#always angst

[idontknowmyownmind]

Just another angsty idea

Before Oda's death, Mori asked Dazai about his feeling toward Chuuya and being the dumb boy in denial he is he made hurtful remarks which got overheard by Chuuya

Dazai is not aware of this and Chuuya is spiraling

After the incident, they haven't meet each other, Chuuya take the overseas mission just to comeback with Dazai being a traitor

Let's say that Chuuya's trust toward Dazai became shaky and truly chipping away

And their reunion is-

[shogun-becoming]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

NEW CHAPTER IS UP!!! I know it's been forever sorryyyyy

So much angst in this one. So, so much angst. Enjoy :)

[stilemawillow]

Not Just Yet [Levi | Reader | Drabble]

Life is something precious.

Life is something a person has no right to take away for whatever reason, life is a concept that has to be lived in order to be understood just a tiny bit better. It's a notion in need of appreciation, a never-ending mysterious entity without a body that gives to and takes from everybody without the smallest of regards for their name, age, race, gender or social status. Life gives to the rich and takes from the poor, gives to the young and takes from the old, gives to women and robs men.

And vice versa, in an endless circle.

Levi has always been a man of simplicity. Do enough so you get by and live without complaining. Get up, eat, fight, work, sleep for three hours. Repeat until you die, stuck in a loop of chores and mundane routines.

And, inbetween duties, there is her.

Get his hands through her hair when she is tired, caress her face with his calloused fingers when she is insecure, stare at her as she drinks her coffee with tired eyes, relish in the feeling of her arms around him after a nightmare and take his time appreciating every nook and cranny her ethereal presence possesses every single morning. Levi can't get enough of her - the smile and the softness, and the loving look in her eye that becomes painfully obvious almost every time they are in the same room. He thinks of her constantly, to the point it hurts though sometimes she stands before him.

Levi closes his eyes and breathes in, punctured lungs making his throat fill up with sand he almost chokes on although it is not there. His long eyelashes flutter over his grey hues as crimson clings to his pale visage like a warm veil he wishes he can't feel. He wants to snort at the grass tickling the sides of his neck and the dirt digging under the nails on his bloodied fingertips, but his mind is exhausted and his body - even more so.

He has given up on moving and is just observing his surroundings. Even the fact he is covered in all kinds of dirt does not bother him at this point. He is tired. Granite orbs face the blue sky and its brightness as he holds back a sigh. Oh, how he wishes he could just close his eyes and rest. For thirty seconds, maybe a minute or maybe five. Just a little. Rest, maybe dream, drowning in thoughts of her smile all the while.

"Get up, Levi." He realises his eyelids have betrayed him when the stern yet warm voice calls his name. There she is, but, unfortunately, her smile isn't with her. She stands before him, feet protected by leather boots digging into the dirt on both sides of his torso. Her blades at her sides, uniform jacket sitting on her shoulders despite the scorching heat the direct sun provides.

"Get up." She repeats when he doesn't respond, (h/c) hair tied back as her eyes shine brighter than the sun he is too tired to face at the moment. Levi lies in the grass, light wind brushing against the planes of his pale face as his grey hues meet her (e/c) ones. He can see she is very much determined to make him rise, but he doesn't feel up to the task in this particular moment. He craves rest - just a few more seconds of it. A few measly seconds is all he wishes for.

"I don't want to." His voice is raspy, almost sleepy, and his lungs rebel when he speaks by bringing crimson at the corner of his mouth so it can trickle down his jawline and fall atop the green around him. The woman before him snorts spitefully, putting her hands to her hips with a frown. She looks like she is scolding a five-year-old as it complains about its peers.

"You don't have a choice, darling. You have to get up and go. So go." Her lively orbs dart to meet his narrow gaze and he holds back a snort because it will make more blood spurt from his lips. He just lies in the grass, staring at the blue above her head and thinking of how insignificantly soft the clouds up there look. Like a pillow he doesn't have the luxury to afford at the current moment. But he can sleep without a pillow, too.

"I want to sleep." The ebony-haired soldier complains through a harsh whisper as the female's lips purse. He might love her but he hates the fact she always pushes him like this, past any limits and boundaries he might have. Past the possible and the laws of everything in existence. She doesn't let him see her smile and she gets up so early her side of the bed is always cold by the time he opens his eyes. He loves her but he doesn't see her and it's all her fault, so who does she think she is as to not allow him some rest?

"No sleep, Levi. Fight." She scolds and her eyes shine but he doesn't move. For a second he doesn't think he can, even if he wants to. She looks down at him, waiting for a response, in the form of the faintest twitch of his finger, the smallest flutter of his eyelash, the furrow of his brow or the action of his muscles tensing.

"Smile at me." He commands somberly instead, making her expression soften as she reconsiders her attitude. Levi gazes up at her gentle countenance as her lips purse in slight reproach, then regret. Her eyes well up with a feeling he is used to seeing by now - helplessness. She doesn't have a choice, she has to keep him awake, keep him on his feet, keep him fighting. Then he hears her warm voice softly guide him through the wish.

"Not yet, love. Wait just a little more. Fight just a little more." She advises lovingly, as if she isn't lying to him. Levi knows she is far from being honest. It's not “a little more”, it's never “a little more”. And he knows another thing as well - he always does as she says because she's waiting for him. She's waiting and she's smiling and he needs to go to her but not without a fucking fight first.

"Fine." He grumbles in defeat, putting a hand to his bleeding abdomen. She steps back and he sits up with great effort, but he can almost see the smile on her face and the pain doesn't matter anymore. Nothing does when she looks at him this lovingly. He knows he'll do anything for her, as impossible and inhumane as it might be.

"That's the spirit, love." She encourages gently, arms dropping to her sides as she uses her index finger to tuck a stray strand of her messy hair behind her ear. Levi is well aware of the fact that gesture has always driven him crazy.

He closes his eyes when he feels like his heart might burst and his lungs wheeze agonizingly in his chest, his ankle is throbbing in excruciating pain but numbness has overcome the very sole of his foot. When he faces the sun again she isn't there. He coughs up and rises from the ground with a determined glare, little ebony locks sticking together falling in front of his eyes. This isn't the time for being tired or lazy or sleepy. This isn't the time for laying around.

She's waiting for him and he can't wait to see her smile, but before that he's going to fight - again and again, and again, no matter how close he is to getting some rest - until it finally kills him. He'll fight to the death and when he dies and sees her again she'll finally smile at him. That, however, won't happen just yet. So he has to get to work and make it happen.

[thatone-highlighter]

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Perfection, Chapter 7--Perfectly Balanced

Aziraphale and Crowley live in a heartbreakingly perfect world. There is no sadness. There is no loss. Every day, the sun rises on an idyllic peace far beyond mortal imagination.

The end of the old world brought Salvation. Justice. Perfection.

But not everything is what it seems. And one angel learns that perfection cannot be bought without great pain.

In this chapter, Aziraphale and Crowley find a way to balance the pain of their real memories with the peace of the dream world. Also, Aziraphale finally gets a chance to pamper his demon.

Read on AO3! (Rated M for dark/violent content)

Aziraphale ran the comb through Crowley’s hair from scalp to tips. It moved freely now, though it had taken a bit of work to get there. The curls had been broken up, leaving long, silky red waves. “Alright. What next?”

“Depends how thorough you want to be.” Crowley sighed, shifting a little in the curve of the bathtub. He seemed perfectly content, head tipped back so his hair spilled down onto Aziraphale’s lap.

“I want to do this properly.”

“Mmmh. Is there any oil? Not the little scented ones. Something with a pump on top.”

His hands moved automatically to the line of products, selecting a large bottle of what might have been olive oil, but more amber in color. There was a familiarity to it, the way it filled his palm, the faint hint of rosemary blending with the other scents of the bath.

They’d done this before. Of course they had; everything they needed was there by the bath, an exceptionally long and deep freestanding tub, well away from the walls so he had room to move around while Crowley soaked. 

The memories drifted around him like curls of mist, tempting him to reach for one, allow himself to be engulfed by one of his two minds, but Aziraphale resisted, acknowledging them but letting them flow by. He didn’t need to remember, he just needed to be, here in this moment, no past, no future, just him and Crowley.

The thick steam rising from the bathwater helped, as did the row of flickering candles, transforming the room into something unreal, a dim and misty vision that they floated through, far from all their troubles.

“Start with the ends, then the scalp,” Crowley instructed, not opening his eyes. “Then neck, shoulders, wherever you like.”

“Is there anywhere I should avoid? Anywhere you—you—”

“No. I trust you.”

“Um.” Aziraphale grew warm at the powerful meaning behind Crowley’s simple words and casual tone. Some of his fear returned, accompanied now by a strange giddy thrill, ignited by the possibilities. Intimacy of all kinds had certainly been part of their life here, a larger and larger part as time passed and they became more daring in their explorations of—

No. Don’t try to remember. Just drift.

The moment his oiled fingers touched Crowley’s hair, they leapt to life, moving without his command. Rubbing oil into the dried-out tips, scratching careful lines and circles across his scalp, working their way back from his hairline systematically. The demon murmured with appreciation, looking so much more relaxed than he had since they woke up. So much more at peace. So beautiful.

Aziraphale paused, resting their foreheads together. With his eyes closed, the world shrank even further, just the line of warmth where they touched, the soft, thick hair between his fingers, and the scent of rosemary, lavender, chamomile, and vanilla.

Water, too, soaking into the knees of his trousers, and the edges of his sleeves, rolled up past his elbows. Normally, he’d have worn the cream-colored bathrobe hanging in the closet, but he’d so missed the feel of his clothes—the starch of the shirt, the soft trousers—so missed being dressed as himself that he’d decided to keep them on.

One thought, drawn from two contradictory sets of memory. Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it go, watching as the two ideas rolled through his mind, moving past each other without turmoil or conflict. And then, once again, it was just him, and Crowley, and the feel of oiled fingers massaging the demon’s shoulders.

His smile began to grow. He could do this. Two pasts inside one angel.

“Let me try your hand next,” he said, shifting to one side of the tub so he could take Crowley’s wrist, lift his arm above the bubbles. Just a thin layer, no enormous mounds like in the films; Crowley preferred it that way, grumbling that too many bubbles just got in the way. Possibly because Aziraphale would insist on scooping them up and dabbing them on Crowley’s nose.

He laughed a little at the image but kept his mind on his task. Rubbing oil into Crowley’s palm, his wrist, between his fingers. His touch slid easily across the soft skin, slowed down here and there by rough calluses from the garden.

“Your nails are lovely,” Aziraphale commented, running his thumb along the perfect curve of Crowley’s thumbnail.

“Should be. My manicurist is very particular.” Glancing up, Aziraphale caught the gleam of Crowley’s eyes, languid and half-open, and a wide, lazy smile.

He rubbed a little more oil onto his hands and started working up Crowley’s forearm, but something pushed through the calm of the moment.

Scars. So many scars, old and new, crisscrossing Crowley’s arm and chest and neck—

“Angel? You alright?”

“Mmm.” He shook himself, tried to get back to work, but even with a generous helping of oil, his movements were stiff and jerky, his hands refused to glide.

“Just relax.”

“I am relaxing.” His voice rose higher, tighter as the panic built. White-robed figures shifted in the mist. Or was that just his imagination?

“Maybe that’s enough—”

“No! I can do this!” Aziraphale snapped his jaw shut, frightened by his own voice, fingers digging compulsively into Crowley’s arm. He pried them loose and forced himself to take a deep breath. “It’s working. Or… it was, for a little while.” More breaths, his heart rate slowing. “I… I think I’m alright now. I’d like to continue, if… if you don’t mind.”

Crowley’s face was tighter than before, but he nodded, leaning back again.

Even now, the thought refused to drift away, adhering to his mind. A vision of bruises, lacerations, infected wounds, burns; some old and faded, some… very much not. Hints of other differences in the mist, the grey tile walls glinting like black glass. Nothing as vivid as that morning, when he’d nearly awakened; more like a fuzzy double-exposure, a trick of the light. A fragile illusion, really.

He ran his hand up and down Crowley’s arm, keeping to the rhythm set by his slow breaths, and imagined the scars being erased. With each pass, they became fainter, more insubstantial, until there was nothing but unbroken skin, fresh and pure. As it should be.

Circling the tub, Aziraphale started on Crowley’s other arm. When the wounds appeared again, he was ready for them, letting one set of memories fill his eyes while the other guided his hands. Now that he was paying attention, he could feel the smoothness of the skin, and that helped to weaken the unwanted vision, until the memory of the Tower released him. And then, once again, it was just him and Crowley and the bath.

It was relaxing, in so many ways. Not just having something to occupy his hands, keep them from anxiously wringing. He could feel his muscles, his nerves, his mind unknotting, the tension of countless years draining away, leaving him feeling… not renewed, but resuscitated, perhaps. A bit of his old self rekindled, a growing warmth that moved through his heart, down his fingers, and into Crowley.

There was something he craved in this, Aziraphale realized as he finished massaging the shoulder and collarbone. Something in the curve of the joint, in the softness of the muscles, dipping slightly under his fingers. Something in the slickness of the oil, the brush of the cheek.

Crowley felt solid. He felt real.

Ironic, isn’t it? Aziraphale thought as he moved down to start on the feet, which were propped up on the tub’s wide rim. All those years in the Spire, time passing like an unchanging dream, but here—

No. Let the thought go. Concentrate on what matters.

Read the rest on AO3!

[dear-ao3]

[kidrat]

actually can we get an F for the silly cliched ‘stuck in the bodies of their older selves’ Carry On au I wrote like >1K words for last year and then couldn’t be bothered with. I personally thought it was hilarious but it will probably never see the light of day

[oncefutureemrys]

uhh... crown? for that work in progress challenge!!

Thank you so much for the ask! Oooo crown! Exciting! I hope I have it somewhere!

Alright... it's a little depressing to say, but I can't find crown in any of my WIP's. I figured I would have it somewhere but either I haven't gotten to the part of the story yet... I guess maybe I forgot the word existed hahah.

But, this seems like such a lame response, so I have decided to come up with a little game! Every time I don't have a word in one of my WIP's, I'll create a sentence for it on the spot and add it as another WIP. That way, I will have to use that word at some point. Also, it's the consequence I pay for not having it in the first place. Listen I felt like a genius when I came up with this idea so just go along with it please haha

Anyway, here's a random sentence my brain came up with using that word:

The crown feels weighing on his head, a constant reminder of the many burdens he carries. Sometimes he tries to readjust it, to take it off, but even then he can still feel it, as if it were a dark cloud he could never quite escape from.

Uh... hope that sounded alright! (I didn't sleep haha my brain is frieddd)

But I am now saving this as a new WIP to wondrous collection ahaha. Thanks again for the ask!

Send Me Words And I'll See If It's In My WIP. And if it isn't, I'll just make a new one!