#because I'm not very familiar with staining hardwood

[neverendingford]

hardwood comb project

I forgor to buy a lighter colored wood for the spine/core so I can't keep working on it tonight cause all I've got is the walnut.

[soukokuwu]

! urgent! Hello Rachel Can I request just an comfort cuddling in bed scenario with Dazai? I'm so done with everything at the moment Everything is too much, the work , the school I'm so stressed out. My best friend (TW self-harm & suicidal thoughts/attempt?) told me she cut her self again and swallowed like 15 tablets..... I wouldn't say that it triggers me anymore but I'm feeling so bad because I don't know how to help her. 😔

THE PERFECT ESCAPE.      genre. fluff, just pure fluff      synopsis. he strives to be everything you give to him.      word count. 1.4k      author notes. hi! i’m so sorry to hear that, i really hope that on your side that you can find comfort in this. my fluff isn’t too good but i do hope it makes you feel at least a little better. and i know the overwhelming feeling all too well, if you ever need to vent/talk my dms are open okay, anony? <3

favourite book in one hand with the other twirling in his own brown locks, he hums a tune he’s made up in his head while his eyes gloss over the page he’s flipped to. it’s a book he’s read countless times and he already has the whole thing memorised by now.

still, he’s addicted.

one other thing he’s addicted to?

your love.

it’s been on the back of his head for a while now — what makes him so attracted to you? it’s different with you. how is it that someone like you, who’s so simple to understand, so, in lack of better vocabulary, ‘layman’, manages to pique his interest? he thinks of it all the time. everyone is normal in his mind, with the exception of ability users, of course, but then, why is it that only you manage to retain his interest?

more often than not, you’re the only thing that remains a constant in his mind, occupying a permanent spot in every thought that crosses it.

it had taken a while, but how is it that you’ve managed to stop making him question how much he deserves every ounce of happiness you’ve bestowed upon him? sure, people might find dazai osamu a remarkable man, one they’d both fear yet crave as an ally. but the man in question finds you absolutely exceptional.

when he thinks of you he thinks of jovial footsteps skipping across the hardwood floors of your shared apartment. he thinks of cotton candy smiles accompanied with contagious laughter. he thinks of bright, alluring eyes brimming with determination. he associates you with the sun in winter, and how good the warmth feels against his skin. he associates you with the calm after the storm, the reward for every hardship he’s been put through.

which is why the moment he hears the keys jingling outside the door, his eyes shoot up, staring up ahead at nothing in particular; at the random dust motes floating through the air. something is off about the way you unlock the door. it’s you; there’s no question about it, he can hear the familiar click-clack of your heels as they uncharacteristically trudge in, any of their usual mirth missing.

and when he watches you pass through the bedroom doors, flinging your purse harshly against the dresser, he knows he’s right. something’s happened with you — he can usually tell at one glance what it is, but today the possibilities find themselves all jumbled up in his mind, like information overload.

oh, that must be it, isn’t it?

your habits are usually followed through each day, but not today. today you don’t even make an effort to get a change of clothes first before heading for the bed (where dazai’s usually already waiting before you get home). so now, dazai doesn’t let you slump down onto the bed. he catches you before you hit the mattress, allowing your head to find purchase on the comfort of his chest.

just like a switch, instead of overflowing determination, tears start spilling from your eyes, dissolving into the cotton of dazai’s plain white shirt; the one you got him as a moving-in-together present. he had felt bad about not getting you anything (he didn’t even think it was a custom to, which you agreed, but you had just felt like you wanted to give him something). it’s very soft and comfortable, which is why he wears it almost everyday.

soft and comfortable — just like you.

now he wants to be that for you. to be the warmth that you envelop and let yourself go in. the safety amongst unknowns and the shelter from the storms. it’s hard considering he’s typically known for being the exact opposite — the one who stirs trouble instead of soothing anyone from it. but for you he tries, because you’re the only one alive capable of making him want to bring out the good in himself.

but he knows better than to ask you about it, he knows it’ll just make you even more frustrated. besides, he’s smart enough to realise the ‘information overload’ he felt earlier is the catalyst for your mood. dazai always knows, and in this moment it is no exception. he can hear from your suppressed sniffles and the subtle clenching of your jaw that you’re trying to hold it in, trying not to cry so much. now this, he doesn’t understand why. do you not feel comfortable around him to let yourself go?

“cry as much as you need to, belladonna, i’ll be here for you, all the way.”

you’re receptive to it, as he can tell by the way you clutch on to his shirt tightly, your nails bound to leave crescent-shaped indentations on your palms. you continue to pour your emotions out through your eyes, with dazai patiently waiting, one arm round your back and the other pulling locks of your hair away from your face.

he never once thought that he would ever associate tear-stained cheeks and humid heat with perfect, but that’s what he thinks now. but no, that’s inaccurate. he thinks the crab dishes you make and the way the sun hits your face is also second to none.

“hey,” dazai calls out your name, planting a kiss upon your eyelids before flashing you a confident grin, “whatever it is, i know you’ve got this, okay?”

in comes your self-deprecating laugh, a sign of your inherent doubt in your own abilities, or rather, the lack thereof. “i just feel like i’m screwing everything up and that everything’s just piling one on top of the other and…”

dazai lets you ramble on, lets you get that weight off your chest. doesn’t interrupt you with pointless, empty sugar-coated consolations. instead he makes sure you tell him of every single thing that’s bothering you now (of your own volition, because he never forces you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with). and when you finally fall silent save for the sound of your heavy breathing, he knows that there is something that’s still stuck in the back of your head. something that surpasses the average problems that school and work proposes.

but he doesn’t press. instead, you find him baring his soul. a different kind of comfort, the most effective one in your book, and it’s still comfort all the same.

“i think, despite everything i’ve been through,” he lets his digits caress down from your temple to your chin, curving his index finger and tilting you upwards so he can look into your eyes as he tries to tell you of something important, “you’re one of the strongest people i’ve ever met.”

your mouth is slightly agape, as though you wanted to say something but you decide against it midway. dazai chuckles knowingly, “you know i’ll never say things i don’t mean, belladonna —” a peck on the lips, and he licks the saltiness away — “never to you.”

everyone can remind you of how strong you are, but none of them will ever carry the weight that dazai’s brings. with him you know he means it, you know he’s serious. because he never takes these things — or you, for that fact — lightly. and you can’t seem to think of how good you must have been in your life to deserve someone like him; someone who knows to be patient and makes you an exception although he’s not one to be known for doing so.

you feel special, wanted, significant.

and he doesn’t let up on it for the rest of the night. he leaves you for just a moment, so you take the chance to slip out into something more cosy. this means oversized sweaters and shorts. and you are pleasantly surprised when your boyfriend comes into the room armed with snacks and hot chocolate, which, in his head, represents a delectable heat to shelter through the storm.

he even has all your favourite movies and series lined up in a folder on your smart television, choosing one at random to start with while he lets you settle into his arms. all through the shows, he does subtle things like feed you a piece before feeding himself, and lightly squeezing your arm in a constant pattern (which you later learn on your own is morse for ‘i love you’). it’s in these little things that surprisingly touch you the most.

it’s in how he doesn’t — despite knowing many things — actually know how to be the least bit comforting yet he tries anyway, even to go so far as to act like he knows what he’s doing. it doesn’t escape your notice. you know that dazai osamu is many things; a suicidal maniac, a feared enemy, a questionable lover (to others but never to you). but one sure thing is, to you, he’s a perfect escape.

he’s perfect.

tags. @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes @smoochi-dazai @animatedarchives please ask me to be added/removed! <3

[ricaffeine]

𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐎𝐧𝐞

an: i'm sad because of hyunji drought and this is helping me cope :( but fr if tvn decides to make hotel blue moon then yeaji needs to be in it!!

also very annoying, i can't reply to comments bc this is a side blog (bruh wtf tumblr, i'm so sad should i make a new one?) reblog if you feel like it and my asks are open if you wanna chat 🖤✨

CHAPTER TWO

Weekdays at Seoul's National art gallery were usually the same. Buzzing curators dealing with hot-tempered clients. One thing or another was typically going not right and art directors cried about their wrong coffee order.

Although today was not the usual as to the crowds of bubbly news reporters and dazzled art critiques swarming up the wide place. As to Munyeong on the other hand, she was not pleased to the slightest.

"Just smile at the cameras, don't forget about the paycheck you're getting today." Sangin repeated himself for the fifth time. "Don't cause a scene, just think about the money."

Ah right. The paycheck.

As to The Nightmare Garden was bid off for over ten-million dollars, all of today's fanciness was dedicated to her, nation's celebrated female illustrator. However in all honesty, Munyeong barely liked her so-called masterpiece, but considering the amount of cash it will make her, she could be appreciative for the sake of it.

Behind her oversized sunglasses, Munyeong glared at her pesky manager– if looks could kill, he'd already be eleven feet under his grave. Sangin shut his mouth.

"Let's just get this over with," she simply responded, hooking off her eyewear then strutted into the hall with her long legs. Eyes whipped at her and cameras started to flash intensely, almost blinding her and Munyeong wondered how much those little pests could afford her if they got her blind.

And so the event played on. More pictures were taken– as if they hadn't blind her enough cheerful compliments flowed along with the spring breeze. The insincere joker smile she mastered whilst she met her million-dollar client– according to Sangin a hotel owner, though the woman did not have the looks for it– and the glass of filthy wine she almost had a chance to taste if Sangin's sixth sense was not so creepily fast.

Another dreadful two hours later as the dusk had set, hitting the edges with its golden flare, everyone had left. They got their articles and Munyeong will certainly be getting her pools of cash.

To her displease Sangin had informed her to wait as he had to take care of some paperworks she doubted he went to bribe the press into censoring her quoted inappropriate words. 

Nevertheless it was not her bother. She gave his plead a second before storming off to the complimentary section of the building.

Luck on her side, for nobody was there and she was able to grab one of the wine bottles with her– as for a fact it definitely was not stealing.

"Don't be shy, I know you want it."

Munyeong stopped within her steps as soon as an obnoxiously familiar voice echoed from the gallery she previously was in. Curiosity taking the lead, she peaked through the corner and had to muffle her own snort. Stood there, nation's art historian with the sharpest tongue– Choi Seojin.

She finds it hard to believe that his articles are highly known around, or even relevant, when his mouth is full of complete shit. However not disregarding the nastiest tea yet– a frightened girl seized under him. Her hands were locked, frightened eyes grew larger as the man spewed out nasty things.

Instantly, she took out her phone to film the disgraceful scene. Munyeong grinned to herself, reminiscing the rage she felt last time when he mentioned about her mother, and how her irritating manager had interrupted her before she could've sent him down the stairs to Satan.

The man reared into the poor girl's cheek when she attempted to fight him off, and Munyeong's smile dropped.

That piece of shit.

Munyeong entered the room, arms crossed, head high. Her wedge heels clicked against the hardwood as she let out an unamused wow.

Mad dog– what she personally thinks he should be called– 's head whipped at her with wide eyes. Like a child getting caught of lying.

"Oh my. Your hobbies are quite interesting Mr. Choi. Talking shit and sexual harassment?" Munyeong spat. "The girl looks like she'd rather kill herself, why are you even trying?"

As if he thought he could get away with what he just did, mad dog released his foul grip on the girl. Munyeong clicked her tongue and tauntingly held out her phone.

"Oh no, don't bother pretending. Judging by the looks, that won't even favor you at this point." She spared a glance at the quivering girl. "Why are you waiting? Go."

Shakingly and with thankful eyes she nodded and left, her footsteps filling void of silence before it coated the air again.

Mad dog snickered, as if there was something to laugh about. "Don't mess with me Ms. Ko. You know me, I won't die alone."

"Certainly I'll drag you and Mr. Lee down with me. Why do you think they call me the suicide bomb?"

Munyeong walked towards him and spreaded a smile, though even dogs could tell you shouldn't push her further. "You mean the bastard you can't fall down without dragging everyone else with him? Why?"

"I can destroy your career with the tip of my pen, I'm sure you know." He gave her a look, panning out his hand. "Now if you hand me your phone, I think we can compromise something."

Munyeong unraveled her arms, eyes hardening at his next sentence. "You think so?"

"Nation's beloved artist turned out to have antisocial personality disorder. What do you think will happen when people find out?" Mad dog sneered. "Her mother who mysteriously commited suicide–"

"Shut up." She warned. His words lit up the flame from their last encounter, adding fuel to her burning fire. Her head pounded, hard. For a moment she had hoped that if he proceeded as she said, then things would not have to get ugly.

"And her father? Spending his last days in the psychiatric hospital."

But men never listen, do they?

Munyeong tightened the hand around her bottle and striked it at him with full force. The bottom part crashed the wall behind him– just above the hung painting- glass shattered as rich burgundy stained its way down, smearing all over. Its taste fused with the air and Munyeong glowered at the creature who dodged her flawless aim.

"You crazy bitch!" He yelled, scrambled on the floor. But Mad dog was quick to lunge at her, they both hit the ground, stumbling as her open purse had been knocked away– and Munyeong's eyes landed on something very specific.

She was quicker, getting on her feet and spared the bastard a strong kick in the groin, leaving him groaning as she reached for her pen.

Her favorite calligraphy pen– its lining was stunning, coated in shiny teal with hints of gold, but most importantly, the dangerously sharp tip. The way it writes like reaping out blood from your hand– hence why it is a favorite.

She hawled back over and he screamed at her, though she didn't hear him. Her head was light as she felt blood rushed through her veins. Munyeong raised her arm and struck it back down.

Die.

Both of them froze. No, not her and mad dog, but him.

Deafening silence had lied between the walls and there they stood, eyes pierced into another's souls. Hers burned like fire, but his were dignified like the deep ocean.

Droplets of blood trickled down his forearm and splattered the floor, staining the rolled up sleeves of his crisp white shirt. What a waste.

"Let go. You can't kill him." The man– still with a bloody pen graved in his palm said.

Munyeong couldn't help but scoff, especially after that fucking bastard had just strangled her. "Don't be dramatic. I was just going to give him a few scratches."

Well maybe that's not entirely true.

Rough scrambling erupted underneath them, but when Munyeong turned to look, the mad dog had just ran off, like a lost puppy. Angrily she bit her lip, close to drawing blood until she felt the man draw his own hand back.

She watched as he did. The way he carefully slid her pen into his jacket and brought out a black silk handkerchief. Very rarely, she'd be astonished by something, and now it's him. Though she found it quite difficult to understand him– since when do you interrupt another's stabbing session by screwing up your own hand instead, and also the audacity to tell her she could not stab somebody?

So lost in her thoughts it took her a few seconds to realize her pulse was not pounding anymore.

"Did anyone not tell you that it is basic etiquette to not pry into someone else's business?" Munyeong said– seized the napkin from him, and began to tie a knot. She shot him a glance.

No reply. The man simply stared at her.

"Hmm?" She raised a brow, amused at his slight flinch when she tugged a little harder.

"Don't stress it too much, my manager will take care of our little incident." Munyeong chuckled as he proceeded to ignore her. "Do you know what? There are a lot of people in this world who deserve to die. And some very thoughtful freaks secretly take care of that, so clueless humans can sleep peacefully at night, completely unaware. Which one do you think I am?"

She dropped his hand, anticipating for his answer. Flares of light shined through the blinds, sharpening at his strong features and she noted his small– yet devilish smile.

"A clueless freak."

He finally responded, leaning towards her. His eyes traced her face, gazing down at her lips for a second too long, before their eyes were locked once again. "And of course you will have to pay, but at what price?"

taglist -> i could not tag some of ya'll :( @anotherdush @callmeashipper @ourcoffeeaddictme @nothingcreativeyet @pancat @hotstuff-benswolo @lookingatthesunset @evielovesfood @waywarm @gloster @hello-79 @ailander