up with my job, and between working and stuff, it has just become a lot.” I said my words, fumbling, trying to come up with any excuse for not calling or texting him back. Lucky listened to the excuse and turned the radio up. “there is something on your mind, the way you look at me.” I don't know if it was the singer's voice filled with concern and yearning or the old band playing behind the singer's voice. Maybe it was the lyrics or how Oj's jaw flexed as he tried not to talk. Still, I felt the tension rise in the car, and my body turned to jelly. The silence and this song were going to be the death of me.

Once we arrived at my house, everything looked the same: my porch light was flickering cause it needed to be fixed. The radio was turned off, and now we were in silence before I could say anything.” how long has your light been out?”

“ since last week, but I don’t go out often, so it hasn’t bothered me. I responded. “My tool kit is in the back, and I’ll fix it”He said. As we got out of the car and my feet hit the ground, I was grateful to feel the earth. My legs were still tingling, and the air was thick as OJ grabbed his toolbox, and I went inside. I decided talking wasn’t the best option. “Okay, okay, y/n, while he fixes the light, get yourself together I scrutinized myself as I went into the fridge. I noticed the lemon bars I made for a hot summer night. I grabbed some without thinking, one for me, one for him. When I walked back to the front, my light fixture was now fixed, and Oj was heading to his car. “OJ!” you said with a worried tone. He turned around, putting his toolbox in his trunk. You looked at him, and your eyes said, please stay hoping he would understand. You sat on your porch steps with your plate in your hand, holding the sweets you made.

“You want a treat?” You said, voice thin, scarred of what he’d say or want to say. Oj stopped and looked at me for a long time, his face unreadable. He walked up to me slowly and sat down. His body was big in stature as he sat at the top of the steps, His legs stretched to the bottom steps, and the air felt warm and heavy with him near me. He grabbed the sweet off my plate and took a bite. I looked at him, wondering what he’d say about my newest lemon dessert. “9/10,” He said. “Gasps,” I said, “that’s a 10/10, And you know it?” I said, grinning, voice heavy. He looked at me, smirked, and took another bite. I saw the custard form on his lip, quickly replaced with a swipe from his tongue. Oh, that tongue, his eyes glistened “to tangy.” He said maybe more powder on top. I shook my head, mentally nodding, “Oj has no vices but one, and that’s super sweet pastries,” I giggled. Leaning away, he looked at me. One pastry was now gone.

“Oj, I’m sorry, but I should’ve been honest. I haven’t called or responded to you because I was scared My mom and dad are gone my siblings live across the country. All I have is you and Em; I don’t know.” My heart beat in my chest, and my body was overwhelmed with the truth. Oj was looking at me. “Mhmm,” he said as he looked at me. I could feel the tension. It felt like a balloon was going to pop. I stood up, grabbing the plate. “Do you wanna come inside,” I said, standing up and looking down, trying to grasp at my sanity. Oj looked up at me as he rose. I felt the dynamic shift; he was towering over me. He speaks with eyes, that’s for sure. He looked at me and then at the door. He shook his head yes.

Once inside, I went straight to the kitchen and dumped the pastry in the trashcan. “I don’t have any friends said Oj. All I have is the ranch Em and you and now, Angel said. Oj crept over to me slowly, each footstep holding weight. He looked down at me and placed his hand on my cheek. I closed my eyes. Oh, how I missed his warmth. His hands were rough; his hands felt like work. His hand went to the side of my neck, his thumb slowly rubbing my neck, titling my chin up. He lifted me and placed me on the dining table, my mouth open from shock. He kissed me quickly. The kiss was feverish and fast. His lips tasted of vanilla and zest. He was kissing me like he was making up for lost time, grabbing my legs, and pulling me closer to him. “But I'd rather have you like this than a friend he grunted out” as his lips left my mouth and worked his way down my neck, leaving kisses above my breast.

In this summer heat, all you had on was a tank top and shorts, his hand roaming my body and still on my neck. He pulled me in closer. “I don’t think I can get any closer.” he removed my tank top. “Uh-huh,” he said as he placed his lips around my nipple, causing me to arch my back. My fingers found the nape of his neck, diving into his kinky curls. “Oj, please, I purred,” his tongue circled my nipple, his tongue sending shocks through my body. My legs wrapped around his waist, subnconsily pushing my body backward from the dealing of pleasure. The plates and table decor fell over with a clatter. Clank as so of my cups hit the floor. His hands gripped under my thighs and lifted me, causing me to yelp. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, giggling as he walked me to my room.

He placed me on the bed. “hold still, " he said with a smirk. As I lay on the bed, my body felt vulnerable. I could feel his fingertips dancing on me, going up and down. I felt a thumb swipe over my spot with my jeans on, causing me to gasp. His hands slowly trailed to the button of my shorts. As the button popped, I could feel He pulled down my shorts off my leg.his hands slowly rose to my waist, dragging his hands back up my body, leaving me in my panties that were red. “A month. I’ve thought about you for a month,” he said, removing his shirt. “I thought about that night you slept over.” his tone was calm. His toned body was showing, and his skin glistening in the dimly lit room. His muscles flexed as he removed his belt, jeans, and underwear. Once free, he grabbed my hands, placing them above my head. He stopped and looked at me in my face. “ for a month, I missed you, your laugh, your warmth,” his tone dripping with sincerity. His face observed every piece of me, soaking me In like this. I got so lost in his eyes I almost didn’t feel the leather wrap around my wrist. “ Oj,” I said, breaking eye contact and looking at my wrist. His belt was now tied around my wrist, his buckle at the front on full display, shining in the light, and I was shocked looking at him. Oj looked at my wrist. “just say no,” he said. He looked at me, and I knew he meant it.” I’m okay,” I whispered.

“A month,31 days, you stayed on my mind. I kept thinking about what I would do and how I would kiss you, he said, rubbing the side of my thigh slowly. So I’m going to show you what’s been in my head for 31 days,” he said, kissing me earnestly. His hands find my clothes clit and start playing with it, causing me to have gaps in his mouth. He grunts in my mouth as he speeds up with his finger over my clit, causing me to squirm. The feeling felt so Good but so far away. “please, please,” I said as I thought about the feeling between my legs. The feeling growing inside of me, but my panties were stopping the feeling. “Uh, uh, I know you got it,” he said, his southern drawl in my ear as his finger moved over my clothed clit harder.I felt my wetness start to drip past my panties.

“common be good for me.” He said. The wetness between my legs grew. My panties were becoming wet, and my voice became ragged.” Please, please, uhh,” I said, my core tightening, the feeling going through my body. “Your thighs are shaking so much,” he said, “cum for me.” The wetness pooled in my panties, causing me to come undone. My sight was hazy, my breath shallow, and I put my tied wrist around his neck.I looked him in his eyes, and I knew at that moment I couldn’t run anymore.

From him or my feelings in that moment, my hands tied draped over the back of his neck, I pulled him down to me, his full lips feeling out mine, causing me to sigh in contempt as I kissed him. I wrapped my legs around his hips, my clothed member now grinding against him. His caused him to grunt, stopping my hips with his hands. He pulled down my panties and threw them across the room. His finger trails up my calf and my inner leg. As it reached my core, I felt my eyes close with anticipation. His finger swipes between my folds before they enter his two fingers, entering me. Letting out a gasp from the heavy breathing in the room and the wet sounds of him fingering me, his two fingers going in and out of me at a slow, poisonous rhythm. OJ was breathing hard as he looked down, eyes locked on my pussy. “You seem ready for me,” he said as he looked up at me. I opened my eyes and shook my head. Oj positioned himself in between my legs and pushed in with a demanding force, causing me to moan in satisfaction. His lips met my neck as he nibbled and kissed, teasing his hips, moving slowly, still moving with force, his hips snapping, meeting the rhythm of my hips. He bites my neck, causing me to yelp. “I missed you he said” “I missed you too” the words flowing out of me, my body melting like butter. “A month,” he said as he snapped his hips, causing me to moan, words falling from my mouth, “I’m sorry, ugh, please.” as you arched your back, you felt him hit the spot inside of you that will have you undone soon, I won’t do it again” you said feeling the wetness pool in between your legs as he enters you his rhythm now becoming more frantic his hips bucking into yours with more meaning then you can describe. You could feel the wind leave your body; your eyes closed, your hands still clasped wrapped around his neck as your breast bounced to the rhythm Oj was setting. You felt your thighs begin to shake as he started to hit that spot again. Your eyes began to water, your moans fell out of your mouth, and your stomach began to tighten. Oj started to moan, and his thrust became more sporadic. As Oj lowers himself, you feel him on your body more. Your chest now touches both of your warm skin, hot and dripping with lust. You felt Oj grab your leg and raise it higher. He soon was bucking his hips desperately. Your eyes began to roll as the moans kept falling from your mouth as your body tried to rise off the bed. “no more running,” he said with a grunt as he captured his lips with yours. Your body spasmed as you released, feeling the sheets damping beneath you. “Oh fuck” said Oj as he pulled out quickly and came on your pelvis area. As both of your breathing slowed down. His body is towering over yours, now removing the belt buckle from your sore red wrists. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” OJ said.

[floralembarrassment]

So the people have SPOKEN (you know who you are @starman-o7 & @copeing-through-marauders) and because @softgaygothdude made me cry y'all are getting more!

Problems... (2/4)

Regulus took each step slowly, listening to see if he could hear Effie and Monty. He didn't want to eavesdrop, he just wanted to make sure he wasn't interrupting anything important. When he took the last few steps and became visible to the kitchen, he was addressed with a warmth he still wasn't used to.

"Regulus! Come down for a bedtime cuppa have you?" Monty asked as he set the kettle down from which he had just poured for himself.

He looked around the kitchen. Monty leaning against the counter as he fixed up his tea, and Effie was sitting at the table. "Umm, yeah I uh yes please. Thank you." Regulus stuttered quietly, out his eyes lingered on Euphemia.

"Well help yourself," Monty said clearly reading that he wasn't the one Regulus had come down to see. He kissed Effie on the head, "I'll just be heading up to bed darling, I'll see you up there."

Monty smiled at Regulus, who offered a small one back, and he walked up the stairs leaving Regulus alone with Effie. She stood and tipped her head to the kettle, "want me to make it for you, yeah?" She offered but had already started moving to do so.

"Oh you don't have to-"

"It's nothing dear, you have a seat." She said and Regulus did as he was told.

He sat quietly while she made two cups, and Regulus smiled when he watched her make his the way he liked it without even having to ask. When she sat back down, placing a cup each in front of the them, she titled her head and asked in her softest motherly voice, "something on your mind Regulus? Do you need anything?"

Regulus looked down into his tea, hands fiddling around the cup. "Umm, well now that you mention it, I um I'm really sorry but I need some some things for the bathroom..." he couldn't help stumbling over his words. His courage was gone and he was all nerves again.

"Oh of course sweetheart," Effie said. "We can get you anything you need. James mentioned you liked a certain shampoo but I bet we guessed wrong didn't we?"

She was all smiles and ready to solve any problem Regulus had. He couldn't believe it nor did he believe he deserved it. But remembering Sirius' words that she would feel bad if she couldn't take care of him, and while it might be missing the point that he was still going to act in a way to please a maternal figure, he was doing his best.

"No no you did guess correctly. No everything has been great really, it's just that um I was wondering if you had any um any..." and lowering his voice to whisper and leaning in he finished, "any tampons?"

After getting it out, he took a deep breath and looked up at Effie who had a slightly confused looked on her face. "We absolutely can get you some," she said a bit slowly, but still willing to give Regulus anything.

"Don't you want to know why?" Regulus said in shock.

"Only if you want to tell me dear," she said her smile and her eyes were soft, and Regulus couldn't help the tears that slid down his cheeks because he finally found a nice place to land.

Effie opened her arms in a question, and normally Regulus would shy away but right now he was happy to be comforted in a way he didn't know he could ever need.

"So you know that I'm trans?" Regulus whispered into Euphemia's shoulder.

She pulled back and looked at Regulus in the eyes. "I know you as Regulus, a wonderfully smart and thoughtful young man who is much kinder than he believes himself to be," Effie replied.

"So you don't care?" Regulus asked, again allowing his shock to be his courage.

"I only care that you are being taken care off and aren't doing anything dangerous," she explained sitting back down.

Regulus peered at her. He wasn't sure what she meant.

"Regulus I want you to listen to me, if there are things you want help with so you can be who you are, Monty and I will help you get the right care, okay?" She said, somehow simultaneously stern and supportive.

Regulus nodded, and realized he actually believed her. She patted his hand.

"Now, we are going to get you whatever products you need. There's a shop just up the street we can go together so you can tell me which ones you like, alright?" She said, and Regulus smiled.

"Thank you Effie, honestly." Regulus replied.

"Oh sweetheart this is nothing to thank me over. Actually I should be thanking you, because we are also going to get some treats and I have been dying for some chocolates," she said as she grabbed her keys and they walked out to the car.

[lurkingshan]

For the Romance Trope Ask Game

2 and 4. Thank you.

Rose💜

Friends to Lovers

*steps on soapbox* Friends to Lovers, when executed correctly, is NOT a fluffy trope. It is pain. It is the absolute terror of realizing you are in love with someone you are not supposed to be in love with. It is the knife-edge fear of them finding out, and also of them never finding out. It is the way the piner is constantly hurt by the one who doesn't know, and the journey the latecomer has to make to wrapping their head around such a huge shift in the way they think about their best friend. I don't think Theory of Love is a perfect show, but it absolutely gets the pain of this trope right in a way few dramas ever have, and it takes that pain to the max, allowing Khai and Third to hurt each other but also work through it and come out the other side stronger. It is one of my all time-favorite BLs.

Long Term Pining

Y'all love this one! And I appreciate it, because it's what the romance genre does best. I have already shouted out a couple fantastic one-sided piners in Lan Wangji and Noh Shinwoo, but I would like to take this chance to highlight a rarer form of the trope: mutual long term pining! This version can only happen when the characters have deeply misunderstood each other, so trust Japan to come through on this one and deliver a fantastic example in Tokyo in April Is... Ren and Kazuma have been on the same page about each other since they were 15, but due to a very unfortunate series of events around their first sexual encounter, both believe the other doesn't feel the same. But that doesn't stop them from pining for each other across their long separation and all through their initial FWB relationship. Seeing them finally communicate effectively and figure out what they meant to each other was so rewarding.

Send me a number and I’ll post the best and/or my fave show that uses that trope

[newtthetranswriter]

I need input on this idea

Ok so here is my idea. I have seen people write about different disabilities and I think it's a wonderful thing to do. It helps people with them feel more included and seen in fandom. I mention this because I want to write an x reader for one of my disabilities that often gets over looked as a disability. I have a lisp and I also stutter and stammer some times. For the most part people can't tell I have these problems because I went through speech therapy for most of elementary school and so I can kind of stop it but when I get overstimulated or excited I slip up and it can be hard to understand what I'm trying say.

My idea is writing a piece where the Reader has a speech impediment like mine and is self conscious of it. Doing things like staying quite when their excited, or slowing down the way they talk so they can enunciate words correctly. All of this of course is a result of past experiences with bullies and even family members making fun of how they talk. And which ever character reassuring them that there is nothing wrong with the way they talk and don't have to try so hard to hid such a key part of who they are or even offering to help them out with keeping up with there speech therapy exersises if thats what reader wants.

(i don't know which way I want it to go yet)

The input I need is who to write this with. I'm not sure which character to write this with so I figured I'd give some choices and hopefully y'all could help me pick.

(I am open to suggestions for other characters as long as they are on my will write for list)

(dividers by cafekitsune)

[gotham-native]

If youre given the chance to direct a cats non replica what would the production be like? Whats the setting, costumes, choreo, music are gonna be like? what elements are you gonna put thats exclusive to that production/things to add? what inspos/elements ya gonna use from other productions and also other non replicas?

THIS MADE ME THINK THINK AND GOT ME TO FINSH MY HALF MADE NON REPLICA FROM LIKE 3 MONTHS AGO

SO

If youre given the chance to direct a cats non replica what would the production be like?

setting In a park (That I've cleverly named T.S PARK) {Please clap} i don't have the exact lay out figure out but i'll do a basic sketch and add it in when i figure it out (If you have suggestions please help) costumes I did my favorite thing for this and made a POWERPOINT (And i uploaded it correctly this time so y'all can see it) choro Original Chorography with a bit of the stylized felineness like in Warsaw and some of the Broadway reveal for the Macavity scenes music I don't know much about all the tempo changes there has been but I'd pick the like 1998/modern versions where it's more ?fast? (Even though i love original London mungojerrie and rumpleteazer) what elements are you gonna put that's exclusive to that production/things to add? -Demelonzostrap (because I'm me) -Growltiger is going to be a puppet show put on by Jellylorum and Gus JR. for Gus and the kittens with a little magical help from misto (Like Original Broadway Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer). Separate characters are going to Physically play Growltiger and Griddlebone and Jellylorum and Gus JR. will be off to the side but still on stage voicing them, LIKE A PUPPET SHOW. -For the Paus de deux Victoria and Plato are going to be 'Separated' from the other cats on a upper part of the set while the rest of the cast are below cuddling/playing -The Everlasting cat is a character and in the end she kinda come out of the sky to help Grizabella to the heaviside layer. -i don't like Bustopher Joan's as a number so it's getting cut and a scene of the cats comforting each other after grizabella the glamor cat before mungojerrie and rumpleteazer will take it's place -Macavity is going to original go to grab either Demeter or Jemima but Old Deuteronomy stands in the way to protect them so Macavity takes him -Demeter gets to punch Macavity because she deserves too what inspos/elements ya gonna use from other productions and also other non replicas? I like in Tecklenburg when Munk gets the staff at the end symbolizing Old Deut believing he is ready to lead the tribe so maybe something like that Other then that I'm not sure Extra Misto is going to being a demon (not literally) (Maybe) but he is going to be the creepiest little dude I would very much like to maybe have a female Tugger and Misto at some point, as a treat Macavity has Fire powers and they will be shown

(some of the charters designs i picked are still from three months again so im iffy on some of them and i don't remember where half the picture are from a mix of Pinterest, tumbler and the wiki)

feel free to ask questions

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

can you tell me more about draco and the northern oracle 🙏 i wanted to dive more into this when i saw your post about heavenly oracles but all that came up when i searched for the dragon was ladon

Ah yes, I know why that is.

Multiple myths can correlate to the same constellation. Capricorn, for instance, could be this one legendary seagoat who was memorialized for his bravery as a constellation OR it could be a representation of Pan's escape from Typhon as a seagoat.

The Draco constellation is like this - most will say it's to symbolize Ladon, the dragon who guards Hera's golden apples, while others will say the constellation itself is the earth-dragon of Koios's oracle.

Obviously, I think we all know which one I prefer lol

and!!! um!!! maybe I can tell you more, we'll see XD

So. I am of the mind that Draco and Python both coexisted with their respective Titan counterparts - Koios and Phoebe. They both witnessed the Titan War, and while Draco retreated inside Koios's oracle and kinda shut it down to a degree to keep it from falling into the gods' hands (because remember - Draco is on Koios's side here. He would do everything he could to keep it from Olympus.), Python remained neutral with Phoebe.

That is. Until he grew greedy. And wanted Delphi's power for himself. And then got slammed by her grandson lmao

BUT THIS ISN'T ABOUT HIM :D IT'S DRACO TIME :D

I imagine Draco to be kinda an icy-blue and white dragon, resembling the north but also the sky, because that's where he and Koios get their prophecies from (and I see Python as purple & green hence the Earth and all that hehe. Colors!!!).

AH I CAN SHARE MY HEADCANON ON WHERE I THINK THE ORACLE IS AT NOW :D

so context: Koios's oracle is to the North, but not like. the North Pole. The Ancient Greeks weren't aware of such a thing - sure, they believe Koios was the Northern pillar, but not like the North Pole.

This is important to know because Hyperborea, Apollo's eternal spring vacation suit, is located just below where Koios's oracle is!

SO IF WE TAKE OUT MY MAP HERE (yes I have a map for this. i have ADHD what do you expect?)

The Underworld River Eridanos runs through Hyperborea, as seen by the 34 Gray marker on the map^

Gray marker 32 is the location of the Rhipaion Mountains, where Boreas lives. This is the southernmost border of Hyperborea!

Originally I thought Eridanos was like. the Northern border - but no! Sources say that it's the River Oceanus instead.

But the thing is. For this river to be the northern border, then that means Hyperborea takes up like. Bulgaria to Poland. Lithuania. Till it hits the Baltic Sea, at least.

(Wait. oh my gosh...that's how Freypollo happens...ohmygosh EVERYONE I'VE FIGURED IT OUT!

ahem. saves for later <-ask me about it. please.)

anyway. SO THEREFORE HYPERBOREA IS LIKE. WHERE GRAY 33 IS. BUT ALSO FROM GRAY 32 AND UP.

Apollo really just went "See this? It's all mine now." lmaooo XD

that or Boreas was a really good boyfriend <-headcanon i could share too if anybody's curious hehe

BACK TO THE ORACLE NOW.

Delphi is the center of the world to the Ancient Greeks, so if we go North, Koios's would be right about...

Koios has friends in the Norse pantheon confirmed?

guys I'm just spitballing right now. but it makes sense too.

Ancient Greece was aware of the Norse, btw! and, funnily enough, they could have mythologicalized them as...the Hyperboreans.

Freypollo happened y'all it's all right here

And I'm not making that up! It's historically agreed upon that the Hyperboreans in mythology were probably mythological avatars of the Norse! Greece rarely interacted with them, but they still knew of the other's existence. In fact, they were in a bit of awe of the Norse if memory serves correctly lol

Fascinating. Amazing how it all fits together.

Of course, remember this is just me making a crack theory about this Really Obscure Thing so there may be something out there that doesn't add up with this and if there is I Will make it Work with this but all in all, I think it does make sense?

Like seriously I just pulled this out of my head. Only the part above the cut was prewritten but the rest was pure crack theory slammed down.

As for where I think Hyperborea and Koios's Oracle are in the RRverse...

Greenland be covered in snow, yes. But remember Hyperborea is a land of Eternal Spring and would not be deterred by that lol

Plus it'll be typical RRverse shenanigans for Eternal Spring to be in a Very Snowy place lmao

I was tempted to put Koios's Oracle at The North Pole but then I was like ehhh not very accessible, is it?

I can officially say this is my second theory lol hope you enjoyed the rabbit hole :3

[vacantgodling]

hiiiiii work is wild today. so i have a question for you.

i'd like to hear about some of the different foods available in tcol!! regional delicacies, staple crops, rare treats... anything you can offer me.

or, alternatively, tell me about some of the main cast's favorite and least favorite foods!

oo this is an interesting question in the sense that food, flora, and fauna are like my least favorite worldbuilding things so... i tend to build them in such a "dude because i said so" kind of way. there is no rhyme or reason to it it just has to happen when i need to think of something LMAO

all of that to say this will be extremely all over the place PFF.

so the one food i DEFINITELY know exists is a labyrinth honey loaf, which is like... basically a sweet bread. i mention it in mukul's profile, because that's currently his biggest goal--to make the perfect batch of one of these. the reason it's so difficult to make is that it basically requires labyrinth honey, which needs to be tempered like chocolate. but its hard to temper because its slightly explosive if you cook it at the wrong temperature, or it just turns to uneatable sludge. its an absolute delicacy if you can make it correctly though and that's why he's very fixated on it atm. (he loves baking). so i think a lot of labyrinth foods from its strange flora and fauna are just kind of Like That. amazing if you know how to cook it but absolutely dangerous to try and work with LMAO.

when it comes to regional delicacies.... i gotta get more into the weeds of city worldbuilding. each major city in terrae is basically its own cultural center (though some influence each other; kingsburrow and lathsbury aren't too different culturally because they're so close to one another and were established at p much the same time in history) and i have somewhat vague inclinations about each of these... but its sort of next on my list of to dos.... my long... neverending list of to dos..... (y'all should see how long the timeline is now and if i told you how much shit i still needed to figure out... GOD) anyway though; i do know that Diisaians in general are huge drinkers.

in general, one of the first crops in terrae that existed was because of the god of harvest, alcohol, and partying KIBARUM waaaay back in like the 100s, when eros and argos were first being established. and that was a crop which i'm just worldbuilding on the fly rn but its kind of a cross between wheat and rice. like similar properties of both. don't ask me how it works, idk man. but its something that can be grown dry in one way and creates a certain staple grain, but the same crop can also be grown in marshy/swampy lands like how rice is grown (cuz eros and argos are very marshy/swampy) and it acts differently. a multifacted, fast growing crop that can be manipulated in a variety of ways based on the fact that in the early days of terrae, shit was BAD bro like 2/3 of the pop was passing away like every year or something ridiculous like that due to monsters until the citadel of Argos was finally finished.

but that's more into the history weeds and my forte and not related to the question at hand so i will steeeeer away from that.

said crop... which i will name eventually... can be made in a multitude of ways like i said like it can make breads, porridges, slurries, meals (like corn meal or grits), etc. its pretty much the basis for the terranean diet altogether because its so versatile. the only place where it doesn't grow is kiskkaddon because kisk is a giant "all consuming" desert. tm.

in kiskkaddon and diisai, speaking of, they're the only places on all of terrae where there are "wild monsters" aka monsters who were not driven by lath and ensio into the labyrinth, just bc those lands weren't connected to terraneans and terraneans ventured into those lands tm. they live virtually alongside monsters in these regions and have created cultures centered around fending off and killing these free roam monsters, who, tend to be weaker (but still a problem) than labyrinth monsters bc they aren't affected by the influence of either The Thicket or The Demon King (i'm just saying words at you now sorry). all of this to say, diisians and kisks are very good at cooking monster parts, better than other mainland terraneans.

i could keep going to stall but tbh that's a long enough rant. i need to figure all of this out more anyway, but first things first i gotta name this crop LMAO

[allthe-everything]

to all my babes out there trying to get a job, got some tips for y'all. i'm updating my resume and realised that what i do might help some people, and not everyone knows about ATS parsing. gonna be long, will add a tldr at the end

so, first things, instead of MS office, i use libreOffice as my document creator/word processor. stop giving microsoft your money - libreOffice is free and open source, and it's amazing. go get it. saves you money too and god knows we need that. but, i'm sure you can do this in publisher too, i just don't know all the buttons

onto techniques: instead of creating my resume in libreOffice's equivalent of word, i use the equivalent of microsoft's publisher - the thing meant for you to make cards and flyers and whatnot. essentially you just pick a size document, and get to throw things (pictures, text boxes, charts, whatever) onto the page where you want them. since it's geared more towards artsy things, it's a lot more flexible with formatting than word (moving images in word? just don't).

essentially, every snippet of information i put on my resume is one text box. each job with its description, each project i've worked on, etc gets its own text box. this is great in a couple ways: it means that if you want to change the formatting of your resume, you can just move around text boxes instead of fucking around with copy/paste all day. the second thing is that when a machine tries to read your resume, internally it'll read that pdf and see blocks of related information that's more precise than giant paragraphs you'd get in word. make your section titles their own text boxes (like experience, education, skills, etc) so they don't get lumped in with the real info.

i'm not gonna talk about "resume words" or "clean formatting" bc tbh i'm bad at that and i think recruiters are dumb sometimes for wanting "no templates, but only format it this one particular way". but get all your info there, arrange it how you see fit, and THEN. then we get sneaky.

in libreOffice, you can name and add descriptions to text boxes. "what!" i hear you say. "that's so weird why would anyone do that!". and i say "well, if a human is reading your resume, it doesn't matter what the text box thinks it is. but it's a machine reading your resume! you want to speak the machine's language." the name is less important than the description, in my opinion, but you can name the boxes too. what you're gonna do is select a text box, click on "format" at the top bar, then "description". and you're gonna add in the alt text box what this text box is. if it's a list of skills, write "skills". if it's education, write "education". this info won't show up visually to a human reading the doc, but it helps machines categorise the data, just a little bit better. in the description part of this, you can also try adding the key words from the job description so the machine sees them but a human really can't find it unless they really look. this isn't something i've been able to test thoroughly, though, so take it with a grain of salt.

i'm still working out all the kinks myself, and picking apart what the ATS does in terms of parsing your resume, but when i started doing this my resume was better parsed whenever i applied to jobs. which, bonus, less retyping your resume into the bullshit job app.

tldr; fuck microsoft, use libre office instead. use libre office's drawings app or ms office's publisher app for ease of use. in libre office, click text box, go to format -> description and add a description of what the text box contains. test and retest your resume in an ATS parser online to make sure the machine reads your resume correctly.

i wish this wasn't how things are, but since we're here might as well figure out hacks. if anyone else has info to add, please please do. it's rough out here.

[the-eclectic-wonderer]

For the character asks, Blanche. Questions 8, 10 & 12 😊

hiii friend!! thank you for the questions!! <3

8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

Oh wow. This is a dangerous question, haha!

‘Despise' is a pretty strong word. I feel like the one thing I really can't stand is character assassination (although this is true for every character I like, to be honest). I'm not the authority on what makes Blanche Blanche, of course, but I have seen a few instances when it felt like people only saw the superficial parts of her and forgot about everything else, you know what I mean? Thankfully that's pretty rare around these parts though :)

There's one thing that's more specifically Blanche-related that's a pet-peeve of mine, and it’s the accent thing. I don't really like it when accents are explicitly written down in fanfic, and since Blanche is the one with the strongest accent in the cast, this happens to her sometimes. I just want to point out that this is not wrong per se, it's just a me thing! I prefer to 'hear’ the accent in my mind while I read — if I have to stop and parse the meaning of a sentence mid-action, it's harder for me to fully immerse myself in the story. I don't mind the occasional truncation of a 'g' at the end of a verb, or the odd 'y'all' in a phrase, but if every sentence is written like that it does get a bit hard for me 😅 once again though, this is just my personal preference, and I definitely don't despise the practice.

10. Could you be best friends with this character?

I'm actually not sure how to answer this! If we didn't know each other at all, I think we'd need to be in a situation where we have to spend some time together in order to become friends (like, idk, working together or something like that). We don't share lots of interests (appreciation for art aside), and her passion for men would definitely throw me off at the beginning, so I'd need a reason to spend time with her to get to know her! But we are more similar than we seem, so once I did get to know her better, I'd love to be her friend :) we'd probably drive each other crazy on some things, but I need someone to get me out of my comfort zone at times, and she'd probably benefit from having a more 'grounded' friend, in the same way she benefits from having Dorothy as a friend.

... of course, this is all assuming that she'd want to be my friend in the first place, which is not a given 😂 I'm probably not interesting or fun enough to convince her to give me a chance, but a gal can dream, you know?

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

Just one? :')

I've said it before on here, but I headcanon that she's a cover hog. It just makes sense to me! And, still related to sleep, I feel like this is basically canon, but she's a night owl. She's more active during the night, she sleeps in, and it takes her a while to wake up in the mornings.

She actually is knowledgeable about art -- but not necessarily about artists! I think she likely doesn't have a lot of formal education about art (and especially art history), and even if she did study anything related to it she doesn't strike me as an exceptional student overall, but she has a natural instinct for visual beauty -- she's great at things like recognizing which paintings were made with similar techniques or within the same artistic current, distinguishing the traits and characteristics of painters, identifying specific shades of colour, this kind of stuff. Show her a painting and she'll correctly tell you that it's a Van Gogh, how he painted it, the precise shades of colour he chose and why he chose them -- but she also doesn't know that he cut off his ear, you know?

She was a bit of a reckless driver, especially in her youth -- the kind who likes to hit the gas just a tad too much, who plays the music just a tad too loud. She likes acting larger than life, she likes having fun, and she likes attention, so this feels appropriate for her. I figure it probably wasn't noticeable because she rarely drove herself (she always had a gentleman at her side to drive her around), but she never really grew out of that particular trait -- until George's death. After that, I think any imprudence behind the wheel would evoke his accident in her mind, so by the time the Girls met her she had turned into a very conscientious driver.

Thank you, these were so much fun to answer!! I love love love talking about Blanche <3

[CHARA CTER ASK GAME!!! 💫]