#this was so all over the place

[sojuyae]

verdict of heaven

summary: (Oda's pen danced across the paper. A single stroke at a time, he crafted him, shaping him into something magnificent, something that shone like the sun. But as quickly as he had breathed life into him, your existence had taken precedence over all else.) 

dazai osamu / reader

notes: mild yandere themes, this is ummm after PM! Dazai? but before ADA? unhealthy relationships, dazai bathes you, dependency

"Is the water too cold for you, dear?” Dazai asks, drawing out the vowels of the endearment like he used to.

He adjusts his seat next to the bath tub before dipping his hands in the water, his bandages soaking as he cups the liquid, his lithe fingers almost making contact with your sides. “I think it’s fine.” He replies to his own question after moments of your silence. 

(You don’t understand why he’s so insistent in taking care of you.)

You look down on the water, its clarity enabling you to glimpse beyond where your arms burst with vibrant colors of purple blue and faded yellow — colors you used to when looking up the sky — colors that were once emblematic with something beautiful. 

(You’re simply an individual who was once together with someone who had been special to him.)

Yet, these wounds are not from Dazai, and he has no intention to cause harm to you; it drives you insane — when you look at these marks, all they accomplish is to serve as a reminder of what you brought about to yourself when you refuse his help.

(A dear friend he had been to Dazai, and a lover to yours.)

Lukewarm water is poured on your back, cascading down the tub, inciting ripples. Dazai’s ungloved hand trails his name with his fingertips, warmth imprinted in each letter despite the coolness of his skin. “You’re awfully quiet these days.” He stops, the initials still searing. The way the soft pads on his hands treat you delicately pains you so. 

Then, you feel soap being lathered gently on your back, in repetitive, circular motion. 

These are the same hands that wield a gun, and these are the same hands that used to bring you a rose after your work — "From him," he would murmur, and you shouldn't have dismissed the notion that Oda would be lazy enough to make Dazai deliver a single rose to you. 

Knowing that the same hands can be used for a variety of purposes and that their nature is just as complex and paradoxical as the individual to whom they correspond is an alienating experience.

As if used to your silence, he continues on his task, The soap frothing as he generously squeezes more of the thick substance over his hands, an overwhelming scent of rosemary — the same one he uses — pervades the room. He rubs his palms together, making a bubble of foam and suds that shortly spreads between his fingers, before smearing it all over your back.“

“Talk to me [Name],” Dazai drawls, a playful huff escaping his lips, his hands now on your arms — he must’ve hated your silence; his fingers now digging on your back. “I miss your voice, you know?“

“There was no need for you to do this,“ You start, voice hoarse after hours of not talking. The suds slip down your forearms, leaving a moist trail in their wake. His hands working the soap into the crook of your elbows, your body limp to his advances. “Oda never asked you to.“

His hands stop at their movements. A strange silence pervaded the room, and there was a palpable sense of tension. Your ears hurt from the agonizing silence. It seemed as though the walls themselves were closing in on you as the air was so weighted with tension. The stillness persisted, lingering over the room like a foreboding cloud.

Then, Dazai gently placed his head on your shoulder, his soft locks of chocolate tickling your neck as he absorbed the warmth of your skin. He didn't give any thought whether your shoulders were soaked. An intimate act for who you both are. Too delicate. Too tender.

“Oda has nothing to do with this,“ You can feel his lips curl up into a smile from behind. “It is of my own volition.“ 

[canisalbus]

✦ Freshly ordained ✦

[buddieinmybeddie]

LGBTQ+ folk what was your gender/sexuality pipeline?

[lilybug-02]

This is Pixel, my Porygon2. She gets really excited when touching carpet - like hilariously so. I always figured it was because real life textures are kinda new and exciting for a digital creature. @realpokemon

[narliee]

so in love you're gonna walk to my house with no shoes on? yeah, that's how in love i am. i think you'd do the same for me. yeah, i would.

[meltedmush]

[nataliescatorccio]

"Can we do it again?" "Give me five minutes... maybe ten."

[coulsart]

It’s an honest mistake!

[forestofsprites]

tail end of season seven you will always be famous

[ba1laur]

smell you later

[sojuyae]

no return

dazai osamu / reader + ??? / reader

notes: mild yandere themes, u drink alcohol, inspired by the manhwa 'a false confession' (massive rec hehe) drabble..? oneshot..? i don't know what to call this since it's not really fleshed out and not given that much thought so maybe its just a random blurb hahaha not proofread i just click post and never look back thats just how i am

the moment you step into the balcony, your legs almost gave out. your hand having to lean on the vine ornamented pillar as support. stillness draping over despite the festivity just behind the door.

just a few feet beyond you, stood your senior. even with your vision hazy and eyes half lidded, you think you can see his silhouette leaning over the railings, his back turned against you, coat billowing in the wind, tousling the hair of his that you've always wanted to tuck behind his ear.

he looks particularly different, today.

the man of your affections — whose hands that are always resting upon your shoulders, his touch lingering a far too much for someone who is only concerned about his coworker, muttering words of 'good job!' every time he looks over your computer to see the progress of the report he assigned.

he, who is always eager to bring you trinkets of all kinds after being assigned in a case, and if you had the ability similar to his, you would've caught on the fact that the trinkets are always given by him personally, rather than your unfortunate coworkers whose gifts are left in their desks.

yet frown would replace your previous smile once he pulls away with a pat; when you remember that everyone got the same gift as you did.

(oh, how you lamented every second that passes without him knowing how you felt.)

but that will change tonight — your intoxicated self decided to confess your long time admiration for your senior. 'and if he rejects your love, then you can just say that you were too drunk! it's easy!' tanizaki said so, as he handed you an alcoholic drink, and you shouldn't have trusted any words that comes out of the orange haired mans mouth.

even if the others knew how bad you felt about him, you prefer to believe that you could keep your feelings to yourself.

with a determination only a drunken one can have, you step further away from the loud music of the party and towards the man.

a heavy breath escapes your lips as you stand just a few feet behind him.

"sir," you first regard him with his title you've always used during work, and a part of you wonders if you'll be able to call him endearments you've always wanted to say after he accepts your confession.

you don't think you can look at him right now.

"i've been thinking about this a lot," you begin, hushed but nonetheless made for him to hear. "i, don't know if, i should really say this…" your eyes drift down to your feet, deliberating whether you should beat around the bush.

but you know you can't, this feelings of yours is too much; if you don't get to say it now, what will become of your sentiments? locked behind a glass heart that threatened to burst every time he's near?

"i really, really like you, sir." you finally say, your hands harshly gripping the sides of your clothes, scrunching them, wrinkles beginning to form on the flimsy fabric.

you refuse to meet his gaze.

silence ensues, the only sound heard; the loud rustling of the leaves against themselves.

"..."

ah, to think that you get rejected without even him saying anything.

"why?" he asks, then a hope ignites deep inside you.

"i just, really like it when you treat us kindly, you always go out your way to make sure i'm okay, your dedication to the agency is admirable, and i... just really like everything about you…"

"that's what any superior would do..." he replies coldly.

his words does not even travel first to your ears — it travels straight to your heart, so harshly that if it traveled to your ears first, you're certain you'd go deaf.

you stagger, the adrenaline the alcohol provided leaving your system.

then, he grabs your arm just in time, his bandaged hand surprisingly holding you delicately, as if he expects you to be gone once he pulls away.

"osamu. call me osamu, not sir." he says tenderly as he rests his hand on your shoulder, his arms coiling around you like a snake to a branch.

you smile gently as you bury your head in his chest. you can smell the faint scent of alcohol on his shirt, how strange, you've always thought he smell more like the sweets he'd always insist on eating. "osa—" the remaining syllables does not leave your tongue.

he rests his head on your shoulders, his curly coffee-like locks of hair tickling your neck.

osamu?

your eyes drift to his neck — are those bandages?

coffee-like?

dread fills your veins. dazai pulls back, your drunken haze along with it, finally able to look at him properly. his warm palm rests on your jaw. the dull brown eyes you’ve grown fearful of seems to reflect the stars, looking at you so, lovingly.

you don’t know what you’re supposed to be surprised of, the fact that a coworker whom you are scared of is looking at you softly, or the fact that he just accepted a confession that wasn’t meant to be his.

"should we keep our relationship a secret?" he asks with deceptive bashfulness.

--

"sir..?" you stammer as you try to look in ranpo's viridescent eyes for an answer to why he's holding your hand tightly.

"i've always thought that you…" his brows are knitted, refusing to meet your eyes, his own narrowed as he looks at the bracelet that adorns your wrist, an item begrudgingly accepted from dazai.

(he wonders if you would be mad if he forcibly ripped its beads out of you.)

he clicked his tongue at his own thoughts, shuffling to get a comfortable spot where he rested appropriately on his office chair.

"since when were you both close?"

[wwillywonka]

SPOCK | STAR TREK: THE ORIGINAL SERIES - 1.27 Errand of Mercy

[manny-jacinto]

every film maker should have one thing in mind: will this be a good gif?

[heartorbit]

find another role, carry on the show

[messrsbyler]

you. yes you, person with rejection sensitive dysphoria. this message is for you. your friends DON'T hate you. they aren't mad at you. they aren't talking behind your back or wished to cut their friendship with you. they love you and treasure you and they are good people who wouldn't hurt you like that! ok, that's all. have a nice day.

[featheredadora]