#divwrites

[ceruleansol]

Just found there’s little to no written content for Suzume here, so I started another wip on a whim. This’ll probably be a mix of romance and angst.

a Souta x reader (snippet)

Plz rb if you enjoyed !

--

Eyes open, the air around you still feels ethereal.

It's gotten worse, your ability to tell the difference between your dreams and the waking world. The worst part of it is your keystone; the one thing keeping you tethered and grounded is missing.

Staring at the familiar ceiling not a couple feet above you, you reach out and touch it. The coolness of the surface tingles through your fingers. It sure feels real.

The sheets and blankets that cover you keep you wrapped in warmth as they do most mornings.

You release a sigh. Time to bite the bullet.

Reluctance and anticipation overwhelm your heart, but you bring yourself to turn your head to look past the edge of the elevated bed and over the rest of the rented flat.

There's no one.

“(Name)...”

There's no one... 

“(Name)...”

He left...? 

“(Name).”

Your eyes open, a sharp intake of air expanding your lungs. Blue eyes and a tousle of dark hair immediately greet you. His face is worried.

A pad from his finger swipes gently at your cheek, taking a tear you hadn't noticed away with it.

“Hey...” his voice is soft but laced with concern. You realize most of his body is on top of yours, providing a comforting weight. "Happy sunrise. You were in a deep sleep again. You okay..?"

“Souta?”

He smiles at that. “I'm here.”

[ceruleansol]

The sounds of routine spilling from the bathroom ease you into the late evening as you read. It starts the same way each night from where you lounge against the arm of the couch, book in hand that Vash had given you. There’s a stack of them on the side table, lying half-finished.

A soft smile makes its way to your lips, a warmness steadily filling you at the attentiveness behind your living space; the sketching set is splayed over the coffee table, recently gifted when you passingly said you wanted to take up drawing; your shelves of crystals are also nearly filled from Vash’s habit of dropping by the local crystal store on his way home from work to help add to your collection; and not to mention the myriad of books scattered throughout your shared apartment.

The way Vash loves has many colors, many levels, and many depths, and you’ve had the privilege of diving to his lows and soaring to his highs enough to see him through his gift-giving. Inside him is a desperate need for connection and presence even he isn’t fully aware of. It comes out in little ways, bleeds through his mask built up over the years from pain and having to be strong. That mask has had its place, become second nature, and lasted years into the relationship when it started platonically.

When the mask lowers, he’s touchy, needy, even greedy.

He insists it’s for you, the desire to spend time together and create the security and protection and comfort you’ve both longed for since the beginning.

After many late and stressful nights for you both, he’ll cook, clean, or do laundry without any prompt. But he'll also ask if you want to join him, even if it means you just sit and watch. Just watching only lasts so long until he gets you involved one way or another, however. You’ll end up dancing in the kitchen together, racing across the apartment with brooms, or being tackled into his arms for him to hold as he cooks at the stove, giving you a taste every now and then.

But you know better. You know Vash better. He’s a walking map to his heart if you pause long enough to listen between the moments. Vash gives what he needs to feel loved.

The sounds continue in the bathroom down the hall ahead of you, the light refracting sideways from the cracked door. And it's by such repetitive routine that each sound paints a clear picture in your mind of him methodically undoing his prosthesis and placing it onto the countertop, a relieved breath following before he tugs his shirt over his head.

The door then opens like it does every night where he steps out in only his pants and his fuzzy bunny slippers. And it's this sight of him that especially warms your heart; no one else gets to see him stripped with such openness. Only you get to hold the full weight of his trust and witness him in his entirety.

He leans himself against the hall’s doorframe, his eyes soft as he takes in the sight of you curled up with the book. "Hey," he says as soft as his gaze and raises his hand to get your attention, though he's never lost it. "Wanna shower with me?"

When all he gets is a growing smile on you, he grins and pushes himself past the doorframe.

You watch him in adoration of his lean stature, the marred skin across his chest that reaches his back, the angle of his broad shoulders, and the way he pads his fuzzy bunny slippers across the floor to you.

He stops when he reaches the couch between your legs and nudges his knee to yours.

You know it well, just as well as he knows you; Vash gives what he needs to receive, and you intend to make sure he always gets as much as he gives.

Your book then lies forgotten on the side table.

[ceruleansol]

Vash is out on the porch peeling apples while the sun is slowly dying.

The world is cast in orange, and the red falling from his hands is sweet this time and holds no guilt to carry forward.

Vash peels the fresh apple with a simple knife. It’s small and fits in his pocket for the next time.

When the ground is covered and the fruit is bare, the slices are halves of a whole before they break further to share.

[ceruleansol]

So I’m workin on a lil (Vash x reader) somethin….

Nsfw to come once I finish and make this a whole other post

—

The routine noises are comforting. It starts the same every evening from where you sit resting against the armrest of the couch, reading the book he bought for you that month. Over the course of your five-year-long relationship, you learned the various ways Vash expresses and needs to receive love.

One of the ways he gives love is by gift giving, in which he studies you in detail and makes sure he enables every one of your passions. Every month he either buys you a book based on your preferences or picked out by himself for you to try. If he sees a pretty rock on the ground or has time to stop by the local crystal shop, he brings you crystals to add to your ever-growing collection. By the time you've added another passion or hobby to your repertoire, he's already created another mental list of ideas of what to gift you.

The set of different sketching pencils will arrive in the mail next week—with the specifications that it is a gift, so the price isn't showing.

What is more notable, however, is his need for quality time and physical touch. He will insist it's for you. He is hellbent on serving you and making sure you're comfortable, secure, and protected. It is innate and in his nature. Many a late and stressful night for the both of you has he chosen, unprompted and without complaint, to do the cooking or the cleaning or the laundry. But he'll also ask in that soft and sweet voice if you want to join him. He needs to take care of you and have you with him, but you know the real reason.

The noises continue in the bathroom down the hall that stretches straight ahead of you, the light bleeding sideways out of the cracked door. And it's by such repetitive routine that each tell paints a clear picture in your mind of him methodically undoing his prosthetic and placing it onto the countertop, a relieved breath following suit before he begins to tug his shirt over his head.

The door then opens like it does every evening where he steps out with only his pants remaining. It is this sight of him in particular that especially warms your heart and increases your fondness for your lover. No one else gets to see him in such a vulnerable state. Only you get to hold the weight of his trust and witness him and all his scars.

His eyes soften when he sees you with the book and he smiles. "Hey," he says as soft as his gaze and raises a hand to get your attention, though he's never lost it. "Wanna shower with me?"

He's met with only a growing smile on you at the familiar question, and so he pushes himself past the doorframe.

You watch him in adoration of his lean stature, the marred skin across his chest that reaches his back, the angle of his shoulders, and the gentle yet playful manner in which he steps toward you.

When he stops, his shins are against the couch between your legs, and he grins down at you. He nudges your leg with his to coax you out of the stupor he's surely noticed you in.

Blinking back into reality, you're met with the realization of how your head reaches the height of his abdomen when you sit down like this.

You know it well, just as well as he knows you; Vash gives what he needs to receive, and you intend to make sure he always gets as much as he gives.

[ceruleansol]

tw implied suicide

Ever since Malek was six, Micah had carried him in his arms.

From not having parents to carry him anymore to the paralysis that crept up his legs as the years trickled by, Micah had always held his arms open for his brother.

On nights such as this, he would find Malek at the foot of his bed when the pain became too much.

The words have been muttered to him before.

I just want to stop, Mi.

And Micah knew he was on borrowed time. It was a long shot to mix apothecary practices with alchemy and hope for a miracle cure. But he knew he could do it. He just needed time.

From the foot of his bed, Micah reached and pulled his brother up to lay on his chest. Malek was never one to suffer alone.

"I love you, Mi…"

The soft patter of his heart on his chest began to slow, and Micah felt his world start to collapse in slow motion.

The pattering trickled into a ticking which tumbled into a stutter which fumbled to a gentle stop.

Micah could do nothing but hold him and witness his brother set himself free.

[ceruleansol]

He warned me: it is a far fall from high hopes

And I said to him: then call me Icarus, for I am far too fond of the sun to fear the fall

[ceruleansol]

O empty blog that dwells with zero rbs, you have read my snippet, liked my wip from a year ago. this app that we have long called our own, it does not run on likes alone. I claim them no longer. I return them to you—

no but srsly I’m glad you enjoyed it enough to like it but c’mon man (gn) I’m the only one who’s rb my suzume wip

[ceruleansol]

The small flame beside the bed dances across them both, bathing them in soft flickers and shadows.

With the solid weight of Micha underneath him, his arms secure around his waist, Daiven finds himself on the brink of falling apart. He lets his head fall on his chest instead.

“I don’t know…” he brings himself to speak despite the sting in his heart, of the result, of the stretch, “if my heart is big enough for more than one person…”

And he feels the weight of his words join his head as he hides his face, pressing his forehead to his heart where if he was on his knees he’d be prostrated in seeking forgiveness.

For a man who’s been given so much more than he’s asked for… to not be able to accept it—

The touch of Micha’s hand rests and caresses through the hair on the back of Daiven’s neck, stroking his thumb at the end of it. “It’s okay.”

Daiven’s heart wells up in his throat, and he can’t stop it this time. The tears fall, and his chest can’t contain the air in his lungs trying to cave in as he begins to wretch his misery. As if he’s the one in more pain here.

Despite everything, Micha loves.

When Daiven pushes himself up to finally look at him, the steady warmth hasn’t changed and breaks him further. The tears keep falling onto Micha’s chest, and it occurs to Daiven in that moment that maybe he’s truly broken to not be able to hold his capacity.

And Micha lies there underneath, looking up at him with such knowing and acceptance, yet his body still runs hot with a heart spilling over, like a volcano that can’t predict where it ends up.

Melting in his grasp, Daiven brings himself to fall one more time and brings his lips to Micha’s forehead.

[ceruleansol]

A clash of teeth is how your first kiss starts. Pressing deeper, frantic, Oushi grabs your head to further bury himself in you.

The back of your head hits the wall as he does, and when you wince into his open mouth, his hand quickly squeezes in between to soften the surface in apology.

[ceruleansol]

It's with a fist to the face that Daiven meets Bryn.

In order to get the intel they want, Daiven has to win it in the ring against Bryn. This young woman is a towering wall of muscle who appears to do this to blow off steam.

The match starts off fairly smooth, and with Niph's power coursing through his veins and heightening his senses, Daiven believes he has a good chance of winning this.

That is until he takes a hit square to the face.

He staggers back against the ring ropes and is given no time to adjust to the sting before the next swift punch is thrown. He dodges one, takes another, and takes a knee to the gut when she pulls his body into it.

It takes a couple seconds for the air to return to his lungs, and he's thankful for the brief reprieve when Bryn steps back for him to absorb the turn of events.

She remains light on her feet, shifting from foot to foot.

He can't help but feel like a toy with the way she watches him.

"C'mon, tough guy, show me what you're hiding."

That kind of stung since he did try…

He doesn't want this to be unfair by any means, but he guesses it's better than becoming a mop.

The second he gets back onto his feet, Bryn lunges--

[fighting continues bc I'm too lazy to think this through rn]

The longer the fight continues, the more Bryn can tell something is off. On the other hand, Daiven is getting his ass kicked. Even with heightened senses, agility, and stamina, it's not about what you have but how you use it. And Bryn is far more experienced in the ring.

Overwhelmed and backed into a corner, Daiven is turned into prey.

As if in slow motion, Bryn spins to deliver a kick that lifts her off the ground.

Driven by fear, Daiven syncs to Niph, quickly manifesting ice to shield himself from the attack.

But it's all for naught, for this just pisses off Bryn more than it surprises her, and she kicks through the ice like it's nothing. Within the second she lands, she spins to deliver a hook kick that takes Daiven to the ground.

His vision blurs in and out and red begins to drip onto the canvas. He realizes it's coming from his nose. Hands grab him by the shirt and lift him back to his feet.

"Outside help is foul play." Bryn hisses and kicks his stomach to shove him back against the ring ropes. She stalks forward but stops at the sight of him coughing up blood.

"Stop!" Lupe shouts from the crowd, rushing between people to get to their side of the ring. "Stop it!"

[ceruleansol]

"O, wretched Star! The tree of your spine shall split in two and grow beyond the reach of your grave. Beget death from life to see how far the flames will lick the underside of your hubris. Heed these words and drown in the echoes. The flesh and blood bound by your wickedness shall fell you, and the death you wield will blaze the path of your end."

[ceruleansol]

warning: descriptions of impalement

And what if Niph pulled Daiven off of that branch? What if, at that moment, Daiven was consciously aware in his painful agony that something grabbed him?

And it started pulling him. The branch lodged between his ribs dragged back through his insides inch by slow inch. It's worse than when he fell. Did he deserve this?

The wet gasp of air he took once free caught in his throat as he sputtered, wallowing up blood. His body was light until it wasn't, the ground pressing up against his feet an unwelcomed sensation. Daiven stood.

A dead man walked into that oceanic kingdom. Somehow, he found the grit to meander through the entryway. If there was a pathway to hell, he thought this might just be it. That was until he heard the scuffle of bodies and fists.

"Pathetic. Does your daddy know you sneak around with men?"

He heard the voices.

"It's not what you think—"

The sound of fists hitting flesh reached his ears before the sight of them. And when his blurred vision took in the three young guys surrounding another, a rush of heat filled his chest. All he could see was red.

The next moment, the three laid unconscious on the floor, and the one spoke to him.

"Ah, thank you—! Hey—hey! You're losing blood!"

The weakest scoff passed Daiven's lips. "It's not lost, I know exactly where it is—"

His world went black. Finally.

[ceruleansol]

The burn in the man’s knees against the gravel bit against the flurrying snow soaking into his long sleeve shirt. The jacket he had on had been dumped on the way here, though “here” could be anywhere, but his guess was right where he meant to be.

“Please…”

It was all he could say now, eyes blinded, busted lip and bruised limbs trembling not only from the skyfall. And still he was ignored, but he could feel them, sense them crowding around him. The faintest whispers carried on the nightly breeze. And then the click of a gun echoed.

“Please!”

“You found us. Is this not what you wanted?”

[ceruleansol]

Scribbled notes to rewrite my rockman zero wip

[ceruleansol]

Starting off the Icarus Iteration and trying not to slip into perfectionism mode

Still deciding on his name too… Luminisce, Luminesce, or Lumin/Luminis

[ceruleansol]

Wip