#this thing gave me a headache | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chiliyue-archived · 6 months

Text

cause i love to love, to love, to love you

↬ in which you have him all lovesick and smiles

includes; dazai, chūya, atsushi, fyodor

notes; i am gonna pretend i didn’t disappear for 2-3 months. this has been in my drafts for so long :( i tried to clean it up as much as i could but it’s really old jfjdks

DAZAI

dazai appears happy. present tense.

his typical inquiries for double suicides came to lessen to conscious degree, substituting in drinking sake together when the sun cowers, nothing but a string of nonsensical chatter proceeding each sip.

he was sticky like that: unannounced visits, impromptu phone calls, sudden changes in his schedule to accommodate yours. in any case, he isn’t one to shy from stooping as low as whining if it rewards him with your familiar face.

( his windpipes splinter before he could mutter it out loud, but the solitude that’s wedged deep in his bones for so long felt lighter when you were near. he questions how long such benevolence would last before becoming sullied by his hand… ).

…and yet all things considered, it hasn’t deterred him from courting you nonetheless. at times he can’t help but think he’s taken a bite of his own medicine when he’s the one skipping around like a helpless maiden.

and yet again in spite of it all, his brazenness remains perpetually untouched as ever. he entertains different approaches if only to coax out a new reaction from you and he’s not bashful in the slightest. so much so, he remains unruffled even under the scrutiny of your coworkers.

. . .

“ this is highly unprofessional.”

“ don’t be so mean, bella. don’t you know how much i missed you?”

your eyes flit down to the man currently using your lap as a headrest, the rest of his body stretching over the expanse of the couch. he was shameless, that much was certain, but his ability to remain unperturbed whilst in his lovey dovey state was impressive. you cocked a brow, sighing.

“ osamu.” his lips visually twitched at the call of his name; it’s a word warm on your tongue but leaves the hairs on his nape at your mercy anyway. " you saw me fifteen minutes ago—”

“ twenty.” he corrected, cheeky (and quite frankly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled that number out his ass). “ but it was the longest twenty minutes of my life.”

he was unrepentant as ever, experimentally positioning his head to rest on the plush on your thighs. by muscle memory, he began to absently draw shapes wherever he could reach, a crude rendition of stars decorating over the bend of your knee.

he smiles innocently when you squint at him, the gleam in his eyes unwavering. “ only a couple more minutes and i would have been yours,” you mutter out, your voice not as sturdy as you hoped. “ at home.”

dazai almost turns pouty at that. almost. “ but my love, i’ve missed you like crazy. twenty minutes is too long, how can i possibly manage?” the words come out through a breathy exhale and you watch as his lashes kiss his cheeks when he flutters them closed. “ all i could think about is you. and now i have you right here.” he hopes his words carry as much truth as the way his heart does, scurrying away the cold that's mocked him for so long. “ can’t we just stay like this a little longer? pretty please?”

resigned to your fate, you could only clamor your palms over your features— if only to salvage your waning dignity from your coworkers.

unfortunate though… that in doing so you miss the blissful smile curling on his lips as he peeks at you from below. and atsushi notes(after throughly grimacing, not expecting him to be so blunt), it reaches his eyes too.

CHŪYA

" chūya-"

" you can't flirt with me. i have a partner."

terse, stubborn and slurred. if the groggy voice wasn’t enough to confirm your suspicions, the shit-face look belonging to your boyfriend did. he was drunk. wasted if you were to speak bluntly.

in truth, it really doesn’t come off as much of a surprise; his ability to hold his liquor was nothing to brag of (despite what he may profusely argue) and you’re half-convinced he’s already forgotten his own name.

still, you don’t loosen your grip on his sleeve even under the figurative holes he’s burned with his stare. “ chūya. i am your partner.”

“you—! wha-!” his voice erupts into a sudden warble, eyes akin to saucers. " you… you are??"

he takes what’s left of his thinning rationality to study you proper; the style of your hair, your clothing, the smell of perfume/cologne, the familiar quirk of your lips—

oh, he thinks as you push back the loose bangs veiling his face. he doesn’t make any attempts to move, feet stalled and eyes blinking, evidently stunned.

you decide to press on. “ do i look familiar now…?” the lilit of your voice grazes against his ear, plucking out a faint memory tucked somewhere in the crevice of his fuzzy head.

oh. he thinks twice, the stern look bruising his face thawing.

without realizing it, he squares his shoulders in any attempt to remedy his current disheveled appearance, slumped posture pulled taut in— what he hopes— was a more put together frame. conversely, he wobbles on his feet when you continue to eat away at the distance, the ghost of your touch pushing pinpricks into his skin.

“ you’re- you’re really all mine…?” he cringes as soon as it leaves his mouth, coming off eager and hopeful. something like a laugh escapes you and he can’t tell if that’s what made his stomach turn or the alcohol. perhaps both.

“ that’s what i’ve been trying to tell you. you’re so stubborn when you’re drunk.” you punctuate the words with a kiss to his cheek, now warm with revelation. chūya, exhausting the last bits of his energy, shrinks beneath it, a gloved hand clutching his reddened face defensively.

“ why haven’t i made you my spouse yet?” he remarks it so suddenly, you nearly choke on air. he can’t even comprehend what you say thereafter or register the look beginning to contort your features, nothing but liquid courage keeping him afloat.

but- well, if there’s anything the haze trotting his head and his thinning cognition could agree on, it’s that your ring finger appears a little too barren for his liking.

( but not for much longer, he hopes )

ATSUSHI

the sudden change in atsushi’s behavior was a notable observation within the ADA, many of whom watched as the weretiger became stupefied by a face belonging to you. it wasn’t long before concluding it was all the result of a crush; the culprit of which being atsushi himself who played his hand poorly at discretion.

the lovesick chatter would leave his mouth without much rationality, waxing of "[name] this" or "[name] that," and effectively becoming on the receiving end of his praises. it was almost a routine of sorts, occupied by stutters, belated responses and his fidgety footfalls. by the end of it, he fruitlessly attempts to steady his rabbiting heart— if only to stop his blush from staining beyond his cheeks.

even now as he silhouettes by the agency door, the rattle of rain is deafened by the rush of blood to his ears. he anxiously worries the handle of the umbrella in his palms, bouncing from one sole of his feet to the other. should he just ask you? maybe he should wait… now that he thinks about it would be more appropriate to just leav—

“ damn it.” he perks at your sound of displeasure, his heart spiking. “ so much for leaving in a hurry…” you stiffen, realizing you have nothing but a coat protect you from the weather. the flimsy jacket you hurriedly plucked from your wardrobe only added flavor to your disappointment.

atsushi doesn’t miss the opportunity; his feet carries him to you before the unpleasant voice lurking deep in his subconscious bullies him otherwise. “ we can share,” he gestures to his own, silently praying his voice was leveled. it wobbles anyway and by now his knuckles are sheen white as a product of his nerves.

with the organ jumping around in his chest, he almost doesn’t register your ‘thank you,’ only that his fingers were quickly undoing the straps of the umbrella before you could change your mind ( he impulsively bought it earlier that day— his previous pair worned out and far too tiny for two people. but when you thank him with a kind smile, hands slightly brushing with each step, he argues it was the best 800 yen he’s ever spent ).

… that said, a more appropriate question is how you managed to remain naive to all his pining for so long— he’s become despairingly obvious against his own good and yet he can’t find it in himself to change himself, a perpetual lovesick look copy and pasted whenever you entered his proximity.

the same can't be said to everyone else however and he wasn’t particularly pleased when he caught wind of the bets exchanged among his treacherous colleagues. he fears it's only a matter of time before one of them blabs their tongue to you. at this rate, perhaps one of them should.

. . .

" y'know atsushi," ranpo once said, offering his companion a gleaming simper. " you reallllyyy talk about [name] a lot."

"oh.”

his heart flutters, eyes slowly blinking.

" yeah,” he smiles. “ i guess i do.”

FYODOR

" you've been awfully quiet, my dear." fyodor’s voice was just loud enough over the sound of clashing cutlery, fixing you a gaze of genuine interest. " is the meal not to your liking?"

you feel your lips twist into a frown. for being attentive, he (for once) falsely saunters pass the source of your displeasure, failing to recognize the extent of your internal woes. " no- no-" you fidget with your fingers, ignoring the way your propped elbows skidded against the table. the behaviour doesn't go unnoticed by the former, who takes it upon himself to hook his index fingers with yours. “ there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask of you. a… request of sorts.”

“ what is it? i’ll have it shipped to you by the end of the week,” he offers generously though it quickly fades into a confused hum when you shake your head at the proposition.

" it isn’t something you can buy…” you drop your gaze from him to the scantly poked portions of cuisine on your plate. fearing he may misinterpret your words and assume it to be unattainable - perhaps gifting you something ludicrous as a piece of land - you amended quickly. " it’s not what you assume to be either.”

at that, he bums questioningly. “ then what displeases you, my darling?” he provides a faint squeeze to your hand, igniting something warm and paradoxical to his thin layer of frigid skin. “ what can i offer to rid you that frown?”

" just your company.”

" my company?"

" yes." perplexed, he cocks his head; an invitation. willing an inhale to your lungs, you took a moment to gather possession of your words. “ these days you've been rather occupied. i was hoping for perhaps… if we may spend some time together?"

fyodor appears vaguely surprised by that, something unfamiliar fortifying around him. requesting his time felt like a hefty expenditure just in itself and it wasn’t too far fetched to assume he’ll disregard it in favor of some plot embellishing deep within his brain. but a swift refusal never comes.

“ i see,” he finally says after a brief pause. his voice was so soft you wondered if it was meant for you to hear.

it's grows quiet before he speaks again, the fingers curled around your hand withdrawing but not before providing the tips a delicate squeeze. " i can arrange some time tomorrow for you,” he proffers. “ will that satisfy your request, myshka?"

hardly anything can catch fyodor off guard, but something had to be said in the way you brightened at the suggestion, a deep curve coasting over your lips. how pleasant you are.

" yes," you hastily replied, dipping your head slightly. " more than perfect. thank you."

the way your lineaments crossed into a smile was always enduring to observe — exasperated, but one he wouldn’t mind seeing tomorrow knowing he was the cause for such elation.

( idly, he wonders what he can do to see it again ).

A/N !

i’ve been meaning to post this for months but it’s so old & i never quite (and still kinda don’t) liked it :(( fyodor’s is bit ooc jfjdkskla

彡 [BSD m.list]

taglist; @eynnwwyjth @anqelically @seisitive @iheartpieck @seiiblue @averagebsdwatcher @solandiss @4nthonyyliving @guacamoleroll @sunnyx07 @shiopi

join or be removed here

1K notes · View notes

jacksprostate · 2 months

Text

One of the lesser known side effects of your condo getting blown up and a lamp lancing through your car like a bullfighter's verduguillo is that when you move to the outskirts of a city and have to rely on the failing public transport system, your commute to work starts to take two hours if you're lucky. Most of the time, I'm not lucky. I leave for work an hour before sunrise and still arrive a half hour late. Coming home is worse.

Public transit could be good. Everyone says it. Tyler tells me, in the future where we've burnt civilization to the ground, we won't need transit at all since the suburban dream will have died and everything you could ever need will live right with you in the nestled bosom of a ruined city. Kudzu vines will let you climb the exposed concrete and rebar until you're twenty stories tall. Stations of gliders, made with the skins of the cattle we keep. We'll need nothing beyond flight radius. There will be streams, broken back out of the pavement and basements, rivulets to ride back home to the shore. The world will close again, small and destroyed and hurting. A seedling.

For now, I ride the bus home.

The later it takes for the bus to show up, the worse the crowd gets. A man with his hand in his pants. The growing smell of piss from another. Someone laid out along the back bench seats, two stops from death. Of course, the fifteen-odd witnesses who won't move a muscle. Avert your eyes and thoughts and path.

Sometimes, when the buses are running especially thin, mid-route the driver will get a call on his radio instructing him to take the B route through another section of downtown. There, we pick up worse.

College students. Young couples. Those nights, this night, I have plenty of young hot things sliming into each other's mouths for the rest of my trip. It's unavoidable. Surround sound. The crinkle of hands gripping through jackets and all the wet smacks mix together with the creaking and squeaking of the bus like it's a roadside motel. I am forced to look at these fresh, vacant twenty year olds and I wonder — how much could one person want to disappear?

You could bring an Armalite AR-180 carbine gas-operated semiautomatic on here. Open carry. Maybe that would make everyone stop. Sit in your seats quietly. Legs together. Follow the implicit rules. Walk home quickly and don't react to any calling. Switch sides of the street as needed to avoid the footsteps behind you, but not so much that the chase is interesting. Ignore how they speed up, you speed up, and you hear two laughs. Oh, the power of a rifle.

When I get to Paper Street, we've entered eternal twilight. The smog crests over us like a dome, blotting out the stars and lowering the atmosphere within reach. Industrial lot lights shine their way to the edges like the stars of the Truman show. Everything smells like ass.

If I called it home, Tyler would probably light it on fire. Between the asbestos and the gallons of water soaked into the house, it'd smolder for months. Our yard is littered with glass, tetanus, and leptospirosis. I've got this ache carving away at my insides, like I took Tyler to work with me and she's been tunneling out.

I open the door, set down my briefcase, and think about the fact that I have to do this tomorrow and the day after and until I die.

She's in the kitchen, in her robe. Tyler has her sunglasses on, she has to barely be able to see me with that gaze. Lit up by the lamps littered through the room like electric storm candles. She's smoking.

Tyler says, "Take off your skirt. I'm tired of seeing that thing."

Vertigo can be associated with presyncope. It feels like you're falling. It feels like you're going to vomit as the failing floorboards split apart and swallow you up.

Tyler says, "I don't know why you bother. We both know how you feel about this." She steps closer, blows smoke in my bloodless face. I wish I could take it on, I wish I could lock us both in an old fridge and infuse us with her breath. With all the soap Tyler makes, she still smells like shit. If she died I'd sleep in her corpse until it faded.

"You flatter me sometimes, psycho girl." Tyler reaches a hand past me, cages me to the door. On the other side, there's the edges of our little set, with the door closed you can't see the dollhouse way the world gives up past a hundred feet. The other hand, it trails down my side like it's made of fire, unbearable and intense. She's looking down, cigarette tugging at her lip, hooded eyes probably tracking how I twitch and jump under her fingers. I can't not look at her. The chip in her tooth. The intensity to her eyes. Her mouth. I'm too loose, I'm going to slip out of her arms and under the door and down the street.

She finds the zipper. Tugs it down, my skirt falls around me like the goddamned Berlin wall. It lies in a limp pile around my legs; she can see my tights. My underwear. She's exposed me. The cavern in me is massive. Yawning.

Tyler stubs out her cigarette on the door and presses me into it, too.

Right by my ear, she murmurs, "You always make me take what you want." Her hands slip around me — gripping my shirt at my shoulder, slipping around to my lower back, my ass — I don't know what to do with mine. I've got them splayed out. I'm staring at the ceiling, her hair half-obscuring it.

Her lips, against my cheek. Brushing, she's making her way back and I know and I'm not ready.

Tyler bites at my lip, pulls it soft and gentle between hers with the same sincerity and focus that she's used to fracture my jaw. My heart at the derby. It's one of those horses running so hard their lungs fill with blood and their organs explode. I open my eyes, I didn't know I closed them, the lights blind me.

Her hand slides up my shoulder, my neck. She's got to feel my pulse. Pile driving. She cups my face, right where she broke it. Tyler directs me into her kiss.

She says, into my mouth she breathes and says, "Let yourself do something, why don't you?"

I know she's looking at me. My eyes fell shut again, I'm trapped in the feeling of her lips on mine but I know she's looking at me, close, half-lidded and intense. Trembling, I ache and creak and try. I try.

Tyler could be eating me, I would still try to feed myself to her.

I'm rewarded with her tongue. On my lips, in my pliant, confused mouth. Volcanic hot springs. Earthquakes, fractures, overflowing. I imagine Tyler and her tongue elsewhere. I make a noise, it's so pitiful you could take it out back and shoot it.

She leans on me, puts her whole body weight on me and the rotten wood miracle holding us up. Her hand slithers out from behind me to grab my wrist. Caught red handed, stricken, full of nothing and twitching.

Tyler slips her thigh between mine, it's pressure so impossibly hard I could cry. I am crying. I'm such a hopeless participant that when she kisses her way to the corner of my mouth and drinks up my tears, I welcome her back all the same. My thighs open up and hug her all the same. I am perpetually the beaten dog, fleeing and running back to its owner.

My other hand, my left, free hand finds its home on her nape. Tangled in her short, greasy hair. Tyler needs to kiss me until the world caves in.

She brings my hand down. A ventriloquist, she kisses me deep and my wooden fingers slip through her bathrobe. The edge of her boxers. I am crying, I am kissing Tyler Durden as she flattens me so I cannot escape this perfect misery as she brings my wooden fingers to her folds and I feel. Wet.

My fingers twitch. It's impulse. It's inverse familiarity. It's feeling, labia minora. Something more. Tyler would have the words for this. She pushes my hand against herself, the meat of my palm against her pubic mound as she devours me. She could do it all herself.

The way it feels, sliding, warm. Warm like my whole body is trapped in between Tyler's thighs. It could be my head. My tongue. My tongue curling around her clit. These images flash through me like full-body phantoms. On my knees, my hands on the sensitive meat of her inner thighs. Like I'm getting buckshot to the chest point blank. Our positions reversed. My tongue in her mouth. My leg between hers. Reload. Her hand, held by mine.

I push my hand against her.

Tyler moans into my mouth.

I push my hand against her, and slide my palm over her clit, her chest flutters against mine. God would kill for this. Tyler is all around me, my index finger is slick and wet with her and it's easy. It's pressing into melted butter.

Tyler's falling apart, Mona Lisa, she's saying nothing and burying me in her lust. There's new tears and they aren't mine. I'm tugging at her hair, she's forcing me into a single point. Singularity.

I have two fingers in Tyler, she's holding me there and I'm arching up into her when she cracks, splitting apart and all over me like an egg. Everywhere. She shoves her face into mine, foreheads together, noses, her shades are off and her mouth is open as she shudders and mixes my breath with hers.

Her other hand lets go, finds its way up to the other side of my face, she's still leaning on me. I'm still keeping my hand on her. I want her to drown it. I feel every shiver. She presses, synchronous, hands down my neck, my shoulders, Tyler buries her face in my hair. Right next to my ear. She bites my earlobe. She lets a hand slip up my shirt. Her hand cups me, I haven't worn a bra since moving in with her, her thumb slides over my nipple. She slips her fingers into my tights.

Her fingers on my bare skin. Tyler puts a palm on me, over the wet patch soaking through my underwear, and her fingers are stuck between my clit and her thigh.

And I wake up.

I'm on the bus.

I'm on the bus, and I'm surrounded by young couples giving each other 9-hour anniversary STDs, and I've soaked through my underwear.

When I arrive at my stop, I walk for fifteen minutes to get to Paper Street. There's a hot, heavy mist beading on my skin. Thickening my breath. It's fat with the fart smell of paper processing and rich in heavy metals.

I open our door. It barely stays in its frame, sort of opening like a twice-hinged, fully-sized, single-doored saloon.

Tyler's in the kitchen, in her robe. She's smoking.

She stares at me through her sunglasses.

I set down my briefcase. I stand there, and she still smokes.

She's looking through me. She's seeing all my stains.

Tyler expects something of me.

Her eyes track me, all the way up the stairs. all the way to my room, to my moldy mattress. They see me shower in brown-red water and scrubbing furiously on my clothes. They see me wide awake, waiting for the bus the next morning.

I am always failing Tyler.

#fight club #female fight club au #my writing #ohhhh my god #fuck #sobbing #idk what to say #i ended on the same line as another f fc ficlet i wrote. because it still applies. fuck you chuck gets to repeat things so do i idk #finishing this literally gave me a headache. i have problems #inspired by lalikeslichto's drawings

70 notes · View notes