#and are surprised to have made it this far anyways

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I'LL TAKE THE NIGHT SHIFT

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: now that the chaos following the aftermath of the decay of angel incident has settled, mori intends on making good on the deal he made with the armed detective agency. and you have a very important decision to make.

(wordcount: 13.4k, fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, angst with a happy ending (if u can believe it!!), port mafia business, a bit of arguing, depictions of dazai's depression, unedited.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: one last age 22 fic before your girl goes on a slight break. the ada/pm swap YAYYYY, it honestly came out a lot less intense then i intended, and the happy ending was originally not supposed to happen BUT i think it's well-deserved for age 22 pmreader & dazai. they are grown now, and the whole theme of their reconcillation at 22 is that they're actually WORKING to make this work, so i thought it would be an injustice to not let this one end happily. ANYWAY, on another note, don't expect any fics from me in may! i'm going to be cracking down on civzai2 so i can have it ready to post for june! i hope you guys enjoy! reblogs appreciated!

Your phone has been ringing for the past twenty minutes.

You know it’s Mori frustrated at your absence, trying to call an executive meeting to discuss the upcoming parley with the Armed Detective Agency, where the Port Mafia will be taking one of theirs to drag into the dark. He can wait for all you care, you sigh as you lean back on your hands, the wind ruffling your hair as you look down into the window of the building before you.

You don’t know what you’re doing here.

You watch with a heavy, unwelcome feeling in your chest as Dazai laughs wildly at something a vaguely familiar man with purple and white hair says. The man looks distinctly put out by whatever Dazai is laughing at, as one usually is whenever Dazai is laughing because nine times out of ten, he’s laughing at someone else's expense. The other members of the Agency are hanging around too. You see the uptight blonde, Kunikida, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Mori’s favorite, Yosano, sits on his desk cackling, slapping Kunikida’s shoulder. The weretiger has his face buried in his arms, hiding himself from the world, while the other traitor, the girl that Kouyou obsesses over, hovers over him. There are others you don’t recognize, but they don’t really matter to you.

Only one does.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this before. You’ve seen Dazai laugh countless times—snorts that he hides in your shoulder, mocking jeers as he taunts Chuuya, muffled snickers that he tries to bite back when he’s caught by surprise—but you don’t think you’ve ever seen this type of carefree, reckless happiness before. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that’s so genuine that you almost question whether or not you’re looking at Dazai Osamu or some lookalike imposter who has stolen his place; he laughs so hard that he looks like he’s struggling to breathe, doubling over and slapping the desk he’s sitting at.

He’s never looked so at home before. So comfortable. Even with you back before he defected, when you guys were alone with no one else to bear witness, he couldn’t rid himself of all of the protective layers he wears, he couldn’t let himself be at ease. He never fully let his guard down, not even for a second, not even for you.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He did a few times, but you can count them on one hand, and they were never by his own choice—only when he was pushed too far, when his mind caved in on him no matter how hard he tried to weld together the cracks in the dam. 

It wasn’t like this.

“He looks happy, doesn’t he?” you ask quietly as soon as you feel the familiar presence behind you.

“Why the fuck are you torturing yourself with this?” Nakahara Chuuya’s gruff voice meets your ears, the roof shaking behind you as he lands on top of it. You hear him make his way over to you, but you don’t turn to look at him.

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” you admit, letting the pain seep into your voice to the only person whom you can trust not to use it against you. “When he told me Oda Sakunosuke’s final request, I doubted him… not that I was going to let him know that… but he really has changed, hasn’t he? You see it too, don’t you?” 

Chuuya lets out a noise caught between doubt and amusement. “Wouldn’t be too sure. Y’know what they say about tigers and stripes.”

“Don’t be bitter, Chuuya, it’s an ugly look on you,” you say dryly, eyes following Dazai as he pushes himself to his feet, dancing away as the purple-haired man tries to whack him. Your lips curl up into a small smile when you see the genuine glee painted on his face. “He’s changed. We, of all people, should be able to see that.”

“I’m not bitter,” Chuuya says roughly, “and if I was, I have every damn right to be. So do you. More than me, even. How the fuck can you see him living his best life and not be bitter? After what he did to us? To you?”

“Bitterness ages the skin, it’s probably why you’ve started developing wrinkles at the ripe age of twenty-two,” you quip, just to hear the aggravated noise that Chuuya lets out.

“I do not have fucking wrinkles, quit saying that shit,” Chuuya complains, flicking the back of your head hard. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Purposely,” you note, but then let out a soft puff of air. “I don’t know, Chuuya. I thought I would be bitter and angry. Sometimes, I still am. When I’m alone, usually drunk, I resent him so much that it makes me sick, but then…”

Then you see him. 

You see him happy. You see him surrounded by people who love him. You see him thriving in a way that he’d never be able to in the Port Mafia. Every day that passed while he was there, he somehow became darker and colder; less human, and more of an unfathomable concept. You could see it in his face when he would come home to your apartment, eyes empty and expression blank. His blood ran darker than anyone else’s in those towers, his mind a treacherous place that few would dare to even think of treading or even just understanding. He was never Dazai back then, he was the Port Mafia’s youngest executive, the Black Wraith, Mori’s heir. He was something to be feared and admired. He was the Mafia, everything it stood for, its incarnate. He was not Dazai. 

Not like how he is now.

You told him you forgave him when he showed up at your apartment three months ago, and you knew you meant it then, but you didn’t realize how much you meant it until now.

“He never fucking deserved you,” Chuuya says so quietly that you think he’s talking more to himself than you. Before you can comment on his words, he speaks up again, changing the subject: “Let’s get out of here. Mori sent me to come get you.”

You sigh, eyes lingering on Dazai for a moment longer before you finally turn to look at Chuuya. Despite the rough edge to his voice, you can see the concern plain on his face as he looks down at you, brows furrowed and lips curved down. He holds a gloved hand out to you, and you sigh as you place yours in it, letting him lift you to your feet. You wobble a bit, but he steadies you with a hand to your waist.

“Thanks,” you say quietly and then give him a small smile that has his eyes narrowing in suspicion instantly.

“Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“What if I say pretty please?” you offer, linking your hands behind your back as you tilt your head to the side.

“Stop tryna look cute. You’re not cute,” Chuuya scowls, and you scowl right back at him, dropping the act. “What do you want?” 

“Can you stall Mori for another… hour-ish?” you ask with a sweet smile.

Chuuya's face drops as he stares at you, and your eyes turn up as your smile widens. After a few moments of him just staring at you, as if trying to figure out if you’re being legit, he lets out a sigh of utter suffering. “You fucking owe me, you understand? That ‘45 Conti is going back up on the auction in New York in two weeks. I want it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get you your fancy wine, Chuuya,” you agree, leaning in to brush your lips against his cheek. “You’re the best.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but you see the way his cheeks heat up. “Whatever,” he mutters. “What’re you even doing that’s so important? You’re not usually one to hold up meetings like this.”

You sigh lightly, gaze tracking back to the window to where Dazai is leaning into the weretiger, trying to use him as a human shield. He laughs again, tossing his head back and jumping away, throwing a pen at Kunikida as the man tries to swipe him, and your throat feels a bit swollen, your heart tight. Not with jealousy or bitterness, but rather with content because four years ago, you never would have been able to picture something like this.

“I… have a decision I need to make before the meeting,” you finally tell Chuuya, voice a bit hesitant.

Chuuya gives you a long look, a heavy one, as if he knows exactly what decision you’re trying to make. You think that he probably does.

“I hope you make the right choice,” he says quietly.

“Yeah… I hope so too.”

---

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and the graveyard on the west side of the city is unusually busy—it’s just your luck, truly. There’s a distasteful expression on your face as your gaze traces across the mourners as they visit their lost loved ones. You’ve never liked graveyards; you can count the number of times you’ve been to them on one hand. Being here reminds you too much of a past you can’t remember—even though the corpses are buried well below the ground, the scent of rot somehow still finds its way to you, smothering and nauseating. 

“What the hell are we doing here?” Klaus asks from next to you, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “This place is creepy.”

“What do you think we’re doing here?” you ask dryly, resting your head against the cool window as your driver takes you down a dirt path leading to a more secluded part of the cemetery, toward the grave you’re seeking.

Klaus pauses and then offers, “Meeting an informant?” 

You roll your eyes. “We are visiting a grave.”

Klaus is clearly offended by your tone. “Forgive me, damn, it’s not like you’ve ever been sentimental before.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” you say flatly, although sentiments are the last thing that drew you to this place—resentment is far more fitting.

“Riiiiiight,” Klaus drawls like he doesn’t actually believe you. “Are we going to be here long? Cemeteries give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“What the fuck is a heebie-jeebie?” you ask, turning your head to look at him so you can shoot him a strange expression.

“Seriously?” Klaus asks, blinking. “You’ve never heard that expression before?”

Your squinted gaze lingers on him for a second before the driver rolls to a stop in front of the small hill leading up to the grave you’re looking to visit. You shake your head and roll your eyes again as you step out of the car, instinctively holding your breath the moment the cemetery air reaches you. You have to force yourself to breathe, hoping you don’t look as uncomfortable as you feel. Your fingers tighten around the small bundle of petunias in your left hand.

“Isn’t that—” Klaus begins, frowning at the figure standing in front of the grave.

“Stay by the car,” you order as you make your way forward.

“But—”

“That’s an order, Klaus.”

You hear him sigh in irritation, displeased by your words, but he listens. Each step up to the grave is agonizing—you want to turn on your heel and leave, but you’ve already come too far to do that. Plus, it would feel like a wound to your pride now that he’s seen you.

“You’re the last person I expected to see here,” Sakaguchi Ango greets once you’ve come close enough. He looks down at the bundle of flowers in your hand curiously. “Especially with those.”

“It’s rude to approach someone’s resting site without a gift,” you reply blandly, brushing past him to kneel in front of Oda Sakunosuke’s grave, eyes lingering on the mossy cobblestone before you place the petunias down in front of it. “I have something I need to say, that’s all.”

“Not to me, I presume,” Sakaguchi replies, amused with himself. 

You’re not quite as amused.

“You’re lucky I don’t put a bullet through your head, traitor,” you murmur, giving the older man a cold look from the corner of your eye. “You’re lucky I don’t do worse.”

“Hah,” Sakaguchi says, pushing up his glasses—a nervous tick that makes your lips curl up. “You know, I never personally saw what you do to traitors, but I heard rumors through the grapevine. They say the executions you handled were more barbaric than Dazai-kun’s and Nakahara Chuuya’s combined. I found it hard to believe.”

A humorless smile rests on your lips as you stare at the grave in front of you. A necessary price—you don’t have an ability like Chuuya’s or a reputation like Dazai’s. Once it became clear you were in the running for the next open executive seat, you had to prove you were more than just Mori’s daughter. That the position should be yours and it wasn’t because of nepotism, and it wasn’t because you spread your legs for Double Black, as people liked to whisper back then. The easiest way of proving that was to make an example out of people, and with an ability like yours, it was easy to shatter a man’s mind before putting him in the grave.

“Chuuya’s never liked playing with his toys, and Dazai got bored with them long before I ever did,” you say absently, looking over your shoulder to focus your gaze on him. “I don’t get bored until they break.”

Sakaguchi’s throat bobs, and you watch his hand slip into his pocket—surely getting ready to send some sort of signal to his friends in the government.

“Relax,” you say easily, sitting back on your heels. “I don’t disrespect the dead—not even him. I wouldn’t do anything here.”

“How reassuring,” Sakaguchi scoffs, but his hand drops back to his side. “What on earth do you have to say to a man that’s been dead for four years?”

His voice wavers strangely—he’s defensive and in pain all at the same time, like he has some urge to shield a dead man from whatever words you want to speak to him, but it hurts him to admit he’s gone all the same. Rich, considering you’re pretty sure the man played a part in his death.

“I could ask you the same.”

“That’s different,” Sakaguchi says tightly.

“Is it?” you ask, amused.

“It is.”

You let out a puff of air, but the smile on your lips doesn’t reach your eyes. “Leave so I can say my piece. I don’t want to be here longer than I have to be.”

Sakaguchi doesn’t respond, but you hear him walk away. He goes far enough that he’s out of earshot of you, but he lingers close, which tells you that he has more to say to you, much to your displeasure.

You inhale slowly, eyes fluttering shut as you try to figure out what exactly you want to say. You tossed the words through your head the whole ride here, but now that you’re actually before the grave of the man you intended to speak them to, you find yourself at a loss.

“You… cannot fathom how deep my hatred of you runs,” you finally say, voice quiet. You swallow thickly, tongue pressing against the back of your teeth as you try to quell your rising resentment. “You’re the reason Dazai left me. You’re the reason he’s going to spend his life chasing after a goal he’ll always see as unattainable. You’re the reason that he’ll never let himself be at peace. You ruined him.”

You take in a shaky breath, blinking away the tears that suddenly sting at your eyes. “You saved him,” you correct after a moment, voice cracking. “I’ve never seen him as happy as he is now—not with you and Sakaguchi, not with Chuuya, not with me. You… wouldn’t believe how much he’s thrived in the light, or maybe you would, I don’t know. Maybe you saw something in him back then that I couldn’t, but I see it now. You would be proud of him… I’m proud of him.”

You exhale, shoulders slumping as you look down at the ground. “The President of the Agency made a deal with Mori—one member in exchange for protection when they needed it. Mori wants Dazai,” you say bitterly. You know that Fukuzawa shielded Yosano, and it makes you sick with rage that he didn’t do the same for Dazai. “I’ll… do whatever it takes to make sure it’s not him, but in return, you’re going to give him a sign that you’re proud of how far he’s come, understood? He can’t see it for himself, and I know he doesn’t fully believe me when I tell him, but he’d believe you. So find a way. You owe me that much.”

You feel crazy talking to a grave—Mori is a man of science, he’s never been religious, but Itou believed that the dead lingered, whether it was because of unfinished business or they just needed to see their loved ones some more, to protect them from the other side. You never really cared to hear his supernatural nonsense back when he was alive, but now you cling to it in hopes that maybe he’s still watching you, guiding you along the right path.

The wind picks up a little, and you swear you feel a brief warmth settle on your right shoulder—it’s probably just your imagination, but you’ll let yourself believe it’s Oda agreeing to your deal.

You rise to your feet with another shaky sigh. 

“Goodbye, Oda,” you murmur, throat tightening as you think back to the man who wanted you to come by his place to talk to the young girl he took in because he wanted her to have a strong woman to look up to—the only person who ever acknowledged how hard you worked to keep your place in the upper echelon. “One day, we’ll meet again. Hopefully not anytime soon.”

Without another word, you turn on your heel to leave, pointedly ignoring Sakaguchi when he tries to intercept you, walking straight past him back toward the car you came in.

“Do you know who he plans to choose?” Sakaguchi calls after you, voice wavering.

You don’t stop for him, but you say quietly, “I know who it won’t be.”

---

“Thank you for finally joining us,” Mori says dryly as you step into the conference room where all of the rest of the executives were waiting for you. “We’ve only been waiting for over an hour. Chuuya-kun has been trying to keep our attention on… office issues, I figured he was only trying to buy more time for you.”

Chuuya’ face reddens. “I don’t like the paper we write our reports on,” he says immediately, doubling down on whatever bullshit he’d been spewing to stall for you. “It’s too thick.”

“Right,” Mori agrees with a thin smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chuuya rubs the back of his neck and gives you a helpless look once Mori turns his attention back on you, but you don’t speak, staring down at the older man with an unreadable expression. You’d been wondering why he was so lackadaisical about filling Ace’s executive position—he blew you off every time you tried to bring it up. 

This was why. He didn’t need to fill it if he was just going to drag Dazai back and sit him in it.

You don’t say anything as you take your seat across from him at the executive table. He watches you curiously, like he has a feeling that you’re going to make things difficult for him today. He rests his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on top of them as his eyes drift between his four executives.

“I think it’s about time we call in on the debt that the Armed Detective Agency owes us, don’t you think?” he hums. “I, of course, have my ideas on who we should bring over, but I would like to hear your opinions.”

Verlaine waves his hand dismissively. “We all know who is coming back,” he says. “It’s best we keep this short so that I can go back down and prepare for when the Clocktower finally decides to make its move.”

“That boy is the only logical option,” Kouyou agrees flippantly, fanning herself as she leans back in her seat. “It’s best we get this over with.”

Chuuya looks distinctly uncomfortable, but he only averts his gaze to the table. You’re not actually sure what his opinion is on all of this—he could want Dazai back for all you know. He can’t safely use Corruption without him, can’t access the full extent of his ability, and you know Chuuya doesn’t like using Corruption, but he also doesn’t like the fact that he doesn’t even have the option of being able to use it. The two of you have talked about seeing if you could use your ability to put Arahabaki to sleep, but it’s all been theoretical; neither of you wants to risk actually trying it when there’s a chance it might not work.

“If you bring Dazai back to the Port Mafia, you may as well execute me now.”

Chuuya’s head snaps toward you, eyes wide, and Kouyou pauses mid-fan to look at you. Verlaine doesn’t react other than a slight raise of his eyebrows, but Mori’s lips curl up, amused.

“Oh?” he questions, “and here I thought you would be the most excited to have Dazai-kun back.”

“I don’t want him back here,” you reply flatly. “Bringing him back here when he doesn’t want to be here might as well be shooting us in the foot. He’ll work from the inside against us out of spite. I’m not going to sit here and watch while you make a decision that will cripple us. If he comes back, I will leave.”

Curiously, Mori tilts his head to the side, entertained by your words. “An ultimatum. You can’t possibly think that you’re worth more to me than Dazai-kun.”

You don’t think Mori means that. He likes saying things to get under your skin, he likes seeing how far he can push you until you snap, and nothing gets under your skin more than the idea of you being a second or third-choice to him. This time, though, you only hit him with the same amused smile he gives you.

“I know I don’t compare to either of your precious proteges,” you say, leaning back in your seat, and then pass the manila folder in your hand across the table to him. He looks down at it and then raises his eyebrows at you before humoring you, opening the folder to flip through the contents. You watch as his smile slowly falls as his eyes scan the profiles of six crime lords inside. “But you don’t think you’d be losing just me, do you?”

Oddly enough, Mori’s eyes gleam in delight at your words. “Is that so?” 

You exhale as you choose your words carefully. “Goldoni doesn't like you, Mori. He’s caught between the Port Mafia and the Order of the Clocktower, and it would be much easier for him to make peace with the Clocktower considering they’re on his border. The only reason why he chooses us is because of my friendship with him. Mishima might not outright betray you, but he’ll slowly start withdrawing support when you ask for it once he finds out that I’ve left. I was the one who helped Qu Yuan get her brother back from Cao Xueqin when the two organizations were on the brink of war. I was the one who made sure Paz got his foothold in the central U.S. while the Guild was here. I was the one who acted as the mediator for Nabokov when Bulgakov and the White Guard threatened to come down on the Pale Flame—he even gifted me his strongest ability user for it, offered me a permanent spot in St. Petersburg with him.”

Mori doesn’t immediately respond, squinting at you slightly as he listens to you speak. Kouyou looks between the two of you with an unreadable expression. Chuuya looks sick. Verlaine just looks like he wants to go back to his office.

“And you don’t need me to explain what Tolstoy would do if I asked him to,” you finish quietly. “He would do anything for me. He’s who I would go to after I leave here. He would give me an executive position, and in return, I would give him Japan.”

Kouyou says your name, aghast, but you ignore her.

“Without my connections, you lose your foothold in the government, you lose all of your major allies—you will be pushed out of Japan, and I would help him hunt you down to whatever dark crevice of the earth you try to hide in,” you continue, leaning forward. “You know better than anyone that I have the means of doing it.”

“The means, maybe,” Mori agrees, closing the folder to look up at you. Though his expression is serious, you can see the way his eyes gleam, like he’s pleased with the sudden turn of events. “But perhaps not the will.”

Your eyes narrow. “You think I’m bluffing.”

Mori shrugs, tapping his fingers against the closed folder. “I think you’re angry—anger is a fire that burns hot, but short. You’ve invested too much in this organization to truly walk away, let alone betray it. And you and I have been through far too much together, my dear.”

Your throat tightens at the reminder of your past with Mori, but you only raise your chin so as not to let the discomfort show on your face.

Chuuya exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Boss—"

But Mori lifts a hand, silencing him. “That’s not to say your threats are without weight,” he continues, tilting his head. “The depth of your connections is impressive, your influence undeniable. You’ve built something that hinges on your continued existence here. I recognize that.”

“I’m not the same girl I was back then,” you say, lips tightening. “I know my worth, no matter what you do to try to make me feel it’s less. You can’t afford to lose me—try to call my bluff. I dare you.”

Mori hums, resting his chin on his hand as he observes you, violet eyes glittering. “No, you’re not. That girl would have never had the guts to stand against me like this.”

You don’t reply to that. The tension in the conference room becomes stifling as the two of you stare at each other, each waiting for the other to concede.

“You should know by now,” he finally says smoothly, “that I don’t deal in ultimatums. I deal in opportunities. So tell me—who do you propose we take instead of Dazai-kun? There is no one there with equal value.”

This is it, you think, regret swelling in your throat as you meet Mori’s gaze head-on. There’s no coming back from this, and there’s no forgiveness for it. Dazai will resent you for this as long as he lives.

“Nakajima,” you reply after a moment. “The tiger.”

Mori stares at you for a moment, eyes widening slightly. All three of the other executives turn to look at you in shock, and you stiffen when Mori suddenly laughs. It’s a bright and amused laugh, one that tells you he’s genuinely surprised by your answer, delighted by it even. His hand flies to his mouth to smother his giggles, but his shoulders continue to shake as he slowly calms down.

“And I would argue that he’s more valuable than Dazai,” you say once he’s mostly quieted down. Mori raises his eyebrows, entertained, but nods for you to explain. “Every conflict Yokohama has seen over the past six months has been centered around him. The Guild had a bounty worth seven billion yen on him and started a full-blown war for him, destroying their organization. Dostoevsky and the House of the Dead and the Decay of the Angel were hyper-focused on getting their hands on him. According to Akutagawa’s reports from the conflict between him, Atsushi, Dostoevsky, and Fukuchi, Dostoevsky spoke of him being connected to the reality-altering book that’s apparently here in Yokohama. And I know damn well Christie is coming for it, and him, too. If we can get our hands on him and understand what exactly his connection is with that book, we might be able to get ahead of the imminent conflict with the Clocktower. I trust I don’t need to explain just how destructive it will be if it happens in the heart of our territory.”

Mori’s amusement fades, and none of the other executives reply, so you take it as an opportunity to drive the point home.

“Okay, I will explain then,” you continue flatly. “The Order of the Clocktower is a British state organization. They’re not part of the underground—not really—and they’re not a simple secret society like the Guild. They are backed and empowered by the English government, and the English government is backed and empowered by the entire Western world. If Agatha Christie gets her way, it won’t just be the Order of the Clocktower on our doorstep, it’ll be the American AASF and the French SFCCA—”

“That would start a military conflict with our government—” Kouyou starts to disagree, shaking her head.

“No, it wouldn’t, because Christie will call a meeting with our Prime Minister first. She'll frame the situation in a way that makes us the sole target of the military operations. They’ll say we’ve gotten our hands on an artifact that could alter the very fabric of reality, and because of it, we’re a major global threat. They’ll use the incident with the Decay of the Angel as an example and claim we used that book to bring back our members who were lost to the vampire virus and the detectives who were killed by Fukuchi.—it doesn't matter if it's not true because it'll be believable. They’ll back him into a corner to where he would either have to agree or be deemed just as much of a global threat as us, and when he agrees, we’re going to be facing the full military force of the entire Western world. How exactly do you think that is going to turn out for us?” 

“It’s all ‘what ifs,’” Kouyou says, raising her chin. “How are you so sure that’s what Christie will do?” 

Your gaze slides to the side to focus on her. “Because that’s what I would do. Christie is a political monster, more than I am, even. She won’t make mistakes—she’s going to keep her hands squeaky clean on the legal front.”

“There are still holes,” Chuuya says, leaning forward on the table to look at you. “Yeah, they could say we used it to bring back our members, but we could tell them that Stoker just canceled his ability. And there’s no proof that the detectives were killed—the only people that know that are the detectives themselves, who aren’t going to give themselves up like that, Fukuchi, who is dead, and…”

Chuuya’s expression suddenly shifts. He sits up right, gaze focusing on you. “You don’t think Dostoevsky is dead,” he realizes quietly. “Did you hear something?” 

“Not only do I not think he’s dead, but I would bet my life he’s with Christie right now in England planning out their next attack,” you say quietly. “It’s going to come soon—they know we don’t have that book yet, and they know Nakajima still doesn’t understand his ability. They need to make their move before we get any closer to finding it, because they know once one side gets their hands on it, it’s game over. Our best chance of finding that book is through Nakajima, and that’s why he needs to be the one brought over here. The Agency’s President gives him control over his ability, but not understanding—he needs to understand his ability so that we can understand his connection to that book, so we can find it before we’re getting fucked by the West’s military.”

Mori lets out a long breath, rubbing at his face as he leans back in his chair. “I have a lot to consider,” he says tightly, waving the four of you off. “Go. Meeting dismissed.”

Verlaine is the first out of the room—he always is—but he gives you a long look as he leaves, signaling to you that he’s going to want to talk to you soon. You sigh, but nod at him before he heads out. Kouyou is the next out, a grimace on her face and her shoulders a bit too tense as she makes her way out of the room. Chuuya waits for you at the door, leaning against the frame as you rise to your feet to leave.

When you turn your back to Mori, he finally speaks up. You knew he would. “You understand that he’ll never forgive you for being the reason his precious protege is dragged into the dark.”

He speaks the last two words mockingly, you don’t have to look at him to see the amused expression on his face.

“I understand,” you murmur, ignoring Chuuya’s heavy gaze. “I didn’t make my decision lightly. Nakajima is the best option for the Port Mafia.”

You make your way over to Chuuya, freezing when Mori speaks again, “Do you know why I’ve always held Dazai-kun and Yosano-kun in higher regard than you?”

You stiffen, ignoring how Chuuya looks away, pretending he can’t hear the conversation between you and Mori. A part of you wants to just walk away—you don’t need to deal with him taunting you right now, but you know he’s not going to let you leave until he’s made whatever point he wants to make.

“Why is that?” you ask tightly.

“It’s because they think for themselves. They take the initiative. You follow orders like a loyal dog, good for a lot of things, but not what I want,” Mori says casually. Your jaw tightens—like he didn’t make you this way, you think bitterly, but bite your tongue. “I’m glad to see you finally taking a step out of your shell, my dear. Fascinating that it only took threatening Dazai-kun for it to happen. I do wonder how far you will go to preserve his light.”

 You stiffen, gaze snapping to the side to focus on Mori, but he only gives you an easy smile in return, violet eyes glittering maliciously.

“I’m eager to find out,” he murmurs, before waving his hand dismissively. “Go. I’ll consider your alternative.”

You exhale sharply, head snapping back to look in front of you as you storm out of his office and into the hallway. Chuuya lets the door shut behind the two of you, reaching out to grab your wrist before you can get too far. He pulls you back toward him, forcing you to face him. His gaze is concerned as he looks down at you, a frown tugging at his lips.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“I’m great,” you reply sarcastically, giving him an apologetic look when irritation flickers across his face. “He’s going to hate me, Chuuya.”

“Nakajima might not even be the one chosen,” Chuuya says. “The boss has been set on that bandaged freak. You know that.”

“Well then I’m dead,” you say with a tight smile. “I literally just announced my plans to betray the Mafia if Dazai is chosen. Kouyou will execute me on the spot.”

Chuuya’s expression darkens, and his voice is low as he promises, “I won’t let that happen.”

“Then you’ll be a traitor too,” you say airly. “Is that what you want?”

Chuuya doesn’t like the idea of that, you can tell from the way his face twists, but he doesn’t waver. Instead, he says again, “I won’t let that happen.”

Your throat tightens as you swallow, and Chuuya’s expression softens. He glances down the hall quickly to make sure nobody is around, and then he steps forward, reaching out to wrap an arm around you, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you close to him. You let out a shaky breath as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, arms hanging limp at your side.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” you reply, voice wavering. “Go to him, maybe. It’ll probably be my last chance.”

“Don’t say that,” Chuuya murmurs. “The bastard loves you. He always has—”

“And I’m repaying his love with betrayal, Chuuya,” you interrupt tightly. “This isn’t just us being on opposite sides. I put his protege—the kid that he saved—up on the chopping block. It’s too personal. There’s no coming back from it.”

“You did it for him, though—”

“And that makes it even worse. You know that.”

Chuuya sighs, but he doesn’t refute what you’re saying, which makes your heart feel even heavier. “Are you going to tell him when you see him?”

“I should,” you reply quietly. “So he isn’t blindsided.”

“But are you?”

“... I don’t know.”

---

Dazai isn’t in his apartment when you get there, so you decide to explore.

You’ve never been to it before—it’s messy, too small, and there’s a spoiled smell coming from his fridge. The futon on the floor is stiff, the padding is nonexistent, and the blanket is dirty, crusted; he probably hasn’t washed it in ages. Dazai has always liked soft things—he buried himself in fluffy blankets, plush pillows, and comfortable loungewear back when he lived at your apartment. He makes himself uncomfortable as a way of punishment. He would wear bandages that itched his sensitive skin until you stocked up on softer ones, and in his shipping container, he slept on a thin pad with an even thinner blanket until he moved in with you.

Now, he’s doing it all over again.

You frown as you kneel next to his futon, fingers brushing over the uncomfortable fabric, but your gaze is pulled away when you hear his door unlocking. You sit back on your heels, looking up as Dazai enters his apartment. A soft smile curls on your lips when you see the tired expression on his face—he doesn’t notice you at first, but when he does, he jumps so badly that his phone drops right out of his hands.

“Jesus!” he gasps, shooting you a withering look when he sees the amusement on your face. “What are you doing here?”

“Not happy to see me?” you drawl, rising to your feet and tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I am,” he says immediately, voice quiet. He looks embarrassed as he glances around his apartment, eyes lingering on the mess around him. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Want me to help you clean up?” you offer, making your way over to him. Dazai immediately leans down to brush his lips against yours in greeting. It’s so casual, so domestic, it makes your heart ache knowing that it’s not going to last. 

“Can you?” he asks softly. “I just—I haven’t been able to. I’ve tried.”

Your hands settle on his hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles over his hipbones through his pants. Dazai is never able to bring himself to clean when he’s in his head, and he’s always in his head. In his shipping container, he didn’t have enough belongings to actually make a mess, but once he moved in with you, he struggled to keep his room clean, so more often than not, you had to help him with it otherwise your whole apartment would start reeking.

“I know you have,” you tell him. “I don’t mind helping.”

Dazai lets out a puff of air, lashes fluttering shut and head hanging forward for a moment. You lift your hand to cradle his cheek, and he instinctively leans into your touch.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, kissing your palm.

You give him a small smile. “Go figure out what’s making your fridge smell,” you tell him before wandering over to a stray bag he has lying around so you can start picking up the empty bottles of sake and half-eaten cans of crab.

“I think everything is making the fridge smell.” You hear him say as you frown down at the pile of trash near his futon. 

“Then throw it all out,” you answer. “I’ll send you some groceries tomorrow.”

“My savior,” Dazai coos teasingly, but when you look at him to roll your eyes, you see the fond expression on his face as he looks over at you, dark eyes swimming with adoration. “How could I ever repay you?”

The words are still teasing, but there’s a breathy edge to them that lets you know there’s some truth to them. Your expression softens, and you hope that he doesn’t notice the way guilt suddenly clogs your throat. You think he might, considering the way he squints at you slightly, as if trying to figure out what exactly is going on right now. You should’ve just texted him to come over to your place, coming to his was too suspicious.

“How about you repay me by getting rid of this and getting yourself something more comfortable to sleep in?” you finally say after clearing your throat, nodding your chin at his futon. “Why do you have to punish yourself, Osamu?”

Dazai’s gaze instantly lowers to the ground. “It’s not—It’s not punishment,” he disagrees as he turns his back to you to start filling a trash bag full of all of the food in his fridge. “I just… I can’t let myself get comfortable. I’m scared if I get too comfortable, I’ll start slipping back into old habits and—”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you whisper, shaking your head as you tie off the bag and put it down near his door. You make your way over to him as he grimaces and tosses a whole carton of rotten strawberries into his garbage. He rises to his feet, an unreasonable expression on his face, and you slip your arms around his waist, resting your forehead on his shoulder blade.

“What’s really going on?” he asks quietly, lifting a hand to cradle the back of yours. “I know you wouldn’t come here for no reason.”

Always too perceptive, you think wryly, pressing your lips together so you don’t let out a damning sigh. You feel his thumb stroking the back of your hand, and you think you might be sick—you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve the tenderness from him, not when you know what’s coming and he’s oblivious to it.

“I’ve done something… really bad, Osamu,” you whisper.

“You’ve done a lot of bad things,” Dazai tries to joke, but you can hear the concern in his voice. You can feel the way his grip tightens on your hand. “I’m sure this is nothing extraordinary.”

“It is, though,” you reply, throat spasming as you swallow. He gently pushes your arms off of him so he can spin to face you. He cups your cheek to lift your face, but you slide your eyes shut so you don’t have to look at him. “It really is, Osamu.”

“I know the worst thing you’ve done. It can’t possibly be worse than that,” Dazai says dryly, desperately trying to lighten the mood. His thumbs stroke your cheek as he tries to get you to look at him, but you don’t. “Talk to me.”

“It is,” you say. “It’s something you won’t forgive me for.”

Dazai swallows thickly, fingers tensing on your face. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t forgive you for,” he tells you, leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead. “Tell me what’s going on.”

You almost tell him. You really do. The words are on the tip of your tongue, threatening to let loose, and his touch his so gentle, his gaze so soft and imploring. He deserves to know, he shouldn’t be blindsided when Mori inevitably calls this meeting in a few days, but you can picture the way his expression would close off once he processes what you’ve done, the way he would step away from you, and you just can’t. 

Even if he deserves it, you can’t. 

“Can you just… hold me?” you ask quietly, voice wavering terribly. 

You feel so weak. This was your decision, and you knew exactly what it meant for you and Dazai when you made it, but now all you feel is regret. You know you did the right thing. If Dazai were dragged back into the Port Mafia, he would never get out a second time. He’d sink back into the dark and would never let himself see or feel the light again. But it being his protege, you know he’ll do anything he can to get him back. Nakajima Atsushi will be back with the Armed Detective Agency within a month of leaving.

But Dazai never would’ve allowed them to risk trying to get him back. He never would’ve let them risk incurring the wrath of the Port Mafia for reneging on a deal on his behalf. He doesn’t see himself as worth it. You couldn’t let it happen.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice soft. “Come on.”

He leads you over to his couch, carefully pulling you into his lap. You sink into him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you cling to his shoulders. Dazai’s arms are strong around your waist, one hand splayed on the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses your temple once before resting his forehead against the top of your head. You’re not usually the one being comforted like this—sometimes Chuuya will hold you when you’re upset, but more often than not, you’re the one doing the comforting—so you can’t help the way your eyes well with tears. 

Being in his arms doesn’t make you feel better, though. If anything, it only makes you feel worse. It makes the guilt in your chest swell, it makes the nausea building in your throat threaten to come up.

Dazai must feel when your tears start to spill over your cheeks, because his hand starts running up and down your back soothingly, fingers carding through your hair. He hums softly—it’s a vaguely familiar tune that you can’t quite place, maybe one of the ones he used to play on the piano for you—it’s low in your ear, you can feel the gentle vibrations of his chest through your body.

You love him. 

You love him so much that it makes you sick. You love him so much that you would do anything for him. He asked you months ago if you would ever choose the Port Mafia over him, and you told him no, but you were wrong. You would choose him—you would always choose him. You know that you’re fucking over the Port Mafia with this plan, you know that its going to get the short end of this deal—you don’t care, because it means that Dazai will be okay.

“I love you,” you rasp, voice cracking as you bite back a sob. “I love you, you know that, right?” 

He pauses in his humming briefly to say, “Of course.”

He says it so easily that it makes you choke, and he quickly resumes his soft hums, now subtly rocking you back and forth, kissing your temple again. He doesn’t say it back, and although he doesn’t need to—you can feel it in the way he holds you, in the way his lips touch your temple, in the way he hums softly to try to chase away whatever is distressing you—you’re glad that he doesn’t verbalize it. You don’t think you could handle hearing it from him right now, it would be just what you need to send you spiraling over the edge.

You know he wants to know what’s going on. Not knowing things makes him anxious, and he can’t hide the way his fingers are tense against your body, even if his touch is gentle—his hands have always been his tell. Four years ago, he would’ve insisted and insisted until the two of you either fought or you gave in and told him, but now, he’s content to hold you. Content to comfort you. Content to love you. Content to trust you.

And you’re going to repay him with a knife through the back.

It’s for him, you remind yourself desperately. It’s to protect him. He’ll be able to get Nakajima back, and everything will go back to normal for them, even if it won’t for the two of you. Dazai might never get over the betrayal, he’ll never get over the guilt of you putting Nakajima on the chopping block in his place, he’ll never get over the resentment. He’ll understand maybe after the initial shock why you did what you did, but he won’t ever get over it.

You should tell him. Warn him. It might not change anything, but he shouldn’t be blindsided, not by you, not ever. But he’ll try to convince you against it, or worse, he’ll go to Mori and offer himself up on his own once he realizes that his transfer isn’t guaranteed. You can’t risk that. 

“I’m so sorry, Osamu,” you gasp, fingers digging into his thin dress shirt as you cling to him. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he tells you, voice low and soothing. “It’s okay.”

But you know it’s not.

You know it won’t be.

---

The fateful meeting with the Agency comes too quickly. 

“Ah, Fukuzawa-dono,” Mori greets when the Agency arrives at the small park where you’re meeting them. It’s a neutral site as demanded of this type of junction. You would’ve preferred the tea house in Nishi-ku, but Mori waved you off and said that it wouldn’t take that long. “I hope everything has gone well on your front in the aftermath of Dostoevsky’s attack. I heard the Ministry of Defense was trying to cause trouble again. If you’d like, I could have our lovely hime talk to Tonan-san on your behalf… for a price, of course.”

Mori’s lips curve up into a cruel smile. He knows Fukuzawa will never say yes, not when his last offer of assistance came with the price of one of his detectives. The President’s gaze hardens on Mori as he raises his chin.

“Unnecessary,” Fukuzawa replies coldly. “Spare the pleasantries. We’re here to fulfill our end of the bargain.”

Mori hums in delight, but he doesn’t immediately speak. Your gaze cards across the small group—all of them are here. Kunikida Doppo stands stiffly on the right side of the President, and Edogawa Ranpo rocks back and forth on his heels on his left. Yosano stands with her back turned in the far back—Kyouka and the tiger stand near her, along with an orange-haired boy that you dimly recognize as the illusionist. 

Dazai is here too. He stands separate from the rest, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression on his face as he stares down at the ground. He won’t lift his eyes, not even to meet yours. You’re glad because you think if he looked at you right now, he’d see right through you.

“Of course,” Mori agrees. “Very well, I must say, it was a much more difficult decision than I originally anticipated.”

A ripple of unease spreads across the detectives. Daza finally opens his eyes. His lips turn down into a tight frown, dark eyes seeking answers as he looks directly at Mori before his gaze flickers over to you. You avert your gaze, swallowing as you raise your chin and focus your attention on Fukuzawa. You can tell this unsettles Dazai from the way he immediately straightens, looking between you and Mori uncertainly—he thought his transfer was a given, he’s realizing that maybe it was not.

“Nakajima-kun, won’t you come over here?”

Mori sounds too pleased as he speaks the words. His smile widens when he sees how Yosano immediately whips around, eyes wide. Most of the detectives look shocked, but Nakajima himself seems like he hasn’t even processed what Mori said. You can’t bring yourself to look at Dazai—Mori hasn’t even mentioned your involvement in this decision yet, but you know that he will. You can imagine the way his eyes widened at Mori’s words, and you know Mori probably took glee in it, considering how difficult it is to catch Dazai Osamu off guard, and the image of it makes your stomach churn.

Fukuzawa looks displeased. His jaw is tight, and his expression is hard; you can see in his eyes that he wasn’t expecting Nakajima to be the one chosen. He doesn’t protest—he knows better than to openly renege on a deal with a Port Mafia—but he does lower his gaze to the ground.

“Come now, Nakajima-kun,” Mori hums, beckoning the boy over. “Since our hime was the one who insisted on your transfer, you’ll be working directly under her… I do hope you’re comfortable with that arrangement.”

“What?” Dazai breathes out. “What?”

You ignore him, keeping your gaze trained on Nakajima, who finally reacts. You watch as the waves of realization visibly wash over him, eyes widening slowly before they snap over to you. His hands clench into fists at his side, and his lips part in disbelief as he struggles to find his words. 

Although your attention is on Nakajima, your mind is on Dazai—you can feel him looking at you, waiting for you to explain what all of this is about. The betrayal won’t hit him yet; if only because he believes you’re the last person who would ever betray him like this.

“I—what?” Nakajima stammers, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker between you, Mori, and Fukuzawa, pleading for an explanation.

You remain still, forcing yourself to maintain the neutral expression you’ve mastered over the years. But inside, your chest tightens as you will yourself not to look at Dazai. He’ll start to understand what’s happening now, what you’ve done, and you won’t be able to bear watching how the betrayal slowly writes itself across his face.

Mori chuckles, reveling in the tension, in the way your relationship with Dazai is crumbling in front of everyone like this. “Yes, she was quite insistent,” he continues smoothly. “I was set on… a different prize until she opened my eyes to your potential. The Port Mafia is eager to have you amongst its ranks.”

Nakajima takes a step back. “That’s not—” His voice shakes, and he stops himself, taking a deep breath before turning to Fukuzawa. “President—”

Fukuzawa doesn’t lift his gaze from the ground. His silence is an answer in itself. Nakajima’s breath hitches; he looks helpless, like he’s about to start crying.

“When you said you did something I wouldn’t be able to forgive, I didn’t think you actually meant it.”

Dazai’s words cut deeper than any blade. Your chest tightens, throat swelling as you fight to keep your composure. You knew this moment would come, you knew Dazai would look at you like this, you knew this would be the end of everything.

It’s for him, you remind yourself. He’ll get Nakajima out of the Port Mafia one way or another, and Dazai never would’ve let himself escape a second time. You did what you had to do—you’ll always do what you have to do, whether he agrees with it or not. He’ll understand what you’re trying to do, whether he ever forgives you for it… Well, that’s another matter entirely. 

Before you can open your mouth to reply to Dazai, Mori claps his hands together, voice laced with mock cheer. “Well then, now that that’s settled, let’s not drag this out any longer. Hime, take our newest recruit back home, won’t you?” 

A command. A test. A punishment.

You swallow hard, raising your chin as your gaze settles on Nakajima, whose body is tense like he’s on the verge of bolting.

“Come,” you say, voice even. “We’re leaving. If you try to flee, punishment falls on the Armed Detective Agency for reneging on a deal.”

Nakajima’s shoulders slump instantly, head falling forward—all of his will to run or fight dissipates at the mention of his actions falling on his found family. His hands tremble at his sides before clenching into fists again as he steps forward to stand at your side.

“Good boy,” Mori murmurs approvingly before turning his attention back to Fukuzawa. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Fukuzawa-dono. Until next time.”

The Agency watches in heavy silence as Nakajima forces himself to move. His steps are reluctant, but he walks toward you, expression twisted in disbelief. You can feel the weight of every stare pressing into you, most of all Dazai’s. You don’t dare lift your gaze to meet his.

“Let’s go,” you say coldly, turning on your heel.

Nakajima follows.

Dazai does nothing to stop you, but you hear him call your name—quiet, angry, but most of all, betrayed. You hesitate for a fraction of a second before continuing forward. You don’t look back, you can’t afford to.

Mori falls into step beside you, too pleased with the way this played out. His satisfaction drips from his voice as he speaks. “I do hope you enjoy your new subordinate, my dear. After all, you fought so hard for him.”

You don’t answer. You simply keep moving, ignoring the betrayal burning in Dazai’s gaze and the suffocating silence left behind by the Agency.

You did what had to be done. Even if it did cost you everything.

It’s only once you get to the car that Nakajima finally speaks. His voice shakes, like he’s nervous to say anything but forces himself to anyway. You would give him props for it if you weren’t so distressed by how everything went down. “You did this to protect Dazai-san, didn’t you?” 

Your gaze shifts to the side, focusing on the weretiger, who looks up at you nervously, waiting for your answer. You didn’t take him to be so perceptive, so you only raise your eyebrows at him curiously. He shrinks a bit under your gaze, but then he squares his shoulders and takes in a deep breath.

“You picked me to protect him,” he says again. “It would’ve been him otherwise. You had to convince them to pick someone else, and I was the most convincing option.”

“What makes you think that?” you ask coolly.

“It just makes sense.” Nakajima shrugs, fingers twisting nervously in his lap. “I think that I’m glad you did. Dazai-san… he’s good. I’m glad he doesn’t have to come back here. He tried to pretend everything was okay, but I could tell he was upset. He didn’t want to come back.”

“Hm,” you respond, turning your gaze away to look out the window, but it’s only to hide the way your expression drops at the confirmation of Dazai’s anxieties about returning to the Port Mafia. It makes you feel better about what you did, but only for a second, because you remember that no matter how much he didn’t want to come back, he never would’ve wanted his subordinate to come here in his place. “I doubt you’ll be here for long.”

“What?” Nakajima asks. “What do you mean?” 

“Do you really think Dazai will let you become a member of the Port Mafia?” you ask dryly. “I give it a month max before he figures out a way to force us to give you back up to them.”

“Won’t you get in trouble for that since you were the one to insist on me?” he questions, and to your amusement, he sounds like he’s genuinely concerned on your behalf. 

“Probably,” you agree absently.

“You must… really love him,” Nakajima says quietly.

Your throat spasms at his words, lashes fluttering shut as your head hangs forward. 

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

---

You don’t expect to see Dazai for weeks. You think that he’ll pretend you don’t exist, he’ll block your number, and stop coming around to see you. That’s what he would’ve done years ago when he was mad at you and feeling too hurt for him to come to terms with what happened—that’s what he did do years ago when he was mad at you and feeling too hurt for him to come to terms with. 

Instead, that very night, he barges into your apartment. 

You’re three glasses of wine in, drowning yourself in your sorrows, when you get the notification that someone is coming up to your apartment. You know it’s not Klaus, because he has a mission with Akutagawa in Tokyo for the next three days, and you know it’s not Atsushi, because although you told him that he could come up to your apartment whenever he needed after you showed him his, you knew it would be a long time before he ever felt comfortable enough with you to take you up on that.

You assume that it’s Chuuya, because he knows how upset you are and he knows you’re probably getting wasted by yourself. So when you get the notification someone is coming up to your apartment, you drag yourself out of your bedroom and down the stairs, wobbly on your feet. 

You get down there just as the elevator doors slide open. “Chuuya, do you—” you start to say, but cut yourself off abruptly when it is not in fact your best friend standing in the elevator.

“Osamu,” you whisper, eyes widening, taking a step back in shock. “What are you—”

“What am I doing here?” he finishes for you when your voice falls off—the words are cold and mocking, a harsh jab to the gut. He stalks forward in your direction and you step back quickly to keep space between you. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Would’ve rathered me stay away so you can avoid taking responsibility for your shitty decision. Well, surprise! All of those years of getting pissed at me for avoiding confrontation are over—why do you look so upset? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? You should be happy.”

Your lips part to speak, but no words leave them. Dazai backs you into the wall and doesn’t give you the chance to run when he reaches out to grab your dress shirt hard. Your wine glass slips between your fingers and shatters against the ground as he tugs you closer to him so that you have nowhere to run or hide. 

Your breath is shaky as you look up at him, and he’s livid. You can see it in the way his eyes are black—the same darkness and intensity you remember back from his years with the Port Mafia, but they’d never been directed toward you before. You can see it in the way the corner of his lips twitches in fury. You can see it in the way his shoulders are tense, like he’s having to physically hold himself back.

He’s also hurt. His hands have always been his tell, and they’re not shoved in his pockets, so you see the way his fingers tremble around the material of your shirt. And his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, waiting for you to say something.

When you don’t say anything, Dazai’s expression twists in anger. He pushes you back against the wall as he lets go of your shirt. He’s not rough with you at all—he never is, even when he’s blinded with rage—but still, all of the air whooshes from your lungs when your back hits the wall.

He steps away, turning his back to you and running his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends as he lets out a frustrated noise. 

“How could you?” he finally demands, but the words aren’t harsh—his voice cracks over them, and when he turns to look at you, you can see the hurt written plainly on his face. “How could you? After everything I’ve told you, how could you push for Atsushi? You know that he’s the only thing I have that proves that I’m doing something right. Something that Odasaku can be proud of. How could you? You? Of all people, I never expected you to do this to me.” 

You want to blame your speechlessness on the wine, but you know that’s not the case. You want to say something, you really do, but you can’t find the words for what you want to say. An apology isn’t enough, and you hadn’t anticipated that Dazai wouldn’t have put together what your plan was. You figured that he wouldn’t until he calmed down, but he’s usually pretty quick to set aside his emotions to look at things logically—but you suppose he never really has when it comes to you. That was an oversight, but what you really didn’t expect was seeing him tonight. You thought that he’d go quiet for a few days, a large part of you genuinely wondered if you’d ever hear from him again.

“Osamu,” you murmur, taking a step closer to him, but he steps away from you.

“No,” he says, holding up his hand before turning his back to you. “Stay over there. Don’t come closer. Explain. I need you to explain, and I need to think. I don’t think straight when you’re near me, so just stay over there and tell me why.”

You halt in your tracks as you stare at him. You still don’t say anything, and you can see him getting more and more frustrated with each passing second. You try to tell him that you only picked Atsushi because you knew Dazai would get him back, that you couldn’t let Dazai back because you knew he would never let the detectives do the same for him, but you can’t.

“Was the idea of me being back so bad?” he demands, eyes wild as he turns on you again. “Let me guess, you finally proved yourself to Mori while I was gone and didn’t want to be back in my shadow again. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s all you’ve ever cared about. It’s only ever been Mori and the Port Mafia. Now that you finally have it—his approval, in track for taking over after him—you don’t want to risk me coming back and taking it from you again.”

You draw back like you’ve been slapped—you may as well have been, you think, throat tightening. Your lips part to tell him no, of course that’s not the reason why, but you can’t force the words out.

Is that what he really thinks?

“You don’t think I knew back when we were kids that you were jealous of me?” he asks, laughing breathlessly as he looks down at you. “I knew it from the moment we met. You resented that Mori kept me in Yokohama and sent you away, that I replaced you—you hid it well, but I knew. I saw the way your expression got all twisted whenever he praised me, when I got the open executive spot, how you’d never look me in the eye when I came back from meetings.”

You stare at him, speechless, and then whisper, “I loved you.”

“Not mutually exclusive,” he scoffs. “Love and resentment are two sides of the same coin.”

“Is that what you really think?” you ask him quietly. Dazai has always known how to hit you where it hurts, but this was… “That I wanted Nakajima because of… selfishness? Because I was scared you’d come back and upstage me?” 

Your voice cracks, your eyes wet with tears as you take a step backward. You don’t know what you thought he would think of all of this, but realizing that he thinks so little of you makes you sick to your stomach. Dazai’s expression twists at your question, like he only just realizes the gravity of the words he said to you, but then anger flashes through his eyes again.

“I don’t know what to think because you won’t explain,” Dazai shouts—you’ve heard him yell a handful of times before at his subordinates while he was with the Mafia, but never at you. “Won’t you fucking tell me why you picked him?”

“Because I knew you would get him back!” You mean to yell at him, but your words get caught on a sob that you just can’t bite back. You want to blame it on the alcohol, but you know it’s a product of the guilt that has been weighing you down for days and the newfound understanding of just how little Dazai thinks of you. “I knew you would get him back, Osamu, and I knew you’d never let them risk getting you back. That’s why I insisted on Nakajima. If you came back here, you’d never get out a second time, and you’re right, I don’t want you back here but it’s not because of jealousy, it’s because you don’t belong here.”

Dazai stares at you, expression unreadable, but before he can say anything, you continue.

“I told you that I’ve seen how much you’ve changed for the better, I’m not going to let you ruin everything because you’re going to throw yourself back to the Port Mafia to be a fucking sacrificial lamb for the rest of them,” you continue. “And you know what? You’re right, I am selfish, because I don’t give a damn about any of them. I care about you, and because you care about them, I tried to figure out a way for the whole fucking Agency to come out of this deal unscathed, and the only way of ensuring that is making sure Nakajima was the one picked. I knew Mori would jump at the chance to put a wedge between us by flaunting my part in this decision to you at the meeting, and I knew you would fight tooth and nail to get him back, so your precious Agency would be whole again by the end of the month.” 

Dazai says your name quietly, but you shake your head, stumbling over to the couch so you can sit down. You feel too dizzy—nauseous. You can barely see straight and your whole body feels fuzzy from the wine you’d been drinking.

“That time we met after you defected,” you whisper, taking in a ragged breath. “You were so drunk, you probably don’t even remember what we talked about. But you told me I never would’ve chosen you over the Port Mafia, and that’s why you couldn’t say goodbye.”

You hear him making his way over to you, but you don’t dare look up from where you’ve buried your face in your hands.

“I told Mori that if he brought you back to the Port Mafia, he might as well execute me on the spot,” you say, ignoring the way he inhales sharply as he sits down next to you. “I told him I would leave. I’d go to Tolstoy. I would bury the Port Mafia and then him. I convinced him to pick Nakajima because I knew you would get him back, even though I knew it was screwing us over. I chose you, I’ll always choose you, Osamu, no matter what the cost is, even if you hate me for it.”

“I could never hate you,” he tells you quietly, tugging your hand to beckon you to look at him. “Look at me. Please.”

You let out a shaky breath and lift your head from your hands to look at him. The expression on his face is conflicted—you’re sure that he has plenty to say, but just doesn’t know where to start.

“Why didn’t you just tell me when you came over?” he asks desperately, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing tightly. “If you just explained—”

You shake your head. “I didn’t trust you not to go running to Mori to offer yourself up once you realized your transfer wasn’t a given,” you tell him quietly, “I did what I had to do.”

Dazai’s expression instantly twists. “But if you’d explained—”

“No,” you insist, looking away from him until he tugs your hand again. You let out a heavy sigh, eyes landing on his. “No, Osamu. You’re too emotional when they’re involved. I couldn’t risk it, I’m sorry.”

Dazai blanches. “Too emotional?” he demands, offended. “E-emotional? That’s ridiculous, I’m not emotional.”

Your lips curl up softly when you see how flustered he is by the accusation. “A little emotional,” you disagree, expression smoothing out when he lifts your hand to kiss your knuckles before pressing your palm against his face. “It’s endearing, but I just couldn’t risk it.”

His lashes flutter shut as he sighs heavily into your palm. Your throat tightens when he turns his face into your hand, forcing you to cradle his cheek. He doesn’t speak for a moment, but when he does, it makes your chest feel heavy.

“Promise me that if something like this happens again, you’ll tell me,” he whispers, dark eyes sliding back open to look at you. They’re a light amber in the dim lighting of your living room—too soft, too gentle, too imploring. “I—I need you to talk to me. I can’t—you don’t understand how it felt at the meeting. I was mad that Atsushi was chosen, but it felt like—the thought of you going behind my back. Betraying me. I couldn’t breathe, I’d never felt anything like that before. It felt like I was dying. It felt like I was losing you. I’d only ever felt this way before when—”

When Oda died, you finish for him when he cuts himself off abruptly, pulling his face away so he can turn his head in the opposite direction. You let out a soft sigh and shift in your seat to turn toward him. You lift your hand to his face to force him to look at you again—when he does, his eyes are glassy like he’s about to start crying.

“I can’t promise you that,” you tell him quietly, thumb stroking his cheekone gently. “I told you back during the Pushkin incident that I won’t be able to tell you everything anymore, but can you just trust that I’ll always choose you?”

Even after everything that’s happened the past few days, it scares you how much you mean those words. You will always choose him, no matter what the cost of it is. Your breath is shaky as you hold his gaze, searching his eyes for understanding.

Dazai is quiet for a long time, the silence thick between you. He’s still holding your other hand, and though his hand trembles, he holds onto you tightly, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Okay,” he finally says. “I can… I can do that. I can try.”

“I will always choose you, Osamu,” you repeat quietly, squeezing his hand. “I promise.”

Dazai suddenly looks guilty, averting his gaze to the ground. “I didn’t mean what I said before,” he murmurs. “I—I was just angry. I—”

“I know,” you interrupt. “It’s okay.”

You don’t want to think about what he said before anymore—he was wrong, but he was also right. You had been jealous of him when you guys were younger, a part of you resented him as much as you loved him, and though you tried to push it away, it was always there. A constant reminder that there would always be someone more valuable than you to Mori. That you’d always be his second, third choice. You should’ve known Dazai had always been aware of it, but you never expected him to use it against you.

“It’s not,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Osamu, please,” you say, eyes sliding shut as you look away. “Drop it.”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, voice cracking as he finally whispers, “You’re all I have. You’ve always been all I’ve had. I just… can’t lose you. I can’t.”

“You won’t,” you promise, shifting forward. “You—”

You bite back a yelp when Dazai suddenly grabs you. He lays back against the couch and pulls you onto his chest. You tense for a second, but then he wraps an arm around your waist and brings his free hand up to cradle the back of your head. He holds you close, you can feel his heart thrumming in his chest, the erratic pace evening out to match yours, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He kisses your temple before resting his forehead against the top of your head as you sink into his arms. 

Your eyes flutter shut, suddenly all too tired—the wine, the stress of the day, and the stress of this conversation with Dazai finally getting to you. The weight of Dazai’s arm around your waist and the feeling of his fingers absently toying with your hair is quickly lulling you to sleep.

He hums in protest, but the vibration only makes you sleepier. “You can’t sleep—we need to set up guidelines about Atsushi.”

You let out a soft laugh, but you don’t open your eyes. “This isn’t co-parenting, Osamu.”

“I mean, it kind of is,” he says. “Atsushi is my little protege, you’re my girlfriend, he’s going over to you, and we’re technically separated in two different organizations. So it’s kind of co-parenting, and like good co-parents, there needs to be rules and the first one—”

“Tomorrow, Osamu,” you yawn, shifting to nose his neck before you kiss his pulse point gently. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh, but his arms tighten around you and he lifts his head briefly to kiss the top of yours again. “Fine, fine, I suppose it can wait until morning, but only because my sweet hime is sleepy.”

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you,” he echoes softly as you drift off to sleep. “More than you could ever imagine.”

---

Chuuya is quite glad that he decided against bringing up his ‘97 Petrus when he gets up to your apartment and finds you curled up on the couch fast asleep with the very fucker that Chuuya was coming up here to console you over.

He really should’ve expected this.

He stands at the side of the couch, arms crossed over his chest and lips twisted in a deep frown as he looks down at the two of you. For a long, heavy second, he can only stare, thoroughly uncomfortable when a strange, warm feeling bubbles in his chest. The sight is too familiar—if Dazai’s bandages were wrapped around the right side of his face, he could almost pretend the three of you were eighteen again and Chuuya came up to your apartment for a movie only to find the two of you passed out already.

Then, with a low scoff, he runs a hand through his hair and whispers, “Unbelievable.”

Dazai’s face is half-buried in your hair, one arm snug around your waist and the other cradling your head, and you’re fast asleep in his arms. He can’t see your face, but he doesn’t need to—he can picture the peaceful expression on it, one that he’s hardly seen since the bastard left four years ago.

Dazai is sleeping too. Chuuya’s almost surprised he didn’t wake up when the elevator arrived on your floor—he’s always been a light sleeper. He supposes it’s just testament to how much Dazai lets his guard down around you. How much he trusts you. How much he loves you.

Chuuya sighs as he rolls his eyes. “Told you it would be fine,” he mutters to you as he snatches a blanket off of the armchair to drape it over the two of you even though he knows you can’t hear him. “Worried over fuckin’ nothing.”

You shift in your sleep when you feel the blanket on top of you, and Chuuya’s throat tightens when he sees the tear tracks staining your cheeks. He lets out a puff of air, lifting a hand to stroke your hair gently for a moment before he shakes his head to leave the two of you in peace.

“Both fucking freaks. Deserve each other.”

If there’s a small, fond smile on his lips, then he’s glad neither of you are awake to see it.

[blxxmingrose]

hans attended a parents’ club once. for a few weeks, it felt like a lifeline. he learned a lot from the other parents, valuable advice that he carried with him to this day, important nuggets of information that he wouldn’t have survived those early years without.

when they talked about their children being sick, hans took notes, paid attention to how sunny was like when she was sick. she always needed to be held, and she’d cry even when hans thought she was asleep and he needed to take a quick trip to the bathroom. she’d cry for everything else. lukewarm water, her favorite socks. 

he braced himself for the soft, needy cries, but she was staying still so far, clinging to june as her need to be held manifested. it was the first time she’s been sick and not clinging to him, but he stayed close anyway, just in case. she always wanted everything she loved when she was sick, and he wanted to make sure she knew he was there. “i love you so much, little one,” he whispered through her hair, brushing the tangles with his fingers. 

the coil of worry stayed within him, like a flame constantly being fed with kindling. it would never be quelled, not until she was well again. hans forced himself to breathe through it, reminding himself that sunny’s body, just like anyone else’s, would fight off whatever was causing her fever until she was ultimately better. and if she wasn’t better in a few hours, he had the phone number of the nearest children’s hospital. 

the waiting was what always got to him. watching sunny sleep didn’t make him relax, not when she might be having terrifying dreams he couldn’t pull her out off. she shivered slightly, and hans instinctively wrapped his arms tighter around her, his hand brushing against june’s in the process. it still surprised him, feeling his hand there, when there had only ever been his. it still surprised him that june was here, but it was a welcome surprise. a nice one. 

hans attended that parents’ club because he had no one else with him to learn everything about his child, to support him when he made mistakes and worried himself to sleep beside her bed. but he’s glad to have that support now. someone to anchor him, to keep him grounded, and to make this feel slightly less terrifying—even if he knew june must be terrified too. he might not be sunny’s parent, but he was close to one. and the way he had protected her yesterday would never leave hans’ mind. if he was already that protective when it came to just snowballs, hans knew sunny would never feel alone ever again. 

perhaps that’s why she gravitated to him even in her fever haze. she could feel that love radiating from him, like a beacon inviting her to come closer. and hans? he’s right there behind her, drawn closer by this support, this security, this safety. sunny might be the one who’s sick, but he felt like june was taking care of him too. 

june hadn’t even realized how tightly he was holding his breath until sunny’s fingers found the fabric of his shirt and curled into it like she was anchoring herself there. even in the fog of a fever, she recognized something familiar. his breath came out slow, and he let it. let himself lean into the quiet that had settled over the room, into the stillness that didn’t feel stagnant.

her grip on him was weak but stubborn, and june didn’t dare move. he wouldn’t have, even if she hadn’t grabbed on like that. this was where he wanted to be. where he was meant to be. and if she needed him to stay still, to be her solid ground while the world tilted with heat and exhaustion and dreams that didn’t make sense, then he would. gladly.

he glanced down at her, watching her face for any signs of discomfort. her brow was still drawn together, lashes damp and cheeks flushed too red. it made his heart clench, and he couldn’t help the way his hand moved to smooth her hair back, featherlight. “we’ve got you.” he whispered again.

the plural of that wasn’t lost on him.

because they did. hans had already moved around the room, careful and quick, fetching cool towels and water, setting everything in place with the kind of efficiency june had only ever seen from parents who had done this before. but more than the actions, it was the look in hans’ eyes that had stayed with june — the fear just under the surface, the helplessness that came when someone so small and beloved was hurting and couldn’t explain why. june had seen hans hold his composure a hundred different ways but this was something different.

and june understood. not from the place of a parent, not yet. but from the place of someone who wanted to carry that fear too. someone who looked at sunny and felt every instinct in his body say, protect her. be what she needs.

he could still feel hans watching them — watching him — and june turned his head just enough to catch the way hans mouthed thank you across the space between them.

it hit harder than he expected. not because he needed to be thanked — he didn’t, not for this. but because it meant hans saw him not as a visitor or an intruder in this delicate world of theirs, but as someone who belonged in it.

june gave a small nod in return, barely more than a breath of movement, but his eyes softened, speaking the rest. you don’t have to thank me. i’m already hers too.

he looked back down at her and smiled faintly, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles over the back of her hand now. she was so still. too still. but her breathing was calm again, and the tension in her little shoulders had eased. june held onto that.

and somewhere under all of it, under the worry and the stillness and the heat of her fevered body, he realized he was in love with this life. more than the tender mornings and the kisses by sunrise. but this. the messy, complicated parts. the fevered child curled up between them. the way hans didn’t flinch when june made space. the way sunny clung like she trusted him to stay.

and he would. for as long as they’d have him.

[threalcrabbysamantha]

Ember Island locals know that time on the island doesn’t follow the rules of the rest of the world. It’s not slower, exactly, and it’s certainly not constant, a fickle thing that strikes the island’s inhabitants at odd moments. You’ll look up one day and realize time has stretched itself like some sort of impossible acrobat, or shrunk itself down, compressing years into seconds.

The first time Zuko realizes he’s succumbed to Ember Island time is the third time Katara falls asleep in his room.

It’s not intentional, obviously, or not those first three times anyway. But after that disaster that tried to pass itself off as a play, she’d knocked, timidly, at his door and asked to talk, which surprised him as much as it relieved him. At the time he assumed she’d done the same with everyone else - but the next morning she wasn’t speaking to the Avatar except in short clips, and like usual Zuko felt like he’d missed something.

The scent of her lingered in his rooms for days afterward.

The other two times, she’d found him in his room after dinner, and for reasons that evaded him, stayed until the moon was high in the sky as she faded into a slumber curled up on his bedroll.

The fourth time, Zuko stays, curled into her, content to let his arm fall asleep under the weight of her head.

What she wants from him he couldn’t begin to discern, but he’s observed Katara long enough to understand she does nothing by halves. When she was angry with him, her fury was an unrelenting storm, and now her forgiveness crashes over him like a wave. She’s not content to just forgive; she demands more, slots herself in next to him like they’ve always been friends, grabbing his hand, teasing him, running her fingers through his hair. This is how she is; it’s no different than the way she acts with Sokka or Suki or Toph or Aang, he tells himself.

He has to tell himself, to barricade his heart against the way it speeds up whenever she enters a room.

Of all the dumb things he’s done in his life, falling for Katara is the dumbest by far because it’s a fleeting dream that exists only in the confines of his room, where she takes her hair down and her faces relaxes into the girl she might be if there had never been a war at all. If his family wasn’t a scourge on the earth. And there it is, the thing that keeps him from pressing fully into her, much as she has started to stare wistfully at his mouth: how can this be where it all ends? After every bad thing he’s done, how can he think this is anything but a test?

What is the cost of redemption? The voice in his head - the one that sounds like Uncle - scoffs at the very idea. But Zuko made his peace with his role in things the moment he left the palace. He knew, coming here, that he would serve the Avatar at all cost to his own comfort, however it had to happen - as ally or prisoner. It can’t be now that he really has friends. Certainly, the other shoe will drop - they’ll uncover some other awful thing that he’s done, and Sokka will stop joking with him, and Toph will stop demanding a spar, and Katara…

Katara will look at him the way she did after he sided with Azula, and it will be what he deserves.

This is his role, and he will play it as best he can.

Next to him, Katara sighs softly, shifting deeper into him. He stills, lest he wake her, and she makes an embarrassed, rush exit, never to return.

But she does blink awake, eyes blurry, and she doesn’t rush out. Instead, she stares up at him as she traces her thumb along the very edge of his scar.

“It’s strange,” she murmurs. “Sometimes, in here, I forget…I forget we have to make sure the world doesn’t end.”

Zuko licks his lips - don’t say it - and asks, “Is that why you keep coming back?”

She hums at that, more fully cupping his cheek, her own tinting red. “No, I - I guess I…missed you.”

“You…missed me. When?”

“Always,” she confesses. It catches in her throat around her embarrassment. “I think I’ve…been missing you, for a while.”

He bumps his forehead against hers gently. “Why me? I don’t deserve that.”

She frowns, pulling away, a big crease between her eyebrows. He thinks she might chastise him or argue but instead she just leans in closer, burrowing herself, and mutters into his shoulder, “Well. I do.”

Maybe he’ll pay the cost later, Zuko thinks, wrapping his arms fully around her - but then maybe this is the cost, giving himself wholly over, thrusting the fate of his heart into someone else’s hands.

He closes his eyes and surrenders himself to Ember Island time.

[devilmaymetalgear]

That was a long time ago

swap/evil au!Dante x childhood friend!Reader

Cw: a lot of exposition, dmc3 Dante, gn!reader, this is more of an intro post for the au so I could practice writing him, use of baby and sweetheart, next post WILL be smut with an older evil Dante where he actually is horrible, he's just a little mean in this ❤️

(THIS IS ANOTHER AU I DONT ACTUALLY THINK DANTE WOULD DO ANY OF THIS SHIT IN MAINLINE)

A/n: i have not played dmc5 in a while and forget what the fuck the area around their house looks like, so play along if there's not a forest nearby. I also like... i dont know what happened near the end, its not verg good

He remembered that fateful day. He was left alone, sparring outside. Vergil said he wanted to keep reading his dumb poetry. It was quiet, that familiar of bugs was missing. The chirping of birds gone silent. It was as if time went still.

He didn't notice it at first, that buzzing in the back of his mind that made him want to flee. He probably should of. At 8 years old his mother left him to die. Thrown to the wolves. Thrown to the demons, more accurately.

He watched as the house burned down to ash, the smoke high in the sky. Even as he fled, running for his life, he could see that smoke high in the sky.

And he remembered the days before that. Where he played with his brother and his friend. His secret friend. Mother and father were always worried about them, said they couldn't go too far off the property. But Dante never listened.

He saw another kid in the woods next to his house, plucking some of the wild flowers from the ground. Placing them into their little basket. They looked so excited with each little flower they plucked. And Dante never got to hang out with other kids his age. He crept into the forest, dodging every little leaf and twig that if crunched could scare them.

"Hii!" He shouted, watching them look up.

"Hi?" You waved back at him nervously, and he watched as you stood up straight from the ground.

"Who are those flowers for?" He pointed down at the basket, stepping in front of you.

"They're for my mom. She told me not to come over here but they're just so pretty. Look!" You held your hand up to his face, a small, red wildflower limp between your fingers.

"Can I pick some?" Reaching towards the ground, he grasped at the little flowers, squishing them in his hands. The delicate petals fell onto the ground, leaving partial, crumpled stems in his hands. He was about to give up and sulk, stomp off to go bother Vergil and hope that'll make him feel better.

But you reached out, gently picking up another flower of the ground. Setting into his hand as carefully as you can.

"Now you have one to give to your mom."

Thats all he can remember. His head aches if he thinks about it anymore. That's all he needs to remember anyway.

Why would he ever sit and daydream about the eight year old you, when he's got the smoking hot adult you?

"Dante.." You mutter, gazing down at the rubble and gore beneath temen ni gru. Hundreds dead or injured, the squeals of demons feasting ringing out loud enough for the next city over to hear. His hand tightened around your hip, pulling you close.

"Yeah, baby?" He snaps out of whatever place his mind was, a sharp grin on his face. He looked a little too delighted staring at the gore below him. Like a king on his throne. You wouldn't be surprised if he saw himself as one. "You like what you see, right?"

"It's... definitely something!" His hand drifts lower, resting right on your ass. As much as the urge to swat his hand away rises in you, staring at all the viscera makes you rethink that. "A little... excessive, don't you think? Couldn't we have done this somewhere more... rural? Not right in the middle of the busiest part of town?"

He snickered, leaning into you and glancing over. "I forget how stupid you are when it comes to hellgates and stuff. We can't just move a hell gate, baby. That's where it is so that's where it comes up. Not my fault that I killed a few people."

"You're the one who raised the hellgate! If you didn't raise it then those people wouldn't have died!"

He went quiet, snarling a little. He dipped his head a little lower, his nails digging into your skin.

"If you talk back like that again, I'll throw you down there with them since you pity them so much. You humans are so fragile, any time someone dies you just have to whine about it." He rolled his eyes, as if you were complaining about spilt milk.

He adjusted his grip on you, grabbing your wrist and walking away from the edge.

"Enough of this anyways, I've got a reunion party to plan."

Intro to the au next post WILL be sloppy pervert sex leave me recommendations for what he should do pls ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

[one-green-frog]

NO BBECAUSE I WAS WRITING A REQUEST AND MY PHONE WENT OFF SO I DIDN'T KNOW IF IT ARRIVED TO YOU, (it it arrived then I'll change the plot) anyways, I'll try and send it again, Jason todd x Male reader who's (you choose) best friend's , jason doesn't like the reader much, so he decides to know him better by coming like red hood in his apartment early in the morning, he pretty much interrogates the boy who's not taking it all seriously. They get closer, the family notices Jason being more friendly, maybe because of someon, and tease him to take over for dinner the special person. THANKS FOR EVERYTHING 😼

Here At Midnight

The first time Jason saw you, he was angry. And not the kind of annoyed angry either, no, he was angry angry. There was something about you that just didn't sit right with him. To him, you weren't the friendly, charming person everyone else was so eager to want to believe you were. Dick had brought you in as his friend, new instructor at the gymnastics center where he worked. "Great with kids," he'd said. "Same sense of humor, really easy to get along with. Just a really nice person."

But Jason wasn't convinced.

There was something… off. Something in your smile that made his stomach turn. It wasn't jealousy, per se. Jason knew that something was off, he had this feeling in his chest He just knew there was more to you than you let on.

So he did what any good brother would do: he started to stalk you.

It wasn't a great plan, Jason never really had great plans, to be truthful, but it was good enough. A bit over-the-top in hindsight, maybe, but reasonable by his measures. He figured he'd just drop by, check to see if you'd made an error, find something out. And so Red Hood paid you a visit one night. Your apartment complex was in the bad side of town, which, to Jason, was reason #48 to be suspicious. Breaking in was a cakewalk, the window was not even locked. Sloppy.

And this is how you caught him, fully dressed up, armed, and fuming, in your living room/kitchen combination like he owned this place.

You were startled, sure. But not scared. Just confused. In all honesty, you genuinely had no idea what you could have done to make Red Hood appear in your apartment. You didn't sell drug, hadn't recently murdered anyone, weren't embezzling from crime families (as far as you knew), and generally kept your head down. Maybe you were losing your mind, maybe it was a dream, or maybe Gotham was just Gotham-ing that day.

You'd woken up in the dead of night craving a snack, cereal, hot chocolate, you hadn't decided yet, only to walk into your kitchen and find one of Gotham's most feared vigilantes standing next to the kitchen table

You didn't scream. You didn't lose it. You just stared at him, grabbed a bowl, and started filling it with your cereal. Because what the heck else were you going to do?

Jason didn't know what to do with that. Really, to say that he was surprised that you did not cower in fear would be the understatement of the year. You stared him down, then just kept on going about your business as if this were a normal Tuesday. He figured maybe you were pretending trying to keep calm.

But still, it really infuriated him.

He tried to rattle you. He was standing there with the gun, delivered a monologue of how he would be watching you, how you better sleep with your eye open, how you were on his radar. Your response? Slow blink and chewing your soggy cereal.

"'It's just suspicious how someone living around here just becomes best buds one day with one of Gotham's richest guys," he'd said, as if reasoning his home invasion would make it any better.

Your stone expression "Type shit." put the nails in the coffin.

He left. Irritated. Confused. Angry. He reminded himself that you were playing games, pretending, lying to your real self. So he did what he said he would do: he watched you. Day and night. He watched your movements, your habits, your friends. He kept an eye on your flat from a distance, followed you when you came home from work, even broke into your flat a few more times when you were out.

He was looking for filth. Something illegal. Anything.

But you? You were boring. The most illegal thing he ever caught you doing was stealing a $20 bill on the street. And even he had had to admit he'd do the same.

Still, the drop-ins persisted. Midnight visits became standard. At first, they were filled with threats and and warnings. But over time, they changed. Jason spoke more, about his day, the idiots he had to deal with, the criminals he beat up, the whole circus Gotham still was. Somewhere between the late-night complaints and the bubbly hanging out on your kitchen countertop while you toasted bread, something shifted.

You didn't even have to try hard. You just… treated him like a human being. Not like a time bomb, not like Gotham's boogeyman, not even like Dick's angry brother. Just a guy. A guy who was often irritated, sometimes lonely, and always tired. You made him feel safe.

And soon enough, his family also noticed his behavior.

The change was subtle, but real. Jason, typically described as feral or angry, trigger-happy was calm Maybe not sunshine-and-rainbows, but less angry. Smiling. Speaking more. Hanging around at the Manor. Almost having a genuine conversation with Bruce. The others were stunned. This wasn't the Jason they knew. This Jason seemed as if he could breathe again.

So naturally, they just couldn't wait to taunt him the absolute shit out of it.

"You have a boyfriend? That's kinda gay, bro."

It was non-stop. No peace. Tim, Steph, and even Damian loved it. But there was real support behind the teasing though. They could tell the difference you made, and they wanted to meet the guy who made it. So they invited you over for dinner.

Jason was mortified at first. But he agreed for you.

You were a bit nervous, understandably. You were meeting your friend's brother, a infamous crime lord, the family was made up of detectives and vigilantes who could sniff out lies at a mile radius. Even if Jason said that he didn't particularly care for them, you saw it in his eyes that he still wanted their acknowledgement. He cared, even if he didn't admit it, and that made you want to try it. To be liked. To be accepted, even a little bit.

Dinner was... insane.

The shovel talk was really a just a death threat to your life by Damian (naturally). Bruce tried to talk to you but was repeatedly interrupted by his own children. Everyone talked over everyone. There were way too many in-jokes and arguments about the Batmobile. Chaos, plain and simple. But you stood your ground. And better yet, Jason looked at you like you hung the stars.

That night, on the way home, he vowed next time would be better. You didn't even care, because to you, it was perfect in its own imperfect way.

And when he came back to the Manor, saw his siblings' teasing smiles and Bruce's nodding, knowing approval, he knew he'd made the right choice.

He chose you. And for the first time in years, he felt like maybe, possibly, he might have something good.

I am so sorry this took so long😭😭😭 i hope you still enjoy it and thank you for requesting

[hannahdalaney-blog]

It can't be that easy

Daryl Dixon x plus-size reader

You could tell Daryl liked you before he ever said anything. The way his face lit up when he talked to you. The fact that he talked to you alone was enough to prove his feelings. Sticking to his usual people but adding you to the list along the way.

He would also bring you little gifts he found on runs. Cute little stuffed animals or maybe just a notebook. At first it was about giving you something but then it turned more into just a reason to talk to you. But he liked the grateful look on your face and your thanks anyways.

Carol was teasing you about it everyday, though she probably teased him more. A blush spread across your face as everyone else chimed in. He was that obvious.

"You know, words work too." he brought you a teddy bear with the words I love you stitched in the belly.

"Not good with words." you smile at him. He's so cute.

He waited at least a month to kiss you. You thought he was the type of guy to jump you as soon as he could. Daryl waited until it was just the two of you alone in the dark. Moving slowly as he gets closer and closer it was painfully slow leaving you to rush in.

You could tell he was surprised, his blue eyes widening a little. But you just smile against his lips enjoying his shyness. Not that he was shy for long. His rough hands cupping your face, pulling you closer to him. His tongue sliding across your bottom lip getting you to open up.

From then on he was much more affectionate with his touch. Never around anyone else just when it's the two of you. You never followed the same rules but kept it pg, jut to show he was yours. He thought it was funny that you got so jealous. Even going as far as scoffing every time you said someone was looking at him for too long.

"Im serious, you're too handsome." you sigh, looking actually troubled. It made him smile that you thought he was handsome.

"Don't matter." you had to learn very early in your relationship that you would have to read between the lines. Daryl almost never outright said what he meant you always had to dicier his code.

It was part of the fun.

// hi guys ive been feeling a little writers block so sorry for all the blurbs 😔

[moodymelanist]

If you’re still looking for short nessian prompts could you do Nesta and Cassian in a long distance relationship having a standing weekly video call but one of them is unusually late because they’re going to surprise the other in person

happy @nestaarcheronweek everyone! I’ve been struggling with writing block and life has been hectic af but considering it’s my event I thought I’d do a little something haha. we’ll see if I do more 👀

Nesta took a deep breath as she stood outside Cassian’s door, nervous despite the fact that she knew her boyfriend would be thrilled to see her.

He still made her nervous despite the almost two years they’d been together — the good kind, usually. They’d met by chance at one of those graduate school mixers that grad students only came to for the food, and Nesta would never stop being grateful to Gwyn demanding that she make an appearance.

“You need to get out of your law school bubble, Nesta,” Gwyn had told her with all the haughtiness a psych masters’ student could muster. “Plus, there’s going to be catering.”

Nesta had bumped into Cassian while waiting to get some more samosas, and the rest was history.

Considering he was in a history program, Cassian made that joke far too often, but Nesta didn’t mind. She’d just roll her eyes and shut him up with a kiss, and then neither of them minded too much after that anyway.

When her boyfriend had gotten the opportunity to study abroad and get a more hands-on semester, Nesta had threatened to break up with him if he didn’t apply. Cassian had been worried about leaving her abroad while he went off to Europe — something about how she’d manage to feed herself properly without his cooking — but they both knew this opportunity was too good to pass up. So Cassian had packed his bags, Nesta had driven him to Dulles and kissed him senseless, and they’d made do with phone calls and care packages and even a few honest to God love letters.

Nesta absolutely didn’t have them saved in her nightstand to pull out before bed. She did not.

Still, there had only been so much a woman could take of missing the love of her life before she had to take action. So Nesta had made sure her passport was renewed, packed her bags, and gotten her ridiculously rich brother-in-law to pay for her ticket.

Rhys had seemed more excited about the trip than Nesta was, which would normally make Nesta suspicious if not for how relieved he’d seemed that Cassian would stop complaining about how much he missed her to anyone who’d listen. Nesta had been too happy to save several hundred dollars to even be offended on Cassian’s behalf.

So she’d braved a flight across the Atlantic, managed to navigate her way through the airport, and finally found herself outside Cassian’s door. She’d timed it just right with his schedule that she knew he’d be just settling in to call her in the States, but little did he know that he’d be getting the real thing momentarily.

Sure enough, Nesta’s phone started vibrating in her jacket pocket within the next minute, and she cursed quietly as she fumbled to get it out of her pocket. Cassian’s face appearing on her screen made her gaze turn a little soft before she remembered she had to actually answer the phone, and she moved a little further down the hallway so he hopefully wouldn’t hear her through the door.

“Hello?” Nesta said, trying to speak quietly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Cassian said back. Just the sound of his voice made every thought in her head go blissfully quiet, and she smiled to herself knowing she would hear it for real in a few minutes. “How’s your day going? Excited for the weekend?”

“It’s okay,” she told him truthfully. “Just kinda long. I’m ready to take a nice nap, to tell you the truth.”

“Mhmm,” he agreed. Something shifted in the background and she pictured him laid out on the couch the way he always did at her place. “A nap with you sounds pretty nice right now.”

“I know,” she replied. She took a deep breath and started walking back toward his door, hoping that his reaction to seeing her would be good. “Hey, did you check your mail today?”

“No, why?” he asked. He sounded like he was sitting up now, and she smiled to herself knowing they were that much closer to seeing each other. “You send me something?”

“Maybe,” she answered playfully. “You should go find out.”

Cassian laughed, the sound of it spreading something warm through her chest. “Yeah, okay, twist my arm. I’ll go look now.”

Nesta waited patiently for him to put on some shoes, and then she could hear him unlocking his door and suddenly, there he was. He looked as handsome as ever, half his curls pulled up away from his face in a loose bun, and dressed in a dark gray shirt and black shorts.

God, he was hot. Nesta half hoped he wasn’t wearing underwear.

Cassian did a double take as he realized someone was standing in front of his door, his eyes widening in complete shock as he realized it was Nesta standing there. “Nesta?”

“Hi,” Nesta said, hanging up their call now that they were finally face to face. He was so adorable; she wanted to kiss that gobsmacked expression right off him. “Hope it’s okay that I dropped by.”

“Holy shit,” he said back. He surged forward and gathered her in his arms, and she melted immediately into the warmth of his body. She’d missed this. “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled into his neck, breathing in the smell of him as deeply as she could manage. She wrapped her arms around his neck and dug her fingers into his soft curls with a happy sigh. “I missed you.”

“Believe me, I missed you more,” he replied. He leaned back so he could press kisses to her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, making her laugh until he finally kissed her properly. “Fuck, sweetheart. I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Let me in and I’ll make you believe it,” she answered, her grip on his hair turning decidedly more wicked.

It turned out Cassian was wearing underwear after all, but Nesta made sure it wasn’t for much longer.

tag list: @c-e-d-dreamer | @jsmelodies | @queercontrarian | @nativeswfl | @that-little-red-head | @dustjacketmusings | @fieldofdaisiies | @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk | @kale-theteaqueen | @goddess-aelin | @livinforthetea | @valkyrie-archeron | @agents-assemble | @sweet-pea1 | @lilah-asteria | @brieq | @mydnights | @jmoonjones | @readskk | @fwiggle | @bookstantrash | @climbthemountain2020 | @underneath-the-sidras | @illyrianshadowhunter | @sublimecoffeefestival | @superspiritfestival | @sv0430 | @podemechamardek | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @burningsnowleopard | @bri-loves-sunflowers | @itsinherited | @pham-tastical

[bangtanjjks]

Hi hello friends. You would not believe the effort I went into to get back into this account to post this rant. So today, I was mindlessly working and said, "Ah, it's kinda hard to look for non-mc lads fics on ao3"

AND THEN! My friend just go, "Babe, get a check on that internalized misogyny before it went out of control."

?!??!?????????

internalized WHAT?

Internalized misogyny?!?! Where did that come from? Then they explained to me that I like non-MC fics because I want to imagine myself with the love interests so I'm jealous of MC and saw her as my rival and enjoyed reading fics where the MC is villainized. Hence internalized misogyny.

When I tell you my whole face is just a big question mark. No?? Where did that come from? And then I look up online and it seems like my friends belief was common?

But mayhaps I'm just a freak? Maybe I'm just a wee little masochist who loves my fanfic served bone searingly cold and bitter with enough angst and pain to kill a Victorian era maiden via heartbreak?

And what better way to get a dose of that but from non-MC fics? The insanity of doing something (falling in love with the LIs) over and over again expecting a different outcome (them not falling in love with and choosing MC) until there's nothing left of you but an empty husk of a person who's been heartbroken one too many time. The tragedy of knowing how the story ends but hoping against all hope for you to be enough to change the course of fate only for it to happen as how it's been destined anyway ??? THOSE kind of exquisite angst can only be found in a non-MC fic y'know. Or maybe a fic from an LI's POV where MC ended up with another LI.

And even if the non-MC ended up with the LI, there's still potential for pain from the uncertainty, the questioning of how long will this last? Is this a forever thing or would fate step in and fix it as how the storyline should be? Chefs kiss.

So imagine my surprise when my own friend thought I like reading non-MC fics out of envy for MC ??? Bro that's my girl. I like reading fics about her being happy but I also like mentally damaging emotional pain in my fics y'know.

Besides, I distinctly remember reading a viral post about Caleb being a favorite LI because MC was his first, because the current main plotline was their first life together (this post was made in January before his myth), and so he chose her for her, not because of a memory of a long dead woman or any other destiny. He just chose MC (kinda wonder how that OP is feeling now after his myth was released lol). The point is, when it's an LI choosing MC without any prior ties or life with her it was seen as sweet AND YET when I want to read similar story just from another perspective it's internalized misogyny?!?!? Be so for real bro...

Anyways. I hope everyone's been having a good 2025 so far, stay safe and healthy friends (˶ > ₃ < ˶)♡

[444sturns]

┈﹒ ꒰ recovery - phase two. ꒱ ﹐ ‏࿐ you can find phase one here.

‎┈﹒ ꒰ warning: contains mentions of marijuana & relapsing. summary: reader relapses. chris handles it in the sweetest way. ꒱ ﹐ ‏࿐

it had been a few good weeks. or, at least, good enough. 

you stopped counting the days like you used to. not out loud, anyway, but deep down, you knew it had been twenty-three days. twenty-three days free from lighting up. twenty-three days of feeling everything a little deeper than you were used to. twenty-three days of wondering if this fight within yourself was even worth it.

day twenty-four didn’t come. not clean, at least.

you don’t know what made you do it. maybe it was the shitty dream you had that you just couldn’t shake, or the way your friends were all having a much better time than you were when you all decided to go out. you weren’t here. you were somewhere far away and weightless. you should have said no. the high was brief and stupid and you regretted every second of it. the moment that familiar burn hit the back of your throat and went to your lungs, guilt quickly overcrowded the haze in your head.

all you felt was guilt. 

you’re curled up on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, hoodie sleeves tugged over your cold hands. you haven’t told chris. not yet. you don’t want to see the look in his eyes, even if you know damn well it won’t be a look of disappointment. that almost makes it worse. you can’t handle how patient and kind he is when you feel this undeserving of it. 

you’re just beginning to spiral again when you hear the front door unlocking. chris is home. 

you wipe your eyes quickly, as if he won’t see the red in your face, the way your shoulders sag; as if he doesn’t know you better than he knows himself. you the soft clink of his keys falling into the bowl by the door, familiar, heavy footsteps, and he calls your name softly—only once. “y/n?” 

he finds you in seconds. 

“hey.” he says, crouching beside you. his voice is as soft as always, hinting with concern, the soft kind that makes your heart hurt. “what’s goin’ on, doll? why you hidin’ out in here?” 

you swallow thickly. you can hardly even look at him and you wish you could. 

“i fucked up.” you breathe out. a confession. barely even a whisper, and you feel tiny sitting there on the tile floor.

chris doesn’t flinch. instead, he reaches out, brushing your hair back gently from your face before resting his hands on your knees. “okay,” he says. not it’s okay, because he knows you won’t believe it, but okay, like he’s met you exactly where you are. and he’s staying put. your chest feels tight like it’s being tugged from every direction. you manage to look at him finally. 

“i don’t know what happened. it just… happened. i was doing so good.” you spill, head shaking slowly like you can’t even believe the words that are coming out of your own mouth. 

chris nods slowly, “i know, baby. i know. that’s alright.” and he means it. every word.

you expect silence, or worse— a conversation explaining everything about the night you were having when you slipped up. but, as always, chris surprises you, standing up and holding out a hand.

“c’mon.” he says simply. 

you blink up at him, confused, “where?”

chris just grins. “don’t worry about that part yet. just trust me.” 

you hesitate, but you take his hand and he pulls you gently to your feet. he doesn’t let go as he leads you out of the bathroom, grabs a hoodie for you and guides you out the door. it’s well after midnight, the streets are silent, and you have no clue what chris is up to. you know better than to question him, though. once his mind is set on something, he’s got tunnel vision, and not even you can pull him out of it.

you shift into the passenger seat of his car, tugging the hoodie down over your body and he drives. he doesn’t say much. he turns the radio on low– some old song that makes your heart ache in such a good way. whatever his plan was, you already appreciated it. you weren’t thinking too much anymore, you were more focused on the streetlights fading past as he drove, and occasionally, focusing on him. the way his rings caught the light and shimmered every so often made you smile.

you end up at a 24-hour diner, the kind that smells like burnt coffee and nostalgia. you sit across from each other in a booth with cracked vinyl seats, cold against the back of your legs. chris orders milkshakes without even asking which flavor you want, and of course, the largest order of french fries they had on the menu.

“so, you’re probably wondering why we’re in the shittiest diner in the area.” chris starts, shifting in his seat. the vinyl booth seat creaks beneath him, making him huff. you nod slowly, raising an eyebrow curiously. chris flashes you a small, goofy grin that makes you smile. “yeah, was wondering why we’re here, kinda figured you just wanted a milkshake.” you suggest. 

chris gently nudges your knee beneath the table– it’s a soft gesture, a silent one to keep his warmth as close to you as possible. 

“you needed a distraction, and we’re not going to talk about the elephant in the room wearin’ a fuckin’ tutu, okay? none of that. just wanted to bring you somewhere… open, with people moving around and talking, you know?” he starts, and you lean forward to rest your elbows on top of the table. he just proves time and time again that he’s too sweet for his own good. too sweet for you, but you’re so grateful. 

so, chris talks. not about your slip-up, not about recovery. he just talks, and you listen. he knows what he’s doing and he does it well– you’re not thinking about anything but what he’s rambling about. you’re not thinking about the guilt that had been eating you alive. you’re not thinking that you’re a lost cause. you’re not really thinking at all. just listening. he talks about some stupid video that nick sent him earlier that day and he shows you, and you laugh. 

slowly but surely, you start to feel okay again. 

when the food comes with your milkshakes, he slides the plate of fries to the center of the table. “see?” he says, popping a fry into his mouth with a grin, “this is the part where i get to talk about how we’re still alive. still standing. eating shitty diner fries at almost 2 am. life doesn’t end when we mess up.” 

that makes you smile. a weak one, but it’s real. what he said was everything you needed to hear, and for once, the truth behind his words didn’t sting; they soothed. 

you grab a fry, taking a bite of it before finally responding. “thank you for not giving up on me.” your eyes sting just a little, but you force the tears back by taking a big chug of your strawberry milkshake. you’d much rather deal with the dull ache of a brain freeze than to cry in the middle of a diner. chris leans back in the booth and looks across the table at you, a chuckle falling from his lips, “i never will. don’t ever have to thank me. i’m in this with you, good days and bad.” 

thankful is an understatement. maybe tomorrow, you’ll talk. maybe you’ll cry over having to start all over again, but tonight, you’re okay. not perfect, not fixed— but okay, and that’s enough. especially when he looks at you the way he does; like even the cracked pieces of you are worth holding onto. 

© 444sturns

⨳ ᦒ author’s note: writing this hit very close to home this time around. if you're reading this a/n and you're struggling with anything whatsoever, don't hesitate to reach out for help. -eden ᵎᵎ 𖥻

444sturns taglist! ￤ഒ·°,

@mattscoquette @cherryystemm @zenithsturniolo @chrissbows @sturnsrecord @courta13 @sturns-mermaid @ifwdominicfike @moond0llie @bambisturns

[a-chaotically-small-lunta]

Sooo this happened to me

Story underneath if you want to know more context…or read me rant about it I guess

Alright, so my family was celebrating a birthday and during dinner we start chatting like always, when my dad asks if we’ve noticed anything about groceries. That’s when my older siblings start talking about how expensive everything is and my mom is confused cause she didn’t notice eggs were that expensive. I had to tell her that she was buying eggs under my employee discount so it probably just looked normal to her. Anyway, my sister who is a Trump loving person starts talking about how Trump did this and that he probably doesn’t even know how much eggs cost cause he hasn’t shopped for himself since the maybe the 70’s. They then all start smacking down on how the rich control everything but are completely blind to the average persons lives and money. And I’m sitting there like “YES FINALLY!!! THEY KNOW!!! FINALLY!!!!!” I’m so excited that they finally see what’s happening.

Then my lil bro says “You know who controls the rich people right?”

My heart drops cause I already know what he’s gonna say. I even tried to stop it by saying “the richer obviously” and he shakes his head. Without missing a beat he says “the Jews” and I’m just hoping the rest of my family says no or goes against it. Unfortunately they do not.

The start talking about how the Jews control everything and the most random shit I’ve ever heard. I can only remember two things they said but there was more. One was how the Star of David is satanic which wtf?!?!? Like literally no???? If I remember correctly it was related to King David, but idk the whole history of it. Either way it doesn’t matter cause it’s not satanic. Then my lil bro says that Jews are banned from 93 countries and like I looked it up and didn’t see anything about 93 countries banning Jews. I saw the history of Jews being banished from countries only to be let back into said countries over a course of centuries but I’m pretty sure that being that old of a religion, that’s gonna happen cause people need a scapegoat. Hell most religions probably have been banned from countries for similar reasons. Either way, the way he worded it was that they were still banned from these places which as far as I can tell and researched, just isn’t true.

But after my lil bro and sis started their rant, which intrigued my mom, I just sat there in disbelief cause wtf. I was literally so stunned that I couldn’t speak. The only thing running through my mind was “shit, I’m at a table with a couple of fucking Nazis” The only thing that made me kinda hopeful was that my dad and older brother weren’t saying anything and just kept quiet (still not amazing but I was too stunned to speak so I was hoping they were too and that why they weren’t talking) so maybe they thought it was as insane as I do but idk.

I already knew my lil bro hated Jews (This bitch hates all other religions that aren’t “True Catholics” so it’s not a surprise to me) but wtf. He can’t even admit that Jews were at least half right (old testament) cause of some bullshit excuse of “well they don’t believe in jesus so they’re fully wrong” like wtf?!? He even believes that Muslims, other Christians, and Jews don’t pray to the same God…when they literally do!!!! It’s all the same God between these religions and the difference is literally on how they view Jesus. Do they believe Jesus was the son of god? Christian! Do they believe he was a messenger who was given info from god? Muslim! Do they think Jesus was not the son of god and just another guy? Jew! Like fuck man it’s not that hard.

I could rant forever about my lil bro and his views and how wild they are but maybe I can do that later on. Either way wtf.

[ski0k]

people ask me if I prefer dickbabs or dickory and honestly, the answer is neither because every single time I start liking either relationships, something happens to fuck that all up.

I understand that with the way comics work, especially with the longevity of it all, you need to spice things up every once in a while and it gets hard to come up with new interesting content after literal decades. but there’s so many—too many—instances where writers start bastardizing characters and relationships just for the sake of making it interesting.

and all for what?

for example, when I watched btas, I was really into dickbabs but then they had to get all weird and do that plot where bruce impregnates barbara. then I watched teen titans and really liked robin and starfire together which made me start reading comics to see more dickory content, only to come across that one panel where dick says he’s never loved her??

like I’m not saying dick isn’t allowed to have issues with relationships, but there is a right and wrong way to depict such a thing, and sometimes these writers project their own beliefs and fantasies (fetishes) on certain characters and run with it. like the way devin grayson was allowed to basically insert herself into the narrative during her nightwing run; and I say allowed because there was someone that approved everything she wrote.

I totally understand that I can just ignore canon because of how fucky comics can get at times, which I already do anyway, but I know I'm not the only one that deeply cares about these characters and think they deserve better.

like the best, most notorious, example of bastardization, by far, has got to be the plot twist where captain america was part of hydra all along.

to this day, I'm still trying to wrap my head around how the hell that comic was even allowed to get published in the first place. not to mention the way marvel initially insisted that it was not an elseworld story and there was no mind control involved, before backtracking completely because so many people disapproved. rightfully so too! cap being hydra is so so so far from who steve rogers is and what he all that he stands for.

don’t even get me started on the comics that depict batman as an absolute jackass to his kids, especially jason.

you would think, that because characters get tossed around from writer to writer, comic juggernauts like dc and marvel would have some sort of guide they give out to assigned writers on how to write their characters? surely this is the case, right?

because I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if they didn’t.

[trainsinanime]

ASF!

That's not a short key smash, but my newest model railroad locomotive. Well, sort of.

ASF stands for "Akkuschleppfahrzeug", "Battery tractor vehicle". More than 500 of these little guys were built in the GDR as shunting tools between 1966 and 1990, both for the railroads there and industry, plus quite a few got sold to other eastern bloc countries (in particular Poland) as well. Nowadays they've spread around more, with some even appearing in Italy and Sweden.

The ASF is designed to push and pull single rail cars or sometimes entire locomotives within workshops and industrial sites, a job that it has been doing well for decades now. The diminutive size (about 3 meters long, wide and tall) means it'll fit anywhere, and in places where daily journeys are often measured in hundreds of meters at most, its 6 kilometres per hour top speed (4 mph) is not really an issue.

Technically, it's not a locomotive but a "device", which means it's subject to far less strict requirements for maintenance and for operator training. With all of that, it should be no surprise that it will never be seen on the mainline; even shunting in stations is an extreme rarity. The job is more to pull something into or out of a workshop. Modern devices for that are typically all remote controlled, but plenty of places also just use an old ASF.

And now it's also available in N scale. And it's just incomprehensibly tiny.

This is produced by Arnold, a brand name of Hornby's, and it actually came with DCC preinstalled. It's adorable and I love it.

But how does it run? Actually way better than you'd think.

The loop of track is a "JokeTrack", hand-made from Japan, that I want to use for something eventually one of these days. As you can see, minimum radius is not really a concern for this locomotive.

Two axles really close together and almost no weight means that electricity pickup isn't great; it'll basically only run on freshly cleaned tracks. But it's way better than it has any right to be, since the decoder comes with two relatively beefy buffer capacitors that are stored in the top of the cab. Still, it's really great at finding whatever particles you have on your tracks and stopping for them.

The top with factory decoder settings is really, really low. Probably exactly the 6 km/h walking pace translated to 1:160 scale. I may bump that up, because realism is one thing, but it takes forever to get anywhere.

The weird hooks are the end are what Arnold has given it instead of normal N scale couplings. They look horrible against a white background, but visually disappear entirely once you're on the actual layout.

If you don't like them, purely decorative replacements that look like the original weird coupler thingies are included in the tiny box. I suppose you could install one of them on one end, and have the other end to haul a car if you want. For me that's too much planning.

Speaking of, it can haul more cars than you'd think in a straight line, but once you get to a curve, it quickly drops down to just one, if at all (also heavily dependent on the car). Sadly the tiny coreless motor in it can and will stall at times, which can damage it if you keep it going for too long, so it's better to keep an eye on it while in motion.

There is no sound, the only function is the marker light. Historically locomotives engaged in shunting were supposed to only turn on the right headlight in every direction as a marker. Nowadays mainline locomotives will turn on all three lights on both ends while shunting, but the ASF was built before that, and since all it can do is shunt, it just received the marker light. F0 turns it on in the direction travel, F1 turns on the opposite end.

Anyway, a really great fun little toy that makes me happy whenever I see it, because it just looks so goofy, and it runs way better than it has any right to.

[biggestqiblifan]

Alright, seeing as its the Olympics, how many of the "Olympians" / Athletes are demigods?

[horsemeatluvr23]

the juppet !! i just realised he is jerma posing i swear that was unintentional...... i spent so long digging thru muppet concept art and looking at old puppet designs just to end up doing a rly simple drawing but. i love joehills!! i have only been watching them for like 4 years but their videos r so special to me :3

[rnbwtrout]

It's fun being somewhat knowledgeable about East Asian food because most people I encounter irl don't know what's actually in East Asian food, and so I constantly get the privilege of teaching them something new. I feel like a beacon of knowledge amongst random grocery stores goers. Take my hand random housewife who has never left the state of Georgia, I will tell you what oyster sauce and napa cabbage is.

[zellk]

Forgot to share here.... old doodles of when I finally came around to finding a design I like for Qalaari's mom !!