#inadmissible means

[hakusins]

first exam tomorrow and im still confused on the diff between inadmissible and admissible

[aoitakumi8148]

[Improving some of my gifs/gifsets these days] 1/1, 2023.

“Death is certain, life is not.”

[wise-innocence]

Hmmm... Yanfei doesn't really tell people that she likes them just kind of stares longingly and hope the message gets across. Smartest girl around but has the emotional intelligence of a slice of bread.

[jojolimons]

im playing ace attorney and going through the second case

how the fuck is edgeworth still allowed to practice law, he literally advised his clients to lie to the court

[hellenhighwater]

There's two separate issues being conflated here, but to simplify: if the wizard's not a cop, it's admissible.

The question is conflating privacy protections and evidence admissiblity, which are not the same thing. Privacy protections are generally there to protect from illegal governmental searches. If your wizard is not a cop, not working for the police or another governmental agency, or connected to the government in any way, then no, there's no suppression of evidence due to warrantless searches. (Warrants, btw, are for the government--you, a private citizen wizard, can't get a warrant if you wanted one.)

There are laws that protect privacy from other private citizens. There's laws that make it illegal to put secret cameras in bathrooms, laws that prevent window peeping, and so on. They do so not by suppressing evidence obtained through those observations, but by punishing the person doing the invasion. So your wizard can testify to whatever they saw but they may also face charges as a window peeper. (If magic isn't regulated by law, there's probably a loophole here that means they're not getting charged by technically not using a window or a camera.)

Your wizard also has to be able to testify that the orb view is a true and accurate depiction of the location observed, and may have to answer some questions about how the orb works and how they can tell it's not been tampered with, but in any other respect they're just a regular eyewitness viewing through video, which we have plenty of law about.

You are a wizard and you witness a murder through your orb, happening in real time, in a private location you would not have physical access to.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 CHIVALRY FELL ON ITS SWORD

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: history always repeats itself. dazai is captured, you're facing enemies on all fronts, and it's only a matter of time before you hit your breaking point. you can't let things turn out the same way they did two years ago. you can't—you'll do whatever it takes.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: happy friday my peeps, i hope your week has been good. ive been looking forward to this chapter for sooooo long so i hope you enjoy ;) unfortunately, there will be no wykyk update this week (i mean it this time), i've fallen behind in civzai and really need to focus on it. reblogs and comments greatly appreciated as always!! ENJOY!

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

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: hardly edited. depictions of psychological torture (commit by reader), both reader and dazai are wildly unstable, mori is a bit of a cunt LOL, a bit of legal proceedings in the beginning but i didn't want to deep dive into japanese court proceedings so i just based it mostly off us court proceedings, but again, not entirely accurate because i'm not in that field and didn't feel like doing intense research.

ANOTHER THING TO NOTE: our lovely reader IS A MAFIA EXECUTIVE !! as a port mafia executive, she does port mafia things, this will become very apparent in thIS chapter and the rest of the upcoming chapters. it might be a bit jarring to read but it is something to keep in mind. additionally, she is FLAWED. i wanted to add this warning just to give you all a bit of a heads up.

SEE: WASTELAND, BABY! SERIES MASTERLIST

“... Your Honor, I have to object to counsel’s petition for bail, the defendant…”

“... If I may, Your Honor, we don’t even know how this footage was obtained and the prosecution has not acknowledged any of our requests to ensure that this is reliable. For all we know, this footage is edited or illegally obtained. It would be a disgrace to our justice system if we were to keep the defendant detained with no bail…”

“... not only a flight risk, but we’re risking witness and evidence tampering. Respectfully, this isn’t an unarmed robbery the defendant is being accused of, Your Honor, this woman is a threat to public safety, she’s being charged with connection to the most dangerous criminal organization in the Eastern Hemisphere, and not just as any ordinary member, but as an executive. I have to insist-”

“Your Honor, the defendant shouldn’t have even been brought into custody considering all current evidence might not be admissible. And the prosecution cannot sit here making baseless claims of risk when the only supporting evidence is inadmissible. I don’t even understand why I have to sit here and argue this.”

“Counsel seems to think-”

“Enough. Order. I’ll sustain the ob-”

“Your Honor… I don’t mean to interrupt but you may want to see this before…”

“What is it, Hasegawa-san?”

“... I see, very well. The defense’s petition for bail is granted. Bail will be set at one hundred and fifty million yen, bond at thirty million yen. The next hearing will be set for two weeks out, I trust that gives the prosecution enough time to prove the legitimacy of the evidence…”

“Don’t look at any of the cameras.”

“No shit,” you mutter as your attorney, Tachibana, leads you from the courthouse to where a car is waiting to pick you up. 

There are so many flashing lights and microphones in your face that you can hardly see a few steps in front of you. So many people talking that each question melds into the next. You couldn’t entertain the media even if you wanted to with them all talking over each other to shout at you. Your head hurts and the bright lights aren’t helping—you grimace as you turn your head to the side but you’re only met with another face full of cameras and microphones.

“Back up,” a familiar voice booms and at once, the tension in your body dissipates as Iceman shoulders his way through the crowd toward you. The man sneers at a paparazzo who tries to cut him off and all but knocks him out of the way to reach forward and grab your wrist, yanking you toward him.

He ushers Tachibana forward and keeps you tucked under his arm as he guides the two of you to the black car. It’s only when you’re inside and the door is shut behind you, that you can finally relax, but it’s only for a split second before Albatross is bursting into laughter in the front seat before you’ve even sat down yourself.

“You look ugly as hell in a prison uniform,” he wheezes, having the audacity to point at you as he turns around to look at you. “God, I never thought this day would come. Someone take a fucking picture.”

“Fuck off,” you snap at him, which only makes him laugh harder.

“The entire world has pictures at this point,” Doc says dryly, looking over you once and frowning at the bruises on your wrists where the cuffs had been tightened too much. He clicks his tongue as he runs his finger across them as you pass by him before sighing, “They really waited as long as they legally could for your arraignment, didn’t they?” 

 Two whole days. You haven’t eaten because you had to watch the prison guard spit in your food before passing it over to you—evidently, his brother was killed by the Port Mafia and he decided to take that out on you, which was nice. So as if you weren’t dealing with enough bullshit, you haven’t properly slept or eaten in two days.

More than that, you’ve had no confirmation concerning Dazai’s status in two days. 

That alone has left you with no appetite and no desire to sleep anyway. You’ve been restless trying to figure what to do if Klaus wasn’t able to get Dazai away from the Guild. That is, restless, and increasingly more violent and angry. You’ve never been someone prone to choose violence as the answer, but you think the only thing that will satisfy you now is the entire organization eviscerated. Not only have they gotten you thrown in prison, but they have Dazai.

You finally take a seat next to Chuuya. He’s stuffed in the back corner of the limo so that no unsavory eyes could catch sight of him when Iceman ushered you and Tachibana into the car. As soon as you take a seat next to him, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and squeezes your bicep. You almost want to collapse into him—you’re so tired and hungry and just so mentally and physically drained that all you want to do is sleep, but you know you can’t, not until you have Dazai back.

Just as you’re about to look up at Klaus and ask him how things went, Piano Man speaks up, addressing Tachibana. “How are things looking?”

The man grimaces. “Not good. They could hold her liable for all of the crimes attributed to the Port Mafia if the jury finds the footage as proof of her affiliation,” Tachibana says. “The last time they had a Yakuza boss on trial, they had him sentenced to death and he was only being held vicariously liable for one murder and three assaults. They have her down for six and all of the other crimes they’ve been gathering as evidence against the Port Mafia just in case they were given an opportunity like this. If-”

“Why are we talking about a jury trial?” you ask tightly, giving Tachibana a cool look from the corner of your eye. “Get the charges dropped.”

A frustrated expression crosses Tachibana’s face. “But-”

“No buts, do your goddamn job and get this dismissed,” you tell him before turning your attention to Klaus. “What’s the situation with the journalists?” 

Klaus looks mighty proud of himself as he raises his chin. “They’re dead. Do you want to hear how I did it? It was quite ingenious if I do say so myself.”

He looks excited to tell you, eyes gleaming and smiling wide, so even though you should just drill him for information about Ui and Dazai, you decide to entertain him and nod. 

“Tell me,” you say, hoping at least hearing that those irritating pests got what they deserved is enough to ease the seemingly insatiable bloodlust the past few days has caused you before you get back to headquarters and have to deal with Ace.

Klaus is clearly trying to hold back a laugh as he prepares to tell you. From the way Atsushi looks a bit green next to him, you know whatever he’s about to tell you is going to be gross.

“They’re called the Ivory Eagle, right?” he says rhetorically, blue eyes dancing as he stares directly at you, waiting for you to nod again. When you do, he continues, “You see, when I was back in Europe with the Pale Flame, we learned a lot about ancient torture and execution methods. Nabakov had the trafficked ability users fight in rings, y’know, gladiator style—the winner of the fight would pick a method to punish the loser with in front of everyone. The vikings had a ritual execution method called the blood eagle, so I thought it would be funny ‘cause y’know, the name? Ivory Eagle, blood eagle? They can keep their theme even in death!” 

“I should not be hearing this,” Tachibana sighs, covering his ears and closing his eyes.

You snort. “May they soar to greater heights,” you mock their slogan and Klaus lets out a loud bark of laughter, bouncing in his seat in excitement.

“I knew you would get it, I’m so funny.” he laughs, nudging Atsushi hard, but the weretiger only looks like he’s about to start crying, so Klaus looks back at you, teeth glimmering as he smiles widely.

“What happened with Ui?” you ask, glancing down to see Chuuya passing you a bottle of water. You give him a grateful look before redirecting your attention back to your subordinates. “And where’s Akutagawa?” 

“That ugly journalist confirmed they worked with the Guild to get the footage from your boyfriend,” Klaus says, and even though you knew this, it still makes you feel sick. “... I went by his apartment. It was totally trashed, there was blood on the sidewalk. I’ve spent the past two days trying to hunt down the Guild but I can’t find them anywhere. I was planning on going to the Armed Detective Agency later today to get that one detective to tell me where they are. Figured they wouldn’t be opposed to helping considering they’re getting the shit end of the stick with the Guild too, I heard two of them were trapped for days in an interdimensional space before they were able to get them out.”

“Akutagawa and Kyouka-chan are out doing rounds around the city. Kyouka-chan found one of the lower-ranked Guild members wandering around the city, she’s hoping that she’ll lead her back to their base,” Atsushi adds, answering your second question.

You let out a heavy sigh, looking down at your lap. Apartment trashed. Blood. The water you had just sipped threatens to come back up, you feel Chuuya squeeze your bicep again to try to comfort you, but you don’t care for comfort, you only want Dazai. You want him back in your apartment, back in your arms, you want him safe, you want him.

You want him.

“We’ll get him,” Chuuya promises like he can hear your thoughts. You suppose it’s probably written all over your face. “I’ll do whatever it takes, okay? I won’t let the fucking Guild take him from you.”

He’s spent two days with them. God knows what they’ve done to him to try to get information about you—the thought makes your skin crawl, your chest weighs with guilt. You brought him into this life knowing this risk and you still couldn’t protect him. You need to do something, you need to-

“Chuuya,” you say quietly, “can I borrow your phone?” 

Chuuya’s brows furrow but he nods, passing his phone over to you. You ignore the way your fingers tremble as you type in a familiar number and press the phone to your ear, you wait a few anxious seconds for the person on the other line to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Leo,” you breathe out. “Are you still in New York?”

“You’re okay,” Leo Tolstoy sighs, the relief in his voice palpable. “I saw the news. I figured they wouldn’t be able to keep you locked up long. I’m still here, yeah, I have a flight to Tokyo in an hour. I just had to finish up-”

“Cancel it,” you say immediately, fingers digging into the thin pants you’re wearing. “I need to call in a favor.”

“Hit me with it,” he tells you. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

Good, you think, lips curving up as you tell Tolstoy your plan. 

There’s only one way to force Fitzgerald into giving you Dazai back, and you’re willing to go to any lengths to do it.

“You’re awake,” an unfamiliar voice notes just as Dazai starts stirring awake. “Good.”

He’s been in and out of consciousness for two days now—awake for a few hours, asleep for double that. He almost wishes that the blow to the head had killed him, because each time he wakes up, he’s questioned sharply about you and he’s tired of it. The first two days of captivity, when Dazai was awake, he spent most of his time staring at the ceiling, your words ringing through his head and your twisted expression plain as day. He’s recounted every word of his conversation with you before he fled, he’s noted every place where he messed up and could have done something different to avoid this, he’s felt so numb that he would almost prefer pain and he’s felt so much regret that it did physically pain him.

Now, he’s just irritated. 

Irritated and tired and hungry and most of all, he misses you. Misses you so much that you’re the only thing he can think of clearly. Misses you so much that it makes him sick. Misses you so much that he’s started casting up prayers to gods he doesn’t believe him because he just wants the chance to see your face again.

Thus far, he’s been able to evade answering any questions, but he has a feeling it’s only a matter of time before they start taking more extreme measures to get the information out of him, and Dazai has never been one to deal well with pain. He doubts he’ll be able to get away with lying to throw them off trail for long.

“Nope,” he says tiredly, rolling over onto his side to turn his back on the man. “Still sleeping, unfortunately.”

Dazai doesn’t know who this one is. 

He’s gotten used to the other two over the past forty-eight hours—the redhead is called Mark Twain, a high-ranking member of the Guild whose preferred form of torture is casual conversation. It’s predictable and Dazai, naturally, doesn’t fall for it, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. He comes into the cell with food and water that Dazai refuses to touch and talks to Dazai from the moment he wakes up to the moment he passes back out. He asks about you and the Port Mafia without actually asking about you and the Port Mafia, talks about his own woman back home and bitches about his work with the Guild, seeing if Dazai will chime in with his own commentary and grievances.

Dazai doesn’t, of course—there’s not much he can say about the Port Mafia anyway, the things you’d talked about with him are irrelevant at this point, and Dazai certainly is not going to tell Twain anything about you. He knows that the Guild must be looking for information on your ability and Dazai will be damned if he lets anything about it slip. The most he’ll make is snide comments, hoping to piss Twain off enough to leave, but then he has to deal with the other man, James, who is far less pleasant to deal with. Dazai can hardly stand the sight of him and he isn’t sure if it’s because 1) he’s just unappealing to look at, 2) his head injury, or 3) he still has a grudge over the head injury. 

He thinks maybe it might be all of the above. 

Regardless, the voice of the new arrival is neither Twain’s nor James’s, which means he has a new yet equally undesired visitor. Dazai, naturally, is wary of the unknown. He’d overheard Twain and James talking about Francis getting involved and he remembers that you mentioned the leader of the Guild’s name is Francis Fitzgerald. He has a distinct suspicion that this must be him and Dazai’s only thought is that this definitely doesn’t bode well for him.

“Mister Dazai, please, you need not make this difficult on yourself,” Fitzgerald sighs. “We already have all of the information we need anyway. We want to help you.”

What.

Dazai’s cautious now as he sits up to face Fitzgerald, mind racing as he tries to figure out what exactly he means by ‘we have all of the information we need.’ Dazai has been so careful not to let anything slip—even when he was half delirious from his head wound, he bit his tongue. He didn’t utter a single thing until he was certain that his brain was functioning well enough for him to carefully choose each word he spoke. 

There’s no way that they managed to get anything from what he’d said.

The blonde man sitting on the opposite side of the room is dressed in a fancy suit and wears a watch that probably costs more than anything Dazai has ever owned in his life. He looks unusually earnest as he leans forward, elbows on his knees as observes Dazai. Dazai thinks that he’s decently good at reading people, and he can’t find a hint of deception in Fitzgerald’s face, which leaves Dazai feeling distinctly unnerved, unable to predict what’s about to happen to him.

“I find that hard to believe when your subordinate bashed my head in two days ago,” Dazai replies, keeping his voice light but watching Fitzgerald carefully. 

“My friend, Henry, is quite excitable,” Fitzgerald sighs, faux-remorse dripping from his tone. “I apologize for him, I was very clear that you weren’t to be injured.”

That doesn’t really help Dazai at all. He needs to figure out how exactly he’s going to press Fitzgerald and figure out what he learned from Dazai. Luckily, he doesn’t have to say much at all because Fitzgerald takes it upon himself to continue talking.

“There were some pieces of information I kept to myself during our endeavor here in Yokohama,” Fitzgerald says. “There are too many… rats scuttering around the sewers. It’s hard to tell who’s listening at any given time. Everyone has their own agendas, and there’s just some information that’s too valuable to risk falling into anyone’s hands but your own. Even supposed allies’.”

Rats. Allies. Agendas. Dazai’s mind races as he notes it all down to tell you as soon as you get him out of here. He doesn’t respond to Fitzgerald’s words, waiting for him to make the mistake of continuing his little monologue so he can have more information to report back to you. From what he’s able to piece together, there’s more than just Fitzgerald and the Guild at work here, but you haven’t mentioned any other organizations besides them, which makes him antsy because if you don’t know that this is multiple organizations working together against the Port Mafia… 

You could be in danger.

“I was already made aware of her ability,” Fitzgerald says, watching Dazai for a reaction. He’s careful not to give one, but his words make Dazai’s skin crawl. You’d said that your ability was the most well-guarded secret in the Port Mafia. That only the upper echelon was aware of it. 

So how?

The traitor.

Dazai’s throat swells and it’s much harder to keep his distressed emotions off of his face when he remembers the tip-off that Professor Ui had received about a situation happening at the ports on Shinko, remembers that he alluded to someone within the Port Mafia’s inner circle being the informant, remembers that in his meltdown, he never even told you.

Shit.

“Henry, he is also an ability user,” Fitzgerald continues. Dazai is grateful that he seemingly doesn’t notice his increasing panic. “What Maisie Knew, an ability that notifies him when somebody around him is lying. My intention in bringing you here was not to interrogate you, but to find out if you knew the extent of the manipulation happening around you.”

Dazai blinks slowly, letting the words process through his head. An ability that notifies him when somebody around him is lying… but would that even work on Dazai? You tried to use your ability on him with and without touch and it didn’t affect him, so this one shouldn’t either. And if he wasn’t notifying him when Dazai was lying about knowing nothing about your ability… 

“Henry told me that you were telling the truth when they asked you about your knowledge of her ability,” Fitzgerald says, and Dazai almost hates the pity thinly veiled behind the man’s eyes. He doesn’t like anyone thinking that he doesn’t know something about you, but he lets this slide because it might just work in his favor. “Her ability is a form of mental manipulation. She influences the emotions of people around her to trust and adore her. What you felt for that girl was nothing more than what she wanted you to feel—she’s spent months shaping your mind to make you believe you care for her so that in a situation like this, you would choose to protect her even at the cost of your own life.”

The surprise that shifts across Dazai’s face is genuine—not because of the revelation of your ability like Fitzgerald believes—but because Fitzgerald does know your ability, and he knows it in an alarming amount of detail. He wishes he had some way of contacting you now, but he needs to focus now on figuring out how he’s going to play this.

They didn’t kidnap him to interrogate him. They kidnapped him to try to make him willingly turn against you by revealing all of your ‘manipulations’ in an effort to rattle you into making a mistake. A decent plan, honestly, and if Dazai were anyone but Dazai, it might’ve worked… but Dazai is Dazai—he’s never been affected by your ability, or Fitzgerald’s subordinate’s, or any ability for that matter, and he would rather die than turn against you.

But… would it be better to make Fitzgerald think that he has turned against you? It would be safer for him, surely. If the man thought Dazai was swayed to his side, he might even have a chance to escape… but it could also throw you off if Fitzgerald tells you, and Dazai isn’t sure if he wants to risk that considering there’s apparently other allies of the Guild that you don’t know about. You would see through it eventually, but in those few moments that you didn’t…

Any mistake now could be fatal. 

“She’s in federal custody right now,” Fitzgerald says. 

Dazai almost feels dizzy, hands falling from his lap to the bed to dig his nails into the sheets to steady himself. He knew this—he knew it in his heart when Twain mentioned the flash drive and pointed out the sirens but Dazai had still had hope that you managed to evade arrest, that you wouldn’t have been dragged down by his mistakes.

Fitzgerald is still talking and Dazai knows that he should be listening, but instead his mind racing, thoughts so quick and jumbled that he can hardly get them straight. If you’re in federal custody right now, the last thing you needed was to get out and hear news of Dazai turning against you. You’d be worn thin, stressed, alone. You don’t think clearly when you’re under a ton of stress, especially when people you love are at risk. You try to, but when it gets too much, you shut down like you did at the beach house and you can’t shut down with the Guild at your door and god knows what other enemies lurking in the shadow, preparing to strike.

If you’re in federal custody, then the chances that you’ll see through this is even lower because you’ll already not be thinking clearly. There’s a much higher chance that you don’t see through it, that you think the Guild tortured him until his mind broke and he turned against you. And considering your past with Nakahara Chuuya and his lover, it might be the only logical conclusion your brain comes to.

He can’t risk it. It’ll put you in danger—he’s done enough of that lately, but this time, your life really would be on the line.

Instead, he’ll put his on it. 

“No,” Dazai says suddenly, cutting Fitzgerald off mid sentence. The blonde looks at him curiously waiting for him to continue. “No. I don’t believe you—about her, about using her ability on me. I don’t believe any of it. Get out.”

Dazai doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to pretend to be blind with love—maybe he can convince Fitzgerald that he’s still under the effects of your ability, that might buy him a few days, but it won’t last forever. He doubts that the Guild will kill him if they want him to turn against you to batter you down, and they want him to do it willingly, so they’ll probably spend a few more days trying to convince him before they resort to making him turn on you through force. 

You just need to get to him before that happens.

Fitzgerald doesn’t look surprised by Dazai’s words, but he does look disappointed. He braces himself for the man to press the issue, but to Dazai’s relief, Fitzgerald stands to leave. Dazai needs time to think, time to formulate how exactly is the best way to go about this to buy as much time as possible.

“I figured that would be the case, months under an ability like that takes more than a few days of separation to be free of,” Fitzgerald tells him before he leaves. “Think on it, you could be very useful to our cause… and we could be useful to you too. I’ll be back for an answer.”

“Don’t come back anytime soon,” Dazai replies snidely as the door closes, pulling the blanket tighter around him and resting his head against the wall.

As soon as the door is closed, a heavy feeling settles over his chest and Dazai feels so alone that it makes him sick. He’s become so used to your presence in his life that every moment without you feels like his chest is being hollowed out. The room he’s in is cold and uncomfortable compared to the warmth of your apartment. He wants to be curled up in your bed, surrounded by your scent, wants to be watching some lame movie or forcing you to watch him play an even lamer video game. 

He misses you desperately, and his nails bite into the fabric of the blankets as he tries to ground himself, losing himself in the thoughts of you, praying that you come for him soon.

“Ah! Our resident convict has finally decided to grace us with her presence.”

“Oh, Ace, it’s impressive, truly, how everyday you manage to become more stupid than the last. You must not have any brain cells left in that empty skull of yours… You’re not much unlike a protozoa honestly, ” Piano Man sighs whimsically. When Ace’s face twists in confusion, Piano Man gives him a sweet smile. “That’s a single-celled organism. Basic biology, I fear, thank you for proving my point so quickly.”

“She hasn’t been convicted, you dumb fuck,” Chuuya snaps. “And you sound way too pleased over the matter, should probably choose your tone more carefully considering it was you and your subordinate who got her arrested. Sounds a bit like, I don’t know, treason. Did you betray the Port Mafia, Ace?” 

Wow, you think, they came in hotter than you expected.

You don’t even bother to address Ace as you make your way to your place at Mori’s right side, taking a seat in the chair left empty for you. You don’t look at him until you’ve taken your seat, but even then he gives you no cues, violet eyes watching you listlessly as he waits for you to say something.

Once the circular table is fully seated, your gaze finally flits to Ace.

“Go on,” you say. “Answer Chuuya’s question.”

Ace’s face twists at your words. “That’s a ridiculous accusation,” he says, raising his chin. “That-”

“Is it?” you interrupt coolly. “You pride yourself on the use of your collars and their ability to control your subordinates. Either your collars are not quite as effective as you’ve so ardently claimed them to be or you’ve betrayed the Port Mafia. Which is it, Ace? Both will have consequences, naturally, one will just be more… final than the other.”

Unless there’s some otherworldly interference, Ace is going to die today.

He’s the reason you were arrested. His subordinates are notoriously fearful of him and his ability to kill them with just a passing thought once he has the collar around their necks. The chance of one of them acting on their own to try to kill you is slim to none. And you know that he knows you know he did it just from the amusement thinly veiled behind the outraged expression on his face.

He’s too smug.

Something’s not right.

“Unfortunately, it seems as if my efforts to deter disobedience have gone ineffective concerning one of my subordinates.” Ace waves his hand, lavender eyes meeting yours pointedly as he speaks his next words: “No need to fret, I’ve dealt with him accordingly.”

That… was not anticipated. You’re careful not to react to his words, gauging the reactions of the others in the room trying to figure out if this was something they all talked about while you were being held by the government, but Piano Man and Chuuya look just as appalled, even Kouyou hides her pursed lips behind her fan as she gives Mori a careful look.

Mori does not look surprised as the rest of his executives.

What did you do?

Chuuya is the first to speak, voice low, “You’ve what?”

“A betrayal of this magnitude is not something for an executive to handle alone,” Piano Man says, the airy tone of his long gone as he stares at Ace. “Especially the executive in charge of said traitor. You acted out of line—this should’ve been brought in front of us all before any action was taken.”

“Out of line?” Ace’s voice becomes more mocking now, clearly enjoying knowing something that Piano Man doesn’t after the snide comment. “Not at all, I acted on orders of the Boss.”

At once, the conference room goes quiet. You see Chuuya and Piano Man turn to look at Mori for the corner of your eye, but you keep your gaze trained on Ace instead and he keeps his on yours. He looks entirely too pleased with himself, eyes cool and taunting, the corner of his lips turned up just enough to be noticeable.

“It’s true.”

Mori offers no explanation—he doesn’t need to, he’s the Boss, but you know there’s something else going on here. He never liked Ace, spoke poorly of the man’s easily bought loyalties and undue arrogance. Only gave him the executive position for financial purposes after the Dragon’s Head Conflict left Yokohama in shambles. Let him stay because his arrogance makes him easily manipulated but always keeps him at arm’s length, ready to cut off at the first whiff of betrayal.

And now he’s what? Scheming with the man he’s despised for years against you? Is it punishment for everything that has happened with the two Yakuza syndicates and the Guild? Punishment for Dazai? 

You can’t understand it, you can’t.

You look at Mori from the corner of your eye, blood running hot and only barely able to keep the fury off of your face.

What are you planning?

Mori’s lips curve up as if he can hear your thoughts, eyes flickering with amusement as he looks at you.

You’ll find out, little hime.

“What is Tachibana-kun’s opinion on the indictment?” Mori asks instead, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands over the table as he looks at you.

“He’s going to get the charges dropped,” you reply flatly, nails biting into the slacks you’d changed into before coming to the meeting, suddenly feeling far too cornered as you realize you have enemies around every corner—even within your own home. “This will be over within two weeks.”

“Hm.” Mori sounds more entertained than anything as he tilts his head to the side and studies you. “And the Guild? How do you plan to handle them, little hime? More importantly, that boy you’d been silly enough to allow the information that led to your imprisonment… I trust he’ll be properly handled?”

Putting you on blast in front of all of the executives… Kouyou is watching you carefully, Chuuya is stiff, Piano Man tense, and Ace, of course, is mildly amused. You feel like a circus monkey performing for the lot of them and you know it’s exactly what Mori wanted.

You’re sure not to let your irritation slip onto your face as you smile thinly and reply with: “The Guild will be taken care of by the end of the week. I fear that the boy is not the issue in this situation, Ace would be more suited to answer any questions regarding my imprisonment. Isn’t that right?” 

Ace’s smile tightens. “Not at all,” he says coldly. “What are you implying?”

“That it was your subordinate that had dealings with the Guild, of course,” you say with a sweet smile. “What else would I be implying?” 

“Right.”

“I mean, I do trust that you managed to get information out of him before killing him, right? We’ve all been trained to do that,” you add, raising your eyebrows and tilting your head to the side. “You did get the information, didn’t you?”

“I would like to know how you plan to handle the Guild considering you’ve failed spectacularly up to this point,” Mori intervenes, preventing you from questioning Ace about the ‘subordinate’ that ‘betrayed the Port Mafia’. 

You give him a heavy side-eye, wondering what game he’s playing and why he’s protecting Ace of all people—he must have some plan in the works that involves the man, but what? What could he possibly be using Ace for that’s so important that it makes the cost of keeping a rat in his inner circle trivial? You’ve always struggled to understand the way Mori’s mind works, but never more than now.

You decide to be plain with your accusations now. You’re tired of playing coy; although you’re stuck in limbo now as you wait for Tolstoy to come through with the favor you’ve asked of him, you still feel like you could be doing more productive things to try to figure out how you’ll actually approach Fitzgerald to get Dazai back. 

“I don’t feel comfortable divulging that information in this setting,” you say simply, watching as Kouyou’s eyes widen just a bit, Chuuya and Piano Man share a look, and Ace stiffens as he prepares for a scathing comment, but a motion from Mori has them settling down. “Regardless, I think there are more important issues to discuss. Namely, the setbacks we now have to deal with on the political front because of my indictment. I can reach out to the politicians that I’m close enough with that the accusations won’t sway them, but I worry that we might’ve lost a lot of key swing votes in the upcoming bill going through the Diet.”

“We can’t let that bill pass,” Chuuya says tightly. 

Kouyou sighs airly as she fans her face. “I can reach out to my connections,” she offers. “I assume Lippmann will have significant influence as well. Between the two of us, we can hopefully compensate for the losses. Do you think the indictment will prevent you from ever returning to handle political affairs?”

You purse your lips. “I doubt I’ll be back at any government events anytime soon, but I’ll be able to get work done from behind the scenes. It’ll be harder, but not impossible.”

Kouyou hums as she nods, glancing back at Mori. “If this is all, I had a prior commitment with our friends in Tokyo… It would be best for me to not miss it considering the circumstances.”

“I also have business to handle,” you say, gaze cutting back to Mori. “If necessary, I can meet with you later to tell you about how I plan to handle the Guild.”

“It’s not necessary,” Mori says lightly. “You’re dismissed, I promised Elise-chan tea time anyway. I expect results this time, little hime… Successful ones.”

Your lips tighten. “Of course,” you reply tensely. “I hope by the time of our next meeting, the rat infestation will be handled. I’ve seen a few too many since I’ve been back at headquarters today, it’s unsightly.”

Ace bristles and looks to Mori like a child seeking their parents’ support. How ironic, you think bitterly, but you don’t give anyone time to respond to your words as you rise to your feet and leave the room, intent on getting back to your apartment as quickly as possible. You don’t even wait for Chuuya or Piano Man as you get into the elevator and press the button to close the doors as quickly as possible.

Your gaze is pinned on the cityscape as the elevator begins to go down to the first floor. The sun has crossed its point in the peak of the sky—it’s still midday, it’s been sixty-six hours since you were taken into custody, likely just as long as Dazai’s been captured by the Guild

Sixty-six hours.

The Guild is not an organization that usually stoops to torture. Of all of the organizations in the world’s shadows, the Guild is probably the one closest to the light—they take advantage of it by forcing its members into the public spotlight. It’s why they’ve done so well in Yokohama so far; they’ve used their political presence to force countries into giving them diplomatic immunity, essentially making them untouchable. 

You’re sure they have some degree of blood on their hands, everyone in this world does, but torturing a civilian of a foreign country would be a bold move—if it got out, and you would make sure it did, it would ruin their station… But then again, would they even care?

Fitzgerald was so desperate to get his hands on Atsushi for whatever reason—the bounty and now this… There might not be any length he wouldn’t be willing to go to in order to get his hands on the boy. And Dazai… he wouldn’t give up the information, you know it in your heart. You wish that he would if only so he could protect himself, you’d be able to pivot and readjust your plans, but he won’t, especially not after his spiels about being a burden and wanting to help.

What an idiot, you think desperately, ignoring the way your eyes suddenly sting as you make your way out of the main headquarters to head over to your own building. You’re not even fully processing everything that’s happening around you—you ignore the subordinates that greet you, don’t even hear Albatross calling your name, and when you get to your building, you don’t even notice the doorman sitting at the desk in your building. 

It’s not until you get back up to your apartment that you’re finally able to break down.

Physically and mentally drained from two days in custody and now Mori’s schemes, it only takes the sight of Dazai’s sweater tossed on the back of your couch and his backpack lying haphazardly on the ground next to it for you to crumble. You don’t even make it to the couch—your knees give in as soon as your fingers brush the soft material of his sweater. You hit the ground hard, back pressed to the back of the couch as you pull the sweater down to your knees and you cry.

It still smells like him—well, a mixture of you and him since he’s started using your bath soaps—and you miss him so bad that it makes your chest cave in. You muffle the ragged gasp you take in with the sweater and curl in on yourself; you miss him, you miss him so bad that it’s painful, so bad that regret weighs on you like the burden of the sky, so bad that you think you might die. You’ve felt pain like this before when Itou died, but Itou’s death had not been entirely in your control, not like how this was. 

You let this happen. The moment you let him into your life, you damned him.

You’ve been teetering on the edge of collapse for days, only sheer willpower and the thin shred of pride you had left prevented you from falling apart during your time in prison, but now there’s nothing left to keep you together. Any remaining willpower was obliterated the moment you walked into your apartment and saw his sweater and backpack exactly where he left them before fleeing because of your words; any remaining pride was destroyed by Mori and his schemes refusing you at least some semblance of justice for your own imprisonment. 

Now alone, faced with only the consequences of your own decisions as company, you’re forced to acknowledge the bitter truth: you may never see Dazai again.

You may have gotten him killed.

He may already be dead—spent his last moments alone and in pain, wondering if you were ever going to show up.

You try to convince yourself that Fitzgerald won’t kill him before trying to use him as a bargaining chip over you, but the thoughts are only shallow consolations because you can’t push away the image that’s been haunting you since the day you met him. His body cold and rotting after having been abandoned in one of the dumping grounds the underworld uses as a mass grave, forgotten and nameless, left for the rate to devour. You knew this would happen from the beginning, but you still allowed it.

You’ve never prayed before. 

You’ve long believed that if there was a god out there, it was a cruel one who took delight in suffering because what other god would allow people to suffer the way you have? 

What god would allow an eight year old girl to sit amongst corpses for hours only to be saved by a man who would drag her down a path so dark that her blood would rot black and her soul would be so far beyond salvation before she was even old enough to attend secondary school? 

What god would show someone love only to rip it away before his very eyes in the most brutal way possible? 

What god would dangle the ‘what ifs’ right in front of your face just to taunt you knowing that the moment you let yourself indulge them, you would be reminded exactly why they should’ve remained ‘what ifs’?

You’ve never prayed before, but now, you find yourself crying to any that might listen to you because you don’t know what else to do. There’s no guarantee that your plan will work and you can’t give Fitzgerald what he wants, you can’t. So instead, you cry, you beg, you plead, you bargain. You don’t know what divine being might be out there, but for the first time in your life, you hope that there is one, because you’ve never saved a single person in your life. You got Itou killed, you got Chuuya’s lover killed, countless men on the warfront who were banking on your ability fix their minds, at this point, you’re sure that even the loss of your family and village was somehow blood on your hands—everywhere you’ve been, ruin and death have followed you, and this will be no different.

You won’t be able to save him, just like you’ve never been able to save anyone else before. Your only hope lies in the hands of the very beings that have designed this moment and every other misfortune of yours before this. It’s a sick joke, you think, but still, you pray. You cry, and beg, and plead, and bargain. You ask them to bring him back to you, you tell them that he’s good and that he never belonged in this life; you promise that if they bring him back to you, you’ll do what you should’ve done from the very beginning. 

You swear it.

You don’t know how long you stay on your floor with his sweater pressed to your chest—could have been minutes or hours, you don’t even hear the elevator arriving at your floor, don’t notice someone is in the room with you until you feel fingers brush your shoulder. You stiffen and futilely try to dry your eyes, lifting your gaze to figure out who had entered your apartment without calling up first. There’s only a handful of people it might be and-

And for just a split second, you think that it might be Dazai.

It’s not, of course, your eyes meet the familiar ones of Klaus’s, the expression he wears is full of guilt, regretful, and just as your lips part to ask him what he wants, he whispers: “I’m sorry I couldn’t find him. I really did try.”

You’ve only seen Klaus cry twice before. Once, two weeks after you took him in when he realized he was finally free of the fighting rings he’d been forced to compete in since his ability manifested. And a second time after he failed his first mission, tossed back into a memory that had him curling on the ground begging you not to send him back. Now, he doesn’t cry, but his throat spasms and his eyes shine with unshed tears. 

“I know you did, Klaus,” you say, voice too raspy for your liking

“... I left him alive,” Klaus tells you after a few moments. Before you can ask what he’s talking about, he continues, “Ui. I thought you might want to be the one to deal with him.”

At once, any exhaustion that might’ve been plaguing you disappears, the ice that spreads through your veins promises only one thing.

“Bring me to him.”

“It has been two days since little miss princess was released from prison, how’s that make you feel?” 

Dazai stares blankly at Twain, who looks far too pleased as he tilts his chair back and watches him for a reaction. Dazai wishes that he was closer so that he could kick the chair back and watch him go sprawling, but even if he was closer, his body feels rooted to the bed he’s sitting on. Dazai has alway had a quick brain, but now it’s slow as Twain’s words echo through his head on repeat and he starts to understand the implications of them, unable to accept them as truth.

“Guess she doesn’t care about you as much as ya thought she did.” Twain shrugs like it's all some big joke, grin crooked. “Hasn’t even bothered to reach out to ask us about you. Port Mafia’s been active too, guess she just has more important things to deal with than some kid she played around with for a few months. Francis seems more bothered by it than I thought he would. I think he really thought she’d really fight for you—for your sake.”

Dazai doesn’t respond, gaze sliding from Twain to stare at the wall in front of him. It’s been a long four days in Guild custody. He’s hardly had a moment to himself, and he’s been careful to keep up the act of the lovesick fool who refuses to see things as they ‘are,’ but he’s tired and lonely and he misses you. It’s all wearing him out. 

He can keep up the act—if it means protecting you, he could do this forever—he’s put on masks and fronts for people his whole life, this is nothing compared to all of that… it’s just that it’s harder when he’s had a taste of life with someone who he doesn’t need to put up masks for. It’s harder when he wants nothing more than to just be back in your apartment, basking in your presence. It makes him dizzy with longing and it makes him careless. 

And… he thinks Twain’s words are hitting him a lot harder than they should be. 

“I’m not all too surprised though,” Twain continues absently, waving his hands around. “You’re not anything special, and I heard her boy Tolstoy’s back in town. She doesn’t need you to entertain her anymore now that he’s around.”

For a second, Dazai can see the dams cracking. All of the pent up emotions that have been building the past few days batter the splintering walls holding them back, and Dazai can only barely bring himself to try to reinforce them because now’s not the time for this. But every time he manages to fortify one section of the crumbling dam, another starts to collapse. 

It can’t be true. It can’t be—Dazai knows this, in his heart, he knows it—what you had with him… it was special. It was. (Wasn’t it?) The way you looked at him, no one could look at someone that way and not mean it. No one could speak the words you did and not mean them. There must be something else going on, you must be planning something—you’re not going to rush headfirst into a trap, not when it could end with Dazai’s life in danger and especially not with your past with the Serpent’s Tongue, but…

… but Twain’s mention of Tolstoy rattles Dazai badly. You’ve talked about Tolstoy before to him, and it was always with a certain fondness that made Dazai uneasy, and for a second, Dazai thinks it might be possible that you could just be cutting your losses with him and moving on. Because Twain is right, Dazai is nothing special, and it’s not like the two of you ended off on a good note before his capture—you were mad at him, he was cruel to you, he blamed you for all of this even though he forced it onto you. 

Dazai wouldn’t even really be able to blame you for not coming for him after that; for months, he’s been forcing your hand but when he felt backed into a corner, he threw it all in your face. 

Not even to mention that it might not even be as simple as you coming to save Dazai—there were other factors at play too, the Port Mafia being the biggest. You’re an executive, you can’t just throw everything away to come rescue him when he got himself into this situation after you explicitly warned him that this would happen. 

If you had to choose between him and the Mafia… could he really be certain that you would choose him in that scenario? He wants to say yes, he does, but the word feels weighted and bitter on his tongue, like he knows it’s not quite so cut and dry.

Realistically, you might not come for him. Even if Twain is wrong and it’s not a matter of whether you care about him enough to come for him, there are too many variables that could prevent you from coming for him… but Twain might not be wrong. 

“Mark,” Fitzgerald’s familiar voice chides as the man steps into the room Dazai is staying in. He doesn’t even hear the sigh and comment that Twain lets out before leaving because he’s too lost in his own thoughts.

Dazai has never felt so entirely out of control of a situation like this before—he’s always been so careful and meticulous in his interactions with people and his surroundings because he likes being able to predict how people will act around him, it makes it easier for him to figure out how he should act. He’s even had a good hold on himself, learned how to school his emotions and convert ones he doesn’t like into ones that are easier for him to manage. But everything about this has just been so impossible for him to get a handle on, he’s tried in every way that he could, but the realization of the fact that you might not be coming for him is sending him over the edge 

“I wanted to break the news to you myself,” Fitzgerald says and Dazai feels bitter and angry about the sympathy in his voice, wants to spit at him. He doesn’t need anyone’s pity, much less his, but he only finds himself staring listlessly at the man instead. “I waited a few days to see if she would reach out, but she never did… I’m afraid I can’t keep waiting anymore, I need to move on with the next stage of my plan.”

This is it, Dazai thinks distantly—now is when they’ll finally switch from persuasion to force. He thought he would have a bit longer to figure out how he would proceed and now he can’t even get himself thinking straight to try to figure out how to evade this. His thoughts are scattered and distant and so many different and unfamiliar emotions are battering him from every angle; he can hardly pay attention as the man across from him speaks. 

“I want you to cooperate willingly,” the Guild leader continues, but his words are going in one ear out the other. “... don’t have to worry about them targeting you for betrayal. We have enough resources to shield you from the Port Mafia. Additionally-”

“No,” Dazai says quietly—the refusal slips out before he can even process it.

Fitzgerald pauses. “No?” 

“No,” he reiterates, voice more strained, the words tumbling from his lips. “No, I don’t need your protection. I’m not going to cooperate. I won’t betray her—not for anyone, but especially not you. She’ll come. I know it.”

Something changes in Fitzgerald’s expression at Dazai’s words; it becomes twisted for just a second, but then it softens, his lips curl up into a faint smile. One that’s almost fond, but Dazai can’t understand why for the life of him. 

“I see, so even knowing all of this and realizing that she might not be coming for you, you still choose to stand at her side,” he murmurs. He doesn’t try to persuade Dazai like he thought he would. “There are not many who are able to see the worst of someone and still make that choice… I’ve only met one other… You remind me much of her.”

“She chooses me too,” Dazai says. He thinks, for a second, that he’s only saying it to scare Fitzgerald into realizing that you’ll come for him, but as soon as the words leave his lips, he knows that it’s true. That he believes it. He believes you’ll choose him, he believes you’ll come for him no matter what the cost might be. Even after everything that happened the other day, even knowing that you’ve been free for days and haven’t made any moves to rescue him yet, his faith in you hasn’t wavered. “She’ll come for me, and you’ll regret this.”

Fitzgerald exhales as he rises to his feet, gaze lingering on Dazai for just a moment before he tells him, “For your sake, I hope your faith is not misplaced.”

“The human psyche is unbearably fragile. It’s one of the first conclusions I came to during my studies,” you say absently, sitting back in your chair. “I don’t have a combative ability. I can’t control any elemental force and I don’t have a superhuman body. I can’t summon entities to fight on my behalf and I certainly can’t shapeshift. Chuuya spent a lot of time studying physics to fine tune his power, my path laid in psychology. You see, my ability isn’t flashy or showy like many others, but it is an ability nonetheless, and even the weakest abilities can become dangerous in the right hands.”

Ui Koutarou stares up at you from the corner that he’s curled up in, his pupils are blown wide and his skin is pale and sweaty. You don’t know if he’s looking through you or at you, but you suppose it doesn’t matter.

“Usually, conditioning a human mind to have automatic responses to particular stimuli can take months, but I’ve learned to utilize my ability in a way that can speed up that process from months to days,” you explain, watching carefully as you flick the lighter in your hands. “You’ve realized that, of course, I’ve spent the past two days here rewiring your brain to react to things the way I want it to. You can’t control the way your heart starts racing when you see this flame, right? I can see the way your breath is short, your pupils dilated. You don’t have any reason to be scared of it, it’s harmless, but you’re still terrified. Why?” 

He doesn’t answer, of course, you didn’t say the word, but when you rise to your feet and take a step forward, he scrambles back impossibly further, shrinking into the corner. Your lips curve up as you flick the lighter off and take a seat, watching the way he immediately begins to relax again. 

“My ability isn’t mind control, I fear if it was, my life would be much more simple,” you sigh, looking up at the ceiling momentarily before lowering your gaze back down to him. “I can induce emotions and states in the human brain—the weak-minded naturally are much easier than the strong-willed, but I can make both bend to my will, it’s just a matter of how much effort I’m willing to put into it.”

You tilt your head to the side as you observe him and then pull a pen from your pocket, tossing it in his general direction. You can see the way his chest visibly stutters at the sight of it, breath ceasing, and then he darts to the opposite side of the room. In his desperate flee, his foot brushes the pen and you smile lightly as you activate your ability, watching the way he immediately hits the ground, screaming his throat raw as he curls into a ball. After deactivating your ability, you wait a few seconds for him to calm down before continuing. 

“The human psyche is fragile, but the brain is very malleable. As soon as it recognizes that a certain action will always bear a negative consequence, it will adapt and do everything it can to prevent you from taking that action to avoid the negative consequences.” You lean forward, looking down at him. “It’s recognized now to associate fear with a flame and a pen. You can’t control the way that the sight of either of these two objects make you react—it’s reflexive because your brain has already taken the necessary steps to ensure that you don’t get close enough to either to trigger the consequence that comes along with touching it.”

The flame is a necessary step. It’s easier to force the brain to associate fear with something that is inherently dangerous, and you needed to see how long it might take for you to move on to something that’s not inherently dangerous. It took three hours of conditioning to make his brain adapt enough to have reflexive responses to the sight of fire.

Then you moved onto a pen, because you thought it was ironic for a journalist to fear the same thing he uses to complete his job. That took six hours. 

“When you stayed away from the two objects, I rewarded you,” you explain with a thin smile. “It must’ve been so relieving… all of the pleasant emotions you felt after nearly five days of being locked up here. Happiness, hope, gratitude. I’m sure it was confusing too, because you didn’t know why you felt that way but you were so quick to bask in them that it didn’t matter.”

Ui continues to watch you, so you continue speaking. You think you’re talking more to yourself than to him, you don’t even know if he’s capable of processing your words at this point, but you need to keep yourself busy while you wait.

“When you touched the objects, I punished you,” you continue. “Guilt, sadness, but my favorite is fear. It’s the easiest emotion to induce in someone, it’s not one that I have to actively keep applied because the human mind spirals once it has a taste of it. They call it the mind killer.”

The last sentence tastes bitter on your tongue. It reminds you of Dazai.

“I did the same thing with your ability to speak… Speaking is a voluntary action, it’s a bit different than conditioning reflexive responses, but it still worked. Now, you can’t speak until I say the word, right?”

He doesn’t respond. You didn’t say the word.

“Speak.”

“Yes,” he rasps, voice wet and shaky. “You’re right.”

“I even made sure that no one else could trigger it. I brought Klaus in here and had him order you to speak. Every time you listened to his order, I punished you. Every time you listened to mine, I rewarded you. Do you remember that?”

He doesn’t respond. You didn’t say the word.

“Speak.”

“I remember,” he replies. “I remember.”

“Dazai Osamu was captured by the Guild because you worked alongside them to have me arrested. Isn’t that right?”

He doesn’t respond. You didn’t say the word.

Your voice is colder this time as you say: “Speak.”

“I didn’t mean for him to get kidnapped.” He has the nerve to sound like he’s about to cry. “None of my students, I didn’t mean for it-”

“That’s not what I asked. Speak.”

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, he got kidnapped because of me.”

“That’s right,” you agree, “and he might die because of you too. Was it worth it?”

He doesn’t respond. You didn’t say the word.

“Speak.”

“No,” he whispers. “No, it wasn’t worth it.”

“I know,” you say, more to yourself than him. “But I suppose we’ve all done things that had consequences that weren’t worth it.”

You sigh, glancing to the side to see a figure waiting outside the cell. Chuuya’s face is twisted in displeasure, an unreadable look in his eyes as he stares at you.

“If it were up to me, I would let you live,” you admit. “A journalist too scared to ever pick up the pen again… the man trying to bring down the Port Mafia little more than a puppet for one of its executives… an ironic fate, possibly one worse than death.” 

You rise to your feet and walk to the door of the cell, leaving the room. Before you leave, you look over your shoulder and say:

“Luckily, your fate is not up to me.”

You leave the cell and close the door behind you, looking up to meet Chuuya’s familiar eyes, cool and disapproving.

“Don’t you think you might be going too far?” he asks quietly.

“Says the man who leveled an entire ward,” you reply coldly and he winces at the reminder. “I don’t want to hear anything from you about ‘too far’. If anything, I haven’t gone far enough.”

Chuuya sighs, but he doesn’t press the matter. 

“You should get some rest,” he finally says. “You’ve pretty much been up for two days straight, and I know you didn’t sleep while locked up.”

You click your tongue and look away. “I slept yesterday.”

“For an hour and a half,” Chuuya replies dryly. “Torturing the fuckin’ journalist isn’t going to bring Dazai back-”

“No, but it makes me feel better,” you interrupt, gaze sharpening. 

“Does it?”

“It does, in fact,” you say, giving him a thin smile, “more than you could ever believe.”

Chuuya lets out another sigh, this one heavier than the last. “I’m worried about you,” he says, voice tight. “I-”

“I don’t care, Chuuya,” you say, watching as Chuuya’s face twists in frustration. “I don’t need your concern. I need Osamu back and until he is-”

“This isn’t going to bring him back, you-”

“I don’t care!” You don’t even realize you’ve raised your voice, don’t even register your own movements as your hands dart out to shove Chuuya back hard. He only stumbles a few steps, but he gives you a pointed look. Suddenly, you want to cry again and your voice wobbles as you repeat, “I don’t care.”

He’s right. You know he’s right. Torturing Ui Koutarou isn’t going to do anything to help Dazai. The man is useless, gave information to the Guild that he shouldn’t have, but has no idea their whereabouts or even who he spoke to. And it’s not making you feel better like you claim it is, the sick bit of glee you may feel watching the journalist-turned-husk dissipates quickly whenever the thought of Dazai crosses your mind.

The Guild hasn’t even reached out to you.

You don’t know if it’s a good sign or a bad sign—probably a bad one. If they were trying to use him as leverage over you and the Port Mafia, then they would’ve done that by now. They could be waiting for you to reach out, it would give them the advantage in negotiations, but you can’t reach out before you have something to negotiate with. 

But the longer you wait… they’ll use it against Dazai. They’ll tell him you don’t care to come after him. They’ll tell him you’ve been out of prison for two days, yet you haven’t bothered to reach out to the Guild to get him back. They’ll make him feel worthless and Dazai already has such a poor perception of himself that you fear he’ll believe it, but you can’t do anything yet.

Not yet, but soon. 

Soon.

“The Diet postponed the military bill,” Chuuya says, changing the subject. Your gaze snaps back over to him. “Ane-san just got word from one of her friends in the House of Councillors. They pushed it two weeks out.”

You grimace instantly, shaking your head. “They want to see what happens with the indictment. If it gets dropped or goes to trial. If it goes to trial, we’ll lose more swing votes.”

“I asked Piano Man if he could talk to Tachibana, see what’s going on with getting the charges dropped, I know you have a lot on you right now, but I figured you’d want to know this,” Chuuya murmurs apologetically, squeezing your wrist.

Dazai is gone. The Guild is at your doorstep. There are countless indictments that you’re not sure are going to get dropped. The military bill is still looming over you. God, it’s never ending. You’re so tired.

“I’m glad you told me,” you finally tell him, but your voice is strained. “I’ll figure something out about the bill if the worst case scenario happens.”

Chuuya’s lips part like he’s about to speak, but he pauses suddenly, eyes flickering behind you. A dreadful feeling suddenly hangs over you as you turn around to face none other than Mori—the man never comes to the torture rooms himself so you know he must be looking for someone and that someone is very likely you.

Chuuya takes off his hat and lowers his head. You usually would follow suit but you don’t this time, keeping your chin high as you stare at Mori. His lips only curve up in response to your lack of respect, much to your displeasure.

“Chuuya-kun, may I?” Mori hums, doesn’t have to specify what he wants because Chuuya knows, nodding and excusing himself so Mori can speak to you alone.

His eyes slide away from you to the cell that holds Ui Koutarou. You watch as he looks between the pen on the ground and the way the man is as far away from it as possible. He tilts his head to the side in amusement, lifting his fingers to the chest pocket of his lab coat, pulling out the pen he always has stashed in there before tossing it at him. Ui is unable to dodge it fast enough, doesn’t realize what’s happening until too late.

The moment the pen touches his body, you activate your ability, watching him let out another blood curdling scream before focusing your attention back on Mori, who looks oddly pleased by what he’s found.

“Two days of work?” he questions.

“A little over.”

“How impressive,” he murmurs—for the first time, he says it without the mocking lilt that usually accompanies it and your throat swells, eyes flickering away from him to the wall. 

You know that he’s probably only saying it to try to ease your anger at him, but you can’t help the way it makes you feel after years of trying to get him to say those very words to you and mean them.

“Did you know?” you finally ask him, voice too hoarse for your liking.

“Did I know what?” Mori asks, raising his eyebrows to look down at you with sharp eyes that tell you he knows exactly what you’re asking but isn’t going to make this easy for you.

“Did you know that Ace was setting me up? Was it punishment?” Your nails dig deep into your palms as you wait for a response, so much so that you can feel the blood trickling between your fingers. “Did you?” 

“Of course not, I would never risk our political position so recklessly. Especially with the military bill in the Diet,” Mori scoffs, looking away for a moment before glancing back down at you. “Nor would I risk you so recklessly. You should know that by now, little hime.”

You avert your gaze, shaking your head. He’s only saying this to appease you, you know it, you don’t know why you’re still falling for it. 

“I don’t know anything that goes on in your mind,” you bite back, grateful that your voice is steadier than how you feel. “Why isn’t he being punished then? He betrayed the Port Mafia.”

“I still have something I need him to do,” Mori replies easily, lips curving up into a smile that unsettles you. “... Don’t fret, my dear, when the time comes, you can be the one to handle his execution.”

You click your tongue sharply. “It better be soon.”

You can only define the smile on his face as sinister, and you almost regret your words when he replies, “It will be,” because you don’t know what exactly he has planned for him to be smiling like that.

Before you can interrogate him on what the hell he’s even talking about, Klaus comes stumbling down the steps with wide eyes and an excited expression on his face. He pauses when he sees Mori, gaze darting between the two of you.

“I’ll speak to you later, little hime,” Mori says dismissively—you wonder what he came down here for, he wouldn’t have come to speak to you without some sort of agenda and you don’t know what he would have achieved from this conversation beyond unnerving you. “... Keep up the good work.”

Your throat tightens as he turns to leave, gliding past Klaus who awkwardly lowers his head in respect as he walks by. As soon as he’s out of sight, Klaus turns to you, lips spreading in a toothy smile. 

“Tolstoy is here.”

Your eyes widen instantly. “Take me to him.”

You thought he would be a bit longer. Your chest is tight with anticipation as you follow Klaus to another level in the main headquarters. You were expecting to have to wait at least another day or two for him to complete the favor you asked for him and another thirteen hours for him to fly from New York City to Yokohama. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised, Tolstoy has always exceeded your expectations, but still… you hadn’t dared hope.

The man is leaning outside the door Klaus leads you to, lips curved up in a familiar smile, blue eyes glittering playfully as soon as he catches sight of you.  

“Princess,” he greets, holding his hand out for you to place yours in. You roll your eyes fondly as the blonde lifts your hand to his lips to ghost a kiss against your knuckles. He winks at you. “She’s all yours.”

You thank him quietly before pushing open the door to enter the conference room in front of you. The woman waiting inside is prim and elegant, wearing a long dress with jewels decorating her neck and wrists. Her expression is cool and closed off at first glance, but you can see the glassiness of her eyes and the way her thin fingers tremble in her lap.

You give the woman a soft smile as you approach, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands in yours. You make sure your expression is gentle and genuine as you look up at her, watching as your ability instantly goes to work when her fingers stop trembling and her own expression softens as she looks down at you.

“Hi, Zelda,” you greet, voice sweet and honeyed. “You don’t need to be scared. I’m a friend.”

When Zelda Fitzgerald lets out a soft breath of relief, the tenseness in her shoulders easing, you know that she’s made the fatal mistake of believing you and your smile becomes a bit more authentic. 

Finally, you can make your move. 

“Come, let’s go somewhere more comfortable. We have a lot to talk about.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Law-Related Vocabulary

for your poem/story (pt. 1/4)

Acquiescence - acceptance, compliance, or submitting tacitly or passively

Act of God - an extraordinary natural event (as a flood or earthquake) that cannot be reasonably foreseen or prevented

Amicus curiae - friend of the court

Bad faith - intentional deception, dishonesty, or failure to meet an obligation or duty

Bill of pains and penalties - a legislative act formerly permitted that imposed a punishment less severe than death without benefit of a judicial trial

Blackacre - a fictitious piece of real property

Causa mortis - made or done in contemplation of one's impending death

Cool state of blood - an emotional condition in which a person's anger or passion is not great enough to overcome his or her faculties or ability to reason—often used in statutory definitions of murder

Depraved-heart murder - a murder that is the result of an act which is dangerous to others and shows that the perpetrator has a depraved mind and no regard for human life

Dereliction - an intentional abandonment

Executrix - a woman who is an executor

Expunge - to cancel out or destroy completely

Extraordinary remedy - a procedure for obtaining judicial relief allowed when no other method is available, appropriate, or useful

Ferae naturae - wild by nature; not usually tamed

Fighting words - words which by their very utterance are likely to inflict harm on or provoke a breach of the peace by the average person to whom they are directed

Fifth degree - the grade sometimes given to the least serious form of a crime

Fruit of the poisonous tree - evidence that is inadmissible under an evidentiary exclusionary rule because it was derived from or gathered during an illegal action

Gift causa mortis - a gift of especially personal property made in contemplation of impending death that is delivered with the intent that the gift take effect only in the event of the donor's death and that it be revoked in the event of survival

Hot blood - heat of passion; an agitated state of mind (as anger or terror) prompted by provocation sufficient to overcome the ability of a reasonable person to reflect on and control his or her actions

Inveigle - to lure by false representations or other deceit

Lucri causa - intent to obtain a gain

Mystic will - in the civil law of Louisiana; a will signed, sealed, witnessed, and notarized according to statutory procedure; called also mystic testament, secret testament

Naked promise - gratuitous promise

Obligor - one who is bound by an obligation to another

Penumbra - an area within which distinction or resolution is difficult or uncertain

Quaere - question—usually used to introduce a question

Recusant - refusing to submit to authority

Solatium - compensation for grief or wounded feelings (as from the wrongful death of a relative)

Third degree - the grade given to the third most serious forms of crimes

Uberrimae fidei - of the utmost or perfect good faith

Vitiate - to make ineffective

Word of art - a word having a particular meaning in a field; also called "term of art"

X - a mark used in place of a signature when the maker is incapable of signing his or her name (as because of illiteracy or a physical ailment)

Year-and-a-day rule - a common-law rule that relieves a defendant of responsibility for homicide if the victim lives for more than one year and one day after being injured (Note: This rule dates from at least 1278, and is frequently criticized as anachronistic since modern medicine makes pinpointing cause of death easier than it was formerly. However, the rule still exists or is reflected in the law of some jurisdictions.)

Zone of danger - the area within which one is in actual physical peril from the negligent conduct of another person

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Law-Related Words ⚜ Word Lists

[zweetpea]

Neuvillette spoiling the melusines

CW: Murder

(based on a comment thread from a different Neuvillette inccorect quote I did)

Neuvillette: Wait what do you mean two of my daughters are being prosecuted for murder.

Chevreuse: The Garde’s apprehended them for killing someone.

Neuvillette: That’s preposterous.

Chevreuse: We have several witnesses placing them at the scene of the crime.

Neuvillette: I’m holding them in contempt of court.

Chevreuse: We have a mountain of physical evidence. Charlotte took pictures of them bloodied and leaving the home of the victim, not to mention their signed confession.

Neuvillette: Inadmissible, I’m afraid that it must be thrown out.

Melusines: Nah, dad. We did it.

Neuvillette: Let the record show that that wasn’t under oath and was clearly under duress from the prosecution. I as their legal guardian evoke their right to remain silent, on their behalf.

Neuvillette: Well seems that we’ve exhausted the so called “evidence” the prosecution had. Let’s call it a day with a non guilty verdict, shall we?

(small tangent but I can imagine that the Oratrice Mecanique D’analyse Cardinale coming up with a guilty verdict and Neuvillette just kicks the shit out of it.)

[faeriekit]

I’m writing this only to excise this from my body.

TIM (& DICK) ACCIDENTALLY START THE BATFAM AU!!!

So. Recently dropped out from college, kicked out of Wayne Manor, and fast tracked through police training Officer Grayson is having a real fucking shit time at the precinct. No one respects him or his deductions or his opinions. Everything sucks ass. His most familiar and longest-living support structure was ripped out from underneath him, he’s broken up and no-contact with anyone he’s ever dated, his Blüdhaven apartment is awful and full of black mold and there’s never enough food to sustain him, his creation of his Nightwing persona is slow-going and the public is reluctant to catch on, there’s a kid hiding under his bed, his partner thinks he’s a total nepo baby even though he has no money and no contacts, and—

There’s a what.

Dick double checks under his bed. Yerp. Sure enough, just hanging out, is a black-haired kid with a raggedy coat and a backpack, just peering back out at him with his big ‘ol eyes.

“What the fuck,” says Dick, before remembering not to swear in front of kids. “...freak.”

The kid scrunches his nose.

Dick doesn’t kick the kid out because, fuck, it’s cold out in November and at least his shitty apartment has heating, but he does tell the kid that this ain’t cool and that if he wasn’t literally in the cops to take most of them down, he wouldn’t let this fly at all. In the morning, the kid skedaddles, and Dick assumes that is that.

Except he’s here the next day.

“What the fuck,” Dick repeats, and commits to the swearing this time.

In the mean time, Tim already knows what swearing is and Is On The Fucking Lamb.

His parents were murdered in their bed on their one week in Gotham for the season, and escaping the same fate had been a lot of sneaking out of the house and hitching a ride on the Gotham city bus and laying low on the streets for the week, keeping only his most important photos, his camera, and a spare set of clothes on him at all times. There had been warnings of upset in the company that Tim had overheard, but he hadn’t expected this. With no safety in Gotham, no money, no food, and no one he knew personally, Tim was Very content with his plan of hiding out under Robin’s (ex-Robin’s?) bed until the murderers are appropriately found. The company can’t be bought, traded, or sold until Tim’s found dead, after all.

So. With a motivation to avoid getting murdered, Tim very rudely ignores Dick Grayson’s attempts to keep him out of his apartment with strategic uses of puppy eyes, lockpicks, and general knowledge of exploits in electronic locks.

“Little monster,” Dick warns, even as he has a plate for Tim in the hand opposite his own, “You can’t hide under my bed forever.”

Tim ducks back further under the frame. Yes he can!!!

It devolves into day-to-day shenanigans from there. Tim never speaks since he knows his Bristol accent is recognizable. Dick suddenly has to juggle his day job, Nightwing, and stopping this little kid with a camera from crawling around this crusty and crime-riddled city all night, just so the squirt can dart into the precinct in the morning with entirely inadmissible evidence of wrongdoing?? JUST managing the baby is part-time job. Fuck. Dick is buying double groceries now. He might actually learn how to cook more than ramen-with-egg.

It’s good that Dick has mastered some kind of weird almost-parent bullshit with the little monster, because overnight one kid under his bed turns into two.

“What the fuck,” says Dick. He tries to reach under his bed, and the new kid tries to get him with a knife. “What?? The fuck??”

“Back off! The shrimp was here first!!” the new kid growls, his street accent thickly prominent.

“This is literally my apartment?!”

“So what? What’re you going to do, call the cops to this shithole?”

“…I’m a cop?!”

Anyway. This new kid is deeply protective of the little monster, and his name is Jay something-something, mind your own fucking business, and Dick’s a little bit grateful because now at least the ten-year-old-monster has backup when he starts darting around town and also is wondering why it’s suddenly his fucking problem that he has to feed two kids he is not related to, and also apparently bailing them out at work when two not-even-pubescent kids get caught breaking and entering at seemingly random places in Bludhaven.

“Fuck off,” says Jay, to a cop, while the more silent kid is busy trying to get a look at evidence on cop desks. Dick watches from his own desk in silent horror.

“Is this yours?” asks Dick’s haggard partner.

“…Sure,” says Dick, to Jay’s clear surprise and suspicion. The monster beams with all of his adorable and also entirely fake innocence, the little shit. Dick bails them out, and then they all have lima beans for dinner as punishment for getting caught. I mean doing illegal things. (I mean getting caught.)

And then Bruce asks if Dick is coming home for Hanukkah.

Dick does not want to come back for Hanukkah.

…But the leftovers would feed the kids, actually. And it’s good food. And free. Maybe he can go for one night and not kill Bruce.

Spoiler: Dick cannot go for one night and not kill Bruce. Dick stomps to the other end of the house, texts Alfred an apology, and makes it all the way back to his car in order to drive home. Dick is on the parkway and on his way back to Bludhaven by the time that the tiny assassin in his car tries to Get Him.

They tussle. Dick only wins because he is An Adult and the assassin is, like, four foot nine.

Anyway. Cass is driven home in an improvised belt-and-dress-shirt restraint and cannot live under the bed, as she has to receive lice treatment. She stays because there is food and also other kids her age.

“Where are you getting all these kids?” Dick’s work partner asks, which is a fair question.

“…Cousins,” Dick lies.

“They live at your place.”

“Until their moms get sober again, yeah, probably,” Dick says, banking on the fact that he looks ethnic enough that no one will question the blatant reference to substance abuse or the basically-still-a-kid raising kids.

No one questions him.

He’s kind of disappointed in them about that.

Jay drops a reference to Crime Alley about this point. “You’re from Gotham?” Dick asks, perplexed. “Then why are you here?? This place sucks ass.”

“I’m in hiding. Duh.”

“From who??” Dick is fully prepared to go Nightwing on someone’s ass.

“Batman,” Jay says, severely. “I stole his tires. And then I hit him with a tire iron.”

Dick gapes. Monster gasps. Cass doesn’t get it, and takes a good heaping of spaghetti off the monster’s plate while he freaks out.

Much cute domestic shenanigans, and then it all goes to shit when the party is crashed by an assassin, who has been paid reasonable amounts of money to kill Timothy Jackson Drake.

Fighting ensues. Jay, who had known everything But the fact that Dick was Nightwing, freaks the fuck out.

"YOU?!"

"Yeah," Dick says, sheepishly, putting the escrima stick back in his pocket. "Uh. Whoops?"

"BUT YOU'RE A COP?!"

"I'm harboring you all, aren't I?" Dick points out, and rightfully so. "Cops do illegal stuff all the time. I literally got you out of trouble for your little B&E adventure in the inner city warehouses last week. If you weren’t fake related to a cop, you’d be in juvie right now for repeat offenses."

Jay, who was pretending that didn't happen and whose face is a bright scarlet, changes the topic. "Why didn't you tell us you were a fucking vigilante, then?? You should have said something?"

Dick points to the under-the-bed monster who has been squatting in his apartment since last year for that exact reason and the mostly mute mini assassin, both of whom had already known this information and said nothing. “I assumed they told you tbh.”

Jay stomps away.

Unfortunately, Tim's plan of hiding in Dick's apartment is no longer safe, and now everyone has to haul ass to move somewhere more secure.

This means needing more money.

This means needing somewhere to hide until a new place can be secured.

…Shit. This means playing nice with Bruce and asking for favors.

Dick does not want to play nice and ask for favors.

…Dick looks at the kid who’s depending on him to protect him from assassination, another orphan with nowhere else to go, and a girl who underwent abusive training and who’s never known a safe space apart from them.

Dick is going to have to get his shit together.

And he will hate it the whole fucking time.

Everyone piles into his early 2000s toyota something and off they drive, one bag each, to the house with the guy who never quite adopted Dick into his family and probably never wants to see him again, based on how literally every time Dick tries to spend time with him, Bruce can’t help but push on every one of his fucking buttons.

From there it’s a slow-churning reconciliation arc, baby! Bruce learns how to actually communicate with his kid, finds out that having the kids around improves his quality of life by 200%, and Alfred gets an early plural grandkid arc. Dick struggles not to take shit personally while they solve the deaths of the Drakes, Tim breaks his leg falling off of a place he Should Not have been, and Jason continues to learn that protecting others isn’t the same as genuine vulnerability and intimacy, and that he has value, and Cass learns that although she hates killing, she loves fighting, and using that for good isn’t bad.

Reasons I will never write this fic:

Too long!! I would never get it done in a reasonable time frame, and I can’t commit right now.

I actually…writing mysteries bores me. Sometimes actual mysteries bore me. I couldn’t execute this the way I would want it to be read. I’d give up. (Or, you know, I technically already have?)

In-betweens between the action scenes are too vague. They’re not solid in my head in the way I would want them to be if I was writing this.

This entire fic was premised under the basis of Dick looking under his bed and finding a twelve year old Tim Drake. I wanted some good old fashioned Tim & Dick bonding that wasn’t Red Hood based, since it’s still one of the most prominent tropes in their ‘&’ relationship tag.

Want to use any of this…? Go nuts. Or don’t. This has been exorcised from my body. I am now free.

[facelesswoman666]

Master atreides, here is your bride!

Paul atreides x female oc

You, a young virgin to be betrothed to Paul of house Atreides, spend your days wandering the palace being neglected by your husband to be and his royal duties. His lack of attention gives you cause to be upset, and your upset gives him cause to make it up to you, in many ways. ✨

This is a smutty story, not too long but just enjoy xo

As per usual minors DNI 18+

Warnings - Soft dom paul. Paul giving you lots of praise. Paul acting like a lovesick puppy. penetration. Fluids✨ mixing together. A little bit of mild forceful violence. Pet names. The reader acting like a lustful whore.

Nothing new occurred where she was. it was vast, the desert sand, course to those who could not interpret its song. The cool floors that were the base of the great Atreides palace were a foe of the sun and a friend of the young Paul’s promised bride. In this heat her tendencies were to wander the halls for hours; searching for a release from boredom. His mother had endeavoured to win the girls favour as per usual, it was running into dead ends at every turn. There was no prying open a heart of frozen stone, at least not for the time being. The table, beautifully set, the lighting, lowered to a dull gold, the company, silent.

Paul had clearly done something to upset his betrothed, seeing as she was glaring daggers into his body, so tense the wounds almost felt feasible to see. ‘my star’ he mouthed, his eyes downturning in a pained frown ‘i did not mean to upset you so’ Her face turned away, nonsense it all was, this life she wished no part of. ‘my star’ he spoke aloud, his voice ached with the desperation of a man who felt love so strongly it crushed him. ‘my darling, if i have to beg for you in the view of my entire family i would, i will, just say the word’

The heat of embarrassment glowed now on her cheeks and she scoffed, peering blankly towards the ceiling in an effort to distract from the pathetic display. ‘Paul, i really do not wish to entertain this’ This was a command, not an ask. Nonetheless, it was taken as a challenge. Arrogance is a mans best friend, or so he loves to think. ‘entertain what’ he abruptly stood from the table, lowering himself onto all fours.

‘Paul-wha-what are you doing?’ she queried in dismay. He did not dignify her question with an answer, his eyes averted to the ground, and he crawled slowly towards her chair. Prey to be devoured. “Paul your mother is here” she ground out, gesturing with her fingers to Lady Jessica, who was looking indefinitely shocked seated at the head of the table.

“Mother” he said simply “leave us. Please” And that was all it took, four simple words formed from his perfectly soft lips. His mother took her leave and shut the door with a gentle thud upon exiting.

He stood, gracefully, his knees bending as he rose from his lowly position and strode the rest of the way across the room to her. “Would you prefer to stand on your own? Or shall i make you?” He quirked an eyebrow in questioning, as if he expected an immediate response to his demand. She shrugged, and smirked slightly. then he snapped, hauling her from her seat, restraining her arms at the small of her back.

He Shoved her forward into the table. Her pelvic bone slammed roughly against the giant sandstone slab, perched upon thick legs of the same material. She winced, Paul knew it wouldn’t hurt her, he was inadmissibly careful with his beloved to cause her unsolicited pain. He caressed her cheek, stroking up and down as he bent her over, and whispering lewd things quietly into her ear.

“We will not miscommunicate again, do you understand me my star?” He began lifting her layers of skirt, rolling the fabric up her legs to reveal the prize he so coveted. “You must speak to me, i only wish to please you.” A tender open mouthed kiss was planted in between her shoulder blades -causing the skin to form goosebumps in his lustful wake - after her corset had been ripped away. She heard a belt unbuckling, and the weakening of her knees was imminent.

The wetness forming, seeped from her and she knew that the core between her thighs was growing hotter by the second. Perhaps the room was just very warm, she hoped that was the case. A low grunt could be heard behind her, as well a weak thrust into her ass to gain any friction. He was so needy. “i’m going to please you now my star, but this must not be spoken of, we are not yet married.”

He grasped her hips firmly, harshly forcing her further into the table, and rubbed his hardened self against her damp folds. A symphony of moans escaped them both, and spurred them on equally. ‘oh, my star, you’re so-oh-so beautifully wet.” His praises brought a sweet shade of pink across her cheeks. He thrust a little further, entering her by mere inches.

How good it felt to be stretched by him, her jaw hung slack, her eyelids fluttered momentarily. Her pupils engorged to the point of hysteria. “Paul, this is, so good” she whimpered, her hands still glued to the small of her back, clawing to be released from his clasp. Perhaps so that she could react more eagerly to his sloppy thrusting. In and out, delicately, of her hole that was soaked with juices of her own creation and slickness of his secretion.

Paul’s hips stuttered up and his crotch buried into the flesh around her core, and raising himself on to the soles of his feet, adjusting his height, to angle himself deeper into her, grasping feverishly for the release of pent up pleasure. He released her hands momentarily to slam his palms down on the wooden surface and ravage her pussy underneath him with the force of anything but kindness.

She whined, meekly and to which he returned by groaning above her “My star, i want to see my cum dribble out your warm pussy, you’re being so good. Don’t stop.” His adoration abetted her to inch her behind further into him, and her body jerked sporadically with every recurring thrust of his pelvis. Paul faltered above her for seconds, his fingers gripped her hips aggressively, creating an anchor for his weakening body, allowing him to spill his seed into her.

His neck fell lax, going limp as he gave way to the pulsation of his orgasm inside her. She felt him throb intensely, white liquid squeezing out of him and painting her innermost walls white and sticky. It was the sweetest feeling, to be his and to feel him. His panting fused with a quiet whimpering whisper that he clearly did not desire for her to hear. His subconscious thrusting ceased as his orgasm faded away through waves becoming increasingly weak by the second.

Paul collapsed above her, pleasured, hot, still whispering “It’s your turn to come my star, since you did so well”

[nekovmancer]

Mother knows best

Moira as a mother figure headcanons as requested here

warnings: sfw, gn!reader, language, angst, toxic mother and child relationships, maybe a bit of narcissistic mother eeecckk

Moira is not motherly in any sense. Ambitious is one way of describing her, cruel is another, and both of them are perfectly fitting

So here’s what she saw in you: potential, nothing else

An experiment to exploit the limits, a little naive specimen for her to test on; the craving for humanity evolution never fading

And there you were, foolish enough to mistake her care for her project as if she was caring for you

She could’ve nicknamed you her “bunny” if she was ever affectionate… but damn she wasn’t

The said bunny parallels, to begin with, were never meant to be cute, but to show how fragile you are, how easy and volatile to manipulate, discardable and replaceable if it ever went wrong

In her arms, you could delude yourself with a warm feeling of protection while being pushed closer and closer to danger

Still, you’d do anything for that woman’s love, even if it was only a simulacrum of it: a small, forged portion crafted especially to deceive you 

And with time, you have it. Not love as it was supposed to be, but a twisted form of it. One that didn’t not come with any nurturing, care or whatever

Her love wasn’t based truly on who you are, but on how you behaved towards her and what you meant to her projects

You were innocent, desperate, willing to do anything she told you to, no matter if it would be risky to your goddamn life. Who wouldn't risk their necks on the behalf of their mothers, at last?

And what did you ever ask in return? A pathetic emotion to fulfill your need for affection.

Hell, you’re an easy one to love, actually

How can someone not when a being is utterly devoted to every single want of theirs? A perfect doll to toy with, tossing from one side to the other, just because you feel like doing it; no other reason in particular

And the delight of having someone in such a way

A puppeteer pulling the strings of a marionette, guiding their every move. That would be the perfect description of your relationship, tiptoeing between the lines of power and devotion, poison and corruption… 

Now, what is love when it’s sick and infected with egoism? Possessiveness.

Moira doesn’t see you as her child, but if you like to see yourself as such, she’s not protesting. She does adore the idea of having you to herself; more of something than someone

Not in a romantic way, for sure. She couldn’t care less for such frivolities. But she played the part of your mother, your protector, even your mentor sometimes

And acted liked you were in fucking debt with her for it, when the efforts to give are all yours while she takes, and takes again, until there’s nothing but an empty vessel crawling to her 

Oh, and if you ever tried to do something not according to her expectations… or even to speak for yourself, to question her actions, her emotions (or the lack of them) 

Inadmissible.

“I’m your mother, remember?” despite the cutting tone to her voice, she would still come closer, cupping your face with a reassembly of affection. But Moira’s grip is too tight, too demanding. She always wants you staring right into her eyes, the windows of the soul. Sometimes, you could only sense a chilling cold of nothingness. “Don’t you think I know what’s best for you? For your safety?”

“The best”. Meaning she would lock you inside her lab and run exhaustive tests, one after another. If you succeed, you would mean the world to her for the next couple of weeks, but if you don’t… 

Whenever you grow tired of her, her experiments, her constant search for a cure to herself, even if it means dooming you, it’s like she can smell your discontentment; an animal who can sense fear longing in the air before they strike

“Who else will be there for you if not me?” her hands cradle your face, your shoulders… your neck. A gentle menace. “Why would you doubt my good will after everything I did to you?”

Maybe that’s why. The damn everything

"Stop thinking of such nonsense," the hint of annoyance would be enough to make you shiver. But instead, she throws you to the same old loop: doubting yourself. "I would never do anything to harm you in purpose."

Every word pouring out of her mouth is pure poison, you know it; she knows it

But you can’t fight: nor her, nor the tears that will eventually flood from your eyes as you rest your head against Moira’s shoulder and cry helplessly, clinging to her lab coat as every sob means a violent tremble of your body

After all, you only have her… 

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter Nineteen

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Nineteen: Honest Confessions

Summary: (Y/N)'s family has a real, honest discussion.

Mouse Note: We're moving on to the final episode!

            “We, of course, had several other back up plans,” said Sherlock, clean-shaven and dressed in fresh clothes. He had been treated and was finally feeling sober and clear-headed for the first time in a while. “The trouble is, I couldn’t remember what they were.”

            “You should be glad I’m the thinker,” said (Y/N).

            Sherlock frowned. “What?”

            “Nothing,” said (Y/N), popping a lollipop into their mouth.

            “And, of course, I couldn’t anticipate that I’d hallucinate his daughter,” sighed Sherlock. “Still a bit troubled by the daughter. Seemed very real. She gave me information I couldn’t have acquired elsewhere.”

            “But she wasn’t ever here?” said John, finally back in his chair at Baker Street.

            “Interesting, isn’t it? I have theorized before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible anticipate and deduce almost anything,” said Sherlock.

            “Your brain would probably be so overstimulated that it breaks,” remarked (Y/N). That's how they felt when started observing too much.

            “Yes, well, that’s the side effect,” said Sherlock, shrugging.

            “So you dreamed up a magic woman who told you things you didn’t know?” John looked at (Y/N). “I think his brain already broke.”

            “Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind.” Sherlock took a sip of his tea and looked at (Y/N). “But I won’t be trying again.” He smiled.

            “I can’t believe (Y/N) let you do drugs for a case,” said John. “I thought you were still terrified of them.”

            “I don’t like them. I never will. I get anxious and overwhelmed with all the data I process with them and in people around me.” (Y/N) looked at John. “But it was for you. And that made it worth it.”

            John shifted uncomfortably. He was clearly torn between staying and leaving. “I should go. I mean, Rosie is with the sitter, and I don’t want to leave her for too long.”

            “Oh, right,” said Sherlock, also growing awkward.

            “We miss her,” said (Y/N) quietly.

            John paused. “You should…You should come and see her soon. Both of you.” An olive branch. He walked towards the door.

            “Oh, by the way, the recordings will probably be inadmissible,” said Sherlock, talking of the case to keep John there a moment later.

            “Sorry, what?” said John.

            “Well, technically it’s entrapment, so it might get thrown out as evidence,” said Sherlock.

            “Not that it matters,” remarked (Y/N). “He can’t stop confessing.” They smirked. “Ego gets them all.”

            “That’s good,” said John.

            “Yeah,” said Sherlock, nodding and still looking at him.

            John nodded and turned to the door again. But he paused. He didn’t keep moving. (Y/N) and Sherlock remained silent, leaving him room to do what he wanted. They wouldn’t push him.

            “Are you okay?” Or, (Y/N) wouldn’t. Sherlock was going to speak. At least it was a good phrase.

            John turned back and chuckled mirthlessly. “No, I’m not okay.” He stammered through the words as emotions rushed through him. “I’m never gonna be okay. We just have to accept that. It is what it is. And what it is, is…Shit.” He looked down for a moment. “You didn’t kill Mary. Mary died saving your life.”

            Sherlock stared at John.

            “It’s her choice,” said John quietly before his voice grew firmer. “No one made her do it, no one could ever make her do anything. But the point is, you did not kill her.”

            “In saving my life, she conferred a value on it,” said Sherlock. “It is a currency I do not know how to spend.”

            (Y/N) reached out and touched his hand. Sherlock looked at them thankfully.

            “It is what it is,” said John. He nodded. “I’m here tomorrow, 6 to 10, keeping you off the drugs.” Everyone was still a bit wary, though (Y/N) and Sherlock knew it wouldn’t happen again. “I’ll see you then.”

            “Looking forward to it,” said Sherlock.

            “Bye, John,” said (Y/N).

            “Yeah,” said John. He turned away.

            A familiar moan echoed from Sherlock’s phone as it buzzed.

            “What was that?” said John.

            “What was what?” said Sherlock innocently.

            “That noise,” said John.

            “What noise?” said Sherlock.

            John walked closer, and (Y/N) tilted their head. They could see an interesting look in John’s eyes.

            “John?” said Sherlock.

            “I’m going to make a deduction,” said John.

            “Oh, okay, that’s good,” said Sherlock, a little confused.

            “And if my deduction is right, you’re gonna be honest and tell me, yeah?” said John.

            “Okay. Though I should mention that it is possible for any given text alert to become randomly attached to—”

            “Happy birthday,” said John.

            Sherlock paused and nodded. “Thank you, John. That’s very kind of you.”

            “A good deduction,” said (Y/N), nodding to John.

            “Never knew when his birthday was,” said John.

            “Now you do,” said Sherlock.

            “Seriously, we’re not gonna talk about this?” John looked at (Y/N). “Did you know?”

            “That she was alive? Yeah,” said (Y/N). They were glad. Irene was…mad, but she was fun. (She also sent fancy sweets to Baker Street on (Y/N)’s birthday and Christmas).

            “How does that work?” John looked back at Sherlock. “You and the Woman, do you go to the discreet Harvester sometimes, is there nights of passion in the Wycombe?”

            “She texted him that she wants to take me out shopping,” said (Y/N), twirling their lollipop.

            “Oh my god, you’re domestic,” said John.

            “For god’s sake,” groaned Sherlock. “I don’t text her back.”

            “Why not?” chuckled John. “I mean, I know you’re on the spectrum, but you certainly seemed a bit attached.” He laughed. “You’re a bloody moron! She’s out there, she likes you and your kid, and she’s alive, and do you have the first idea how lucky you are?!” It turned to an angry shout, grief overcoming his words. “Yes, she’s a lunatic, she’s a criminal, she’s insanely dangerous, trust you to fall for a sociopath. But she’s, you know…” He ran out of steam. “Text her back.”

            “Why?” said Sherlock.

            “Because it would be good for you,” said John. “You are missing out on a type of connection you’ve never had.”

            “As I think I’ve explained to you many times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people—”

            “—Would complete you as a human being.” John looked at (Y/N). “What do you think?”

            “I think my dad takes time to get attached, but he is, even if it's just friendly. I don't know about that stuff,” said (Y/N). “But I know he's just stubborn.”

            “Even your kid agrees that you should text her back, even if just once,” said John. “Do something while there’s still a chance. Because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me Sherlock, it’s gone before you know it. Before you know it.”

            Because I know how it feels to lose someone I care about, and if I had never gotten to really love her, I would regret it forever.

            The unspoken truths hung in the air.

            “She was wrong about me.” All of the pouring of his heart finished, and deep-held words came next from John.

            “Mary?” said (Y/N), tilting their head.

            “She thought that if you put yourselves in harm’s way, I’d…I’d rescue you or something,” said John. “But I didn’t. Not until she told me to. And that’s how this works. That’s what you’re both missing. She taught me to be the man she already thought I was. It’s like how you are with (Y/N), Sherlock. You are a better man because they see you as better than you are.”

            “You are doing yourself a disservice,” said Sherlock. “We have known many people this world but made few friends, and we can safely safe—”

            “I cheated on her.” John spoke with the pain of the words in his tone. “No clever comeback?” He looked at the empty space next to him. “I cheated on you, Mary.”

            Sherlock and (Y/N) looked at each other. Was he…seeing Mary? In his grief?

            “It was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair, I’d been playing with Rosie. And this girl just smiled at me.” It was John’s confession, his deepest shame, the root of all his anger—anger at himself for not being better for Mary. For not being the man she thought he was. “That’s all it was, it was a smile. We texted constantly. You want to know when? Every time you left the room, that’s when. When you were feeding our daughter. When you were stopping her from crying, that’s when. That’s all it was. Just texting. But I wanted more. And you know something? I still do. I’m not the man you thought I was. I’m not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point. That’s the whole point.” Tears burned his eyes. “Who you thought I was is the man who I want to be.”

            John sobbed and covered his eyes as the tears finally came. (Y/N) and Sherlock stood up and walked to his side.

            “It’s okay,” said Sherlock softly, hugging him.

            “It’s not okay,” sobbed John.

            “No,” said (Y/N), joining the hug. “But it is what it is. And it can be better.”

            They stayed still for a long time, not talking. That was fine. They all needed a break.

            When they separated, John cleared his throat. “So, cake? It’s your birthday.”

            Sherlock groaned.

            (Y/N) smiled.

            Sherlock paused. “You know, it’s not my place to say. But it was just texting. It’s a terrible thought, John, but sometimes I think we might all just be human.”

            “Even you?” said John.

            “No,” said (Y/N). “Even you.”

            John swallowed and looked away. “Cake?”

            “Cake,” said Sherlock. “Oh, erm.” He turned and grabbed something. He put a deerstalker hat on his head.

            “Seriously?” chuckled John.

            (Y/N) grinned. “What a hat.”

            “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I wear the damn hat,” said Sherlock.

l

            Things went back to normal. John let them visit now. He visited them. They solved cases. John took breaks to focus on himself and Rosie. (Y/N) babysat when Sherlock and John needed guy time.

            Things would never be the same without Mary, but things would be different in a way that wasn’t bad.

            And at least some things were normal—like the crazy people on cases.

            “Get out,” said Sherlock, opening the door with a huff.

            “She’s possessed by the devil!” said the man. “I swear my wife is channeling Satan.”

            “Boring,” said (Y/N).

            “Go away,” said Sherlock.

            “I’m not channeling Satan,” said his wife as they both headed out the door.

            “Why not? Given your immediate alternative.” He swung the door closed.

            (Y/N) sighed. “We need a good case.”

            “Yes, we…do…” Sherlock trailed down as he spotted a paper under a table. He knelt and picked it up. “It’s the paper.”

            (Y/N) sat up. “The what?”

            “That the woman who said she was Faith Smith wrote,” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) immediately went to his side. “Not your handwriting. A woman’s.”

            “She was real,” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) took the paper. “There’s a different texture here in the middle.”

            Sherlock grabbed a blacklight and held it to the paper.

            MISS ME?

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

@roo024

@ohimjustagirlidrathetnotbe

@snowy-violet

[loneberry]

"...the dream experience cannot be isolated from its content. Not because it may uncover secret inclinations, inadmissible desires, nor because it may release the whole flock of instincts, nor because it might, like Kant’s God, 'sound our hearts'; but because it restores the movement of freedom in its authentic meaning, showing how it establishes itself or alienates itself, how it constitutes itself as radical responsibility in the world, or how it forgets and abandons itself to its plunge into causality. The dream is that absolute exposure of the ethical content, the heart shown naked."

--From Michel Foucault's first published work, "Dream, Imagination, and Existence" (1954), an introduction to Ludwig Binswanger's Dream and Existence (1930)

[arcadiabaytornado]

Yes <3 about reading Pricefield as romantic even if they don't kiss in episode 3. It upsets me how often people claim Bae can end platonic (just read an article that says this too) because with Max's feelings for Chloe existing regardless of your choice that is not gonna end platonic. "I'll always be with you" "Forever" was very romantically said you can hear it in their voices. Even if somehow they didn't know how they felt they would not spend their forever as platonic friends with feelings between them existing as we see in the game. I guess it bothers me so much because it feels... it feels like it's only because they're two girls. And that makes it harder for people to see and understand. If they were a man and a woman I don't think anyone would suggest it could end platonic but because they're two girls a lot of people along with not reading the journal don't pick up on what's right in front of them

I can accept that some people just don't ship Max and Chloe. Shipping is very much a matter of opinion, and if a ship doesn't click then it just doesn't click. HOWEVER, it does drive me crazy when people insist that Max and Chloe are purely platonic and everyone is reading to much into it.

Let's pretend for a minute that Max is a man and Chloe is a women. The first time Male Max saved Chloe from being shot in the bathroom, everyone would be going "Oh! OTP!!! End game! It's all going to led up to them kissing! It's inevitable!!" Like...Male Max wouldn't even need to keep saving Chloe after that for people to be like "His devotion to her is insane!" All it would take to prove his love would be that one act.

More Undercut

Male Max wouldn't have to keep proving his love because his love is assumed. Female Max breaks time itself and lets a tornado wipe out a town for Chloe, and that's still not deemed to be enough.

There are some people in the world can see two women have a canon kiss and love confession and they'll say "WELL. That doesn't mean they aren't straight. They just love their bestie a lot." Yet, a man and women can make eye contact for two seconds and that will validate them becoming canon.

It doesn't matter if they have chemistry, or love, or if they treat each other poorly, as long as they're man and women love will always be assumed to be there. Meanwhile, it doesn't matter if two women have chemistry, or a scene where they longingly kiss in the rain, or end the world in each other's names, their love will always be called to be proven, despite the fact that the people who call have every intention of deeming every piece of evidence inadmissible. For they can accept that a women wouldn't love at all, but they can never accept that a women wouldn't love a man.

So, yeah, I do agree with you that the denial of the bay ending feels like it's mostly because they're two girls. I think if Max were a man and Chloe was a women or vice versa, the bae ending would be universally regarded as romantic. Which...makes me sad on multiple levels. (Side Note: The people who didn't read the journal and then try to police the people who did also drive me nuts. But I went on a tangent about male/female vs WLW relationships so I forgot to address that. Oops. But yeah it is partially because they haven't read the journals. But then again if Max were a man I don't think they'd need to.)

[libbee]

Understanding Scorpios/8th House

note: combination of all placements make up your personality, not just one planet or sign. when you read this post, try to envision the word into your mind, imagination, symbols of it.

There are no beautiful surface without a terrible depth - Friedrich Nietzsche.

Possession by the unconscious.

Periodically gets consumed by the psychological unconscious content, loses touch with reality.

Returns to reality, bringing up psychological content from the depths of the unconscious. Look what I brought from the ocean when I went fishing.

Intuitive eyes. 4 pairs of eyes; two biological, two spiritual. Spiritual (intuitive) eyes help see beneath the surface into the energy realm. Biological eyes see the physical world; Intuitive eyes see the imaginary inner world. The reflection of the outer world in the inner life.

When comes back to reality, there is desire to transform, shed previous skin, become as individuated as possible, find the core of being. Who I am exactly underneath all this skin?

But self destruction and reconstruction do not happen as fast, may take days or weeks or months. Irritated, highly sensitive to energy changes in people, sees himself/herself in others and hates it. Leave me alone, I am shedding my skin.

caption: everything that exists outside also exists inside the mind

Spends more time in the internal world, perception of the world, imagination world, the world that exists within. Interacts with the external world as the native will interact with the internal world.

Emotional States Of:

Chaos | Calamity | Collapse | Tragedy | Disaster | Catastrophe | Shaken | Possession | Upheaval | Emergency | Adversity | Mishappening | Misfortune | Crash | Distress | Ruin | Casualty | Mess | Accident |Violence

Unconscious | Fall down | Breakdown | Falling apart | Falling unconscious | Blackout | Getting lost in the unknown

Trauma | Turmoil | Confusion | Toxic | Harmful | Unhealthy | Fatal

Sudden | Shocking | Unpredictable | Unexpected | Unforeseen | Without warning | Without notice | Abrupt | Quick | Hurried | Surprise | Revelation | Eye opener | Thunderbolt | Whammy | Unfortunate

Powerful | Forced | Controlling | Dominant | Causes fear | Formidable | Control | Power and ability to make somebody/something do what you want | Psyche forces you to transform | Helplessness | No other choice but to transform | Dangerous | Emergency | Combination of circumstances or the resulting state that calls for immediate action

Life threatening | Deadly | Mortal | Emergency | This is important, nothing else but this, this is urgent and important.

Isolation | How do I tell others what psyche looks like, what is going on within me, whom do I tell what is going on within me? | Hidden | Secrecy | Private | Feels difficulty in expression | Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible - Carl Jung | Even if others find out what can they do? Only you can help yourself

Repetitive Nature:

Cycles | Again and again and again | Rhythm | Pattern | Series | Does not end or stop

You feel like you are in a state of emergency and tragedy although from the outside you appear calm. External conditions are stable and ordinary but emotional response is that of tragedy, emergency, alertness, chaos and pain.

Clock | 12 AM to 12 AM | Round and round and round

Transformation:

Sheds skin | New clothing | New skin

Chemical Reaction | A chemical reaction is a process that leads to the chemical transformation of one set of chemical substances to another | a A + b B → c C + d D | Breaking up of reactant bonds and formation of new bonds

Metamorphosis | Metamorphosis means a complete change of character, appearance, or condition | Caterpillar to Butterfly

The law of conservation of energy states that energy can neither be created nor destroyed - only converted from one form of energy to another | Eg, Mechanical energy to electrical energy

Self destruction and self construction | Self decay and self development | Self degradation and self improvement

Evolution | Evolution is a process of gradual change that takes place over many generations, during which species of animals, plants, or insects slowly change some of their physical characteristics

Accident | Accident is an undesirable or unfortunate happening that occurs unintentionally and usually results in harm, injury, damage, or loss (in the conscious world)

Surgery | Surgery is the treatment of injuries or diseases in people or animals by cutting open the body and removing or repairing the damaged part (in the psychological, spiritual, emotional, physical, material life)

Flood | Flood is a temporary rise of the water level (unconscious psychic content) resulting in its spilling over and out of its natural or artificial confines onto land that is normally dry (conscious life)

Germination | Sprouting of a seed after period of dormancy

caption: transformation of soul

IMMATURE NATIVE: Externalizes, tries to control others, manipulative, power seeking, emotionally reactive.

MATURE NATIVE: Internalizes, deliberately controls inner processes, intentionally manipulates own thoughts, emotionally calm and composed.

HEALING:

To become healthy again | Repairing of damage | rehabilitation | recovery | rehab | recuperation | mending | revival | comeback | to become sound or healthy again | remedial | If the wound is smaller it will be healed quickly, but if the wound is deeper it will take longer to heal

Spring is one of the four temperate seasons, succeeding winter and preceding summer | Spring is known for life. It's the season of rebirth, joy and love.

Psychoanalysis | Therapy | Surgery | Treatment |

Stages of healing of wound: Hemostasis > Inflammation > Proliferation > Maturation | Wound no longer hurts | Painfree | Peace and harmony

Forgiveness | Higher consciousness | Identification and acceptance | Integration | Remission | Survivor | Healer

"When the student is ready the teacher will appear. When the student is truly ready... the teacher will disappear" - Tao Te Ching

SACRIFICE:

Giving up something that is important or valuable to you in order to get or do something that seems more important | short term loss in return for a greater gain | Invest your money into stock market for future gains | Transaction, you give something and you get something back | Offering something or someone close to you to the Great source

Everything everywhere is a sacrifice | Relationship is a sacrifice of time, emotions, thoughts, feelings, | Shopping is the sacrifice of time, money, savings | Every sacrifice brings with it a finished product

Sacrifice of knowledge | Spreading awareness | Teaching others | Helping others | Tuition classes | Goodbye and come back again!

To conclude, everything around you in the physical world and everything within you in the spiritual world has characteristic of death and rebirth. The duration of transformation will vary in each native. The nature of transformation will look different to the biological eyes. But in the intuitive eyes, the hidden psychological and spiritual transformation is sensed, recognized, acknowledged and identified.

If you would like to tip me this is my PayPal account.

[cantheykillmacbeth]

Zoox Anthellae from TAZ Ethersea could kill Macbeth.

He doesn’t qualify for the gender clause, but for the unconventional birth clause, he’s a coral robot (brinarr) who was formed by growing coral onto a metal frame. And this may be more analogues to conception and therefore inadmissible, but it’s heavily implied his soul, instead of being made of a collection of ghosts like the other brinarr, was formed by the magical ocean itself; it’s even unconventional for a brinarr. (This also means he doesn’t have any past lives that may not count, although idk if that would be taken into consideration anyway)

He also qualifies for the birth parent clause; the brinarr who made his body, Tessellation, is non-binary, and the magical ocean that created his soul is a magical ocean and therefore (presumably) genderless.

Yes, Zoox Anthellae from The Adventure Zone: Ethersea could kill Macbeth!

(Art by PumpkinGourdMan on Reddit)

As explained above, he applies for the Unconventional Birth Clause and Birth Parent Clause due to being a Brinarr, a species made from coral and metal.

Thank you for your submission!