The Eye Of The Tiger

wizard question: are the undead minions subject to labor laws?

haven't paid mine since like ever and they ain't had a smoke break in centuries

rewatching fallen angels and now i have soukoku fic ideas for DAYSSSS

currently got one in the works too and ugh rubbing my hands like a mosquito and kicking my feet aaaaaaaa

kaiji is on meth and pm dazai probably did coke like once which lead to chuuya having to deal with coked up dazai for the rest of that night fr

Which BSD character is most likely to be a drug user?

listen i'm brainrotting about this fyolai fic idea ive had for a while

phantom of the opera style au with cabaret star nikolai and fyodor as the spirit in his mirror that talks to him in the guise of an angel. the trail of mysterious murders and missing persons lead nikolai back to the man in the mirror whose voice he hears every night, until he gets pulled by the strange 'angel' to the other side.

ugh i need to start getting to it but EXAMS 💔💔💔 i haven't been studying for SHIT all i think about are these mf gays 💔💔💔

let the light in ; chuuya nakahara

chuuya x gn! reader

author's note: i got a hang of tumblr formatting??? kinda??? i will make a master list soon. i hope this isn't too ooc. read on ao3 here!!

warnings: none, just fluff and mild angst at some points! i'msonormalaboutchuuyaiswear

“Come on, let me in.”

The soft voice at his door catches the young executive’s attention. Before Chuuya gets up from the couch and puts down his glass of vintage red on the coffee table, he’s already braced himself for hearing whatever inane reason you'd be at his door this late. He’s managed to successfully ignore all your calls and texts like he usually does, but it certainly doesn't fool you. Because you can’t sleep and neither can he. Once again, he realizes the futility of his efforts to keep you away.

Truth be told, you weren't a bad person. You didn't invoke his temper as easily or as often as other people did, and you were capable when you worked alongside him. There was an ease of being about you; something that he could eventually catch himself falling into time to time. You wear at him like a harsh current does to a rock by the side of a river. The veneer of nonchalance chips away more and more the longer he allows himself this companionship. And he's aware of this weakness; it feels so out of place when he is usually so assured. But no gravity manipulation can make this heart lighter.

Not when your face reminds Chuuya of a life he's already left behind. You were there when he spilled his first blood, you are here now, and he cannot find it in himself to push you out completely. As much as he likes to think he's above these sentimentalities, nostalgia still finds a victim in him; wrapping itself around his mind in his unsuspecting moments till he could no longer discern between himself of the past and him now. You make the poor guy feel the burden of his past failures too often.

Feel too much, too, for that matter.

You try with such enthusiasm, too. Despite the fact that over the six…or was it seven years, his life and yours have been turned upside down and inside out. There are some people who feel like they have been frozen in time somehow. With you, he feels like he can stave off the rot of his current life just for a little bit. A dangerous thought. He wants to stick a knife in your neck sometimes. Would that make him stop thinking so much? Or would his past still trail him around in the form of your memory?

It's a quarter to one now.

The door unlocks.

“What is it now?” This annoyed tone sounds forced out of his mouth. Strange, he never had any issues with it until you come into the room.

“I couldn't sleep!”

“Clearly.”

“You know what? We should go out for a drive, Chuuya, it's the perfect time!”

“Like, right now?”

“Yeah.”

“…You're serious?”

“Are you coming or not? Quick, I don't have the time!”

It's a good thing that he isn't completely buzzed from the wine he was drinking yet, because your request leaves no room for disagreement, even if it’s a question. An exasperated sigh leaves his lips, a muttered curse following soon after. “Fine! But I’m in charge of the music.” It makes no difference, most of the good songs he knows were your favorites at some point of time. You held him down and made him listen, and as much as he acted like he loathed the whole ordeal, the tunes wouldn't leave his thoughts be no mater what. He picks up the car keys off the table, not bothering to pick up anything else save for his hat.

This had become something of a routine. You would always bother him at odd hours, though you were a rare sight at daytime, doing god knows what. The redness in the whites of your eyes, and the way you would rub at them every now and then indicated that you were exhausted, yet you insisted on these outings. It was the typical condition that came with their work; he was no stranger to sleepless nights himself. But with you, he finds himself actually concerned. The exceptions he makes for you feel unreasonable. The effect you had on him was just as confusing. Chuuya wonders if you just do that to him or if everyone is subject to the mental damage you cause him just by being around him.

Consciously, he knew there was no use dwelling on these thoughts. For the better or worse, your lives were fundamentally intertwined. Not by narrative choice, but by sheer persistence. He remembers what you said to him once. When he asked you why you were coming along with him, you only said, “because I’ll go wherever you go, obviously.” You refused to elaborate when he asked you to explain why. You acted as if this was an objective truth, like it was the natural state of things. As if in every scenario possible, you would've done the same thing. He called you an idiot for it, still thinks you are. Because Chuuya cannot understand why you stick by him, or more importantly, why he allows you to.

Even then, he has to reluctantly admit to himself that he’s glad for it. You remind him of his past failures and naïveté, but you also remind him of the concept of home. The last tether to his past is you, and he wouldn't allow anyone to sever that imaginary cord. Despite how much he hates it, you still hold a part of him he would have otherwise lost touch of. The pain felt easier to get through when it was shared. Maybe this was just what friendship was. It was elusive to obtain, but once you have it; whether by accident or on purpose, you have to cope with it for the rest of time.

You walk ahead of him, and he keeps up with your pace. Unlike him, you were aware of how you felt on a level that was nearly painful; instead of fuzzy, bittersweet feelings of nostalgia, you felt the lashes of time and it’s wear with pointed certainty. You were your own witness to the degradation of your morality and soul. You felt it chip away piece by piece, and saw the wear in the mirror. An experience that broke you from inside out, creating a new person out of the debris.

You hold onto the remains of a past you can't remember, and in this folly you have ruined yourself chasing something that had never existed. But perhaps that was the reason why you didn't let go of Chuuya in particular. He was tangible, within your grasp; not necessarily a constant, but by your own design you've made him one. You've made out of him a friend you trusted with your life, and that trust shows in every action, every laughter, everytime you show up at his door at some weird hour of the night. You know it annoys him, but he lets you. In a strange way, you test him again and again just for the sheer satisfaction of being assured that yes, he wouldn't turn you away.

The walk to the car was fairly short. He got in the driver’s seat, waiting for you to follow suit and started up the ignition. The port town was especially beautiful at midnight, the late night lights of the wharf reflecting in the distant ocean. The sky is dark with no sign of light, all veiled by the smoke that lingers in city skies. All the stars that were meant to exist in the sky were here on the ground, in the lights of offices working late or streetlights flickering for the convenience of nightwalkers.

“Are you really gonna play that? Eh…”

“Hey! It's a good song, okay?!?”

“Debatable.”

“You’re literally the one who made me listen to it!”

“Did I really, though?”

“You-”

“Shut up! I think I just saw an ice cream place a little further up.”

After an excruciatingly long wait of watching you pick an ice cream out of the array of colors, you both were finally out in the open air again. The cold air pricks like needles. It wasn't even the weather for ice cream, but your habits were incorrigible as always. When you inevitably start sniffling, he could only manage a pointed comment about how you never learn. He would've given his hat to you if you asked. It's frustrating that you never do. Things never go the way they play in his head, and it infuriates him. The ride to home feels infinitely long. Taking the highway was an unnecessarily long route, and yet it was the one he took everytime whenever he was driving with you.

When you both get back home, he's hit by that strange spell again. A lack of thoughts and a tongue restless for words, checked by his dry throat. For whenever the air isn't filled with senseless chatter, gunshots or music, that is when he feels truly weak in front of you. The comfort of being around you shifts to something uncertain and bitter in the early morning hours. When you ask to stay the night like the usual, he can no longer find the strength to refuse. It was clear that no matter what the both of you did, at the end of the day, what waits for him is a helplessness so foreign to him even with his frequent encounters with it.

The weariness is built into their bones, and by the end of the day when they both are tired of this endless charade, you both end up in the same place as always, hopelessly entangled in each other’s lives. Perhaps on another night when you cannot sleep and come to seek him, he will let himself get willingly caught and put an end to this chase. Pushing away the curtain, letting the light in, and look to find you there where he left you.

chuuya fic wip ♥️

infinity aria ; prologue

fyodor dostoevsky x gn! reader. synopsis: two souls inexplicably intertwined, only for one to kiss death again and again, and for the other to stand witness. throughout the lifetimes, he watches you seek him out, curiously watching you seal your fate. read on ao3

warning : canon typical violence, mentions of death

author's note: holy SHIT i'm doing a series for once. this fic is set in the past, but eventually will become canon compliant. this is a reincarnated! reader fic. the chapters will be considerably longer (i'm aiming 2.5-3k words everytime, but this one will be short because it's a prologue. 

Unnerving.

  That was the first word you could think of to describe the feeling that seemed to crawl like a spider up the webbings of your veins when you entered the hall; this giant, grotesquely adorned opera hall with ceilings high enough to make one feel infinitely small, the arches too high to properly glean at the painted reliefs on them. The marble floor of the hall remains empty save for a few groups of guests. The linen note you received yesterday crumples in your tight grip. It states clearly in cursive, inked with clarity— that this was, or rather, should be the correct time and place for you to be here. With your best attempt, you try not to look lost, not keeping the eye or conversation of anyone for long enough to be able to feel the full weight of their gaze. Unremarkable people in their own right, yet the stateliness that their haughty gazes carried made their gaze a weight that rested heavily on your shoulders. Somehow, their superimposed, silent pride had made it a lot harder to freely move, every action carefully noted and judged, as if they were the sole authority worth doing so. Tonight only, they were all birds of a feather.

  You usher yourself into an adjacent room, pushing a heavy door on the far right side of the hall. Pinching at the hem of your opera gloves, your velveteen fingers lock the door behind you. When you turn around, you see the sender of the note in your palm, with his hands clasped in front of him. A pale young man, gracile and willowy in build, with unreadable yet deep eyes and pale pink lips curled in a sardonic, yet cordial smile. He was dressed in the fashion of the times; a violet cravat neatly tucked into his shirt, matching to the dim shade reflected in his eyes, a small brooch in the shape of an angel’s wings. Owing to the harsh weather, a winter overcoat was draped over the fineries, lined with fur— understated and respectable, yet not standing out. A glint of silver shines under his sleeve, hardly noticeable; not that of a watch or a bracelet, but the tip of a dagger.

  You have no reason to believe that the reveal is not intentional. 

  In your life, you have only ever met Fyodor Dostoevsky four times in person; your correspondence has been limited to perfumed letters that are burned soon after they are read. The first time was in a chapel, his form sitting in a pew with unmoving tranquility, like that only ever found in placid, glacial lakes—counting the beads of his rosary although his mouth had not once moved in prayer. You do not recall why you spent so much time watching him, yet he seemed to command your attention with not so much as a word. He could keenly feel your observation, but for some reason you could not tell, he only glanced at you with a knowing smile, whispered a morning greeting, and left.

  The second time, it was in midst of the crowd that followed a public execution, though you remember not what misdeed had led that young man to the scaffold, barely of age. A short drop; you saw the deadly tie placed around that man’s neck, the force not immediately snapping his neck, but rather slowly cutting off his breath, leaving him hanging limp off the rope. You did not wait long enough to see him pass away, but you heard the man next to you mumble something about how 'there's no hope for them, there's no hope for any of them…’ Rather than sadness or contemplation, there was a tone of cruel, self aware irony in his intonation.

  Fyodor had stayed behind, observing the condemned man a few minutes more. 

  The third time, it was through an associate of yours. While you could not fathom why a seemingly devout man would associate with criminals, especially those that specialized in the matter of political assassinations, you did not question your new patron much. So long as he provided his support, it would be unwise to question generosity out loud. It would not be the first time people wore religion like a disguise for their actions, a pretty accessory that could be discarded at will. It wasn't until the past three months that he started becoming more actively involved in these…projects of sorts, and while you could not help but wonder how he seemed to convince your usually suspicious and steadfast superiors so quickly, he had still not given you a reason to question him. That first night you had worked with him is only a fuzzy memory now. By the time you had even reached the location, he was already leaving. When he closed the door behind him, he only expressed formal concern about the late hour and your return home, suggesting that he shall fetch a coach for the both of you. 

  While his back was turned, your fingers reached tentatively for the doorknob, silently opening it. In the dim candlelight, the glimmer of still warm blood shone on the floors, the limp bodies of around five men with their eyes blown wide lay scattered around the study. You were no stranger to bloody sights, however, the reason your mouth had become dry and your head felt heavy was not the slaughtered bodies of those targets, but rather the one in the centre. 

  Fyodor Dostoevsky, laying decidedly dead, with a bullet lodged in the middle of his eyes. 

  You closed the door the moment you caught a glimpse of that sight. Perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you. It had to be, for the man you know to be Fyodor was currently not too far ahead of you, standing on the edge of the road and talking to a coach. You wondered why he hadn't locked the door after the deed was done. If he had intended for you to see what you had. The ride home had passed in silence, and you bid him a quiet farewell, head swirling from the events of the night.

  Tonight is the fourth time you have laid your eyes upon this strange man. One who has strangely made himself a recurring thought in your mind, an unwitting parasite. Usually, you had no choice but to curb your curiosity regarding certain people, given that asking too many questions could at best result in a stern rebuke or at worst, pointed violence. In that way, the new patron’s serene demeanor was disarming, yet could not entirely dispel the suspicion you kept close like an old friend. Before you could lose yourself in your silent perusal of his character any longer, the sound of his voice brings you back from your musings. 

  “Punctual, good. I trust you know what we're here for, so let us begin. Have you brought the vial?”

  The glass sits cool near your skin, and with a quick reach from your pockets, you produce the item. The liquid inside was clear, smelling like nothing in particular; the vial itself was shaped like those typically used to store smelling salts; slightly darker in color. A blend of arsenic and atropa belladonna distillates, or so you have been told. The vial he had given you looked worn, your thumb could feel the scratches on the glass and an weathered old apothecary label that read an year and initials. For F.D, 1606.

  These details remain in your memory, but they are like some sort of eccentric joke; disjointed and without meaning. Fyodor takes the vial, inspecting it for a moment, before giving it back. “It’s not full…but it will be enough for our task. Our guest will be in the box owned by his family, number five if my memory serves me. It will be high enough for no one to see you. The poison will take about an hour to act, and by that time the after party would have begun. Escort him down to keep up appearances, then lead him to one of the greenrooms. They will be empty at this hour. Wait till the body drops, and then meet me in the gardens with the corpse.” 

  You nod, movements a little exaggerated to combat the stiffness in your limbs. The stubborn feeling that accompanied the onset of missions like these; an ache in your head that felt as though someone was tightening an imaginary cord round your head. The feeling of bile in your throat that won't yet rise; no, that was reserved for after the body is buried. The danger makes you nauseous with anxiety, always has. Yet even as you hear the details of the disposal of the body, repeated by the man in front of you in a clinical tone, you hold yourself well. Back straight, looking at him directly, words uttered only with deliberation and no syllable empty when you discussed the details with him further; this is what you were made for.

  Your composure is admirable, he thinks, if only you knew who exactly you were attempting to fool. 

  “Are you nervous?” He asks, without pity or mockery.

“No. Does something make you think so?” 

“You are to kill a man in front of half the city, I would expect you to be nervous.”

You shake your head. “It’s what must be done.”

“I wonder if you say so with duty, or with compulsion?”

  You run the words you are about to say carefully in your head, numerous times. Conversations were not a means of amusement to you, but rather a delicate game. The most convincing lies are poisoned by truth. 

  “They're one and the same.”

Fyodor's expression shifts, the slight mocking lift of the corners of his lips disappearing. There is sympathy where the lights meet the cold violet in his eyes. Not the kind of sympathy that results from care, but sort of a cynical disappointment that communicates that he was expecting something different; you recognize it, for you have seen it in several places. In your friends, in the eyes of confessional priests through the wood mesh, in the man you work for. “I must say, it is regrettable that you think so. But for a person in your situation, it was unsurprising. For the time being, this will suffice; now, head to the box hallway, the overture should begin soon. One last thing…”

  “Yes?” You pocket the vial, ready for your cue to leave.

  “... Your hands are trembling. It is unsightly, see to it before anyone else notices.” 

  The tremble of your velvet fingers stops once you begin to think about it consciously. Slightly embarrassed, you place your hands behind your back, clutching one with the other. It’s a strange feeling, for it's not the trembling that bothers you, but the fact that he could notice that small detail when his eyes seemed to be trained on your face the whole time.

  “Understood. Goodbye, then, I’ll see you once I’ve administered the poison.”

“I hope you'll be flawless in your execution this time as well. Good evening.”

  He gives a solemn nod, walking to the exit with light, fluid steps; movements as subtle and quiet as that of a ghost. As his back turns to you, your fingers itch to reach for the dagger on your thigh and thrust it into his neck, then twist and twist until you no longer feel seen in such an uncomfortably raw way. Till the discomfort of the moment fades and you no longer feel eyes in the back of your head even as he has walked out that door. When it shuts once more, you are left to quell the sudden rage that simmers under your skin, remembering what you are here for. 

    Unfortunately for you, Fyodor’s presence seeps into the mind like poison and sticks on it like honey.

I don't think so, sweetie!

Dazai’s gonna chase you… dressed as a bush!?

them

ship dynamic i really like