ELLA PURNELL And AARON MOTEN Fallout (2024 - ) Behind The Scenes

ELLA PURNELL and AARON MOTEN Fallout (2024 - ) Behind the Scenes

ending scene ㅡ dazai osamu

➤ Pairing: Mafia Boss! Dazai x Reader

➤ Genre: angst, Beast! AU

➤ Warnings: suicide, major character death

➤ Word count: 654

➤ Summary: Death comes in so many forms; accidents, poisoning, naturally. But Dazai's death came in the shape of you.

➤ Note: haven't been feeling too well and this is the result. if you liked it, please praise me.

Raindrops, so unusually warm, welcomed Dazai's cooling body as he laid on the wet concrete, waiting for death to finally hug him after so many failed attempts, after so many days of suffering, after making sure that Odasaku could live the life he was once denied of experiencing by a cruel lady called fate. Yes, it was worth it, Dazai thought.

His dear friend ended up hating him, but Odasaku could finally write his novel and spend his days with the people of the Agency ㅡ a place which once welcomed, a place where Odasaku would be appreciated and safe unlike in the mafia.

If Dazai's death meant Odasaku's happiness, Dazai gladly paid the price.

Drowning in thoughts, Dazai barely took notice of the many pedestrians passing by his dying body like a ghost, like he was no one, like he was finally ceasing to exist. The brunette couldn't recognize anyone's face, it seemed like distinct features were crossed out, erased and a mere blank canvas. Maybe this was how these pedestrians perceived Dazai; a plain individual who was dying at their feet.

Eyes fluttered shut for a moment, Dazai was content in embracing death at last if it weren't for the pair of shoes standing in front of him.

Gradually, Dazai's eyes widened in shock as the recognized you hovering above him with Yokohama's lights casting a faux halo around your petite silhouette. Why were you there? Dazai was sure that he had erased you from this world, so that his heart wouldn't get into conflict with his plan. He knew that if he had seen you, his feelings would've made turned him into a selfish, greedy man, once again.

Why were you there, smiling and holding a bouquet of red spider lilies in those soft hands he had liked to hold?

"It's been a while, Osamu." You spoke softly, gaze glimmering with the reflection of neon and traffic signs. The coat you wore was damp around your shoulders, hair curled at the tips from the rain and a pitch black umbrella in your other hand. His heart ached as he scrutinized your delicate features.

You kneeled down and gently placed the bouquet on Dazai's chest which was gradually ceasing to rise and fall. With your lips sadly tugged upwards, you brushed straying strands of hair from Dazai's face, fingers carefully tugging at the bandages covering his eye. They came undone.

"You've suffered a lot, haven't you?" Dazai's voice had long since left him, all he could do was weakly nod as he let you touch him. Damn him ㅡ even in death, he was selfish, craving and leaning into your touch he did not deserve. No matter how much Dazai had suffered, those around him were made to suffer even more.

You saw the agony in his eyes, the agony of seeing you again. "Worry not, Osamu. You'll be able to sleep well like you did before." How often had he longed to hear your voice and linger in your sweet words that soothed even the deepest of wounds? Dazai always said your voice reminded him of honey. For some reason, he trusted your words, because you always trusted his.

Dazai could feel his limbs going numb, his heart beat heavily in his chest and breathing became more difficult with each second you were in his presence to tenderly torment him. If there was a God, Dazai figured that you were his divine punishment for all the wrongs he committed. It was only fair, he supposed.

"This is goodbye, my love." You spoke, thumb lovingly caressing the skin underneath Dazai's eye as you pressed your soft lips to his to give him the last kiss he should never get. As his brown orbs fluttered shut and his heart nearly gave in, Dazai realized one thing which had slipped his rotting mind.

It wasn't his suicide that was killing him.

It was you.

243 notes View Post

winnie-zero

3 years ago

Holy shit I hit the 1k mark and didn’t even realise. You guys are all bonkers I started this to just keep track of my prompts! Thank you very much!!! To celebrate, have a short story about how writers are awesome and different ways of seeing the world that none of you will probably read, but I hope those who do will enjoy it :)

How Beautiful the World Is

Andy had always admired writers. They were the only people who could manage to make the world sound so beautiful, he thought. The way that even beautiful things could be made more beautiful; the way every sunset blossomed on the clouds the way that sweet, wild clover blossoms in a meadow, hues from burnt orange flame to heather told in soft rolling verse, the way every field was a luscious bounty of daisies and sun-strengthened grass, and every sky was rolling blue like the foam and ice of breaking waves on the winter coast. They had a habit of making each detail wonderfully beautiful, filled with unparalleled splendour.

However, in all actuality, the world was rather dull. Grass was a limp, pitiful green, sunsets were often mild, mostly unnoticed, not worth being looked upon, the sky was grey, clouds floated gloomily like lost, empty ghosts, the night sky was just a dull, navy sort of blue.

Perhaps it was the cold sadness that hung over him that dampened the world into a flattened grey emptiness, an expanse of tarmac and concrete, weather stained and foot-beaten, lacking in any and all beauty, but perhaps books were just optimistic ways of helping children get through the day.

He could still accept that there were certain beauties to the world, there was no denying that, but often the bad outweighed the good. He remembered someone telling him once that everything was made from a pile of good things, and a pile of bad things, and the good didn’t always make the bad better, but the bad didn’t necessarily sour the good, but he thought that even that was being optimistic.

And then he met Jet.

Johnathan Charles Morrow. When he first heard of him, a transfer student who was arriving in a few days, Andy laughed at the name. They speculated as to who the kid was, weaving tall tales about some rich man’s son who had been pulled from some posh private school after his father had lost all of his money to a gambling addiction, or something else that the particularly high-end community would frown upon, who would turn up with an attitude that turned the world around him foul, and who's accent would be so incredulously opulent that it would be an immense source of entertainment for the rest of the time he was in their lives. How unbelievably wrong they were.

When he first arrived, there was one main surprise to him; Jet had had cancerous growths on both of his optical nerves, not that Andy had known that specifically at the time, and had been forced to have both eyes removed at a very young age. He was completely and utterly blind.

The kid had a wolfish grin that he wore on his face almost every second of the day, and accompanying it was a face that smiled with it, all the way from his chin to his hairline. The smile lines of his face stretched from the corners of his sightless eyes like the magnetic poles of the world he couldn’t see, casting shadows across the smooth golden skin of his cheeks. It was infectious. The joy that cascaded across his face leaked onto everyone and everything around him. It was impossible not to be drawn to him.

Andy first spoke to him on the second day he attended school. It was raining, the grey clouds hung like melancholy sorrows, and it was cold enough that his breath danced across the morning air, spinning like a dancer caught in a moment of time, but the air seemed to warm around Jet, around his resplendent smile.

They began to chat, talking about anything and everything, contrasting opinions giving way to arguments that usually would've angered Andy to the point of storming off, but instead it instilled an almost healthy sense of competition in him, and before he realised, Jet had become one of the best friends that Andy had. And then Jet was the best friend that Andy had.

Then one day, one boring, mundane, Thursday evening, as they were making their way down yet another generic suburban road, on their way back to Jet’s house, and Jet told him he thought the world was beautiful.

Andy was so taken aback that he stopped still where he stood, dead on his feet, and it took a few steps for Jet to realise he’d stopped walking. A crumpled look crossed his features like broken waves crashing over rocks. “How? How on earth can you say that? You can’t even see!”

There was the smile again, intoxicating as ever. “Sight is not what makes the world beautiful.”

“I beg to differ. What else is there beyond sight? Corruption? Pollution? People?”

Jet paused, a quizzical look polluting and distorting his smile, Andy felt a twinge of regret coil its way up his throat, which he swallowed back down again, but feeling a little bad for what he’d said.

“When the sun is shining, I feel the heat on my skin, the soft warmth that makes my skin tingle like I am being enveloped in kindness and love. That is beautiful. When I dip my fingers into crisp water, and I feel the brisk, omnipresent coolness, the relaxation of bracing water on your forehead that balances the sometimes stickiness of excessive heat, that is beautiful. I hear the birds chirping in the morning, whistling their own personal symphonies, singing at the top of their lungs, I am safe, I am awake, I am alive. I think that too, is beautiful. When I walk home from school with you and I hear mothers picking up their children from primary school, their children babbling about whatever it is that children find important at that age. That is beautiful.” He paused, putting a hand on Andy’s shoulder, shuffling his stick awkwardly under his other arm and smiling softly. “When I hear the cheerful voices of my friends in the morning, or their laughs, it reminds me that I am not, nor will I ever be, alone with any sadness that I have, and that, above all else is beautiful.”

“But you're never sad, you smile like every day is a celebration!”

Another conflict of emotion flickered across his face. “Just because you can't see something doesn’t mean it's not there. When you go to the seaside, you can't tell what lies in the depths by standing in the shallows.”

“But you're my best friend! You – I,” A strangled sound ripped itself from his lips and he stepped out of Jet’s grasp, letting his arms fall limply in the space between them. “I should know if you're unhappy, Jet.”

“Andy - I didn’t mean anything of it.”

“So, that smile, it's not really a smile?” He folded his arms across himself and rubbed a hand under his chin. “It's a mask? You – you're hiding behind it?”

“Not in the way you’re implying.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jet didn’t add anything to his previous comment, only turned his head away, sucking his teeth. He mumbled something under his breath that Andy didn’t catch and sighed. There was something bubbling beneath his usually calm composure, not quite irritation, but leaning in that direction, it was quite strange, Andy thought, to see such different mannerisms in his friend, and it made him almost uncomfortable.

Jet began to walk away. Andy had always admired that even though the boy lacked vision, he always went in the right direction, never into traffic, or off a pavement, he was surprisingly like a Canada goose in that respect, had an internal compass that was completely reliable, even more so that sight itself sometimes.

Andy rubbed his thumbs against his fists, but before he had a chance to retaliate in any way, Jet turned back around.

“You are stupid sometimes, you know that?”

“Hey-”

“Happiness only comes when you accept that there are some things that you can't change, I learned that a long time ago,” he gestured to his blackened glasses, “and one example of this is that you can never live in a state of complete happiness. There is no such thing as utopia, as heaven on earth, because there is always going to be something with the potential to ruin your mood, your day, or if you're really unlucky, your life.” Andy watched as he carefully removed his glasses, folded the arms and tucked them into his breast pocket. For the first time, he could see Jets prosthetic eyes, they were a rich hazel, like sun shining through a glass of whiskey, staring emptily at the ground in front of them.

“It all depends on whether you let the things ruin you. I have spent my life trying, desperately, to make sure that the things don’t ruin me, so I smile, and I look specifically for the good things about the world. Whereas you, you look for the sadness, and the grief, and the misery, that covers the world like a depressant, forcing everyone into a constant state of frustration that does nothing but make their life a misery, and then you wonder why you can't see the good in the world.”

“So yes, I think the world is beyond beautiful, and I understand that it is also an awful, awful place, but I choose not to dwell on that, because accepting your fate never gets anyone anywhere. You can't change the problems in the world if you’ve already given up. Life can be beautiful if you let it.”

Andy thought about this for a moment, dumbstruck by the fact that a sightless boy saw more beauty than him.

“And even then, not all beautiful things must be seen. Some beautiful things are the small nothingness that you hold close to your heart and make life worth living.”

Andy nodded, awe filtering through him like adrenaline, filling him up. “You’re right.”

Jet sniggered, that signature Cheshire grin splitting his face ear to ear, “I know.”

And maybe, just maybe, the sunset was just a little brighter that evening

25 notes View Post

winnie-zero

3 years ago