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voidcat · 4 days
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When we play lol and one of our friends is given thresh in howling abyss, even if they have the spirit blossom skin, they pick anything but that… just because I’m also in the team
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voidcat · 4 days
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— fool’s bloom
characters: spirit blossom thresh x gn!reader
a/n: idek what this is- months of silence and I decided to write a quick thresh thingy in favor of ignoring neurology uhuh owo (I swear I’m working on the gojo thing btw, even a certain zenin will have an appearance;P) anywyas enjoy slight undertones of a thresh growing jealous and possessive but turning a blind eye to/ignoring these emotions
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For all the years he has roamed Runaterra, Thresh thinks he has figured people out pretty much by now.
Foolish little creatures, driven by their fears and impulses, desires and selfishness, it all becomes the same after a while for the grim wraith himself.
Takes one to know one, one of the souls once dared speak up, he hadn’t even noticed he was thinking out loud until then; with a not so gentle shake of his lantern, signaling what shall await them later that night, he shuts the damned soul up in no time.
Foolish little creatures, but not as dull as he has come to find them as of late, Thresh thinks as he spots the figure his eyes have grown familiar with.
Wraith or not, he is not one to succumb so easily to violence and the satisfaction born from others sufferings.
Thresh is a collector first and foremost; of people, souls, memories, their agonies and fading selves, all the emotions that make them people, brimming to the fullest yet unaware they’ll never reach the surface again.
The dark waves of the sea with its harsh waves, he keeps them underwater forever and ever.
He sees some souls unfit for his reaping, and some, he decides to wait. To let them mature, or for your case, allow them a glimpse at him, glowing mist of bad news and horns above his head, letting the seeds of fear spread into your chest, for the next time you will shake with terror like none other.
Except; you prove an exception to that.
He finds you odd, and a little off putting if he were still a mere human. Instead of running away, it almost feels as him you’re seeking him out, intentionally.
A fool, no matter the feeling underneath the actions.
Ah, but that lack of fear takes the fun out of him and by now you seem to know it too. Going as far as to call out to him and wave a hand, as if he can mistake your voice for anyone else in that deserted forest— “Hey mister warden! Fancy joining me for a cozy afternoon tea?”
A fool, he murmurs the words again and disappears before you can catch up to him. Yet it doesn’t go unnoticed by him how your shoulders drop once he is out of your sight. Surely you’re not as stupid enough to actually mean your offer now?
It’s not so bad per see, he decides. You make the most exceptional distraction for him to collect more souls, even if you notice or not. With the presence of someone else in the same place as them, people feel safe, let their guards down; not expecting his scythe to land, nor the glowing lantern to become their new homes.
Maybe he will allow you to roam a little longer, until you grow old, or witness him in action and begin to fear— another miscalculation on his part, he will soon find out, as he did with any matter relating to you.
Souls ripped apart from their once-hosts, sucked into the lantern like petite flowers in bloom, his scythe still warm and swaying in the air slightly, Thresh catches your eyes on him, watching from afar. He thinks, at last, the moment of fear has come, until he sees your mouth agape, pupils dilated, with fascination in your eyes; a fool or an oddity? He once more finds himself lacking to describe as to what you are.
Accepting that your increasing offers will not end any time soon, nor the time to reap your soul will come any sooner, he lets out a sigh and carries on like he always did, ignoring you majority of the time. At this point he is unsure himself whether he wants your soul to be with him for an eternity, he doubts even death can part you with that fascination in your eyes and admiration written all over your face— what is it about him that has you so impressed, he wonders from time to time.
Even though it is still a mystery as to why you’re so attached to him, in the process Thresh hasn’t realized his attachment to you in return.
Only with your sudden lack of presence one day he realizes, and wonders where you are. You were watching him with those doe eyes from the side just a moment ago; what is it that kept you from following him? He finds himself hurrying, reaping the soul at hand not so elegantly, as if he ever cared about such things, and halts when he hears your voice raised.
Your singsong melody has become such a constant for him that he has forgotten you don’t speak with anyone like this. You sound worried, he notices, until an unfamiliar voice hushes you, ordering you to keep quiet and few other things he fails to recognize as he hurries.
A quick sway and throw of his scythe and the man is stunned, then pulled towards him, right into the lantern as he raises it in the intruder’s direction.
A rash action on his part, he realizes, only after this sound of quick and rhythmic beating stops ringing in his ears and he feels the velocity of something warm thrown into his direction, not strong enough to cause a shake in his posture— his arms faltering, he looks down to be met with your body pressed into his, arms wrapped around him, tightly, that he realizes the shake is happening somewhere deep down, not on any levels physical but something entirely different.
A new unfamiliarity he would like to think, but he knows better, he has been aware of this unknown brewing inside him for a while, allowing it to bloom with each passing interaction.
Only when he feels the drop of a weight, Thresh realizes he has let go of his scythe, the now vacant hand finding its way to your back; at the contact, he feels you tighten your hold, burying your head further to his chest— clearing his mind of his arising thoughts, he leaves it for another time to wonder what this will bring for the two of you now; for now, he allows himself to feel your hold on him, your warmth soon blending into his; your calm, even breaths and fast beating heart the only things he hears.
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voidcat · 17 days
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— a mutual intoxication
characters: dazai osamu, you
notes: implied toxic unlabeled past relationship, idk what this is beyond that, ive been doing some p stupid shit lately i needed dazai to shake me out of it. also my e key has issues so there may b missing lettrs
song: Los Borrachos (I Don't Have Any Hope Left But The Weather Is Nice) by Car Seat Headrest i think?? im notsure
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Turning your phone off with a sigh, you close your eyes, sensing that presence hovering over your shoulder a little too late.
You have grown rusty, it seems, for he stands like that, too close for comfort, close enough for you to feel his breath and his eyes glued on the black screen of your phone.
“Look who’s here!”
Dazai Osamu exclaims giddily as he makes a turn around and slides right next to you. As if its some mere coincidence the two of you ran into one another and not something he foresaw before you even decided to drop by this cafe.
And so Dazai settles down, makes himself comfortable, easing in and blending into your side, to the environment.
A quick look shot his way, at your phone and the people idling in the cafe, you wait and wait, swallow down each second thats been passing.
And he catches it no matter how quick.
Of course he would, this is Dazai after all. Nothing gets past his senses, his wicked perception, his inituition.
Dazai's presence right here, right now means only one thing: That he has won.
Or so, he thinks. And once he does, it is the truth and absolute truth, even despite the circumstances preventing it, he will make sure to eradicate.
So far his voice falls deaf on your ears, as often was the case in your past, just a background noise to fill the air and nothing else–
"Someone has been busy, hm?" his coo leaves you on the edge, and you have half a mind to not jolt up or shoot another glance by your phone.
You know this.
You know Dazai, he is just doing what he does best, you are better than this: giving him what he seeks.
"So, what are they like? Have they been helping you with that itch on your brain that needs a good scratch?"
It shouldn't sting when you have grown used to it, but it does, just a little.
Not because he is right– he is, that's another issue, but because you're still doing that after all that time.
A little attention never killed anyone, that part of your brain reasons but another is quick to remind you of all those myths and tragedies of Greece.
It is nowhere as satisfactory as the real thing obviously, but even messages of sweet words and praises gets you going– though you hate to admit it, that you like this, you relish on this, the high of it.
Bonus points when the compliments are not the typical ones you can see everywhere, when the terms of endearment and what follows them sound to be thought over.
Lips pulled tight, you only stare at Dazai without a word.
"Not deserving of your voice? Not even the scoldings?" he tilts his head to the side with a smirk.
Bandaged hand over the table moves on its own.
They seem fresh, you cannot help but make a note of. Perhaps he came across a discount recently. There is no way in hell he would pay for these. Not when he has the agency's stash to raid, or you to buy and apply a fresh set.
His weird unique way of showing vulnerability, in his own way. But how can you blame the man?
He was already a mess when the two of you met.
Finger swiped over the screen, he taps the passcode, only to be left alone with the lockscreen.
Head turned to face you, another smirk that says "I'm impressed."
thanks no thanks, i don't need your compliments, you want to say.
you are not worried per se, you do not owe your piece of shit of an ex any explanation.
how things will turn out however, has you wondering. You know Dazai, but there are times when even you're at a loss of predicting his mind.
Friend of a friend– you doubt he knows that friend in th first place. Maybe their social media profiles at most but that's not much to go by.
The phone comes to life then– of course it had to be th fingerprint you had forgotten about.
Yet Dazai only seems pleasant at th turn of events. From your expression, he can tell this was not intentional but where's the fun if he doesn't go around claiming you were always waiting for him to return to your loving embrace.
"Not good enough apparently."
you whip your head at his voice, confusion clear on your face.
"Since you're sitting here alone all by yourself, not even on a call or texting." he shrugs as if he is explaining something simple, some truth of life to a kid.
"And do pray tell, Dazai, how am i supposed to text or talk when you have my phone?" you don't realize your teeth grithing.
To your reaction he only offers a grin, aware you know the answer as well as him.
even now, him going through your phone is old news. He did that before, and so did you– returning the favor.
If you wanted all his attention on himself, he demanded the same in return, give and take, until you suffocate.
and yet, even now that air stinging and filling your lungs does not hurt. the unbreathable toxic air is welcome in your lungs, an old friend you cannot shake off your life.
dull eyes ignore your question as they quickly go over chat histories, a little sneak at your photo roll without a doubt and side private accounts you keep limited to few people in your life.
with a sigh, he turns the device off and tosses it back on the table, leaning on his back, relaxing entirely. "My, my– and here I was worried you had forgotten all about me."
You had, as a matter of fact, yet you doubt he'd take your word for it, not when he has something brewing in his head to prove. Whaatever it may be, you know it won't end up in your favor.
"Now I just feel bad," that indifferent tone of his rings loud and clear.
hah! as if he is in any position to feel bad for your sake, what an awful attempt at a joke.
"Darling, you deserve better than that." "And that 'better' is supposed to be you?" you retort without missing a beat, annoyance clear in your voice.
"Well," he drags the word with a tilt of his head, gaze locked on the ceiling as if it's the wide blue sky instead, "Not saying I'm the best you've had, surely there are plenty of fish in the sea,"
a lie, you are aware, what he truly says is 'your words, not mine'.
"You deserve someone to match your wits." he concludes.
When you turn to look at his face, you see him sliding down slightly, head thrown back and resting.
even when complimenting, he makes sure to cast the hook where he wants it, all he has to do is sit and wait.
and hate yourself just as much, you know it has worked, that he is right. As exhasuting as it was to be ...something with Dazai Osamu, it was exciting, keeping the adrenaline rushing constantly, the ups and downs, highs and lows, the clashing and the sudden unision in the face of anything else.
"Not some sorry excuse of a person who cannot even pick up on one third of the things and teasings you say."
this, you're unsure if it is the living and breathing Dazai that says it, or the little one nestling in the back of your hand, always making sure to remind you he will never leave you alone.
Th who of it does not matter though.
Bcause all the ticks and kcks of your relationship with him, it was the unspoken understanding you enjoyed more than anything.
A look is all it takes, a gesture is all he needs, no words spoken, no thoughts admitted out loud verbally.
With a mind as sharp and bright as Dazai's, he understood you more than anyone else.
But being understood is not the entirety of it.
that's where communication plays in after all.
and as bright as he may be, Dazai took this to his advantage, his vague tactics to keep you around.
Sweetness but not too much, attention just long enough to keep you waiting for more, at the ready with big eyes–
letting your shoulders drop and realizing the tension you had on this whole time, you lean back as well, mirroring the man next to you and letting your body fall toward his direction a little.
Who are you to judge Dazai Osamu when you haven't been any better?
maybe this is what you wanted this whole time, letting this 'break up' last longer than the prvious ghosting phases, ignoring him on purpose and seeking out a new source to keep you up.
you can feel an arm draping over you, not bothering to open your eyes. this, too, has become something you've grown all too familiar with– one of the dolce ones, even when th grip becomes tight– keeping the other locked in.
because for any chain Dazai has on you, he possesses a matching one.
He might be the human with the highest perception skills for all you care– you know him, and that speaks for itself.
back and forth, it's a never ending dance of teasing, stepping on toes on purpose, pretending to have gotten bored in the middle only to surprise the second party with a sudden spin and bending of the waist– leaning in, nose to nose, until your visions blur into nothing but each other, and the mess you have left in your trail.
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voidcat · 19 days
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— a gallery
characters: Dazai Osamu, you, mentions of various bsd characters but mostly dazai focused
song: always forever by cults
notes: idek, another niche analysis type of dazai drabble. If u know u know… it’s 2am and I’m tired
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The realization dawns upon Dazai Osamu on a mundane tuesday, as any other revelation regarding himself does.
Not a lightning struck down his back, no hairs jolting up from the shock, no tiny caricature icons popping up in his head with a loud ‘eureka!’.
No, it happens so ungracefully, so mundane and ordinary- like any other human would realize in a moment that they’re hungry.
A growl coming from the stomach, loud enough to ring in their ears: “huh, I must be hungry.” And they don’t even bother to recall when was the last time they ate anything of note.
Picture the most ordinary tuesday possible, at a metro station crowded as ever, nothing sticking out, just people in their daily rush and silence, ever following the unspoken ethics and moral codes, not even a strand of hair dangles out of order.
In a day like any, sitting on the benches, one foot swinging ever so slightly, Dazai Osamu thinks to himself: “I like collecting people, huh.”
And the punchline that should await at the end never arrives, followed by no moment of surprise.
Perhaps it’s because he has been aware of the notion for a long while now, deciding to word it out in his mind, into existence, finally accepting the existence of another child of secret.
All those interesting and challenging, those few that can be useful, those that provide a good run for his money- or for his mind—
His little galleria, natural museum of freaks and eccentrics, his little archive of situations-to-come and points-to-reach.
Maybe the truth is so far from startling because he has known for a while- back when he first noticed the signs; how his interest piques at times, toward certain people— thus he searches to chase that high, sink in his claws slowly but steadily, provide a feeling of vulnerability and trust, a picture perfect painting of an open book he becomes to the outer eye; known only by few who can connect the dots and see the bigger scenery that he is farthest away from that; an open book, people think, when its been locked tight, key smashed into pieces and throwing into the running stream.
Give him that rush of adrenaline once and he will chase and chase, make you feel the most important in the world for a while- or just overwhelmed, depending on his current status in your eyes; keep it up, toy and play until he grows bored and pulls away abruptly one day.
Another train passes by swiftly as his coat shivers by the current.
Leave as quick as he came into your life, your daily routine, the effect leaving a space difficult to fill in its absence.
Collect and keep each and every in his pocket, or in a locket if he fancies the situation. Create the illusion of something twisted and beautiful, spontaneous and so beautiful, only for the ugly truth to surface when it’s already too late and you’ve served the purpose he has intended for you since the very first meeting of the eyes.
To fill a void that’s been in with him since he can remember, a joker card, or just a meeting of the minds, an instant click— all kinds of purposes he collects, one by one he picks with the overcrowding fear and realization that it can be as quick that he loses, drives people away or himself. Close enough to touch but keep at an arms length- resort when he deems necessary, when the loneliness becomes unbearable, when the situation requires a third intervention from the sidelines.
Another train passes in a hurry as heels of someone echoes in the station, one last attempt to catch it, that next 10 minutes too precious for a wait.
Always a collector, back when in the mafia, even now still in the agency.
The wild card of red saved for delicate situations that require the brute, the sharp card of black with red lining tucked in the back but an eye always kept, beige card comes out more often than not.
Like a collector, he takes out the file and examines the cards one by one, simply because he can; watch how the tiger squirms and shies away, still doing as he asks; the waitresses huff and swing their notebooks his way, not accounting for his speed of dodge; some don’t respond, those cards remain without a sound and without a shine in their eyes; some give him that delicious attention he seeks, the devotion and focus he enjoys, how you look at him with big eyes, laugh, joke back or just sigh and roll your eyes away.
His ever growing personal collection, worse than the dragon’s perhaps; his purposes leaning more on the selfish, primal desires. All the while ignoring their one common purpose, how each and every is a back up, a just-in-case; why should he admit? When he always surrounds himself with just the right amount of people with the proper amount of interactions.
The air begins to chill as the sky changes its shades, trains never once stopping, stream of people never ending. Someone near him stands with ear phones plugged in, doing a poor job of filtering the sound of whatever it is they’re listening. The sound of drum rolls increase with each beat, each breath, his eyes remain cast on the moving shades.
And so Dazai Osamu continues to collect people, always ignoring the rapidly growing solitude within himself, the storm of melancholy that rages in himself, that void deep and dark— destructive enough like a black hole, always taking and taking, never taking a second for a pause, for a breath.
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voidcat · 23 days
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Having a good ol internalized self existence crisis while craving to replay nitw and fall into the pitch black pit of comfort it gives me in the shape of Mae when I’ve just started reading Sylvia Plaths journals is… truly a way to spend my evening/night
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voidcat · 23 days
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it's that time of year
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voidcat · 23 days
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   doing some embroidery ⚝
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voidcat · 25 days
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old dazai lighting practice i found in my drafts that i have no intention of finishing so u guys can have it
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voidcat · 1 month
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characters: Dazai Osamu, you
song: Reuse The Cels (by Car Seat Headrest)
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“I’m kinda feeling like ‘Reuse The Cels’ but in a nonromantic way, yknow?” You say out of the blue.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dazai turns to you in a pinch of disbelief and confusion, only to see your eyes still fixed on the same paperwork from early today- ‘for how long have you been staring at it again?’
But to no avail, you ignore his response, though from the lack of movement on your part, it more seems like you didn’t hear him at all.
Until he has walked up to your workspace before he could realize and you send a glance his way from the corner of your eye.
Your pens and stationery have changed places several times, and to the outside, it’d appear they’ve been used by you for quite some time.
Dazai knows you were just killing time.
Putting your head in your hands, though no smile laugh from you targeted at the specific pose this time, you sigh, as if breathing all your troubles out.
“A cel is- was something used in animation. It’s semi transparent and normally used only once. And as for the so-“
“I know what a cel is-“ Dazai cuts in, not exactly, he had an idea but didn’t know for certain actually. “I just don’t get what you’re trying to mean with a statement such as that.”
Leaning back into your chair, arms draped at both sides, you let your head fall back and look him over with a rather displeased eye.
“As I was saying-“ you begin speaking again, loud, (Dazai finds himself wincing a little), but your voice comes tired more than angry. “Although, why should I bother? I know you’ve heard that song through me at least five times.”
Stacking more files and papers along with your items, he makes space for himself and half sits on the table, arms loosely crossed over his chest.
“That still doesn’t answer my question.” And as tired you may sound, his voice carries little emotion, save for the little ‘just get to the point already’ laced there, as if he was ever a hardworking employee to begin with.
And by the time that arises, you take notice of its scent, just like a moth driven to light,
(–putting yourself in the same place as a moth makes you want to cringe inside, yet you’re too drained even to get mad at yourself for that today.)
And by the time all these thoughts and more cross your mind, the clock barely ticked, you barely blinked and Dazai’s heart barely beat.
Turning your eyes to the ceiling to focus on a spot of void that doesn’t exist, you close your eyes right after again.
“Maybe I’m longing for a state of being I once had but never cherished, –rarely put into use and barely acknowledged.”
“Isn’t that the way for everyone at the end?” Dazai’s voice reaches from far away, blocked by the waves hitting against the stone cliffs.
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ You think to say but the moment has passed away.
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voidcat · 1 month
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— jus’ tired
characters: dazai osamu, you & genre: comfort & song
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When you hear the door close, you assume it must be evening time by now.
The clicking of his heels indicate he’s closer and closer to you with each step, checking every room just in case. Looking for signs of an emergency or an event that requires investigation of the agency.
But there is no apparent reason to keep anyone on their toes, other than that it’s just one of these days.
They come at 3 in the morning sometimes. “In the morning” sounds funny when it’s pitch black, you whisper to no one but yourself. When it comes, it leaves you unable to attend to a thing, move a muscle or even flinch. If you’re lucky, or unlucky (depending on the intensity), you’ll have music on, and it’ll happen to be a song that fits the hour of the day. Your mind plaguing you worse or maybe leaving you numb, lying on a surface, staring into nothing.
The footsteps reach an end and you can feel him stand there. Reaching out for one of your earbuds, he puts it on without a word, listening.
"Quite the depressing song, isn't it?" Dazai says as he settles next to you, sitting cross-legged, arms leaning back.
You turn your head a little to meet his eyes. "Says the man who is a suicide enthusiast." the words barely get out, with effort; and Dazai chuckles to your reply, even if he notices the way you've said it.
The song must be halfway done by now as the two of you stay like that. The music rises as the lyrics roll with it. Dazai smells like the city, the streets, a little bit of smoke and a hint of something you cannot pinpoint –Kunikida must've dragged him out for the day.
Standing on your elbows now, you rise yourself a bit. "So what are you doing here?"
"As a matter of fact, I dropped by to ask you the same." facing forward he speaks, probably examining the wall or the trinkets spread all over the space.
"As you can see-" the song reaches its climax now, picks up a pace, the sun should disappear in a few minutes if you've guessed the time right. He doesn't ask what you were going to say next, there wasn't any hidden agenda going on in the conversation any way.
Some time passes.
Maybe not. Though it feels ages passed, suns have set and moons have risen. But the song is on the same note still, dragging out the same word as he did before.
"Maybe you should take his advice." Dazai tilts his head to your phone. "Who knows if you love me, or if you will in the morning, but sleeping doesn't seem like an idea so far fetched now, does it?"
He leans back with that, on the cold surface, from the corner of your eye you can see his profile clear as day, but the day seems to come to an end.
Though he has a point, you're not sure if that's the singer or Dazai –morning will never come if you never get to sleep. And it's tiring, everything is, and you're tired, completely, utterly, jus' tired.
Scooting to him slightly, you both lie like this. Music in one ear (though it's starting to grow quiet), arms barely touching one another. As a little more time passes, you'll probably fall asleep, and maybe so will he; with the promise of a fresh morning, filled with endless promises.
And despite your ears are tired from all that music, his heartbeat doesn't bother you one bit, neither does his breathing, his presence or fingers grazing yours lazily.
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voidcat · 1 month
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voidcat · 1 month
Text
— a gallery
characters: Dazai Osamu, you, mentions of various bsd characters but mostly dazai focused
song: always forever by cults
notes: idek, another niche analysis type of dazai drabble. If u know u know… it’s 2am and I’m tired
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The realization dawns upon Dazai Osamu on a mundane tuesday, as any other revelation regarding himself does.
Not a lightning struck down his back, no hairs jolting up from the shock, no tiny caricature icons popping up in his head with a loud ‘eureka!’.
No, it happens so ungracefully, so mundane and ordinary- like any other human would realize in a moment that they’re hungry.
A growl coming from the stomach, loud enough to ring in their ears: “huh, I must be hungry.” And they don’t even bother to recall when was the last time they ate anything of note.
Picture the most ordinary tuesday possible, at a metro station crowded as ever, nothing sticking out, just people in their daily rush and silence, ever following the unspoken ethics and moral codes, not even a strand of hair dangles out of order.
In a day like any, sitting on the benches, one foot swinging ever so slightly, Dazai Osamu thinks to himself: “I like collecting people, huh.”
And the punchline that should await at the end never arrives, followed by no moment of surprise.
Perhaps it’s because he has been aware of the notion for a long while now, deciding to word it out in his mind, into existence, finally accepting the existence of another child of secret.
All those interesting and challenging, those few that can be useful, those that provide a good run for his money- or for his mind—
His little galleria, natural museum of freaks and eccentrics, his little archive of situations-to-come and points-to-reach.
Maybe the truth is so far from startling because he has known for a while- back when he first noticed the signs; how his interest piques at times, toward certain people— thus he searches to chase that high, sink in his claws slowly but steadily, provide a feeling of vulnerability and trust, a picture perfect painting of an open book he becomes to the outer eye; known only by few who can connect the dots and see the bigger scenery that he is farthest away from that; an open book, people think, when its been locked tight, key smashed into pieces and throwing into the running stream.
Give him that rush of adrenaline once and he will chase and chase, make you feel the most important in the world for a while- or just overwhelmed, depending on his current status in your eyes; keep it up, toy and play until he grows bored and pulls away abruptly one day.
Another train passes by swiftly as his coat shivers by the current.
Leave as quick as he came into your life, your daily routine, the effect leaving a space difficult to fill in its absence.
Collect and keep each and every in his pocket, or in a locket if he fancies the situation. Create the illusion of something twisted and beautiful, spontaneous and so beautiful, only for the ugly truth to surface when it’s already too late and you’ve served the purpose he has intended for you since the very first meeting of the eyes.
To fill a void that’s been in with him since he can remember, a joker card, or just a meeting of the minds, an instant click— all kinds of purposes he collects, one by one he picks with the overcrowding fear and realization that it can be as quick that he loses, drives people away or himself. Close enough to touch but keep at an arms length- resort when he deems necessary, when the loneliness becomes unbearable, when the situation requires a third intervention from the sidelines.
Another train passes in a hurry as heels of someone echoes in the station, one last attempt to catch it, that next 10 minutes too precious for a wait.
Always a collector, back when in the mafia, even now still in the agency.
The wild card of red saved for delicate situations that require the brute, the sharp card of black with red lining tucked in the back but an eye always kept, beige card comes out more often than not.
Like a collector, he takes out the file and examines the cards one by one, simply because he can; watch how the tiger squirms and shies away, still doing as he asks; the waitresses huff and swing their notebooks his way, not accounting for his speed of dodge; some don’t respond, those cards remain without a sound and without a shine in their eyes; some give him that delicious attention he seeks, the devotion and focus he enjoys, how you look at him with big eyes, laugh, joke back or just sigh and roll your eyes away.
His ever growing personal collection, worse than the dragon’s perhaps; his purposes leaning more on the selfish, primal desires. All the while ignoring their one common purpose, how each and every is a back up, a just-in-case; why should he admit? When he always surrounds himself with just the right amount of people with the proper amount of interactions.
The air begins to chill as the sky changes its shades, trains never once stopping, stream of people never ending. Someone near him stands with ear phones plugged in, doing a poor job of filtering the sound of whatever it is they’re listening. The sound of drum rolls increase with each beat, each breath, his eyes remain cast on the moving shades.
And so Dazai Osamu continues to collect people, always ignoring the rapidly growing solitude within himself, the storm of melancholy that rages in himself, that void deep and dark— destructive enough like a black hole, always taking and taking, never taking a second for a pause, for a breath.
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voidcat · 1 month
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here is your soukoku, enjoy yourself
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voidcat · 1 month
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— a gallery
characters: Dazai Osamu, you, mentions of various bsd characters but mostly dazai focused
song: always forever by cults
notes: idek, another niche analysis type of dazai drabble. If u know u know… it’s 2am and I’m tired
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The realization dawns upon Dazai Osamu on a mundane tuesday, as any other revelation regarding himself does.
Not a lightning struck down his back, no hairs jolting up from the shock, no tiny caricature icons popping up in his head with a loud ‘eureka!’.
No, it happens so ungracefully, so mundane and ordinary- like any other human would realize in a moment that they’re hungry.
A growl coming from the stomach, loud enough to ring in their ears: “huh, I must be hungry.” And they don’t even bother to recall when was the last time they ate anything of note.
Picture the most ordinary tuesday possible, at a metro station crowded as ever, nothing sticking out, just people in their daily rush and silence, ever following the unspoken ethics and moral codes, not even a strand of hair dangles out of order.
In a day like any, sitting on the benches, one foot swinging ever so slightly, Dazai Osamu thinks to himself: “I like collecting people, huh.”
And the punchline that should await at the end never arrives, followed by no moment of surprise.
Perhaps it’s because he has been aware of the notion for a long while now, deciding to word it out in his mind, into existence, finally accepting the existence of another child of secret.
All those interesting and challenging, those few that can be useful, those that provide a good run for his money- or for his mind—
His little galleria, natural museum of freaks and eccentrics, his little archive of situations-to-come and points-to-reach.
Maybe the truth is so far from startling because he has known for a while- back when he first noticed the signs; how his interest piques at times, toward certain people— thus he searches to chase that high, sink in his claws slowly but steadily, provide a feeling of vulnerability and trust, a picture perfect painting of an open book he becomes to the outer eye; known only by few who can connect the dots and see the bigger scenery that he is farthest away from that; an open book, people think, when its been locked tight, key smashed into pieces and throwing into the running stream.
Give him that rush of adrenaline once and he will chase and chase, make you feel the most important in the world for a while- or just overwhelmed, depending on his current status in your eyes; keep it up, toy and play until he grows bored and pulls away abruptly one day.
Another train passes by swiftly as his coat shivers by the current.
Leave as quick as he came into your life, your daily routine, the effect leaving a space difficult to fill in its absence.
Collect and keep each and every in his pocket, or in a locket if he fancies the situation. Create the illusion of something twisted and beautiful, spontaneous and so beautiful, only for the ugly truth to surface when it’s already too late and you’ve served the purpose he has intended for you since the very first meeting of the eyes.
To fill a void that’s been in with him since he can remember, a joker card, or just a meeting of the minds, an instant click— all kinds of purposes he collects, one by one he picks with the overcrowding fear and realization that it can be as quick that he loses, drives people away or himself. Close enough to touch but keep at an arms length- resort when he deems necessary, when the loneliness becomes unbearable, when the situation requires a third intervention from the sidelines.
Another train passes in a hurry as heels of someone echoes in the station, one last attempt to catch it, that next 10 minutes too precious for a wait.
Always a collector, back when in the mafia, even now still in the agency.
The wild card of red saved for delicate situations that require the brute, the sharp card of black with red lining tucked in the back but an eye always kept, beige card comes out more often than not.
Like a collector, he takes out the file and examines the cards one by one, simply because he can; watch how the tiger squirms and shies away, still doing as he asks; the waitresses huff and swing their notebooks his way, not accounting for his speed of dodge; some don’t respond, those cards remain without a sound and without a shine in their eyes; some give him that delicious attention he seeks, the devotion and focus he enjoys, how you look at him with big eyes, laugh, joke back or just sigh and roll your eyes away.
His ever growing personal collection, worse than the dragon’s perhaps; his purposes leaning more on the selfish, primal desires. All the while ignoring their one common purpose, how each and every is a back up, a just-in-case; why should he admit? When he always surrounds himself with just the right amount of people with the proper amount of interactions.
The air begins to chill as the sky changes its shades, trains never once stopping, stream of people never ending. Someone near him stands with ear phones plugged in, doing a poor job of filtering the sound of whatever it is they’re listening. The sound of drum rolls increase with each beat, each breath, his eyes remain cast on the moving shades.
And so Dazai Osamu continues to collect people, always ignoring the rapidly growing solitude within himself, the storm of melancholy that rages in himself, that void deep and dark— destructive enough like a black hole, always taking and taking, never taking a second for a pause, for a breath.
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voidcat · 1 month
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Despite not having written in ages thank u for the mini love for that dazai drabble 😭
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voidcat · 1 month
Text
— a gallery
characters: Dazai Osamu, you, mentions of various bsd characters but mostly dazai focused
song: always forever by cults
notes: idek, another niche analysis type of dazai drabble. If u know u know… it’s 2am and I’m tired
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The realization dawns upon Dazai Osamu on a mundane tuesday, as any other revelation regarding himself does.
Not a lightning struck down his back, no hairs jolting up from the shock, no tiny caricature icons popping up in his head with a loud ‘eureka!’.
No, it happens so ungracefully, so mundane and ordinary- like any other human would realize in a moment that they’re hungry.
A growl coming from the stomach, loud enough to ring in their ears: “huh, I must be hungry.” And they don’t even bother to recall when was the last time they ate anything of note.
Picture the most ordinary tuesday possible, at a metro station crowded as ever, nothing sticking out, just people in their daily rush and silence, ever following the unspoken ethics and moral codes, not even a strand of hair dangles out of order.
In a day like any, sitting on the benches, one foot swinging ever so slightly, Dazai Osamu thinks to himself: “I like collecting people, huh.”
And the punchline that should await at the end never arrives, followed by no moment of surprise.
Perhaps it’s because he has been aware of the notion for a long while now, deciding to word it out in his mind, into existence, finally accepting the existence of another child of secret.
All those interesting and challenging, those few that can be useful, those that provide a good run for his money- or for his mind—
His little galleria, natural museum of freaks and eccentrics, his little archive of situations-to-come and points-to-reach.
Maybe the truth is so far from startling because he has known for a while- back when he first noticed the signs; how his interest piques at times, toward certain people— thus he searches to chase that high, sink in his claws slowly but steadily, provide a feeling of vulnerability and trust, a picture perfect painting of an open book he becomes to the outer eye; known only by few who can connect the dots and see the bigger scenery that he is farthest away from that; an open book, people think, when its been locked tight, key smashed into pieces and throwing into the running stream.
Give him that rush of adrenaline once and he will chase and chase, make you feel the most important in the world for a while- or just overwhelmed, depending on his current status in your eyes; keep it up, toy and play until he grows bored and pulls away abruptly one day.
Another train passes by swiftly as his coat shivers by the current.
Leave as quick as he came into your life, your daily routine, the effect leaving a space difficult to fill in its absence.
Collect and keep each and every in his pocket, or in a locket if he fancies the situation. Create the illusion of something twisted and beautiful, spontaneous and so beautiful, only for the ugly truth to surface when it’s already too late and you’ve served the purpose he has intended for you since the very first meeting of the eyes.
To fill a void that’s been in with him since he can remember, a joker card, or just a meeting of the minds, an instant click— all kinds of purposes he collects, one by one he picks with the overcrowding fear and realization that it can be as quick that he loses, drives people away or himself. Close enough to touch but keep at an arms length- resort when he deems necessary, when the loneliness becomes unbearable, when the situation requires a third intervention from the sidelines.
Another train passes in a hurry as heels of someone echoes in the station, one last attempt to catch it, that next 10 minutes too precious for a wait.
Always a collector, back when in the mafia, even now still in the agency.
The wild card of red saved for delicate situations that require the brute, the sharp card of black with red lining tucked in the back but an eye always kept, beige card comes out more often than not.
Like a collector, he takes out the file and examines the cards one by one, simply because he can; watch how the tiger squirms and shies away, still doing as he asks; the waitresses huff and swing their notebooks his way, not accounting for his speed of dodge; some don’t respond, those cards remain without a sound and without a shine in their eyes; some give him that delicious attention he seeks, the devotion and focus he enjoys, how you look at him with big eyes, laugh, joke back or just sigh and roll your eyes away.
His ever growing personal collection, worse than the dragon’s perhaps; his purposes leaning more on the selfish, primal desires. All the while ignoring their one common purpose, how each and every is a back up, a just-in-case; why should he admit? When he always surrounds himself with just the right amount of people with the proper amount of interactions.
The air begins to chill as the sky changes its shades, trains never once stopping, stream of people never ending. Someone near him stands with ear phones plugged in, doing a poor job of filtering the sound of whatever it is they’re listening. The sound of drum rolls increase with each beat, each breath, his eyes remain cast on the moving shades.
And so Dazai Osamu continues to collect people, always ignoring the rapidly growing solitude within himself, the storm of melancholy that rages in himself, that void deep and dark— destructive enough like a black hole, always taking and taking, never taking a second for a pause, for a breath.
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voidcat · 1 month
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— letters to no one (life eternal)
characters: rain ghoul, gn!reader
notes & wc: mcd, angst, hurt/(little) no comfort, slice of life if you squint?, I kept the CoD vague on purpose to leave it up for interpretation but what I intended for it is between the lines. from rain’s perspective, this one is just… sad. – 1.6k
a/n: you can read this while listening to I Love You So by The Walters, mostly for the melody and the outro (and The Loneliest by Maneskin)
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Out of all the ghouls, Rain has always been the sentimental one.
Shy and sensitive of the world, caring of the ones in his life, among everything, he is a collector– has always been one.
Rain has collected many things in his lifetime, and continues to do so. Be it guitar picks, instruments, note sheets of all kinds of music, for all types of instruments… as for his favorite– he likes to collect memories.
Tickets, trinkets, books old and new, notepads, even small silly doodles the other ghouls scribble on random pieces of paper-like material– anything that carries a memory within, Rain keeps it.
All the collecting and keeping, over the years his collection has only grown. Yet for all its size, he doesn’t check it, rarely going through some items again, from time to time.
To reminisce about the past, to laugh about a moment with someone else– everything else he comes across, it’s usually when he is replacing items or reorganizing the space.
That’s how he finds himself like this now. 
Sitting on the floor, in the cold, in the dead of the night. The halls behind the doors remain silent, even the ghouls are asleep now.
In his hand sits an old napkin.
It has gotten filthy, probably contaminated as well ever since the time he kept it. 
It is almost funny, this item of his collection was not intentional. That he just… forgot about the napkin in his pocket for a very long time, accidentally pulling it out when fishing for something else in his pockets, until one day he gave in, sure, better to have you there as well since all you do is replay that moment inside my head.
Crumpled up and some parts having a different texture than the other, he really should’ve just tossed this one out, or got it cleaned. But that would eradicate all the purpose, the memory hidden in it as well.
Rain still remembers the day, the moment itself, as clear as the fires of hell.
He can still hear the sudden breaking into a sob, a sound that clawed at his chest, the wetness he could feel on his shoulder, the way your body would shake, how you stared off into space when he wiped the tears off your face.
He hates himself for thinking like that but even then you looked beautiful.
You were never much of a crier.
Not in front of others, not even when alone with yourself, as you revealed to him once later, that you need complete darkness or to shut your eyes as tight as you could, to be able to cry, to cry in a fashion you claimed ‘proper’.
When he asked what you meant by that, your silence told him this was not a conversation for now, for another moment of vulnerability and breakdown.
The napkin in his hand again, as if you’re sitting next to him, in front of him, like back then, Rain still recalls each spot on your face that he dried, cradling your cheek, brushing strands of hair away and tucking them, knowing well how their presence could overwhelm you at times.
A part of Rain cherishes the memory as much as he hates it.
The show of trust, the vulnerability, the intimacy shared which you’ve offered him– he knows the two of you have always been close but still, this, this is something grand for your standards, for the person you are.
Hate the moment, cherish the memory– this is not a luxury Rain has when it comes to you, not anymore.
The napkin still in his hand, the small box of other trinkets by his leg, half a meter away a stack of what seems to be paper and envelopes tied together; he sits like that, in vain, waiting, thinking about nothing in particular.
Taking in a deep breath and closing his eyes, he lets his shoulders drop.
Rain misses you.
The letters ahead of him still smell like you, he makes sure of it, preserving them so your scent will remain a tad longer.
Rain has been missing you for quite some time now, for far too long.
He doesn't know how much has passed anymore but he knows it passed too much, too long, long enough to make him question while he is still here as well, has his time not come yet?
With each memory, each little thing in his collection, he honors a memory, grieves a part of you. Be it happy, sad, he is grateful he got to see so many sides of you.
This doesn’t stop him from wishing he saw more though, it never will.
Because when it comes to you, Rain is selfish.
And how can he not be? You wouldn't blame him for it if you knew, you would understand just as he does.
He does and yet, he still aches for you all the same, wishing he could be that pillar for you, that change, that escape from everything else, the reality, the people, the worries and the stress. 
With you, for you, Rain becomes a selfish person, always wishing for more, hoping for more, just a little longer, a little closer, a bit more, he craves and craves as his heart aches for more, his hunger unappeased. 
For ghouls, emotions do not always progress the same way they do for humans. They do not get attached like them, do not love like them, do not hate or experience sorrow like them.
Yet the beauty of feelings always precede barriers that separate them. And once they feel, they do so with an intensity, with passion, with a weight to it, putting their everything, pouring their beings into it.
Now Rain understands why they often do not allow people to have one last look.
This pain deep inside him would be tolerable, had it been few years more, an unexplained reason, something to brush off as genetics, ‘that's just how life is.’, an accident– anything to ease it, to justify the little passage of time.
In normal circumstances he should’ve felt like this years later, not thinking about how early everything is, too soon, too soon, his mind whispers at him constantly.
He understands why they explain that forbiddance to preserve the memory.
Because when Rain thinks of you now, he can see your smile, the warmth in it, but the image shifts so quickly to that neutral expression you usually wore, now to stay on your face forever– until time begins to decay, piece by piece, limb by limb you begin to disintegrate.
The feeling of your warmth replaced with how cold and heavy you’ve gotten. Rigor mortis is no joke but Rain never thought it’d feel this heavy on his shoulders.
Eyes staring blankly, away, to nothing in particular, to no one in particular, to the void and the void stares back.
Of course, not to him, rarely with him. There was a spark in your eyes, that crease in your face, how you always said your face would ache when you're with him, ‘it's because i am smiling so much, my muscles hurt.’ 
He was aware of the sadness laced within your explaination, but now it feels like a hammer to his chest.
And above all, Rain misses seeing the beauty of life, of love, the brightness and the warmth of the sun on you.
The color red only disgusts him now.
He never liked this look on you, the one you had on default, as you’ve explained it, the one you wore often, the one you had when nobody was watching– of course, he was, but it seems you weren’t aware, or you just didn't have any energy left in you to care. Maybe you just knew pretending would only make it worse, and offered him an honest side of you, no masks, no acting, no pretending when you’re with him.
Rain never liked how integrated with the void you were, and he hates how indifferent you look now.
As if nothing has changed, as if you were dead from the beginning, not quite living even when you were alive, save for a few exceptions– most of which you shared with him, he hopes.
It is a selfish wish, he knows, but he doesn’t have anything else to hope for at this point, except to be a source of solace when you were still with him, still laughing, still warm in his arms and not like some dead weight.
Rain always knew of the inevitable sorrow, the fate that awaited the two of you. Humans are fragile beings, they never last as long as ghouls do.
He knew this day would come eventually, accepting the risks all the same, willing to experience that gut wrenching, backstabbing, choking sorrow. Aether warned him, Papas warned him, some just looked your way with envy, some with pity– 
Yet when weighing the options, a lifetime spent with you, even if just a small portion of his life, seems worth the heartache that’ll follow.
And it is, as he learns firsthand now.
All the letters you’ve written to him, for him, about him, about your life, about nothing at all, impromptu stories and poems; they sit together, tied neatly with a ribbon of your favorite color.
They still smell of you, much to Rain’s content, when he brings the stack to his face. Something to hold on to for a little longer, to keep the memory living outside his mind, to make it last for some time more.
All he can do is to hope that their infernal lord, the morningstar, offers you that peace of mind, the happiness, the ease you deserved your whole life.
That is, if you are there.
If that’s the case, maybe he can visit you some day.
Hope is all Rain has left nowadays, besides his collection gathering dust just as his heart.
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