#i love rodya too but...yes he would

[sasperine]

modern day crime and punishment au where instead of committing murder raskolnikov almost starts one of those sigma male podcasts

[vivaldiny]

LCB Sinners as Sims players (yes)

We've had a discussion with friends about sinners and their taste in games in modern AU and, being an avid fan of The Sims, I've decided to assign sinners their Sims playstyles. After all, who hasn't played it?

(oh, I also don't always mention which Sims game they'd play, but it's mostly 2-3 purely because I'm used to these myself)

Emil - I imagine that he'd prefer a story-heavy gameplay! He'd also have few families, but would be very attached to them (and dedicate a lot of time to creating interesting personalities). So much so that it'd be very hard for him to sacrifice their happiness for drama. Oh, and as for the game, I feel that he would really enjoy Sims 3. I'd also say that he might like Sims 2, but... Emil would probably be too young to know much about it.

Rodya - I think she'd get bored of the game quickly. On the other hand, she might try building or try out different types of gameplay - building different skills, playing with different content, etc. She's also one of rare sinners I imagine playing Sims 4 (or Sims 3... doubt she'd bother getting older games).

Gregor - the most ordinary Sims player. He just wants his sims to live a happy family life. He also feels like the kind of person to have played the first Sims game (I generally headcanon him to be an old games lover in modern AU... Yes, it's because he has strong dad vibes :D).

Hong Lu - one of my mutuals said that he'd have "disgustingly huge dynasties" and I love this headcanon!! I also think that he'd try out some of the Sims challenges (Legacy Challenge at least). Aaand among sinners he's another rare fan of Sims 4 in my eyes, because he's just that nice.

Outis - ...I think she'd hate the game actually.

Ishmael - she'd play normally... and that's why she'd get really bored of the game. Besides, she's the sinner to actually touch grass, so she probably needs no life simulator.

Ryoushu - have you seen those "making my sims suffer in terrifyingly cruel ways" videos? She's their creator.

Heathcliff - he'd try all possible ways to kill his sims. He'd probably also create his enemies and make them suffer in especially cruel and/or humiliating ways. He'd also probably enjoy Extreme Violence Mod for Sims 4. (among his saves there's actually the one with the couple that he created with Cathy. He didn't have it in himself to delete this family, and it's actually the only save where he plays in a completelly normal way)

Don - she'd be the type of player to create characters with only good traits (yes, she'd play Sims 3 or 4) and try to make them the best at everything. Somehow she'd end up being the first Sims player that sucks at the game. Oh, and I also think that she'd get bored of her sims pretty quickly and would constantly create new ones. Her only long-lasting save would probably the one with some horse farm owner (in Sims 3, at least...). Lastly, I think she'd often create her simsona (with the coolest trates possible, of course!!!) or her favourite characters/celebrities (would her simsona marry them? Maybe!)

Faust - I feel like she'd be less of a player, more of a popular modder. Her actual game experience would actually be playing the game a little, noticing some minor problems, looking into them... and ending up researching the game so much that it gets really boring to play (after all, she'd know all about it).

Meursault - he'd create either himself or the most generic sim possible, get him to work in business and purely dedicate his time in game to improving in that career. In the end, he'd drop the game simply because he wouldn't understand what it's point is.

Yi Sang - I honestly don't know, but I feel like he'd be an original Sims player. Not sure he'd even know about all later releases, actually...

Dante - he'd really, really like his sims and want them to be happy, but each time they'd fail spectacularly or die in mysterious circumstances. It'd always break Dante's heart. (Dante is also the reason Vergilius (who never played the game) knows all possible ways to fuck up in Sims)

Charon - she'd know A L L about the game. She'd try so many thing so she'd probably become some sort of Sims sage. Vergilius would probably be very confused as to how she hasn't ended up as the second Red Gaze after all this time playing.

Bonus: Kromer would bully Emil for his Sims hobby, calling it cringe and too girly (and causing Emil to be very self-conscious about his interests in games). Then she'd come home to her PC, boot up her very own Sims game and spend hours playing throught the save where she and Emil are in love and happily married.

And that's all! My apologies if it was silly - again, I'm just a huge fan of both The Sims series and Limbus Company. I also really like silly AUs!!! :D

(if you've noticed mistakes in the post - please, don't hesitate to point them out, English is not my first language)

[annasmc]

Rodion Raskolnikov

Crime & Punishment

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I am going through a horrible Crime & Punishment phase right now and I’ve suffered the curse of fictional love. Especially one who is barely written about in such a way. To ease this, I am writing multiple (hopefully) works about him & me. If you have somehow come across this, feel free to change the name or imagine the character as your own. This is a female character, Anna, but no mention of her looks nor physical appearance will be mentioned…

Rodya - Russian nickname for Rodion

Anya - Russian nickname for Anna

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Falling in Liquor

The bitter liquid forced its way down the couples throats as they sat in silence. It was a quiet night, and there were no disturbances both on the streets nor from the residents of the building. A rare occasion, but it never changed the Tuesday night date, nor the mood of both Rodion Raskolnikov and his lover.

The man was spread against the couch with his head thrown back, drowning in the light feel given by alcohol, and the weight of the girl’s legs pinning his soul down as she lay next to him.

The shot glasses were forgotten as the pair passed the bottle of vodka between them. Papers of translations scattered the table, and the couch springs groaned and never rose back up under their weight.

The heat of the summer had faded into a warmth, that was disputed by the breeze, which the tattered curtains did nothing to block its flow.

Nothing broke the sound of the liquid in the glass bottle, as the two kept drinking. Until Rodya’s low and quiet voice wrecked the ambiance.

“You are pretty, Anya”. He stated matter of factly. Her blushed face looked up at his, just a bit red if not more.

“It would mean more to me if you were sober”, Anna retorted.

“A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts”.

Was his excuse each time. He rarely said any such words normally, especially not during the daytime. Occasionally, but even when he first courted her, he relied on his expressions, that were hardly visible against his dark eyes and depressed features.

A ring was placed on her finger, fit, but not shiny, but still had exceeded his expenses. Anna never asked for its worth, out of respect, but she was aware of his love for her, as well as he was of hers.

A strange couple, which shocked all who knew. Especially his mother and sister, who came to visit the minute he had even mentioned her name in his first letter to them.

He had wrote: “Mama and Dunya, I am not experienced in this feeling, but I have met a woman, Anna, who I have great affection for. I share my home with her, for I cannot bare her leaving my sight. You will meet her when you come visit…” and the rest of his letter was filled with other thoughts.

Anna reached out for the bottle, which he gladly gave, then watched as she set it down on the table, grabbing his hand again and lifting herself up to properly face him.

“I love you”

“I love tou too”, Raskolnikov kept her hand in his, gently rubbing his fingers across her, then bent down to kiss her softly, before leaning back into the couch, grabbing her body and holding it against his.

“My pretty fiancée”, he muttered.

His hands stroked her hair and her face. A moment of silence followed shortly.

“I wish of more for you, my dear. A big house with a garden, riches to give you, delicious food for you to enjoy, and wine”, he paused before daring to continue, “children, and perhaps an animal for you too keep, and a grander - a proper wedding”.

His eyes closed, “you would like that?”

“Yes. But right now I am perfectly content with us now, despite your troubles”.

“Troubles? What troubles?” He inquired hotly. He had taken offense and felt his touch his heart. In the moment he became aroused with agitation.

“Well, you are troubled Rodya, with who knows what, but it’s okay; you are so perfect already”, Anna smiled at him, “You are the man I said ‘yes’ to, not the man I imagine you to be in 20 years”.

He settled down a bit and felt sad. He knew of his faults even under his delusions and choice of ignorance, and he still couldn’t believe that he had a girl to love, a beautiful one even.

He opened his eyes to glance at her, and couldn’t help but place another kiss, on her mouth, then nose, then forehead, then cheek, and stayed like that for a moment.

He imagined that she was a hallucination, but questioned as he knew he felt her, and her warmth. He took a moment to collect these proofs of her existence, even his too.

“Yes,” he finally said, relieved to find her still as he left her a second ago, “I would like to marry you, you know”.

She giggled, which earned her a smile from him, and snuggled up closer to his body. He adjusted to bring her closer, and the couple stayed like that for a long while.

[rodyaaquata]

I think you all need to know more about my precious f/o's and my beloved selfsona ^_^

Their name is Rodya or Salt, they're werewolf and a guess they seventeen (just like me hehe)

So, i know that no one (even bros who knows Russian) would understand what i writed on this "ref" so i guess i should make it a bit clear (and + for myself)

Genderless

Possibly aroace

Smokes

Animal habits are pronounced too clearly

Likes to show up unexpectedly in places (and scare others with it)

Nice youngish, positive

Turns in a wolf because they want to or because of intense bad emotions

Know English and French

Sasha (nein) their crush/boyfriend/whatever they just like him very much

Loves raw meat

I remember that i said earlier that i don't have a story for them, what actually partically true, but i once write somethin abt them and you know, they remind me of mery sue a little bit.

TW next i would talking about some unpleasant things like sex, drugs and bad childhood/parents

If i would talking completely honestly, most of things that i put through my sweet selfsona i experienced myself.

They didn't had a really good environment as child, father was one of abusers, mom wasn't sure how dealing with her own emotions and most of childhood Salt was neglected. I myself was going through something bad as child but i wouldn't say because I'm not fully comfortable yet, but Salt themself worked in porn industry because they didn't know anything better and because of this they have hypersexuality.

I had thoughts that they would had worked as drug dealer, it would make their past more darker, but I'm still thinking about it.

Actually i think everything i do to salt is just makes their life so pathetically bad, at least in past. And yes they are traumatized.

And once i did a "Humanization" of their "inner self"

St. Cutted form of "Salt"

It uses it/it's/itself pronouns

Also like with Salt themself earlier there some notes

"Rodya's inner self"

Creepy dude

Very Impulsive

Lies alot

It's physical form sees only Rodya/Salt and not everytime

Have mental problems (although i think This is the embodiment of all possible problems that Salt themselves have)

Not nice bro, not positive

It design was a bit different some time but once i accidentally drawn Rodya with star on eye and that give me an idea of make this a really weird and cool part of St.

Idk what else tell about it, but i like draw it alot too

I also have a younger version of Salt ^_^

And for young one i use he/him prns, he here about ten?? Or eleven. Innocent little lamb.

Here also a little more of Salt themself

Aaand ref with all of them

Annd here we go to my fo's!!!

Uhhm uhh so i hope you know that fo it's not only about romantic one

Sasha Nein is 100% my romantic f/o ^_^

I can mumbling about him for sooo long, but for now all i would say that I'm not sire about dynamic between him and salt, sometimes i like them being all nice but then i feel that rebzyxx songs are very them

Raz/Max it's like,,,,,, little siblings or kids to take care of, tehehe

Idk what much tell about them

Dion is really good brother for Salt. Sometimes Dion reminds me of Salt and i guess they would be great siblings (quarreling because they also both damn stubborn)

Postal Dude/Rodion/Daniel I consider like friends. Especially Dude. They like besties ^_^

And there left Irene. She new one actually and I'm still not sure about what kind of relationship she would have with Salt but i think about something more like "familiar" one too. Or romantic??

I still thinking about it.

[irritablepoe]

Your Help Heals All My Wounds (Chapter 1)

^^^^check out the link as well, it'll get you to the full ao3 fic :3

Fandom: Crime and Punishment

Ships: Raskolnikov/Razumikhin

Tags: Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Esteem Issues, Angst with a Happy Ending

Cw: Internalized Homophobia (not in this chapter tho)

Summary: Raskolnikov's penalty is coming to an end. Razumikhin suggests his plans for the future which involve Raskolnikov and a few more feelings than he had planned on. Meanwhile Dunya and Sonya are holding hands.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Razumikhin was not surprised when he found out Raskolnikov was responsible for the murders. However he was devastated when he found out that Sonya had known the story the whole time. Now Razumikhin found himself in an endless circle of blame and guilt. He should have checked up on Raskolnikov when he isolated himself. He should have been more attentive, more engaging with him. Instead he had done what he always did: talking way too much. But on the other hand he was angry with Raskolnikov. Was he not trustworthy enough? Was he not a good enough friend? He had done everything; he had bought Rodya new clothes, a pillow, made sure he wouldn’t accidently throw himself down the stairs in his feverish delirium. He’d never left Dunya or his mother until she died.

Now that Rodya was in Siberia, he found himself unable to think of anything else other than him. One time he visited him. He had looked pale and sickly, like he always did, but his arms were more muscular than before. Razumikhin wondered how Rodya survived in this unforgiving environment. He couldn’t help thinking of Rodya as someone he had to protect. He was always so ill, fragile almost, but Razumikhin had also known there was a fire beneath the pale skin. This fire had ended in tragedy. The tragedy didn’t however extinguish the flames. He had seen the dark circles under Rodyas eyes. He couldn’t sleep so that meant he was thinking about something. His mind was wandering, working. Always working. Razumikhin wished he could do something to calm his mind. To make all the tragedies undone. He said so when he had met Rodya once again. He had looked a little better. New purpose seemed to glitter in his eyes. Razumikhin wondered what could have changed while he was away.

“I appreciate your effort, dear friend. But I myself am responsible. And I’m neither ashamed nor do I regret what I did.”, he had said.

Razumikhin remembered how startled he was. Rodya had never called him a dear friend, had he? Especially not without the usual ironic undertones. His voice was genuine, soft. Something warm had spread within Razumikhin. Even now, that he remembered the words.

“I wish I could bring you home.”, Razumikhin had answered.

“I would enjoy that.”, Raskolnikov had said with a small smile, “but I’m afraid you have to wait for me little longer.”

Rodya had taken his hand and given it a squeeze. Razumikhin still felt it in his bones, on his skin. “How is my sister?”, he had added.

“She mourns but she’s tough.”

He had looked to the ground. “Are you with her?” There was something in his words, more than Rodya would ever say. But Razumikhin had understood a long time ago that his friend was way too cryptic that he could possibly grasp everything he was saying or not saying.

“I visit your sister regularly.”, he had said at last.

Rodya had seemed pleased. “Good. Thank you.”

“I promised to not leave her alone.”

“You are a good man, Razumikhin.”

A tingle had made his way down Razumikhin’s spine. “I left you.”

Rodya had shook his head. “No, you didn’t. I disappeared. I wanted to visit you on multiple occasions but… I couldn’t. I should have though.”

“You did once. I realise now that you were feverish and the whole thing was already done, but you came to me.”

Raskolnikov had thought about that for a long time. “I did. I forgot.” He had been silent again. “You came to me.”

“Yes. I was worried about you, Rodya.”

There had been a bitter grimace on Rodya’s face. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“But I do. I said it before, but you wouldn’t listen. Many people care about you. If you want it or not, I will help you. And I will help you gladly. Do you understand me now? Do you understand me? You’re always asking me if I understand you but do you understand me then? I understand you better than you would ever imagine and, yes, I may be a fool! The most foolish fool to ever exist for not realising what you wanted to tell me all those nights ago, but I do know this: you think you have to do everything alone. That you’d be better off when everyone is leaving you alone. Well I don’t think so! If not for me, where would you be, hm? If not for you, where would I be?”

“Razumikhin, you don’t understand!”, Raskolnikov had shouted, “You should not care about me.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m a murderer. And you’re a good man.”

“And you’re telling me that you’re a bad man?”

“What else can I be? What else could I possibly be! I murdered two women and I don’t feel sorry. I simply cannot feel sorry! I had reason! Had a theory that would justify everything I’ve done. Of course I’ve proven myself wrong. I’m wrong and a louse, for sure! I was given the chance to end it all but I refused, still thinking I’m above shame, above guilt! So proud, oh, too proud! Where’s the goodness in that?”

“I see it in you. No matter what! I’ve seen what you’re capable of when you’re in your right mind. You’ve saved people you don’t even know. And I think the greatest man is also capable of causing the most pain. It’s a matter of choice. You just have to accept my help – or anyone’s help for devil’s sake! I don’t give a damn! But you are a good man and no one will ever convince me otherwise. Least of all you!”

“You’re a fool indeed then!”, Raskolnikov had snapped.

“I am, so what?”

“You’re blinded.”

“I see clearer than ever, Rodya.”

Raskolnikov looked at him with narrow eyes. “Do you, now?”

And Razumikhin realised that maybe he didn’t. “At least I want to, Rodya. Please tell me what’s on your mind; tell me how to help!”

Raskolnikov was quiet and Razumikhin had left with only a few words of goodbye. Now Razumikhin was laying in a cheap bed on the first floor of an even cheaper inn, unable to sleep, unable to think straight. What had been on Rodya’s mind? He would have given anything to know. Why couldn’t Rodya just talk? Why was he always so secretive? And why was he, Razumikhin, such a fool? Why couldn’t he just let it be? Raskolnikov once said that he didn’t care for Razumikhin’s help. Was Razumikhin helping him because he knew it was a lie? Was Rodya so defensive because he actually enjoyed his help, his company?

[dopamindeficitdingo]

Sonya and Porfiry character dynamic headcanon

(fic-monologue below)

I have a hc about Raz and Dunya bringing even the old and physically off but mentally surely eloquent uncle Porfiry to Siberia with them (lmao i would watch Rodya's face when they finally meet again lmaooooo😂😂😂😂) Then Porfiry inherently has to meet Sonya, too.

I think they would befriend each other so soon because according to my hc they have a pretty lot in common☺️ First point is, i think, Sonya is a tee person, too. (About this, more infos later, mhm, @yvehattan?) And on an another but not less deep and spiritual level:

Porfiry is i think kinda atheist but he has a similarly humane opinion on psychology as Sonya has on faith. Also both of them are shy/socially really awkward people in society who are despite totally able to open up and be abstract and weirdly enthusiastic about topics, they only need to be in the right, safe places (rolled up in cosy blanket, sipping tee, together and alone at the same time, if possible). And as they notice it, they immediately become soulmates. (yeah!)

And i lowkey LOVE imagining their dynamic:

I think Porfiry is the person who is awake whole nights to explain how domestic abuse works (okay this could get unnecessarily postmodern at this point but i hope it won't)

Porfiry:

"Sonya it wasn't your fault - surely not. Yes. Yes, haven't i said yet? No, my dove, please, stop this. May i note, the word strong in this context is cruel and inappropriate. Sonya, dear Sonya. For God's sake. You were a child. You didn't need to be strong, you needed to be safe. Be careful with words, hehe, especially if you have talent to use them - and you have! Sure, hehe! Also you don't start to laugh in a demoralisingly hysterical way in the middle of any sentence! What a rhetorical advantage! Oh, my dove, Sonya. Are we now crying or laughing? You don't have to decide, this is called recovery, too. Or an other kind of hysteria than mine, hehe, you name it. Nah, you're more like laughing, aren't you? Oh, ahem, ehehe, sure, just hug me if needed. I have never had a daughter, bytheway. And as all of my conditions show - probably never will, hehe. Nah, who needs that ugly burocracy, of course you can be! Dear Sonya, dearest Sonya. Yes of course we don't have to erase this poor Semeon Marmeladov, too. We acknowledge what he gave and what he took from us and - no, it is not obligatory to forgive him if you don't feel like that. Don't blame anybody else either, i think... Except burocracy. The only thing we can blame with cold blood is burocracy, hehe. And... What? Pyotr Petrovi... Of course, burocracy and Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin! Holy shit that man - oppardon dear, it was unfortunately intentional. But anyway! This man is the only one i won't have a conversation with! Only if he pays my whole retirement!

[worseandworser]

Beautiful

This exists thanks to @rodionismyhero <3 Thank you <3 

Ship: Razumikhin/Raskolnikov

Summary: He was sure that wherever, whenever Rodya happened, so would Dima — and this way he was forever doomed with the prospect of following the man around like an overeager puppy.

But metaphysics was not his area — it was Rodion’s — and neither the point Razumikhin was looking for.

Rating: Explicit (warning for Lemon)

Warnings/tags: Modern setting, College AU, engineering student!Razumikhin, philosophy student!Raskolnikov, the very first time I post smut off-anon pls forgive me

read on ao3

If one made a list of problems in Razumikhin’s life, somehow it would always go back to Rodya being his friend. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the guy — which he did perhaps a bit too much; Dmitri couldn’t think of a plane of existence where the two of them hadn’t crossed and become at least acquaintances. The amount of appreciation he directed to Raskolnikov couldn’t possibly cease just because of a dimensional switch. He was sure that wherever, whenever Rodya happened, so would Dima — and this way he was forever doomed with the prospect of following the man around like an overeager puppy.

But metaphysics was not his area — it was Rodion’s — and neither the point Razumikhin was looking for.

People called their friendship ’weird’; yes, they had the guts to look Dima dead in the eyes with a sorry smile and call it weird. A stupid term, Rodya told him once, while he rambled about whatever Foucault's book he had been reading recently, and Razumikhin agreed. They weren’t weird — the grumpy hermit intellectual who ends up in a relationship with the extroverted jock everyone loves, or whatever. They were unbalanced. Both of them were, not as a duo but as individuals: Razumikhin was unbalanced for giving Rodya sovereign over his body, heart and soul, and Rodya for… well, being Rodya.

Which could be either a curse or a blessing — Dmitri was sure the only reason his friend hadn’t confronted him yet on his feelings was that said friend was Rodya.

He didn’t understand how the hell it happened. One day he was strolling down the streets, bumped into an undergrad from a completely different faculty, and then bang, he was lying awake at night thinking about mysterious dark brown eyes. He spent all of his high school years sleeping throughout history lessons, but when Rodion explained how Nietzsche’s books influenced eugenics in Nazi Germany he didn’t even blink. Raskolnikov opened his mouth and he felt as if the Universe was being peeled right in front of him. He was torn between listening attentively and wanting to shut him up using very unorthodox methods.

Rodya wasn’t objectively beautiful — he was skinny, lanky even, dressed like a mix of hipster and beggar, and had this perpetual frown that sometimes merged into an I’m-about-to-pass-out expression. Although the affection happened at first sight, the attraction took a while to rise. But when it did, Dima’s pathetic admiration-slash-crush turned into a full-on abyss of, what, feelings and such. Reprehensible.

Rodya would kill him if he found out.

Razumikhin couldn’t help it. He’d run all the way across the campus to have lunch in the cafeteria next to the Philosophy and Social Sciences faculty, just so he could sit next to Rodya for mere forty minutes. He’d cancel plans because Rodya was not in the mood to meet people, and would sit next to him in the library for hours even if he wasn’t that much of reader himself. He started studying quantum physics because once Rodya told him it was more interesting than numbers and calculus, and he could now name four presocratic philosophers (which was more than he ever thought he could do). He’d do and give up anything, if it would make his friend slightly happier.

And that included, apparently, storming out of a party Dmitri had been really excited to attend.

You see, perhaps he shouldn’t have brought Raskolnikov to an event organized by engineering students that was full of, well, engineering students. Rodya never failed to bring up how much he despised ‘number freaks’ and variations, how ignorant they were when it came to anything besides doing maths. He’d said that to Razumikhin’s face many times before and, even if Dima knew he was referring to others and not himself, it had always struck a nerve. Dmitri thought he could make him change his mind, or at least be a bit more open-minded, if he introduced him to his friends. A party had seemed like a very good excuse to do so — Razumikhin had insisted over and over again, and when Rodya finally relented… Let’s just say he smiled throughout the rest of the day.

Now, however, the only thing he felt was guilt. With some sprinkles of annoyance — at his friends, for saying those ridiculous things to Rodya, and at Rodya for taking everything so personally. But mostly at himself: he should have known better than to bring an antisocial to a social environment.

The fact Rodya accepted, though, still reverberated through his whole being — he’d wouldn’t go for himself, but he was willing to swallow his pride and fears to stand next to Razumikhin for a couple of highly stressful hours.

“Rodya, wait!”

Dmitri trailed behind his friend, watching him stomp and run at the same time — which was impressive, how did Rodya manage to do both? The alcohol he had ingested was barely enough to keep the cold at bay, but Raskolnikov’s portion seemed more than enough to make him stagger a bit.

“Please!”

Ok, so Dima’s friends were idiots, and they were the only idiots in the story. He wanted to know what the hell kind of mental gymnastics Rodion had succeeded to make that got him angry at Razumikhin. Unless it was not only— he couldn’t discard the possibility that he had done something that distressed the man, after all, Rodya was… sensitive. And sometimes Dmitri’s actions or words could mean much more to the other than they did to himself.

When he finally got his hands on the man’s upper-arms, Rodion did stop — but kept trying to twist away from grip.

“Stop trying to pull away!,” snapped Dmitri, “I just want to talk!”

Keeping his eyes on the ground, Rodya relented. “Let me go.”

“You won’t run away if I do?”

The man shrugged. Razumikhin figured it would be the closest to a positive answer and let go. “What happened?”

Rodya blushed, out of anger or embarrassment or whatever else he was feeling at that moment. “You saw everything!”

“About the political argument, yes, but what else?”

Still refusing to meet Razumikhin’s gaze, Raskolnikov stuffed his hands inside of his coat’s pockets. “I didn’t like the party, so I left.”

Stormed out, thought Dmitri, but I suppose that’s just semantics.

“If it was just that, you wouldn’t have told me you were leaving.”

He never did. It always hurt a bit, it made him feel… unwanted. Not that he expected Rodya to depend on him to leave whenever he was uncomfortable, but a warning would be very welcome. For friendship’s sake, of course.

“Whatever. Your friends are neanderthals.”

“Sure,” Razumikhin rolled his eyes, “where are you going then if you don’t like the party?”

He shrugged, “The dorms, probably. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”

And Dmitri followed him — like he always did.

It was yet to exist a place more empty than Raskolnikov’s bedroom. He lived alone — Razumikhin had the vague impression Rodya would rather live on the streets than have a roommate — which was a revolutionary act of itself, since very few students were granted such privilege. But he seemed to abdicate of all benefits that came with having a room of his own. There were no decorations of any sorts, just four beige walls, and a small window; the bed was always undone and some stacks of books and notes were scattered around the floor. When Dmitri had asked him about bringing people over, Rodya had stared him as if he was an alien.

They hanged out sometimes in here, though. Dima would bring snacks and beers and they would sit and talk, talk, talk. It appeared to be their favorite thing to do — talk, talk, talk.

But today they were silent — there were no drinks or snacks, much less available topics. Dmitri kept throwing glances at Rodya throughout the whole way there, trying to figure out if the man was still irritated or just pensive. In turn, Raskolnikov seemed to not pay him attention at all. Even when their sides brushed as they walked, or when Dima’s glances lingered for too long. He invited Dmitri in, and it was probably more out of habit than wanting to spend more time with a friend. But today things felt different — the alcohol, perhaps? — and Razumikhin caught himself anticipating an implosion — Rodya’s silence would become too much and he would bleed inside, leaving Razumikhin to clean after his hemorrhage.

As soon as the door was closed, he felt the hot-and-cold air around them curl around his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Rodya’s head tilted to the side. “What for?”

“For taking you to a place you obviously didn’t want to go,” Dmitri clarified, “I was being selfish.”

“Don’t apologize for things you don’t need to, it kills all the purpose of an apology and makes you look like an idiot.”

Dmitri had an idea of what he looked like when he was listening to anything Rodya said — mesmerized, impressed, now adding the flush from the alcohol so he was probably looking like an idiot with or without the apology. And he felt like one, when the tension grew so tight it almost took his breath away. Raskolnikov stared at him from under his bangs, brown eyes shining like amber under the sunlight. It was that same sickly gleam he always carried around, as if instability was an inherent aspect of his soul and it reflected on his physical body. Beautiful, Razumikhin thought, just like he always did. Because it truly was.

Razumikhin was the one who did it — because there was no way Raskolnikov would be able to, even with all the random spurts of self-confidence. No, he took the step that closed the distance, he put his lips over Rodya’s, he put a hand on the other’s nape to try to find a better angle.

But it was Rodya who gripped his lapels and turned the kiss into a fight.

The sharp intake of breath came from Dmitri’s surprise, and the groan from the indescribable feel of Rodya’s tongue against his. They stumbled together — thank god, no books were stepped on — and Raskolnikov’s back hit the wall with a thud that reverberated through Dmitri’s ribcage. The angle was wrong again and Rodya was obviously not practiced enough and they were both stinking of alcohol and smoke and it was sublime. Razumikhin was still stuck on oh my god I’m kissing Rodya but nothing stopped him from gripping the other’s hips and shoving a thigh between his parted legs.

Despite ego and pride, Raskolnikov whimpered, the hold on Dmitri’s clothes shaking and being quickly substituted by arms tightening around Razumikhin’s shoulders. Rodya rolled his hips, and Razumikhin swallowed all his moans eagerly. Beautiful, he thought once again, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and Dmitri had a soft spot for pretty things.

Razumikhin interrupted the kiss to fumble with their belts, then the pants’ button, then the zippers, and he could feel Raskolnikov’s startled eyes glued to his face as he did. He almost stopped, but Rodya was reaching to get both his pants and underwear out of the way and that should be enough for consenting, shouldn’t it?

what the fuck is going on what the actual f

And that was it— the kiss became a mess while Rodya seemed frantic to tear Razumikhin’s shirt, fisting and pulling, sobbing between their lips as if he couldn’t breathe. Dmitri was burning, from head to toe and his spirit was probably in flames too, but who cared. It was so fast and twisted, completely unexpected and out of order. Which was exactly what made it right, at least in Razumikhin’s opinion.

Dmitri was too far gone now, and Rodya seemed to be a few steps ahead. Their hips rocked together, their cocks rubbing maddeningly and Razumikhin was drunk on the other’s gasped pleasurable sounds. Realizing his hands could leave the bony hips they rested on, Dmitri sneaked them under Raskolnikov’s shirt, sliding up his ribs — the man squirmed, but didn’t pull away — so he could thumb one of Rodya’s nipples, twist them between his fingers. Rodya moaned, arching up against the touch and tugged at Dmitri’s shirt until the man got the clue.

The seconds they spent apart felt like millenniums.

Without the barrier of cloth, Razumikhin pressed their chests together. Too far gone to care about proper kisses, he dipped to mouth at Raskolnikov’s exposed throat — pale like marble, untarnished, begging to be covered with possessive purple blotches. His hands slid down his friend’s lithe body to cup his ass, then grip to help their exasperated thrusting. Harder, faster, now, now, now—

“D-Dima..!”

Rodya trembled underneath him, scratching at his back desperately, and Razumikhin could feel the warm spurts against his belly. His breath hitched as he saw the man’s features contort beautifully, beautiful, beautiful, and it wasn’t long before he followed suit.

It was only when it was over, when their legs gave away beneath them, that Razumikhin felt the worry creep on him. He looked at Rodya, sitting by his side with his knees pulled against his chest — he was entirely in disarray, and Dmitri probably wasn’t much better. He wanted to pull him closer, but when he put his arms around the other’s bare waist he met stone-cold eyes.

“Don’t ask me to leave,” said Razumikhin. Begged.

“You can’t stay here.”

“Do you really hate me that much?”

Rodya’s cheeks, already pink from their previous activities, turned a few shades darker. “Don’t say that.”

“Let me stay,” he insisted, “let me stay, and we’ll talk things over tomorrow.”

There was a sigh and no more protests, then Rodya’s forehead bumped against Razumikhin’s shoulder.

“Okay, then.”

[yoshikirakage]

20, Rodimitri

“You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”

Dmitri Razumihin was sitting in front of the couch where his best friend, Rodion Raskolnikov, had been fading in and out of consciousness for days. Days. Razumihin has spent days at this idiot’s side, waiting for him to open his bleary eyes and mutter something about a damn sock and complain a little bit and get paranoid and pass out again. Dmitri’s head sank and rested on the cushions of the ancient couch.

“Please, Rodya.”

But when he looked up, Raskolnikov’s handsome features were still pulled together in a nightmare.

He’d been like this for too long. Everyone gets sick, but no one gets deliriously, feverishly, out-of-your-mind, fainting-spells-for-half-a-week sick. Raskolnikov’s restless sleeping and frantic chattering was weighing on Razumihin’s mind. He has to get better, right? He can’t just stay this way, right? He’s gonna get better, right. He has to.

What was Razumihin going to do without him? He’d only just figured out he loved him.

“You’re not supposed to. It isn’t right, at all, in the slightest, it just isn’t done. There has to be something wrong with you. You aren’t supposed to fall for other men. Maybe you’re getting sick, too. Maybe you aren’t feeling what you think you are,” Razumihin’s mind would lie to him. “It’s not real. It had better not be.” He was completely aware of what could happen to him for this. It wasn’t right. It was also something he couldn’t help. And watching helplessly as the man he felt that forbidden, dangerous love for never showed signs of healing despite his efforts was breaking his heart.

“Rodya, come on…” Razumihin whispered, pleading with Raskolnikov as he reached out to stroke the unconscious man’s jet-black hair. Razumihin sighed. Raskolnikov would be beautiful asleep, if he weren’t always harassed by his dreams. So often during the nights and days he was out he’d twitch, shudder, his dark eyes shut and his eyebrows drawn together, mumbling of a ghost named Alyona. Razumihin would cover him with a blanket and whisper comforting words, knowing full well he couldn’t really hear him, yet feeling a little accomplished when Raskolnikov stopped stirring. Razumihin yawned. Caring for someone sick was tiring, especially if that someone was Raskolnikov…

He woke up with his body still leaning on that same couch, head on the beaten cushions, but Raskolnikov was gone. Razumihin’s hazel eyes shot open and he immediately forgot his drowsiness, overcome by panic. No, no no no, this is bad, very, very bad. That idiot! He could be anywhere on the streets, wandering and talking to himself as usual. But as Razumihin stood to panic easier, his back bumped into something, and turned to see Raskolnikov glaring up at him. Razumihin sighed.

“Ah, Rodya! Awake, I see.”

“Why…are you in my flat.”

Wow, so he really doesn’t remember anything. Well, if he’s being cold, he’s feeling more like himself, Razumihin thought.

“You’ve been sick for a long time, my friend. Come, sit down, please, you look weary.”

“That doesn’t…really explain why you’re in…in my flat,” Raskolnikov said, and Razumihin noticed for the first time just how dark the circles under his eyes were.

“I’ve been watching over you.–Taking care of you, I mean,” Razumihin caught himself.

“…Right…That’s…very kind. I suppose…I should thank you,” Raskolnikov said, looking through Razumihin in a distracted manner. He seemed spacey and confused.

“Rodya, please, come sit first,” Razumihin said, concerned. “You’ve been blacking out a lot lately, I’m worried you’re still light-headed.”

“I’m…fine,” Raskolnikov insisted, in the way all people that aren’t fine do. “Just tired. And… surprised to see you. Thought… you might…No, I don’t deserve this…”

“Don’t deserve it? Of course you do! Don’t you understand? I’m here because I care about you.”

“No… please, you have to leave… I don’t deserve this…I don’t need this, you have to leave,” Raskolnikov rambled. Razumihin couldn’t help but feel hurt.

“I can’t leave you while you’re still ill, Rodya, It’s–Rodya!”

Raskolnikov stumbled and had started to fall, Razumihin barely managing to catch him before he collapsed.

“No..I’m fine,” Raskolnikov tried as Razumihin guided him back to the couch.

“No, you’re not fine. Lie down,” he said stubbornly and put Raskolnikov down, propping his head up against the arm of the couch, sitting in front of it as he had spent the last several days doing. Raskolnikov turned towards him.

“You… shouldn’t be taking care… of me. I don’t deserve this,” Raskolnikov muttered, half asleep.

“You do deserve this. You have a lot of people that love you.” Some in ways they shouldn’t, Razumihin thought. “Dmitri…” Raskolnikov whispered, reaching out to him with his hand.

“Yes? What is it, what do you need?” Razumihin asked, worried.

Raskolnikov gently put his hand at the back of Razumihin’s head and slowly directed him closer, just barely kissing the corner of his mouth as his eyes slipped closed again and he fell back asleep.

“…Ah. Well…..I will take that for a ‘thank you,’” Razumihin said to his blissfully dozing friend, and watched over him the rest of the night, noticing he didn’t have a single nightmare.

-–

for the quote pairing writing prompt thing lmao i wrote this half asleep you deserve better