#very old wip

[algortroj]

scary dog privilege

[narcoticv3nus]

A Kiss Left of You ♡ Simon "Ghost" Riley

summary: simon and you, introduced by mutual friends in the military, enjoy a heartfelt moment outside a bar. you engage in playful banter, and despite knowing you will soon part ways, you express genuine affection for each other. tags/trigger warnings: f!reader, sfw, reader is not from the uk, author attempts at accents, jealous!simon, doomed romance (maybe), drugs and alcohol consumption, soap makes an appearance, simon is bad at feelings, fluff, angst, bittersweet ending, ambiguous ending, self-indulgent, hints at reader being autistic wc: 3.7k

a/n: this is a very old wip. i may or may not make this into a series. anyway, this is just a short collection of drabbles between simon and you. any constructive criticism is highly encouraged. enjoy!

pt. 1 ･ pt. 2 ･ pt.3

Breathing deeply, Simon admires the evening scenery as the last rays of the Sun disappear beyond the horizon. Hues of orange once highlighted it, but now it has turned into a deep shade of blue. Exhaling, a puff of smoke escapes his lips as he taps the lingering ashes along the railing. He stands just outside a dingy bar, its label, "Velvet Verve," gleaming brightly, casting Simon underneath its neon purple glow.

The cool night air chills Simon's lungs as he pulls deeply on his cigarette. His dark brown eyes follow the specks of snowfall as they dance through the air. As the soft flakes of snow drift by, Simon remains still and unbothered; he can appreciate a good view, and the evening air offers him that chance. Taking deep breaths, he savors the wind's chill against his skin and the scent of the air, which has started to take on a crisp note.

It's fucking freezing. You think to yourself as you step outside, feeling tipsy as you shiver against the wind's icy gust. There are specks of snow twirling downwards just in front of you, teasing you and your distaste for the weather.

Looking to your left, you spot Simon leaning against the railing as he blows out puffs of gray smoke. His signature skull balaclava is pushed past his lips, resting on his crooked nose. He seems lost in thought, yet he somehow always remains alert.

The man was large, much larger than you by far. He was slightly shy from 6'3 with an even more impressive frame. His right forearm consisted of a sleeve of tattoos in swirling black ink. His voice was deep and smoky, yet he rarely raised his voice (or let alone speak). He didn't come off as shy; he just seemed to prefer his company to others—which you could relate to. He was very aloof and a bit socially unskilled in his blunt and impolite nature, but underneath it all, you could tell he was a good man. He has this element to him that no one seemed to be able to cross, like how he was now: secluded and lost in his mind. You wondered what he could be thinking of.

A familiar scent of perfume catches his attention, and upon realizing it's you, Simon flicks his cigarette over the railing and turns his attention to you. The slight smile on his features turns into a more visible grin when he notices your intoxicated state. Simon watches you shiver as chills make their way through your body, your breath forming in front of you as you glance up at him. With a slight smirk playing on his lips, he watches you momentarily before finally speaking up. "Aren't ya’ supposed t'be drinkin' inside, or did they cut ya’ off?"

Giggling, you made your way over to where he was standing, the heels of your boots clicking against the hard wooden tile. You could feel the effects of the alcohol warm your belly, leaving your brain fuzzy. Keeping a respectful distance, you stand before him, assessing him thoughtfully.

Simon was very different from many of the men you'd met, yet so stereotypical at the same time. He was mysterious, an intangible force of nature that had always piqued your curiosity. However, you never let yourself wander too close. Unlike many others, you weren't scared of the man. He was intimidating, sure, but never had you felt genuine fear in his presence. Maybe if you were one of his soldiers, or god forbid one of his enemies, you'd think differently. And yet, Simon never gave you any reason to fear him; if anything, it was safe to say you felt very protected under his watch.

You’d met under curious circumstances. Kyle Garrick, a buddy of yours, was stationed in northeast Britain while you were vacationing. After you had met at a bar to reminisce about your past, he introduced you to many of his army buddies. One of them was his Lieutenant, Simon Riley, who most of them referred to as "Ghost." He's always been some enigma, ever since the start. He always sported his typical skull balaclava, which you had yet to see him without, and only pulled up past his nose to take a swig of bourbon or smoke a cigarette.

"Just needed some air." You smiled, watching as your breath formed into wisps of condensation in the crisp, navy-blue sky.

Simon's lips curl into a smirk at the sound of your voice. "Careful there." He gently warns as you stumble, his voice still deep but with a hint of amusement. He reaches forward to steady you, only to stop just before he touches you. His eyes meet yours, and Simon feels the intensity of the moment.

"Thank you." You mumble, gazing up into his brown eyes, the top of his face hidden behind his mask.

"Aren't you cold?" You asks curiously, dipping your head to the side with a grin. Your voice had a hint of teasing mixed in with genuine concern.

Simon remains quiet for a moment before finally responding. "M’ fine." He answers coolly, turning his gaze back out into the evening sky. He leans over, the cool winter breeze brushing past his skin. His expression is genuine as he offers a gentle smile. "But you," he glances back over your shoulder at the bar, "maybe we ‘oughta get ya’ back inside."

"But it's so loud in there," you whine, leaning against the wood. "Need a minute."

The corner of Simon's lips curls up in a half-grin as he watches you. "I di'n't know ya’ can't handle yer alcohol." He murmurs, teasing once again.

"I can!" You protest with a giggle. "I'm just a bit tipsy."

"Jus’ a bit?" Simon echoes, chuckling softly to himself.

"Mmm…” you hum, half-acknowledging him. You close your eyes, embracing the moment as the cold nips at your nose. Out in the distance, a lamp post flickers off and on again, its warm yellow light blinking in contrast to the melancholic blue-and-white atmosphere.

Simon shakes his head internally, wondering when he allowed himself to babysit whining drunk girls stumbling out of bars.

He watches you for a long moment as your eyes flutter closed, and you lean forward further. His face takes on a slight hint of concern for a second before he returns to his usual expressionless state. His eyes follow the lamp pole, his thoughts drifting off somewhere far from here. The world seemed to come to a standstill as he watched a million different scenarios in his head. His mind wandered between thoughts of the both of you perched like two birds in the frigid air and going your separate ways like strangers passing each other in the night.

A sudden gust of wind sends the snow swirling around the two of you again, and Simon turns towards you. His eyes take in your appearance, noticing how the cold seems to dig its icy, unforgiving claws into you. He takes in every detail, from the slope of your nose to the slight quiver in your bottom lip. He takes note of the way you huddle yourself inside your coat.

"S'bit nippy, innit’?” He asks, his voice low and warm, a welcomed ironicity. He keeps his eyes on the drifting snowfall, allowing you to meet his gaze at your own pace.

"Haven't gotten used to it yet." You admit sheepishly, grinning up at him as you burrow yourself further into the warmth of your furry coat.

Simon can't help but raise an eyebrow at this. "I take it, it's warm where yer from?" He asks in a puzzled tone, and though he's trying to keep his voice neutral, his curiosity gets the better of him.

You nod animatedly, a small smile hidden underneath the jacket.

A small laugh escapes Simon as his mouth curves into a small smile. His tongue traces along the top row of his front teeth as he watches the small grin form beneath the fur of your coat. A silent moment passes between you before he finally speaks.

“Mus’ be nice.” He murmurs, his voice still maintaining an even tone despite his body language giving way to a more keen and interested one.

You shrug your shoulders with a heave, followed by a long sigh. "Until it was summer," you mumble dramatically. "unbearable."

"So, it's either too 'ot or too cold wit’ ya’.” He observes softly, and something about the fact that he's paying so much attention to this seemingly dull conversation baffles him.

You grin, opening your eyes to gaze up at him, eyes wide and glowing. "Pretty much," you murmur, your smile toothy.

The corners of his lips curl up into a smirk as his eyes follow your mouth for a moment before shifting back to your eyes again. The grin spreads across his face, almost like a blush, as he stares back at you. His expression lightens further as your eyes meet, and it is as if he feels something stir deep inside him when he looks at you.

You breathe a short laugh through your nose, taking in his expression. "I should probably get going soon.", you acknowledge, closing your heavy eyes for a moment longer than necessary.

"Aye, prob'ly." He murmurs, still grinning. Simon's thoughts return to a thousand scenarios as his eyes travel around you momentarily. There's no doubt that he feels something soft make its way inside him, something he hasn't felt in a while. He shifts his weight, his body leaning against the wooden railing as he turns his head toward the bar again, letting out a slow breath.

"Think you could give me a ride?" you ask, leaning into his personal space.

His expression shifts quickly, his heart racing at your playful suggestion. He clears his throat before glancing back at you, his face momentarily caught off guard by your closeness. His eyes meet yours, and he can't help but feel a tingling sensation throughout his body. It's almost as if his body is slowly reacting to yours, the chemistry of a connection.

"Aye, dun't see why not,” he murmurs, his tone shifting slightly more severe with his agreement.

"Thanks! You're the best." You shoot him a playful wink before turning back to look out towards the flickering lamppost, yet refuse to put the space back between you.

"Hmph..." Simon's voice comes out with a tinge of a teasing hilt, and he feels just the right amount of comfort with this closeness between you. Another gust of wind rushes by, sending snowflakes into the air again; he watches as they make a home on your head and shoulders.

"Come on, yer gonna freeze out here." He murmurs, not wanting to let you linger in the frigid cold much longer. He finally shifts his weight off the rail and paces towards the parking lot.

Reluctantly, you push yourself away from the rail to follow closely behind him. "I think I'm starting to get used to it now." You chirp from behind him, not even attempting to keep up.

“Us'd to what?” He forgets about your pointless conversation as he turns back, watching you and laughing softly at the image of your shorter legs struggling to keep up with his long strides.

“The cold,” you answer, humming to yourself. Your eyes stay closed as you stuff your hands into your coat pockets.

The parking lot is a short distance away, and Simon's steps slow as you approach his truck. He opens up the passenger side door for you, waving you over.

You giggle, strolling towards him with an attempt at grace. "Thank you, Lieutenant." you grin, saluting him with the wrong hand before clambering inside.

He shuts the door with an unimpressed shake of his head.

“You smoke?” Ghost asks, offering you the cigarette between his fingers.

“Not those cancer sticks.” You turn your nose up in disgust, not caring if you offended him. To your surprise, he shrugs before placing it between his lips.

He smirked as the cigarette hung from his mouth, not seeming to mind your aversion towards them. You’ve always been straightforward, preferring to precisely say what you’re feeling or thinking rather than hiding it behind politeness or social conventions. He knows that your tendency to be so direct can sometimes rub people the wrong way. But this is just one of the many things he finds refreshing about you. He leans back against the wall with a sigh and slightly glances at you before saying, “Does it botha’ y’ then?” He mumbles in between a drag.

You take a moment to consider his words before shaking your head. "No, not really. You're a grown man; you can do whatever you want." You shrug, appreciating how he turns his head away from you to blow the smoke from his nose.

"Mmhm..." he mutters, nodding in understanding but looking you over when you aren’t paying attention to him. Your relaxed attitude appeals to him, and he grows more comfortable around you.

He watches, his eyes drifting up and down your body as he takes in your appearance, his gaze landing on your exposed neck. It's a rather tempting sight, as the smooth skin of your throat is only made more attractive by how you lean forward while talking. He watches you intently as you form words with your mouth; your accent, which he used to find unusual, now strikes a chord within him—a voice he can only describe as heavenly.

"Ghost?" You ask, turning to look up at him. Confusion is written on your face when he stays silent after you ask him a question.

He snaps out of his reverie, his body twitching as he realizes you’re now looking at him. A slight smirk flashes across his face as he sees the perplexed expression on your face, as he had been so caught up in his admiration of you that Simon hadn't even realized he was supposed to be paying attention. "Sorry, luv," he says softly, his voice slightly teasing as he maintains his gaze on you. "Wot were ya’ sayin’?"

“Here, try some o' this.” Commands John, otherwise known as “Soap,” as he slides you a glass of tequila. For the past fifteen minutes, it seemed to consist of Kyle’s task force forcing you to try their taste in alcoholic beverages. A vodka-lime wasn’t impressive according to their standards.

“Why do I have to try out every single one of your stupid ‘manly’ drinks?” You grumbled, already feeling the effects of the alcohol as you took a quick sip of his drink.

“Is tha' tequila?” Ghost scoffs as he appears in your peripheral vision, causing you to cough and sputter in surprise.

“Why do you always do that?” You complain, wiping away the stray droplets from your lips as John laughs at your misfortune.

Ghost’s eyes widen in what either looks to be humor or surprise—probably both.

“Gettin’ the lass tae expand her horizons,” John explains after collecting himself.

“You sound like an alcoholic,” you mumble, your face warm in embarrassment.

“Why tequila?” Ghost interrupts, still seemingly confused by John’s choice of beverage.

“Whae naht?” The scot shrugs, taking a sip of his drink with raised eyebrows. You glance back and forth between the two men, trying to decipher their unspoken conversation.

“Ya,’ tryna kill her, mate?” Ghost snorts in sarcasm, sitting beside you, his knee brushing against yours as he makes himself comfortable. He doesn’t even glance in your direction, but John’s eyes flicker back and forth between you two knowingly. You hide your shame behind another long sip.

“Are you?” You mutter, staring out the window as silence fills the air.

“Wot?”

John’s laugh rings loud as your face sets up in a blaze.

“Do you like it?” You inquire with anticipation, watching him take a bite of the cultural dish you had made for him to try. You asked him to stop by your temporary place so you could cook him something other than British cuisine. He seemed a bit irked but agreed nonetheless.

“S’ alright.” He mumbles after swallowing, refusing to meet your eyes as he takes another bite.

“You like it, c’mon.” You giggle, poking his bicep, which he swats away, simultaneously shooting you an annoyed glare.

“I said it’s alright.” He reaffirms, chewing slowly. “S’ a bit spicy.” He comments in a neutral tone, but you assume it was supposed to be his form of constructional criticism.

“Yeah, well, everything is spicy to you people.”

He rolls his eyes with an irritated sigh.

“You could’ve just said ‘thank you.’” You sass, hands on your hips.

“I’d 'ave t'be thankful for it first.”

You swat him in the arm this time. He chuckles in response.

Simon grunts as he slams his fist into the black fabric of the boxing bag. The thick material of his gloves protects his fists, but he can almost picture the bruises and cuts decorating his knuckles as he bashes the face in of that smug-looking private.

Simon had nothing against the man—personally speaking anyway—yet he still couldn’t get over how he looked at you. How he danced with you, twirling you around like some bloke, tripping over his feet and his words to impress you.

And you just smiled and laughed, batting your pretty eyes up at him with a sweet smile—the same way you do with Simon.

Simon furrows his eyebrows, pulling his face into a deep frown. He clenches his fists a little tighter as the images of the man dancing with you and making a fool of himself flash through his mind. Simon can also clearly see how you responded to his advances in those images: your saccharine smiles and bashful glances, your symphony of laughs that could bring a choir of angels to shame. He grits his teeth and raises his fist to strike the bag again; his jealousy is getting the better of him.

The more he seethes, the more those memories twist into something else entirely. He can't help but imagine the way the man must have touched you, maybe even kissing you or pulling you into his arms—holding you close. The thought of that makes him even more furious, as he's now thinking about him putting his hands on you in a way that only he is supposed to—or would if only he just asked.

“What’s gotten into you lately?” You inquire, tilting your head to the side as you sit across from Simon in a booth, enjoying the meal he had gotten for you both.

He stops eating for a moment, his busy thoughts halting a little as he hears your voice hit his ears, concerned with a hint of indignation. He hesitates for a second before answering you, not wanting to admit that he's felt a little insecure about his relationship with you. "Nothin’," he gruffs softly, forcing disinterest as he looks at you. "Why?”

You run your tongue over your front teeth as you assess him before looking past his shoulder in thought.

"Is it because I have to leave soon?" You ask softly, deciding to poke at your food with your fork to remain casual.

The mention of your departure only makes his frustration grow even worse, as the thought of you not being here with him brings forth an uncomfortable hollow feeling deep in his chest. "No," he mutters softly, but his response carries a hint of irritation because he believes you have seen through him too quickly. "I jus’...'ave some things on my mind."

He stares at you silently for a moment before looking away and grunting. He can't help but feel slightly guilty for not wanting to be honest with you. Especially when he knows you’ve always been upfront with him, and now he's keeping secrets from you even though there's no real reason for him to. The guilt compels him to consider admitting a little more, but he realizes that doing so would mean ripping back the layers he’s built up around himself for so long. So instead, he says, "It's nowt important."

"Then stop acting so weird."

You sigh, swallowing your frustration. "If you ever need someone to talk to, you can always talk to me." You promise with an empathetic smile.

He sighs and looks away again, feeling even more shameful now that he has to look into your pitful expression after lying straight to it. Simon has been so busy hiding his insecurities that he's lost track of how he’s been treating you, and now Simon realizes that he needs to open up, or else you’ll probably start feeling as if he's abandoning you. "Yeah..." he mutters, shaking his head slightly in disappointment with himself. "I know, m'sorry...I'll be fine."

You soak in the awkward, silent tension for a few more moments, trying to make peace with it.

"Y'know..." you begin tapping his leg under the table with your foot to get his attention. "I'm gonna miss you too." You confess with a bittersweet smile.

His expression softens just a bit, his gaze shifts to make eye contact with you for the first time in a while, and upon seeing your sweet and somewhat sad smile, his discomfort shifts towards a bittersweet tenderness rather than the frustration and resentment he felt before.

"Y'will?" he asks softly, a small smile forming on his lips as he looks away almost immediately, his heart now fluttering at the thought of someone as kind and gentle as you, missing someone as cruel and fucked up as him.

“Of course,” you all but whisper, your eyelids lowering as you admire him with a strange fondness. “But I’m glad—I’m happy I got to meet you, to miss you.” You smile, abandoning your attention on everything else and redirecting it towards him.

“I’d rather miss you every day than not have gotten to meet you at all.”

NEXT → main masterlist, rules

[moonphotos0]

scrapped orv art from january 2025 that I forgot about lol

[puncertainty]

vampire eddie… thinking of you……

[dirohraga]

ythey make me physically ill. the old man. the hhgh

[masohista]

I wanted to forget him, and yet it seemed I thought of him always. It was as if the empty nights were made for thinking of him.

And sometimes I found myself so vividly aware of him it was as if he had only just left the room and the ring of his voice were still there. And somehow there was a disturbing comfort in that, and, despite myself, I'd envision his face- not as it had been the last night in the fire, but on other nights, that last evening he spent with us at home, his hand playing idly with the keys of the spinet, his head tilted to one side.

[scrumpylikesthings]

I knit Gordon a hoodie

He loves it

[zorangezest]

2025 vs 2024!! I’m so happy with how my comics have evolved! (also wip for the next project woooeooooeeo)

[starscream-is-my-wife]

I just found your SIC Megatron au and its vise grip on my brain is worrying

I can't help but feel that Starscream possessiveness of Megatron is distinctively humanizing in a way, and couple with the way Megatron just called himself a tool, like, do that repeatedly and it doesn't matter that you are literally fighting for the right to personhood, that shit will ingrain itself, and that just on to the toxicity sooo wonderfully

Thanks! I keep on having WIPs for this that I keep changing but I got a couple of ideas that are consistent!

I really like the backstory where he was trapped in his gun alt form for as long as he can remember, it feels more likely to break that version of megatron then if he was just a worker before

Megatron is very powerful, more then other gunformers, it’s a mystery to why he was until years in he started to malfunction, at this point the Decepticons are pretty established and Megatron was already SIC so getting him fixed was top priority. Starscream went out to capture someone with actual medical experience and got Ratchet, who was not prime yet and was only a talented up and coming doctor at this point.

Starscream and Ratchet worked on Megatron, discovering his link to a black hole, Ratchet horrified by the power, Starscream in awe of it.

“This power is cruel” “This power is mine”

Megatron idolizes Starscream a lot, but he is very popular. Despite not being able to speak for most of the time he was online, he’s very charismatic. Starscream was fond of the attention but if Megatron ever turns on him he would not hesitate to kill him. Starscream had already planted seeds of doubt into his mind, but now he doubles down on it (I’m still trying to decide if Starscream would install some sort of chip that would suppress any confidence that Megatron would have, or if he breaks down Megatrons ego in a more natural way, probably the latter because I think it fits better, but with the chip version if it ever is removed in the future, the fallout from that would be interesting!)

Starscream plans to keep Ratchet mostly so word of Megatrons power don’t spread around, but he is eventually rescued by Orion Pax. Surprisingly Ratchet doesn’t seem to tell anyone. This extends to his time as Prime. The Autobots don’t know why Ratchimus is so insistent on arguing with Megatron

It’s slow but as Starscream gets more possessive Megatron appears in less in the public eye alone, enforcing the idea that Megatron needs him, but there’s a voice in the back of his mind that he can’t ignore saying that he needs Megatron too

Megatron has accepted that this is the best that his life can get, it's all he's ever known, and he's stubborn in this, what else is there? What was everything for?

I still want Megatron to have alot of power here so it's not just Starscream, he's still Megatron!

[altaiiriss]

(tw suicidal thoughts)

thinking about dazai and chuuya slowly doing better together.

they're gradually healing, thanks to therapy. they're happier, thanks to their little domestic life. they are each other's comfort person, the family they never had, the crying shoulder they always had to be to protect others, never allowing themselves to break. they learn how to live together, to open up, to trust the other with vulnerability.

everything's going rather smoothly, you know?

until dazai suddenly relapses.

there's no particular reason. your brain just does it, sometimes.

one day you open your eyes and suddenly nothing makes sense anymore.

he does his best to hide it, because chuuya is actually smiling now—he rarely saw him wearing a genuine smile on his face back in the mafia—and he wants to protect the sweet sound of his laughter.

dazai osamu wants to protect nakahara chuuya from the neverending darkness that claws at his soul and melts on his skin until he's one with it.

until you can't tell dazai osamu apart from the parasite that infests his brain and slowly devours the remnants of fond memories.

so he gradually distances himself from chuuya (and everyone else, really).

he stays at the agency after work hours, his body becoming one with the rough edges of the couch while his thoughts echo in the empty room.

he goes to bar lupin, sharing drinks with the ghost of odasaku until he's coming home so late that chuuya has already left for his night shift.

he starts turning down his coworkers' offers to eat lunch at the restaurant together, preferring to sit alone in the darkness of his dorm room and ignore the way his body is begging for food.

until one night he's coming home half drunk—whisky is way more alluring when it tastes like self-destruction—and he finds chuuya standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed over his chest.

"i'm not leaving for work until you tell me why the fuck you've been avoiding me for weeks." he says, voice rough.

dazai chuckles. thank god there's plenty of alcohol in his system right now. he wouldn't be able to deal with this while completely sober.

except the alcohol makes him say stuff he doesn't mean, and it doesn't protect him from the harshness of chuuya's words. they're scarring dazai's flesh, cutting through that thick black layer that became his second skin and his first home. chuuya's voice reaches the most sensitive parts of dazai where not even the alcohol is allowed to go.

but it's all going according to plan. chuuya is angry—no, he's furious at him, and dazai can tell he's about to be kicked out of his apartment.

until chuuya breaks down.

"i don't know what to do with you," he says, and the desperation in his voice hits dazai all at once. "you're killing me, dazai."

no, no. this—this isn't part of the plan. why is chuuya hurting this much? why is he cradling dazai's cold cheeks with trembling hands? why is he holding on to him instead of letting him go?

"i never meant anything to you, did i?" he mutters, and dazai feels something in his throat snap.

"chuuya," he breathes, and his name tastes like a curse on his tongue, "i want to die. i want to die."

he frames chuuya's freckled face with his bare hands, holding him so tightly that the redhead's bones might shatter at any time.

because that's dazai osamu—when he finally stumbles upon something he likes, he holds on to it tightly with bruising force because violence is the only form of love he's ever known, until he swallows the object of his desire whole, until it becomes black, until he turns to nothing, just like him.

"i can't die knowing that'll hurt you. i need you to want me dead."

which is ironic, isn't it? they've been bragging about hating and killing each other since they were fifteen, and yet now that they can feel the weight of their words on their hands, it feels inexplicably wrong.

they can't dance around the truth anymore.

"i'm already hurting," chuuya whispers, and he makes sure that the resentment in his words is heard loud and clear, "you're hurting me so much."

dazai's breath gets stuck in his throat. "what can i do to make it stop?" he asks, and he hasn't heard that hopeless tone coming from himself since he held odasaku's dying body close to his chest. "i really want to go, chuuya."

"stay," chuuya pleads, hands shaking as he grips dazai's shirt as if that could prevent him from disappearing, "stop hiding—stay with me."

"to stay is to be hurt," he tries to offer a defeated smile, "i think one of us is destined to hurt."

and i wish it weren't me, dazai thinks.

and i wish it didn't always have to be me, chuuya thinks.

"stay," chuuya says again, as if the world alone could make dazai truly stay, "stay. fucking stay."

"i ca—"

"stay."

ah, it's been a long time since chuuya felt the animalistic urge to claim someone as his.

"i'm not letting go until you change your mind. stay." he says.

"you can't change my mind on this, chuuya."

"stay," he pleads, "stay, stay, stay! don't—" his voice breaks, and dazai knows they've hit the point of no return, "don't leave me."

there's something interesting about the way chuuya remarks the word 'me' rather than 'leave', dazai thinks.

"don't you dare leave me." chuuya says through gritted teeth. he cannot pinpoint the exact moment desperation turned into anger.

"i have to go," dazai mutters firmly, removing chuuya's hand from his crumpled shirt, "let me go, chuuya."

"i—"

the words die in his throat, stabbing his insides like a thousand tiny needles.

his eyes fall to the floor, and in the blink of an eye he's surrounded by darkness.

"you make me want to die." the redhead mumbles, and suddenly his skin is coated in black, and dazai isn't in his grip anymore.

he's been swallowed, hasn't he? at least that implies he's not alone.

how relieving.

[turbo-tsundere]

Chibi Gonta for the soul <3

[spookygibberish]

How do socotna pairings work?

Also do headless and unbodied ever resent their positions? As in lack on autonomy and respective dissolving of lower body lol, I guess since it's a huge spiritual and cultural deal it varies

In Socotna marriages two sets of same sex siblings are required. Here we have the brothers Unbodied Tasapnu and Headless Lasu of House Mitoca, and the sisters Unbodied Heniya and Headless Batab of House Dedēsne, at the ages they would have betrothed. Heniya-Lasu and Tasapnu-Batab would have been Throned in a dual ceremony after coming of age (about a decade older than this art depicts) and then married immediately. Socotna Throne-weddings are probably the most intense non-festival occasions in Hegemonic culture. It’s something I still need to work out the details of.

Throne candidates are trained from a very young age to accept and even anticipate the prospect of being Throned as an ultimate privilege, but that doesn’t mean that they all have the same feelings about it. Ultimately a candidate who is overly reluctant may be reconsidered or passed over for fear they’ll fail as a Throne, so it isn’t impossible to reject the position, though it does leave a stain and can at worst lead to ostracism. In the case of these two, their Thronings and their marriage are something that was preordained for more or less their entire lives, in absentia of any consent. It’s a common situation for Thrones and it’s inevitable some resent it, but many accept it as a necessity and try and make the best of the situation, especially considering the power and privilege of grants. How much a Throne regrets their Throning is something that depends immensely on the hand they happen to be dealt.

And if these guys look familiar, it’s because they’re Masminet’s parents as children.

[knightforflowers]

IN SPITE OF WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD WERE AT THE HEIGHT OF OUR POWERS 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

[laphlaces]

more WIPs... this time with hypnos!

[tharett]

Random old wips that I posted on Insta then immediately forgot about until recently 😼

I can't? Find the motivation to continue these (nuts) wips? But they are still pretty cute and wanted to share them here too 🫶🎀💕

(ALSO I GOT A JOB!!!!!🎉🎉

SO THAT MEANS MORE POSTPONED WORKS?? KINDA???? I'll try and get as many old drawings that I have so I can show you guys in the time being, until I get a solid, stable routine down jijijiji)

_

[Esp]

Unos bocetos random que subí en el Insta y completamente se borro de mi memoria hasta ahora 😼

La neta no puedo encontrar la motivación para completar estos bocetos?? Pero son buen adorables y los quise compartir aquí comoquiera 🫶🎀💕

(ES MÁS, TENGO EMPLEO!!!! 🎉🎉

ESO SIGNIFICA QUE ABRAN MAS TRABAJOS EN ESPERA?? MAS O MENOS??? Trataré de buscar los cuantos bocetos viejos que tenga por lo mientras yo me acostumbre a la nueva rutina de mi vida jijijiji)

[smokinghorse]

No matter how hard I try, I can't forget how your coat smelled pressed against my face.