#ANYWAYS. at the end of the day just leave people alone

[knavesflames]

Childhood friend Arlecchino and Reader that Arle never truly found her to be a friend, despite the reader saying they are and Arle did kinda ditch em during middle school. Until college rolls around, the newfound (or unrealized) sentiments towards Reader become more clear to her - infatuated.

I feel like I kind of strayed from this because I’m totally into angst rn but if wanted it to be sexual I can indeed make another part OR I can also make an even angstier ending. Anyway!! Here it is.

Contents: just sad reader, Arlecchino is lowkey mean in middle school, one (sexual) slap.

Word count: 1672

Writing (kind of NSFW at the end) under the cut!!

You skipped up to the small girl who sits reading on a bench, holding a small pile of rocks and a wide smile on your face. You don’t have many friends, you’re too quiet, too ‘weird’, so when you befriended Arlecchino, you actually began looking forward to school each day. It was almost too good to be true. She’s been a bit distant with you the last couple of weeks but that’s fine, right? She’s probably stuck into that book of hers, her nose has always been in a book or playing with insects.

“Look!! I found rocks that matched your eyes and I thought they were cool, you can-“

“Stop it.”

“..huh? Stop what?”

“Stop bothering me. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

You pause at that. In a sense, she is busy reading, but can’t she put her book down for two seconds? You haven’t properly spoken in weeks.

“Yeah but I was excited about the rocks. I can never find any that remind me of you and now I have.”

“Okay? I am still busy.”

“But we’re friends.”

A sigh leaves Arlecchino’s lips, and she finally looks up from that book.

“No, we aren’t. When did I ever say we were friends?”

You feel your shoulders sinking, a frown tugging at the corner of your lips. Your hand falls to your side, the rocks held tightly within the constraints of your fist.

“No, I.. you didn’t, but I just assumed that.. I don’t know. I thought we were friends.”

“You assumed wrong. I don’t like you anymore, you’re weird, and you never stop talking. I don’t want to talk.”

Your cheeks puff slightly before you let out a puff of air. Your teeth graze your lip, biting down firmly as you stand there in silence, processing. Weird. There’s that word again, no? You feel a sort of pain rise in your chest, but you swallow it.

“Okay. I’m sorry. You can keep the rocks.”

The rocks are placed onto the table beside her, an assortment of black and white and grey all decorating the rocks. And one, one black one with a red cross on it, clearly drawn. You just wanted to make her feel included, everyone was finding rocks that matched their eyes. You keep staring at her for a while longer, but she doesn’t look back up, so you turn.

“I’ll tell my mom you can’t come for dinner, then.”

Arlecchino finally looks up when she hears that. God, she hears the hurt you’re masking, the tears threatening to spill over your lashes. She shouldn’t have been so crass with you, she knows that, but that’s who she is. Blunt, and she was sick of having to pretend. She watches as your figure shrinks towards the school library, where she first met you. You didn’t have any friends, so you ate there. It was better than sitting at that dreaded buddy bench and waiting for someone to ask you to be their friend. As you walk, you pass said bench, a feeling of slight dread rising. To the library, then.

It’s then that Arlecchino notices the rock you drew on, her face softening for just a second. She brushes the rocks off of the table, pocketing the one you drew on before continuing her book without a word. She moves seats in class after that, and she’s not unaware of your eyes that burn sadly into her as she picks up her books. They’re rimmed red and slightly glassy, and it stabs her heart. You two never talk again after that. She goes back to being the girl at the back of the class that enjoys being alone, that enjoys the misconceptions people make about her. You sit in the middle of the class, staring down at your textbooks, silently yearning to be part of the conversations the kids around you have.

Each year passes and both of you grow older. She kept that rock, it’s in her pocket always. It’s become some sort of lucky charm for her, and god she can’t help but stare at you in class as you become more beautiful with every passing year. By senior year, you’re the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. She can’t stop thinking about you. She finds herself stalking your social media when she’s at home, her finger always hovering over the like button, her fingers always hovering over the send message button before deleting the entire paragraph. She knows you’re both off to college soon, she’ll most likely never see you again, and yet she still can’t bring herself to admit her feelings. She can still see the hurt in your eyes from that day, the way you dismissed it like it was nothing only to cry in secret after. She dreams of you at night. Dreams of how she regrets what she said and the way she said it, dreams of her holding your hand and looking at rocks together, dreams of your whimpers as she fucks you. She hates that last dream. The dream that gets stuck in her brain constantly, so much so that she nearly failed her biology final. On graduation day, she makes a promise to herself that she’ll never think of you again.

But she does. Fast forward to junior year of college and you’re walking with your headphones on, looking down at your phone until you collide with someone, a harsh “watch it” in your ear.

“Sorry! I’m sor- ah. Sorry.”

You look up into the same red and black eyes you once considered a friend. How stupid. Out of all the colleges she could have possibly chosen, she chose the one you chose too.

“It’s fine. Just.. Watch it. You’re as clumsy as you ever were.”

“I’m sorry, I just wasn’t looking.”

Arlecchino swallows the nerves rising in her body and finally makes a conversation with you, her voice blunt, awkward.

“How have you been?”

“Fine, thank you. You?”

She scowls slightly as your dismissive tone reaches her ears. You were never like this before.

“Good. I’m good. What are you majoring in?”

“I’m going into geology.”

Of course it’s geology. She didn’t expect anything less from you, really.

“Fun. I’m going to study insects.”

“Go figure.”

“I’m sorry. For what I said back then. I know I hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

“You cried.”

She has you there. She saw your eyes when she moved seats in class, it wasn’t exactly easy to hide the redness. You pause, not saying anything for a while.

“We weren’t friends. We aren’t friends. What does it have to do with you?”

“You were lonely and it made me rethink.”

“Weird people are meant to be lonely, don’t you think?”

You’ve carried those words with you ever since. It didn’t really matter when other children called you that, but the one person you considered a friend.. well, it hurt.

“I just.. didn’t appreciate the eccentricity. That’s all. I miss you.”

“Okay.”

“I dream about you.”

“It isn’t like you to be this emotional. Do you feel guilty because I was lonely afterwards or because you want to clear your conscience?”

“Both.”

As honest as ever. You take a deep breath, the music still playing in your headphones that now hang around your neck.

“We can talk in my dorm room.”

You turn on your heel, walking straight to the block of dorms. At least she’s not in the same block, she thinks. She can at least avoid you if this goes bad. The thought of going to your room though.. her dreams of fucking you have only come back, and stronger. Your room is cozy, so very you.

“Is that.. KISS?”

She points to the poster on your desk. She hates that she’s familiar with them, because she hates that she’s more like you than she could ever want to be.

“Yep.”

“I like them too.”

She gingerly sits on your bed, letting her bag drop with a thud. As you walk over to join her, in all your clumsy glory you kick the bag by mistake as you stumble over it, watching as the rock you once painted on tumbles out. Silence.

“You still have that.”

“I never got rid of it.”

Her heart beats faster. So does yours. Your face, so beautiful in the light of your room, the way your hair shines, the way your eyes have a mix of sadness, anger and happiness in them, all of them fighting to take over.

“You’re beautiful.”

Her words cut through your thoughts. You look up at her and you can’t deny the way your heart flutters as you look at her. You suppose you’ve always felt the way you do about her, that it’s why it hurt you so much when she said you weren’t friends. And once again, your mind is brought out of your thoughts by a sudden crash of her lips on yours. A surprised sound comes from your throat, but you don’t fight against it.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

“You’re here now.”

Hands wrap around your waist, tightening and pulling you closer to her as her lips leave yours and pepper kisses on your jaw, trailing down to your neck, and then your shoulder. And you don’t stop her. Your hands entangle themselves in her hair. What the hell has gotten into you? And her, for that matter, as her hand slides under your shirt and you feel the coldness of her skin on your stomach. Your own hands shed her jacket and she whispers against your skin.

“Let me.”

“Hm?”

“Let me do what I do in my dreams.”

“What’s that, then? Dissect insects?”

A gentle, sensual, almost desperate and loving slap of your face as she grips your chin, forcing you to look into her eyes, those ones you avoided for so long. You wonder how she knew exactly what to do to turn you on.

“Let me fuck you and show you how sorry I am. How much I missed you.”

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

It took 2 people to fully convince Crosshair to do a 180 on the Empire - but neither of those people were Bad Batch members.

They couldn't be. What would a squad of defective clones who had been disobeying orders since day 1 know about loyalty to an institution determined to establish order for the good of the galaxy? What would they know about finding purpose in being "good soldiers"?

Now, I DO think the seeds of Crosshair's eventual defection were planted by his brothers. Hunter pointing out that "Blind allegiance makes you a pawn" and then telling Crosshair "All you'll ever be to them is a number" are statements that are proven later to be true. But it takes Cody and Mayday to drive the lessons home.

Cody and Mayday share several characteristics that place them in unique positions to influence Crosshair:

Both are regs who accepted and befriended Crosshair - Cody says he specifically asked for Crosshair for the mission, and Mayday is upfront and friendly to Crosshair right from the start. (Contrast this to the other regs getting up to move tables when Crosshair sits to eat, or the other clone troopers who walk past Crosshair to get onto the shuttle without even sparing him a glance.)

Both are commanders. (I believe Crosshair ultimately respects authority for the most part: even when he was arguing with and challenging Hunter in "Aftermath," he still deferred to Hunter's orders until his inhibitor chip was intensified and he was then promoted to commander.)

Both are loyal soldiers who have served the Empire well - again, these regs are still commanders even under the new government. And we all know how important loyalty to the Empire is to Crosshair at this point.

Both save Crosshair's life during their missions.

In short, both are regs, but they are still soldiers Crosshair can quickly identify with and trust.

I think it's key that Crosshair encountered Cody before Mayday, though. And despite their similarities, both soldiers drive home different points.

CODY

Cody is one of the few regs we know Crosshair already respected - and still respects, given that Crosshair almost smiles when he recognizes him.

(Some proof in case it isn't apparent: Crosshair goes from frowny face...

...to relaxed almost-happy-if-you-squint-just-right face)

Anyway, while Cody does drop some hints early on that he has doubts about the Empire, he is willing to carry out the mission to rescue "Governor" Grotton, showing he will follow orders to a certain extent. However, he shows more restraint than Crosshair might have: he doesn't attack the civilians despite their obvious mistrust of the soldiers, he comes to an understanding with Tawni Ames, he's NOT willing to follow an order to execute her, and he is clearly dismayed and disappointed by her death.

And so, at the end of a "successful" mission, Cody more plainly reveals the depth of his dissatisfaction with following orders against one's own moral scruples:

Hunter had said "Blind allegiance makes you a pawn." And Cody, unwilling to blindly and unquestioningly be a pawn - or act like a battle droid - any longer, goes AWOL.

But that lesson alone isn't enough to make Crosshair turn on the Empire. Instead, he needs Mayday to give him the final push.

MAYDAY

First, Mayday indicates how appalled he is by the idea of anyone leaving their own behind - which we know is a sore spot for Crosshair. But most importantly, Mayday has demonstrated since he was first introduced that he strongly believes in soldiers being loyal to and looking out for each other (which is far different than just being loyal to the Empire).

Second, Mayday unknowingly challenges Crosshair's belief that serving the Empire provides meaningful purpose. (Remember that one of Crosshair's main arguments to his brothers about joining the Empire was so they could "find purpose again.")

Then, he unwittingly goes for the jugular and rips apart the motto Crosshair had adopted.

And then, in case Crosshair has any lingering doubts about the answer to Mayday's rhetorical question, Nolan decidedly answers the question for him.

Hunter had said "All you'll ever be to them is a number," and he is proven right in the most heartbreaking way.

Crosshair had accused his brothers of not being loyal to him; unfortunately, now he sees what true disloyalty looks like. And for Crosshair - severe and unyielding - realizing that he has misplaced his loyalty by giving it to an entity that mocks him and casts him AND those he cares about aside for doing so... this is the final straw.

Thankfully, Crosshair has now rediscovered the people who are worthy of his loyalty.

[meichenxi]

languages, travel, identity, grief

Maybe some of you have heard of Xu Zhimo's Second Farewell to Cambridge (徐志摩 再別康橋 Translation: Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again, by Xu Zhimo | East Asia Student). It's an achingly lovely poem about a Chinese scholar who studied in the UK, and how he left so gently, taking nothing with him as he went. It brought me solace over the last year.

I thought for a very long time about how I felt about having to leave China, and what it felt like to mourn for a future that was never going to mine. I cried. How am I supposed to explain why? I'm not Chinese. I've got no family there, or a childhood to look back on. I couldn't explain it even to myself.

That pain was coupled with a type of uncertainty, a discomfort at myself for feeling so strongly. This feeling was not allowed. It meant - what? Something awful, probably. I was a racist, probably. I should hate myself, probably. Fetishization is the word that gets thrown around for white people and their time spent in East Asia at one end of the spectrum - at the other end it's just seen as embarrassing and deeply, you know, cringe. It's a self-interrogation - why do I feel so sad? Why do I feel this pull so strongly anyway, to a country that's not even mine? Why should it matter so much when I leave? I didn't feel like this grief has any sort of legitimacy. But it has taken from September - eight months after leaving - for me to pick up Chinese again.

I felt, for months, hollow and unsettled and drifting from place to place. I opened my textbook, and closed it again. The memories there were too painful. I'm not going to write about why I had to leave, but it wasn't by choice. I had loved the people in the school, even if it was for a short time. When you have no internet and are training eight hours a day, the days are coloured more sharply: bright and hurtful and wonderful all at once. We had no running water. It was in an abandoned hotel. I miss the monk at the temple door opposite the school, always on time at 6am to open it for our classes. I miss the folk at the local shop who invited me to watch films on their projector; once they killed a chicken for us. I miss the woman in the woods who gave me the chestnuts she had picked. I gave the chestnuts to the cook, and we steamed them and ate them by the lake. He wanted me to marry his son; he wanted it so strongly that he brought me pork, and desserts, and gave me paper, and promised me I could have a jade bracelet, that he would buy me a house. I miss the oldest martial arts teacher, who spoke in such strong dialect I could barely understand him. When I was sad and missing home one night, he told me that I should stay after dinner. In the silence and against the cicadas, he started to play the erhu for me. Later, my friend told me that he hadn't know what to say, how to comfort me; I was a foreigner and a young woman, after all. We had very little in common. But nobody has ever played a piece of music for me like that before.

And I miss X, my best friend there and partner in snack-smuggling crime. She is 19 years old, and a janitor's daughter, and one of the wisest people I have ever met. (She also rides an excellent motorbike, and lent me her hanfu, and we sped through the city giddy with our own daring and trying not to be caught.) We got matching haircuts; she had always wanted to cut her hair like a boy, and was too scared to do it alone. When I left, I told her to stay in touch: she shook her head. She said that some people were meant to know each other for some time, and no more. I think the death of friendship by attrition, by - as Elrond said! - the slow decay of time, is one of the saddest things of all. I deleted Wechat. I don't want to read over the old messages. By having this place - her, and the chestnuts, and the cicadas - as a memory, I can tuck it away it. I can keep it close.

I wrote a poem myself on the plane. That was the last I thought about China, the last thought I let myself have, in eight months. I kept myself away from it. It felt like a wound. And against that hollowness, there was constantly the question: Why should I have any right to miss this place? Who I am there? Why does it matter? We are all different people, wherever we go, and whoever we are with; we wear different skins, large or small. In China I was [...]. She was who I was. That name, that I introduced myself to people with - she was bright and friendly and tried to translate things just so. Everybody who goes as the only foreigner to a place - or the only foreigner that speaks the language - is a little bit self-obsessed. It happens. It's unfortunate, and something to guard against. But it also gives you its own kind of identity in a way: your identity is Foreigner. Your identity is a cultural bridge. Everyone you meet, in a country as friendly and curious as China, has questions about you. You stand with your feet in both worlds, and are not really part of either of them. That identity is easy to slip into, like cool water, like trying on new clothes. It's easier that thinking: who am I outside of that? Where am I going? I don't really know. I don't think anyone really does.

And then the second thing happens. I speak Chinese well, by this point. My accent is there, but it's slight. I am short, and have dark hair, and a generally similar build to many East Asians - so the questions I have got in the last few years have changed. Sometimes people think I have been raised here. Sometimes they think I am ethnically Russian, and nationally Chinese. Sometimes I get asked if I am half Chinese. Usually they know I am a Foreigner, 100% white - but not always. There is a peculiar rush that comes from that acceptance; from feeling the relief, just for fifteen minutes, that you belong. It's not about 'passing', or race-bending, or anything twisted - it's nothing so unnerving as that. It's just the human need to belong. Everyone gets tired of being stared at, after a while. And after a while, you start to think - I wish I understood. I wish they understood. I wish this were easy.

But then the conversation keeps going. You don't know a local word, or you misunderstand. You say something in a strange way, or you make a strange gesture, and the glass shatters, and - there you are again, naked again, exhausted again, explaining yourself again. That's the other half of it. There's solace in the Foreigner identity, because that means that's all you are. You don't have to think about your parents, or whether they worry about you so far from home; of course they do. The Foreigner is good and filial and a wonderful daughter. You can craft her into any shape you like. But it also marks you out again and again, endlessly and again, as Other.

There was a paper published a while ago that showed measures of acceptance of non-natives in native-speaking communities. It highlights a strange, but familiar experience to those who have lived abroad - the people who spoke the language to a medium level felt more accepted and less lonely than those that spoke the language to a high degree. It makes sense, and mirrors what I have found with both Chinese and German. When you speak a little Chinese, you are a wonder - a curiousity! Look at the Western girl go! People are kind, and curious, and will slow down to include you in conversations. You are thrilled with what you can access - all this knowledge, that other people don't have! Look how special you are!

And then you get better. And then you realise, cut by cut, that you will never be one of them. You don't want to be Chinese, per se; but you do want to be accepted. You are happy to be British; but you miss China like a wound, an old one, festering, even when it was never yours. How do you tell your family that you are not grieving a lost romance, a beautiful girl, but a language and a life? That there are words of majesty, of playfulness, that will never be yours? You speak well enough that people no longer bother to dumb things down, or explain them; you sit with your discomfort, smile painted on, because - you know. It's not bad. You understand most of it. And on the edge of that circle, smiling uncertainly, following the vast majority of what is being said, you are not clever enough and not witty enough to keep up with the chengyu, the cultural references, the slang, and the raucous laughter around you erupts, and you don't know what you've missed, and everybody says - she's quiet, that one. Maybe all the foreigners are? And all you are doing is sitting and feeling the distance between You and Them as heavy and as stifled in your chest as an ocean of dark.

So you go back. Back to your people. But when you sit with the other foreigners, you are apart. They laugh; what are these nutters doing? The Chinese don't make any sense. The Chinese do this - they do that. You sit there, and then there is a pressure building in your chest too, a discomfort, the desire to stand up and say - well, actually.

You are responsible for everything the Chinese teachers do, and have to explain things in a way that the students understand - Confucian thought, and Buddhist philosophy, translated in pithy bite-size adages for the West. You have no qualifications for this; everything you assert, you feel unsure. Uncertain. Someone else could explain it better, more nuanced, and you need to do more reading anyway - but here you are, and here they are, and you're the only one. And you do know. Not enough, but enough that their jokes, their pains, make you uncomfortable. You feel the need to defend both parties; to be a diplomat, every second of every day. In turn, when the students come to the teachers with problems, you have to translate their grievances in a way that the Chinese teachers will be sympathetic towards. Once I got asked: why do you never join us after class? Why are you always so quiet when you're not working? As a translator, you are always working. Every time you speak, you are working; what you choose to say, and what you choose to not say, and where you choose to intervene. You are building relationships, and disappearing, and you are becoming invisible, and you're a nothing, and you're everyone and you're nobody and nobody realises you are doing anything more than translating at all.

I wanted to stay. I couldn't have stayed. I wanted to be accepted as one of them. I wanted to be accepted for who I was. That means a foreigner. I wanted to be true to myself, which means that I would always be the Foreigner, which means I would always be apart from them. It is that contrast and juxtaposition which causes the grief. And there was never an ending to it, a resolution, a chance to reconcile myself (in China) with myself (in the UK), because all at once I had to leave. The grief comes most from the second arrow - not the pain of leaving, but the bewilderment of not knowing why I was in pain at all.

It's been eight months. Slowly, as spring comes, I feel like I am on surer ground. I can look at my old books, those painstaking notes, and I could look at new ones too and I'm starting to think, because this is what I tell my students, and maybe there's some truth in it - it's okay if you're not perfect. It's okay if you didn't achieve what you wanted to, and that the language - in its wholeness, and who can ever know that? - will never, not quite, be yours. It's the struggle and the process that means that I will know and understand Chinese in a different way, in my own way, in a slanted-to-reality sort of way, that is a treasure in and of itself. There is beauty in its brokenness too.

And there is sorrow, too. The sorrow that comes with easing yourself into a different life, and it holding you gently for a while. I sat there - I spoke to them. It's not only missing a place; it's missing a person you were, a stage of your life, for a time. It's knowing that a place has reached inside your ribs and taken root there - even if you don't return, you can never fully get rid of that again. You are two people now, with feet straddling two oceans. There are parts of you that loved and suffered and hated and grew in Chinese, not English. You can't explain that. You can't even begin. Sometimes - not often - you are a stranger in your own land. The poets spoke of that. In the age of fast travel, of the weekend break, we have forgotten the ways a place can burrow itself inside you, and find its own home.

It's not the same as the grief that someone Chinese will face. But it's still grief. I have put my life into Chinese. Maybe that is all it takes to grow love.

Now, I turn back to Chinese - as a foreigner, as Melissa, as myself. It's a bittersweet thing. I know that I cannot hold all of it. It will spill out, like the sun, and there is no way I can be that without losing myself and my history and my own green woods. But I think I am ready now. I am surer, and a little steadier on my feet.

[writingroom21]

The Nanny

Pairing: rafe x nanny reader

Summary: Being Wheezie's nanny was great. The only downside is dealing with the oldest Cameron, Rafe. What happens when his fascination with the nanny becomes a reality?

Warnings: 18+, oral (m receiving), p in v, unprotected sex (Practice safe sex), cream pie, slapping, chocking, squirting

Wc: 5.3K

Chapter 3: Guess we're both broken

Waking up the next morning, you tossed over to the otherside, noticing the sheets were cold. Peaking through sleep coated eyes you realize that Rafe is gone. Sitting Up you look around the room, his shirt and shorts gone as well. Not surprised that he was gone, a sinking feeling is in your chest, he used you. Once again you are left knowing that you shouldn’t have thought anything else. Should have known him being on his best behavior recently was just another ploy to sleep with you, knowing that he won. 

The rest of the day was spent moping around Tannyhill, grateful that you didn’t need to see him. Sarah being the only person you see when she stops by to get some of her things before running off again to stir up trouble. The day was so uneventful that you even decided to go to your parents cookout. Which turned out as awful as you expected it to go.

Reaching your childhood home you can see your neighbors scattered around the lawn. You notice your dad on the grill talking to one of the other dad, most likely talking about what rub or glaze he used this time. Walking around you greeted a few people who stopped you to ask how work is going. “That Cameron boy is causing you any trouble is he?” If only you knew, you thought. “No he’s not. They are all really respectful to me.” In hindsight it wasn’t a lie, they have been really nice making you feel welcomed. If the past two nights hadn’t happened you wouldn’t be so apprehensive to say it, but they did happen.

Everything seemed to be going well until you reached your mom. She was talking to some of her friends when she saw you walking their way. “Well if it isn’t my precious little angel. Hardly recognize you since we never see you.” She chuckles, trying to mask the insult with laughter. Taking a deep breath you give her a hug. “I know, I’m sorry. Been trying to visit but it’s been hectic.” Saying hi to the rest of the group was met with few words, some of them not replying at all. “How much work can it really be? The young one is practically an adult herself.” Your mom has a way of making everything you do seem insignificant or an inconvenience to her, your job being one of them. 

“You’d be surprised. Wheeze is a saint but she does give me a run for my money. I should go say hi to dad before he feels left out.” With that you walked off to greet your dad. The rest of the night was a never ending cycle of your parents making small jabs at you. Making you and the rest of the party uncomfortable every time they spoke. The cherry on the cake was when they pulled off to the side just as you were about to leave. “Sweetie, we need to ask you something and before you start getting mad you need to agree to hear us out.” Your dad says sitting on the couch looking at you, your mom next to him nodding along to his words. “Okay.”

“So you see we really need to fix up the house. You know how bad the AC is, you would have better luck keeping the fridge door open then that thing working.” Oh god you can already see where this is going, eyes rolling waiting for them to ask you for money. “Don’t roll your eyes at us, we are your parents.” Your mother scolded. “Anyway.” your dad continues. “We don’t have the money to get it fixed. The mortgage is barely even being covered as it is, we just need you to spot us some money. Just enough to get us going.” Taking a deep breath and cooling your nerves. “How much?” you ask.

“4,000.” Your eyes widen at the price, that's a whole month's worth of pay, let alone you don’t have that on you right now due to helping them out. “4,000? You need me to give you 4,000 dollars? By when?” The questions shootout at them. “Yes 4,000 and we need it now preferably.” So that’s why they invited you today, not because they miss you like they claim but because they need money. “I don’t have that kind of money on me or in my account.” “What do you mean you don’t have that money? What’s the point of working for some kooks if they don’t pay you well.” Your dad scoffs turning and looking at your mom. “What did I tell you? I told you she wouldn’t help us.”

This really can’t be happening right now. You have been working since you were 14 to contribute to the bills, every paycheck going straight into their hands. “I have been helping you. I’ve been helping you for the past six years with every bill in this house.” “We never asked you to do that.” Your mother rebuttals, taking another sip from the glass of wine in her hand. “Yes you have!.” you exclaim. “You are literally asking me for 4,000 dollars as we speak. Every time you ask me for money I hand it over without making a fuss, but this I can’t do. I have my own expenses, you know.”

“What expenses? All of a sudden you live in a fancy mansion and you’re too good to help out your parents.” Your dad’s words hurt you. You have tried to be their perfect daughter your whole life. The perfect grade, the scholarship, then declining the scholarship because they begged you not to go. Every life choice you’ve made has been to cater them and their wants. “Yes, dad, my expenses. I have my own car that I pay for by myself, a car loan as well, I even have to buy my own groceries. Then on top of that I send the both of you practically all of my paychecks. I’ve been scraping by trying to make it all work, why can’t the two of you just realize I can’t do this.” Your pleas fall onto deaf ears as they both get up from the couch. “If you aren’t willing to help us then there’s nothing left to talk about. You know where the door is.”

Watching as the walk away tears threaten to spill from your eyes. The drive back to Tannyhill seemed longer than it usually did. The conversation played on repeat throughout the whole drive. Parking your car you rush to the front door, all you want to do is lay in your bed and cry. Tears are already falling from your eyes as you close the front door. “Well what do we have here, country club? This that nanny you keep hiding from me?” You recognize the voice, you’ve seen and heard him around Tanny when Rose or Ward is gone. Barry is his name you think not really caring to find out you just walk down the hall. “Not much of a talker I see.”

“Leave her alone.” Rafe’s voice makes your ears perk up. Even though every muscle in your body is telling you to keep walking and not to look at him, you cave. Eyes meeting he can see the tears in them. “You okay, sunny?” You can’t do this right now, can’t get caught up in him just for him to leave once again. Without saying a word you brush past him, bounding up the stairs to the second floor. But before you can slam your bedroom door you can hear Barry talk. “The fuck you do to her?”

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The next morning you had yourself locked in your room just thinking. First about your parents and then about Rafe, then your parents and Rafe once again. It was torture having to sit in the room replaying ever interaction to see where things went wrong. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell you about the Rafe situation but it might for your parents. 

Looking at the clock by the bed you see that it's almost one in the afternoon. Deciding that you can’t sit her a mope for the rest of your life, you get up and get ready. Ward had given you a membership to the country club when you first started, he thought it would be better since you can accompany Wheezie when she goes. A nice relaxing day at the club, eating the fancy food is just what you needed.

It didn’t take long to get there or to find a seat by the pool, most of the people are on the golf course anyway. The only people by the pool are the wives that have kids and the teens who were there for the lifeguard. Stripping from clothes you are left in the red bikini you wore, you put on some sunscreen before laying down on the lounge chair soaking up the rays. 

The sun feels nice against your skin, the heat relaxing your tense muscles finally being given a break. After about thirty minutes you flip over allowing your back to tan, not wanting to be uneven. The sound of kids laughing and the busy club lull you into a peaceful mind. So what if your parents are upset? You have done more than enough to help them out over the years, you can’t keep digging them out of their messes. Who even knows where most of the money you send them goes, it’s definitely not toward the house.

So what if Rafe is a dick who just uses girls and dumps them to the side? You can’t control who he is and clearly he just wanted to hookup nothing more. All that you can do now is just keep to yourself, it’s better to protect your peace then being his new play thing. Then why does it hurt? Shaking off the thoughts you notice how hot you started to get. 

The sun is beating down on you, sweat forming on your skin causing you to stick to the chair. Getting up you head into the pool, the cold warmer cooling you off as you float. You didn’t know this but a few feet away on the dining patio sat Rafe with Topper and Kelce. Rafe was half listening while the two boys talked about something he didn’t care about. His mind kept bringing back the picture of your crying face from last night.

As soon as Barry left he went straight to your room but the door was locked. He sat there for a second and heard nothing from the otherside of the door, assuming you went to bed he left for his room. When he woke up this morning it was all that he could think of, seeing you like that hurt him. You looked like he did after his dad made him feel less of, the thought of you feeling like that made his blood boil. But showing you he cared shows that he needs you, that he actually cares for, that’s not who he is.

No Rafe is the type of guy that fucks everything in his life up, dropped out of school, is a failure to his dad and in relationships. That's what he’s good at, you’ll see it eventually so why even try? Looking out to the course, he can see the pool from here, looking at all the bodies laying around. The red swimsuit draws his eyes down your body, recognizing you as you walk out the pool. The water drips down your stomach, down your legs, but the droplet in between your breasts has him staring. 

Rafe isn’t the only one staring, the few teen boys are staring, then there’s the lifeguard. Rafe remembers him from school and doesn’t like the fact he’s staring at you. He watches as you dry yourself off, putting the shirt and shirt you wore back on. Looking as you gather your things and escape his view as you leave, the boys gather his attention. “Dude are you even listening?” His eyes move back to them “Yeah.” 

You make your way through the halls, carding through your memory to remember how to get to the dining. As you walk, members of the club look at you, judging you for the way your shirt has wet spots from your swimsuit and hair. You decide to sit at the bar not wanting to deal with anyone today. “How can I help you m’lady.” You put the menu down to meet JJ’s gaze. “Oh my god! Jayj hi.” You squeal, catching the attention of patrons including Rafe. 

“I haven’t seen you in a while. Joining the darkside has really changed you.” He looks around before leaning a bit closer. “How is it on the other side? Miss us already?” He teases. “Of course I miss all of you.” You playful push his shoulder, JJ raises his hands up in surrender before resting his body weight on the bar counter arms next to yours. Rafe stares in shock at the scene playing in front of him. You, his girl, flirting with fucking Maybank of all people.

He sees JJ push a piece of hair behind your hair and you giggle. The chair scraping against the floor alerted the boys, he didn’t even realize he was even up and walking over to the two of you. “Where are you going?” Kelce calls out to him. “I’ll be right back.” As he gets closer he can hear your conversation more clearly. “You should come to the bonfire this week. I’ll make it worth your time.” JJ flirts, Rafe coming up right behind you, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Looking over your shoulder you can see the look of anger on his face and the smirk painted on JJ's face. 

“Sunny! I didn’t know you were going to be here. Maybank why don’t you run along and get me another drink.” He says with a condescending tone, glaring at the blonde boy. “Rafe.” You say as a warning, already seeing how this is going to end. “What? I’m just asking the help to do his job. Right Maybank?” “I was actually helping out this beautiful customer. Ain’t that right baby?” JJ remarks getting closer to you. The look on Rafe’s face could probably kill JJ if he tried hard enough.

Rafe leans against the counter, his body facing you. “You really slumming it around with this loser? You like being around trash?” His comment made you see red.  How fucking dare he? You knew he kinda took the kook and pogue thing seriously but to call them trash. It’s like he forgets that you are also a pogue, that if it wasn’t for his father you would still be living on the cut with the rest of them. Which is true, he doesn't see you as a pogue or the help. 

To him you’re a kook, you belong with them, with him. “Yes I do. Now this trash is going to take itself out like the “help” do.” You say quoting help as a reminder that you also are the help. “I’ll see you around Jayj.” You tell the blonde looking at you with worried eyes before storming off. “Yeah see ya.” He calls out looking at Rafe for a moment. “Man I knew you were dumb but god damn. That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen you do.” He laughs and walks away to go serve other customers. Rafe knows he’s right, potentially just fucked up whatever the two of you had before it actually really started. More than he has already done by ignoring you for the past day and a half.

He makes his way back to the table, the guys watching as he takes out a wad of cash and throwing it on the table. “I gotta go.” He exclaims, rushing to try and catch you before you have the chance to fully leave. Racing out of the building he sees you in the distance looking for your car. Jogging he catches up to you grabbing your arm and yanking you back to him. “Let go of of me!” You yell at him turning and pushing his chest hard. “No! Come one just talk to me.” He exclaims fighting you to make you stay and hear him out. “Are you kidding me? Talk it out? You just insulted me and my friend.” “No I insulted him. I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

You scoff pulling your arm free from his grip. “So calling him trash just because he’s a pogue doesn’t insult me? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m also a pogue. I came from the cut just like he does. Does that shit actually really mean something to you? Are you that fucking stupid?” Rafe’s been called stupid many times in his life, from Ward, his sisters, hell even Rose has called him stupid. He knows that he makes things difficult and not many people like him. But hearing you call him stupid fills him with more rage then seeing Maybank think he can have his girl. “Hey don’t you fucking dare. Say whatever every the fuck you want but I ain’t stupid you fucking hear me.” 

He grips your cheeks, pinching them together. “Don’t you ever call be stupid again got it?” You should be scared, you’ve seen his temper before, seen him throw shit around the house or get into a fight with people at parties. You don’t know what to do being on the receiving end of his anger, then his words ring in your ear making you angry all over again. That ache in your pants is ignored as you wrench your head out of his hand. “I don’t know what your problem is but if you put your hands on me again you’ll regret it. You think just because everyone else is scared of you that I will be too? News flash buddy I’m not.” “Don’t call me buddy.” His voice was weaker than it was when he was yelling. 

“You don’t get it.” He states turning away from you and letting you go. “You’re right I don’t. You don’t talk to me for two days completely ignoring me after you got what you wanted. Then when I’m catching up with a friend you come in guns blazing as if the world is about to end. What’s wro-“ “He was touching and flirting with you.” He cuts off your rant, stunning you into silence. “So what if he was?” Rafe’s eyes darken hearing you defend him, telling him you actually enjoyed the attention that you were getting from another guy. “So what?” He laughs differently from his normal one, darker than what you are used to.

 “You really think I want some other guy touching you? Do you fuck him too?” “You’re jealous?” You meant it as a statement but it came out more like a question. “Yeah I’m jealous. All those guys in there would give up all their money just to get a chance with you. You don’t know them like I do, they would jump at the chance to get with a beautiful girl.” This is the third time he’s insinuated you are beautiful in some way. “Well maybe I should give them a shot. You obviously” His lips crash to yours, not allowing you to finish. This is different from the other kisses you’ve shared, more intense. He’s trying to tell you he’s scared of losing you, a crazy thought considering you aren’t even his.

How can he feel so strongly for you than he already did? It’s no secret that he’s always had a thing for you but this is different. The thought of you leaving him for another person actually terrifies him. Everyone has left him and he can’t stand the thought of you being another person who walks away. You try fighting him again but all efforts die when his tongue makes its way into your mouth. Rafe has this effect on you that you can’t explain.

There was always this soft spot for him but now that the lines have muddled together it’s hard to separate your feelings. Arms wrap around his shoulder pulling the two of you closer to each other, bodies pressed together. He pulls away from you for a second allowing the two of you to catch your breaths.  “Get in the car. I’ll meet you back at the house.” Fully pulling away you straighten out your clothes that got a little skewed from making out. He goes to walk to his truck, you stop him. “You can’t just get upset like that and make a scene. If this thing between us is going to work you have to talk to me, okay?” Eyes softening looking at your expression he takes a step forward placing a kiss on your forehead. “Okay.” With that he walks away leaving you standing in the middle of the parking lot wondering what the hell just happened.

The both of you race back to Tanny, Rafe’s truck behind your car. Reaching the house, you make your way inside waiting for him to get here, you lost him at a red light on the way over. You go to the kitchen to get water, the sound of the front door opens, Rafe’s footsteps echoing through the hall. “You think you can just go around and flirt with people?” He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, white polo stretching around his biceps. “I thought we talk-” “No I’m not done.” He enters the room, staring at your body with dark eyes. “Strip.”

The grip on the water bottle tightens. “What?” Rafe is now in front of you, taking the water from your hands, whipping the stray drop on your lips. His thumb gently pulls your bottom lip before releasing it. “Strip and get on your knees. I need to teach you a lesson, I don’t like people thinking they can have what’s mine.” You look at him before following the instructions, staring up at him as he unbuttons his pants to take his dick out.

“Open.” You do without a second thought. “Good girl.” He mumbles, forcing himself in and setting a brutal pace. You have to catch yourself on his thighs just so you don’t fall, his hand holding you in place. Hips thrusting into you, your throat gladly accepts the intrusion, gargling on his length. Tears pooling on your bottom lashes, spilling down your cheeks, making Rafe go harder on you. “Look at you. A mess of spit and tears for my cock. Think maybank can do this for you?”

He’s still on about what happened at the club, to tell the truth you were too. His jealousy causes mixed emotions in you. On one instance you like seeing how possessive he was for you, on the other he resorts to insults to get his way. You give him a rough suck, eyes meeting his. “Fuck.” Rafe pulls out, yanking you up and bending you over the kitchen island. His body covering yours as he lines himself up, you're so wet that you aren’t worried about the pain. You were sure that he would fit, no preparation needed. “Told you I would bend you over and fuck the shit out of you.”

With that he slammed into you, moaning at the feeling of your walls stretching to accommodate his size. He halts when he’s ball deep, giving you a moment to gather yourself, only a moment. His thrust pushes you further into the island, sure enough to leave marks on your hip tomorrow morning. You don’t even care, he feels too good, the feeling of him stretching you is overwhelming. Whimpers keep leaving your mouth. Rafe grabs your arms, using them as leverage to fuck you harder as he keeps them pinned behind you back by one hand.

“Harder.” You moan out. Your body tingling from all the pleasure he’s giving you, your peak creeping around the corner embarrassingly fast. “Yeah? My little slut wants me to fuck her faster?” The degradation goes straight to your clit, walls fluttering around his length. He goes harder for a few minutes before pulling out, a whine of protest leaving you. “You don’t get to cum yet.” Rafe’s hot breath in your ear, his body heat leaving you too. 

He turns you around and hoists you onto the island, spreading your legs to step in between them. Left hand going to guide himself back into you, gliding across your fold to get you hip and bring you closer to the edge. In this angle he hits you deep, pushing against your cervix with each thrust.

Wrapping a hand around your neck, he squeezes lightly just enough to have your mind all fuzzy. You roll your eyes back grasping onto his bicep, manicured nails digging into his flesh leaving crest shaped marks. Rafe hisses at the sensation enjoying the flash of pain radiating in his arm. He starts fucking you hard, pounding into you having his dick spear into your g-spot. His unoccupied hand takes hold of your hair, pulling you till your foreheads are pressed together. His watch digging into the back of your neck, chested firmly pressed to each other, sharing each breath.

 “Squeezing my dick so fucking good baby. Can you hear how bad your pussy needs it?” Rafe moans out. You can, you’re so wet that every time he fucks into you squelching fills the room. You open your mouth but a particular thrust makes you moan instead. The hand in your hair retracts, your head leaning back slightly, it comes down on your cheek. It wasn’t hard enough to really hurt but enough to have pain heat your face. You moan liking the feeling of the smack, mostly just enjoying the fact that he lost himself to the point of causing a bit of pain. 

“You like me hitting you baby?” When you moan he smacks you again, annoyed that you won’t speak. “Use your words.” Rafe’s hand cupping your jaw staring at your fucked out expression, the hand around your neck tightens as his pace increases. You’re wetness mixing with his pre-cum leaking out of you, making a mess between you two. “I like it sir.” It comes out more like a breath but it counts. “My good little girl. You gonna cum for me? Hmm cum for daddy.” The new nickname was the nail in the coffin, the tightness in your belly finally snapping.

 This feeling was a new thought. It was so intense and it didn’t feel like an orgasim that you’ve had before. Your walls squeeze rage so tight that it pushes him out of you, your release gushing out getting everything wet. “Did you just fucking squirt?” Rafe pushes his dick back in, fucking you harder than before. “Such a dirty fucking slut, squirting and getting everything wet.” Moans keep getting pulled from you, pouring out into his mouth as he sloppily kisses you. “Oh fu-fuck… I’m gonna cum. Where do you want it.” “Inside please.” 

If telling him to cum inside you didn’t make him cum, it was the please that did it. Rafe ruts into you, hips stuttering as he fills you with each squirt of him cum. The warm feeling making you moan and flutter against him. He rides out both of your highs, hips finally stopping when they met yours, keeping you plugged. He want to stay there, wants to just feel you, wrapping his arms around your body. He’s enjoying knowing you are stuffed full of him, that his cum is so deep that it's forced out around him. Pulling out slowly you both hiss, you at the feeling of him spilling from you, and him as he’s fixated watching it come out. 

Kissing you for a moment, Rafe pulls away walking to the sink, wetting a rag before going back to clean you up. The touch is so gentle that it barely hurts. He helps you put your clothes back on dragging the both of you over to the living room. He throws himself down on the couch taking you along with him, pulling you closer . “What happened last night.” You hand playing with his shirt stops. “Huh?” Moving your head to his shoulder you look him in the eyes. “You were crying last night. What happened?” 

“Oh” Trying to shift away from him, being blocked by his arms tightening keeping you in place. “It was just some fight with my parents. It’s nothing.” “It is something, it made you cry.” You wish he would stop trying to pry, it’s not as if he cares. Honestly you expected him to flee once your clothes were back on. Pulling you to the couch was unexpected but asking you to talk about your parents was too much. Too personal. The lines of friendship and having feelings are already getting muddled as it is, this would just push it further. 

“Hey.” It’s soft, lips brushing my forehead before he places a kiss there. “You said we have to communicate, right? Talk to me.” With a sigh you tell him everything. How since you were barely able to work you gave them all your money last night. “They expected me to just hand over 4,000 dollars like it’s nothing. Then when I finally put my foot down I’m a disappointment. Nothing I do anymore is right.” Rafe’s hand rubs your arms trying to soothe you. 

“You aren’t a disappointment. If they can’t handle the fact you have your own life then fuck them.” You slap his chest lightly. “I’m serious. You’ve done more than enough for them, if they can’t see that then it’s their loss." A moment of silence, his words soaking in as you both lay there. “Thank you. I” You don’t know what else to say, fingers tracing shapes along his chest. 

“I know what you’re feeling. My dad um he always lets me know how much of a fuck up I am. I know what it’s like to be a disappointment, you don’t even come close.” The confession felt foreign on his tongue. Rafe never opened up to anyone about his feelings, anytime he tried he was met with a “man up” or “this is how a man handles things”, he’s scared of what you will say. He feels you slip from his arms, closing his eyes not wanting to see you leave him alone, trying to calm the burning behind his eyelids. 

“I don’t think you’re a failure.” Blue eye’s open to meet yours, there’s a hint of vulnerability from what you can see. You lean down pecking his lips, pulling away to get a better look of him. “You’re more than what he sees. It’s a shame he doesn’t take the time to notice.” It was your turn to leave him without words. He’s searching your eyes, your face, for any sign that you were lying. That you were pitying him after he devolved a hidden secret. He knows you’ve heard his Dad yell at him but this is different. 

He can put on a mask after talking to Ward when he has to see you. This time he tore the mask off, wanting you to see him without the facade. “I don’t think that about you.” “Huh?” You respond with confusion filling your face. “I don’t think that you’re trash. You are probably the best thing to come out of Outer Banks.” He’s not lying or at least you don’t think he is. The look in his eyes tells you that he actually means it so you smile down at him. “The best thing huh.” You tease. “Don’t push it.”

[mochees]

— two tortured souls

dazai osamu x chuuya nakahara | wc: 3k | crossposted to ao3

TAGS: drabble, angst, depression, post-corruption ability use, soft/comfort, generally low mental health mentions, chuuya has a BATH, use of petnames for teasing.

A/N: hihi!!! long time no write!!! remember when i dropped the most depraved, disgusting, self indulgent eremin fic ever and then dropped off the face of the earth with empty promises? me neither, moving on! anyway. been wanting to get back into writing lately but yknow..... the undergrad life........ but i find myself with too much time now that the semester is over so have a drabble thing i wrote a year ago and then just never posted lmfao. it was supposed to be longer but i just couldn't get the ending right so i left it kind of open i guess? anyway skk is real to me

Willingly sacrificing your autonomy is so much more than physically exhausting. Corruption leaves Chuuya feeling truly empty and insignificant. It makes him feel as though he really is just a vessel for something else. An empty, fleshy shell that doesn’t even belong to him. Unlike the physical exhaustion, however, the feeling lingers. It hangs around like a morning fog, obscuring everything as far as he can see. It’s disorienting and restrictive. Most of all, it’s loud. The voices that dwell in the fog are so loud, much louder than anything Chuuya has ever heard, and they echo. They echo, bouncing off of each other and amplifying every emotion, every word, every moment of despair.

Chuuya can’t remember how many days have passed since he used corruption. At least two, maybe even three. The fog is so thick that days eventually just blur together, and time turns into molasses. Resigning himself to a night or two in darkness, he tucks his knees against his chest and covers his ears with his arms, attempting to block out as much of the noise as possible. 

But you can’t silence your own guilt. 

It was pitch black in the house by the time Dazai arrived, which was unusual, but he figured that Chuuya was either tucked in and fast asleep already or strewn across some surface with a movie.

“Chuuya ~,” he sang. “I’m back ~!” Concern grew on Dazai’s face when the routine groan of usually completely false annoyance didn’t sound. He counted all the hats in the closet as he tucked his own clothing away and muttered to no one in particular, “he’s definitely here…”

The detective took a few steps before he sounded again, “Chuuya? Where are you?” The absence of an answer worried him further. No matter how tired, angry, or drunk Chuuya was, he always made a point of greeting his partner as unenthusiastically as he could.

Dazai made his way through the house, checking a few rooms before he found Chuuya. Scrunched up in the far corner of the bedroom, his faint form was desperately trying to be swallowed by darkness. Even for someone who consistently allowed themselves to actually be swallowed by the darkness, seeing Chuuya in such distress and anguish was deeply unsettling for Dazai. Chuuya always surrounded himself with people, and for him to look so alone–

Dazai shook off his thoughts and made his way over to the man, crouching low a few feet away.

“…uuya? Chuuya?” When he didn’t respond, Dazai raised his volume a fraction.

“Are you alright?” Chuuya jumped a little, unaware that someone had crossed into his world of anguish.

Dazai chuckled. He couldn’t help but find it a little humourous; it’s not often he was able to get the jump on him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“Dazai?” Chuuya’s voice was hoarse and distant, and Dazai immediately steeled himself.

“Are you– what happened?”

The executive didn’t answer. He just stared—not through Dazai or at anything; he just looked ahead with no purpose. Chuuya could hear something but could not decipher the sounds for the life of him. He only realized they were words when he noticed Dazai’s mouth moving.

There was nothing about Chuuya's demeanour that told Dazai he was conscious. But he also wasn't unconscious. God knows Dazai is all too familiar with Chuuya's unconscious mind, and this wasn't it. There was no light in his eyes, but they weren't lifeless. It was as if Chuuya had trapped himself in his own body, caught between two states of being. He didn't know if Chuuya could even process what he was saying in this state, but he also didn't want to stop. Perhaps Dazai believed in a silly idea that the sound waves might reach him, that they would guide him through whatever limbo he was in. 

Once he finished, Dazai rose from his place on the floor and made his way to the bedroom door. Chuuya could see him leaving, but he couldn’t hear his footsteps. All he could focus on was the voices getting louder again, and the second that Dazai was out that door they started to echo again. Unwilling to fight them, Chuuya lowered his head back down and let the pressure build in his chest and ache his muscles.

Physically, the pain was no different from a hard day's work, but emotionally, it was excruciating. Every breath was hell. Each inhale wound a cord up tightly, but breathing out did nothing to release it. All of the fibres in Chuuya's body felt like they would snap and finally grant him a moment's release, maybe even exhaust him enough to sleep, but they didn't. Instead, they grew tighter and tighter, digging into every strand until it inevitably cut him into a million little pieces.

When Dazai returned, he was greeted with a sight more devastating than before. Tension was emanating from Chuuya like heat from a grill, and he looked positively hopeless.

“Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice was uncharacteristically soft—unfitting, really—but he hoped it might help Chuuya focus. “Will you come with me?” He waited a few moments, giving the redhead extra time to process.

To Chuuya, the sounds outside his head would die before they could fully reach him. The echo was good at drowning everything out like that. 

But luckily, Dazai always did have a talent for evading death.

“You don’t have to do anything, I promise. I’ll–” He hesitated. How can you promise to take care of someone else when you’ve never been able to care for yourself?

“–I’ll help you. Please, Chuuya. If you stay here, it’s not going to get any better.”

Chuuya Nakahara knows that he is right. Of anyone, Osamu Dazai would know, wouldn’t he? It takes him a little while, but with a few shaky breaths and silent tears, he lifts his head and places his hand in the one outstretched before him. This won't fix him, but he has to admit that when Dazai rubs his thumb along his skin, it releases some of the tension in his shoulders. Dazai leans forward and slowly reaches for Chuuya’s other hand, stiff from how tight he was grasping onto his other arm.

“Okay, up we go.” Wasting no time to get Chuuya out of the isolation he'd built for himself, Dazai does his best to support as much of his weight as he can while holding his hands. He doesn’t know how long Chuuya had been sitting there, but he reckons his legs have probably gone numb. As if on cue, Chuuya almost falls right back down before Dazai has a hand on his waist.

“Careful.”

Chuuya's eyes are red and puffy, and his agony has left trails down his cheeks. Chuuya has always been beautiful to Dazai, stealing heartfelt glances when the former isn't looking. But seeing him like this is, in a way, even more breathtaking to Dazai. It means that after all these years of being so sick of each other's mere existence that Chuuya, his rival, his partner, trusts Dazai enough to shatter before him completely. Bringing Chuuya's hand up to his mouth, he lets his lips linger for a few moments as they wait for Chuuya's legs to regain feeling.

Once Chuuya is stable, he lets go of the shorter man’s waist and leads him with one hand, still petting his thumb across the freezing expanse of his hand.

Chuuya doesn’t know what his partner has been doing, or maybe he does. He can’t remember right now; he doesn’t want to. Wherever Dazai is taking him, it takes no longer than twenty seconds, but he feels like a stranger in his own home, wading through the thickest pool of molasses. He can see a straight hallway ahead of him, but it seems like an endless maze of twists and turns. One foot in front of the other, he tries to tell himself, but it’s hard to tell your feet what to do when you feel like a stranger in your own body to. He can feel his face growing wetter as they arrive at their destination. However, in a brief moment of relief, he realizes that they're not tears but steam.

For the time that he had disappeared past the threshold, Dazai had run Chuuya a hot bath and made him something simple to eat. Knowing all too well what feeling this way does to one’s motivation and desire. But honestly, the last thing Chuuya wants to do right now is to bathe. It’s far too much work, and he’d rather be back in the dark in the corner or under a blanket. Even if it meant he’d be alone with his stupid fucking thoughts.

“I know it seems like a chore, but it will help, Chuuya.” Dazai’s familiarity with the muddied waters of one’s own psyche was currently vastly irritating. Chuuya knows that he’s right. He does, but even then, it’s still too much for him to handle right now.

Dazai takes Chuuya’s other hand back in his own. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I– I don’t know.” His voice sounded better to Dazai, the steam probably settling in his throat.

“It’s okay not to know, but I can’t stay here with you if you don’t know.”

Chuuya snaps his head a little at that, shooting his partner an exhausted expression. Dazai gives a slight smile at the motion and gives the others' hands, still in his own, a reassuring squeeze. Perhaps it’s a little morally wrong given the circumstances, but he thinks that he could have a little, tiny bit of fun with this.

“Would you like my help?” He asks again, and Chuuya nods his head before practically collapsing into his arms.

Oh, it is absolutely morally wrong, but he can’t help himself, so he softly teases the man. “Such a gentleman! Flirting with me before we spend the night in each other's company!”

That earns a tired groan from Chuuya who is not willing to put up with Dazai’s usual jeering, but also not unexpected of the brunette to choose the completely wrong time to make his jokes.

“I’m sorry, my darling.” He uses the pet name, knowing he’ll be able to get away with it tonight since Chuuya is too tired to fight him. He runs his fingers through red strands, waiting for Chuuya’s breathing to even out in his hold before moving his hands down to the hem of his shirt. Deft fingers slip underneath and rub small circles into the skin there.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Upon receiving a satisfied hum of approval, he lifts Chuuya’s shirt over his head and drops it onto the counter. Staying out of your head is hard when you’re alone. Knowing Chuuya has already surmised his partners' intentions of distracting him, gently, Dazai pulls him back into his chest and runs his nails down his back. Chuuya’s skin was already freezing before, so he can’t tell if his goosebumps are from chills, or from him. He hopes it’s the latter. After a few seconds, his movements shift into steady pressure trying to work out the tension that Chuuya had cultivated. When he feels Chuuya fall further into him, Dazai is pleased with his work already.

“Chuuya,” he presses harder when he finds a particularly knotty spot at the base of Chuuya’s neck. “Unless you want to get in with your pants on, you’ll have to take them off.”

This earns Dazai a particularly unimpressed look when Chuuya pushes off his chest.

“What?”

Chuuya continues to stare.

“Did you want me to do it for you?”

Well, Chuuya supposes that Dazai can’t help the fact that he is an idiot. After all, he did promise to help. He rolls his eyes and lets out a particularly rumbly sigh, and drops his pants himself, kicking them to the side.

“So forward of you~” teases Dazai.

Turning towards the tub, Chuuya grumbles. “I hate you.”

Dazai grins again. Even if he still feels worse than shit, he’s glad to see Chuuya with a little bit of his fire again. “I know you do. Here, let me help.”

Holding onto Chuuya’s forearm, Dazai helps him settle into the bath. Chuuya resumes his form from earlier in the night, but much more open. His arms are propped on top of his knees, hands hanging down, and fingers just dipping into the water. Dropping his head in between his shoulders as the heat surrounds his aching body, blue eyes fall shut. Then, he releases a deep breath he didn’t even realize he was holding in. Dazai has his arm across the edge of the tub, resting his head with eyes full of admiration. With Chuuya completely bare in front of him, he traces the flow of his body with his eyes. Stopping often to archive all the little things he loves. Soft red hair that he can't help but play with. Shoulders that he's cried on. The gentleness of his otherwise blood-soaked hands. Even the scars littered across his skin, Dazai loves. They look much better on Chuuya than on him. He reaches out and just barely grazes the sides of Chuuya’s fingers above the water.

“What are you so happy about?”

Dazai hums in response, and Chuuya blows a ripple on the water. They spend a while like this—still, just next to each other, the only sound being an occasional jittery breath.

Dazai interrupts the silence by dipping his fingers into the water and letting the droplets roll off onto Chuuya’s shoulder. 

“Feeling better?”

Chuuya wiggles his fingers in the water, trying to find an answer below the surface.  

“C’mere, and turn around.”

Chuuya turns his head, resting it along his arm and staring the man down.Dazai can read it in his eyes: For what. 

“You’re still tense. So come here.” He presses his finger on the edge of the tub. “I didn’t get to finish getting all the knots out.”

Dazai is not as good at hiding his intentions from Chuuya as he thinks he can be. “You just want to play with my hair.” 

Dazai knows this. He feigns being insulted anyway, throwing his hands into the air. “And so what if I do? Is that a crime? Is it wrong of me to want t–”

“You’re real insufferable, y’know.” Chuuya turns his back to the side of the bathtub.

Dazai smiles sweetly. He likes that so much of their relationship can be left unsaid. Sure, sometimes it probably shouldn’t be unsaid, but it’s fine. Dazai is happy. “It’s why we work so well together.” 

He gets to work on dissipating the rest of the fear and anger in Chuuya’s bones, occasionally and very intentionally, getting sidetracked and twirling a lock of hair around his fingers. At the mercy of Dazai's frighteningly deft hands, a particular spot just above Chuuya's shoulder blade earns Dazai a groan—one he oh so graciously accepts. Working lithe fingers around it, Chuuya leans his head back onto Dazai as the little ball of stress is pulled apart, strand by strand. 

Chuuya's neck is deliciously bared, and Dazai is an opportunistic man. He trails kisses up to just below red lashes, slow and endearing. He continues massaging throughout, placing a final one on fluttering eyes before dragging his lips back down to Chuuya’s ear. 

“The water’s getting cool, my love. You should really get out soon.” Dazai is very pleased with himself when Chuuya shudders.   (He is an opportunistic man, after all, and it truly is such a wonderful opportunity to be the most annoying man on the planet.) He lets his mouth fall down to Chuuya’s shoulder, resting for a moment and trying very hard to hold back the biggest, dopiest grin. Of course, Chuuya can tell. He can sense the smallest shifts in Dazai's behaviour. Although, this time he could tell by just feeling Dazai's facial muscles straining against his shoulder. But Dazai doesn't need to know that. 

 "...Shut up. Get me a towel." Chuuya does a very bad job of hiding the blush on his cheeks. 

Dazai just smiles at his partner, he can't see, but it's a smile full of fondness. One with admiration, love, and as much as he'd rather die than admit it, respect too. Letting someone see you have a complete breakdown, watching as the industrial strength glue you've used to keep yourself from falling apart rapidly starts to degrade, and still trusting that they won't think any differently of or diminish you, takes so much courage. It takes so much trust to rely on someone, even someone you love, to help you set the pieces back together. 

That's something Dazai has never been able to do. He can't let go of that vulnerability, and he cannot have it used against him. Of course, deep down, Dazai knows that Chuuya would never do that to him, but it's hard to turn off those thoughts. It's hard to think of yourself as worth loving and caring for when you have never loved or cared for yourself. 

"Hey, are you okay?" The smile on Dazai's face is forlorn. Realizing that Chuuya is reading him like a book Dazai masterfully shifts his expression, changing the atmosphere around him. This is not about him, and he shouldn't be making it so. 

"I'm just peachy, Chibi!” Chuuya doesn't press any further.

Dazai wraps the towel around him, pulling at the ends to bring his partner closer. Taking a second to look over Chuuya, he notes that his eyes are no longer red and puffy, and his skin has a sheen from the moisture in the air. He truly is the most breathtaking person Dazai has ever had the displeasure of meeting. 

With Chuuya at his chest, he leans down and kisses the man. It's needy, in a way. Soft and tender, but full of so much want, so much need. Like if he couldn't be close to Chuuya anymore, he would simply explode. Dazai doesn't know how to express it though. How he would articulate these thoughts in a way that feels right, so he settles for something simple. Maybe it's not as meaningful, but he trusts that Chuuya understands anyway. 

[blkwag]

whether or not people have a reason to not like argentina, the fans are still going to be upset. whatever reason someone has (ex: they don’t like x player, the racism from their fans, the country’s history, etc.) it’s going to trigger their fans. whether someone just simply doesn’t like the team, that’s an issue too. and then the fans wonder why people don’t like the team or them (the fans) like you guys get triggered regardless

and then (on this hellsite), you jump into people’s inbox (anonymously btw) and write a thesis to someone who doesn’t like the team or the “dios” of the team. just leave people alone

[beesorcery]

hello it's part 3 of 3 for my cool fun graphic design adventure!! part 1 and part 2 got too long. to recap i am recreating this t-shirt design but with the magic 8 ball songs instead of city names:

here is the current draft, updated through 3/27 (pittsburgh) (!!!!)

[amatres]

I know you have to choose the option but the farewell conversation that sticks most in my head in the Gallows is with Carver where Hawke can say something along the lines of 'This is how we're supposed to be, side by side' and he tells them they know it can't be like that forever.

Like, my Hawke at least spent so much of her life building her identity in service of her family. Hawke most resembles their father no matter what, and the family is shaped around them narratively (if you're a mage or not deciding which sibling you lose first and how that class effects how those siblings feel about themselves and their place in the family) and they shape themselves around their family in turn, exist for them, takes up the role of leader after Malcolm has passed. The answers of where Hawke considers home when they're asked never felt right, because they lived on the run for so many of their formative years, the true answer feels like to me to be their home is their family, the place never mattered beyond being allowed to rest and not look over their shoulder every day.

What happens to that identity when everyone you built it around is gone? Where would they consider home when it's all said and done? The Amell estate was something they got for their mother, one of the answers they can give to Varric in Act 2 on what they plan to do now is watch over their mother, Carver tells Hawke to look after her when the expedition separates them. Then their mother is gone too.

There's no final statement for this since it's just me rambling, but it's hm, sad to think about. Who is Hawke if they aren't living for the sake of another, when all those they lived for are gone and they never felt at home anywhere but in the people they surrounded themselves with?

[serenedash]

so I wasn't expecting my khux gameplay post to blow up this much because normally I just shout my khux thoughts into the void and that's that, but it's been really amazing and heartwarming seeing everyone's personal experiences with khux, like I can't say enough how much I LOVE looking at everyone's additions and tags :)

I had tried writing a long post about some khux feelings but it just wasn't coming out right. this post isn't about the game this is about me sorry tl;dr I'm a very anxious person and I love to see other people just as excited about khux as I am because I feel better about how much I like it. which is A Lot

[maraeffect]

started watching hopecore right before bed and MAN. what a life it is we live on this earth.

[bloggirl8842]

My psych says I don’t like my mom or my ex because they make me vulnerable but I think it’s because they are/were both serial boundary violators. Well serial boundary violators sounds serious but I mean they are just good kind people who would not leave me alone when i ask(ed)

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[andthebubbles]

it’s so funny how i rewatch s1 anthony scenes and i don’t give a shit about him (unless i really try to keep in mind what we know about him and try to understand what’s going on behind the facade/beyond what the show dictates we should see because it’s definitely not from his pov) and then i watch s2, particularly from ep 3 onwards, and suddenly it’s like, !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! this is my dumbass idiot

[seenthisepisode]

(personal rant in the tags because i am stress and need to vent asgfhsdf)

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Sometimes I think about my life and I feel like I may just start crying tbh!!

[myname-isnia]

It's that "spend hours sobbing my eyes out in bed for several reasons, including but not limited to the fact tomorrow is Monday, the fact my social battery has been completely drained and won't recover anytime soon, the fact my landlady is due to show up tomorrow evening and will likely piss me off again, the fact I've had the urge to write since Friday and ended up not writing even a single fucking word, the fact exam pressure keeps rising and I still don't know what to do with my life after I'm done with school, and the fact I'm both completely overwhelmed and so terribly lonely at the same time" kind of Sunday evenings