#Shouldn’t be crucified over it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

osarina · 1 month

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ᡣ𐭩 I'D MEET THE SEA UNDER THE SUNLIGHT

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai knows. he knows who you are. he knows what you do. and not only does he know, but in typical dazai fashion, he decides to make it fully your problem. now you're stuck between a rock and a hard place trying to figure out what to do with him—the answer should be obvious, you just can't accept it. but time is ticking and you're treading a thin rope, if you make the smallest mistake...

AUTHOR'S NOTES: part four my children. my eye procedure went well! i've been resting all day, i prob won't be active very much until monday/tuesday, so i'lll queue a few reblogs of this ... i say that, but i also don't know if ill be able to stop myself from responding to comments HAHAH i just love talking to u guys about it so much i cant help it. as always, comments and reblogs appreciated!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, civilian!dazai, dazai's struggles w suicide & sh, reader partakes in mafia business, dazai isn't dazai without a bit of obsessiveness and possessiveness (the possessiveness doesn't come til later but the obsessiveness starts from day 0).

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: i didnt get the chance to proofread this one bc of the procedure so don't crucify me if the grammar is awful </3 i have a doctor's pass </3

SEE: WASTELAND, BABY! SERIES MASTERLIST

It takes Dazai Osamu approximately two days, seven hours and fifty-three minutes to get his hands on proof of your affiliation with the Port Mafia. He supposes it was due to luck—the timing of when he got confirmation of his suspicions—but Dazai thinks it’s also due to his ability to think quickly if he does say so himself.

He stares at the file that Katai emailed him, a lump in his throat that he can’t seem to push away, unsure if he wants to open it and be forced with physical evidence of who you are and what you do. He doesn’t even know why he’s so hesitant, he already knows. He already knows so he shouldn’t be hesitant… but if he already knows, then why does he need to see the proof? What is this going to do for him? What is he going to do with this information? Nothing, the answer is nothing, so then why-

Katai: Can you quit holding that date from four years ago over my head now?

Dazai: no ^.^

Katai: Of course not. Whatever. Dazai, I don’t know what you’re doing but you need to stop digging into this—it’s dangerous. And I don’t want to be involved.

Dazai shuts his phone off immediately.

He hovers the cursor over the video file on his laptop, chewing the inside of his cheek—the supposed footage from whatever happened behind Tokyo’s City Hall last night. With his heart tight in his chest and the image of your smile burned behind his eyelids, he clicks on the file.

Two days after the event, you and Chuuya are sitting in Mori’s office getting the talk down of a lifetime. Mori has been going on for thirty minutes already and you’re sick of his voice. You don’t know how it’s your fault that the Shimazaki-kai decided to try to take you out while you were in Tokyo but evidently it is.

“I don’t see how this is an issue, boss,” Chuuya finally says, voice strained. “The Sun and Steel are already on top of the situation, Noriko was livid when she realized that they tried to assassinate one of us while we were in Tokyo under the Sun and Steel’s protection.”

“You don’t see how this is an issue,” Mori repeats slowly, voice nothing short of mocking. Usually, he at least tries to mask his annoyance—you and Chuuya share a concerned look with one another. “You don’t see how it’s an issue that we’ve caused this conflict to escalate to the point of the Shimazaki-kai being willing to go to war with the Sun and Steel if it means the mere chance of getting rid of one of us?”

“Okay,” Chuuya mutters. “Well, when you say it like that…”

“And by ‘we’ I mean ‘you’, little hime,” Mori says coolly, leveling his calculating gaze onto you. You don’t flinch beneath it, meeting it head on as you raise your chin. “This all stems from your reckless decision to attack the Inagawa-kai.”

“She didn’t have a choice.” Chuuya jumps to your defense, frowning. “They attacked her at the ports. That was a declaration of war in itself.”

You almost wince at the ridiculing look Mori directs toward Chuuya, voice amused as he speaks. “Is that what she told you?”

Chuuya gives you a questioning look but you don’t give Mori anymore time to stir the pot. You don’t need Chuuya knowing that your decision was driven by Dazai of all people—he’s already angry enough about the situation with the civilian.

“And here I thought you were going to… what was it you said? ‘Clean up my mess?’” you say snidely, drawing Mori’s attention back to you. “Perhaps the real reason the Yakuza syndicates are so willing to challenge our authority is not because of my decision but rather because of the incapability perceived in our boss.”

Chuuya’s eyes shoot open and Mori raises his brows, entirely unperturbed by your comment.

“To think all it would take for you to start biting back…” Mori trails off, unbearably amused and clearly referring to Dazai, making you stiffen. “How fascinating. You’ve kept up this ruse longer than I expected. I think this is the first time you’ve managed to surprise me, little hime.”

Your expression twists as you look away, ignoring the lost look Chuuya gives you, clearly irritated because he doesn’t know what’s going on. Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you take the welcome distraction eagerly, hoping to find an excuse to get out of this wretched meeting.

Klaus: your civilian boy is at your tower

You: What?

Klaus: *one image attached*

You stare down at your phone in shock, desperately trying to ignore the curious looks Mori and Chuuya are sending your way.

What the fuck?

Dazai tilts his head to the side, giving the three boys standing in front of him a simpering smile. One of them—the emo one with black hair and white tips—bares his teeth at Dazai like a feral dog, the one in the middle—Dazai recognizes him as Klaus, the boy with you that day at the ports—gives him an irritable look, while the one standing in the back—a nervous looking boy with choppy silver hair and a black collar—lets out a pathetic noise in the back of his throat.

“She’s gonna be so fucking mad at you,” Klaus tells him, voice harsh. His Japanese is broken and accented but understandable for the most part. “She’s gonna fucking-”

He shifts into a foreign language mid-sentence—German, maybe—so Dazai doesn’t know what he’s saying but he’s sure it’s nothing good. He keeps up the overly confident facade, even if he does start to doubt himself internally.

Shit, he thinks to himself, smile fraying at the edges, what is he doing?

Dazai definitely did not think this through and it’s way too late for him to back down now. After watching the video and seeing you with the gravity manipulator, seeing the brief battle in the alley behind the Tokyo city hall, Dazai pretty much blackmailed Katai into using the CCTV cameras between both cities to follow you back to Yokohama to see what building you live in. In retrospect, maybe that’s a little creepy, but he just watched you and the gravity manipulator kill a whole crew of people so he thinks stalking you a bit isn’t too bad in comparison.

“Who do you think you are?” the black-haired one says, voice tight and pitched. His jaw is clenched tight and he takes half a step forward but pauses when he sees the sharp look of warning that Klaus gives him.

He thinks maybe he is stupid. Ango used to rattle him around and yell at him for doing stupid things back before Odasaku died but he thinks this might take the cake for the stupidest thing Dazai has ever done. Standing outside a building owned by the Mafia, antagonizing three mafiosos, waiting here to demand a conversation with someone who is likely their boss. Ango might’ve been right when he said that Dazai has no functioning brain cells.

“None of your business,” Dazai replies with a sweet smile, almost giggling at the way the boy bears his teeth again, even more livid than before.

“You-”

“Stop.”

All three boys go rigid at the sound of your voice and even Dazai stiffens at the cold tone. He forces himself to turn his head to the side, eyes falling upon you as you make your way toward the four of them. The suit you’re wearing today is different—usually he’s seen you wear black on black, but today you’re wearing a burgundy button-up under your suit jacket. You look beautiful—always do, Dazai thinks wistfully—but Dazai finds himself swallowing thickly instead, not used to the blank look you cast over him before you turn your attention over to the three boys.

Ouch, Dazai thinks, not really knowing what he expected but it still hurts to be dismissed like that.

“Klaus, go wipe the cameras around headquarters—wherever he might have passed through,” you say. “Akutagawa, Atsushi, if anyone finds out about this…”

The two boys that Dazai doesn’t recognize share a look with one another, odd expressions spreading across their faces before they nod. All three scamper off without another word, the silver-haired boy giving Dazai a short, worried look that puts Dazai on edge before leaving. You don’t look at him. Rather, you stride right past him toward the building.

Dazai swallows thickly before following after you. You don’t say a word as you lead him to the tall, black building and Dazai wants to say something but his words get caught in his throat. He doesn’t know what to say. Dazai always has something to say but he doesn’t right now and that scares him because he needs to figure out what he’s going to say to you when the two of you finally get up to your apartment.

“Hey, I know you’re a mafia executive because I had my hacker friend get me CCTV tapes from the Tokyo City Hall and I saw you and that short ginger with the tacky hat murder a bunch of guys. Plus, I had him stalk you so I could figure out where you live.”

Yeah, right.

Dazai shivers at the rush of cool air that hits him as he enters the building with you, watches the way the doorman gives him a curious look before inclining his head to you. You give the older man a pointed look before nodding your head to one of the corners of the room and the elevator—Dazai doesn’t know what you’re getting at but he obviously does from the way says:

“Of course, hime.”

You don’t say anything still, leading him toward the elevator and holding it open so he can step past and stand inside. You follow after him, clicking the button to the top floor of the building before scanning a keycard.

How awkward.

Dazai almost wants to crawl out of his own skin, toss himself right out of the glass elevator looking over the city. You don’t even look at him—you keep your gaze trained forward, lips curled down, not even sparing Dazai the briefest glance as the elevator starts to move up.

Maybe this was a mistake, Dazai starts to think, twiddling with his fingers as he keeps sparing short glances in your direction. He still doesn’t even know what he wants to come from this—shouldn’t the proof of your affiliation with the Mafia have been enough to send him running? He should’ve taken it as reason to stop reaching out to you, gone back to life before you but-

But life before you was dark.

His throat spasms as he swallows. Life before you was dark. Life before you was him dragging himself out of bed every day trying to convince himself that he couldn’t let himself die until he fulfilled Odasaku’s final request. Life before you was him fighting depressive episode after depressive episode with alcohol and sex, preferring pain to the emptiness he seemed to constantly be plagued with because at least that meant he could feel something.

He doesn’t want to go back to that—you’re the first person who's actually seen him since Odasaku died. The first person to make him feel as if he’s worth something. He doesn’t give a shit about about what you do, he doesn’t want to go back to life without you.

He glances over at you again, catching the eerily blank expression on your face as you stare ahead. Three words spill from his lips before he can stop them.

“Are you mad?” His voice wavers over the question; he feels pathetic. Feels like a kid tugging at his mother’s shirt after he did something wrong.

You finally look at him though, turn your head slowly toward him as if you don’t even want to believe he actually asked that. Dazai doesn’t know if it’s progress or not because the expression on your face is nothing short of livid.

“Okay,” he says quietly, averting his gaze back to the glass of the elevator.

God, how many floors is this building? The ride to the top floor is taking an agonizingly long amount of time. He doesn’t know if it’s because the elevator itself is slow or if it’s because the building is just that tall or if it just seems longer because of Dazai’s own turmoil—either way, it leaves Dazai miserable.

He really needs to figure out what he’s going to say to you. He should have figured it out before coming here but Dazai just got too antsy with the information Katai gave him on hand and he found himself making his way over here before he could double guess himself.

He doesn’t think you’ll appreciate him using Katai to get the evidence of your position in the Mafia—plus, it could put him in danger and Dazai doesn’t want that. He thinks maybe he’ll pin the blame on his professor—you don’t seem to like him anyway, so you might take it at face value. If you don’t, he’ll have to figure something else out to protect Katai but Dazai has always been a quick thinker so he has faith that he’ll think of something.

If he’s lucky, you’ll lead the conversation and he’ll be able to reflect off of you after seeing where your head's at. That would be the best case scenario.

After what feels like an eternity, the elevator finally bings, signaling that it has finally reached the top floor of the building. You step out before him, hardly even looking at him as you stride into your apartment. Dazai follows after, a bit more hesitantly.

His breath catches as his gaze twists around the massive space—floor to ceiling windows line the walls looking over the city, black couches set up in front of the TV and expensive decor littering the room, there’s a kitchen off to the right and a staircase leading up to a second level.

What types of apartments have staircases? Dazai thinks, distressed, finally looking back at you.

You’ve crossed the room—almost like you’ve wanted to put as much distance as possible between you and him, which is a thought that kind of hurts because he’s been yearning for your presence since you left his apartment the morning you were supposed to leave for abroad. Your expression is entirely unreadable and Dazai doesn’t really know how to feel about that because he can’t figure out how to approach this now.

“You know, originally I was interested in you because I thought you were a lot smarter than you made yourself out to be,” you say, voice dry. Dazai nearly cheers, realizing that he did, in fact, get the best case scenario—he listens intently, mind racing as he tries to figure out what route he should take with you. “I was clearly wrong.”

Dazai pouts. “My bella thinks I’m stupid,” he sighs dramatically but his lashes flutter as he averts his gaze when you don’t find any amusement in his words, readjusting his plan. His theatrical lilt falls flat when he adds, “Maybe I am.”

“I don’t think there’s a maybe,” you correct, unamused. “What do you know and what do you want?”

Dazai is almost taken aback by your tone—cold and flat, very transactional. Maybe he should have taken the lead because he doesn’t know what you mean and he doesn’t like your tone. He watches as you fish through your pocket to find a cigarette and lighter, sticking it between your lips to light it. You look up at him, raising your eyebrows.

“What?” he asks, voice a bit weak.

“What do you know and what do you want? I think they’re pretty simple questions,” you say sardonically. “I have a general idea of what you know already—if you’re here, you have more than whatever that cunt Ui has on me—and I promise you that no amount of money the Ivory Eagle will offer you can compare to what I’ll give you. Plus, I’ll have to kill you if you go to it with them so I think that’s pretty convincing in itself. I want to know exactly what you know so I can figure out how much they’d pay you for the information. I figure you want money, that’s why you’re here.”

“I don’t…” Dazai trails off, a bit lost. He’s still not sure why he came here but he knows it’s not for money and honestly, he thinks he’s a little hurt that you assumed that, can feel the sting in his chest and the lump in his throat.

The smile you give him is cool, you tilt your head to the side and look at him. “Come on, Dazai, you don’t have to keep up with the act. You got close to me to get evidence for Ui, that’s obvious; probably realized it would be more worthwhile trying to get money from me to keep you quiet because they’ve barely got enough money to keep their shitty journalism house running. Honestly, I should probably just-”

“No,” Dazai forces out, interrupting you, lips parted and throat swollen—this is not going well. “That’s not-that’s not true. I didn’t get close to you to get evidence, I didn’t even know until the other day.”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Dazai?” you ask, expression tight. “Because I’m not. As soon as you slipped up and said his name at the event, I realized. You think we don’t know everything that goes on in this city? About that shitty journalist group trying to expose us?”

“I didn’t slip up,” Dazai says, voice more shrill than he intended it to be. His mind falls flat at every corner as he tries to figure out how to salvage this. “I didn’t slip up because I didn’t know. I didn’t know. It wasn’t-this wasn’t some grand scheme, I like you-” (he didn’t mean to say that) “I mean-it’s just-I don’t-”

Dazai feels flustered. He feels flustered and he’s stumbling over words in a way that he hasn’t in years, unable to get out a single coherent sentence because his mind is all over the place. Shit, he thought he was going to have to defend himself from having Katai stalk you so he could figure this out and find you; he didn’t think he’d have to defend himself because you thought everything from day one was some grand scheme to expose you as a mafioso.

You clearly don’t believe him from the way you roll your eyes and it makes Dazai’s distress spike exponentially.

“Then pray tell, Dazai, why are you here? You’re here for something, obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t have been stupid enough to show up here of all places to dangle over my head that you know who I am.”

The words slip from his lips before he can stop them.

“I wanted you to stop ignoring me,” he says, arms instinctively curling around his body as he stares at you, feeling more than a bit vulnerable at the blank look you give him in response to his words.

“You… want to make me stop ignoring you by… blackmailing me?”

“... Yes?”

The sigh you let out is long. Instead of responding, you take a drag of your cigarette, tilting your head back against the wall you’re leaning on to look up at the ceiling. Dazai stares at you, chewing the inside of his cheek as he waits for your response.

“What do you have on me?” you finally ask, taking a few steps forward to put the cigarette out on an ashtray before raising your eyebrows and tilting your head to the side. “Well? I know you must have more than the location of this building.”

Dazai hesitates before he says, “Footage from behind the Tokyo City Hall.”

Your expression doesn’t betray you as you press, “Footage of what?”

“You and the ginger with the ugly hat,” Dazai answers, trying not to smile at the way you clearly have to hide your amusement at his snide comment.

“What are we doing in the footage?” you ask. “What makes it condemning?”

“… He splattered six guys against the wall.”

You sigh, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dazai. You saw that and still came here? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Dazai gives you a weak smile “You’ll have to be a bit more specific, there are a lot of things wrong with me,” he tells you, echoing the words from your second meeting with him, hoping they make you lighten up.

They do.

He watches as you let out another breath, tense shoulders relaxing, suddenly looking a lot more tired as you look away from him.

“I missed you,” he adds quietly, fingers running along the hem of his sweater. “It’s cruel and unusual punishment to kiss a guy like you did and then ghost him.”

“It was to keep you out of this life, Dazai,” you say tiredly. “I mean-shit, Dazai. I don’t know what you want me to do, I don’t even trust you right now, you could have a fucking wire on you for all I know and-”

“I could strip for you,” Dazai offers, lips curling up in a flirtatious smile as he flutters his lashes at you. “I’ll give you a show.”

You’re not amused.

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Dazai. This is your life.”

“Well, my life has been one giant joke up until I met you so forgive me if I don’t care,” Dazai says, voice unintentionally rising in response to your words because who are you to decide on his behalf to cut him off because his life is in danger. That’s a decision for him to make. “You can’t just make those decisions for me.”

Dazai thinks he prefers the anger that crosses over your face to the tiredness and emptiness. His breath catches when he sees the way your jaw tightens and the way your eyes get fired up.

“It doesn’t just affect you, Dazai,” you hiss. “If you get pulled into this and something happens to you, that’s on me.”

Dazai’s heart jumps at the implications of your words, nails digging into his palms.

“And how does that affect you?” Dazai presses, the desperation that hangs off of his words so glaring that Dazai almost wants to curl in on himself. He wants to hear you say it, wants you to alleviate all of the thoughts threatening to consume him since you left his apartment that morning—wants to hear you say that you care, that he does mean something to you.

Your expression becomes closed off again as you realize what he wants you to say and Dazai swallows thickly, gaze searching your face for answers.

“You know how it affects me,” you finally respond as you look away. “You know, Dazai.”

It has nothing to do with what I want, you said at the event when he asked why you didn’t tell him why you didn’t want to be with him. The conflict on your face when you said things were too complicated to explain. The anger when you realized Professor Ui had purposely put him in danger trying to get evidence to condemn the Sun and Steel.

“I want you to say it,” he says hoarsely.

You don’t reply for a moment, watching him with an expression that’s impossible for him to decipher. Your brows are furrowed and your lips are pressed together tight, but the look in your eyes—there’s so much emotion in them that Dazai thinks he could get lost in them, it nearly leaves him breathless.

“You are actually the bane of my existence, Dazai Osamu,” you finally say, shoulders slumping as you look away again. Not exactly what he wanted to hear but he thinks that’s as good of an admission that he’s going to get right now.

“And the object of all of your desires?” Dazai prods with a teasing smile.

Your gaze cuts back toward him. “Did you just quote Bridgerton at me?” you ask, voice riddled with disbelief.

Embarrassed, Dazai flushes and then he hits you back with: “You watched Bridgerton?”

Instead of responding, seemingly equally embarrassed by the callout as Dazai is, you scowl at him and shake your head but your voice is lighter now when you speak—if only barely. “Honestly, Dazai, what did you think you were going to get out of this by coming here? I could have killed you. I should kill you. Coming to the headquarters of the Port Mafia to blackmail one of its executives with evidence threatening to expose them-”

“I didn’t threaten to expose you,” Dazai protests, prancing a bit more into your apartment. Now that he’s not as stressed, he can actually admire your apartment—apartment, is this even an apartment? He runs his fingers along the pristine black marble of the bar separating your kitchen from the living room, ignoring the way your eyes follow him. “I just…”

“You threatened to expose me,” you interrupt dryly. “You implied it.”

“I did not,” Dazai complains. “It’s not my fault you took it that way.”

You roll your eyes. “What were you thinking, Dazai?” you ask again.

Dazai gives you a sweet smile. “I’m thinking that you’re going to take me out on a date.”

You don’t know why you’re even entertaining him.

Three days later, you’re outside Dazai’s apartment complex waiting for him to get back from his classes. You’d have gone to the campus itself but you don’t feel like having to beg Albatross or Iceman to get into the campus cameras to wipe the footage of you being there, especially knowing that it’ll get right back to Chuuya who is still under the belief that you’re no longer talking to Dazai.

You scowl as you look down at your phone, checking the time again. He should’ve been back ten minutes ago—you told him you were here waiting. Your reservation is in thirty minutes and he still has to change, you glance over your shoulder as a group of college students make their way toward the complex. You hardly stop yourself from rolling your eyes, you’d figured that the complex would be popular with the kids attending YNU—that’s why you ended up buying it—but you really don’t want to interact with any of them.

You can feel them looking at you too—fuck, you should have just stayed in your car. From the corner of your eye, you can see them exchange curious looks with one another. One of the boys nudges another, clearly beckoning him to go try to talk to you and you will strength from the gods-

You hear your name fall from familiar lips, quiet and unsure, and the unpleasant expression that you know must be on your face melts away. You let your head fall to the side over your shoulder, gaze focusing on Dazai—he’s dressed casually in a brown sweater and cream pants, school books tucked to his chest and backpack hanging off of his shoulders. He looks surprised at the sight of you so you raise your eyebrows.

“You’re late, I texted you,” you say simply as he approaches you, glancing at the car and then to you curiously.

“My phone died,” he replies sheepishly, a bit of light returning to his eyes as he comes closer to you. Warmth starts to spread through your chest when you see how the corners of his lips twitch up, fingers absently thrumming against his books. “Where are we going?”

“You’re getting changed,” you reply, nodding to the suit hanging in the passenger seat of he car, “and then-”

“Yo, Dazai-kun!”

Your eye twitches at the interruption, gaze twisting to the side to fall on one of the boys from that group you’d been dreading walking over before Dazai arrived. You notice him stiffen, an uncomfortable expression crossing his face when he hears his name being called. So, you sigh, motion for him to go into the car and grab the suit as you turn your attention to the group of approaching college students.

“We’re busy,” you say with a tight smile, tone short and perfunctory but trying to be polite.

Your eyes sweep over the one who spoke up—he’s dressed nice, slacks and a button up, tailored neatly to his body, but there’s something so distasteful about him that you can’t help the way your lip curls up in disgust. Maybe it’s because of the way Dazai looks so uncomfortable.

The man looks entirely unperturbed by your blatant dismissal, giving you a charming smile. “I’m Yoshimura Hiro—me and Daz-”

Irritated, you glance one last time at Dazai, seeing that he got the suit out of the car and shut the door. You lock the car and without another word, press your hand against Dazai’s lower back to urge him forward, walking away from the small group without another word.

Dazai can hardly muffle the snort that escapes his lips as soon as the two of you make it into the building. His eyes have regained that brightness that they’d lost when his classmates approached you, a smile curving at his lips.

“That was so rude,” he says with a grin.

“We have a reservation to make,” you tell him dryly. “I said we were busy.”

“Still, you didn’t even wait for him to finish introducing himself.”

“Would you have preferred I had?” you ask, glancing at him as he unlocks his apartment, watching as his smile falters as he shakes his head. “Why don’t you get along with them?”

Dazai shrugs but he seems a bit more awkward now as you step into his apartment. He tosses his books onto the coffee table and shrugs his backpack off onto the couch. You lean against the wall as you wait for him to respond, noting that his apartment is much cleaner than the last time you were here.

“They don’t like me,” he corrects absently, fiddling with a mug on his coffee table before bringing it over to the kitchen. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a silent question lingering at the end of the sentence—you know it, even if you couldn’t tell from the way the words hang, you can see it in the way his eyes draw over to you. Maybe he wants reassurance of some kind that you do like him, that you’re not just doing this because of the blackmail, but the words die on the tip of your tongue.

Instead, you say, “Go get changed. We’re running late already.”

Dazai looks disappointed by your words—you can see it in the way his shoulders slump and his lashes lower, the corner of his lips tightening—but he lets out a dramatic sigh, muttering something under his breath before going into his bathroom to change.

Luckily, it only takes him a few minutes to get changed into the suit. He comes out as he’s still buttoning up the waistcoat—jacket slung over his shoulder. Your eyes drop down to his slim waist, eyes lingering at how neatly the vest clings to it.

Kido really did a good job, you think, having to drag your eyes back up to his face as he finally shrugs the jacket on and looks back up at you.

“You look nice,” you compliment, watching as his cheeks flush just a shade darker. “I didn’t have time to change after my meeting. If I’d known you were going to be ten minutes late, I would’ve.”

Dazai promptly scowls at you. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have waited until the last second to tell me. What if I already had plans?” he complains, but then adds, “… I think you look beautiful.”

“I wear this outfit everyday,” you dismiss, ignoring the way your chest flutters.

“I know,” he admits quietly. “You look beautiful everyday.”

Oh.

“We should go!” Dazai says suddenly, a bit too loudly to be casual. “We’re running late, aren’t we?”

You clear your throat. “Yeah,” you say. “Come on, let’s go.”

The walk back to your car is quiet—the students you’d left there are gone, thank god. You can feel Dazai looking at you every few seconds as if he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to say it. You have half a mind to just tell him to spit it out but you still find yourself a bit flustered so you just let it be until you’re in the car.

“Where are we going anyway?” Dazai finally asks as you pull out of the complex, twisting in the passenger seat to look at you. His eyes look almost golden beneath the rays of the sun, soft and excited, you can’t help the way your gaze lingers before you force yourself to focus on the road.

“You said you wanted to go to that restaurant by your campus, didn’t you?” you ask, tilting your head to the side to raise your eyebrows before looking forward again. “Taking you there.”

“The rooftop restaurant looking over the park?” Dazai splutters, eyes widening. “You remembered that? It’s so expensive, I-”

You don’t even acknowledge the last thing he was saying. Instead, you give him a squinty look before asking, “Why wouldn’t I remember?”

Dazai’s lips part as he stares at you like he’s trying to say something but can’t bring himself to. You don’t like the way he’s looking at you, it makes your heart twist in on itself. It’s too intense, too close to lo-

You don’t even let yourself finish that sentence, focusing back on the road as you change the subject. “They import crabs from the Beagle Channel in southern Argentina—best quality in the world, much better than that canned shit you eat every day.”

“What do you have against canned crab?” Dazai complains, leaning his head against the window. “You hate me. How did you even get a reservation at this place? They’re booked out like ten months in advance, we talked three days ago.”

You give Dazai a heavy side eye that he understands instantly from how he rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath that you don’t quite catch.

“What was that?” you ask, giving him a pointed smile.

“Nothing,” he scowls.

You smile to yourself, focusing on driving again. The restaurant isn’t far from his complex so you get there pretty quickly. Dazai is quiet for most of the rest of the ride aside from the occasional comment about his classes. He bitches about his engineering class and all of the irritating freshman boys that he’s taking it with because it’s a 101 class, tells you vaguely about how he’s on a roll for one of his projects for his poetry workshop, explains the plot of the book he’s reading for his creative writing class, and he notably does not mention anything about his journalism class—you don’t know if it’s because he’s too awkward to bring it up or what, but you’re grateful for it because the last thing you want to do is think about him working with Ui Koutarou to expose you as a mafia executive. You still don’t even entirely believe this isn’t some whole big scheme they concocted together.

You let the car roll to a stop in front of the tower the restaurant is in, leaving it running as you put it in park and nod for Dazai to get out. You get out yourself, grabbing the keys and tossing them over to the valet with a quick thanks before leading Dazai into the building.

He looks almost wonderstruck as he steps into the tower, brown eyes wide and glittering as he looks at all of the expensive decor in the lobby of the tower. You have to physically guide him forward, arm slipping around his waist to get him moving in the direction of the elevator, but as soon as you come in contact with him, he goes rigid. Your brows furrow, about to pull your arm back but before you can, he presses his palm against the back of your hand, holding your arm in place for a quick second. You can’t help the smile that twitches to your lips when his arm drops back to his side and you catch the pretty flush staining his cheeks as he pointedly looks away.

You lead him into the elevator, catching the pout that pushes at his lips when your arm leaves his waist and you’re going to tease him for it but then you catch the oddly intense look in his eyes as he gazes down at you.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he replies, throat bobbing as if considering what to say. “It’s just… no one has ever done this for me before.”

“It’s just dinner, Dazai,” you tell him, voice quiet as you look away, missing the way his expression drops at your words.

“Yeah,” he agrees, though he sounds strained now so you give him a concerned look that he tries to play off with a smile that’s too frayed at the edges for comfort. You’re about to call him out on it but you don’t get the chance because the elevator doors slide open to the restaurant on the top floor before you can.

A familiar face stands on the other side of the elevator, delighted at the sight of you. “Hime,” the owner of the restaurant greets as you step out of the elevator with Dazai, reaching out to clasp one of your hands with both of his. “I almost didn’t believe it when they said you called to see if we could get you a table tonight. It’s been so long.”

“Ah, Yoshida-san, you’ll have to forgive me,” you say with an easy smile. “You know how busy work can get.”

“Of course, of course,” Yoshida replies, glancing at Dazai and inclining his head to him. “This must be your date. Come, I’ll seat the two of you.”

Dazai looks a bit out of his depth, the smile on his face strained and an unsure look in his eyes so you reach out to hook your arm into his, leading him through the restaurant as you make idle talk with Yoshida. You’re pleased when he brings you to a table near the window with a view over the whole park and the distant bay.

Yoshida bows his head down to the two of you and lets you get settled, you take a seat but then give Dazai an odd look when he just stands there with a contemplative expression. You’re about to ask him what he’s doing when he suddenly moves to grab the chair opposite you.

He drags the chair from his side of the table all the way to yours. The legs scrape the floor so loudly that it draws the attention of all of the other patrons of the restaurant. You stare at him, lips parted in disbelief, but Dazai only gives you a sweet smile in return. He’s entirely unperturbed, plopping the chair down right next to yours and taking a seat in it. He rests his elbow on the table, propping his chin on his hand and watching you with an indescribable look in his eyes.

“You’re the worst,” you tell him but there’s no heat to your words as the corners of your lips tug up.

“You love me anyway,” Dazai coos, gaze flickering down to your lips briefly before settling back on your eyes.

When a soft, pleased smile spreads across Dazai’s face as he leans in to nudge his shoulder against yours, you have to actively remind yourself that you’re only doing this because of the blackmail.

Dazai is already lounging on your couch when you get up to your apartment. You don’t seem to notice him—you’re clearly unhappy about something, lips twisted down and brows furrowed as you talk to someone on your phone. It’s not until Dazai peeks his head up above the back of the couch to look at you do you finally catch sight of the movement, eyes flickering to the side to focus on him.

“Thanks, Tolstoy, I’ll let you know if I need him. I appreciate it,” you say before letting the phone drop from your ear and ending the call.

For a horrifying second, your expression doesn’t change and all of those insecurities that he can’t push away—that you really are only doing this because of the video, that he’s forcing himself on you instead of giving you an excuse to actually be with him that goes above the fears that are haunting you. But then, you sigh and your shoulders slump. You toss your jacket onto the other couch before sitting with him on the one he’s sitting on, knees knocking against his.

“Hi,” Dazai says with a small smile, itching to shift closer to you but hardly refraining. “You’re late today.”

“You’re early,” you reply dryly but there’s a fond curl to the corners of your lips that makes Dazai feel nice and warm. “You know, I think you’ve been at my apartment more than yours the past week.”

Dazai’s smile becomes simpering. “Why would I stay in my small, dirty apartment when I could stay in your nice one?” he asks, watching as you roll yours. “Anyway, you love it when I’m here. Your apartment would be so lonely and boring without me.”

“It would be something alright,” you agree half-heartedly, leaning your head against the back of the couch and letting your eyes slide shut.

Dazai’s smile falters as soon as your gaze leaves him, an uncomfortable and unwelcome feeling spreading through his chest. Is he being too much? He has been spending a lot of time at your apartment but it’s because whenever he’s alone, his own thoughts threaten to consume him. They whisper too loudly about how you’d never be doing this without the blackmail, about how he’s so desperate to not be alone that he’d stoop to forcing you to hang out with him. They’re quieter when he’s here, even when you’re not, so he’s been spending as much time as possible in your apartment, doing his schoolwork and watching TV while he waits for you to come back.

“Long day?” Dazai finally asks to draw himself out of his own thoughts, watching as you look back over at him.

“Mhm,” you agree, leaning your head against the back of the couch. “Lots of meetings. All with people I don’t like.”

You’ve become a bit more open over the past week—you still don’t tell him anything of importance, of course, but you’re at least not avoiding just about every topic that edges somewhat close to your ‘business’. He still feels like he doesn’t know you as well as he should and he hasn’t tried to push that anymore since the night you showed up at his apartment. He wants to try to push again but he’s just worried that he’s going to take it too far and he’ll mess it up.

He supposes he should at least try to feel it out though.

“Can I ask something?” he asks after a moment, almost wincing when you immediately cast him a suspicious look.

“The last time you asked me that, you were trying to figure out if I was in the Mafia,” you say doubtfully and Dazai’s throat goes dry as you lean back against the arm of the couch and extend your legs outward onto his lap. Hesitantly, he drops his hand onto your ankle, grip becoming more firm when you don’t instantly pull away.

“Well, we’ve already figured that out,” Dazai says with a sweet smile but then lets the smile drop as he adds more seriously, “I just want to get to know you better.”

You sigh, watching him carefully for a moment before nodding. “Go ahead,” you say. “Ask.”

“What’s your ability?”

Instantly, you sigh and look away. Dazai’s heart drops and his lips part to say something else but he doesn’t know what.

“I can’t, Dazai,” you finally tell him and Dazai tries not to be disappointed but he can’t help the way his lashes lower. “It’s not-you shouldn’t even know I have an ability. Only a handful of people know. It’s literally the most confidential secret in the-I can’t.”

“But I already know you have one,” Dazai presses, his tone coming across as far too close to a whine considering the look you give him. “What’s the harm in telling me what it is?”

“Dazai,” you say, voice becoming more edged. “You don’t understand what people would do to get intel on my ability—I’m not going to-”

“I just want to know you,” Dazai interrupts, words drawn out and throat tight. “I just-I want to know you.”

You stare at him for a moment and Dazai’s grip on your ankle tightens, expression dropping. Just as he’s about to drawback and give up, you sigh and look away from him.

“I can mess around with people’s minds,” you finally tell him, voice quiet. Dazai’s eyes widen, head snapping toward you as he waits for you to continue. “I can… induce different types of mental and physical states in the brain and mind.”

“Like… Emma Frost?” Dazai asks, squinting. You give him an odd look so he amends, “Like mind control?”

“No,” you answer. “I can’t… control minds. I can like… induce short term changes in emotions and sensations. I’m not directly manipulating them but putting them into a state and letting them work with it. They can either snap themselves out of it or make it stronger.”

“... I see,” Dazai says slowly. “So, you can make someone happy but if something makes them sad after, it’ll snap them out of it?”

“Pretty much,” you hum but there’s a weird look on your face that tells Dazai that maybe you’re not saying everything. “Some emotions are easier than others. Happiness is more… fragile, harder to sustain in a target. Fear is much more… a lot like a parasite—once you put it in someone’s head, almost everyone will start to spiral. It’s much harder to break out of.”

“The mindkiller,” Dazai notes, quoting one of his favorite books, a bit of morbid curiosity spiking, wanting to know how he would fare.

You give him an amused look. “Now, you’re quoting Dune? Quite the broad taste in media.”

“You’ve read Dune, too?” Dazai gapes. “You must be my soulmate.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Ridiculously cute,” Dazai counters immediately, smile twitching at his lips when he sees the fond expression on your face.

Then, naturally, he makes a mistake.

“Can you use it on me?” Dazai asks, leaning forward a bit. When you give him a sharp, alarmed look, he quickly fumbles out, “Not like anything big. I just want to see what it’s like. Just something sma-”

“No.”

“But-”

“No,” you say loudly, making Dazai draw back, hand falling from your ankle to rest on the couch next to him. You pull your legs off of his lap and sit up straight, turning your body away from him. “Just no, Dazai. Don’t ask me that again.”

“I didn’t mean-” Dazai starts to apologize but he’s flustered, not having expected a response like that from you. He fucked up. Again. Just as he was making progress. Again. “I don’t-”

“I can’t turn off my ability,” you tell him quietly after a moment. “It’s… always going to some extent. Making people around me more at ease so they feel more comfortable talking to me. I don’t like using it to its full extent if I don’t have to, not on people I consider friends at least. I never know if people… I don’t know who wants to be around me for me and who’s just influenced by my ability.”

Oh.

Dazai shifts closer to you, there’s an unreadable expression on your face as you stare ahead. He hesitates for a second before reaching out and grabbing your hand, forcing you to look at him.

“I want you for you,” Dazai stresses. When you start to shake your head and look away, he repeats, “I do. I-”

“You wouldn’t know, Dazai,” you say, voice tight. “That’s the issue, you wouldn’t know.”

“I would know,” Dazai tells you, squeezing your hand. “I would know, I want you. I do.”

You don’t respond to him this time, staring ahead and Dazai doesn’t know what to do because you look sad. You look lost in your own thoughts, consumed by whatever is running through your head. It’s familiar—the same way he probably looks whenever he lets the parasites in his brain start eating away, sending him down a dangerous spiral.

He wants to draw you out of it.

More than that, he wants to kiss you again. Desperately.

He’s yearned for it since that night in his apartment, spent long nights alone and aching for your company when he thought you were abroad. For days, he could feel his lips tingling with the ghost of yours still brushing against them, could feel the weight of your body on his hips, grounding him when he thought he would finally be consumed by the emptiness that perpetually plagues him. He thinks maybe he can draw you out in the same way you always do for him.

He wants to kiss you, and he’s about to lean in to do just that, breath catching in the back of his throat as his body becomes prickly with nerves.

You turn your head away before he can, rising to your feet and making your way to your bedroom, leaving him damningly alone in the living room of your apartment.

He lets out a shaky breath, staring down at his lap, a cold and unsure feeling taking root in his chest.

Dazai has become a constant presence in your life.

At first, it caused you nothing but stress—you constantly feared that him showing up to your apartment would lead to unwelcome eyes learning of his existence but he’s been very careful entering and leaving the building, and Klaus has been on top of the cameras. You think it’s been around a week and a half, maybe two weeks since Dazai first confronted you about everything and in that week and a half (maybe two weeks), you don’t think a single day has gone by without you coming home to find Dazai curled up on your couch or hunched over your kitchen table.

Today is no different.

Your head is pounding when you make it up to your apartment, you’d spent two hours arguing with Chuuya over how to approach the issue with Shimazaki-kai. The Sun and Steel are struggling against them in Tokyo and Mishima Michiko had come to Yokohama personally to request assistance from the Port Mafia in routing them from Shibuya-ku. You don’t want to send Chuuya there—it’s only a matter of time before the Guild shows up in Yokohama to try to take the weretiger and you’ll need Chuuya here when they do. You can’t risk sending him off now.

But Chuuya wants to go there now—says that it’s a bad look that the Port Mafia started this conflict and is now leaving the Sun and Steel to suffer the consequences. And he’s right, but the Guild is more pressing than the Shimazaki-kai.

It’s not often that the two of you disagree on tactical decisions, but when you do, the disagreements are stressful and explosive. Both of you are bullheaded and both of you are convinced that your decision is the correct one—and Lippmann wasn’t here to force you guys to settle down so it just became more and more heated until you finally stormed off.

You pause when you enter your apartment and hear a choppy tune being played on the piano in your living room—something you vaguely recognize as the beginning of Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude even with the many mistakes being made. Your stress and frustration slips away as you catch sight of Dazai sitting at the piano bench, so focused on the sheet music in front of him that he doesn’t even notice your arrival.

A small smile tugs at your lips as you quietly make your way over to him, watching as he pauses in the song and sighs, clearly frustrated by his mistakes. You take the opportunity to slide your hand across his shoulder blades; he jumps beneath your touch, eyes widening as he twists his neck to look up at you, cheeks flushing.

“I didn’t know you played,” you say absently. “If you want, I can have the spare room on this floor made into a music room for you.”

You don’t know why you offer it, but you enjoy the look in his eyes as his gaze focuses on you: big and imploring, full of emotion. It’s a welcome change from the livid expression Chuuya had been casting your way for the past few hours.

“I don’t really,” Dazai says awkwardly. “I was just trying it out.”

“Well, do you like it?” you ask him, taking a seat on the bench next to him, fingers lingering on his lower back.

“I think so,” he tells you after a few moments, lashes fluttering as he looks down at the keys and then back up at you. “I think my mother used to play… I don’t really remember her, but I can vaguely remember a song she used to play.”

There’s an odd look in his eyes as he averts his gaze and you squeeze his side gently before saying, “Maybe the more you play, the more it’ll come back to you.

“Yeah, maybe,” he agrees half-heartedly, looking at you again, more carefully this time. “Are you okay?”

You pause, not having expected him to catch onto your bad mood so quickly when you were doing your best to hide it, but you finally sigh and shake your head.

“Yeah,” you tell him, motioning for him to get up so the two of you can move over to the much more comfortable couch. “Stressful day. I thought you had class on Wednesdays.”

“It was online today,” Dazai says, propping his arms up on the back of the couch as he sits up. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be back until super late tonight.”

You scoff. “Yeah, until I got into a fight with Chuuya,” you mutter, making your way over to him to sit on the couch with him, looking at the puzzle he has spread out on your coffee table. “Where’d you get this?”

Dazai gives you a sweet smile. “You left your computer open yesterday, I ordered some things.”

Dazai inches closer to you, there’s an indecipherable expression on his face, lips parted and eyes a bit wide. You can feel his knee nudging yours and you know what he wants. He’s been trying to make subtle moves on you for days but you just… You don’t know. You’re scared.

You’re scared.

You don’t think you’ve felt this way since you were a kid, trapped in that room in the military base on Tokoyami Island desperately trying to understand what your ability was so you wouldn’t be thrown back out into a warzone. Except now, it’s not just your fate on the line—every decision you make, Dazai’s life hinges on it and you’ve been making stupid ones for weeks. Even now, letting him stay at your apartment… Even if you do own all of the cameras, even if Klaus is on top of it, even if Dazai is being careful, it’s only a matter of time before a mistake is made.

You don’t know what you’re still holding out for. Maybe a chance to make him understand what exactly is at stake, break things off with you on his own… Maybe you’re waiting for something else. Your conversation with Tolstoy echoes through your head, his offer of sending Ilya Repin to you for you to utilize as you please.

Ilya Repin. A Crucession in Oakwood.

Someone who can wipe Dazai’s memories of you so you can send him back off to live a normal life, make him forget he ever met you. It’s not something you want to do, fiddling with people’s minds… you know better than anyone that it’s not something to take lightly. But would it be worth it to ensure he lives? That he doesn’t get drawn any further into your shitshow life? The thought makes your chest ache painfully but if it means he would be safe.

You let out a shaky breath, looking away, and you can feel the disappointment emanating off of him, you can feel his fingers brushing your arm, but before you can say anything to him, you hear your elevator bing.

Someone arriving at your floor.

Your eyes widen as you rise to your feet, you cast Dazai a panicked look. He follows after you, unsure of what he should do. Klaus is across the city—he’s the only one that can come up to your apartment without permission besides-

Besides Chuuya.

Oh shit.

“Go to the kitchen,” you say, voice tight and stressed, you push Dazai forward to get him moving. You cannot let Chuuya know that Dazai is here. “Get to the-”

“Yo.” You hear Chuuya say, voice low and distracted as he steps into your apartment. He’s looking down at a bottle of wine, so you wave your hand at Dazai frantically, shooing him into the kitchen. He shoots you a panicked look before rushing into the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to let shit get so heated before.”

“You’re good,” you tell him, careful to keep the strain from your voice as Chuuya finally looks up from the bottle and makes his way over to you. “Takes two, I shouldn’t have been so quick to snap at you.”

“Nah.” Chuuya shakes his head, plopping down on the couch next to you. “You’ve been going through shit. The Boss constantly on your ass, having to drop that kid you liked-” shit “-I should’ve let it go instead of pressing. Brought you this.”

Oh, you’re in a bad spot. Your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts as you race to figure out what to do. You have to get Chuuya out of your apartment, but the man knows you so well that it’ll be impossible to do that without raising suspicion. If this were any other day and Dazai Osamu wasn’t hiding in your kitchen, you would be trying to worm more than just a bottle of wine out of Chuuya—probably dinner and a night out to go along with it—but he’ll want to crack open the bottle before going out and your wine glasses are in your kitchen.

Shit.

“An ‘82 Rothschild,” you drawl. “You’re really trying to butter me up.”

Chuuya gives you a smile that makes you feel guilty. “‘Cause I feel like shit,” he mutters and you hardly refrain from wincing because you know he wouldn’t if he knew the truth.

You think you might be the worst person alive.

“How about we put it in the wine fridge and head out for the night?” you hum, nudging his shoulder. “Didn’t you want to try that new bar by the ports in Naka? The one Lippmann went to with his coworkers? We’ll save the wine for us to celebrate after we wipe out the Shimazaki-kai.”

A good move. You almost pat yourself on the back for it—Chuuya’s been talking about this bar for weeks, but hasn’t gotten a break from work to actually go check it out. He was livid the other day when he found out Albatross and Iceman went without him. Plus, you implied that you’d give in a little on the argument you were having with him earlier; maybe you won’t send him to Tokyo to help the Sun and Steel but you could probably send Klaus or Akutagawa to ease Chuuya’s stress over the situation.

Please, please, please, please-

“Nah,” Chuuya says, shaking his head. “Maybe another night. I’ll go grab some glasses, find a movie?”

Oh, fuck me.

“I’ll get them,” you say instead, too quickly from the way Chuuya is instantly casting a suspicious look in your direction so you pivot with: “I picked the last movie. It’s your turn.”

“You hate when I pick movies,” Chuuya says with a frown, studying you carefully before letting his eyes trail over to the kitchen. He’s thinking too hard, you realize, stressed, you need to make him stop before he figures out you don’t want him to go in there because once he realizes that, there’s no shot he won’t be rushing over there. “What’s really going on?”

“Nothing,” you say easily. “I’m in the mood to trash one of your low budget horror movies.”

Chuuya instantly gives you an offended look and you think, for a moment, that you’ve succeeded. “Well, I’m not in the mood to hear you bitch halfway through the movie, so pick a damn movie.”

Chuuya rises to his feet, putting the bottle of wine down on the coffee table and you want to rip your hair out—why is he so fucking stubborn? You reach out to grab his wrist to stop him, teeth grinding together, and when Chuuya looks back at you, you know that he knows.

“What’s in the kitchen?” Chuuya asks, voice low.

“None of your business,” you reply, jaw tight. “Sit down and let me get the glasses.”’

“I don’t fuckin’ believe you,” Chuuya snaps and rips his wrist from your grasp and storms over to the kitchen.

You race behind him, only able to watch as everything starts to crumble. You try to grab his wrist again but he slips out from your hold. For a scary second, you genuinely debate using your ability on him just to convince him to stop, to make him leave, but you disregard the thought as soon as it passes through your head, horrified with yourself.

“Chuuya, stop,” you say desperately, a last ditch attempt to make him stop, hoping that maybe when he hears how serious you are about this that he might reconsider, but it’s Chuuya, so of course he doesn’t.

You know it’s over when he freezes in the doorframe of your kitchen, staring into the room like he’s seen a ghost. Dreadfully, you come to stand at his side, looking over his shoulder to see what exactly he’s looking at, wanting nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die.

Dazai sits on the floor, half hiding behind your counter but unable to fully because of his height; his legs are too long to fit behind the counter and his head is peeking above the marble, brown eyes wide as he looks between the two of you. He focuses his attention on Chuuya, who stares at him mutely in disbelief.

Dazai finally says, “Your hat is tackier in person.”

Oh my god.

Chuuya doesn’t even react to the snide comment which you think is testimony to how angry he really is. He drags his gaze from Dazai over to you and you can see the rage swimming in his eyes. You don’t know how to approach this—Chuuya is always unpredictable when he’s angry—so you think maybe you should wait for him to say something first, but that’s also risky because once he’s set off, he’s set off.

“You lied to me,” Chuuya says, voice low. “I was sitting here feeling guilty and-”

“I didn’t lie to you,” you interrupt, shaking your head, but that only pisses Chuuya off more from the way he shoots a pointed look at Dazai. “I didn’t. I did cut him off, Chuuya. I-”

“He’s sitting on your kitchen floor,” Chuuya’s spits, voice raising as he works himself up. “You let me sit here feeling guilty about this when-”

Chuuya suddenly cuts himself off, eyes widening as he stares at you, and a pit forms in your stomach, realizing he must have just come to another conclusion. Distress begins to pile in your chest because you can’t figure out what to do, frustration because this wasn’t supposed to happen. You want to look over to Dazai but you know it will only serve to piss Chuuya off even more.

“‘Is that what she told you?’” Chuuya whispers Mori’s words from a few weeks ago. “Don’t even tell me that the war with the Inagawa-kai began because of him. You told me they attacked you.”

You grimace, turning your face away and Chuuya lets out a high and reedy laugh, eyes wild with disbelief. You can feel Dazai’s curious eyes on you and you just want to curl in on yourself.

“We went to war with two Yakuza syndicates because of him-”

“We went to war because of what happened with your-” you begin to say, angry at the hypocrisy.

“And she died anyway,” Chuuya shouts, a familiar, eerie red glow beginning to emanate from his hands as he starts to lose control of his ability in his anger. “You couldn’t save her then, what makes you think you can save him now?”

You draw back as if you’d been slapped—you think you might’ve been better off getting slapped than hearing Chuuya say that. You stare at him blankly, watching as he looks over at Dazai, but you can’t bring yourself to follow his gaze.

“It would be more merciful if I just killed him now,” Chuuya says coolly. “Spare him from-”

You only move when he takes a step forward, grabbing his wrist and pressing your forearm hard against his upper chest to shove him into your fridge. Chuuya doesn’t expect you to get physical so his eyes widen as his back hits the fridge, gaze darting back to focus on you. The familiar feeling of the Tainted Sorrow sweeps over your body, coating you in that destructive red glow.

For a moment, neither of you move.

“We both know you won’t use your ability on me,” you finally say, keeping your voice low. “I’ll fuck up your brain so badly that you won’t be able to look at yourself in the mirror for weeks if you take another step toward him.”

Chuuya doesn’t budge for a second, the tension in the room rising with each passing second. After a few minutes, he finally turns off his ability, taking in a deep breath as he shakes his head and looks away. You step back and Chuuya sighs as he leans against the fridge, forcing himself to look back at you.

“I did cut him off after we talked… ish,” you tell him and Chuuya gives you a flat look. “I did. I ran into him at the ports. One of the kyodai of the Inagawa-kai showed up, saw me with him. Klaus killed him. We had to act before they found out we drew first blood.”

“Oh my god,” Chuuya complains, pressing his hands to his eyes. “You-I had to use Corruption. The entire northern ward-”

“I know, Chuuya,” you say tightly. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I-”

You let out a breath, glancing once at Dazai who’s watching you with an indecipherable expression and then ask Chuuya, “Can we go into the other room?”

Dazai’s head snaps toward you, an offended expression on his face, but you ignore him. “You’re talking about me-” he starts to protest but Chuuya gives him a sharp look that makes Dazai blanch even more, looking to you for support but you look away, missing the way his expression crumbles.

As soon as the two of you are in the other room, Chuuya gives you a hard look, waiting for you to continue.

“I cut him off after what happened at the port and I ran into him again at the event a few weeks ago,” you say quietly. “His professor for one of his classes is a journalist working for the Ivory Eagle, he has three kids—including Dazai—doing his dirty work trying to find proof of the Mori Corporation being a front for the Port Mafia.”

Chuuya stares at you. “What?” he asks blankly.

“Yeah, I know,” you grimace. “Dazai found the proof. He has a video of us from behind the Tokyo City Hall.”

“You’re letting yourself be blackmailed by a college student?” Chuuya demands loudly. You give him a sharp look, but it’s too late, Dazai is already looking into the room with an indecipherable expression on his face, lashes lowering as his gaze falls to the ground. “You’re a fucking mafia executive, are you fucking with me right now?”

Your eye twitches in frustration, casting one last look in Dazai’s direction, watching the way his brows furrow as he thinks up a storm in that head of his—nothing good, you’re sure, but you can’t do anything about it right now.

“I’m not going to kill him, Chuuya,” you hiss under your breath. “Would you have killed her if she found out?”

Chuuya lets out a heavy breath and looks away, not answering your question but that’s an answer in itself.

“Look,” you continue, glancing at where Dazai had been standing only to realize that he’d walked away. You sigh and lower your voice. “I’m working on something. I just… I need time to figure out how to go about it. I don’t want him in this life either, Chuuya. I’m not that selfish.”

Yes, you are, a distant part of you whispers. Otherwise, you would have handled this as soon as he came to your apartment that first day.

Chuuya shakes his head. “You need to be careful. You have him in our headquarters, in your apartment. Do you know how thin of a line you’re treading? The slightest slip up-”

“I know, Chuuya,” you say, strained. “I know.”

“Figure it out quickly,” Chuuya murmurs. “I’ll do what I can in the meantime to keep the heat off of you. Just… quit fucking around.”

Chuuya gives you a steady look and you know that he knows that you’re using this as an excuse to indulge in Dazai when you shouldn’t be. You can hardly hold his gaze, lashes fluttering as you look down. He reaches out to squeeze your forearm and you turn your head away, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re going to say to Dazai.

“Yeah, I will.”

Dazai pretends like everything is fine.

He’s still sitting cross-legged on your bed when you finally come looking for him, hands in his lap and back straight. You lean against the doorframe, an uncharacteristically soft expression on your face as you look at him—Dazai hates it, because he knows that he’s not going to like whatever you’re about to bring up to him so he decides he needs to evade the conversation in whatever manner possible.

“Did that pipsqueak leave?” Dazai huffs, only finding a bit of consolation in the way your lips curl up into a smile at his insult.

“He did,” you agree, pushing off the doorframe to make your way over to him. Dazai swallows thickly when you take a seat in front of him on the bed. You lean back on your hands, head falling to the side as you observe him. “I didn’t think he was coming over today. We’d just gotten into an argument so things were already tense. I’m sorry that it blew up on you like that.”

Dazai doesn’t want to talk about this, so instead, he smiles and says, “It’s fine. Do you want to watch a movie?”

Your brow furrows at the way he dismisses your comment—god, he doesn’t want to talk about this. He knows where it’s going to lead, he knows you’re only doing this because of the blackmail and he knew from day one that it wasn’t going to work forever but he’d hoped maybe he’d be able to woo you before then, make you want him for him, want him enough to decide he’s worth the risk. He should’ve known better—he really should have—but he’s not ready to let go just yet.

So, before you can bring it back up again, Dazai forces the smile on his face to come across a little more genuine as he tilts his head and hums, “I found a good horror movie. I’m stealing your pillow to hide behind while we watch.”

Please.

He knows you can see through the sweet smile and honeyed words but he begs you to just pretend you don’t one last time. After what feels like an eternity, you finally sigh, gaze dropping to your lap for a second before you look back up at him and say, “You’re not taking my pillow.”

Dazai doesn’t have to force a smile now, lighting up as he waves your pillow in the air and sings, “Too late!” before darting off the bed and into the other room.

“Dazai!” you call after him loudly and he tosses a smile over his shoulder before disappearing into the other room. He can hear you chasing after him and though his chest does feel a bit lighter, he can’t push away the cold, empty feeling that’s slowly starting to consume him.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you

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jamespotterismydaddy · 3 months

Text

Lord Husband (Chapter 12)

A/N: ik it took be forever to post this, pls dont crucify me. I also don't care if we have canon cregan; thats literally not my man

WORD COUNT: 1,078 words

masterlist

You gave him hope. You knew you did and perhaps you shouldn’t have. It would have been easier if you didn’t, but you think you… wanted to? Do you want to have dinner with him?

“Seven hells.” You grumble to Sȳndror after you’ve dismounted. “I suppose I have to eat with him.”

Well, you know you don’t have to. You didn’t even give him proper confirmation, but it’s much simpler to think of it as something you can’t avoid, you decide, making the walk back inside the castle.

“Draw my bath.” You say to Rose as you enter your chambers. “And you’ll need to select a proper evening gown for me today. I’ll be having my supper with Lord Stark.”

“You will?” Your handmaiden asks, looking at you as though you’ve grown a second head.

“I have just said it, haven’t I? Don’t look so bewildered.”

“My apologies.” She curtseys and runs off to start your bath.

When you walk over to the prepared tub, she begins to help you undress. “My apologies for my harsh tone. The situation is simply unusual for me.”

“You never need to apologize, princess. I understand fully.” She finishes undoing your dress and lets the garment drop before also helping you out of your shift.

“I brought him to meet Sȳndror today.” You say wistfully as you step into the perfectly hot bath. Rose always knows just how you like it.

“What prompted that?” She asks carefully, knowing that not even your closest friends have met the beast.

“He caught me watching him train. I wanted to frighten him.” You reply and she giggles.

“I would expect nothing less.” She says and begins to wash your body clean from the smell of dragon. “I also quite like watching the way the northernmen train.”

“There is something unique about the way they move.” You murmur thoughtfully.

“I would say there is something… primal in it.” Rose says with a giggle, clearly thinking about a different adjective in truth.

“Yes, it's very rough.” You muse.

“Did he get along with Sȳndror?” She asks, now running her fingers through your wet hair.

“He is not dead. So, I suppose the answer is yes.” You both giggle.

“Well, I am sure he is appreciative of the honour.”

“He doesn’t quite realize how much of an honour it is.”

“Lord Stark doesn’t know he is the first non-Targaryen you have brought to meet your dragon?” She gives you a slightly bewildered look.

“Of course not. He would be far too pleased with himself if he knew.” You roll your eyes and with your hair washed, you stand, Rose bringing you a robe.

“It is very gracious of you to allow him the meeting nonetheless.”

“I am known to be gracious.” You reply with a cheeky smile and the both of you giggle.

“I am excited that you’ll be getting more wear out of your evening gowns.” Rose says as she throws open the doors of your closet. “This one could be most suitable.” She holds out a stormy grey dress and you scoff.

“There’s no way in the Seven Hells i’m wearing Stark colours.”

“But it would make him go positively insane.” Rose muses.

“I’ll have one of my black and red gowns.” You say, ignoring her. “The one with the sleeves that Baela adores.”

“Oh, that will be a splendid choice. Lord Stark has never seen you in a proper evening gown. This one will make for a strong start.” She admires the dress in the cupboard before fetching your small clothes.

When you’re dressed, you look nothing short of phenomenal.

“He may faint from the sight of you.”

“I hope he does.” You murmur, checking yourself one last time in the mirror before strutting out of the room. “Come, Ser Robert. I will be suppering with Lord Stark.” You say to the surprised guard as you walk past him.

“You will dine… with your husband, princess?” He asks in a confused tone as he catches up with you.

“Well I just said that, did I not?” You shoot in a snarky tone.

He chuckles. “My apologies. I simply did not realize you enjoyed his company.”

“I am starting to think that I don’t enjoy your company. Perhaps I should get a new protector.”

“Any man but I will be subpar and that is the second time you have threatened to replace me today, princess. Should I be worried?”

“Not worried. Perhaps just less irritating.” You smile.

“Anything to please her highness.” He responds playfully just before the two of you arrive at one of the smaller dining halls in the castle. The doors are thrust open for you, your protector waiting just outside as you walk in.

Cregan stands when he sees you and immediately makes his way over before bringing your hand up for a kiss. “Princess.” He murmurs, not wanting to seem too casual by using your name (even if you are his wife).

“Lord Stark.” Your formality makes him frown. His own formality also made him frown.

“That dress looks beautiful on you.” He says, wanting to make sure you know he’s complimenting you and not the gown. He couldn’t care less about a few pieces of fabric.

“You are also looking well.” You murmur in response, meeting his eyes for a fraction of a second before gliding out of his hold and to your seat. You can feel the ghostly touch of his lips on your hand and you see how he lingers for just a moment before sitting down himself.

“How was your ride today?” He asks as you start to plate your food.

“‘Twas as good as it can be. Sȳndror is restless these days. He doesn’t enjoy flying as high as he used to; I think the bite of chill in the air bothers him.”

“I hope that he can settle soon. It will get warmer… in a few months' time.” Cregan tries to help, but the discussion of the passage of time unnerves you. You don’t want to think about how in a few months, you will still be here.

“He isn’t used to being alone.” Neither are you.

“Then we will have to house your brothers for a visit. I know how important family is.” He sees it then, the little glimmer in your eyes at the suggestion. Your husband feels like he’s made you somewhat happy for the first time ever.

“I would like that.”

comment to be added to the taglist

#lord husband #cregan stark fic #cregan x reader #cregan stark #cregan #cregan stark x reader #hotd x reader #hotd

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charliehoennam · 1 year

Text

home again.

A/N: request made here by @juniebugg and a nonny made here so i decided to mash these two together

Pairing: John Kinley x F!reader

Warnings: Language and smut. No minors, please!

Word count: 2,675

SHARING IS CARING, SO PLEASE REBLOG

The dusty gravel of your driveway crunched under the tires of Declan’s truck. You didn’t need to look out the window to know who it was, but you wanted to see him. Make sure he’s alright.

You’d refused to pick John up at the military base. You didn’t want to be anywhere near it. It’d been months since he’d been away and you hated every single second he was gone.

You missed him more than anything in the world. Deep inside, you were thrilled he was finally home and, most importantly, safe. Part of you wanted to race out the door and throw yourself in his arms. The other part, however, wanted to slap him across the face.

Months of his absence – provided only via letters and shitty connections through phone calls or video chats that could never replace his presence – drove you insane.

The only thing that was worse was zero contact. Not knowing if he was dead or alive; that every car that drove by the house would deliver that dreaded folded flag. Sometimes, you questioned why he would want to be in the army in the first place, fighting a war that he has no fault in. How could he just leave you?

You’d thought it would get easier to live with after you got married. Turned out, it wasn’t.

John called out for you and spotted you by the window where he’d caught you staring out of just before you moved away to hide. He read your resistance right off the bat.

“Hey, honey” he smiled as he set his army green bag on the floor in the hallway. “Don’t I get a kiss huh?”He tried to joke to loosen you up.

There was definitely tension in the air that he’d detected even before walking in, but he wanted to avoid conflict on his first day home. He’d missed you just as much as you’d missed him; there was no doubt the distance was hard on both sides. Yet you felt he was to blame since it was his choice to reenlist. You were there. You’d always be there.

You pulled away as he tried to pull you into his arms and marched back into the kitchen where you’d been making his favorite: Fettucine alfredo with crispy bits of Italian sausage.

“Something smells real good.” His attempts were getting nowhere. “Come on, baby. Is this how it’s gonna be every time I come home?”

“You could just stay home.” You shrugged as you continued stirring the pot of white sauce before dipping a spoon to taste-test the flavor.

“We’re really gonna do this? Again?” He scoffed running a hand over his tired face.

“Do you really expect me to be all bright smiles when you were literally gone for 9 months in the middle of God knows where? After 11 days of sheer silence, I just found 6 days ago that you weren’t dead, John.”

“I thought that would be something to be happy about.” His brows furrowed.

“I am happy you’re alive, John. But I did also spend 11 days thinking you might have been dead!”

“That wasn’t my fault! We got ambushed by an IED in the middle of nowhere. We lost the RV and had to trek through the goddamn desert. You think I wanted that happen?!”

“Then you shouldn’t have relisted! I just don’t get it! Why would you want to go back to that?!”

“You don’t have to get anything! You’re acting like this is all new to you! You knew I was in the Army before, that it wouldn’t change when we got married!”

“Maybe I’d hope it would! So crucify me for thinking that maybe my husband would want to actually be home with me after getting married!”

Your argument only escalated after that. John was angry and you were furious. A blur of loud voices, searing tears and fists pounding on walls and countertops. At some point, he had decided to blow off some steam and slammed the front door shut as he left to have a drink at the bar. He didn’t want to get drunk or talk to anybody. He just wanted to get out of there before you’d both said things that couldn’t be taken back.

Sat on a tall stool with a beer bottle cradled in his hands, he stared into nothingness wanting to forget everything. However, his mind found itself returning to you. To your scent that lingered on his clothes after his hug. To your warmth against his chest and arms. Fuck, he missed you badly and he hated that he couldn’t fucking forget it.

After pushing himself off the stool, he drove home in silence and cautiously stepped over the threshold. His eyes scanned the house as he made his way in, searching for any indication that could explain your current state. But he found only silence. A daunting calmness in the shadows of the home as the streets casted their lights in attempt to chase the gloom. But when his eyes landed on a pillow stacked upon of a folded-up blanket, he shook his head and ignored your punishment.

That was his limit. The final drop to overflow the flood he’d spent hours trying to contain.

You tossed and turned in bed, wondering if you had gone too far. You reflected on his words. He wasn’t wrong. You knew the Army was important to him going into the relationship. You knew that when you said yes when he asked you to marry him. You knew that when you said “I do” at the altar.

He felt his blood boil again as he marched up the stairs with his pillow under his arm. The door flew up open and he strode into the room, avoiding your bewildered gaze as you propped yourself up on your elbow.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You questioned angrily. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“The hell I am. I spent nine months away. I’m sleeping in my own bed tonight.”

You could hear the tinge of impatience in his voice. He sat at the edge of his side on the bed to untie his boots and set them aside with a thud muffled by the carpet.

“You’re not sleeping here, John.”

“You can sleep on the couch if you want, but I’m sleeping right here.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?”

“Oh, I am huh? How about you? You’re the one that’s acting like a fucking child.”

You sat up in disbelief, ready for round two of your argument.

“Just don’t. I’m tired and I wanna sleep.” He stated as he laid back against his pillow, back turned to you.

“You think it’s fucking easy? You think it’s easy having you miles away, with no notice if you’re even alive? I thought you were dead, John!”

He was ready to snap back with his defense, but the tears building in your eyes warned him not to. Instead, his jaw clenched as he held his gaze on you.

“I spent night crying my fucking eyes out thinking you weren’t coming home this time! Just to get up the next day and pretend like everything was alright! Do you know how emotionally exhausting this has been for me?!”

He hadn’t thought about that. Guilt settled in his chest and started to build in his throat as he listened to your rant, which soon brought you to sob.

“Hey, it’s alright. I’m home…” he whispered pulling you into his strong arms, wrapping them around you.

Any resistance you had melted away against his warmth. You gave in and buried your face into his neck.

“I’m home. I’m with you and everything’s alright. Everything’s alright now.” he repeated as he soothed you with gentle kisses on the crown of your head. His palm rubbed circles against your back.

Your body was yearning for him. He could tell from the way your nails clung onto his shirt. His fingers lifted your chin to catch your gaze.

“Look at me. I’m right here. I’m with you and I’m not going anywhere, alright?” he whispered with a thumb wiping your tears away.

“I got you, hm?”

Sealing his promise with a kiss, your body softened and accepted his kiss. Then his tongue. You could feel it building in your core. That familiar lust that had haunted you during his absence. That craving that couldn’t be quenched.

Like magnets, your bodies had lost against the invisible pull. His hands slipped down to your thighs, guiding them as you straddled his lap. The heated kiss was unbroken until your hands tugged at his olive-green shirt to release it from the tuck of his camouflaged pants. You helped him pull it off over his head as he helped you remove the Pink Floyd t-shirt that once belonged to him before becoming your favorite nightgown.

As your lips collided once again – more feverish than before –, your hands roamed down to unbuckle his belt. The metal clinked as it hit the floor. John wasted no time to lay you down against the mattress. You needed him and there he finally was to take care of you. God, how he’d missed your taste.

He whispered continuous praises as his bushy beard brushed against your delicate skin, peppering kisses down to your breasts. His mouth closed around your hardening nipples, suckling them with eyes closed to relish their fullness and warmth.

“My beautiful wife. Missed you so fucking much.”

His hand kneaded each of them as he squeezed your flesh to his face. He could’ve stayed there forever, but he was eager to please you.

He forced himself up as he stood back on his knees, sat against his heels. His gaze on you was loving as if admiring a sculpture he’d carved from his own dreams. “I love you” fell from his lips over and over again, like a prayer in between the tender kisses he pressed against your legs, lifting them to rest against his broad shoulders. He hooked his fingers into your panties and slid them up your legs and tosses them to the floor. His eyes locked on yours was more than enough to cause your core to puddle. You could feel the slick building with every kiss.

He wasted no time settling between your thighs, trailing his kisses over your outer labia. This was about making you feel good. Making it sink into your brain that he was finally fucking home.

With your legs bent up over his shoulders, he moaned as he buried his mouth against your plush slick flush. One hand slid up to your breast as the other locked its fingers with your own. You moaned and wiggled against him.

He devoured you and smiled to himself as he watched the way your body arched in pleasure. The salty sweet taste of you liquefied his insides. He could feel him twitching as his cock hardened on the bed. After months of bottling in all his desires and having to satisfy himself with his hand and a photo of you in lingerie, his thirst for you was erupting beyond control. He had to remind himself that this was going to be about you.

His hips began rocking against the bed at the sounds your body was making. He was so eager to fuck you, but he had to contain himself to make it last. Yet his hunger for you had his hips grinding against the mattress, aching for any type of friction he could get as he battled with his self-control. His cock spasmed in his pants with every gentle tug on his hair or scrape of your nails on his scalp.

With his tongue building up your orgasm, it lapped over your folds and concentrated on the overly sensitive nub. He swiped and swiveled over it; the pressure in your depths grew into hot white pleasure. You weren’t going to last much longer.

The hand on your breast slid down your scorching skin to hold your hips firmly in place as you wriggled, wrestling against the implosion and failing terrible to resist until you finally caved in. Your body trembled as your legs shut on either side of his head. He smiled as he proudly admired your reaction, enjoying how quickly your chest rose and fell. The leaking precum from his dick was beginning to sink through his boxers and pants; he was almost certain he’d left a wet spot on the bedsheet.

He lifted himself off and was unable to wait any longer. He needed to feel you on his cock. Kicking his pants off provided you a moment to regain yourself and admired the way his muscles contracted under his skin. This big burly man was yours, all yours.

As he crawled back between your legs and aligned himself to penetrate, you both watched his head slowly push in through your soaking pussy in burning anticipation lathered with only the spit on his fingertips.

His eyes closed tightly shut as he bottomed out and held himself there for a moment, controlling his own increasing implosion.

You could tell he was struggling a bit between satisfying you both and giving into his own carnal needs. You cradled the sides of his face and gently guided him down to kiss him in an attempt to distract him from the wonderful hug of your cunt on his cock.

With an arm propped on the side of your head, he kissed you hungrily as his hand gripped the soft flesh of your thigh and pushed your hips against his. His groin brushing on your swollen nub sent fireworks bursting through your nerves, forcing a shy moan from your throat. He smiled and pulled his head back to look down at you.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

As his lips latched onto your neck, his hips pulled back and slowly thrusted forward to begin his pace. Slow and gentle, but so deliciously full and stretched. You held your breath with every push and pull of his cock, clenching around it to hold him inside. You’d never let him go if you could. His cock in you made you feel so completed like this is where you both were meant to be.

His pace started to quicken. A sheen coat of sweat glazed your bodies in the cool blue light of the moon that rained in from the tall windows of your bedroom. The searing heat had begun to bubble from the inside out, oozing from your desperate desire to feel each other deeper.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed out the open door and into the hallway. His balls slammed against your perineum as your wetness began coating the bedsheet underneath, staining it with remnants of love and lust.

With labored breaths, he hugged you tightly against him with his other arm. It was building up in you for the second time and you could tell it was building in him as well. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your toes curled against his hips. The tight embrace of your pussy as you came again had him frantically hammering into you as praises flooded out from his lips.

“Feel so fucking good for me. I-I fucking love you, baby. L-love you so much.”

Releasing you to lock your fingers together, he shuddered with a deep moan and slowed to a stop. You milked every drop. The hot load filled you with an incomparable warmth in your depths. Your walls were coated in his pearly white seed.

He panted as he held himself in your cunt for a moment longer until he finally pulled out and collapsed beside you. You turned on your side to face him. His hands reached out for you and pulled you into his arms. Perfectly nestled against his hairy chest, you smiled to yourself. His heart beating against your ear was the final reminder that he was home. He was here and he was all yours.

#jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #john kinley x you #john kinley x reader #john kinley x y/n #john kinley the covenant

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haddonfieldwhore · 8 months

Text

bad idea - matthew tkachuk

flames!matthew tkachuk x draisaitl!fem reader

summary: in a bad mood after losing to calgary, your brother is a dick to you. you decide to get back at him with a little bit of help

warnings: mention of injury/fighting, language, implied smut, crying inside that i wrote anything oilers related

word count: 1.8k battle of alberta 2018

in all your years of watching your older brother leon play hockey, you were sure you had never seen a game as rough as this one. you knew it was to be expected; the game was advertised as the ‘battle of alberta’ for good reason, the edmonton oilers and the calgary flames quite literally going to war on each other from the very second the puck dropped. you weren’t the biggest hockey fan, but you rarely got to see your older brother with his busy schedule, and were looking forward to hanging out with him after the game.

it wasn’t even two minutes into the first period before leon laid a huge hit on calgarys matthew tkachuk, the younger player hitting his head on the ice as he landed and leaving the game for the time being.

while you were cheering for your brothers team to win, as were your friends and family sitting in the crowd next to you, you found yourself hoping that the calgary flame was okay. you would be crucified if you said it out loud, but you found the flames player kind of cute, and always enjoyed watching him play; despite the rivalry that seemed to be brewing between him and your brother. your eyes always ended up on him whenever he was on the ice, and you found it hard to look away. you were pretty sure that tkachuk was only a year older than you, and you found yourself breathing a sigh of relief when he returned to the game, seemingly uninjured.

as the game went on, edmonton had a two nothing lead, but after many more fights, (most of them involving tkachuk in some way) and four goals from calgary, the game was over.

‘this is gonna be a fun drive home,’ you thought as you walked out of the stands to find leon. you had to wait for awhile for the team to change and shower, and you were growing tired waiting around for your brother. your friends and family being bummed about the loss was not helping the time go by faster as you stood around awkwardly while they caught up with eachother.

it was around thirty minutes later that leon finally emerged from the hallway that lead to the visitors dressing room, greeting your group unenthusiastically.

“hey,” you replied, and he merely grumbled in response, barely paying attention to the fact that you were there; and it stung. leon greeted your parents and friends without much more warmth but still you suddenly felt invisible as he talked with them and not you. you hadn’t seen him in months, and he couldn’t even say hello properly? and to make matters worse, your parents had already seen him before the game.

“leon-“

“let’s go,” he mumbled, his jaw clenched as he bumped into your shoulder with his, causing you to stumble slightly.

maybe you were being overly sensitive, but no one seemed to notice how cold he was being; either letting it go because the team lost, or perhaps you were just expecting a warmer greeting from your big brother.

you tried to grab his arm to keep up with him as he walked away, but he pulled it away and shot you a glare.

“i know you’re pissed, but it’s not my fault you guys lost.”

“so it’s my fault?” he countered, and you sighed.

“that’s not what i said-“

“that’s what you’re thinking though, isn’t it?”

“no, leon!” you sighed, trying to remember how he was feeling right now. “if i had known you were gonna be such a sore loser i wouldn’t have come.” he had never been this grumpy after a loss before.

“then maybe you shouldn’t have,” his jaw clenched again, and you could tell from his expression that the conversation was over. you stopped walking while he continued down the hall, your parents catching up to you, oblivious to the argument between you and leon.

“you know what, i’m gonna catch up with you guys tomorrow,” you said, faking a yawn. your family had planned to go for dinner after the game while you were all in town. the oilers had a day off tomorrow, and you hoped by then your brother would be in a better mood.

“are you sure, honey?” your mom asked, and you nodded.

“yeah, i’ll just get a cab back to the hotel. i don’t think leon’s really in a celebrating mood so i’m sure he won’t care. i’ll see you guys in the morning,” you said, before hugging your family and watching them leave the saddledome.

you sighed as you stood in the now nearly empty hallway alone, and before you could do the smart thing and actually take a cab home like you said you would, your felt your legs begin to carry you in the opposite direction.

your feet slowed outside of a certain closed door, fiddling with your hands nervously as you lingered outside the flames dressing room. just as you were deciding that the players had probably already left and began to turn back, the door opened.

after one quick look at your jersey, branded with the oilers logo and leon’s number, matthew tkachuk shook his head with a slight laugh.

“i don’t know how you got back here, but if you’re looking for him you have the wrong locker room,“ he said pointing at your jersey.

“and if i’m looking for you?” you replied, and he looked you up and down again, slower this time as if actually taking in your appearance, not just your wardrobe.

“depends why you’re looking for me. if you’re going to stab me or something for beating your team-“ he joked.

“relax, leon’s my brother; you don’t have a security issue,” you laughed, and he smiled slightly. “and i promise i’m not here to stab you,” you raised your hands in surrender.

“that’s a relief,” he laughed, a more genuine smile on his face this face this time, and you realized that he was even cuter in person. his long curls were messy, still slightly damp from the shower, and he stood quite a bit taller than you. his expression changed as the words ‘brother’ and ‘leon’ clicked in his head, and he crossed his arms over his chest, his muscles flexing under his shirt. “so why are you looking for me?”

“i… uh,” you stuttered, not having thought this far ahead. “i don’t know. i kind of felt bad that my brother hit you so hard, but i guess you got him back in the end,” you said, your gaze falling to the floor. matthew had gotten a few good hits in on leon during a fight later in the game.

“well, i appreciate the thought, but i’m okay. and yeah, i guess we’re even; for now.”

“does that mean you wouldn’t be interested in doing something that would really piss him off?” you asked, looking up to meet his blue eyes, his eyebrow twitching upward slightly with intrigue.

“why do i get the feeling you’re hoping i am interested?” he took a step closer, and you could smell his cologne now. “big brother do something to make you mad?” he asked, and you found yourself smiling, despite the fact that he was teasing you.

“that’s irrelevant,” you rolled your eyes playfully, taking a step closer so you were only about a foot apart now as you looked up at him. “besides, i’m thinking as much as i would like to get him back, it’s probably best he doesn’t know what i’m thinking right now.”

“yeah, i’m sure he wouldn’t be too happy to know his sister was waiting for me after the game,” he agreed, his eyes travelling up and down your body again.

“leon and everyone left already. i told them i was going back to my hotel room…”

“will they notice if you’re not there?” he asked. and you shook your head with a smile. “then i think we could make a quick detour first..” he trailed off, throwing an arm over your shoulder and leading you down the hallway. “here, don’t want to draw too much attention to yourself.” he threw his suit jacket over your shoulders to cover your jersey as the two of you snuck out of the arena and to his car.

“embarrassed to be seen with me?” you teased as he opened the passenger door for you.

“i was more thinking about how it might look to the paparazzi if they happened to stumble upon us leaving together.”

“wouldn’t that be the scandal of the season,” you laughed as he started the car and drove out of the parking lot and towards his house.

you were barely inside the door before you were trapped between it and his body, matthews hands holding your waist firmly.

“you sure you want this?” he asked, his hips pressed against yours as you stared up at him. “it’s probably a really bad idea…”

“i thought you liked breaking the rules?” you smirked, placing your hands on his chest and sliding them upwards to tangle in his hair.

“hmm i have been known to do that,” he leaned down to capture your lips with his, and tou tugged on his hair as his hands slid under your jersey, bunching the material up. “either way, edmonton jerseys are forbidden in my house so this has to come off,” he smiled.

•

“so not that i care, but was this just to piss your brother off?” matthew asked as he walked back from the bathroom after getting cleaned up, dressed in just his sweatpants.

“sounds like you care a little bit-“ you teased, covering yourself with the blankets on his bed.

“i don’t!” he laughed, and you shook your head with a smile as he handed you a t-shirt to wear.

“mhm,” you hummed. “i’ll be honest, i’ve thought you were cute for a while. pissing leon off was really just a bonus.”

“good to know you weren’t just using me-“ you threw a pillow at him and he laughed as he caught it, crawling back into bed next to you. “okay, i kind of used you just as much, so i guess we’re even. i do love any chance to make your brother angry, but i think that this might be my new favourite,” he said before he kissed your lips.

“agreed,” you smiled, reaching over to grab your phone as it began to buzz on his nightstand. leon’s name appeared on the screen, and you rolled your eyes as you answered it, gesturing for matthew to be quiet.

“hello,” you said plainly, still a little mad at him despite how good of a distraction you’d had for the last two hours. you could see matthew moving closer in your peripheral vision, and you felt his breath on your ear.

“i’m sorry,” leon said on the phone held to your other ear, and you sighed, your breath catching as you felt kisses up the side of your neck. you froze as matty nibbled at the skin of your throat, leaving a light bruise behind as you tried not to make a noise.

“yeah, you were kind of an asshole. i’m kind of glad you lost, actually,” you said, and it was half true.

matthew had to stifle a laugh as he laid down next to you, covering his mouth with his hand.

“i wish you had come to dinner. we missed you,” leon sighed.

“it didn’t seem like you missed me very much earlier,” you replied. “i’d appreciate if you didn’t take it out on me when you lose.”

“i know, i’m sorry. i’ll see you in the morning?” he asked.

“yes, i’ll be there for breakfast. goodnight leon.”

“goodnight,” he replied, before ending the call. you tossed your phone aside as you hit matthew playfully on the shoulder.

“do you know how much trouble we would be in if we got caught?”

“i thought that was the half the fun?” he smiled, crawling on top of you and kissing your lips.

“maybe i’ve decided i want to live to do this again sometime.”

“i like that idea.”

disclaimer: all screenshots, events, and/or interactions depicted in this are a work of fiction. i have no association with any parties mentioned

#nhl #nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl players #real person fiction #hockey #hockey fic #matthew tkachuk x reader #matthew tkachuk fic #matthew tkachuk imagine #tkachuk #matthew tkachuk #matty tkachuk #florida panthers fic #calgary flames #flames #leon draisaitl fic #leon draisaitl

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comradekarin · 1 year

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are fans not allowed to prefer Taylor over Beyonce? why do you people always use the race card like do something else its getting tiring atp...

You are definitely allowed to prefer Taylor Swift over Beyoncé for… whatever reason that may be god bless your unseasoned soul. What you shouldn’t be doing is diminishing the work of Beyoncé and other black and queer artists in order to prop Taylor up. The fact that it’s the year of 2023 and we’re having these weird ass conversations of can Beyoncé even sing, dance, or put on a performance? You don’t even have to be a fan of Beyoncé to recognize the immense talent and impact that woman has on multiple demographics of people. Whether that be the Black community, other POC, or the LGBTQ community, Beyoncé has made an impact. And she actually does her research too and doesn’t use minorities as brownie points in her work (cough taylor’s vogue dancer cough). Beyoncé’s work only continues to improve, mind you. And to either deny or downplay that talent in order to prop up a mediocre white woman and her mediocre lyrics and her mediocre production is insane.

Prefer Taylor over Beyoncé? Ok. Love both? Ok. There is nothing wrong with that. As I stated in my previous post, I don’t like comparing female artists; it doesn’t do anything for me or those artists (especially since, from what I understand, they’re on good terms). However, if you expect me to believe that what’s considered the standard for Taylor is the same standard for Beyoncé (or, the standard for white artists vs the standard for black artists), it’s not going to happen. If you want an example, Beyoncé preparing for Coachella is more than enough proof; she had to destroy and completely reset her body after giving birth to twins in order to give the best show she could possibly give. Being the first black woman to headline the festival meant she had literally everything running on the line. We see this sentiment true with other black artists, too, like Halle Bailey, who had to undergo death threats, racism, bullying, and harassment despite having a perfect performance on the big screen and during her live performances. Halle had to prove she deserved to be treated with human decency, and had she even had a strand of hair left out she would have been crucified. I can even go on about the treatment of darker skinned vs light skinned/mixed women (those in closer proximity to whiteness) in the rap industry. We would be here forever talking about this.

And it’s not me pulling out the race card, it’s me simply recognizing that white women are celebrated for their mediocrity and black women are not. It’s me saying that Beyoncé’s fans calling out Taylor’s whiteness is in no where comparable to them calling out Beyoncé’s blackness, especially since Taylor’s whiteness benefits her in contrast to the way Beyoncé’s blackness punishes her. We can no longer pretend the struggle of white women are identical to the struggle of black women. Because, as we’ve seen with Taylor, her ally ship is performative, something she can hang up in the closet and forget about when she goes home at night. When it comes down to it, she will always adhere to her white womanhood to get her out of the shit she places herself in.

If you want to be ignorant and play colorblind to these issues, that’s on you. But don’t expect me to pretend that there isn’t an issue here—an issue that has always been here.

#maybe this comes off as me being biased bc I like Beyoncés music and not Taylor #but I feel even if the roles were reversed I would be able to admit the double standards as a black fan #I hope this made sense anon #ask #anti taylor swift #anti swifties #beyoncé #anti blackness #white mediocrity #white feminism

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asterdisaster06 · 1 year

Text

i love you, ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard?

ghost x reader [exes], slight soap x reader [mostly platonic], platonic 141 x reader

1. 2. 3.

summary > "Don't trust people like me. I will hurt you in the most beautiful and intoxicating ways so that you can never go back to your normal life without my ghost following you."

...

"If you always put yourself before others, one day you'll look behind and see that you're all alone."

...

Simon "Ghost" Riley had fucked up. Massively. He had pushed you away because he was scared of losing you to the life he lived. He didn't want to see you go down the same path and lose that beautiful intoxicating spark that you always carried in your eye. And now he didn't even recognize you. Not after you had done so much work to fulfill yourself, changing the person he once knew. You had successfully climbed the ranks of the 141 Taskforce and was now crowned the second lieutenant of the team. However, you can't dodge the piercing looks that Simon sends you every now and then. You can't pretend forever.

warnings > simon riley is alluded to be a bit of a dick in this chapter

a/n > reader cenetred. author has family issues so will be found family-ing this shit. author has no military knowledge so don’t crucify me. also have no idea how long it takes to officially become a Lieutenant but we’re going with around 5 years - shortened from 7+ because us readers are smart and can go to college. it’s very much just poetic feels, but I promise the angst with Simon directly comes eventually. He’s kind of a dick tbh but that’s cause he’s emotionally repressed. i’m romanticising this because i’ve lived through similar and wish this was how it ended lmao

ao3

Simon Riley was the bane of your existence. His very being pissed you off to no end, and it wasn’t unwarranted. That anger had once been crippling sorrow and grief over what you had lost. The anger had begun as a small seed, planted in the harsh words he growled at you through gritted teeth that night. The same words that you hissed back in his face. But eventually you had managed to move on from the love of your life. Managed to move on after weeks spent with tear stained pillows and the stuffed animal he had won you once hugged to your chest. You would’ve shoved that thing in the back of your closet, but you figured you shouldn’t take your anger out on the poor thing.

Thinking of him still makes you wince like hitting your shin against a table leg, but less so. It’s faded to a simple bruise on your heart that still aches from time to time. A phantom pain for the ghost that still haunts you. Like smoke in the wind. You still fear whispering his name at night as if his spirit will come back to haunt you. You still have the keys to his apartment in your bedside drawer. You still remember where he keeps his spoons. Sometimes you wonder how many cups of tea you’ve wasted from pouring them down the drain after realising you’re still stuck in the habit of making two.

However, you know it’s for the best that you’ve parted ways. It reminds you a little of a moment in your life with him, ironically. There was this one time that you had managed to drag Simon to the beach as a small celebration for him and were out swimming as the sun had set. He only stuck his toes into the water as you swam out until you couldn’t reach the bottom. He had told you he wouldn’t save you, and you shouted back in response that you didn’t need saving. You almost want to thank him now for saying that he’d let you drown. Thank him for teaching you that you never needed saving. Not from him anyways.

It was this exact night that had led to the complete and utter dismantling of your relationship with one Simon Riley. Recalling it stings like sand in the wind against your bare legs. The kind of pelting pain that leaves no visible marks but hurts nonetheless. It steals the breath from your lungs and puts a stone in your heart.

You were so happy, so very happy. And you thought that Simon would be too. Especially for you. You broke the news to him as you were laying there on the beach that you wanted to join the military. You wanted to continue that it was because you had looked up to him so very much and wanted to do good just like he did. Even if he didn’t exactly believe he was. Before you could do so though, he had blown up on you. Completely. It was a complete shift from the Simon you thought you had known. You shudder to recall exactly what he had said, but it escalated enough for one of you to call it off.

It had gone silent after those words were uttered.

Complete silence.

You had refused to let the tears fall until you had grabbed your shit and booked a flight back to your home town. The airport bathroom had offered a greater sympathy than he had ever given you. He never even called you. You think that’s what hurts the most. That you didn’t mean enough to him to even try and work this out. You expected better from him. You truly did.

“I can’t fucking believe how bloody stupid you would have to be to do that.”

Nonetheless, you picked yourself up and signed up for the military with your family and friends supporting your every move. Your every breath. You learned to defend yourself, learned to love yourself. You had gotten around here and there, but nobody ever truly measured up to Simon. Sometimes you wonder what would’ve happened if you two had met when you were already in the military, but you always shut down those what if thoughts quite quickly. No use dwelling on something that could never be.

“This is a big fucking mistake, love.”

You rose the ranks quickly, using your spite to your advantage. Every man that reminded you of Simon always made you fight even harder. You had always told a half truth when someone asked why you wanted to join. Not the story of pain and bitterness, but the one of hope and admiration of an old friend. It made you want to throw up after the third time of giving that response, so eventually you simply changed the subject when someone asked. You didn’t even spill your past when you were blackout drunk; it being too painful even then. You drowned your sorrows in liquor and nicotine, going out with your top tier squad every Friday. Sometimes when it came to a close and you were left with the quiet of your own deafening thoughts you went outside to smoke a pack of Simon’s favourite cigarettes. A weakness that you hated yourself for.

"You are no saint, and you are no saviour either. You're just lying to yourself."

Those words ring out in your mind every time you fail to save someone. A fellow soldier or a civilian, it doesn’t matter. Self doubt creeps up on you, smothering you in its grasp. Your hands remain stained with their blood, no matter how much you scrub your skin raw in the shower. You hear their screams ring out in your brain at night, piercing the thin veil of fitful sleep that you’ve resigned yourself to after you had lost the warmth of your other half that used to hold you tight at night. Your eyes had lost their brightness, though you can’t say it’s exactly correlated to the loss of the victims. You couldn’t prove Simon right in that aspect. Not after you’ve come this far.

"Anything would be better than this!"

You wanted to believe that so badly, but your heart longed for this career almost as much as it did him. You took pride in those you had saved; albeit still haunted by those you could not. The abilities you had earned your right to were presented proudly through tactical patches displayed on your uniform - chest candy as he would’ve called it. But if he couldn’t support you through this, you didn’t know how to trust him for future endeavours. The lack of apologies simply cemented your decision and mindset.

"Why would somebody do this on purpose?"

It’s a question whose full answer still eludes you to this day. All you know is that you felt homesick for this life before even experiencing it. It’s the ache in your bones and has been carved into your ribs so you may feel the torment and euphoria all at once when your heart slams against the cage that keeps it safe. Contained.

It’s these thoughts that occupy your mind on the plane trip to the infamous compound that houses the 141 Taskforce. Anxiety pierces your nerves, sending what little food you had that morning tumbling around your stomach. Forgetting your meds this morning was likely the worst thing that you could have possibly done. Except for completely ghosting this experience. How odd it is to be haunted by someone still alive. Someone who has no idea if you’re still breathing, let alone travelling to your very location at that moment.

There was no logical reason for you to turn this collaboration down; in fact, in any other circumstances you would be proud of rising so far that you were sent to this facility. Except for the fact that it was this facility. The very one that your ex who has tormented you through night a day for years. You hadn’t spoken a word of his name to anyone after the first month following the breakup. You wanted a life where your friends didn’t even know his name, let alone his significance. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be a part of your life anymore.

You repeat this mantra to yourself as you realise you’re finally landing.

Shit.

That syllable is the only thing bouncing around your head as you’re greeted by John Price. The John Price. Alone, you notice. You had heard bits and pieces of Ghost’s team, but mostly of either Soap’s shenanigans or Price’s rulings over him. You swallow harshly and shake the hand of the powerful Captain. The very same one that had no idea that one of his subordinate’s had been your previous lover. And you planned to keep it that way at all costs.

“Welcome to the base Lieutenant, I’ve heard great things about you and your stealth skills on the battlefield,” Price spoke, shaking your hand firmly.

Lieutenant. You had always loved the sound of that word in front of Simon’s name, and had similarly always wondered how it would sound in front of yours. It brought a sense of satisfaction rushing through your veins, and yet at the same time it brought you to your knees from nausea. It reminded you too much of him.

“There was the callsign ‘Angel’ in the details Laswell sent over. Would you say that still suits you?” Price says, almost amused.

Angel. You had never intended for it to be ever spoken to you again considering its connotations with a nickname Simon had always called you. His little angel. He claimed that you were sent down from the heavens to save the sinners; although, you had never considered him one until the breakup.

How you had gained this callsign is a story that makes you want to shake like a wet dog. Shake the memory off until it vanishes from your grasp. When you were simply doing your job and slowly climbing the ranks through your initial trade training, you had this sergeant that had taken a liking to you. Much to your chagrin. He had started every conversation with the classic pickup line about you falling from heaven. It was pure torment that you had to endure for almost a full year; a year in which the nickname stuck. Nobody was willing to do anything about it, and you weren’t willing to cause a fuss by tattling on your - at the time - superior. It ended up following you out of that academy into your career.

Although, you had quickly earned the added benefit of having ‘Angel of Death’ be your full callsign after you had proven your covert operation skills - effectively wiping out an entire compound by yourself with none the wiser. Safe to say that mission was a success. The name now had something to do with your actual skills instead of your physical appearance and led you to cringe at the honorific less and less.

“I don’t think I’d be able to answer to anything else, Sir,” You answer, wincing at the mention of your callsign nonetheless.

He sends you a questioning look at your small recoil, but brushes it off in favour of moving onto a general tour of the area. It was a sizable facility with many accommodations that made you almost smile with anticipation of taking advantage of all of them. I mean, you even got your own personal shower with your room. Who is going to complain about that?

“So, that’s basically it,” Price finishes up the tour in his office. “I know you already signed off with Laswell on your contract, but just for the record, may I have you sign a few documents here in this folder? Feel free to take your time going through them.”

You overlooked the folder, noticing what little details you had shared throughout your career being asked to be confirmed by your penmanship. It makes you give a shallow smile at the memories you’ve contracted through your experiences. Some less than savoury, but many you wouldn’t give up for the world. You were looking forward to catching up with your friends back at your old base once you were settled in, but until then you scratched pen against paper.

You had finally completed signing on all the lines, getting a little tired at being told ‘here, here, and here’ over and over again. Your eyes burned with exhaustion, not quite realising how much your anxiety had taken out of you. Your hands had a small leftover tremor plaguing them as you handed the pen back to Price, but you felt better. Significantly better.

“I can tell you’re tired, so I’ll lead you to your quarters and let you rest there for tonight,” Price says, sending you a small quirk of his lips.

“Thank you, Captain,” You reply, sending a tired yet appreciative look in his direction.

“Oh, please, call me Price. If you know Kate as well as she says you do, you’ve earned that at the least,” He laughs.

You flush red, letting out a bashful grin at that. It was true that you had run into Kate a few times before realising what a big part she played in your field of work. Most of the time at the coffee shop where you held a part-time job while attending the military academy. However, the time you had sat across from her and her wife after getting stood up really sealed the deal. You being introduced as the ‘person that actually gets our coffee right’ which gave you all a good laugh. They had comforted you once you opened up about why you were at a fancy dinner alone, they welcomed you into their open arms, and that was that. The topic ended up on what you were studying for, and it all came out into the open. The silent conversation those two had with their eyes before opening up had almost made you shit yourself before Kate explained.

You had tried to stay slightly distant after figuring out exactly what she did for a living, but she had shut that down real quick - saying that if anyone had dared to call you a nepo-baby that they wouldn’t live to tell the tale. You really hoped she was exaggerating.

Back in the present, you were letting out a laugh at Price’s words before there was a knock at the door. Your heart dropped to your stomach, making your breath stumble before completely halting. In your heart, you knew who it was before Price even told him to let himself in. The gruff voice saying he didn’t expect Price to have company so late made you feel like a deer in headlights, unable to move as their untimely demise stares them right in the face.

Except this time around, this deer had broken through the freeze reaction long ago. You had learned and adapted, unwilling to relive being frozen as Simon yelled in your face yet again. You couldn’t face the shame quite yet, not unprompted at least.

You quickly turned away from your initial reaction of turning to the door. You mouth goodbye to Price and nod in respect; hoping that he would forgive you for abandoning his office without any notice. You kept your eyes to the floor, feeling his eyes staring holes through you, burning your skin like a bullet wound.

You had changed a lot throughout the years, more so in preparation for being moved here. You weren’t going to turn down this once in a lifetime opportunity just because of a silly disagreement over half a decade ago. You remember staring at a face you barely recognize today while gripping the porcelain off white sink in your shared bathroom. Past you taking actions to change your hair into something that ended up being the new normal. You had taken a page out of Ghost’s book and invested in DIY-ing a personalised mask that resembled a bird with tinted glass shielding your eyes from anyone that could recognize you simply off that. You actually had quite a few - each one for a different occasion.

Nonetheless, the mask you currently wore, its only purpose that you cared about right now was hiding your identity. Simon didn’t immediately react, so you took that as a good sign. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was simply concealing his emotions, but you had a feeling that wasn’t the case. You peruse the halls, not entirely sure how to get to your room. You had a vague idea, but backtracking made it a little more difficult. Especially since you were more concerned with conversing with Price than memorising the exact layout.

You take a turn around a corner, immediately bumping into someone with a familiar face, your eyes betraying your displeasure as you wordlessly stared into the Scots eyes.

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 4 months

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Do you think William would actually skip TTC if Andrew is there? He's been on the balcony plenty of times with him when the late Queen was around, even when he skipped Garter Day. If Andrew has Charles over a barrel enough to keep Royal Lodge, I don't think they can keep him off the TTC balcony. I think all the Yorks will be there, but my question is will Fergie be included?? And will B&E bring their children? That would be a particularly bitter pill for the Sux to swallow.

Do you think William would actually skip TTC if Andrew is there?

William threatened to skip Garter Day if Andrew was there and they listened to him. If he threatened to skip Trooping, they’d probably listen to him. Charles might be King, but he isn’t popular with the public and it reflects in the polling. William is popular and the polling shows that the public likes him more than they like Charles - that gives William incredible bargaining power when it comes to what he can demand — and get.

He's been on the balcony plenty of times with him when the late Queen was around, even when he skipped Garter Day.

Not after the Epstein allegations became damning and Andrew indicted himself in the court of public opinion with the Newsnight interview. The same interview and allegations that forced The Queen to retire Andrew because the charities and military were pulling their support. Andrew hasn’t been on a balcony since June 2019, before Newsnight.

William has gone to great lengths to avoid being seen in any official capacity with Andrew since then. The first time William was seen publicly with Andrew (on the drive from the airport to Balmoral when The Queen died), they got a pass because The Queen was dying. The second time William was seen publicly with Andrew (that one time they drove to church together last summer), public goodwill had evaporated and he (and Kate) was crucified for it by the public. William isn’t letting that happen again.

If Andrew has Charles over a barrel enough to keep Royal Lodge, I don't think they can keep him off the TTC balcony.

I don’t think you’re using the barrel metaphor here correctly. Andrew only has Charles over a barrel if the choices are “give me Royal Lodge or give me the balcony.” As long as Andrew has Royal Lodge, Charles has the power to keep him off the royal diaries, including the Trooping balcony.

Unless Andrew has even more damning dirt on Charles, like evidence of fraudulent tampering in the Line of Succession, and we don’t know that he does.

I think all the Yorks will be there, but my question is will Fergie be included??

Fergie seems to only be invited to the family events. Trooping is more of a state event, with the family getting tacked on at the end for the flypast.

I don’t think she’ll be there. Not on the official balconies, at least.

And will B&E bring their children?

Why wouldn’t they? If Sarah’s and David’s children participated on Queen Elizabeth’s balconies when the whole family was there, why shouldn’t Wolfie, Sienna, August, and Ernie be allowed? They’re the same relation to Charles that Sarah and David’s kids were to Queen Elizabeth.

That would be a particularly bitter pill for the Sux to swallow.

Yes, it would be. But it would have no bearing on what Beatrice and Eugenie decide to do for/with their families.

If Harry and Meghan wanted to bring their kids to Trooping and hang out on a balcony to watch airplanes, they should’ve thought about that before burning all the bridges they did with Oprah, Spare, and Netflix.

#brf #trooping

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allegraforchrist · 1 month

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Can I enjoy movies, tv shows and certain characters while living for Christ?

I’ve been thinking about this since Saturday evening. I was watching the first two Deadpool movies, and just saw Deadpool and Wolverine yesterday, and something in my Spirit became upset. Even though I like Marvel, and I appreciate the comedy and action of Deadpool, it doesn’t mean I agree with his character and his morals. I don’t appreciate his profanity, or using God’s name in vain, and most of the grotesque sexual undertones of his jokes. Even though I like his character and storyline, I don’t like him. I don’t deny I am a fan of the films because it’s a break from what the Marvel universe is, but I try not to idolize him over my love for God. I appreciate the creativity of his character, and even the effort put into the franchise by the directors, producers and writers, but it shouldn’t desensitize me from the reality that it’s still vulgar and profane.

I like Deadpool, but I don’t like Deadpool. If you understand what I mean.

I found that, even though you may like something, you must not like it more than the Holy Spirit’s discipline. You can appreciate something, without agreeing with it. You can watch things by your own volition, but don’t watch it if it desensitizes your Spirit and obedience to God. Remember your eyes are the lamp into your Spirit, this goes for your ears as well.

I also want to make mention that a lot of Christians watched the Deadpool and Wolverine movie and said it blasphemes against Christ. Kind reminder that, Deadpool on multiple occasions has used God’s name in vain, so if you didn’t pick it up then that he has little regard to respecting Christ and God, you’re taking offense - at first- in the wrong film. Second, when he referred to himself as “Marvel Jesus”, I was uncomfortable too at first, but then I realized that while it may come across as a joke, the writer’s inadvertently admitted that only Jesus has the power to save anyone, and this case, Wade Wilson needed that kind of power to save his universe and the people he loved. So by my understanding it wasn’t an offense meant to be taken, it was an off-putting compliment essentially. Next, Wolverine wasn’t crucified the way Christ was, he was nailed to an X as a form of torture to the defeat of the X-men in the Apocalyptic time, with the sea of skulls being the millions of deaths of people and mutants. Christ saved us, by punishment and humiliation. Wolverine was tortured because he couldn’t save anyone.

I’m not making excuses as a Christian, I saw these images at first and also took offense, even anxiety, towards them. But once I let myself calm down and actually evaluate the intention and purpose of those images, I realized that I’m taking offense to the wrong things. As Christians, we are so eager and busy to defend Christ, and even get angry toward persons and things that do blaspheme Christ, that we misdirect the same offense towards other things that we completely miss the true message or intention of. We live in an insensitive sinful world, that’s sensitive to the Holy things of God. If we can practice catching ourselves out, as quickly as we are to catch others out in their wrong, I think we’d be a lot more disciplined and obedient to God. But we’re not. That’s why we need God and His son to guide us. To teach us. To call us out on our poor offenses against the Holy Spirit. To make the tough choices and reflections on what we desire and enjoy. Yes, we have a choice everyday, to live and Glorify God, and to do what we like. But it doesn’t work that way, you can’t drink from the cup of demons and the cup of Christ. You can’t say you love God but then hate people when they make characters or movies swear against Him. You can’t love God and be eager to love the world and its temporary pleasures. You can’t love God and hate correction. You can’t love God and ignore only the minor things that build you closer to Him, or tear you away from Him.

I can feel in my Spirit, yes I do like Deadpool but I know I can’t love it and physically I can’t because there’s just as much sin in it as there is entertainment in it. Just like Spider-man, I like Spider-man, but I can’t love it more than I love God. More than I love Jesus. And I need to honor that because my life and love is for God, and God only. I can’t compromise my purpose in God, for my pleasure in the creative.

#christian blog #christianity #christian girl #christian #christian faith #christian bible #christian girly things #faith in jesus #christian vent #deadpool and wolverine

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drconstellation · 11 months

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The Golden Lions of Heaven

S2 has several prominent lion symbols in it, and at first watch they don’t appear to have anything to do with the main story line. But there are lions in both seasons, and they are all connected.

Lions are intrinsically linked with royalty, and are often called King of the Beasts or King of the Jungle. They also symbolize courage, nobility and strength.

Whenever lions appear in GO they are always coloured gold, which is associated with Heaven. Nearly all the angels have some bit of gold on them somewhere - unless they have just discorporated.

In Christian iconography Jesus is represented as a lion upon his return. When he was crucified he was a sacrificial lamb, but the Second Coming is a time when he returns to reign again. As a descendant of the royal house of David, it therefore seems quite logical to assign this symbol to the king of kings.

There is also this paragraph from the Medieval Bestiary:

“In Christian allegory, the three main natures of the lion each have a meaning. The lion erasing its tracks with its tail represents the way Jesus concealed his divinity, only revealing himself to his followers. The lion sleeping with its eyes open represents Jesus, physically dead after crucifixion, but still spiritually alive in his divine nature. The lion roaring over his dead cubs to bring them to life represents how God the father woke Jesus after three days in his tomb.”

There is also an often misquoted line “when the lion shall lie down with the lamb,” but it’s not that at all. The full verse is:

“The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.” [Isiah 11:6]

It is referring to a time of peace that should come once Jesus returns. Somehow I don't think we are going to get that in S3.

The Two Lions in the Dirty Donkey

There are two large golden lions sitting on the ends of the bar in the Dirty Donkey. Because one of the underlying themes in S2 is about the Second Coming, even if its not obvious until the end, its fairly easy then to interpret these two as being connected to this event. The Dirty Donkey itself can be seen in several ways: a simple donkey that needs a wash, or a black horse. Both are relevant to referencing Jesus. In the former, Jesus rode a donkey into Jerusalem the first time to signify he came in peace, but the second time he arrives will be like on the back of the black horse of a conqueror come to rule. One lion for each occurrence.

The Lion under the lamp in Jimbriel’s room

While there is some argument for Jim’s character in S2 re-creating parts of the life of Jesus from two thousand years ago, such as the cleansing of the temple and facing temptation from demons. I think we shouldn’t also forget that this is also Gabriel the Herald, and he was doing some ominous heralding of doom at various points in S2 that in hindsight we can see were warning us about the Second Coming. So this lion at the base of the lamp Jimbriel is playing with has to alert us to Jimbriel’s connection with Jesus. (I will probably revisit and add/rewrite this one in the future, I think there is a bit more to it)

The Lion Rampant on Aziraphale’s Ring

At the end of S2 we learn that Aziraphale has been manipulated into going back to Heaven to run the Second Coming by the Metatron. In hindsight, its hard to see how he wouldn't be involved, somehow. What is surprising, however, is that this expert in prophecy didn't see it coming - but then he didn't expect to see Jimbriel arriving either!

Usually the first thing we notice about Aziraphale's ring is the stylized lion rampant on the shield. We know it's definitely a lion because it upright - if it was down on all four paws it would be referred to as a leopard. The upright tail tells us its on guard.

There are more elements to the ring that also add to the story here, it's a much more complex ring than Michael's. The crown on the top is a symbol of victory and sovereignty, and also a connection to God, who considered the "King of all." On either side of the shield are two stylized sprigs of laurel, reinforcing a picture of triumph and fame.

Then there are a fringe of feathers, banded in sharp triangular spikes. Feathers signify willing obedience and serenity of mind in heraldry, so I would tend to lean towards the former. The triangles represent celestial rays, so they reinforce his obedience to the will of Heaven.

You might think, "well this makes sense, Aziraphale is a Principality, he's a protector, that's why there is a lion," but I think it more complicated than that. It tells us something about both the past and the future at the same time. The purpose of the rings remain a mystery to us at the moment, in that we don't know why some angels have them and others don't, or if they have any function. Aziraphale has a tendency to touch his when he is feeling troubled or worried (its easy to miss if you aren't paying attention,) so perhaps it helps to strengthen his connection to Heaven somehow, or is a reminder of his duties.

There is another connection Aziraphale has to a lion, and that is through his past status as a cherubim in the Job minisode in S2E2.

As pointed out in this post, the pattern is stylized to represent the four wings that Cherubim are said to have, with a pearl in the center for an eye. These Cherubim also have four faces: an ox, an eagle, a lion and a man. Well, we sort of get all of those with Aziraphale at some point in the wider story. And the angel set at the eastern gate of Eden with the flaming sword was supposed to be a Cherubim, too. Yes, Aziraphale changed rank from Cherubim to Principality, we just don't technically know whether it was a step up or down...

The Honolulu Roast Lion

There is a lion you don’t see in S2 – the lion logo for the Honolulu roast coffee, mentioned briefly on a blackboard in the background of a shot inside the coffee shop.

The islands of Hawaii were a kingdom up until 1893, when a commercial coup took them over and allowed them to be annexed by the US. You can read more about it here. While the op in that post relates it the Eldritch Ball in S2E5, it still connects a lion to royalty.

The lion at the beginning of S1E1

Right at the beginning we have a lion as well – a real live lion! After Adam and Eve leave the Garden of Eden they meet a big lion out on the dunes. As Aziraphale and Crowley watch and talk atop the walls of the Garden, Adam confronts the lion with the flaming sword Aziraphale gave him and eventually kills the lion before he walks away with Eve.

What are we to think of this? I've see one op suggest that it was Aziraphale "throwing them to the lions" as his first act. To me it seems more like Adam has just slain God instead to gain their freedom.

The Lions on Crowley’s “throne”

There are two lion heads on the arm rest of Crowley’s “throne” (I don’t know what else to call it, really) in his Mayfair flat in S1. If I understand correctly, this should first be viewed as a homage to the US show Supernatural, as this chair is the exact copy of the one the demon Crowley in that show sits in, only his one is black. But if I’m to look at it in terms of GO symbology, my brain keeps going [error 503: Server cannot process the request due to a system overload; should be a temporary condition...] because I can’t quite believe what its telling me. And I should, because I’m the one running around touting a list that is now 22 items long for why Crowley was once a very powerful archangel and written a batshit-crazy meta on King Arthur themes presenting in GO. So I’ll just present my quandary this way: There are lions, they are golden, of course, so they are connected to Heaven, and a symbol of royalty – but they are being used by a demon in a residence paid for by Hell…(too.much.gold...! what were they thinking?)

Further reading: The Golden Lion by Cobragardens

#good omens #good omens 2 #aziraphale #crowley #good omens meta #good omens analysis #lions #gold #golden lions of heaven #the second coming #angel rings #celestial crown #laurel #celestial rays #cherubim #honolulu roast #being thrown to the lions #royalty

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phatcatphergus · 8 months

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Not that it really matters but that should've said "had literally just walked away". All his friends were close but none were paying attention. I agree that the going back in a second time was definitely intentional but I can't decide if him looking around to see where everyone else was first played into it or not.

The fact that he's so good at doing it subtly that people debate over whether or not it's intentional is honestly impressive. That is an actual skill especially since it so often is him taking advantage of in-game mechanics. It's frustrating how often the actual CC gets discredited for that and for using overdramatic reactions and jokes to hide his feelings. Characters overlooking it is one thing but I hate when viewers write it off as bad roleplay. The CC might be bored without create but the character is suffering in a completely different way.

You’re good nonnie, I get what you’re saying bc we’re psychically linked thinking about this. Tbh I can’t tell about the first time either, I think it was genuinely a “whoops can’t pass under here” and then ccTubbo just decided to fuck us all up in the feelings department.

I think the problem is that people just want to attribute his suffering to whatever is the easier option to chose form at the moment. He’s upset? Must be because of Fred, or create being gone, or his hole being pranked, or whatever the flavor of the week is. No one sees the deeper reason behind it bc it’s easier to say it’s something outside of your actions then own up to hurting someone intentionally or unintentionally. Some characters just have no clue that he’s even hurt in the first place and no matter how they act, it is translated to their viewers who take it to the extreme

As far as the fail rp in the fandom… I could go off on this again because it genuinely upsets me in so many ways, especially when people say he shouldn’t be involved in lore bc his style is different *side eye* but the fact that people hold lore and rp to such a specific standard and excuse their favorites of straying from that standard but crucify anyone else for doing the same is genuine insanity

#qsmp #tubbo #qsmp tubbo #qsmp fandom crit #anon asks #qsmp fandom neg

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c4rvey0urnameint0mybedpost · 1 year

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‼️ WARNING: Some spoilers for the Novel ‘The Seven Husbands Of Evelyn Hugo’ and spoilers of quotes that spoil parts of the book‼️

I found myself wondering who Taylor was talking about in ‘…Ready for it?’ With the lyrics

“And he can be my jailer, Burton to this Taylor,”

The lyrics are about Elizabeth Taylor and one of her husbands Richard Burton. Now, I got very excited when I saw it was a reference to Elizabeth Taylor ‘cause, she is one of the inspirations of my favourite book ‘The Seven Husbands Of Evelyn Hugo’, wich, if you don’t know, is a queer book about an old Hollywood (around the 1950’s) actress names Evelyn Hugo (Not her real name she had to change it for a couple of reasons) who ends up writing a Tell-All book at the age of 79, and ends up telling the story of her youth as a famous actress in the 50’s through to the 80’s and her “Seven husbands”.

But, it turns out that almost all of her husbands were beards. She ended up falling in love with one of her co-stars, her name was Celia St.James. It’s such a beautiful book and so deeply upsetting, you should read it!

Anyways, Evelyn was a Bisexual woman and Celia was a Lesbian. The book touches on topics like, Homophobia, Biphobia, Racism, Sexism and a lot of other things as you can imagine.

So, the fact that Taylor referenced Elizabeth Taylor has made me so happy! Though, this isn’t to say that it was a reference to Evelyn Hugo, it certainly is fun to think so!

Some of my favourite quotes from the book are:

“Please never forget that the sun rises and sets with your smile. At least to me it does. You’re the only thing on this planet worth worshipping.”

“I spent half my time loving her and the other half hiding how much I loved her.”

“But if you have to go, then go. Go if it hurts. Go if it's time. Just go knowing you were loved, that I will never forget you, that you will live in everything Connor and I do. Go knowing I love you purely, Harry, that you were an amazing father. Go knowing I told you all my secrets. Because you were my best friend.”

“You wonder what it must be like to be a man, to be so confident that the final say is yours.”

“I'm bisexual. Don't ignore half of me so you can fit me into a box.”

“Say to them, “Evelyn Hugo just wants to go home. It’s time for her to go to her daughter, and her, and her best friend, and her mother.” Tell them Evelyn Hugo says good-bye.”

“And just as she was about to leave the mircophone, she said 'And to anyone tempted to kiss the TV tonight, please don't chip your tooth.”

“It’s not wrong,” Celia said. “It shouldn’t be wrong, to love you. How can it be wrong?”

“It’s not wrong, sweetheart. It’s not,” I said. “They’re wrong.”

“The love of my life is gone, and I can't just call her and say I'm sorry and have her come back. She's gone forever. So yes, Monique, that is something I do regret. I regret every second I didn't spend with her. I regret every stupid thing I did that caused her an ounce of pain. I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, 'I'm in love with Celia St. James!' and let them crucify me for it. That's what I should have done. And now that I don't have her, and I have more money than I could ever use in this lifetime, and my name is cemented in Hollywood history, and I know how hollow it is, I am kicking myself for every single second I chose it over loving her proudly.”

And the most famous one from this book that you may recognise from TikTok;

“No … because they are just husbands. I am Evelyn Hugo. And anyways, I think once people know the truth, they will be much more interested in my wife.”

If you have read all of this, thank you very much for listening to me. I have a lot of feelings about this book. It’s so good, I love it so much.

#taylor swift #gaylor #lgbetty #lgbtq #gaylor swift #friend of dorothea #koincidences #the seven husbands of Evelyn Hugo #evelyn hugo #celia st james #ready for it?#reputation

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copaganda-clobberfest · 1 year

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WELCOME

TO THE FIRST ROUND OF THE COPAGANDA CLOBBERFEST!

“You know that trope? That one trope *Everyone* hates? The trope in which a well meaning antagonist to our heroes, one looking out for the good of a certain community, suddenly does something horrible and drastic to make not only them, but the ideology they stand for the most villainous of all?”

NOW IS THE TIME TO BATTLE THEM OUT! Like Ken dolls, fighting for survival! Like your Polly pockets discarded in the closet, we’ll see which of these bitches jumped that slippery slope harder! Whose character did numbers on y’all, and blew up a bunch of grandmas and babies and hospitals with it!

ROUND ONE

DAENERYS TARGARYEN from GAME OF THRONES vs PRINCE LOTOR from VOLTRON (LEGENDARY DEFENDER)

Dany propaganda (TW: domestic abuse mention, slavery):

“Sold off as a slavewife to a warlord in another country. Slowly rises up gaining the love and trust of the warlords people, eventually becoming their leader after his death. Goes on to conquer another nation and free all the slaves. Deals with her quickly growing list of real and perceived enemies in increasingly awful ways. More stuff happens. Eventually she makes her play for the throne of Kingslanding and forced a swift surrender… but instead snaps… over…? and instead starts killing everyone in the city indiscriminately because the only way to build her great version of the world everyone who even remotely likes the current one has to die.

And then her sorta bf kills her.

Its kinda funny how the US was also founded on a revolution lead by people with Not Great Morals and its media industry loves to now churn out stories where revolutionary figures turn out to be bad guys, actually, so you shouldn’t revolt and just accept your place in their world. Is this actually a British psy-op to get americans to accept the error in the ways and rejoin the UK?”

“daenerys propaganda: the literal in-text justification d&d gave for dany always being secretly evil and destined to massacre innocents was that she was too mean to the slavers that crucified a bunch of children. so they had this domestic violence survivor die of yet more domestic violence. they couldn't even let her go down in battle, she had to be assassinated by her lover in a moment of physical intimacy. (and tyrion, who literally strangled his gf to death and burned a fleet alive, suddenly became the audience avatar fretting about ethics.) the only woman permitted to retain power at the end of the show (sansa) was the one who said being raped and abused made her strong; dany, who explicitly condemned physical and sexual abuse and took steps to eradicate the perpetrators and break the wheel that crushed the oppressed, had to go crazy and die. the script explicitly condemned what they referred to as "liberation theology." d&d are the ultimate centrists and they turned dany into a fox news caricature of an activist.”

Lotor propaganda (TW: xenophobia):

“He wasn't exactly presented as a straight-up villain initially, more like a rogue agent. He wanted to reform his father's evil empire to be less tyrannical and xenophobic (the 2nd one is especially relevant because he's only half Galra. He went from an enemy of the heroes to an ally, then oops! turns out he's actually been a genocidal mass murderer with a god complex this whole time and then he dies in the most horrible way. It's been a while since I watched the show but I will never stop being mad over how they did my boy dirty.”

Always feel free to rb with more propaganda :)

#copaganda clobberfest #copaganda-clobberfest #polls #tumblr polls #tumblr tournament #poll tournament #game of thrones #daenerys targaryen #prince lotor #voltron legendary defender #vld

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joesalw · 10 months

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the way joe is crucified for wanting a private relationship is so odd like its not just relationships he’s just always private and whats the problem with that 😭 yk who should be crucified over the privacy in their relationship? taylor swift because why was she pressing his boundaries by writing songs about their sex life and fights and then having her fans think it’s okay to speculate based on that. red ass flag like even if joe wasn’t a private guy i would’ve broken up with her because there are some things that just. You shouldn’t write about? especially if the guy doesn’t want that shit out in the open?

Joe: I want a private relationship

Taylor: Okay so let me write songs about every tiny detail of our relationship so that my fans can speculate about us and make theories as they want. And oh they can also change the narrative of these songs once we break up so that's the perfect idea of privacy for me.

imo tom and zendaya or dylan and barbara are very much of public couple but at the same time we don't know anything about their private life. taylor and joe on the other hand wanted so much privacy for themselves but it ended with the point of her writing songs about them in the first place.

#anti taylor swift #swifties dni #joe alwyn

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ivaspinoza · 2 months

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Raskolnikov's fever

— an essay on prefigurations in ''Crime & Punishment''

This essay ''discusses'' many characters without providing detailed introductions, so readers who haven’t read the book might find some aspects unclear. However, this shouldn’t significantly affect the overall understanding. Oh, and obviously: this essay contains spoilers.

PART I

With an ''irritable state of mind'', ''so absorbed in himself (...), so isolated from anyone else'' (p. 5), Raskolnikov is an entire generation's timeless mirror, amusing himself with fantasies. ''Just pretty pictures'' (p. 6) for him, harmless thoughts.

He meets the stranger, the drunk man who believes and screams: ''Why should anyone feel pity for me, you say? Indeed! There's nothing to pity me for! I ought to be crucified, crucified upon a cross, not pitied! Crucify him, O Heavenly Judge, crucify him and, when it is done, take pity on him! And then I will come to thee for mortification, for it is not merrymaking that I seek, but sorrow and tears!'' (p. 29)

Marmeladov, whose words are a mystical warning, or a prophetic path for Raskolnikov to walk on, still cries: ''O Lord, thy kingdom comes'' (p. 30), revealing the only hope of a man who knows he can't save himself. Why is always the blackest sheep that adores her shepherd the most, sleeping at his feet after rescue?

Raskolnikov's heart faints, falling gradually, forgetting its own cries for light. His mind is too important. He is so tired from working!

''What sort of work?'', Nastasya asks.

''Thinking'', he answers.

''Nastasya fairly rolled with laughter''. (p. 37)

When the reality of his mother's letter strikes him, what is all that thinking good for? His beloved sister deals with life's business for his sake, while he hides in the shadows of his dreams, distancing himself from objective reality, from virtue, and from life — he exclaims like a victim: [I will] ''(...) turn my back on life altogether! (...) Obediently accept my fate, such as it is, once and for all, and stifle all my aspirations, renouncing every right to action, life and love!'' (p.54)

Well, that is the path he is already on, by his choices. The choices of how he thinks and understands the world, life, and love.

His fate is being made with every single one of his thoughts; thinking and thinking with diligence still doesn't mean you're thinking the right thoughts. One can, and frequently one does, think wrongly. And what is worse: believe its own thoughts as truth!

Where is truth, so we can have a comparison? Raskolnikov doesn't know. He remembers Marmeladov's words:

''For every man must have at least somewhere to go...'' (p. 56)

Rodion meets the prefiguration of Sonia, who also carries something of Dunechka, especially in the way Svidrigailov preys over her. At first, the obvious response to that drunk lady, clearly the victim of some bad-intentioned people, was to ask for the police officer just like he did and to care deeply: ''are we just going to let him get his hand on her? Aren't we going to try to fetch her home?'' (p. 59)

Which suddenly turns into: ''Forget about it! Let him have his bit of fun!'' In an instant, he was ''utterly transformed''. (p. 61)

Does the audience feel disgusted, or do both believe objective morality doesn't exist?

Raskolnikov ''studied intensely, not sparing himself, and for this, he was respected [in the university]; nobody liked him, however. He was very poor and at the same time somehow haughtily arrogant and uncommunicative: as though he were keeping something to himself. Some of his fellow students had the impression that he looked down on them all from a certain height as though they were children, as though he had outstripped them all in terms of education, knowledge and convictions, and that he views their convictions and interests as something inferior.'' (p. 63) For better contrast, we are presented with the description of the good-natured Razumikhin, the humble, at this exact moment.

Raskolnikov thinks: ''Wait for a moment: did I really think I could put everything right just by going to see Razumikhin, find a way out in the person of Razumikhin?'' But he is too proud. He is determined to write his fate, and blame it on circumstance, on coincidence, even on the divine hand, as is common for human beings.

Raskolnikov's soul didn't give up yet, though. He falls asleep, poor feverish creature, sick to the bone, and dreams of his childhood. Isn't it in childhood where all the horror begins?

He sees the old church, that ''he loved'' (p. 68). He sees the little grave of his brother — the shadow of death, also in holding his father's hand. And then is about the old little mare, about Alyona Ivanovna; but does he know that? The thinking mind seems to lose track of what is important, essential, truthful, and real.

''Get in, I'm going to take you all!'' The mare's owner, Mikolka, screamed, leaping into the cart first. ''She eats her oats and gives nothing back! Get in, I say! I'll fly there at the gallop! I'll make her gallop!'' (p. 69)

''He [Raskolnikov] felt towards her [Ivanovna], at first glance, without knowing anything particular about her, an unmasterable sense of revulsion (...)''. (p. 78)

'Papa, Papa!', he cried to his father. 'Papa, what are they doing? Papa, they're beating the poor little horse!' 'Come along, come along!' said the father. 'They are drunk, playing mischief, the fools; come along, don't look!' (p. 70)

''(...) the student had suddenly begun to tell his companion all sorts of details about Ivanovna. (...) 'Only she's a horrible old cow...' And he begun to relate how mean and capricious she was (...)``.

''Little jade began to tug with her might but not only was she unable to set off a gallop — she could barely manage to move forward at all (...)'' (p. 69).

The student said: ''I'd murder that old woman and rob her of all her money, and I swear to you, I'd do it without the slightest twinge of conscience.' (p. 80). Pretty images, harmless. Just thoughts, ideas, vague words — weightless.

Who could measure the intention of the human heart?

''Flog her to death!', cried Mikolka. (...) She belongs to me! I'll do as I like with her!'' (p. 70)

I am her god: her life is mine. My desire is sovereign. I answer to no one: I am the law. I am perfect. I face no consequence! That is the testament of the cruel, twisted hearts, through all generations. I will climb the tower, and sit on the throne.

''Whip her on the muzzle, on the eyes, on the eyes!', Mikolka shouted'.

But young Raskolnikov was crying (p. 71). He escaped his father's grip and ran to her. The mare was flogged and everyone sang a song, while she fought until her last breath, while Mikolka was angry that he wasn't strong enough to kill her with one blow (p. 71).

''and then shall be revealed the Lawless One, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of his mouth'' (2 Thessalonians 2:8a, Young's Literal Translation).

''She'll fall down in a minute, lads, it's all over with her now!' one versed in such matters called from the crowd.

'Take an axe to her, for God's sake! Get it over with quickly! cried a third.''

(...)

'Finish her off!' Mikolka shouted, leaping out of the cart as though he no longer knew what he was doing. (...) Mikolka stood to one side and began to beat her on the spine with the crowbar at random. The jade stretched her muzzle forward, uttered a heavy sigh, and died.

'That's the end of her', people shouted in the crowd.

'She ought to have galloped.'

'She belongs to me!' Mikolka shouted, holding the crowbar, his eyes bloodshot.'' (p. 72)

I will do with her life as I please. And so the student kept in the same line of thought, as Raskolnikov still listened.

''I was joking just now, of course, but look: on the one hand you have a nasty, stupid, worthless, meaningless, sick old woman who's no use to anyone and is, indeed, actually harmful to people, who doesn't; even know herself why she's alive, and who's going to kick the bucket of her own accord tomorrow. Do you get my meaning? Do you?'' (p. 80)

Her money could be used for something better. Everyone has being negotiating with her and using her, but no one remembers. No one knows how she got there, was it hard? What did he have to endure? What thoughts hide deep in her heart? Oh, the old lady is a cow, she doesn't have a heart. She is not human.

'One death to a hundred lives — I mean, there's arithmetic for you! (...) common balance? No more than the life of a louse, a cockroach, because the old woman is harmful. She's wearing another person's life out: she's mean: she bit Lizaveta's finger out of meanness the other day; she very nearly severed it!'

'Of course she doesn't deserve to live,' the officer observed. 'But then that's nature'. (p. 81).

In the end, the student would say that it's not his business. But what about the thoughts? Could those words be taken back? Pretty images, harmless. Just silly thoughts and intentions that mean nothing.

Raskolnikov keeps being superstitious, volatile, and influenceable. Oh, if just some day he would notice that he actually doesn't not think by himself, but he is a product of his generation's poor line of thought!

Superstition is the devil's version of faith: why would he listen to that conversation if not by some kind of heavenly sign that he was right? What an amazing coincidence! Maybe it was his destiny! No, he didn't consider that listening to those words could be a warning, a chance to listen to such twisted thoughts from a stranger's mouth and be horrified, so he could then recognize the monster within himself and stop the madness from consuming him.

Back to the nightmare, ''with a howl, he forced his way through the crowds towards the little grey mare, flung his arms round her dead, bloodied muzzle, and kissed it, kissed her on the eyes, on the lips...'' (p. 72) He even runs and attacks Mikolka, ''hammering him with his little fists.'' (p. 72)

''Papa! The poor little horse... Why did they... kill it?'' (p. 72).

His father's answer seems too simple, but it's true: they are drunk, up to mischief. (p. 73). Drunk in their own thoughts, blind and lost. Raskolnikov wakes up from this nightmare and asks himself: will I do it? With the axe? (p. 73).

He asks God: ''Oh Lord, will I really?'' (p. 73).

In the silence, the answer could be an echo. Will you, Raskolnikov?

''O Lord', he prayed, 'show me my path, and I will renounce this accursed.... Dream of mine!'' (p. 74).

But He already did, Rodion.

Foa slaver one moment he was free, in the next, slave of his own desire again. The power of choice is so often underestimated. He searches for the excuse, he walks into the trap only to say it was preordained. The reality of morality is the fact that we have a choice (always). The reality of our helplessness is how we choose.

''Ugh, the way the sleeps!', she [Natasya] exclaimed indignantly. 'He does nothing but sleep, either!'' (p. 82). Rodion's laziness is a portal through were his life and self-control escape. Razuminkhin is always working (serving). Raskolnikov is always tired, self-absorbed, lost in his mind. When he finally finds the courage to eat, his vision of an oasis is not only the answer to his last prayer but also prophetic. He could stay in those warm sands, and make his way to peace much shorter, but the human heart is rebellious, stubborn and arrogant.

He thought about everything until ''he was satisfied'' (pg 86). He found delight in his own plan. Not for one moment did he consider that the previous choices led him to this place. He considered himself smart enough to overcome morality through reasoning. The human mind is above the Natural Law. He was immune to the kind of failure and childish behaviour criminals display soon after the crime. In fact, what he had planned was not a crime. (p. 87) He was the law, like Mikolka. He decides morality. Her life is his to take. ''Flog her to death!''

When the time came, he even thought ''Shouldn't I just go away?'', but he ignored himself. Things were done purposely (p. 92). When the old mare opened the door, his intentions spoke louder than his words: she was scared. (p. 92) And when the axe went down, so was his consciousness. But his soul cried, seconds later, he was deep into madness, considering the possibility that Ivanovna could still be alive, somehow. He, who thought he had everything planned and under control, who wanted to commit his crime so carefully that no blood would stain his clothes, ended up covered in it. (p. 96) Blood stained hands by the murder of the old lady and her child-sister.

''And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing things in better proposition and of making decisions, if he had been able to perceive all the difficulties of his situation, in all its desperate monstrous absurdity, and to realize just how many problems he would have to overcome and how much villainy he might have to perform in order to get out of this place and arrive back home again, he might very well have abandoned the whole undertaking and gone at one to give himself up, not out of fear for himself, but from a simple feeling of horror and revulsion at what he had done.''

But Raskolnikov is too proud to repent, he thought he could do it and leave with clean hands. He thought no one would come, but later he found himself on the other side of the door, on the difficulties of the run, and then he cried: ''Oh Lord, what shall I do?''

You shall not murder.

''The rags and tatters of vague thoughts swarmed in his head; but he could not seize hold of a single one of them, could not focus on a single one of them, even though he tried to force himself to...'' (p. 106).

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