#comfort the sorrowful

[dearlittlefandom-stalker]

The Yellow Rose, Part One ~

@inklings-challenge

Bonnie loves flowers. Bluebells, primroses, daffodils, violets, orchids, poppies, snowdrops, cornel dahlias; even the thistles and heather and gorse flowers she loves with all her heart. Her most favorite flower, however, is the yellow rose. This is partly because yellow is her favorite color, and partly because they remind Bonnie of her Mother, Una.

Yellow roses were her favorite flower, too.

Bonnie, the youngest of six children, knew flowers well. She grew up surrounded by them in the most beautiful garden in all Scotland. Or at least she likes to think it’s the most beautiful garden in all of Scotland, but she admits she might be biased. Still, seeing as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, who’s to say it isn’t?

Bonnie’s older brothers and sisters either absently agree or smile and pat her on the head indulgently when she says such, but she doesn’t mind. They haven’t taken up the mantle their Mother left behind in caring and tending for the garden as she has. They don’t spend hours on end in the garden, appreciating its beauty and talking to the flowers as one talks to dear friends as she does. (Bonnie knows that the flowers really do listen, and sometimes they even seem to whisper in that flower-language of theirs. Bonnie keeps this as her special secret, however. Her brothers and sisters wouldn't understand. They don't listen.)

So Bonnie doesn't heed their teasing too much. She knows that whenever one of them is lonely, or seeking comfort, or missing their Mother terribly… it is to the garden that they go. And Bonnie and her flowers will always be there to keep them company.

Jacob, her eldest brother, happens upon her one evening in the garden. He stands there, faltering at the end of the row so long Bonnie half wonders if he forgot why he came. He clears his throat roughly and Bonnie understands without him having to say a word, not that she's sure he could at the moment. She pats the ground beside her and he accepts the silent invitation with relief - which is rather silly of him, Bonnie thinks. He should know that one is always welcome to grieve with family. That's it is so much better than grieving alone. Mama and Papa taught them that.

She begins to softly sing the lullaby their Mother always sang, and soon nature’s chorus joins her. The smell of Mother’s flowers surround them and the dying rays of sunlight cast shadows over the garden and its occupants. A solemn moment, but peaceful. There is not a dry eye between the two of them, but neither mind. It's a good cry. The sorrow, heavy and suffocating as it is, doesn't pass; but dies ease by the smallest of margins when shared thus.

The flowers bob their heads wisely in the wind and Bonnie smiles at them through her tears. She closes her eyes, and leaning back against her brother, sends a prayer heavenward.

Oh, God, she prays, Be with our family. Be with Jacob here beside me. Be with Dermid as he is working in the city tomorrow and be with Finlay because You know how he is to proud to ask for help. Be with Kirstie, especially with the wedding coming soon, I know she's stressed even if she loves Baird. And be with him too, since he'll soon be my brother. And be with Peggy, she's not been talking to me as much recently, and I'm worried about her. And be with Papa especially much because he has been here for us so well even though he's hurting just as much as we are. He's working so hard, and I worry about him planning to go on this trip alone. And, and tell Mama we miss her? Amen.

[crabsnpersimmons]

"Your heart was in the right place. Don't blame your earnestness and efforts for their lack of understanding—the right people will appreciate your heart."

EDIT: i mention this in the tags already, but please don't copy my vent tags in your reblogs. thanks for understanding.

[sorrowful-hyacinth]

Random thoughts.

You know what would be fun? A Whump coloring book. I have a weird thing about not coloring my own art because I’m never completely happy with how it looks, but for some reason I really like coloring books.

A coloring book full of your own OC’s or your favorite characters being in every possible hurt/comfort scenario you can think of. From sick fic material to gore horror. That would be so fun. And imagine little story snippets on each page to describe the scene or the events that led to it.

“Exhibit A: We have a Whumpee being lashed because they punched Whumper in self defense. Bad Whumpee.”

“Exhibit B: We have a Whumper getting a taste of their own medicine, being boiled alive in a cauldron.”

I feel like it would be so therapeutic just coloring a scene of someone being covered in blood or being strung up to the ceiling, being stuck out in a blizzard. You could make it fun too and make spins on it. Like it’s the most innocent scene in the world with happy snowmen and kids running around while you have a pet whumpee just sitting bare in the freezing snow with their leash tied to a tree.

You know, fun things like that. Just a thought.

[timethehobo]

Constant companions.

[mediumgayitalian]

The crooked, creaky door of the cluttered infirmary storage room pushes open and slams shut in the span of a second, just barely allowing someone to dart through. Nico jumps, banging his head on the shelf he’s hiding under, chomping full force on his lip to bite back a shout. The shadows, on lucky reflex, bend around him and shroud his face. The rest of him he tucks further into the forgotten corner between two filing cabinets, holding his breath.

Under the unflattering light of the single swinging lightbulb, Will looks dull.

A thin headband attempts to hold back his frizzy hair, although it does very little. Curls stick out oddly and many shorter hairs are plastered to his temples and the back of his neck. His skin is unusually lacklustre, even pale, except for the high flush around his cheekbones. The bruising under his eyes rivals Nico’s. He has been wearing the same scrubs for the last two days.

With one last look at the closed door, nothing but garbled voices filtering through the heavy wood, he slumps. He drops his face into his chapped and bleeding hands, heels pressed into his eyes, and holds them there for ten seconds, twenty. Slowly, with trembles so minute they are at first glance unnoticeable, his shoulders begin to shake. The long fingers flexed and tensed around his forehead curl tightly, and he twitches, whole body trembling, teeth sunk hard into his bottom lip to stop his chin from quivering.

It does not work.

The first sob is quiet. He catches it quickly, forcing it back down, breathing heavily through his nose and out his mouth to beat it back. The second follows quickly, though, and it’s harder to choke down. When his face crumples, his resolve goes with it, and his knees hit the floor, sharp crack swallowed by the stillness of the room. He curls forward until his nose nearly hits his knees, hands sliding through his hair and over his ears and settling finally clutching together in the dip of his chest, bouncing with every heave of his chest. It’s quiet, his crying, enough that every dropped tear can be heard as it hits the dusty floor. The only time his sobs are ever audible is when he opens his mouth, trying desperately to soak up enough air to catch himself, to carry himself through.

Mute horror holds Nico’s tongue hostage.

He’d escaped in here the second Will had been called away this morning, dragged for the umpteenth time to handle a crashing patient or a complicated hymn or to soothe someone’s nerves. For the past two days he’s been doing his best to monitor Nico and a handful of other front liners who’d exhausted themselves in battle, but his focus has been split and the infirmary has been crowded. Whenever he runs off to put out whatever fire had cropped up — sometimes literally — the whispers start, the glances, the skin crawling up Nico’s back. Nico can hardly tell anymore what’s the shadows and what’s the people around him, watching him out of the corners of their eyes like they’re waiting for him to bust out a scythe and a black hooded cloak and start reaping.

The storage room is supposed to be an escape. Out of the way and forgotten as it is, it is supposed to be the place he can hide for an hour, escape the heavy gaze of the rest of the camp, collect himself before braving it all again.

Clearly, though, he’s not the only one who thinks so.

There’s something disorienting about seeing Will Solace cry. In the few times Nico has spoken with him during his visits to camp, he’s been a barely-contained explosion of energy, whether talking Nico’s ear off with updates about people he barely knows and references he hardly understands or cussing him out for overextending himself. He’s used — as much as he can be to someone he’s only beginning to really get to know — to his wildly flailing hands and widely playful grin, his loud drawling voice, his painful, constant brightness.

His hands, now, clench until they’re bloodless, trembling. There is no hint of his wide smile or twinkling eyes, because his face is hidden by all the hair that his given up on the pretence of the hairband, and the only sound from him are his gasping breaths and swallowed-back sobs. Nico watches him because he cannot look away. He flinches because every cry, every rough, scraping inhale, sounds like shattering rock, like an iceberg breaking off a glacier.

A quiet beeping startles them both.

For a stretch of time Will is motionless. The beeping continues, steady and soft, bouncing off the cluttered shelves and fading before they echo. After the third round — and Nico counts, if anything for something to do besides watch the chafed skin on Will’s hands crack and bleed with every flex — he drags himself upright, nails drawing lines in the thick dust of the floorboards, and rests back on his heels. He breathes for a moment, shuddering, hands pressed flat to his face; in, beep, beep, beep; out, beep, beep, beep. None of his breaths are ever steady, but he wastes no more time, swiping under his eyes and pinching his cheeks to restore his face to some of its usual colour. He grips onto each board of the shelf to his right as he yanks himself upwards, hand over hand, until he’s stretched, finally, to stand, although there remains a slouch to his broad shoulders.

The beeping continues, emanating from the watch on his left hand, growing softer or louder as he trails his fingers over the shelves from one end to the other, from the first, the second, the third. He pauses finally on a collection of bottles, turning them carefully to read the labels, then tucks them each gently into his already bulging pockets until he is left with what he must carry between his fingers.

The shadows bend to cover Nico again as Will turns, unknowingly facing him, and pulls himself suddenly straight-backed, chin set high, shoulders squared. He smiles, wide, fractured, squinting his eyes deliberately. The beeping stops. He breathes, in, smile, out, nod, and turns, striding, back to the door, opening it with flourish and swiping the dust off his clothes.

“Found them! Sorry it took so long, I really had to look —”

The door swings shut behind him, cutting off the rest of his sentence.

Nico stares at it with bile churning in his too-empty stomach.

———

art by the incredible @clingonlikeclingwrap

[blissfulcabin7]

Jesus loves you

[pastelpaperplanes]

I'm curious; why do Blitzwing and his parents look so,,,stricken? Horrified? To see each other exactly? LOVE the expressions tho

Anon is referring to this art post!

Their reunion is supposed to be both relieving and absolutely devastating. Their boy is alive after all these years through both the war and the Decepticon’s exile…Blitz is here and he is right in front of them, but this person is also a stranger to them.

They see that yes this IS their boy. And yes, Blitzwing is STILL Blitzwing, yet nearly not at all.

Wartime has not been kind of their son in the slightest, and to see how his continued survival through so many years of war has ravaged him, pulled him apart into pieces, cut away, and added so much to their boy to the extent that it takes so much more to recognize him as a triple changer—Papillon and Firstwatch are rightly horrified. Someone has hurt their baby.

Whats worse, Blitz readily assumes that he is someone they most likely no longer recognize, both in appearance and as their son. Those are his parents.

But do they know what stands before them? Would they even still see him as their son, and not just some “war-torn abomination “? Would they still love him? Could they even be capable of still loving him after what he was turned into?

But of course they recognize him, of course they love him and no force in the universe could change that. Those are his parents and he is their baby.

[t4tklonoa]

It's like looking into a mirror.

Happy 23rd anniversary Klonoa 2 Lunatea's Veil !

[bl00dfroma-fairy]

[kitsiyo]

Hello! I apologize if this comes across as odd, but there used to be a piece of vent art that went along the lines of “I need to wallow a little longer/I’m not ready to let go of the sadness” is that still up? It’s been so dear to me all these years as well as other pieces, it has helped me navigate my own emotions and now I would love to show it to my partner as they are going through the same thing. If not, that’s completely fine and I understand! :)

Hi there, not sure if this is the one specifically you're referencing but it's the only one I found in my archive

May 8, 2017

[fideidefenswhore]

 the tudors (2007-2010) / the concubine, by christopher rae / the six queens of henry viii (2016) / zombie (2018), cover by bad wolves / the white princess (2017) / hunting the falcon, by john guy & julia fox / viii, by hm castor / the white queen (2013) / henry viii, by lucy wooding / firebrand (2023)

[misterlemonzmen]

11-16-24 | John Dugdale. via clarkkantagain. MisterLemonzMen.tumblr.com/archive

[ohhcinnybuns]

Here I am again,

You've been expecting me because I can't keep my mouth shut,

But if we don't know how their story ends, what then?

I have another prompt for you that's sure to really cut

‘  i am aching to hold you  &  keep you safe,  to be pressed against you so that nothing can harm you.  ’ 👀

In his arms, by the sea - Merman! Chuuya and Captain Dazai (OTPOY alternate ending)

Words: 2.8k

The shushing of the ocean waves entered his ears, muffled as if his head was below water. It could be. His mind had felt absent for months, his irises becoming mornings waiting at dawn for a sign—any sign at all. 

Time seemingly moved along without him. Days became weeks and months. Every morning, the same routine. He would walk, wait by the pier, gaze at the horizon, and return to the lighthouse he called home. He waited by the shore, hoping that a streaking comet would surface from below the sea, vermillion-drenched locks and teardrop irises ready to call his name and bring him back from his mind’s deceptive trenches. 

Boats drift by, bellowing their horn, while seagulls turn over vacant shells, searching for a morsel. Whispers of people passing by began to call him insane as if the story of his life that made him human was nonexistent and make-believe.

It was as if he had not been there to witness the tragic event that seemingly had him frozen there in time, wondering what he could have done differently to bring his loved ones home. 

---

All he had wanted to know was answers. All he had wanted to do was to understand why his father never came home. 

Why did Fyodor have to reappear when his father was doing just fine, away from the life of piracy to start anew? Why did the rat have to remove someone who meant so much to him, stepping all over the bond they’d come to build, know, and grow? 

Fyodor never even liked Oda to begin with. He always suspected that Fyodor disliked Oda for walking away from his crew - the mark of the Decay of Angels blemished on his arm, a grim reminder of the gruesome things he participated in. 

Dazai gritted his teeth with every sight of it because that was not the Oda that raised him. There was no piracy to him, only a man in love with the sea, freedom, and exploration. Oda had tried to move away from the decay that wanted to mold him, and in the end, his love for the sea always called him back, like a siren tempting her sailor to come forth and pull him under. They lured him, never to come back this time. 

“Where is he?” Dazai pressed him, holding a knife to the captain’s neck. 

“Have you tried looking at the bottom of the Yokohama port, Dazai-kun?" the captain returned his question with a cackle that turned Dazai’s boiling blood glacier-cold. He shivered, breathing rapidly through the gut-wrenching feeling coiling in his stomach. 

“I’m not playing.”

"If you really want to know, Dazai dear, he never left the port. He tried to run, but unfortunately, Nikolai was much faster than he thought,” Fyodor said with a widening smirk. “He got him right here," he continued his tale, the back of his hand knocking against Dazai's chest, “two shots is all it took for him to tumble off the boat. So very sad, Dazai-kun. I’m so very sorry for your loss." 

A ringing in his ear. A shaky breath. Dizzy, tunneling vision. He had hoped it was a lie, but what did Fyodor have to gain from it? Nothing at all. Nothing was ever enough for a cold, blooded monster like him. No amount of plundering and violence was ever enough. He had told the truth and there was nothing more to it. 

Fyodor took hold of his devastation to make his escape. He shoved Dazai away, swiftly kicking open a barrel of oil and throwing a nearby lamp to the ground before dashing away. 

Fyodor ignited his ship with his followers, plans, and treasure still on it. Their convenience didn’t matter - they were only pawns ready to sink with their captain and ship. 

Dazai managed to escape the stores and jumped out of the burning ship into a safety raft. He cut the rope, ready to return to his boat, when a streak of a reddened bioluminescent tail swam past him beneath the bow of the blazing ship. 

“Chuu…ya?” His heart quickened, and he gulped down a knot forming in his throat in worry. The sound of screaming pirates roaring to extinguish fires blared in his ears, the crackling of compromised wood searing the sky. 

Dazai kept his sights on the water, waiting for any sign of Chuuya to return, but that’s when he heard a creaking, the sound of wood snapping out of place. Dazai gasped, smoky fires penetrating his lungs as his eyes stung from falling ash and soaking sea salt. He knew then Chuuya's plan to stop Fyodor. He couldn't do anything. He felt useless. 

Whatever Chuuya had attempted must not have been enough, the ship continued rocking, and Dazai could feel adrenaline as he waited for Chuuya to return to the surface. But he did not. 

Instead, the sea began to bubble and sway viciously, waves growing and pushing Dazai’s safety raft away from the blazing ship. He had to hold on to the side of his raft to keep his balance; otherwise, he risked tipping into the water. He placed a hand over his mouth and nose to slow the inhale of smog and water from entering his system, and when he was pushed a fair distance away, his eyes were wide as he watched the mighty ship struggle against the sudden force pulsing from below the boat. 

The once abysmal ocean thundered brightly as if a light switch had been flicked on, like an active volcano ready to burst. The sea turned a spilled bloody wine surrounding the vessel before a red and black beam broke through the mainmast. The boat started crumpling like a tin can before the ship splintered down its middle and split into two. 

“CHUUYA!” he had cried, heart drumming so quickly it trembled his body. 

Screaming bodies landed in the ocean, crying for help. The few rafts left on the ship had caught fire, unusable. Dazai searched the chaos for any sign of Chuuya but instead found Fyodor, who tossed aside a crewmate floating on a piece of wreckage for himself. 

The crewmate attempted to scale on again but was kicked away by the captain’s boot, which used him as leverage to float the makeshift raft away. The crewmate submerged underwater, nowhere to be seen. Then he sat leisurely, with a knee raised, surveying his surroundings while removing his wet dressings with a smirk. It made Dazai's blood boil, but it didn't last long. 

The same glowing light that brought down the boat sped towards the wreckage Fyodor sat upon at top speed and pulsed water like a geyser to flip it over, tossing the captain into the ocean’s depths once more. Dazai knew it was Chuuya, and he could not look away, slightly relieved that the merman was still out there. 

Fyodor’s head appeared above water briefly before Chuuya sprung from behind, clinging to a bewildered Fyodor with an arm hooked around their neck and hissing at his prey. He bit into the crook of the rat’s neck, his catch thrashing about and screaming in pain, shouting curses that fell on deaf ears as his surviving crewmates watched in terror, holding tightly to their wreckage and removing themselves from the water as quickly as possible. All the fighting did nothing to Chuuya except clench his teeth tighter. 

Dazai could feel Chuuya's gaze on him; pitch-black irises and red swirling symbols slithered all over his body, making him almost unrecognizable. The hand that held Fyodor became a claw resembling molten magma covered in inky veins, and blood seemed to leak from his orifices, staining his chest, shoulders, and face. He didn’t appear all that responsive, working on autopilot and consciousness.

“So this is… Chuuya’s true from…” is all Dazai could mumble, awe in his shaky breath. He wanted nothing more than for Chuuya to come back to him so he could wrap his arms around him and whisper to him that everything was okay now. He doesn't have to do more. Dazai beckoned for the merman to come close. 

The redhead detached his jaw from the rat’s nape, features twitching as if wincing now and again. He was in a primal state, and his instincts to attack were rampant, but beneath that, there were flickers of exhaustion, and Dazai could see the merman panting as if at his limit.

The merman's claw dug into the side of Fyodor’s throat and slashed it open. Blood rushed, screaming subsiding into gurgles, choking on salted water and iron. The captain's crewmates could only watch in horror as their leader pawed at his neck, trying to remove Chuuya’s hold on him. In the end, it was futile.

Drifting a little away from the wreckage had been Sigma and Nikolai, panting and soaking wet inside of a burnt boat, having seemingly gotten away just in time before the ship fractured. They could hear their captain screaming into the night sky, and all Sigma could do was turn his back to the scene and cover his ears. Nikolai, on the other hand, watched on with a balled fist and furrowed brows, turmoil flickering between Sigma and his captain. Ultimately, he chose to stay seated, watching his captain be mauled with a conflicted gaze. It's every man for themselves in open waters - any fight and loyalty they might have had in them sunk with their ship. 

Fyodor continued thrashing wildly until Chuuya couldn't handle his fuss anymore. The fins that shaped the redhead’s ears fanned back, and before Dazai could call to him, Chuuya dove below the surface with his prey in hand, their tail fanning swiftly to gain as much distance between himself and the surface before the flicker of his tail died out, losing sight of him. Dazai’s stomach drops, eyes round, hands gripping wood tightly as he leans against the bow of his raft for any sight of the merman, but he never resurfaces. 

He doesn't know how long he stood on that life raft out at sea waiting for Chuuya, hoping they would return. There was no sight of his bioluminescence. Dazai didn't know if Chuuya was alive or dead. 

Nothing could have prepared him to grieve as deeply as he did when he stepped back into his ship, rescued by his friends, who placed a blanket over him and directed him to his quarters. 

A piece of his heart sunk to the bottom of the ocean that night, an endless stream of tears over the reality of Oda's death and Chuuya's disappearance washing over him all at once. Everything around him moved in slow motion, rocking with his ship, paused forever in this moment, trapped in a loop that didn't want to let him go and hadn't let him go. 

How does anyone learn to move forward after the death of their loved ones? It is said that time heals all wounds, but what if some wounds don’t close? That has been a question that has plagued his mind since that night. Dazai never honestly thought about it, always having thought that his life should have ended at thirteen when he initially tried to drown himself. Yet, Oda and Chuuya became his saving grace when he thought he would never have anyone on his side, and now he was left to live without them. 

---

The walk back to the lighthouse this evening is a little chillier. Winter starts are always like that, much more polar next to the sea, but Dazai wouldn’t change it. He keeps his gaze lowered, mindful enough not to walk into others, hands in his tan coat pockets, breathing into the bundled navy scarf around his neck. The clicks of his shoes are the only evidence that he is moving forward and not floating to his destination. 

Crisp sea salt permeated his senses, hair fluffed and ruffled by the breeze. He walks the crisscrossing piers, the crescent shape of the harbor leading to a rocky shoreline, where a path veers off at its end, steps leading up to his lighthouse. This is where it all started. It’s only right that this is where he should end—the beginning of them and the entanglement of their Fates after the catalyst of his drowning. 

He had thought that maybe Oda would have loved Dazai buying the lighthouse - a home they could share instead of the shanty shack they used to live in because Oda was humble like that. The lighthouse kept them close to the coast, nights full of lulling tides and wondrous expanses of diamonds in the sky; perhaps it would have saved Oda from his end to have what he loved the most so close to him. Dazai wanted to give him that. 

He also thought Chuuya would have visited him more often. He thought they could meet again at the rocky ledges and dive together to explore the world below, fingers entwined and bodies close. He once joked to Chuuya that in another life, they would be fated sea horses drifting with the rolling tide in a swirling dance. The memory alone makes him smile, remembering the bright red hues that made the merman’s cheeks flush and splash water at him. 

Dazai bundles the scarf around his neck more tightly, the snugness comforting him as he ascends the steps. There is always tomorrow, he supposes as if that’s not what he’s been telling himself for months. There is always a tomorrow. 

As he reaches the door of his home, he unlocks it and enters, ready to close the door. A sound of quick steps enters his ears, and a hand holds his door open before he can fully close it shut. 

“Wait!” the person pants. They continue inhaling and exhaling as if they had been running for miles, finally trying to catch their breath.  

Dazai blinks, instinctively opening his door with a, “Yes? What can I do for you?” 

It wasn't often that he had visitors storming at his door. The last person to visit him had been Atsushi to check on his well-being. However, the sight he came upon made him speechless. 

“You walk…so fast…those lanky legs of yours… goddamn it… How am I supposed to keep up? Wait, I need a minute…” 

Before him was the soul of the ocean incarnate—flaming locks dry, curled, and swept to the side, trying to catch their breath. The stunning blue of his eyes glared at him playfully, a smirk plastered on his lips as his breathing regulated. He wore modern clothing and was rather handsome: a black leather jacket, onyx gloves, and a plain black T-shirt. At his neck rested a choker that replaced the seashell garland he used to wear. But even more surprising was the lack of a fishtail, replaced by legs hidden beneath navy jeans. 

“Chuuya?” Dazai croaked through the lump in his throat. All that time, waiting for time to shift along again. 

The redhead stands tall, a hand on his hip as he beams, asking, “Did you miss me?”

Dazai leaps forward, embracing Chuuya in his arms tightly, body trembling as if scared that the body he held was a figment of the imagination. He feels Chuuya chuckle into his chest, snaking his arms around his waist before whispering a small, “I’m home.” 

Dazai’s grip tightens for a minute before letting the redhead go, pulling back to look at Chuuya again, who gazes at him sheepishly, pink shading across his face. 

His eyes sting, caressing the softness of Chuuya’s cheek tenderly, still processing that Chuuya was standing before him. His hands continued to travel down to his neck, where he could feel their quickened blood flowing, and finally down to his chest, where a thumping heart beats. 

He looks in awe as Chuuya smirks up at him again. A smile surfaces, bubbling happiness overwhelming him as he leans in to capture his lover's lips in a kiss, tears finally falling free. Chuuya came back. 

Chuuya smiles, standing on his tiptoes, wrapping his arm around Dazai’s neck to keep them close. Dazai pulls away enough for their lips to brush together, a gentle “Welcome home” spilling from his lips, as Chuuya thumbs away the droplets from his eyes. 

The redhead grins, raking his hands through the brunette's knotting locks, speaking softly, “Sorry I kept you waiting so long.” 

Dazai hums with a smile and a nod, fondly gazing at his lover before kissing their forehead and taking hold of their hand. 

“You do have some explaining to do,” Dazai says with a small laugh. 

Chuuya laughs along, holding their hands up to place a kiss on Dazai’s wrist as an apology—one of Dazai’s favorite things that Chuuya did. Intimate and gentle. 

“Yeah, I know,” is all the redhead says calmly. 

Dazai nods, stepping away, leading Chuuya by their clasped hands into their home. Finally, time could move forward for him again - no longer stuck with ‘what ifs’  and wondering what he could have done differently for another outcome. No longer would Dazai be in his loneliness, gazing out at the ocean from his lighthouse or at the piers, waiting for a sign of life. Finally, he could live the rest of his days happily with his lover in his arms by the sea. 

[dogboyratgirl]

bad news chat. my bed is sinking on the other end now. so i need to sleep in the middle or something I Guess.

[marshmalleaux-queen]

I took my new e-scooter to the drive thru and I don't think they were expecting to see that

[thepersonalwords]

a single poemthe thing that can keep melight on my feet,when my soul isheavy with sorrow.

Sanober Khan, A Thousand Flamingos