#ok this counts as writing

[meowww-ffxiv]

When Krile was trying to expose Alphinaud learning how to draw to impress girls, Mordred said, "It's good to hear he had a normal, lighthearted childhood."

He said it with a sense of relief. In the 3 minute conversation leading to that revelation, it was the first time this miqo'te, dressed in mostly black robes and looking like he hadn't had cause to smile in years, showed Krile a glimpse of himself.

She'd done a little research into the Warriors of Light. She'd received a firsthand report from Alisaie, who gave them such a glowing "review" and spoke the most well of Mordred, who she claimed was strong and clever and all the positive adjectives a teenage girl could ascribe to someone she admired. Alphinaud's remark had been that Mordred did not like him, and for good reasons, and Theodore was sharp and devoted and all the adjectives a teenage boy would describe someone who was an afterthought when standing next to his peer, who was Estinien.

The two Warriors of Light Krile met that day was a miqo'te who looked like he'd lost so much that he'd passed through anger and arrived at the realization that he was glad others needn't have lost as he had, and his tall, dragoon shadow who talked because he didn't, who smiled where he could not, and who was still -- to this very day, years later -- an enigma to Krile.

Mordred had always been the most honest, open person between himself and Theodore. It was why, Krile supposed, he was so visibly, deeply unhappy when they first met.

Theodore had helped her with an innumerable amount of things, and the gifts and souvenirs he brought back told her well enough that he was in fact sharp and devoted. But he evaded hers and Tataru's soft prods into talking about personal things, about himself.

In this way, he was exactly like Thancred.

"Does your future remember Theodore?" she asked G'raha once.

"Only as a story," G'raha replied. "He passed before-- before Mordred did. The first of the major Black Rose casualties. And it was...perhaps the final straw for the pyre."

What G'raha had no heart to tell Mordred was that in the anguished, broken future, Theodore had told him to stay away from the frontlines. As he had done here in this reality, where he had asked Mordred to return to Eorzea after the Ghimlyt Dark. Mordred had been safe in the Ala Mhigan quarters, rebuilding with the people and developing ideas to counter rumors of this Black Rose.

And then the Garleans had unleashed it on Ghimlyt alongside their warmachina, and a broken spear and helmet were returned to the Quarters thereafter. Theodore's silver-gilded, icy armor that had shielded him from countless other dangers and immortalized him in songs and books, could not shield him from the deadly gas and the machinations of Ascians.

Then the books burned in the flames of war and those who wrote and sang those songs died among so many others. And none remained at all about this other Warrior of Light aside from his friend's handwritten letter to G'raha, among the last, that said, "Theodore is dead. There is nothing left for me."

So, nowadays, whenever Theodore came by the Baldesion Annex -- which he did, because he did guildship commissions and because Mordred told him to help with their Baldesion commissions as well -- Krile asked him about his day. She asked him where he had been, what he had eaten.

Theodore said he was a knight-in-training in Ishgard, once upon a time. He told her about his sympathies for Alphinaud having learned how to draw to impress girls because before he had the words to describe his attraction to men, he'd thrown his own lazy bum into lessons of arms and instruments to impress his handsome schoolmates. He told her he liked fairy tales and stories of romance. He told her he felt like he'd managed to marry off the friend he was most worried about never finding happiness when G'raha returned with Mordred.

He spoke about that part with the same sense of relief Mordred had when he told her he was glad Alphinaud had a normal, lighthearted childhood.

Krile's grandfather used to say a very wise thing about people, and that was: very few were as good a liar as they believed. If there was malevolence in you, it'd bleed through to others no matter what. The same went for benevolence.

"I'm glad," Krile replied to Theodore then. "I'm sure you could tell, but...Raha is always worried that you would resent him. For what happened on the First, as well as, um."

"How besotted my dear best friend is with him?" Theodore replied wryly.

And because she was Raha's adopted sister, Krile had a duty to ask. "Well? Do you?"

"People often speak of moments that appall the conscience and ruin their worldly optimism." Theodore said this very steadily, at once, not in the way a lie was too easy but like it was a thought he'd been nursing for some time. "Not many admit to moments -- no, weeks and months -- of things which elevate their conscience, which inspires and enlightens them. Emboldens them. This, Mordred had given to me. In the months and years I have been at his side. How can I resent the person who had done for him as he had for me? How can I, indeed, treat G'raha with anything but gratitude and friendship?"

[hungharrington]

i’m almost 22 and have never even kissed a boy (which i’m chronically insecure about). it’s made me feel very nervous regarding intimacy or “doing it wrong”. i feel like steve would be great coach and reassure the reader it’s okay and that they’re doing great. nothing to embarrassed about. (my soul needs this so bad)

hi honey !! i think you r so right & steve would be the perfect guy to give all the assurances <3 i hope u know that kisses don’t matter too much til they’re with someone you’re rlly sweet on so i wouldn’t sweat it angel x this one is sfw! wowzer!

You’re on your couch and in Steve’s lap and worried about just about everything. 

Steve’s being sweet about it, his hands resting gently on either side of your waist, his thumbs swiping up and down to comfort you. He’s watching you closely, unaware he’s just taken your first, second, and third ever kisses. How could he know? you think, on the side of insecurity— it seems everybody else your age has already kissed someone. 

“You okay?” He asks, hazel eyes tracing over the soft features of your face. He loves your nose and the shape of your bottom lip— strange things to like perhaps, but Steve doesn’t care. 

You nod but don’t say anything. The motion is a bit jerky. Your hands are planted on his shoulders, holding them probably a bit too tight. Exhaling a breath, you nod again and pretend the fondness in his gaze isn’t making you shy.

“Yeah,” you finally speak, voice smaller than you intend. “Just- just wanna like—“ you swallow, eyes darting to the ceiling for a moment, if only to avoid his intense eyes. “I wanna get this right.” 

A car engine drones by outside in the dusky evening. Steve gives a little chuckle and his hands on your waist tug forward, pulling your attention down and your body an inch closer to his. It’s warm— every part of him is glowing warm. 

“I don’t think there’s any way you can get this wrong,” He admits, awfully sincere about it. 

It’s the truth. Steve likes you a lot. You could probably bite his lip too hard and make it bleed and he’d still find it pleasant. You have that effect on him. 

You don’t know that though. So, every stress seems very, very real. Are you kissing firm enough? Too firm? God, are your lips too dry? 

Your tongue flicks out to wet them, your hands giving his shoulders a nervous, minuscule squeeze. In your chest, your heart is torn between rabbiting in its anxiety or shrivelling in insecurity. 

“I mean,” you laugh a little, if only to cover your embarrassment. You duck your head to avoid his face, murmuring, “If there is, I’m sure I’ll find it. I haven’t, uh, exactly done this… too much.”

“That’s fine,” Steve says instantly. His warm, large hands give a tender squish on your waist, before sliding up and around to curl snugly around your body. He sits up a little straighter, his nose nudging against yours. 

“No, Steve,” you say, cheeks a touch heated. You count his eyelashes so you can avoid his eyes, you voice dropping volume towards the end of your sentence. “I mean, like… like ever.” 

Surprise flashes in his eyes for only a moment. His gaze darts down to your lips quickly but then he’s smiling, nudging closer, and stealing a quick kiss off your lips. Now he’s taken your fourth kiss too. 

You flush, something warm pinging its way up your spine. 

“That’s okay,” He murmurs, sounding like he really means it. 

“It is?” 

“It’s great. You’re great.” He kisses you again—your fifth— so sweet it tastes like sugar on your lips, his arms around you pulling you in closer. You drown in it, enamoured by how it feels to have his lips against yours. God, he makes you dizzy. 

Steve breaks the kiss but stays close, his arms pulling you closer still so you’re straddling him properly. He’s warm, so warm— and so freakin’ nice to you. 

“You don’t find it weird?” You can’t help but whisper. Your eyes crush closed, unable to face him. 

“Weird?” Steve echoes. “Are you kidding me? It’ll take more than that to freak me out.” 

One of his hands shifts up, moving up off your waist to cradle your jaw gently in his large palm. He peppers a string of kisses along your cheek and jaw, beginning to suck a sweet spot beneath your ear. Your hips shift before you realising, subtly grinding down into his. Flames begin to burn in your stomach. 

“It’s—I mean it’s kind of, like, a little embarrassing, don’t you think?” You continue, voice a little breathier than before. You’re not sure what you’re trying to convince of him of— you certainly don’t want him to stop. 

Steve’s lips brush over the barely forming bruise on your skin and your breath hitches. 

“Are you feeling embarrassed?” 

One slow kiss against your neck, his plush lips accompanied by the heat of his tongue. You squirm in his lap but don’t answer, fearful of being too truthful. You are and you aren’t. He isn’t making you embarrassed but you are, just a little. 

Your silence makes Steve pause, digging his face out of your neck to meet your eyes. “Hey. You shouldn’t be embarrassed- if you are for some other reason, we can— we can like stop—“ 

“No.” You cut in, God, now you’re seriously giving him the wrong idea. “No, oh my god, I sound so stupid- it’s not you— Steve—“ 

He cuts you off with another kiss, your sixth, and steals your runaway thoughts. It blissfully chases away your nerves for just a moment. 

“Great.” He smiles against your mouth, giving another squeeze of your waist. “Cos you don’t need to be.” He kisses your mouth again, seven. “All you need to be is enjoying yourself, okay? 

You like the sound of that— adore the way he’s so seamlessly finds the thing that sets your nerves alight and soothes it so easily. You whisper back, “Okay,” and gift him your eighth kiss, sweet and fierce. 

[iooiu]

mature... sure thing bud

[auriidae]

goofy hermit doodles!! because uhh why not!!

[saetoru]

it has been a minute folks🧍🏽‍♀️

[tboybuck]

It’s not that Robin is bitter. She’s not. Really. Bitterness implies anger. She’s not angry. Not at all. She’s… okay, she’s jealous. Just a little bit. And that’s fine. That’s… well, it’s not expected, exactly, because nothing about this situation could have been predicted in the first place so there’s been nothing to expect. It’s not expected, but it makes sense. Who wouldn’t be jealous?

And, like, there’s something else, too. Something a little darker simmering just beneath the surface of her jealousy that Robin’s been having a hard time putting a name to. Not bitterness, though.

Maybe it's because Steve is hers. Yeah, platonic with a capital P, all of that, but he is hers. Back before Vecna, when he was trying to date every pretty girl who walked into the video store, that was different. Not a single one of those girls was a threat to what Robin and Steve have because that's on a different level.

This, though? Maybe Robin feels a little threatened.

Steve's beside her at the counter, his elbows on the glass surface of it as he leans forward to see his own reflection in the tiny compact he'd pulled from Robin's bag. He's clumsily dabbing her concealer on his neck to cover the red and purple marks that make him look more like the victim of a vampire than the love-drunk dweeb he actually is.

So, yeah. Robin's definitely a little bit jealous because where the hell is her great gay love affair, huh? How the hell did her dingus get his first gay kiss before she did? And how has he been able to seamlessly, unconditionally accept this part of himself when it had taken her years to come to terms with who she is?

And yes, she absolutely feels threatened by this burgeoning thing between Steve and Eddie, of all people. Becuase the way Steve and Eddie get along, the way they're so in tune with each other, it's kind of similar to the way Robin and Steve get along. It makes Robin feel prickly, because those silent conversations those two have started having? Those belong to Robin.

What if she loses him to Eddie?

It's irrational, because Steve and Robin were separated at birth or something, and he would never, ever, ever abandon her and she knows it. Knowing doesn't silence her fears, though.

And that sucks, because Robin should be the most supportive cheerleader of a best friend, and she is happy for them, honestly.

But damn. Eddie's almost always around now, and that's fine, it's great, really. Because she likes Eddie, thinks he's great, thinks he's an awesome match for Steve. It's nice to have someone else like her around, someone who can commiserate with her anxiety about being queer in a little place like Hawkins.

Or, it would be nice, if Eddie and Steve could stop sucking face for, like, a minute and a half when it's just the three of them hanging out.

Robin has never third wheeled this hard in her life.

its just a little thing, but hi i'm going to start publishing stuff now i think

[anon-unofficial]

hi.

so because I see a lot of people doing this (and also because it is 11 in the evening and my phone is on 7% AND I'm bored) I'll just join in

so

for every note this post gets, I'll write a word—A SINGLE WORD—on this chapter I'm working on

have mercy

goodnight

[slightlyunconventional]

hi snz squad (Sorry. Not funny.) i got some food for the h/awks fans FINALLY sorry for the wait i had writers block for like a month straight 😜 love that. anyway heres about 1.7k of allergic h/awks and some really badly written fighting/sparring LMAO enjoy!!

“You ready, birdie?” Dabi says, his lopsided grin wicked as usual.

“As I’ll ever be,” replies Hawks. The villain’s left hand is swallowed by bright cerulean flames, so hot there’s already faint plumes of smoke puffing out around it. In turn, Hawks draws his two longest feathers and sharpens them with ease, and raises them into a defensive position. He wonders, briefly, who’ll make the first move, then decides that these sparring sessions are for him to improve against fire; Dabi’s skills are perfectly fine as they are (Perhaps. He does sometimes think the man could do with some extra precision training, but he’s here to incinerate, not sauté, so who’s Hawks to judge?). Hawks lunges forward, feather-blades brandished, aiming straight for Dabi. Don’t hold back runs through his head over and over as he moves, the words Dabi keeps having to say to him every time they do this. It’s not Hawks’ fault he’s got such a hero complex. 

“Don’t hold back,” Dabi had said, flexing his wrists after their spar, “There’s no point in doing this if you aren’t gonna show me your full potential.”

Hawks had sighed. “Easier said than done, hot stuff.”

Dabi raised an eyebrow. “Is it?” he said, “You seem to be just fine facing off against any other villain when you’re on fuckin’ hero patrol.”

“That’s different, and you know it,” Hawks had replied, “This is training. I can’t just- make myself fight you properly without good reason.” He let out another long breath and drank from his water bottle.

“It’s cause we fucked, isn’t it?” Dabi had said, smirking. That had made Hawks splutter on his water. He glared indignantly at Dabi.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he declared. “You wish that was why.”

“Relax, I’m just messing,” said Dabi, with that shit-eating smirk still on his face. “Just fight harder next time, or whatever. Ain’t gonna learn anything if you don’t try.” He left the room, and Hawks had frowned after him.

Dabi sidesteps Hawks, but only just. Had he moved a millisecond later, Hawks’ blades would probably have been stuck in him. Whether that’s for the worse or the better, Hawks can’t decide - Dabi’ll probably chastise him for it later, but there’s only so much potential you can exhibit before stepping the boundary of actual murder. The villain’s blue flames have caught on the very edge of Hawks’ feather, and are creeping down its lengths with some pace, threatening to reduce the entire thing to ash. He quickly shakes it out and lifts the blades once again. If he can convince Dabi he’s planning on sticking this whole spar out melee-style, then maybe he can discreetly send some feathers behind for an ambush. He just needs to find the right moment. 

Then, Dabi raises his own hand and throws a stripe of glowing blue fire straight at Hawks. Right as he does so, Hawks takes his chance and releases a few medium-sized feathers, sending them to hover in position behind Dabi, ready to make their move from the rear. He ducks down, and just in time, too, as he feels the searing heat of Dabi’s attack barely inches from the top of his head. He does his best to ignore the sting in his eyes and how every blink threatens to send irritated tears sliding down his face, but it’s unexpected… that doesn’t tend to happen, and there’s normally a whole lot more fire involved in their fights than there is now. But, Dabi’s unrelenting nature doesn’t allow Hawks more than a moment of thought, and he’s almost instantly back upright, sharpened feathers pointing outwards, stalking Dabi back towards the wall. He keeps having to blink against his blurring vision, though, and it’s affecting his focus. If Dabi picks up on it, he doesn’t say anything. There’s still a thin plume of smoke issuing from his feather, too; those flames are no joke. Hawks crosses the feathers in his hands, preparing to drive forward and strike - if all goes to plan, Dabi will assume that’s all he’s going to do, and counterattack accordingly, then Hawks can compromise him with the feathers he has poised behind the villain. If all goes to plan.

And thankfully, it does, if you look past the single tiny snag. As predicted, Dabi releases a billowing explosion of fire straight forwards. Hawks’ blades are both ignited, but that’s neither here nor there, since he’s focused on bringing his other feathers back from behind Dabi, and up to his throat, mere millimetres away from his skin. They aren’t sharpened, but he doesn’t need to know that. Hawks knows he daren’t step into them to test. 

Dabi’s eyebrows lift up, his expression a mix of amused and impressed. “Not bad,” he says, glancing down towards the feathers at his throat. “Not exactly a technique that’ll work every time, but I didn’t see it coming, so that’s gotta count for something.”

Then comes that tiny snag. Hawks stops listening halfway through Dabi’s sentence when his sinuses start stinging like crazy, with such sharpness that it makes his eyes water even more than they already are. He sniffs, half testing the waters, half hoping it’ll make the sting go away, but unfortunately it only makes it worse. Just as Dabi lifts his hands up to incinerate the feathers in front of his neck so they can begin another round of sparring, Hawks sends said feathers rapidly towards the villain’s arms and pins him against the wall.

“Sorry, what–” he begins, startled.

Hawks lifts the fur-lined collar of his jacket and ducks down into it. For a moment, nothing happens, but–

“heHt’sSHHhue!”

Dabi pulls a face. “I swear to God, if you’re doing this and you’ve got a fucking c–”

“ah’hAH-! eH’SHHhyu! No, you cock, I don’t have a cold. I’m not that stupid.”

“You are, but okay,” Dabi says flatly, “Why do I have to be pinned to the fuckin’ wall?”

“‘Cause your psycho ass would probably attack me while I waahhs s-sn-hahh! hheh’sHHh’hiew!”

He pitches forward into his collar again, cutting himself off mid-sentence with a third desperate sneeze. They’re already getting harder to keep in check; and what the fuck is itching this badly? Sure, it’s mid-spring, and his hayfever’s probably acting up a bit, but no way in hell is it this bad. Maybe he’s just… sensitive today. He didn’t bother checking the pollen count this morning, so…

“You think I would do such a thing?” says Dabi dramatically in mock offence, “Sweet, innocent me?”

“Shut up. Yes, you absolutely woul- Jesus– h-haHh!...” Hawks’ breath catches sharply in his throat, but he’s exhaling shakily a moment later. 

“Lost it,” he says, only a little breathlessly, “You are the furthest thing from innocent and we both know that.”

The need to sneeze hasn’t left Hawks, despite the last one having eluded him. It’s laying dormant (for now), an incessant buzzing high in his nose that seems to also be accompanied by profusely watering eyes. He tries scrunching his nose to quell the feeling - it doesn’t help but rather slightly the opposite. Dabi arches an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You gonna let me go or what?”

“Uhh… oh! Right, sorry. Instinct, I guess,” Hawks says. He withdraws the feathers holding Dabi in place and the villain subsequently takes a few steps towards him. There’s still smoke rolling off of his arms, where he’d used his quirk, and it floats lazily upwards in greyish plumes. That smoke has always been mesmerising to Hawks, the way it curls and twists, almost as gracefully as Dabi’s flames themselves. It seems different to regular smoke, though, realistically it probably isn’t, and Hawks has just convinced himself it is so he has something else about Dabi to admire with childish adoration. The smell of it often clings to Dabi, though, fainter, obviously, but it’s still distinct if you’re up close. It’s filling the air now, the bitter scent comforting, strong, but stinging, and–

“-ah’hHahH-?!” Caught completely off guard, Hawks desperately draws in a staggered breath before he’s truly able to comprehend it. 

“hh’heHSHHh-iihHSCHHh’ue! Huuhh… fucking Jesus–” The double volleys through him with unexpected force, leaving him more than a little winded (but almost certainly not finished).

Dabi’s staring at him now, his expression half concerned, half incredulous. Can’t exactly blame him. He opens his mouth to say something, but Hawks is already cutting him off with another sneeze.

“haH’iihtTSHHhyu!”

“So, about that cold you don’t have?” Dabi says, after Hawks has recovered - for now - with a series of pitiful sniffles and a less than kind rub at his nose with one gloved hand. 

“No, it’s–” his voice wavers slightly as he speaks, “it’s not that, I think it’s, ihh-it’s–”

Dabi shakes his head. “Sneeze first, speak after.”

“Rihhh– right, yeah I– hah-hhaHH’sSHHuuhh! ehHISHHhue! Jeez, okay, done now..” Hawks isn’t one to sneeze loudly per se - they’re usually softer, fairly subdued - but these ones are well on their way there. They’ve got the same intonation as usual, but with the intensity amped up a shocking degree. He’s not quite used to it.

“Done, done?” 

“Yeah, whatever– ‘m not sick, I think it’s your-” Hawks gestures vaguely at Dabi with one hand, and the latter’s eyebrow raises again, “-yourhhHehHTSChhnn!”

“What did I just say?” Dabi says, exasperated, and maybe a little fond.

“Leave me alone, that one didn’t give me any warning-!” whines Hawks in response, “You are so mean to me.”

“I know. Now spit it out, you’ve got me on the edge of my seat,” replies the villain dryly. 

Hawks rolls his still-watery eyes. “Shut up. It’s your smoke, I think,” he finally gets out.

Dabi looks slightly perplexed by this, and he voices it, “Never bothered you before.”

“No, I know, but,” He needs desperately to sneeze again. It’s all-consuming, but he’s determined to at least get a sentence out; “spring allergies’re making me s-sensitive to it.. I think that’s it, anyway–hhah sorry, I reahhllyneedto-hhiihSHHh-ehhH’shHHuue! Ugh.”

“Oh. Okay,” says Dabi, “so probably best we take a break for today, then?”

“Mm, yeah,” Hawks replies, knuckling at his nose. 

“Postmature bless you, by the way,” Dabi says with a funny look. Hawks nearly laughs.

“...Postmature?” 

“Yeah, like the opposite of premature. Is that the opposite of premature? Screw off, you’ve got me questioning myself now,” he replies, trying and failing to hide a stupid smile.

“It is now, I s’pose,” says Hawks, not at all fondly, “Thanks.”

[mrghostrat]

why do you need so many playlists 😭

are u in my house why do u know i have many playlists ???

[club-prideguin]

okay im back and have time to post about this so uh. ok what the fuck?

tourist CONTRAPTION????

[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.

[koterkot]

YOU'VE HEARD OF BRAZILLIAN NINTEN, BUT NOW, GET THIS

BRAZILLIAN GIEGUE!!!!

like uhh yes i know he is a fucking alien and not of earth and uhhh that he was raised by two humans from rural america but

SHUT THE FUCK UP

that boy be brazillian (art credits to uhh cognitive dissonance god i need to fucking play that game)

[kairenn-n]

Last Line Tag / Six Sentence Sunday

Surely it's still sunday somewhere out there right? Thank you @queerofthedagger for tagging me <3 I wrote this into the fic I'm editing. They're training with staffs!!

He offered Lancelot a hand again. Before he could realise what was happening, Lancelot had grabbed him, kicked his legs and threw him on the same spot where he had been laying. He straddled Arthur’s hips, one hand on his chest and the other holding the staff to his neck.  Arthur remained still, all the blood in his body rushing and his breathing stuttering. “Do I win this one?” Lancelot said, his victorious smile already knowing the answer. Arthur may have imagined it, but Lancelot’s breaths were coming out shorter, quicker.

Tagging @magicinavalon @wolfiery @insane-ohwhyfandoms @aeonthedimensionalgirl @shana-rosee

[black-is-beautiful18]

Y’all need to look up the meaning of satire and trope cuz this is ridiculous 😭. The American Society of Magical Negroes is a satirical film about the magical negro trope often used in media. Satire means that it will be making fun of the trope and even criticizing it. These types of movies/books usually only have one Black character and it often requires said Black character to do heavy lifting for the white character(s). It’s literally what happened in Ghost with Whoopi Goldberg. As much as we might like the movie it’s true. I also have a post about Rhapsodic by Laura Thalassa and that trope goes crazy in that book. The Black character most likely will be portrayed to be stereotypical or 50/50 wind up dying, teaching the white character some sort of lesson, and then being forgotten until it’s convenient or completely while the white MC gets some sort of power up and their arc is completed. I promise it’s not gonna hurt you to laugh at how stupid it is. I’m also pretty sure Key & Peele had a skit about this.

[zephyrins]

I hate how many NPCs are dying just for the sake of dying. Some of their deaths have zero sense

oh, are you the NPC from Elden Ring? congratulations! You have a 2% chance of staying alive

[dkettchen]

Brennan: in the mountains of Luxembourg

me, from Luxembourg: *gets jumpscared*

me: mf we ain't got mountains in Luxembourg