#ok it's an attempt to write

[ladyvictory22]

Husbands who share clothes

Toto was sitting at the terrace table of his hotel room, engrossed in analyzing strategies for the Monza Grand Prix. Suddenly, he felt arms wrapping around him and a small kiss on the cheek, which brought a smile to his face.

"Are you leaving already?" he asked, closing his laptop and turning to face the person behind the affectionate gesture.

"Yeah, we're going to shoot some stuff with Max before the event," Christian replied, letting go of Toto so he could turn around completely.

Toto noticed Christian's attire and then noticed something peculiar about his outfit. "Christian Horner... are you wearing my shirt?" he raised an eyebrow and smiled.

It wasn't the first time Christian had appropriated one of his shirts. After exciting nights, Toto would often wake up with his husband sleeping beside him, wearing the shirt Toto had worn for dinner or to attend some event. It also happened on weekends when the Mercedes team didn't achieve satisfactory results. As a way to comfort his husband in their intimacy, Christian would don Toto's Mercedes shirt and wake up wearing it.

Christian flashed his characteristic mischievous smile. "Well... yeah, I felt like wearing something of yours. It's like having you with me," he said as Toto wrapped his arms around his waist.

"You possessive bastard," Toto whispered, brushing his lips against Christian's.

"You're just as bad or worse," Christian replied before joining his lips with Toto's. "Or should I show you the bite marks on my chest from this morning?"

Toto smiled as he remembered it and kissed Christian again, this time more passionately. Their tongues entwined in a desire-filled kiss, showing how much Toto wanted to repeat what they had done that morning.

"You'll be late... you should go before I don't let you leave the room," Toto warned.

Christian kissed him once more, tenderly, and playfully bit his lower lip before pulling away. "I'll see you later."

Days later, during Friday's practice sessions, Christian arrived early at the paddock. Before heading out, he bid farewell to his husband. Thanks to Mercedes' social media photos, Christian noticed that Toto was wearing one of his T-shirts."You possessive bastard," he muttered to himself, while smiling with pride for his husband.

[wardingshout]

Zelda goes mushroom girl

[aftg-rot]

[reaper-in-reverie]

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

note. tw for dark themes (it's dazai) such as suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts, depression, and overdose. all things dazai, in short (?). angst, angst, angst. i think i relate to dazai to some level. also, just to clarify, I'm not trying to portray the agency doesn't care for dazai, they do care for him and it's obvious, I just thought they don't take him seriously sometimes. turned out longer than I desired. ooc writing. wc. 905

Dazai's pen roughly scribbled word after word onto the piece of paper he held in his other hand.

"Please, just this once,"

His handwriting was messy yet still understandable. He stared at the paper for a moment, eyes growing hazy with tears that didn't dare fall; if this worked, he wouldn't have to live meaninglessly any longer, he wouldn't have to look for a justification for his miserable existence anymore.

Dazai quickly placed the piece of paper down on a nearby table, running it in his head if the paper would easily be spotted. Then he moved the table to the corner to make it more noticeable to anyone who could potentially walk in.

"Please, please, just this once, let me do it."

He shakily reached out to the pill bottle.

He stared at it for a moment.

He stopped himself.

It beckoned to him sweetly.

God, Dazai was so tired. He looked the opposite direction, to the wall where his calendar was hung. Today marked the fifth year since Oda's death. His dearest friend. He could feel Odasaku's stare, somewhere out there, and he could feel Odasaku be torn between letting the poor boy rest and wanting Osamu to live. Everyone had their limits.

"I'm sorry, Odasaku—" the words were erased as fast as Dazai had scribbled it into the letter.

He stared at the calendar a little longer, but he didn't think over what he was about to do. Instead he thought about how absurd the Agency was for being so used to him trying to kill himself—the suicidal maniac was always cheery, after all. Never tired. Always bothersome. The Agency would hardly bat an eye. Maybe Atsushi would ask around. That would be the end of it.

"He must be trying to drown himself again. That sorry waste of bandages—he'll come back."

How cruel of them to think he'd always return.

How kind of them to think he'd always return.

"I hope this works."

Dazai breathed out sharply, moving his head to the opposite direction once more, to the pill bottle at the side. He took it and poured some into his hands. Similar to how water escaped from the gaps of his fingers, some pills fell from his hands. He didn't bother to pick them up. This should be enough. This will be enough.

Another stare at his hands.

Then he let the pills drop into his mouth, letting them sit there before he took a glass of water and swallowed harshly, sealing his fate, the pills sliding down his throat with something akin to enthusiasm.

"Just this once."

Dazai paused, waiting for his vision to blur familiarly before attempting to make it back to his futon. Multiple bottles sat around where he hoped to have his final rest, and he stumbled on a few of them—what an ironic design for a coffin.

"Just this once."

He collapsed into the bed, turning his head just slightly to the calendar again. His head spun. His vision faded. He had not learned to begin to care.

"Let me die."

Let me die.

Let me die.

"Please, let me die."

Dazai still woke up.

And he wanted to die more than ever.

He put on a usual cheery smile on the way to work. He stared at the sears on his arms before wrapping a new roll of bandages over them. Yes, everyone would believe that they were there just for design so long they were clean. Yes, no one would suspect a thing.

The Agency wouldn't bat an eye, he thought.

He was just the silly waste of bandages.

"Kunikida-kun—!" Dazai chatted cheerfully, showing the newspaper he picked up to poor Kunikida. It was an article concerning the Agency. Dazai pretended to find it entertaining as he pointed to a pathetic shot of Kunikida.

"You look so manly here, don't you think?" There was a teasing lilt in his voice, which made Kunikida glower at him.

"Oh, you—I should just strangle you!" Kunikida groaned, rolling his eyes and turning away. Dazai laughed obnoxiously, placing the newspaper on Kunikida's desk. He started to walk off, but Atsushi managed to catch up to him before he could leave the office. The younger boy gave Dazai that bright smile, though it immediately morphed into a dismissive look upon processing Dazai's leave.

"Are you skipping work again, Dazai-san?" Atsushi asked, leaning by his desk.

"Of course that bastard's skipping work again," Kunikida rolled his eyes. Dazai looked back at him, his expression solemn for just a split second—before a smirk rose to his face once more. Kunikida hardly listened, anyway.

"You know me!" He waved, shoving his hands in his coat pockets as he made his way to the exit.

"Don't actually kill yourself, this time, Dazai-san!" Atsushi called one last time before Dazai shut the door on the both of them.

This time.

Dazai sighed, walking down the hall and into the elevator to escape the building.

Of course he wasn't actually planning on scurrying away from work. He was going to visit a certain grave. Where a death of five years lay. He was going to visit Odasaku. He was going to visit an old friend who sat peacefully beneath an old willow tree. He wondered if Oda waited for him, wherever he was. Dazai thought he was probably writing a story, living peacefully in the arms of death.

And, someday, Dazai hoped—that he, too, would follow him to where all stories ended.

© reapkusho on tumblr. 2024. all rights reserved. refrain from translating, copying, or stealing in any way, etc.

[menciemeer]

Does anyone ever think that like. One of the central ideas of Hannibal is that human beings are delicious.

Not even just in a cannibalism-taboo way, either. Literally everyone who’s gone to one of Hannibal’s dinner parties agrees: The food is good.

(There’s that confusing moment in Trou Normand where it looks like Abigail is realizing what it is she’s eating--confusing because she doesn’t Figure Hannibal Out until later. But what if she isn’t thinking, This tastes just like-- but instead I haven’t had meat this good since--)

It’s not just the taste, either. Human beings in Hannibal seem to make incomparable mushroom fertilizer and instrument strings. Bees love human bodies. And every artist in the entire goddamn world seemingly has this temptation towards human-corpse-as-artistic-medium. Garret Jacob Hobbs uses human hair as pillow stuffing. He holds his pipes together with paste made from human bones.

Also probably worth mentioning is That One Shot in Sorbet (no, That Other One Shot in Sorbet)--the one with the opera singer’s throat, followed by the lingering shot of Hannibal’s ear. It’s the meat again. Meat is singing and more meat is listening. Hannibal is moved to tears--his enjoyment even of music is physical.

It’s probably stretching a bit to try to fit Self-Actualization Via Murder into this paradigm but well. I’m going to try anyway. It’s not just the corpses but the making of corpses that holds this fantastic power in Hannibal Land. We’ve got Randall Tier and Francis Dolarhyde and Will Goddamn Graham all reaching (for) their truest selves via the doing of murder. Hannibal talks about it like this:

We both know the unreality of taking a life. Of people who die when we have no other choice. We know in those moments they are not flesh, but light, and air, and color.

There’s something magical about that. The moment when a person separates from their (useful! valuable! delicious!) body and becomes something else. The moment itself is valuable, if you are one of the Tier-Dolarhyde-Graham classification of killers in Hannibal’s universe.

I feel like I’ve seen a lot of focus on Hannibal disguising what it is he’s cooking with. How his cooking is so good despite. If this post has a thesis, I guess it is that, instead, Hannibal is a good cook because.

[leonscape]

Lovers Swapped Personalities?

In an alternate universe, Chevalier is the king with the purest heart and Emma is the brutal beast (Emma the brutal bunny doesn’t really sound that threatening though).

Chevalier’s friendly aura is a huge contrast to Emma’s cold disinterest. People say horrible things about Emma behind both her and her husband’s backs.

They all claim that a woman shouldn’t act like that. She should be kind and welcoming, docile and warm. Some might argue because it’s how a woman should be; they’re supposed to be kind mothers to nurture their babies, not be cold and distant.

But no one dare say anything of the sort to her husband, the king. Of course it still finds its way to him eventually.

“So, Your Majesty, what did you think about the new book?” a nobleman asked Emma.

“I thought the story was a bit bland, losing track of events, and poor execution of plot twists,” Emma responded with her harsh criticism. The nobleman’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline and his eyes widened as large as saucers.

Chevalier jumped in with a nervous laugh, “Well despite all that, we actually had a great discussion on the book’s commentary on social issues and other themes that were presented in the book.”

“Oh! I’m glad! I really enjoyed what the book had to say and it really does make you think about our society,” the nobleman rambled on and on.

“King Chevalier married such a rude woman. Honestly, how could he stand being next to her? She should be by his side, supporting him, not bringing shame to the crown.” A few noblewomen just in earshot huddled together to complain and gossip.

“He’s a genius, a brilliant mind. Surely there is a reason why he agreed to take her as a wife and queen.”

“She probably manipulated him into it. She’s a commoner, the reason why she agreed to marriage was to climb the social ladder; marry into the Michel family and become queen.”

“But surely, King Chevalier must have his reasons on why he would take such an… unpleasant wife.”

Chevalier frowned and tried to tune them out. Emma stood next to him with a neutral stare. He knew very well that Emma could hear the group of women talking about them.

Chevalier took her hand in his, unashamed to show off his relationship with his wife. Emma didn’t seem to mind, the corners of her lips only slightly lifted.

“Is this your way of protecting me?” she asked with an amused chuckle.

“I need you to know that there is no woman that could ever replace you. You belong by my side and I by yours,” Chevalier told her, making a strong declaration.

The couple never cared much for public relations. They couldn’t care less about the gossip of petty noblewomen. Chevalier knew that Emma was the only woman worthy of being his equal.

Later on in the privacy of their shared bedroom, Chevalier stared at the page of his book. He stared at it as he got lost in thought. Emma snapped her book shut, grabbing his attention. “Just say it,” Emma told him.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

Emma shook her head. “Why should it?”

“It hurts to hear people speak ill about your spouse,” he admitted. “I want people to see how great you are. But all they talk about is how unpleasant you are when it’s not the case. You’re not unpleasant.”

“Maybe to you, I am not unpleasant. But to others I am and I am not blind to this.”

“You’re not unpleasant. It’s actually refreshing to be around you.”

“Then why did you insert yourself?” Emma questioned. “Did you think I was being unpleasant?“

“You almost sent the poor man into the rose thorns!” he exclaimed.

“He was the one asking for my thoughts. I just gave it to him,” Emma said. “You feel refreshed because it’s what you need. You need someone who will be honest with you no matter the circumstances. But that is not the case for everyone else.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Chevalier sighed. “I just wish everyone would see what an amazing woman you are.”

[randaccidents]

Heart's live reaction for the chicken plush:

ehehe mini fic potential ask mini fic potential ask-

For context: This is a part of the au I havent talked about much and links to another part that I am. Slightly stuck on trying to bang out. It's specifically the darkest part of the Heartless story (aka the part that looks the most hopeless).

(digging through story doc) General story beats you need to know for this mini fic are just that. This is after they convince Heart he is wanted, but Heart is not convinced he is needed, and his progress stagnates. Perseverance is too blunt about the issue and starts a MASSIVE argument between them. Heart, reminded of the thoughts and emotions he had in Apathy by the argument, relapses into random bouts of unconsciousness (luckily not back into a full coma like before).

Penitence blames Perseverance, Perseverance blames himself. He had just finished the chicken plush for Heart. He was building up the courage to give it to him. Now Penitence won't even let him be in the same ROOM as Heart. Or hear him out. Or interact with him. It's been 5 days since he last slept, the longest he has ever gone.

He manages something anyways. Sneaks in while Penitence is asleep and places the chicken plush into Heart's arms. He needs to give it to Heart before he tries what he's been considering for the last few days.

SO thats where we are for this little mini fic >:3.

Heart wakes up to a chicken plush.

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

The first thing he registers as consciousness crept back in was the gentle weight of something soft in his arms. He scrunched up his nose, weakly shifting his arms in an attempt to figure out what had been given to him. Finding the object was shaped too weirdly to be deduced, Heart sighed. He really didn't want to wake up and face Mind and Soul. Or well, just Soul these past few days. (Did Mind give up on him after hearing what he did? Is that why he hasn't come to see him? Stupid Heart acting on stupid Emotions too inefficient for him? He is unwanted, unneeded, just keep your eyes closed and push the emotions away and fade back into that blissful emptiness without hurt-)

There is a weight in his arms. Heart was always a curious creature. He slowly let one eye peek open, reluctance to face the dawn making the task difficult. A single, black buttoned eye stared back. Blinking both eyes open in shock, Heart gasped quietly.

It was a chicken plush. A small, round thing, made with familiar purplish-white fabric, black button eyes looking out and into him. It was a little lop-sided, sitting slanted in his arms, a more intense shade of purple peeking out from under its belly. Blackened fingers shivering from disbelief, Heart carefully tilted the plush onto its back, uncovering the orchid-coloured heart that sat sewn into its belly. A familiar, orchid-coloured heart.

It's the same one he had Soul sew onto all his hoodies. He runs a finger over the stitching around it, unwilling to believe it. But no, it is the same heart actually, he'd recognize the feeling of those stitches anywhere. Why would they-?

The sound of shuffling behind him had him hiking up his shoulders, arms curling protectively around his new possession. (When did he decide the plush was his? Maybe when he realized it was definitely made with him in mind.)

A hand on his shoulder gently shook him. {"Yo. If you're conscious, good morning Hear- what the fuck."} Heart tensed up at the curse, digging his fingers into the plush and curling around it, trying to hide it from view. (Please don't take this away from him. He hasn't quite processed the tangle of emotions that the plush brought him, but they are nice and warm emotions, and he wants to bask in nice and warm emotions for once.)

He heard Soul sputter behind him for a moment before sighing. The mattress dipped downwards behind his back, making Heart peek up at Soul's back. (It was still weird to him to see Soul wearing long sleeves. Even in the past, Soul would roll up the sleeve on everything he wore even if stolen from others. They never did tell him why that changed.)

He quickly looked away when he noticed Soul turning to face him, gently digging his fingers into the chicken plush in his arms. The chicken was much nicer to him than his halves had been anyway. So soft and squishy, its little button eyes unable to express judgement, only innocence. It made the long-lost feeling of happiness bubble up in his chest. Someone made this for him.

Soul's hand returning to his shoulder stole his attention again. {"...sorry for the poor response Heart, I was just surprised,"} Soul mumbled. Heart tilted his head slightly. Didn't Soul make the plush?

Confusion drove his leaden tongue into movement. ("I thought you made this...?")

{"What- I- no! I mean, I am making something for you- ignore what I just said it was supposed to be a surprise- point is, I didn't make this."}

Heart rolled over, staring wide eyed up at Soul. He didn't make this? But that only left... ("...Mind? I thought he hated me.")

He watched Soul's equally wide eyes blink back at him, forgetting in his shock that it had been days since he had shown this much energy, much less willingly met their gaze. He watched their mouth open and close silently before words finally escaped. {"Where did you get that idea?"}

Heart winced, looking away as days-old bitterness surged up his throat, turning his words to poison. ("He hasn't come by since we argued. He must hate me to stay far away like that, stupid Emotional Side making stupid decisions.")

Soul groaned behind him, muffled curses leaking through his red lips. Heart gently pet the chicken plush, letting the soft plush fabric calm him and remind him of his confusion. Mind made this? For him? For him.

{"I'm a fucking idiot."}

Heart tilted his head, curious to know more yet not wishing to face Soul again. Soul muttered before raising his voice once more, addressing Heart. {"Perseverance hasn't been avoiding you, Heart. I just haven't allowed the two of you to be in the same room as each other. I don't want another rela- another fight."}

(Curious, the word that Soul tripped over. Heart was almost certain he almost said "relapse". But Heart wasn't sick, he was doing just fine without the plague of emotions in his chest. He was finally being efficient. He promises.)

He grumbled quietly at the other implication in Soul's words instead. ("Of course it was you. It's always you.") Blackened fingers squeezed the plush in his hands firmly, feeling the shift of what must be pellets inside. ("Mind would never be able to stay away. Only you would keep us separate after a fight. Not like it worked well the last-") Choking on his anger and betrayal and hurt and bitterness, Heart shoved his face into the fabric of the chicken, shuddering. No. He cannot think about Apathy right now. The memory of it was too cold, and today he wants to stay awake and appreciate his new chicken plush.

Breathe. The chicken plush is soft and warm against his face. A rock in the tide of his returning emotions. He isn't sure he hated their return at the moment. Breathe. Mind cared about him, had made the weight that he was using to hide his face from the world. Breathe. Soul... probably did too. Separating them after fights was normal, and he did mention a gift he was working on too, even if by accident. Breathe.

A hand on his shoulder had him flinching away, rolling back over to face the wall. Soul's voice is quiet behind him. {"...I can go get Perseverance if you want?"}

Go get Mind, he means. Let them finally see each other face to face for the first time since the argument, he means. (Except that's not true, because Mind must have snuck in to gift the chicken plush. Heart feels grateful.) Heart nods shakily, exhaling a shivering, icy breath.

He waits until the door clicks closed before lifting his face from the plush. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he grimaces. That was definitely one of the downsides of letting his emotions back in, he decides, the choking flood.

Rolling back onto his back, he places the chicken plush on his chest, letting the unevenly sewn toy list sideways as his fingers explored its form, taking in its calming weight. A weak smile crawled over his lips as his fingers found uneven stitches at every seam. Mind never was too interested in crafts, making the effort it put in all the more touching, the emotion warm in his chest. This was something he missed about his emotions, he decides, the soothing warmth.

...he is going to ask why it had to use one of his hoodies though. He recognizes the colour and feel of the fabric. He's sure Mind would give him a logical reason, so it had better be a good one. (Whatever reason it was would already be a good one. The plush is warm and soft and safe, and it is a gift. It makes him, dare he admit it, happy.) Wrapping his arms around the chicken plush, he squeezed it against his chest, letting the warmth of the emotions it inspired ground him as he waited.

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

How do you know?

The tops of Sizhui's cheeks are dusted red when he finally makes eye contact with his senior. He has been staring into his cup of tea for the past 10 minutes, quiet and unmoving, gripping the side of it hard enough that it's a miracle it didn't break yet. Very uncharacteristic of Sizhui to be so... worked up over something, but there's no better place to find out what's wrong than over tea with Wei-qianbei.

"I...um... have a question."

"Figured as much." Wei Ying laughs. "What's up?"

"How... how does one know when they're... in love?"

Wei Ying feels his heart both ache and soften at the question. He sees himself, over twenty years ago, asking his shijie the same thing. He remembers Wen Qing telling him she'd probably never get to see A-Yuan growing up and and achieving his life's milestones, learning cultivation and falling in love.

"It's different for everyone." Wei Ying finally replies, in a voice that's uncharacteristically soft. "It feels like... honestly, it feels a lot like sword flying for the first time."

"H-huh...?"

"You're scared you're going to fall and nobody's going to catch you, and it's terrifying. But once you're in the air and you feel the wind around you and you can see the world from above, you feel free and invincible and like you can do anything."

Sizhui is quiet for a long time after that. Wei Ying lets himself think over his own metaphor.

He has been scared to fall, indeed. When shijie found him hiding in a tree, when he learned to fly on Suibian, when he fell into the Burial Mounds, when he learned what his feelings for Lan Zhan meant... In fact, until Lan Zhan, he could never be sure there was someone there to catch him. He had been scared to fall in love with Lan Zhan too, even if it came to easy, even if he couldn't help it, even if, in hindsight, it was obvious Lan Zhan loved him too.

But nothing could compare with the knowledge that his feelings were reciprocated, that he would never be alone again, that no matter what, there would always be someone in his corner, loving and protecting him. Catching him if he'd fall.

And he'd been falling a lot lately - Mo Xuanyu's core has improved, but not nearly enough to allow Wei Ying to do the airborne tricks he used to do with Suibian. The amount of times he almost splattered into the ground should be laughable - but Lan Zhan always caught him, no matter how ridiculous it was for him to slip off his sword like a child.

"Is it... easy? To love someone?" Sizhui asked, again, his face even redder than before.

"The right person is never hard to love. It just comes naturally, you may not even realize it's happening."

He surely didn't, not from the start. His life would have been a lot different if he had - still, his life is wonderful now, and there's no point dwelling on the past.

"You know, it took me a while to realize that I loved Lan Zhan, but not because it was difficult. It just came like second nature to me, it felt normal for me to want to be around him and to share everything with him. It was subconscious, I think. Our hearts know we're in love before we do."

Wei Ying doesn't realize he's playing with the ribbon Lan Zhan left on his wrist as he says all this.

He also doesn't realize Lan Zhan is quietly listening in from the doorway of the Jingshi, a look so soft and loving in his eyes it would melt him if he saw it.

---

"Anyway, why are you asking me this stuff? Got any news to share?"

Sizhui's flustered and sputtering. "N-no, I-I was just, um, curious, it's nothing like that, really!"

"Well, when you do decide it's something, let me and Lan Zhan know, we need to have a stern talking to with whoever's decided to steal our baby's heart!"

"Wei-qianbei!!"

[deltastorm101]

is it just me or does the wallpaper of the computer alan finds in initiation 6 look a LOT like the ending shot of alice's film from american nightmare

[hcdragonwrites]

Banquet ( a @journey-to-the-au fic)

I had to split this into two parts because … it’s 16 pages and I did NOT want to swamp anyone with a wall of text. I’m finishing up the last bit later today possibly after work or tomorrow. I hope you all enjoy!

If there was anything that Heaven knew how to do, it was to throw a party.

In the most boring way possible to Willow.

The entertainment for tonight’s banquet of Heavenly Delight were four great white mares, set to dancing. The great beasts were dressed in robes so long they brushed the courtyard ground beyond their feathered hooves. Purple and gold, saffron and yellow silk was tied to their manes as they sashayed and side stepped in perfect tandem to the soft orchestra led by Gold Chimes Softly. The drums beat a second heart to the horses hooves. Everything was ever perfect and in time. Not a swish of a tail or a twitch of an ear. Willow heard the bells on the great hooves beat in perfect harmony. Other women from their seats applauded as the mares danced softly from side to side. To everyone who awaited the main course and delighted in the dancing, it was the most marvelous entertainment.

To Willow, she was bored to her wits end.

Not a single spark of spontaneous will, Willow thought as her hands settled in her lap. It was another feast her father had requested by letter for her to attend. Well her and Wukong who-even now after almost hundreds of years!- the celestial busy bodies still whispered that she, Earth Reaching Willow, must be under some sort of cursed spell, some beguilement to be married to him.

Sometimes the pasty nobles and smooth beautiful faces of the lady’s behind their fans and sleeves earned the deepest scorn from Willow.

She looked up to the sky. They were seated in the courtyard of sorts, where the pavilions were open to the air and backdropped by the perfectly cut ivy crawling it’s way up the trellis. The warm air and the music was welcome but also stifling in a sense. Incense burned not too far away, cloying with the scent of cooking food in the worst possible way. Willow saw that every star was in its perfect place, the constellations playing at perfection to please their Emperor. Another laugh from nearby caught her ear over the dancing horses. She turned and saw a few attendants huddled in a whisper, pointedly looking between other guests at the banquet. Seems their is rumor scheming going about. How dull.

I bet none of them have witnessed the beauty of a star shower from earth.

She hid it well however, her scorn. Willow couldn’t understand how anyone would choose Heaven over the ever changing earth below. None of these thoughts made themselves visible on her face however. Schooled and taught, bred to peaceful serenity, Willow let nothing ripple the calm of her outward appearance. As cool as a northern star, as serene as a flower in a vase.

Captive peace was hardly true peace. It was stagnation. It was the loss of what made the peace worthwhile. Willow had experienced that feeling: of tumbling in the grass, the heat of the fire as a lightning strike burned a forest down, of the sea and its salty spray in a storm. Willow had felt the movement of a world and it had caught her and held her constantly in its motion.

She took a sip of wine to hide her mouth as it began to slip into a frown. The wine may be of the best quality, brewed by the greatest hands and purified in the finest crystal, but it would never compare to the joy of the toasts her earthen family held in their patch of paradise. Of how when Ba got into his cups he would challenge his sister Ma to a duel of jokes and japes. The music made by Sweet, a kind little monkey, was a better tune and full of more life then Gold Chimes Softly well placed and organized orchestra. Sweet could play a jaunty tune upon their flute, while the rest of his little musician group followed along. They could whip the troupe into a frenzy of dancing and table jumping. Willow had danced before, controlled and reserved like the Mares in their bells and ribbons. But dancing within her husband's court had been an experience she never would have imagined missing. The dancing wildness and stamping feet, the spinning from partner to small partner, the joy that filled the air and the laughter. It had been better than star wine - it had been an intoxication that had left her heart drumming and face smiling wide.

The horses finished their beautiful dance and the court clapped. Willow clapped too. The mares did wonderfully. It was not their fault that the dance felt too restrained, too controlled.

Her father was happy to have her home. Willow could tell by the very evident glances down to his daughters from his seat at the head of the table. He had all of his family arrayed about him, basking. Willow made polite conversation that only scraped surface level with her sisters and the passing women who came to visit her seat. Willow complemented the lady’s jewels and colored gowns. To the men she disarmed a hundred pointed comments that were trying to dig beneath and get to the root of what would be tender and delectable tea to spill in court.

That great sage- he drinks with a gusto! Is it always this way?

Translation - is he a drunk ?

My what clothes. Such a unique style it must have been picked up in his travels!

Translation: He dresses like a Savage. Is He a Savage to you?

Willow had almost slapped another adviser who had pointedly remarked on the lack of children they had and questioned Wukongs ability to perform.

Her sisters, oh her clever sisters, had rallied to her defense in the most courtly way they could: they turned him into a piece of gossip to throw back to court.

“Did you hear?” Wind Over Sea stage whispered to Autumn Leaves Falling.

“Oh do tell!” Autumn Leaves Falling flashed her most wonderous smile, catching the Advisor in her trap.

“Seems that Moon Shadowed Clouds husband has been kicked out of their bedroom!” Wind replied, making direct eye contact with the Advisor.

“How terribly pitiful!” Weaves the Clouds remarked from her cushion beside the other sisters. The Jade Emperor watched from above, keeping himself out of the gossip.

“Wasn’t he caught drinking down in one of the mortal brothels ?” Autumn added, her eyes slashing toward the advisor.

“I heard it was on his Wife’s birthday to boot!” Winter Frosted Grace sniffed, setting her cup of tea down.

Her sisters turned in unison to stare down the Advisor with such cat like intensity.

“For shame!” Little Weaver Girl, the youngest of the brood of women, said loud enough for the court to hear. Little could get away with being louder than the rest- she was adored by their father and was the master weaver of heaven. Her creations had been sought after by all the courts when their father had worn one of her robes that Little had made. “Trying to twist your bad fortune onto my sister.”

The advisor, of course, made a swift exit with red ears and wounded pride.

Willow was thankful for her sisters. They alone understood that Willow, for whatever reason, had found comfort with Wukong and was truly happy. They didn’t see why she wished to remain down among the earthly mortals. Her happiness was what they valued and, like a streak of tigers, would defend with witty claws and well disguised barbs any that fancied a go at making court gossip from the Emperors family.

Willow wished for the upteenth time that she could bring the lot of them to their mountain. To see what she saw. She knew deep down that none of them would really understand. Except for Little. Her youngest sister often snuck from the court to watch the common people live their lives and to see the other mortal weavers of the world. Little would love their mountain. She began to think of Flower Fruit Mountain as theirs - her and Wukongs. It Held so many memories- so many joys and sorrows.

Where was Wukong?

Willow was surprised he had been absent so long. Wukong was still a bit unaccustomed to the Celestial workings of the court and it’s people. Even after attaining buddhahood and becoming an enlightened master, Willow knew that the gossip surrounding them would never die out. It was tiresome to interact with people who still brought things up from almost centuries ago.

She cast her gaze about for him and saw a flash of his red fur—

And his teeth.

Willows stomach fell, like a falcon folding her wings for a dive. Straight to the bottom of her soul

Wukong was surrounded by a swath of richly dressed courtiers, lords and men of the Palace. They kept a respectful courtly distance but Willow knew it was too close. Her dear friend was giving all the warnings she had learned over the centuries together to read. His eyebrows had been raised at the beginning of her watching but now they lowered, the teeth on full display. A smile of aggression. A smile that said ‘I take offense’. He felt accosted and would soon act upon it. For all the calm that had been taught, her husband could not forget that he was a creature that had to fight for so long.

Oh these utter fools, Willow thought. They still don’t know when to leave him well enough alone.

It would be their fault for not understanding Wukongs simple and very obvious attempts to walk past and around them. But another man would join, asking to hear of his teachings from the Buddha himself, and his eyes would make direct contact with theirs and the teeth would shine all the sharper. That wasn’t a smile. That was a promise of violence.

Willow knew if Wukong reacted it would only cement the court's opinion of Wild Beast they saw. Willow had to act fast before the feast turned from one of peace to one of violence. So Willow, setting her goblet down whispered to her nearest sister, Winter.

“Catch me.”

“Beg pardon?”

And then Willow, with the grace of all her years of acting and tricking the witless fools of Heaven, swooned and fainted. Winter caught her, crying out in more surprise than worry.

Willow made sure she brought her hand up dramatically to her face, the sleeve covering her mouth. Her elbow she had knock into the tray that held food and Willow was rewarded with the loudest clatter of porcelain cracking onto the floor beneath them. The goblet she had placed was sent flying to spill into the rug beneath their cushioned seats.

Sorry father. I know you wanted a peaceful night with us all.

Her dramatics had the desired effect: the court all took in a sudden breath and some gasped. She heard her father call to her and the worry in his voice made Willow's heart beat with a bit of guilt.

“Sister?” She felt hands shake her shoulders in worry and looked up beneath lashes into Winters frosty face.

“Play along, so that way the court doesn’t catch on.” Willow whispered and her hand subtly pointed to where Wukong had been- and where he was running up to her.

“Willow!” He sounded so worried it made her heart give another guilty squeeze. His hands had grown in size, meaning he had made himself larger than regular. “Are you alright my love?”

Willow looked just beneath her arm as she brought it up higher in a mock groan. But he was close enough to hear her now.

“Let’s go home.” Willow could see the stress lines on his face, the anger that had been there cooling like coals in a fire.

“Seems my sister fainted.” Bless her, Little was close enough to see that a game was afoot. And she always approved of games. “It’s been so long since she was at the Palace after all. The scents may have overwhelmed her.”

Wukong looked down just long enough to see Willow give a wink. Some of the tension leaked from him and she could feel it leave his hands. His fast mind seized onto this statement (now that he was given a signal that this was a ruse) and elaborated upon the story.

“My wife was worried about tonight. The winds over our mountain have been so clean and clear while Heavens incense must have overwhelmed her delicate nose.” Wukongs arms took her up, face close to hers.

“How did you know?” He mumbled into her hair. He didn’t ask her if she knew what. Wukong understood that she was doing this for him in some way. It was the intuition of being with each other for so long.

“Saw those courtiers - the fools.” She barely moved her lips to speak and was glad to have her sleeve covering her face. She couldn’t help the smile as he blew air into her ear, tickling her.

“You are a Heaven send.” He said to her then addressed the court.

“Seems my wife needs to clear her head. We will head home on the leave of my Father-in-Law the Jade Emperor.”

“You may go, Sun Wukong. Let me - let me know how she fares will you?” The worry that made the end of his voice tremble at the end had Willow feel just a bit more guilt.

Sorry Father.

Willow felt Wukong bow his head and then they were away, faster than a falling star on a path back to earth. Once past the Celestial guards Wukong tapped her shoulder with a claw and Willow dropped her act and sighed.

“Thank small mercies.” She sighed, gazing out at the fast approaching world below.

“Mercies exist but they are not small.” Wukong said. “I’m holding one in my arms.”

“You flatterer.” She laughed at the sappy look he gave her and she pressed his nose with a delicate finger. “Come, tell me true- what we’re those vipers cornering you about?”

“Seems they were beginning to question my … ability to … well …” Wukong was looking everywhere but her, the wind blowing across his fur. It couldn’t hide the blush turning his face and ears into a tomato.

It only took a second for Willow to understand- and she turned in his arms to glare back into the sky. “I will flay that Advisor!”

“Advisor?”

“Yes. The little shrew of a man must have set the rumour to running before he approached me himself.” The coward. She was glad her sisters had known enough gossip to spin his dilemma into a full show for the court. Willow touched Wukongs cheek, worried. “Tell me what happened.”

“They started asking about my ascension in Buddhism and asked about my teachings. Then they started … well. In on the questions of you and me and our… intimacies.” He was so uncomfortable that he was rubbing at his forehead, claws leaving little red marks on his exposed skin. “It started making me uncomfortable and I couldn’t see or get a clear path to return to you.” Wukong sighed. “I’m sorry Willow.”

“Sorry? You have nothing to apologize for! That man had come up to me and my sisters to dig at us for information as well.” Willow chuckled, remembering how Little, Winter, Cloud and Autumn had perfectly embarrassed the man. “Of course you know the sort my sisters are- even if they don’t quite approve of me living on earth they won’t stand for such pointed questions.”

“You were asked about children as well?”

“Yes and I was about to slap him.” This made Wukong laugh. They sped past a cloud front, promising heavy rain. The mountain was coming into sight now within a sea of jet black turned silver by the moon.

“I would have paid good money to see it. The second slap heard in all of Heaven!” Wukong chortled. Then he sobered. “I’m sorry again.”

“Stop Wukong.” Willow caught his face and pressed a kiss to his temple. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

And then her stomach gave a tremendous growl, like the traitor it was. It took the wind from her words and flamed Wukongs look of timid regret.

“I pulled you away from the feast before you could even get a bite in.”

“We have all the food back at home.” Willow countered. Cursed stomach. As the Mountain got closer and the silence stretched a bit longer Willow looked back at her friend. His face was concentrated in thought that was slowly beginning to brighten to delight.

“Wukong, I know that face. What are you thinking ?”

He was silent, trying to make his face neutral again. And failing miserably. Once they had stepped down and onto solid ground, Wukong set Willow down and returned to his original size.

“Wukong…” Willow tried again, but was interrupted as the two sentries that night, Ma and Ba, came bounding forward, weapons drawn. When they saw it was Wukong and Willow they relaxed and called greetings.

“My King? You Return so soon!” Ma said.

“Was the feast good?” Ba asked, his broken tail giving an agitated flick.

Wukongs face was fully alight with a genuine smile as he looked at Willow then back at his family.

“The feast was a drab thing of mediocre blathering. We will outdo them here!” The Monkey King walked forward, taking Willows hand gently. She followed, knowing that she was about to get her answer to what Wukong was about to do

“Ma! Ba! Call the troupe- fire up the ovens. Set Water Curtain Cave in its best ! We will have our own feast that will rival Heavens!”

“Yes my king!” The two answered in unison then sped off, whooping and calling and waking all of the mountain for a feast. Ma grabbed at her brothers ear and yanked, getting ahead of him. Ba snarled in mock aggression, swinging his leg to knock Mas out from under her. The two had turned it into a race and it didn’t seem that either would make it out without a few bruises along the way.

“They seem eager for it.” Wukong laughed. He led Willow into their home as the lanterns were turned from their sleepy glow to a bright blaze.

“Wukong …”

“What?”

“Why a feast? I don’t need a feast — I would be satisfied with a simple fruit tart and some water.” Willow felt a bit guilty as she saw sleeping mothers poke their heads from the stone homes and peer out at the ever growing and excited crowd calling for feasting. She saw the kitchen fires light up like a twinkling row of stars coming to life.

“Nonsense!” Wukong assured, pulling her along. “ Why should Heaven have fun and we not have any? Besides I have to find a way to thank you for saving my pride while you lost a bit of your own.”

Was that what this was about ?!

“Oh Wukong it’s fine! Women are expected to faint and fall over themselves with the silliest things.” Her sisters had fainted countless times. Mostly to attract the eye of a gentleman or women they thought was beautiful or fancied. Willow had seen Autumn take the most spectacular swoon, right into the arms of one of the generals! Maybe theatrics ran in the family. Wukong simply shook his head. The idea had him now, the excitment of competing with Heaven growing brighter in his eyes.

“I won’t hear of it.” Wukong declared. Willow forgot how competitive her friend could be. But he also was hiding something else he wanted to do. She could read it like a book.

“You are planning something else are you not? Don’t lie, I can see it on your face plain as day!” She teased him, his mirth infectious. The whole cavern was now alive with the news- droves of the family were coming out now gathering in the banquet hall with foodstuffs to share and enjoy in. Wine was being brought up from the deeper colder caves and already the air smelled intoxicating as the cooks set to work.

It was Wukongs turn to wink at Willow now as he left her at her room door, smiling softly. “You will see~”

[shoezuki]

the essay i got due tomorrow n barely done is like. its good i like it im excited to write it and im so upset that i have no time and am sick like.

its in my fairy tales n folklore class n im writing on the subject of taboo topics in perrault's 'donkeyskin' and specifically the symbolism/metaphors of the donkey hide she wears n how it symbolizes her trauma haunting her long after she escapes her fathers attempts to marry her n like. i like the story a lot n how its kinda fucked up but perrault really watered down the father-daughter incest topic n tried to make it more 'safe' and less taboo. but he fucking failed and i wanna argue bout it so bad. but my head hurt

[godsfavoritescientist]

Billford isnt canon in a literal Sincere Authorial Intent sense, y'all 😭😭😭 please get better standards for how much creators need to include in order for something to be considered officially canon. I've jokingly said "I cant believe billford is canon" too, but I thought we were saying that lightheartedly. I thought we all recognized that it was "canonized" in a wink-wink nudge-nudge way where they fully leave room for people to interpret it as "haha isn't it so funny and clever that they're framing being betrayed by a demon as if it's a romantic breakup!" Please. I'm begging you, do you understand what I'm saying here

[velvserum]

When you’re not here

A/N: really old writing, probably better than my more recent ones but still not exactly good. i did like it for a period of time before though, so i figured i should post it- it kind of makes me cringe AKISMEKD so if there’s a warning for that here’s the warning 💀

originally this was supposed to be a scene in my fanfic but i ended up scrapping it since it deviated from the plot and didn’t fit the overall vibe

this is unfinished, but hopefully i’ll finish it someday and post on ao3

Summary: It’s attempt after attempt, Dazai can’t be bothered for any type of care after but a certain redhead is irritably persistent. Dazai might be a little too comfortable with this arrangement, but you didn’t hear that from him.

TW: disassociation, vague mentions of suicide attempt

—————————————————————————

-Cold.

He was more accustomed to that.

There's cold water that spites his skin, the icy drench searing down his back in quick bucket-fulls. As always, it borders on painful, frigid and unforgiving, brutally materializing against his flesh.

Dazai dreads showers a majority of the time, what with all the effort he has to exert even to a partial cleaning. Keeping his wobbly worn legs up as the fatigue pushes down his shoulders, having the dull light flicker while he navigates through automated motions, disconnected with his body even as he peers down at it. He's immobile, in those few moments. His skin being free of bandages, prickle with goosebumps, all seizing him in a frozen lake. The pressure and temperature is harsh, as are most things in his life. The water is so frosted against his body that sometimes he forgets to breathe while violently submerging his head via bucket until he’s gasping for air he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of earlier.

Dazai thought it only fair for him to match his exteriors with his internal blemishes. Cold and impersonal. What does it matter if it’s unconventional? His existence was unconventional.

…

Warm.

In current time, Dazai can only vaguely make out the few complaints from Chuuya in the background, the first thing he hears after hours being the blocked out voices of 'why the fuck is your water so cold', 'jesus fucking christ how do you live like this-' ‘you’re not a masochist? i’d be shocked. ‘place is goddamn mental,’ and so on, but Dazai's more encapsulated with the feeling of warm water swirling in waves against his body. For once, he can breathe, it's so comfortable that his own body melts, unwinding hours and hours of strain.

Warm. It's warm.

And where Chuuya’s voice is violent and difficult, gets made up by how deceivingly gentle his hands are, pressing a damp towel cautiously across dazais scars that he has yet to witness until now. Hesitant. Unsteady. As if it held the possibility of becoming too rough- even though most were long by now healed. It was foreign to Dazai, to have touch directed at him that cradled instead of scorning.

‘Comical’, is what it really is.

Dazai has never been this kind to himself. He doesn’t think he could be. Never bothered with the pressure, as long as it got done. Never let the air around him feel like it was something he could breathe in. Never gingerly ran a towel over, making sure it was fine.

Yet, here Chuuya was. The biggest brute he's ever seen, being soft.

And.. to Dazai of all things.

His legs lay limply stretched out in the tub while his body remains as sluggish as his mind. The rest of the bandages were either discarded into a bin or scattered in hefty waters that ripple under the moonlight's cast, leaving him bare for all he is.

Dazai squints, discerning through fog- the feel of his bare skin against someone else's, the dust particles floating around, the way the water sways leisurely, the damp hair that’s matted on his face and his surroundings that oddly feel less empty.

He couldn’t recall this place ever feeling this bright either. It surges with a new light that he could only ever describe as Chuuya himself, everywhere that brat goes fires up and leaves a flame in its wake. Even his own dreary apartment is somehow less repulsive, replacing the nauseous green with a midnight blue hue and-– was it always like that? He’s taken his fair trade of late showers well into the night but the moon's beams have never fought its way through the window in such a noticeable mirage.

The scene is quiet, with Dazai zoning in and out of his head while Chuuya’s muted mutters flow out unfiltered.

The redhead’s ungloved hand presses onto his shoulders, the remains of soap wiping away the icked feeling of an unclean ocean. Soothing, grounding, safe. They’re firm, so much so that maybe just slightly, the backlash he’s gotten from gasping for oxygen he couldn’t obtain, quiets. Winding down into a shaky, yet copeable feeling.

Dazai blinks away the rest of the blurriness, coming back to reality when Chuuya’s hand kneads into his hair.

Oh, he’s talking.

“—Fuckin’ ass, do you even use your heater because the last time I took a shower here I got dunked in your shitty-”

“—Nawh.” Dazai finally replies.

Chuuya’s face switches with surprise, his movements halting the slightest bit before he’s back to glaring.

“Well you should more often, seriously, even my fridge isn’t that goddamn cold.”

“Mm.” He leans back against cold ceramic, “Chuuya’s trying to blame me for his deficient fridge?”

Chuuya huffs, making a more forceful tug on his hair while still managing to keep it from hurting Dazai. ‘Cause he’s weirdly compassionate ‘n crappy like that.

“You’re deficient,” He growls.

Yeah.

“Y—”

“—But you don’t deserve any of that bullshit.” Chuuya cuts in, massaging the back of Dazai’s head but keeps his thumbs near his temples. “A kick, though? You’d deserve that.” He mutters.

Dazai huffs a laugh, unhumorous.

Chuuya’s not ‘nice’ in any sense.

He’s brash, and harsh, and his face and his words are thickened with repulsion.

Even right now, he’s swatting insults at Dazai nonstop, acting like they’re heathens bickering down a mall instead of being in the aftermath of an attempt. Chuuya, whereas others would think to apply comfort in their voice, feigning a sweet lulling tone, decides to maintain his ridiculic slander.

And everyday, without hesitation, Chuuya slaps a snarl at the start of every conversation and barbarically forces Dazai out of his comfort zone— out of his goddamn mind.

“Chibi’s so mean.”

“As deserved.” Chuuya repeats, and pushes Dazai’s bangs back.

The water swivels, making small sounds that resemble the ones on the beach.

—But still. Chuuya’s not treating him like glass- like he’s suddenly stopped being himself after the attempt. As if he’s not just some washed up anomaly sitting where he didn’t belong—

“..You won’t ask?” Dazai mumbles after a moment.

There’s a small period of time where Chuuya goes quiet, hands still ruffling through Dazai’s hair. His eyebrows furrow in thought, lost in what to say.

“You wanna talk?”

“I don’t know,”

“Hm,” Chuuya hums in response, before adding, “Close your eyes.”

Dazai does. A trickle of water is poured.

“It was colder,” He numbly recites, after a while, and ends there.

Colder might be an over exaggeration, he realizes.

It’s not that much different from any other time he’s attempted. It’s not any different than the life he’s lived.

‘Colder’ however might be snow freshly fallen on newly woken skin, colder might be frozen ice cubes and red palms, colder might be a night walk out, colder might be badly chosen attire on a dead winter day.

Or colder could be the blood pumping through his veins, that never seem to provide him any sort of warmth other than basic bodily function.

“Wow, really? No shit, sherlock.”

“—What? You wanted to know.”

“I asked if you wanted to talk. But this? Get your shit off the table, Dazai. Way off the table.”

God.

Dazai rolls his eyes, irritation flickering at the back of his head. “Don’t you think you’re asking for too much?”

“I think you owe it to me,” He mumbles back.

“That would be the case, if you gave useful feedback in the first place,”

Right. Maybe he just misconstrued Chuuya’s insults as passive when they were actually tired and annoyed. Chuuya’s compassion isn’t eternal and as far as Dazai knows, luck does not play well into his whims.

He shouldn’t have expected Chuuya to be all that into him after this anyways. Just as rightfully so, he supposes. And there is an eventual end to everything, though unfortunately he was already too deep into Chuuya’s nonsensical juvenile dog schedule after the past few months, but the bombs finally dropped. He can finally go back to—

“Well then say something useful first for once,” Chuuya huffs.

His hands are firm, yet smooth as they scrub into his scalp. Dazai can recognize a low grumble of frustration and exasperation in his voice.

“You don’t have to fuckin’ pour your heart out, or..any shit— but all that cryptic crap? Don’t do that. You’re in your own head, okay? I can see the gears in your head working and it’s late and I don’t have 5 hours to deconstruct it all. Just speak to me.”

…

His eyebrows furrow.

Chuuya’s pushy. Like hell.

But it doesn’t take acting nice to be kind.

He looks at him bitterly despite that.

“You already know what I’m thinking though,”

Not that he’s at all comfortable with the idea.

“It’s nicer to be listened to than to be told.” Chuuya asserts.

Dazai doesn’t know what to say to that, so, he settles with: “You tell me off everyday.”

“Consider this a one time offer.”

He frowns. “I don’t accept offers from little boy scouts,”

“Are you always this damn insufferable?”

“Are mutts always this high maintenance?”

“As if you don’t spoil your own fucking cat.”

“Mind you, that is my baby,” Dazai argues, then continues, uninterested. “Chuuya just wishes he had the likeability of a feline when all he retains is the image of a pathetic, ill-mannered, invasive pooch.”

“God, would it kill you to not be such an ass for once? What, you have brain damage all of a sudden? Is that it?”

Dazai’s forehead feels like static.

“We’re on the topic of damage now? Great, we can finally discuss yours—”

“Are you really that goddamn desperate that you’ll go there?.

“Then what?” Dazai clicks, “ Do you really think ‘talking it out’ is going to ‘fix’ anything? Are you that naive, Chuuya?”

He doesn’t know what happens in those few moments,

Chuuya’s entire face drops from being stoic to him snorting, a signature grin on his face. The kind someone makes when they have a victory but off. Tired, but relieved. It irks and prickles Dazai, until Chuuya speaks up again—

“It’s working for your dumb ass right now, isn’t it?”

What?

“You talk, and then I don’t have to see that dead fish look in your eyes.”

Dazai’s face contorts.

And Chuuya’s eye’s are drilling into his skin.

Another crack, another slip, another barrier being torn down ruthlessly by the redheads' rough, molding hands.

It hasn’t occurred to him that the lone act of their quarreling was beginning to serve as a replacement for the chaos that resides rampant at his mind and core.

It’s unsettling.

It’s refreshing.

It’s….

“Besides, I’m not expecting a miracle, but if you’re as critical in your own head like you are with movies,” Chuuya bumps Dazai’s forehead with a knuckle, “Then get the fuck out of there.”

…it’s. Too. Much work.

If this was anyone else, Dazai would deny that statement.

If this was anyone else, Dazai would’ve gone home alone.

But fortunately for Chuuya, he’s too mentally plucked to forlong any roundabout way of disarming the subject.

(And yes, he’s going to ignore the way he’s been having a harder time even doing that recently. Just. Around Chuuya.)

Dazai huddles himself in the waters, eyes traveling to the rims of the tub.

How bad can it be?

Pretty bad.

Nothing’s worse than seeing a man literally drown in their sorrows, though.

Dazai sighs.

“It’s cold,” He reinstates.

Chuuya raises a brow.

He won’t stop there this time.

This is going somewhere. But hell if he knows to what point it’ll end up in.

He continues, akin to a child. A small, pouting child.

“Humans thrive in the warmth and decay in the cold, we experience hypothermia and then it’s the cruelest thing in nature. You know what happens? It tricks your body into thinking it’s warm when it’s freezing. Changes your breathing pattern. Messes you up. Some things just shouldn’t be part of human nature. Some things just shouldn’t exist.”

“Some things exist because they need to,” The bucket, with a huff, again gets kicked under the facet to build up water, “And sometimes they just do. It’s natural order. And you’re better for it, because you learned. You know better now.”

Dazai’s features adorn in a dour laugh, “I didn’t know Chuuya was so pro-hypothermia,”

The redhead's face immediately turns sour, resembling more casual nights before this one. Chuuya will always be Chuuya, easy to aggravate and even easier to taunt. Of course, usually, in dazai’s case, those two go hand in hand.

“Bad example.” Chuuya’s nose scrunches, “Just, shut up- you make everything so black and white, so fuck me I guess for trying to find the good,”

The good?

“The good?” Dazai reiterates, “It’s hypothermia,”

“It’s you,”

Ugh. Just, Ugh.

“....You have no tact to save your life,” Dazai groans, “I don’t need you to lie to make me feel ‘good’.”

“Hah? The last thing I ever want is to end up flattering you,” Chuuya huffs “I’m just saying, plain and simple.”

As the redhead continues, he meets Dazai’s gaze head on, “Stop comparing yourself to hypothermia, it’s ridiculous. You don’t freeze people over but you are fucking freezing. You want a real reason for that? Because it’s definitely not because of some messed up logic about how you’re born that way- it’s because you go to stupid beaches to get stupid frozen in stupid water that’s racked in stupid cold weather.”

Dazai frowns.

“For someone offering me free range to speak, you sure are critical.”

“And you’re still talking in analogies, you want me to read you like a book? I’ll treat you like a damn book.”

[viric-dreams]

Trying to sleep whilst simultaneously letting some potential lore scenes for future writing/art run in the back of my mind produces some truly unsettling results.

Under no circumstances would Roberts be court martialed for treason. Officer Beverley seems to understand this, but his logic is entirely backwards. Framed by the glow of the fireplace, Beverley leans back against the sole chair in his spartan lodgings and explains what he’s so sure is going to happen. If Roberts does not comply he intends to go to the London admiralty, to let them in on his missing time, the new player making waves in Anarchist circles, the lies at the foundation of his very existence. He seems to think that the Dark-Spectacled Admiral has the power to land him in political scandal.

His letters will never reach the Admiral. Roberts knows this with the same certainty that he knows the Dawn Machine burns in the Southwest. Beverley’s contact is the Voracious Diplomat. He’s trying to be cagey about it, but Roberts has seen the letterhead, shoved quickly into a drawer whenever they need the space on the desk to work. And the Diplomat would never let such a tidbit go to the Admiral, not when it’s worth so much more on Grand Geode.

Roberts was there for the Luminous Plot of ‘69. In fact, he had been the one to ensure that its perpetrators would never find a way to return from the slow boat, no trial, sham or otherwise. As he and the Commodore stood against the gunwhale and watched their cement-laden bodies sink into the Zee, the Commodore turned to him.

“You wouldn’t betray me, would you, Elias?”

The expression on his face is clouded, as if already playing through and wounded by the possibility in his mind. It feels like being thrown into ice water.

“Of course not, sir!”

The very idea is appalling. Surely the Commodore doesn’t truly believe it’s in the realm of the possible—not when the very idea makes his skin prickle. He’s the Commodore’s man, through and through, dedicated to both him and the Work.

The Commodore smiles, his golden eyes suddenly kind.

“That's what I thought. You wouldn’t do such a thing,” his hand reaches out to pat his shoulder, “Not from my most loyal midshipman.”

He can’t help but flush at the praise. Hopefully, the deck’s dim lighting covers it. But it hardly matters, for the Commodore turns away, gazing into the waves where they’d thrown the traitors not minutes ago. Roberts thinks the conversation is at its end when the Commodore starts again, eyes never leaving that fixed point on the Zee’s surface.

“If you did betray me, of course, I wouldn’t kill and feed you to the dawn flukes. That would be too easy of an end. Instead, I’d weld you into our smallest zub and ship you to Anthe. Who knows,” he shrugs, “you might just even have enough supplies to make it.”

He can’t breathe, his lungs are frozen in his chest. The image is all too real—trapped in that metal coffin, hardly able to move. Through the icy panic, all he can feel is the frantic hammering of his heart and the sharp twinge of the muscle of his left thigh, where the scarred skin puckers above it. The Commodore wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. Right? He has to take a breath. He needs to respond. It’s been too long. His silence might be taken for suspicious.

“There’s no need for that, I assure you.” The words come out whole, though his voice is frailer than he’d like. The Commodore is studying him now. Roberts isn’t sure whether or not he can meet his gaze, what the Commodore might see on his face. After a moment the Commodore nods.

“I didn’t think so. But you never know.” With that, his mouth slides into a grin, demeanour changing like night and day. “We’d best get back soon. There’s work to be done back on base. I’ll alert the navigator.”

Roberts sees the hand coming soon enough to not flinch when it lands on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring shake, before the Commodore is off, already descending the ladder.

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, chasing the claustrophobic phantasm from his mind. The Commodore is right—there’s work to be done.

Truth be told, he’s not entirely paying attention to the details of Beverley’s demands. He doesn’t have to, when he already knows he’ll agree to whatever he says. It’s clear as dawnlight what he must do. The Officer seems almost surprised by how easily Roberts acquiesces, but that surprise soon turns to barely-concealed delight as the scientific possibilities unfold before him. He’s already turned away from Roberts and back to the schematics, searching for a pen to record the newest thoughts.

It’s truly a shame, Roberts thinks, hand reaching behind him for the fireplace poker, to have to lose such a promising engineer. But treachery is something that the New Sequence cannot tolerate.

Beverley doesn’t even see it coming until the instant he brings the iron poker down across his skull.

[altruistic-meme]

this was supposed to be silly!!!!!!!!!!!! what!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[selkiewife]

Hi, hey. Does anyone ship show Dany x Missandei x Greyworm? Is there a ship name for them as a threesome? Have I asked this before? I may have. It's just I was thinking about Black Sails and James x Thomas x Miranda and Miranda's last words:

What do I want? I want to see this whole goddamn city, this city that you purchased with our misery, burn. I want to see you hanged on the very gallows you’ve used to hang men for crimes far slighter than this. I want to see that noose around your neck and I want to pull the fucking lever with my own two hands!

I see a parallel with Missandei's outcry:

Dracarys!

Before she is beheaded. Of course Game of Thrones completely and utterly fails Dany, Missandei, and Greyworm whereas Black Sails definitely does not fail James x Thomas x Miranda. But I'm chewing over this and spiraling a little. Why is Black Sails always writing Game of Thrones so much better?

Also does anyone ever imagine them as the three heads of the dragon? I may have to make some gifsets....