the last light the sun has to offer

The moon came to me last night
With a sweet question.

She said,
“The sun has been my faithful lover
For millions of years.

Whenever I offer my body to him
Brilliant light pours from his heart.

Thousands then notice my happiness
And delight in pointing
Toward my beauty.

—  Hafiz

@dazaisuggestions


A fool. Dazai Osamu is a fool and that is all Verne can think, his fingers digging tight into the hard lines of the phone while he makes his way down the dimming streets of Yokohama. The sky, it seems, is inhaling every last morsel of light the fleeting sun has to offer, and cold is creeping around the corner. Wrapping around his hands. Tightening around his throat. Stop this.

“Four organizations.” he spits at the man before him, whose brown hair is ruffled and uncombed and lackluster. The man whose eyes are seething and ringed with black.

Four organizations spanning across three countries.” He’s going hysterical, that’s what, his calm demeanor, which was so carefully crafted –oh how proud he was of it!– is fucking falling apart and there isn’t a single thing that can pull it back together. “Are you insane, Osamu? Do you not remember what the Great War brought us?”

No response. None at all.

“Stop this.” he commands.

Stop this.” he says.

Stop this.” he pleads.

But the man before him remains quiet. Still. His gaping eyes track the orange sunset falling into sheets and sheets of purple-black dust. The silence takes hold, it speaks. No. Osamu’s tan coat swishes, the tips of his hair glow the color of rust. He grows smaller and smaller as he walks away, footsteps echoing like droplets splashing on the bottom of a half-empty well. No.

frozen

for Naia (@fairynarrytale)

Harry likes to impress people.

He knows this isn’t a unique personality quirk—knows most people, in some way, like to dazzle others—but the instinct to amaze definitely gets out of hand for him.

(There was the one time when he was eight and tried to make his mum’s Mothers’ Day breakfast all on his own and had to get seventeen stitches in his hand after a knife accident whilst chopping potatoes.)

(And there was the other time when he dropped two hundred pounds on a new outfit for his first date with Alicia from his year ten Maths class…only he didn’t actually have two hundred pounds and his mum nearly killed him when she got her credit card bill for the month.)

(Obviously it goes without saying that jumping off a bridge to make a good impression on your roommate’s friend group is a terrible idea, but at least he’d been attached to a bungie cord at the time.)

When it comes to Niall, though, there is nothing Harry can do to make himself look like an attractive option for a life partner, apparently. It’s his own fault for being so tongue-tied with infatuation; he really can’t blame Niall for not wanting to date a bloke who appears to be mute in a rude, standoffish sort of way half the time and only able to spew childish jokes or fake philosophical bullshit for the other half. Harry is a complete mess.

So of course he takes the only opportunity that has ever presented itself to look good in front of Niall.

“This ice cream is fecking delicious, mate,” Harry hears the melodious sound of Niall’s Irish brogue from across the room. “Where’d you get it?”

Louis, ever an angel—well, sometimes honest in a way that is beneficial to Harry rather than a teasing blow to his self-esteem—replies, “Harry made it.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

That last post you made has me thinking about Hawke waking up and assuming Fenris has left, getting frustrated and looking for his shirt but then Fenris comes back wearing it cause he didn't want to walk the house naked and Hawke is just struck ♡♡♡

The sun slanting in through the windows to spill with lazy decadence across the night-rumpled sheets was warm, and golden, and soft. It was a gentle light, offering the hope and paper-thin fragility of a new day, where possibility yet stretched, endless and tantalizing.

Hawke could picture it – the way that light would turn Fenris’s snowy hair into a soft ethereal halo. It would made his sleep-heavy, half-lidded eyes dance, speckle his dark skin like hundreds of warm kisses, and make his lyrium glow, soft, almost white.

He would smile, sleepily content, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Hawke always looked forward to long, lazy mornings with him, when the past was far away and he was soft, and sweet, and happy. The rare glimpse of the man he could have been was worth more to Hawke than all the gold in Hightown.

Unfortunately, the bed beside Hawke was empty, and no amount of lovelorn staring at the depression his head had made in the pillow would make Fenris materialize.

Hawke stretched out his hand and laid it, palm down, against the mattress. The sheets were still warm. Hawke breathed in deeply, and released it slowly.

He hated waking alone.

He would get over it. He didn’t want Fenris to know, ever, of the quick quiet burst of unease that flashed through his body like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head every time he woke to an empty bed. He trusted Fenris, and he knew the elf loved him, but it brought back bad memories. The reaction was visceral.

Fenris could never know, of course, and after a moment spent grieving over the morning that could have been, Hawke got up to get dressed.

The basin water was cold splashed against his face and chest. He forcefully pushed down memories he didn’t need. Hawke refused to begrudge Fenris alone time when he needed it. This was not the first time he had slipped away before Hawke was awake, and it would be far from the last. Hawke would never want to obligate him into staying.

Hawke dried himself and picked up his discarded pants from the floor. It took him a moment to find his smallclothes, hanging from a bedpost like a flag of triumph. He pulled them on, then the pants, casting about for his shirt as he did up the laces.

Hawke checked behind the dresser, and wondered if Fenris was still in the mansion or if he’d gone out. He looked between the cushions of the chairs. Sometimes, even when Fenris was feeling solitary, he would consent to a brief kiss goodbye before Hawke went home. It helped Hawke feel better, when he did. It was good to clear out early when Fenris needed his space.

Though Hawke couldn’t very well traipse across Hightown without a shirt on. Not without scandalizing every snooty old bird he passed along the way. He knelt down, reaching under the bed, groping blindly until he came into contact with cloth.

Triumph was momentary, transforming quickly to confusion as he pulled the garment out and discovered it to be Fenris’s leggings.

He heard the door open, and he turned.

“You’re awake,” Fenris said, frowning.

He carried two mugs of steaming coffee, and his hair was a soft white cloud, still puffy from sleep. He wore Hawke’s missing shirt, buttoned haphazardly, his legs long and bare and leanly muscular.

“Are you leaving?” Fenris asked, still frowning, and Hawke had to shake himself before he found his voice.

“No,” Hawke rasped, suddenly quite convinced he would die if he didn’t get his hands on those legs soon. “No, I’m not going anywhere.”

Fenris’s lips twitched upwards into that pleased little half smile of his.

It was all Hawke could do to wait for him to put the coffee down before he tackled him to the bed.

The moon came to me last night…she said: “The sun has been my faithful lover
for millions of years.
Whenever I offer my body to him,
brilliant light pours from his heart.
Thousands then notice my happiness
and delight in pointing
toward my beauty."  
—  ~Hafiz