#(and at the start of the game you just died so you were 'hollowed')

[fancyfeathers]

Hey Fancy! Apologies if this is a wee bit long but it’s a random platonic yandere Batfam idea I’ve had for a long time. Adopted daughter who becomes an investigative journalist. (With Outlast crossover)

Darling was a product of one of Bruce’s affairs and he never really cared, he paid child support and that’s about it. Darling didn’t care as she and her mother were happy together until they weren’t. Darling’s mother starts to have to work longer hours, coming back more and more hollow until there’s nothing left but her corpse. Darling had a gut feeling her mom died because her mom’s boss was cutting corners in safety at some chemical plant and forcing long hours on workers. 

Of course darling has to go to her father’s house now and live with him (I imagine she was adopted a year before Jason died) after a week she’s asked if she wants to become Robin to which she refuses. She wants to fight the criminals who act as altruists, such as corrupt leaders and politicians, companies who have blood on their hands but hide it, because that’s the hero who could save her mom. Bruce accepts this but the family just seems to forget her. Not out of maliciousness, except for Damien, they just don’t have time for a non-vigilante sibling. She feels alone and when Tim and then Damien are welcomed into the family they neglect her too. Damien even mocks her for being useless. The only family she had there is Alfred, as he made sure to care for darling whenever s he could. 

When darling turns 18, she gets out of that house and goes to a university to study journalism. She becomes an investigative journalist who gained her reputation for going deep into the depths of corruption’s depravity and meets this one dude named Miles Upshur who she becomes partners with as they both are freelance journalists because they don’t censor the truth. They get an email one day telling them about messed up things happening at Mount Massive asylum.

They both go and cue the events of the game Outlast and Outlast Whistleblower. I’m not sure if you are comfortable with the contents of those games so I summarize it by saying the patients were being experimented on and broke free causing Miles to get trapped in the asylum with no way to fight back. He only has places to hide and a camera with night vision that drains his batteries. He gets very injured and Whistleblower is the same concept as it’s the same place but from the perspective of the one who sent the email. I imagine the darling was somehow separated from miles but ended up getting out of there with the whistleblower.

She took the footage and instead of letting the whistleblower release it, as the company begging the asylum would hunt him and his wife and kids down, she would be the one as her reputation precedes her. But after dropping the whistleblower off at his home she has no choice but to go to her old one, cause if the company couldn’t ruin her reputation, could just silence her like they did with everyone else. The batfam is going to be very confused when a freshly traumatized, bloody,and bruised darling shows up on their front porch, clutching camcorders to her chest like a lifeline. Who knows, they might just not let her out if this is how she ends up after being on her own.

again really sorry if this is weird or too long! It’s just been brewing in my brain and I needed to share it

God it’s been forever since I played Outlast, I don’t remember everything about the game cause I was screaming and crying for the most part and I literally could only watch Whistleblower and had to skip some stuff

This might not be entirely game accurate cause it has been a hot minute but I will do my best

I do not think Bruce would be exactly neglectful especially since this is yandere content and obsession starts when they normally meet their darling, like a root that takes hold and begins to grow after certain events. I imagine that her mom did not want her daughter to meet Bruce cause she thought he would not be a good influence, the whole billionaire playboy persona. She raised her daughter on her own until her death, her daughter can remember sitting in the hospital when the doctor told her that she was dead, died of radium poisoning, her body decaying while she was still alive.

She remembers sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, waiting after the staff called her biological father to pick her up, a nurse sitting with her. She knew why her mother did not want her to meet her, but her mother was wrong to an extent. She honestly expected someone like Alfred to pick her up, who she knew because he would meet with her mother for fund related affairs since she did not want her daughter knowing her father…

But Bruce was the one who picked her up, in fact he practically came running when he got the call from the hospital when he was at a gala.

When Bruce came into the hospital waiting room, he kneeled down to her level and took her little hands in his, he felt so sorry for not knowing, he could have helped, but for now what he can tell her is…

“Everything will be okay, I’ll keep you safe.”

Bruce is not intentionally neglectful, he really does try his best, but between being Batman and handling his daily affairs as Bruce Wayne he just does not have the time besides to have meals with her. He does keep her safe, puts a tracker in her bag or jacket in case anything goes wrong, but as if something will go wrong while she is playing soccer after school.

Dick is also probably very busy as well to give her much attention but he is pretty similar to Bruce in the way that he cares but he just does not have the time to now that he is Nightwing. He occasionally takes her out to do things, and he apologizes for not being able to spend more time with her, but he is just so busy.

Her and Jason are probably the closest, he is her big brother in his eyes. He helps her transition into her new home the most, making pillow forts, playing video games, taking her out to play in the snow. Then one morning she comes downstairs to see Alfred looking so solemn and Bruce sitting in an armchair in the living room, his head in his hands and still in the Batman suit, but no sign of Jason…

“Dad?”

She knows something is wrong so she hugs Bruce and it is the first time she sees him cry, he hugs her back, as if scared to let her go… but that is because he is.

“Oh sweetheart… I am so sorry.”

He was going to ask her to be a Robin one day, Jason would not have the mantle forever since after all Dick didn’t, but now he can’t stand the idea of loosing her, so he’ll keep her safe, even if that means keeping her at an arms length.

I think after Jason’s death he would probably send her to boarding school in a safer city like Metropolis or boarding school in a small town with next to no crime rate. It breaks his heart to send her away like that, but it is what keeps her alive. She comes home on the holidays and breaks but there is just an aura about the house now that Jason is gone, a constant state of sadness and as if a hand is holding onto her, which is fair because when she is home she isn’t allowed off of the manor grounds, Gotham is just too dangerous. That doesn’t mean they make more time for her, no her summers and holidays are just as lonely as they were before, only this time she is isolated from the outside world and left lonely by her own family.

Tim is similar to Dick in the way that he feels bad but does not make much of an effort to spend more time with her, even less so than Dick does. He only texts her every now and then so show he somewhat cares and talks with her at family meals, but that’s it.

Then there is Damian, she cannot stand him. She knows he grew up entitled in the League of Assassins but he cannot even pretend to be nice. He talks to her as if she is beneath him, despite the fact that when he is brought into the manor she is a senior in high school.

“No wonder you never became Robin, why would father let the most useless child even-“

“Damian, that is enough!”

Luckily Bruce or Alfred normally intervenes and defuses the situation before Damian says something too extreme.

Then she graduates high school and moves on to university, which Bruce pays for in full without hesitation. It is there in university that she meets her partner in crime, Miles Upshur. They are practically joined at the hip and then when that first finals come around and their project is to do a mock investigation and article and they get to choose a topic to do it on and then Miles asked her…

“Hey, what do ya want to do this on? Lexcorp? Abuse in the ballet industry? Maybe-“

“The radium scandal in the Gotham City Chemical Plant.”

“That’s oddly specific, why?”

“It’s how my mom died.”

And that’s how everything started with their chosen path of investigation. They graduate and the two of them even get photos in their graduate robes and degrees together. Her family comes, which an empty seat to honor Jason, despite him watching from a back doorway, she does not need to know what happened to him in the Lazarus Pit and he certainly won’t be caught dead with Bruce at the time.

Bruce is only okay with her going into journalism because he thinks she’ll be working behind a desk at a paper, not what her and Miles plan on doing…

If he knew he certainly would not be happy and try to find a way to interfere…

But sadly he never remembered to ask exactly what she was going to do.

Her and Miles have done a number of stories together, after the first five or so Bruce found out the kind of work she was doing and repeatedly called her to try to talk her out of it, but she would ignore his calls every time.

It was just supposed to be another job, not whatever this was…

They got an email from an anonymous worker, asking to investigate the Murkoff Corporation and their actions at Mount Massive Asylum. The two even joked during their car ride over to the asylum, laughing about stories she shared about her life at the manor and their old college days, they had no idea what they would find inside.

The asylum even looked messed up from the outside, but the inside was a thousand times worse…

Patients who were experimented on, and now they were inhuman and trying to kill, disassemble, mutilate them, you get the idea…

An insane priest to put it lightly…

Dead bodies all over, murdered in horrible ways…

Everyone left alive in there was less than human, insane, or just about to go insane…

And when I say insane, I mean Joker levels of insane.

They get separated along the way, which is good for her, but not so good for Miles.

She makes it out alive thanks to their anonymous source who sent them the email in the first place, Waylon Park who is a software engineer. The two escape together and due to her shock she can’t remember much until long after she left Waylon at his home and she is pulled over at a rest stop half way between Lake County, Colorado and Gotham City, New Jersey, way to exhausted to continue on. She reaches for her phone and finally calls Bruce back.

“D-dad… are you there?”

“Yes, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“S-so much… I want to go home… please I…”

She passes out from exhaustion while on the phone…

But luckily, do you remember what I said about Bruce putting trackers on her things? He never stopped when she was an adult.

When she wakes up she is back home in the manor, in her old room. She is laying flat on her back with everyone around her, even Damian and…

“Jason?”

“Ya… I’m here, lovebug. Just rest, you certainly need it.”

“Need it? For fucks sake she is missing a finger!”

“Dick, shut up-“

Bruce yells them to shut up and he holds her bandaged and stitched hand in his…

“Sweetheart, what happened?”

She only points to the camera in her things as asks them not to play it in front of her. They all watch it together in the Batcave before patrol and…

“Oh my god.”

It is worse than what the Joker did to Jason.

When she finally recovers and is going to write the story and-

No she is not allowed to, Bruce will handle the situation, most likely bringing it to the attention of the Justice League.

In fact she is not allowed to write another story again, she is not leaving the manor again. She is not a hero, she is just a reporter, and Jason is unable to fully move on after what happened to him so how well will she fair out in the real world in her fragile mental state? What if something happens that triggers those memories? They are not letting her take that risk.

Most days she is kept in her room, a controlled environment to make her feel safe. Then most nights one of her brothers or Bruce sleeps beside her in bed after patrols in case nightmare come up and she wakes up screaming. If her mental state get too bad they’ll sedate her so at least her mind is calm and she is not getting flashbacks. Bruce eventually gets her a therapist to work through what happened to her so at least she can have some what of a normal life after what happened…

Well as normal as you can get when you are locked inside for the rest of your life.

[wol-fica]

Tara giving reader head while gaming (gip)

summary - ^ (added some more stuff to make it spicier)

an - hi :3

—————————

“Babe?” You called, eyes focused on the screen in front of you, “Can you bring me my water bottle?”

It was a boring Monday afternoon, school being out due to the aggressive snow storm happening outside. You lived off campus, meaning it would be way too dangerous to drive on the icy and slippery streets of New York.

Conveniently, you had your gaming setup at your apartment, which meant you had entertainment for at least a little while instead of just sulking around bored.

Oh, and your girlfriend lives with you, what a plus!

Tara moved in with you about a year after your relationship started, being that she needed time to recover from ghost face and her older sister was not keen on you and her baby sister screwing around all alone.

Sam eventually caved though, and Tara was quick to pack up all of her belongings and move right into your space. Her decoration and tastes were soon mixed with yours, and you both fell into an easy rhythm of living with each other. It was nice to be able to wake up to her, and even nicer having her around whenever you needed her to be.

“Here baby.” Tara said, placing the water bottle on your desk and planting a kiss to your cheek, “How’s the game going?”

“Meh, this quest isn’t that fun.” You murmured, aggressively shooting down an enemy attempting to attack you, “Thank you for bringing me that.”

“No problem.” She replied, resting her hands on your shoulders and rubbing, “Do you know when you’ll be done?”

“Not sure, I don’t know how long this storyline will last.” You said, zoning in on hitting headshots on enemies, “Why? Do you need me for something.”

Tara hummed, leaning down so her mouth was by your ear. Her breath fanned out over your neck, tingling your skin with a warm sting.

“I do need you for…something.” Tara purred, licking along your jugular, “But you seem busy so I’ll just help myself.”

You shuddered, clicking to the pause menu before turning to her, “What do you mean?”

She smirked, walking around until she stood in front of your desk, and kneeled down. She grabbed the legs of your chair, yanking it forward until it was close enough for her chin to rest against your knee. She kissed the exposed skin of your thigh before scooching forward until she was face to face with your crotch.

“Play your game baby, don’t mind me.” Tara said, gazing up at you innocently while waiting for you to unpause your game.

You stared back at her for a moment, weighing your options before slowly bringing your eyes up to the screen and returning to the quest. Once the sound of your game resuming hit Tara’s ears, she eagerly undid the tie of your shorts and pulled the hem down enough to reveal your boxers.

You felt her fingers slip under the waistband of your underwear, and sucked in a breath when she pulled those down as well. She pressed a chaste yet calming kiss to your hipbone before leaning back and taking your tip in between her lips.

“Jesus.” You breathed, gritting your teeth at the small suction she was making with her mouth.

Your hands slid off of your keyboard, wanting to tangle into her hair, but she immediately slapped you away, sinking her teeth into your sensitive skin.

“FUCK!” You winced, looking down at her with wide eyes, “Tara!”

She gave you a look of warning that said “don’t do that again” before opening her jaw wider and taking a few more inches into her mouth. You watched with wide eyes as she hollowed her cheeks and began to suck rhythmically.

The feeling was incredible, being that Tara was an experienced girl and you haven’t had your dick sucked in such a long time that you almost forgot about how good it felt. She made sure to do it just how you liked though, running her tongue along your length and eagerly slurping you down.

She was soon deep throating you, the swollen head of your cock buried in the back of her throat. Your size caused her to gag a bit, but that didn’t stop her from swallowing.

Your orgasm came way faster than expected, building up quite quickly and causing you to loose your senses for a moment.

“Shit.” You groaned, letting the hot knot snap, your cum shooting down her throat, “F-fuck…Tara…”

“Shhh.” Tara murmured, giving your tip a gentle kiss before climbing up into your lap, “Let me take care of you.”

You gulped, inhaling sharply when she positioned herself above your saliva covered cock. She gave you a look, licking her lips before carefully yet swiftly dropping herself onto you.

Your eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open with a guttural moan. She responded, grinding her hips down into you to feel your full length. Her breath was ragged, drawing in and out heavily while she adjusted.

“Keep playing.” She murmured, walls pulsing around you, “Finish your quest.”

“Tara.” You whined, wanting to hold her hips and help her ride you, but she glared at up at you, proceeded to lift herself up, and slam herself on your length.

“Keep. Playing.” She growled, rolling her hips left and right while you whimpered, “Or you’ll be in a lot of trouble later.”

You nodded with a bit lip, picking up your controller with shaking hands and proceeding on with your game. Once Tara was satisfied with your progression, she began to slowly ride you.

Her hips would rock back and forth on you, occasionally jerking forward and up to get a reaction out of you. A few small moans would slip past your lips, but her hand slid up to choke you, so you did your best to keep quiet.

“Good girl.” Tara panted, teeth clenched while she rode you, “Doing everythingI I say.”

You froze up, suddenly coming to your senses. Tara was a lot smaller than you, and you could easily pick her up and turn the tables on her, so why were you just sitting here and letting her ruin you? Should you just let her have her fun?

Nah.

You paused your game, setting your controller down on your desk. Tara stopped moving, raising her eyebrows at you and opening her mouth to scold you for not continuing to play, but before she could even get a syllable out, you flipped her around and bent her over your desk.

She gasped, a throaty moan following suit when you quickly reentered her. Her walls gave way to you, her pussy stretching open for your immense size while you forced her legs apart.

“MMM FUCK!” She moaned, gripping onto the edge of your desk while your hips drove into hers, “Y/N!”

“Shhh.” You cooed, nudging her knees farther apart, “Let me ruin you.”

She whined pathetically, eyes squeezing shut and mouth dropped open while you fucked her. One of your hands was in her hair, pulling and yanking at the fluffy locks, while the other was torturing her already abused clit.

Tara was being manhandled.

And she loved it.

“I know you’re close sweet girl, hold it just a little longer.” You whispered to her, planting a soft kiss to her cheek when she let out a cry of pleasure.

You drove your hips a little harder, grunting softly in her ear while you chased your own high. You reached the peak faster than expected, and pushed yourself as deep as you could go when your orgasm came.

“Go ahead, relax.” You coaxed to Tara, rubbing her hip when she let out a shaky moan from her own release.

You both were unmoving for a moment, breathing heavily in sync before you broke the silence.

“Thanks for riling me up.” You joked, pressing a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck, “Really got me going on you.”

“That was the goal.” She mumbled sarcastically, wiggling her hips against you in a teasing manner.

“Was it now?” You replied, holding back a moan when she purposefully clenched down hard on your cock.

“Yeah…wanted you to fuck me.” She turned her head back to you, still clenching and wiggling her hips, “You should keep going.”

You stared at her, weighing your options, before standing up and taking her hips in your hands. You drew your pelvis back, before letting loose and pounding yourself into her.

Her screams could be heard throughout your apartment the whole night, echoing down the halls and filling the space with sounds of arousal.

The neighbors weren’t happy, but who cares.

You still got some pussy.

——————————

surprise

taglist: @cartierdreamx@tundra1029@red1culous@vorsdany@andsoigotabutterfly@theafterofnevermore@yomomisgay@house-of-lovin@slvt4lanadelrey@thenextdawn@nepobaby08@dunohilly@somekindofpoet@alexkolax@cinffy23@pedrosprincess@amberfreemansburntface@myfturn

[magnecalliope]

Something that I think is frequently lost in character analysis of Clown is that in spite of the popular idea that he is some sort of agent of chaos, he actually has a very rigid code of ethics that he adheres to that informs his actions and interactions with others.

First, consider that Clown held no feelings of animosity towards Pangi for eating the Kingdom's honey. He laughed about it and called Pangi a rascal for it, but he wasn't angry. To him, punishing Pangi was nothing personal, it was just a necessary consequence for his actions against the Kingdom. Consider his warning to Foolish about Owen when Owen killed Tommy. Consider his execution of Slimecicle. Owen killed Tommy out of turn, without orders from his king. But Clown executed Slime because he broke a decree by the king. This, more than his rivalry with Owen, is why he was so angry when Tubbo wanted to punish him but not Owen. They both broke Tubbo's rules, but Owen broke Clown's rules too.

Clown does not hate Pili. He told Pili that he was proud of him, that he missed him while he was gone. They weren't friends, but they weren't enemies, either. The only thing that could actually provoke Clown into fighting Pili was threats against Ros. Harming Ros requires punishment. An eye for an eye. Notice how many times during their duel that Clown stopped attacking Pili because it appeared he was having tech issues. He stopped attacking when Pili started to monologue. He did this because a fair fight is part of his ethics, but also because killing Pili was a duty that must be performed to achieve justice for his wrong. Just as any satisfaction Pangi got for his actions was irrelevant, just as Owen being an ally was irrelevant, whatever Pili got out of it was irrelevant to him. If Pili wants to have last words uninterrupted, let him. He didn't want to kill Pili, he had to.

Pili saw Clown's acknowledgement as his ticket to being respected, to being cared about, even if it's because he's a villain. And sure, people showed up, but just look at how they engaged with the fight. They made jokes. They were dismissive. Sneeg played a game of Balatro instead of paying attention. Scott changed his music away from epic battle themes to his regular music. People contemplated leaving and coming back later. It was a spectacle to gawk at for a few minutes and forget about later. They picked at his corpse for loot the second he dropped, even his own teammates. Nobody respects Pili any more for picking a fight with Clown. He died for nothing. It's almost symbolic that Pili deafened during the fight and didn't hear any of this occurring. He was so deeply entrenched in his beliefs that he was in denial of the truth even as it unfolded around him.

The things Pili wanted from Clown he already got from Pangi, and I think Clown saw that. Pangi loved and respected Pili, he was Pangi's entire world. He was the most important person on the server, his top priority. He was hurt when Pili talked about how badly he wanted to get Clown's attention. Pili's singleminded focus on Clown made him blind to that, but Clown wasn't. Clown understands intimately what a precarious position he occupies as "deadliest player" and that's not something he wishes on anyone. Being on top makes you a target not just of your enemies, but your allies too (just listen to the way Sneeg boasts that he can kill Clown if he really wanted to). He's got plenty of experience with that from Lifesteal. Pili doesn't. Clown didn't want to entertain Pili's flight of fancy that fighting him would solve all his problems. Clown's victory was hollow, but not because Pili got what he wanted. 

[mohntilyet]

rook being such a nobody and surrounded by more influential companions right after the obviously well known inquisitor could be really cool actually. that conversation w solas 'what will they call you after this is done' <- NO FUCKING CLUE LOL!! the idea that this millennia long, world-ending story of gods and a herald being controlled for a moment by a nobody is incredible. they start as an irritant and end having saved the world. nobody thanks them. they go back home. maybe they're literally wiped off the face of the world when they're trapped in the fade with the dread wolf! and most of all, their name is not remembered. literally, because they become a 'rook' to the inquisitor's king.

like i’m actually really liking the idea that the inquisitor and rook get conflated into the same person by the public and by history, and what little agency they had is taken away. you were never in control of this story. your narrative will be written by other people, just like every figurehead that came before you. you are not the chosen one. the choice to have faded out and see the irrelevancy as a boon, or struggle to make your name known (not rook, not the nickname, not the title) would have been so. interesting.

veilguard is a heroic story (and the game doesn’t even let you be rude most of the time) that has to end heroically (the evanuris are defeated in some way, the last archdemon dies, and most rooks climb down from minrathous to literal cheers and applause) but the hero themself is forgettable. narratively that could have been so funnnn. but it wasn’t on purpose so it just feels hollow.

[elvirable]

Ambrosia (Act 1)

[ Astarion x f!Reader ] | ao3 link

rating: explicit | word count: 2k | status: ongoing themes/tags: vaginal sex, feelings realization, denial of feelings, light smut.. for now, and a whole lotta angst, will add more smut tho in the next chapters, soulmates, fluff, written as a glimpse into his mind during each act ———–

Astarion would never tell you, though - it was his little secret, one he hid away just for himself.

In other words: A delve into Astarion's thoughts, starting with the day he met you. *will update description at some point. ———– A/N: i wrote this as a peek into Astarion's mind throughout Act 1. plan to continue as i progress throughout the game. lmk what you think and if you like this style!

-------

Grief had a penchant for wearing different masks.

Phantom faces that slithered through shadows, white-hot wrath that clawed at the throat, an endless gnawing that swallowed one whole: all faces of a primordial monster that had existed before time itself.

Astarion knew all this. 

He had met them all – intimate with its simplest form, a cold polarizing solitude; a loyal companion for two centuries, teaching him to lick his wounds with malice. Others had taken everything from him, or they were too weak to lift a meaningful finger. It took several lifetimes to finally mend his precious pride back together. Why should he practice mercy when no one had shown him any?

And by some stroke of luck, he was free – at least for now. Opportunity had fallen before his feet; he could chase after power, clutch revenge in his pale fingers, walk amongst the sun. Red eyes clung to the light glimmering across the water and wavering leaves. A desperate urge pulsed up his spine, insisting he memorize each saturated detail before it faded away like the most ethereal dream. The exhilaration rose wildly before plummeting to the pits of his stomach.

Huh, that was odd. It had never dawned on him that grief could also bloom in the slow, golden sunlight.

Languid beams washed against his flesh and through the faint hem of his shirt. Every fiber of his skin ached, dull and shallow, at the sacred warmth that had been a stranger for so long. He felt this haunted and holy gift – the vigor of life from each ray of light running over his fair face. Reunited once again, like long-lost lovers.

It was the sound of boots thudding against dirt that pulled him back into the world, on the ravaged beachfront. 

With straight posture, a hollow smile painted itself across his lips. ==

“You have your mother’s eyes, you know.”

No, he didn’t know.

Quiet was this small voice that, for some odd reason, had grasped onto his conscience the night he died. It had sung loud in the beginning, but now it was just a whisper. Everything else had reduced to dust, long-buried beneath the cold earth. 

But if he could conjure the ghost of his mother, he couldn’t be bothered to. Astarion envisioned a sharp tsk , a scowl dripping with disgust if she could see the creature he was today: a thrall to his own hedonistic desires, wielding manipulation and seduction as an instrument. A vampire , taking solace amongst the shadows and draining the life around him.

Maybe he was the same, just calloused and rearranged by the fate spun for him. 

However, there was no need to exhume the past. It proved futile anyway; he couldn’t even recall the previous hue of his eyes, much less run his hands over his reflection. The only thing worthy of concern was survival. Memories had been shrouded by the same pivotal virtue, the one that carved the habit to become shapeless – to cater to every impulse and whim of those who could serve useful. Those who could protect him, at least for the time being.

And that was exactly what he tried with you, as his breath was inches from your slender neck and your eyes widened in hazy alarm, catching him by surprise. 

“Shit.”

You scuttered to your feet in the frantic silence, dozens of excuses fluttering to Astarion’s tongue. The fatigue of bloodthirst hindered his wit, but he raised his palms in reservation.

He had already taken note of your misleading presence – you were small, but heavens , would you put up a fight. Other companions had already turned towards you for guidance the past few days, and you were carved with a beauty that could intimidate. Though, there were cracks underneath that facade – ones with darkness in between. 

Peering into these cracks was his only outlet to earn your trust; after all, it was paramount for survival.

“I – I wasn’t going to hurt you,” exasperated breaths pushed from his throat. “I just needed, well.. blood.”

Basked in the dim firelight, your wary gaze studied him for what he really was: a vampire, a slave to sanguine hunger. He caught the stutter in your furrowed brows before they eased. Smug delight settled in his nerves when you, although with apprehension, allowed him to taste you.

Astarion eagerly obliged, immediately losing himself in the euphoria– the sweet vigor of your blood, how silky and rich. A low hum vibrated in his throat, and he barely registered when your palms pushed his broad weight off of you. Lush satisfaction that quenched his blood-thirst still coursed through him like a stimulant, but he still caught the tail-end of your groan.

“I don’t care that you’re a vampire. Just –,” you paused briefly to reel from your daze. “We’re all a team now, so I have to have some trust in you. Just ask next time.”

He felt happy, more alive – not only from the fresh blood still lingering on his tongue, but that you trusted him. Maybe not entirely, but the anchor had already been dropped; one step closer to wrapping you around his finger, even if you weren’t entirely flexible. He could feel it in your gaze, in the little quivers that rolled through you while his fangs sunk into your soft skin.

Once you had returned to sleep and his frenzied nerves quelled, he mulled over your parting words. You weren’t phased’ that he was a vampire, instead placing emphasis on trust. You were full of surprises – especially when the entire world met him with repulse.

Something that had been fossilized inside him tremored, as if it began to thaw. ==

There was a thin chill in the evening air, in the way nature prepares for a new season. And he hated you. 

Well, he didn’t hate you – frankly, he couldn’t get enough of you; that was the issue. 

You plagued his thoughts like a helpless addiction, better yet like a mirror; one he had repeatedly peered into, struggling to find the right angle and when he did – he was left staring at you.

Those careful eyes – a mocking reminder of everything he could have been. So different, so resilient, so disgustingly kind.

Since the day he laid eyes on you, he was the first to glimpse at your secret hidden in plain sight. Your habit of hiding yourself from everyone you came across, retreating behind stone-bared walls and tailoring a facade just enough to avoid drawing attention. Reserved lips were a mere confirmation you sealed away a vault of grief that you didn’t want – or need – clumsy, temporary hands to pry open. 

That discreet resolve particularly made you the sour dagger twisting between his ribs. Grief had been your companion as well, but its mark never trickled from anywhere else – not a warbled voice or frustrated bout. It was only noticeable through a fleeting glint in your eyes. Meanwhile, he had made this medley of rage and anguish his armor. It had fused to skin, and he no longer knew how to scrape it off. Astarion dedicated decades to cursing the Gods. You ignored them.

He knew he should despise you and eagerly await the day he could shatter this mirror you were – but all bitterness dissolved in your presence. You had become his wonderfully terrible affliction; withdrawals could damn near kill him if they were to happen.

Ribbons unraveled from his chest with each conversation, whether it pertained to the graveness of the journey or a simple ‘good morning’ from your lips. Strange yet blissful, he could feel himself surrendering every bitter pang for the peculiar sensation of… comfort .

Once laced with such harshness, his mind eased with familiarity. An interesting chord of harmony, he thought, the two of you. From the start of the journey until now, you shared an enriching balance. He would encourage you to be more outspoken, while you stirred him to be authentic and soft – even if you weren’t aware. 

You were stable like bedrock; never once expecting to be selfless or pious, instead only demanded transparency – at least to the extent he was willing to concede. Aside from the occasional brow-raise or retort, judgment never twisted your face. Respect was a new sensation to him, as you gave him yours.

This dynamic, this balance ; it was irresistibly and invariably warm. 

==

The rendezvous sort of just fell into habit. 

Every night he would savor the ambrosia from your neck, and one evening tension gave way to carnal desire. Whether it was a simple cathartic release or not, he didn’t care; tender moments bathed in amber firelight or the hush of the night had always left him craving more.

“You’re such a tease .”

You’d whisper those words every so often those sacred nights, and a rakish grin would slide across his face without fail. Lust gripped him, but never once weaved with routine; the way your legs parted to invite him in left Astarion with an insatiable urge to indulge in everything you were willing to give him. He could spend the entire evening with his head between your thighs, cold hands steadying your quivering legs as his tongue lured you to new heights of pleasure – giving you exactly what you needed. 

When he was with you – skin pressed together, desperate hums like honey – he began to relish in taking things slow. 

He preferred the nights where your bare body writhed beneath him and melted against his, while he eagerly coaxed wispy whines from your lips. No matter how wet and ready you were, his girth always met resistance as he parted your warm, sensitive walls. Your skin buzzed at the sensation of his cock splitting you open, like every time was the first you’ve been touched.

Desire laced every word he whispered into the curve of your neck, each encouraging and soft. His pace was slow, pushing into the depth of your core, buried deep enough to kiss your cervix with each thrust. Low, guttural grunts left his throat as your body’s natural instinct clenched around his throbbing cock. 

Despite his centuries of experience, he found himself struggling to restrain from succumbing to the all-consuming euphoria of it all: your lashes wet from your tears, precious gasps warm against his skin, the desirous ache to fuck you the way that pretty face beckoned to be fucked. 

The unbridled intimacy – which felt so real and tender was enough to send him over the edge. His veins hummed with yearning as he drank in the vision beneath him; your skin flushed, shaky whines that sung his name as he pushed you to pleasure. And when you wrapped your legs to press him deeper – he surrendered to the white-hot bliss. 

Although Astarion would never tell a soul, his most treasured moments were spent after desperate breaths calmed and the entire world stilled.

It was never long before you lulled into sleep, and your weight slacked against his broad chest. He lingered over each detail with softer eyes; the gentle curl of your lashes, a freckle he had missed the last time. Peace graced such beautiful features, ones that were usually still with resolve. There had never been another face quite like yours in the two centuries he had lurked amongst the earth.

Your chest rose and fell slowly before you would eventually fidget, still deep in slumber, to slink an arm over his waist. His gentle hand grasped the one that rested against his chest, careful not to stir you, as he ran his fingers over your silk skin. Such delicate hands, he mused, that had to grapple their way through life.

He pressed a silent kiss against the back of your palm before laying it back on his chest. 

In the silence, something washed over him – that rousing feeling that he never knew quite what to make of. 

His eyes swept once more to watch the shuffle of your face, buried now against his side. Your hazy sighs warmed his bare skin. Astarion could almost laugh, imagining your face reddening if he ever shared how affectionate you were in your sleep.

Though he would never tell you – it was his little secret, one he hid away just for himself.

[dewdropdinosaur]

Transparent Heart

Human! Alastor x Ghost Reader Summary:Alastor needs a new source of inspiration. Nothing sparks that bloodlust anymore, nothing can satiate the growing desires he has for more and more carnage. One night, while all a party with Mimzy, he meets Y/N. Or does he? The sweet woman seems innocent enough but in reality she is a ghost, a being of chaos gilded by a fasle innocence. His new muse may be undead but it sure sparks some life in him. Warnings: Undead reader, smut, mentions of P in V, Alastor is a warning in and of himself, Demi-sexual Alastor, non-sex repulsed. MNDI, 18+. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Pt 2

Celebrating 500+ followers!! Omg, everyone you cannont imagine my gratitude for this community. I started writing in January and just how much love and support I have recieved is mind-blowing. All of you are freaking amazing and I hope you know I adore you, my lovelies!

Alastor leaned against the dark wall of the burlesque club, his brown eyes scanning the vibrant display of sinful transgression before him, yet feeling none of it. The room pulsed with music, laughter, and the clink of champagne glasses, but none of it stirred him. He should have been thrilled—there were scantily clad dancers twirling and shimmying on stage, Mimzy was in normal form, charming the crowd with her flamboyant flair, and every inch of the room screamed excess. Innocent souls, ripe for the taking. A little southern charm here, a lingering touch there, a knife sliting their throat in a delectable squish that would send shocks of pleasure down his spine. It was a celebration, a riot of decadence that should have made his very soul hum with delight. 

But alas, the radio host. Felt nothing.

Once upon a time, this would have been his kind of night. The heady energy of sin, the delicious tang of chaos, the joy of being surrounded by souls desperate for something—anything—to fill the emptiness inside them. So desperate would they be, to fall into his greedy hands and he would grace them with the gift of death so sweet. It used to fill him with such vigor, such delight, like a fine wine sliding down his throat. But now, it was all just noise. Annoying noise.

The laughter? Grating. The champagne? Flat. The dancers? Nothing more than fleeting distractions. He watched as Mimzy flirted with a particularly tipsy patron, her laughter like tinkling bells, but it was all so... tiresome. 

He tilted his head slightly, and his sharp grin never wavered, but the sparkle in his eyes had dimmed. It was all a game, wasn’t it? A never-ending circus of false joy. No matter how many times he twisted the dance floor or how many souls he swirled into his web, it was all the same. Hollow. 

The feeling had come upon him suddenly a few weeks ago, stuck in a never-ending cycle of ambivalence. Nothing stirred the oh-so-normal bloodlust within his chest anymore. Nothing excited him to enjoy the chase, the screams. 

Alastor’s fingers tapped rhythmically against his glass, his gaze shifting to the stage as the dancers performed their latest number. It was all so… mundane. The bright lights, the glitter, the exaggerated performances—they meant nothing to him anymore. Maybe this is how he died, being a wallflower.

He exhaled softly, his voice barely rising above the cacophony. “Mimzy, darling,” he said, his tone languid, “do you ever get the feeling that all this glorious spectacle is just a bit... tedious?” 

Mimzy, amid her own little charade, paused and shot him a knowing look, her eyes twinkling with a touch of amusement. “Oh, Alastor,” she said, grinning wide. “You sound like you have been alive for centuries? Enjoy a bit of decadence. Pour some whiskey, put on some jazz!”

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter; a shadow passed across his expression. “Maybe that’s the problem, my dear. I’ve danced this dance for far too long.” 

And somewhere, deep in the pit of his chest, a voice whispered: Is there anything left to live for?

In the middle of his mid-but young-life crisis, a soft tap planted itself on his shoulder. His body became rigid, a dangerous flash passing through his eyes at the unwelcome contact. It was not entirely unpleasant, cold and soft. Strange, considering he hated all touch but one could suppose he had too much to drink. 

Alastor turned slowly to face the guilty party, only to find a petite woman standing before him. Pale, no doubt, almost sickly looking if her eyes hadn’t been the faintest shade of amber that brought the only sense of warmth to her face. Her hair was a light blonde, or was it gray? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that this little pet had imposed themselves—

“If you are done staring, mister, may I continue my question?” 

Alastor blinked, his sharp gaze narrowing slightly. The soft tap had already left a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, and now this woman, audacious and unsettling, dared to speak to him as if he were some mere pedestrian. 

"What question?" His voice was smooth but cold, each syllable wrapped in the chill of his natural cynicism. It wasn’t the first time someone had approached him on a whim, but there was something different about this one. Something off-kilter, like a mismatched note in a song—one that lingered just long enough to be more than a fleeting annoyance.

The woman tilted her head slightly, the pale light accentuating the faint shadows beneath her eyes. There was something about her eyes, too—lifeless but sharp as a hawk’s. She seemed entirely unperturbed by his cold demeanor. 

"I was wondering," she began, her voice soft yet steady, "if you intend to stand like a wallflower all night or become something worth my time?"

Alastor’s eyebrows twitched, and his lips curled into something akin to a grin, though it was closer to a wolf’s smirk than anything resembling warmth. A question like that—drenched in disrespect, a dance with death itself. Was she…playing with him?

“Is that so?” His voice was laced with amusement, yet his eyes remained icy. “And what would a fragile little thing like yourself do with finding me interesting?”

The woman didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her head just slightly more, a ghost of a smile appearing at the corner of her lips. “I’ve seen it,” she murmured. “How you find no pleasure in this display around us. It’s no stranger to you and I am not a stranger to it either. I see you come in here and revel every week until recently. Why is that?

For a moment, Alastor was silent. He had heard words like these before, though they usually came from those who lacked any real understanding of the ruthless, visceral nature of existence. But something about her tone, so deliberate, so knowing, stirred something within him. Something deep. Why would someone he had never met, though who apparently watched him, ask such a personal question?

“Well aren’t you a brazen one, my dear. I would suppose, these events have just lost their…usefulness.”

“Oh, because you kill people?” 

He hadn’t expected that at all. How did she know? How could he play this off? A shadow passed over his gaze, darkened as he looked down at the calm woman. She was baffling…but certainly, the most intriguing thing he had interacted with in a while. He hadn’t expected anyone—let alone a delicate little creature like her—to speak with such clarity about the one thing he’d devoted his entire being to understanding: death. But then again, he realized, perhaps this little conversation had more teeth than he’d first assumed. 

Grabbing her wrist discreetly but with a vice hold, he dragged his newfound muse into an empty room on the other end of the club. Throwing her in the room, he assumed her frail stature might cause her to fall, but instead, she simply looked like she floated across the floor. Strange. 

He chuckled, but the sound was dry, devoid of humor. “You’re quite the curious thing,” he said, his eyes glinting as he regarded her more closely. “Now, how does a little thing like you, make such a bold assumption as that?”

“Well, I have seen you,” she replied simply, her gaze meeting his with a directness that was both unnerving and intoxicating. “You are quite clean with it I must say, well, except for the eating part…but then again I guess everyone has their preferences.”

Alastor was taken aback. A brief flicker of something like appreciation passed through his mind, quickly followed by annoyance. Was she toying with him? Was this an act, some mask for her true fragility? 

For a moment, he considered walking away, dismissing her as yet another oddity to forget. But the words she spoke lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at him like a restless hunger.

"What about you, Alastor?" she continued, her voice softening, almost as though she were coaxing him, "Do you fight it? The lack of bloodlust you’re feeling? Or do you surrender to the inevitable?"

Her words hung in the air between them, and the sound of her quiet challenge echoed in Alastor’s mind long after she’d spoken. He exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation flashing across his features. This woman had a way of pushing him in ways he didn’t particularly enjoy. 

And yet…

He growled lowly, stalking up to her with an imposing stance. Just kill her now, kill the witness. All his problems would go away, he could go back to standing on that stupid wall, drinking that flat champagne.

He glanced at her, a flicker of something approaching amusement in his eyes. Or…or he could have the most fun he had in weeks.

 "I suppose I don't have the luxury of surrender," he said, his tone colder now, sharper. "I’ve long since learned that life is more… interesting when you push against its edges. Though, I confess, there’s something rather invigorating about someone who understands the dance with death as well as you do."

She smiled this time a full, knowing grin. “I thought you’d understand,” she said with quiet certainty, leaning closer just enough for him to catch the scent of something oddly familiar—something sharp, like iron or fresh rain. “The world doesn’t stop spinning just because we want to rest. We can’t simply wait for the end to come. Until it gets here. No, Alastor, it’s all about taking it—grabbing hold of that final moment and making it yours.”

At first, Alastor found himself irritated by her relentless inquiries, the audacity with which she wove her words into the space between them. He considered walking away several times, but then, a strange thing happened.

Then, the irritation faded.

The longer they spoke, the more he felt the edges of his personality, drawn out by her words, her very presence. She was no weakling, no frightened soul. No, this woman was a kindred spirit of sorts—a creature of the abyss who spoke the language he had long since mastered.

But he supposed, it had gone on long enough. Even those whom he found mildly amusing had their time to go. And now, this woman had come to hers. Walking over to a desk in the room, he pulled the drawer open with the mask of preparing himself a drink. This was his typical room…to engage in his activities. As the woman faced away from him, staring blankly at the wall with what seemed ignorance, he approached. The blade was hidden deftly behind his back. 

“Well, my dear, as pleasant as this has been, I think it’s time we end this little game of ours.”

Raising the blade to her throat, he made the slice with a quickness that came with practiced ease. 

Only sweet, rich, red blood did not spill from her body for him to lap with reckless abandon. Her head remained intact, the blade leaving no mark. Backing up in mild shock, Alastor’s eyes widened in what he could only call horrific intrigue. How much had he had to drink?!

“Now, that was rather a rude thing to do.” The woman’s head turned…180 degrees, backward facing him. A small smirk painting to face. And then, her body started to float, righting itself to face him fully as he glided in the air to meet him. Her cold and frail fingers came to caress the edge of his cheek with a gentleness that surprised him. 

“Why would you do that to me, Al? I thought we were friends.” The woman….or ghost woman started to shed alligator tears. Her voice was a high-pitched wail that irked him to no end. 

“What…what are you?”

That caused the woman to pause, eyes sharpening as she looked at him with a look so fierce he felt like his own knife had pierced his heart. 

“I am Y/N. I…I am the ghost that lives here.” 

Now that would have caused him to howl in laughter had he not seen the spectacle before him. Y/N….the famed ghost story Mimzy would tell to scare customers into scam ghost tours of the club after hours for an extra buck. But here she was…in the flesh?

“I thought you knew me Alastor. I thought you understood me. Understood the darkness–” Y/N brought her hand back to his cheek, trailing it slowly, even seductively down his chest to the buttons of his vest. He felt a strange pull to the being, confusingly enraptured by her now. The transparent but uniquely cold nature of her touch sent shivers down his spine, in a way he almost did not mind. 

Where had this feeling come from? Had…had his interest in the conversation been actual interest in the woman before him? He usually never felt this way about anyone. Alastor’s lips parted in an attempt to refute his thoughts but nothing came out. 

Y/N’s hand lingered on his chest, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his vest with calculated precision. Her touch was cold, yet there was an undeniable warmth to the way it ignited something in him—something he couldn't name. Alastor's usual composure began to slip, the confident, omnipotent mask he wore trembling in the presence of this woman.

"You always talk about control, Alastor," she purred, her voice an intoxicating melody that seemed to bypass his usual defenses. "But perhaps you’ve never been in a position where control slips through your fingers, like sand... or, more aptly, like time."

Her words struck him like a thunderclap, rattling his thoughts. Time? Had he been so blind, so consumed by the world of his own making, that he failed to see what was right in front of him? He wasn't sure how to answer, only aware that something was shifting, like a piece of the universe slowly aligning to something he couldn't yet understand.

The smile she gave him was a little too knowing, and he hated it. But more than that, he couldn't seem to hate her—an emotion he had learned to master long ago. For a fleeting moment, her eyes softened, not in pity, but in a way that unnerved him. She was dangerous, yes, but there was something else there—a depth, a complexity that tugged at him.

“You look so lost, Alastor,” she whispered, leaning in closer, her breath cold against his skin. “Let me guide you..”

Her hand slid down, brushing against his vest, the tips of her fingers brushing the edges of his buttons, slowly popping them open one by one.  Every movement of hers seemed deliberate, calculated. And yet, as if it was just for him. That he was the sole focus of such tender devotions. 

Alastor swallowed, his mind scrambling to form the words to push her away, to reassert his authority. But instead, something inside him relented. He wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of her presence, the pull of her energy, or the simple fact that for the first time in ages, something made him feel alive.

“You think you know me, don’t you?” he said, his voice low, almost... intrigued. “But I assure you, darling, you know nothing.”

“Then let me learn, Alastor,” she whispered, her lips dangerously close to his ear. “Let me see the darkness you keep hidden. Let me understand what makes you... human.”

The word struck him like a jolt of electricity, and for the first time in a long while, Alastor felt something unexplainable deep in his chest. Was it love? Was it obsession? Or was it the terrifying realization that maybe, just maybe, he could understand her too? 

—————————————————————————————————

Clothes lay discarded on the hardwood floor, Alastor’s suit jacket among the heap. His body pressed her bare one flush to the hardwood floor, her lips continuing their long and languid assault on his own.

 All that remained was Alastor in a white button-up and boxers, his clothed member rutting onto her bare cunt. Moaning into the kiss, he tentatively brought his hands up to find themselves settling at the nape of the Y/N’s neck. Experimentally giving the roots a small tug, a growl emitted from Alastor’s lips, enjoying the way she shivered before him. 

It was almost like her form wasn’t there at all, that her body was transparent. Though, at this moment, he did not question the physics of how he could touch a ghost. 

Laid bare before his hungry eyes and desires, his cock came to be inside Y/N with one thrust; cunt wet and ready for him like it was made for this purpose. Like she was gifted to him by the divine to hold him close in the darkness and relish in his desires. How the serial killer, had come to be with a being who could not be killed. The one thing he could never kill. The irony wasn’t lost on him, though not his main idea at the moment. 

Conceptually, rationally, by all means of logic, Alastor knew it would never work. Except, in this very moment, cock pounding into her wet and inviting cunt, he couldn’t help but pray to whatever power was listening that something would come to fruition. 

Her moans were sweet on his ears, like southern sweetwater molasses taffy. The kinda of stuff you just can’t get enough of. With every rut of his hips into hers, those delicious noises would fall from her parted pale lips. Now, those were the kind of noises he would search for in the middle of the night. Screams, still scream, but those he wrought by giving her the utmost pleasure his mortal form could apply. 

All for her. His little ghost. 

[nariism]

*ੈ✩ LAST WORDS OF A SHOOTING STAR

pair. itadori yuji x reader

synopsis. in the 3 days following the shibuya incident, itadori yuji emerges as a husk of his former self. with his immediate execution resumed, you both grapple with the feelings you have for each other and come to terms with his impending death.

content. hurt/comfort (lots of comfort, thank art because i was gonna be mean about this and they convinced me not to), slightly canon divergent (taking place between shibuya and the culling games), fluff and minor angst, yuta is the best wingman

wc. ~4.4k

NOVEMBER 1 2018

You imagine that your face was rather ghastly when you received the news.

"Execution?" You repeated, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. No, that was the wrong description. It tasted of death—like iron and the depths of Hell filling your mouth until you were gurgling on it.

Unlike the rest of the Jujutsu Sorcerers from Tokyo, you had been ordered to stay back with Shoko in case of an emergency. You remember your exile from battle had left a similar rotten flavour in your mouth.

You vanished off the face of the earth after the incident was over. Most probably presumed you died in the aftermath. Devoured by a curse, they would say and shake their heads. You were always troublesome. And then they would move on with the rest of the world, all the same.

Lives were only temporary in the world of curses. Focus on who you can save, not who is already gone. They'll only end up a curse in your sleep. What a horrible notion to have.

The truth is that you'd been whisked away with Yuta, who seemed to be scheming a plan of his own. Perhaps as a middle finger to the higher ups he hated so much, or perhaps just for his own selfish reasons. You wouldn't know until he was finished carrying it through—he's too good at keeping secrets.

He wanted your reverse cursed technique, you knew that much for sure, even though he could do it himself. You were useful by his side, fitting into his plot in a way you could not in Shibuya. Feeling some sort of obligation and satisfaction, you followed him like a lost puppy.

And now here you are, seated by a dimming fire in the abandoned part of the city. Yuta was too clever for his own good. You suppose Gojo taught him some things well. This was their plan after all.

Yuji was safe, if only for this moment in time.

"Now with Gojo gone, it would have been easy for the higher ups to send assassins your way."

Ruthless and truthful, you flinch, but Yuji does not. He remains perfectly still in your hold, with your hands rotating his face around to get a better look at his wounds. You pour your cursed energy into him, hoping to breathe life back into his eyes, but they stay dull and empty.

"We'll find a way to stop this," you assure, reaching over to take a sanitizing wipe to clean an open cut. Yuta was too rough on him, but it was at least believable that Yuji was dead. He doesn't even recoil from the alcohol stinging his flesh, too engrossed in his own thoughts.

"Why?" He asks weakly. You gawk at him, but then it melts away into a softness that finally makes him blink up at you. "I'm evil."

"You're not evil, Yuji."

"I am. I killed those people. I did." His voice comes flat and defeated, nothing like the one you used to listen to over dinner while he reenacted shitty western films.

You never realize what you'll miss until it's gone. It's hollow, the ache in your heart.

"You don't understand. How could you? All this blood on my hands—"

"It was Sukuna," you quickly refute.

"And Sukuna only lives because I do!"

His voice raises at you, causing the flames behind you to flicker and crack. It's enough for Yuta to step in, acting as a barrier between your tense bodies. Yuji seems to shrink at this, realizing his emotions have run amok and that he has yelled at you.

You only stare back at him in bewilderment, like a frightened animal. Your upperclassman shakes his head.

"Enough of this. We need to start making plans."

You lay awake that night, alone and anxious. Yuta has taken the first shift of watching and patrolling while the two of you rest, though hesitant to leave you alone. He told you it’s another reason he dragged you along: having three people to rotate shifts instead of just two would be easier on your bodies and minds. The city is not what it used to be, now overrun with curses of all grades.

You reassured him it would be fine, that you would fall asleep quickly and so would Yuji—his body has to run out of steam eventually, right? Oh, what a fool you were.

The tension is so heavy that it's awkward, even though you're sleeping on opposite ends of the tunnel.

"Sleep," you demand as if you were Inumaki, like you have the power to curse him.

His eyes flutter open. Even in the firelight, you don't see any shine in them, seeming as if they had been extinguished of life. "Why don't you?"

"I can't until you do."

"That's stupid," he tells you.

It's not the first time you've argued like this. Back when the world felt right, you would sneak in through his dorm window well into the hours of the night. Platonic, you had convinced yourself. You snuck into his bed seeking companionship as a friend. That's the lie you gorged on.

A piece of you knew, and you're sure he did too, that the way your hands explored his arms was unnatural for two friends, and that friends wouldn't sneak into each other's rooms like this with such severe punishment on the line.

It was safe in his arms, with the dull hum of his television running an old horror film in the background. You didn't have to think about much other than his warmth when you sat between his legs with your back to his chest. Or when his arm was draped over your shoulder and you were pressed into his side—actually, you think you preferred this one though you felt sorry for his sore arm.

You would bicker about dumb, pointless things. Which movie is better, or which character deserved to be mutilated more. It would go on for so long that Megumi would bang his fist on their shared wall to get the two of you to shut up.

There was no curse strong enough to change time itself, so you keep your thoughts and memories to yourself when you respond.

"You'll be too tired to function on your shift," you reason.

"You both will be fine without me." Better off without me, you know he means. You've gotten good at reading between his lines.

You slowly sit up in your sleeping bag, eyes never leaving Yuji. He seems so frail right now, even though he looks more adult than he ever has before.

"Human Earthworm 4 was better than 2," you suddenly say. His eyes peer open again in confusion.

"Huh? 2 was way better."

"I liked the love story in 4," you argue, slowly getting out of your bag to shuffle to his side of the concrete tunnel. He looks at you as if you've said something outlandish, too preoccupied with his thoughts to wonder why you've come so close.

"2 had the best special effects though."

Your body shifts under his blanket.

"But 4 had a happier ending." (As far as 'happy' goes in the Human Earthworm series, at least.)

His arm falls around your waist as it has a hundred times, pulling you into his chest.

"Whatever," he huffs. The next topic comes fast and you're thrown into a full blown conversation with him. If you concentrate enough, you can imagine your bodies being tangled together in his bed, safe and sound.

Concrete and fire and the stench of curses melt away until he's all you can focus on.

"You have weird taste in movies," he concludes with his eyes drifting shut.

NOVEMBER 2 2018

You think you know how to fix broken people until you find that they are more than skin and bones. 

You learn one thing after the Shibuya Incident: there are wounds residing within Yuji just as much as there are marking his flesh.

Yuta, you realize, had left the two of you alone to sleep and has protected you all night. You'll make it up to him, you reason. Yuji deserved to sleep.

When you wake up to his sleeping face, you think his cuts are healing nicely. But then his expression twists up in terror—a nightmare, if he even had enough energy left in him to conjure up dreams. He murmurs in his sleep, shakes his head a few times and thrashes around so much you're surprised you slept through the night by his side.

"Sukuna," he's whispering. Sukuna, Sukuna, Sukuna. King of Curses. The second voice tormenting him that lives in his own brain like a parasite. You bury yourself into his chest and hold him as tight as you can. He relaxes, body releasing its rigid form, but the murmurs continue.

He is shattered beyond repair. No amount of cursed energy could fix that, even if you tried.

You had once watched Yuji electrocute himself trying to set up the janky old television in his dorm room.

He fell back onto the floor with a loud crash, head hitting the wood so hard you thought he might have a concussion. It caused such a racket that Megumi came running into the room asking what happened, demon dog ready behind him in case of an ambush.

You rushed to the floor, discarding all the food you had settled in your lap and crumbled beside him to scoop him into your arms.

"Yuji!" You called him. People rarely used his first name. You felt special, like you knew him better than others did and for some reason that was a privilege. "Are you okay?"

He laughed in your arms, seeming unfazed by the fact that electricity had run through every vein in his body. "I'm fine, see? My finger just slipped."

You and Megumi both sighed in relief, though you always thought it was strange when you reflected on it. Yuji was a funny guy, yes. He was equal parts humour and destruction but not a klutz. Mistakes happen, so you let it slide until now, but some part of you was nagging to ask.

"That day," you start while rolling up your sleeping bag. "You electrocuted yourself. Remember?"

He looks at you funny over his shoulder. Yuta has already started cracking open cans of food for breakfast, embers of your dead fire cracking.

"Hmm, yeah. I remember. Why?"

"I just thought..." you trail off. "Well, Sukuna makes you tough to a lot of things. I'm surprised small electric shocks aren't one of them."

Sukuna. A name you'd been avoiding since this morning. Sickening silence settles between you. It's so heavy that you pause in your cleaning to look at him, brow raised.

"Yeah," he coughs. "Well, maybe I exaggerated."

"Huh?" You sound annoyed now. "You scared us half to death!"

Yuji only falters in his own chores. When he looks at you again, there's a longing in his gaze that you don't know how you could have missed. Or perhaps it was never there until now.

"It was nice to have you fawning over me," he admits.

The day goes on and all you feel is a terrible grief.

You become painfully aware of each millimeter the sun glides across the sky, from one horizon to the other. Time slips through your fingers fast as sand.

Horrifically, you can't find anything to talk about to fill the emptiness—Nobara and Megumi feel off the table considering the extent of their injuries. You don't even dare to breathe Gojo's name, let alone speak of him so boldly as Yuta is.

You're afraid that Yuji will spiral again, confused and unwilling to cooperate with his judgement clouded by loss. It's not your fault, you would say. It is, he would argue. It would do neither of you good, so you idle around while he and Yuta devise plans to tiptoe around the higher ups.

A part of you knows that if either of you told him to submit and die, he would. He's already teetering on the edge of self-destruction.

On the outside, he seems perfectly indifferent. Gaze steady, face stone and unchanging as he speaks. He's doomed, ill-fated, someone full of misfortune. He looks so lonely that the air itself parts for him where he stands.

To shoulder so much responsibility, so much death, maybe he truly is alone. Some fraction of him, at least—a piece of himself only he would ever understand.

Your hand snakes into his without a second thought. You don't know why you did it, nor do you have any reasoning that he doesn't yank away from you. His hand trembles, and it's then that you realize his whole body is wracked with tremors that don't match his distant disposition.

The second thing you learn is this: when Yuji self-destructs, he does it from the inside-out.

Itadori Yuji loves chocolate cake.

He loves all food, really, acting like your friend group's personal food dumpster whenever any of you were full. But chocolate cake you knew he had a sweet tooth for.

You used to bring it with you to his dorm, stopping by the convenience stores on the way home to grab a pre-packaged slice from the fridge for him to eat.

"You're making a mess," you would tell him with a frown, using your thumb to wipe up frosting from the corner of his mouth. You would lick the pad of your finger clean after that, and he would watch almost in a trance.

It's the reason why you stop on one of your patrols, poking through the fridge section of a convenience store. The power has been out for a long time in this part of the city, all the food is already room temperature, but you figure this is fine as long as it smells okay.

The way Yuji's face lights up when he sees you is all it takes for the worry to go away.

It briefly feels as though nothing has ever gone wrong—that after this slice of cake the two of you will tumble back onto his mattress and turn on another showing of Titanic. (He groaned about it once, saying he got KO'd too many times during this film. You only laughed in confusion.)

At the end of the day, you know those days will never come back to you, lost forever in the wind.

Fire dances before you and you watch, enchanted by the flames. You remember last night, how not even the firelight could make Yuji look the same as he did before. You turn your head to look at him, to see if it's any different tonight, just for your cheek to be caught in his palm.

His thumb traces your lip, the way you used to do to him. You recognize the pull of his finger against your flesh, the swipe of it to get frosting off, but he still seems dissatisfied.

"What?" You ask.

"It didn't come off," he mutters, leaning in dangerously close to observe. Heat rises all the way to your cheeks and makes your hairs stand on end. His touch is like molten lava. You wonder if it has something to do with the monster living inside of him.

"I can't see it," you whine without a mirror.

He draws a little closer, until he's inches from your face. "Let me..."

You've suddenly been dropped into cold, unknown waters. This is all unfamiliar. He's rushing this, as if making up for all the time the two of you lost pretending you were only friends. As if he can cram all the things he's wanted to tell you into one night.

Recoiling away, you find yourself hesitating. If he kisses you, this all becomes too real. It's an acknowledgment of his impending death. That the thread of his life is finer and further stretched than yours is.

An unpleasant thought rings through your mind. What if I become a curse on him?

"This only ends badly for us," you whisper, but the conviction is missing from your voice.

He doesn't care. At least, it doesn't look like he does. Who knows what he's thinking right now?

"Who cares?" He says. "We're Jujutsu Sorcerers. Everything bad happens to us no matter what."

You don't have any rebuttal to that, no argument that forms in your mind that could challenge his words. He was right. Only disaster befalls Sorcerers. Disaster and grief.

For a while you had forgotten, living these idyllic months watching the days pass by. You feel like you wasted that precious time worrying about stupid things, like what to have for breakfast or what kind of snacks you should pick up for movie night.

(It ended up being popcorn every time. He liked to piss off Sukuna with it, saying the King of Curses would never get to experience the pleasure of picking out kernels from his teeth. You scoffed but bought it anyway.)

Another thought crosses your mind: Yuji is more fit to be in a rom-com, or a television series where the good guys always win. Not this tragedy. Not this massacre.

You wonder if he's ever felt the same way. If he ever wished he could reach into the sky and turn the sun back to a time before he even knew what a curse was.

If you’d met each other under different circumstances, would this have been a different story? The thought makes your heart ache, a part of you so deep that even if you reached into your chest and plucked it, you'd still wail.

"Can I?" He asks you, eager but quiet. Had this been a few months ago, you imagine that he would have had this spark in his eye. That his lips would be crashing into yours with no inhibition.

But Yuji has always been selfless, you think he always will be. He doesn't want to drag you down if you don't want to—an out, they call it. An escape route just before he careens into a ditch.

Hope has drained from every inch of his expression. This is his loneliness talking.

Despite the dread that licks up your spine, you cup his face. You swear he jolts slightly beneath your touch, as if you've reached out to strike him down. A retribution he believes he deserves.

He kisses you like it's his last day on earth. 

You learn one last thing: Itadori Yuji tastes familiarly of death.

Yuta decides to leave you alone for a second night in a row. His presence is so crushing that you know he's alive, but he stalks off somewhere else, leaving just you and Yuji huddled by the pitiful fire you've built.

He once claimed himself jokingly to be a love expert, and then ran off to Kenya for so long that you lost track of how much time passed. You wish you'd asked him before he left what he meant, but at the time it seemed irrelevant. Insignificant. The name Itadori Yuji had not yet been impressed into your heart like a seal.

You're busy setting up the sleeping bags, this time pushing them flush together. They're so close you can barely see the seam between them. Yuji stands on the other side of the fire, watching.

It reminds him of all the times you'd ever scolded him for not making his bed in the morning. I'm gonna crawl back in tonight anyway, he said. Who cares if it's messy?

Idiot, you would call him. But there was no malice behind it. He treated it like a pet name, a badge of honour to be your idiot.

Life felt so simple back then. He was full of determination and life and stuck to his morals as best he could. When he wavered he would text you to come over so you could fall asleep on his chest and suffocate any other thoughts out of his head.

"I've never felt so powerful before," he admits quietly.  You turn to look at him, curious. "Like I could do anything in the world."

There's a negative connotation to that, you know. He could do anything. The world would crumble at his feet and there he would stand, laughing at it all. It isn't his will, not even slightly, but the demon taking refuge in his body would love to see the blood pool.

"Like I could just... reach out and—"

"Yuji!" You hiss, lurching forward to take his hand into yours and retreat from the flame. The skin is already pink and blistering, scorched by the embers. You twist his wrist around, observing where the fire licked the deepest, and pour your energy into him.

When you look up to see if he's crying, or at least grimacing in pain, you find only his smiling face—warm and adoring. For a second it feels like the world isn't burning around you.

It was nice to have you fawning over me.

You wipe that stupid smirk off his face, leaning in to smear a kiss along the scar on his lip.

"Idiot," you say, and he laughs for the first time in so long that it sounds foreign in your ears.

(He doesn't fall asleep that night. He would rather savour the sound of your soft snores, memorize the form of your body in his hold, and try his hardest to burn this into his brain.

So be it if you come to curse him one day. He would welcome you with open arms.)

NOVEMBER 3 2018

The day comes when Megumi sneaks into your hideout, asking for help.

His sister, he explains. He needs help saving Tsumiki. For some reason, resentment boils in your stomach, but then it's snuffed just as fast.

Two days and two nights you've spent pretending Japan isn't collapsing, content with sitting idly by as curses overran Tokyo. You're sure Megumi thought you to be cowards, that you were all hiding under this bridge to wait out the hellstorm that was raining down on your homes.

It was true to some extent. Once Yuji stepped out into battle again, that was that. You're not sure things would ever be the same again, though you suppose you lost the privilege of routine days ago.

"Let me come too," you urge. Three pairs of eyes land on you.

"No," Yuji pushes. "It's dangerous."

"I can fight!"

"You can't," he pauses, then corrects himself, "You won't."

Awkward silence settles over your encampment. Yuta stirs, standing to hold you steady by the shoulders.

"If we need help... if one of us is hurt, we'll need you unharmed. Do you understand?"

Ah, ever so wise, your upperclassman. So easy to persuade you. There's a reason why he's the chosen one only second to Gojo.

You swallow the bile that fights up your throat. "What if you don't come back?"

Yuji steps in this time, knocking away Yuta to hold you by the face. Get a grip, this means. Pull yourself together, don't you dare fall apart in front of me.

"We will."

You once considered telling him how you felt, letting it eat away at you until Nobara groaned in disgust.

“If Itadori starts dating before I do, I’ll puke.”

You remember that you laughed, thinking she was so dramatic. You loved that about her. “I think you would do worse.”

She glared at you, foot lightly kicking at your shin under the table. Still, she made sure to push equal amounts of rice to your side of the plate. “I might burn a village down,” she huffed, placing her chin on her palm.

“You’re fine. Even if I told him how I feel, I don’t think he’d accept.”

“Huh?” Nobara sounded genuinely confused, raising a brow at you. “What makes you think that?”

You didn't know how to answer that. Maybe you were just afraid that you had misinterpreted everything, that the way he held you was protective in a familial manner and that he would slam his door in your face when you tried.

Looking back on it, you can imagine him in the next room ranting about the same things to Megumi.

“He still has posters of Jennifer Lawrence on his wall,” you argued weakly while shoveling rice into your spoon. She watched you take your bite with her lips parted in disbelief.

You wish you had told him, then. Not that it would have changed where you both ended up.

You watch as they pack up their things.

Megumi's demon dog keeps you quiet company, tail thrashing against the ground as you slick back its fur. They talk around the dying flames, devising plan after plan. None seem safe. None would be.

Yuta and Megumi leave first, taking the lead in front of the pack. His dog melts into the shadows and disappears, leaving you sitting alone.

"I want to take you back, but..." Yuji glances over his shoulder toward his death sentence. "Will you make it okay on your own?"

You get up slowly, as if to draw out the time he stands before you. A thousand questions run through your head: what if you never see him again? What if this kills him, not by body, but by his already damaged soul?

He must sense the racing of your mind, so he leans in to engulf you in his arms. In an instant, memories of those days spent lounging in his bed, shoveling your food onto his plate, and purposefully talking louder to tease Megumi come flooding.

A year you would never forget. You're sure it'll become a curse if you dwell, so you tell him: "I'll make it. You go on, they need you."

I need you, too. Stay. If only it were so simple.

He smiles at you, warm like the sun that's hidden behind the barrier. Itadori Yuji looks like a ghost of his former self, battle-worn and covered in scars where his skin used to be smooth. He kisses you again for good measure, making sure he remembers the way you sigh into his mouth.

When he pulls away, there's life gleaming in his eyes.

"Let's watch Human Earthworm 5 when I come back."

Your thumb brushes the corner of his lip. You open your mouth to speak, to finally tell him the truth after all this time. You'd rather not die regretting you never said it, after all.

But you stop.

"I prefer Titanic," you confess. He shakes his head and kisses your forehead. Then he’s gone, taking all the warmth with him.

You'll make up for lost time one day. It won’t be today. You can tell him all about your feelings when he comes back to you.

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

[xylo-art]

Regarding the tags left on my previous post ↓

YES this is something I really wanted to explore actually :3 so I hope you don't mind me rambling

Transcript and rambling beneath the cut

[Swap AU Hollow]

- closed off at the start, cares a lot, wants to know what happened post-abyss

- much more timid and wary

- over time gets braver

- fights until the other party is weakened, dislikes having to kill but will if they must

- extends to lesser bugs

- Not really resentful towards Ghost, more so sad and confused

- post-game/recovery period is similar to normal Ghost

[Normal Ghost]

- closed off at the start, almost apathetic but not quite?

- over time they start to care more and more

- adventurous

- fights until the other party backs down (or dies)

- extends to lesser bugs

- some resentment towards Hollow early on that fades as they progress

- post-game/recovery period they start learning to express more and are given more opportunities to be a kid

[Swap AU Ghost]

- fatigued post-game but more curious and adventurous now that they're free

- struggles to express emotion

- takes up drawing post-game as an outlet

- quiet but more investigative, more social

- complicated feelings towards WL, leans towards some bitterness

- Radi(?) fed into said bitterness to break them

- LOTS of guilt about leaving Hollow

[Normal Hollow]

- mostly tired post-game, lots of guilt/self-hateed

- hesitant to express emotion

- takes up cooking post-game as an outlet

- timid and shy, prefers to fade into the background (very difficult)

- complicated feelings towards PK, still loves him while understanding he wasn't. the greatest

- radi fed into their love to break them

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

OKAY WOW, long transcript

I'm thinking a LOT about this AU now even though I mostly drew it as a joke when I first came up with it.

This gives me an opportunity to ramble about how I characterize the vessels! Even in my base-version of how I interpret them, I imagine when they were still in the abyss, Ghost was.. Generally the one who lead the two of them. Hollow usually just stuck by their side, being the more anxious of the two.

I imagine this is still the case in the Swap AU - So when Ghost is the one who makes it to the top, Hollow feels.. Betrayed, and confused. Why wouldn't their sibling, who they've depended on before now, help them?

Both I imagine are led on by their care for the other - Hearing them cry out in pain in the beginning cutscene. However, whereas normal Ghost at first treats the whole thing with a layer of resentment, Swap Hollow treats it more with.. Wanting to know why.

Meanwhile with the older siblings, I imagine Swap Ghost keeps some of those feelings of resentment - However, instead of at Hollow, it's more towards WL and themself for what she's done to their siblings, and they to Hollow. Post-game in the recovery period, they try to express more emotion, but struggle with it. They want to explore more once they're free! Both explore Hallownest, and explore the life they never got to live, whereas I imagine normal Hollow takes their recovery a lot slower and with more hesitance.

I'm still figuring this au out but, it's really fun exploring this stuff :D

[keehomania]

like him — rcm (drabble)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ i’m everything that i’ve strived to be. so, do i look like him? do i look like him? i don’t look like him

he saw it every time he looked in the mirror. he knew it was there, following him, clinging to him like a second skin. even when he tried to move on, something was always there to remind him. he was reminded of it when he saw the look in his sister’s eye, the look of fear, disdain. he saw it every time he walked by her friends, their glares boring into his skull. sometimes he’d glare back, because he was supposed to. that was him. but not today.

today, he was tired. tired of the constant weight bearing down on his shoulders, tired of pretending it didn’t exist. he leaned forward, his palms pressing against the cold marble of the bathroom sink, the sharp edge biting into his hands as if to anchor him. his reflection stared back, hollowed and harrowed, a shadow of the man he was expected to be. the room was dim, the fluorescent light overhead flickering, casting uneven shadows across his face. it wasn’t the face of a son. it was the face of a ghost.

blood was thicker than water. he wanted to change, but how could he? how could he take a wrecking ball to the dominoes he had been placing since he was a little boy? every step, every choice, every piece of who he was had been meticulously constructed to fit the image ward cameron demanded of him. and if he tore it all down, what would be left? nothing. nothing but the boy who was never enough.

“ever since you were a little boy,” rose’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting, delivered with the same coldness that had made her such a perfect match for ward. “even then, you were there, sucking up to him.”

it wasn’t the words themselves that stung. no, it was the venom, the quiet disdain in her voice, the way she said it like it was a fact, a cruel joke at his expense. because she knew. everyone knew. rafe cameron, desperate for his father’s approval, clinging to the scraps of affection ward had dangled before him like bait.

he didn’t know when it had started. maybe it had always been that way. maybe he had never been his daddy’s little boy, not really. maybe he had just been a means to an end, a pawn in the game ward was always playing. but he’d wanted it to be real. god, how he’d wanted it to be real. he dreamt about it sometimes. about him.

sometimes they’d talk, just the two of them, no tension, no expectations. his father would sit across from him, his expression soft, his words kind. other times, they’d hug, ward’s arms wrapping around him in a way that felt safe, steady, the way a father’s embrace should. those dreams were the worst. because he couldn’t remember which parts were real and which weren’t. did his father ever hold him like that? did he ever look at him with pride, with love? or was it all a fabrication, a desperate attempt by his mind to fill in the gaping holes his father had left behind?

rafe swallowed hard, his throat tight, his chest heavier with every breath. the mirror in front of him blurred as his vision clouded, tears threatening to spill. he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the pain. rose had been wrong about one thing. he hadn’t stopped being his daddy’s little boy. not really. because even now, with ward gone, with the weight of his father’s sins pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket, rafe still wanted to make him proud. even now, he still wanted to be enough.

he looked like him. he’d seen it first when he ward had died, standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, the weight of his father’s suit draped over his shoulders. it didn’t fit him—not then, not now—but he’d thought, this is what it means to be the man of the house. to carry the weight, to wear the armor. the fabric swallowed him whole, but he’d stood there anyway, staring at himself, trying to see what his father saw. trying to see the man he was supposed to become.

but all he saw were his father’s eyes. cold. empty. they stared back at him, unrelenting, the kind of eyes that gave nothing and took everything. he didn’t have the beard yet, or the wrinkles etched deep into his face like scars from a life lived with too much pride and too little joy. not yet, at least. but the eyes were there, as unmistakable as the blood that tied them together. he looked like him. and it haunted him.

it haunted him every time he caught his reflection in the mirror, every time he passed a window and saw the faintest shadow of himself. it haunted him in the moments of quiet, when there was no one around to pretend for, no one to blame but himself. because no matter how much he hated it—hated him—he couldn’t escape it. ward had known it too.

rafe saw it in the way his father’s eyes would linger on him, not with love, but with a strange, detached fascination, like he was looking into a distorted version of himself. like he was trying to figure out how he’d gone so wrong. ward would see himself in his boy’s eyes, his own reflection staring back at him. and even that wasn’t enough. it wasn’t enough to love him. not the way rafe needed to be loved.

he had spent his whole life chasing it, that love, that approval. he’d followed his father like a shadow, desperate to be noticed, desperate to be something to him. he wanted to be seen, not as a reflection, but as a son. a boy who had tried so hard, who had given everything he had.

but ward had only ever seen the flaws. the cracks. the places where rafe didn’t measure up. and rafe knew that because every glance, every word, every disappointed sigh had cut him deeper than he’d ever let on. and now ward was gone, and all that was left was the reflection. the man in the mirror, staring back at him with cold, empty eyes. the man he had spent his entire life trying not to become. the man he couldn’t stop becoming.

he wasn’t the hero he wanted to be. not in sarah’s eyes, and certainly not in ward’s. he wanted to be. god, he wanted to be. but heroes weren’t made of cracked mirrors and borrowed shadows, and that’s all rafe cameron had ever been. he wasn’t the strong, steady protector sarah needed. he wasn’t the prodigal son ward had demanded. he was something else entirely—something broken.

he went to sleep at night carrying the weight of sins he didn’t know how to put down. they clung to him like chains, heavy and unyielding, each link forged in blood he couldn’t wash away. his hands were stained, his soul tarnished, and it was all for his father. every mistake, every crime, every dark corner he’d backed himself into—it was all for ward. and yet, it was never enough.

he knew something was wrong with him. he could feel it, an ache deep in his chest, a hollowed-out space where something vital should have been. he’d told ward that once, on a cold night by the docks, his breath visible in the frigid air, his eyes wet with fresh tears.

“something’s wrong with me,” he’d said, his voice breaking as he looked at the man he was trying so hard to become.

ward had barely looked at him. he’d brushed it off with the same indifference he reserved for inconveniences, telling him to man up like it was that simple. like it was a choice. like rafe hadn’t been trying to man up every single day of his life, pulling on that damn suit and praying it would fit. it still didn’t fit.

he lashed out. he fought, screamed, tore through the world like a hurricane, desperate to prove that he was enough. desperate to hear the words he needed, the words he would never hear. he watched ward’s love go to sarah, to rose, to anyone but him. it didn’t matter what he did or how hard he tried. it was never going to be him. but it was supposed to be. he needed it to be. he was angry at ward, at sarah, at the pogues, at the whole damn world. but most of all, he was angry at himself. because deep down, he blamed himself.

he blamed himself for not trying hard enough, for not being good enough, for not being enough. if he’d been stronger, smarter, better, maybe things would have been different. maybe ward would have loved him the way he loved sarah. maybe rafe would have felt like a son instead of a failure. but he wasn’t. and he didn’t. and so he stayed angry. It was easier that way. easier to burn than to crumble. easier to fight than to fall apart. easier to hate himself than to admit he’d never been given a fair chance to begin with.

the house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that felt wrong, like it was waiting for something to shatter. you stood in the doorway, watching him pace the room, the expensive rug muffling the sound of his footsteps. he was wearing the suit again, the one that didn’t fit right. too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves. it hung off him like it didn’t belong, like he didn’t belong in it.

you were the only one who saw through the mask he wore, the carefully constructed armor of arrogance and cruelty that he carried like a second skin. to everyone else, rafe cameron was the villain in his own story—reckless, unhinged, the cautionary tale whispered in the quiet corners of polite conversation. but not to you.

to you, he wasn’t the monster they said he was. he was the boy behind the mask, raw and bleeding, his soul fraying at the edges. they called him unredeemable, a lost cause, but you wondered when the last time was that any of them had asked him how he was really doing. when had they looked at the storm raging behind his eyes and dared to reach out a hand instead of casting judgment?

rafe didn’t wear his pain on his sleeve; he buried it deep, where no one could touch it. but you saw it. in the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking. in the way his voice would crack, barely audible, when he spoke of things he wished he could change but never did. you knew he wasn’t the bad guy people made him out to be. he was just a boy who wanted to be loved. that was the tragedy of it all, wasn’t it? he wanted love so desperately, but love had never been gentle with him. the heart, after all, came with blood. and his heart had bled for so long, it felt like there was nothing left.

“rafe,” you called softly, but he didn’t hear you. or maybe he did, and he just couldn’t stop.

his movements were erratic, sharp, like he was trying to outrun something that wasn’t there. his hands twitched at his sides, curling into fists before unclenching again. he muttered under his breath, words you couldn’t make out, his voice low and strained, like he was arguing with himself. you stepped closer, hesitating when his shoulders stiffened.

“rafe,” you tried again, louder this time. he stopped.

for a moment, you thought he might turn to you, might let you in. but then his fist shot out, slamming into the wall with a sickening crack that made you flinch. he hit the wall again, and again, each impact reverberating through the room, through you. his knuckles split open, blood smearing against the pristine white paint, but he didn’t stop. his breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, his chest heaving like he couldn’t get enough air.

“rafe, please,” you begged, stepping closer, your voice trembling. “you’re scaring me.”

he froze, his fist hovering mid-air, his whole body trembling as though he were holding himself together by sheer force of will. slowly, he turned his head, and for the first time, you saw his eyes. it wasn’t you he was fighting. it wasn’t even the world. it was himself. your heart ached as you watched him, standing there in that ill-fitting suit, his knuckles dripping blood onto the marble floor. he looked like a child playing dress-up, trying so desperately to be something he wasn’t.

you reached out, your hand hovering near his arm, but he felt so far away. you didn’t know how to reach him, didn’t know how to pull him back from wherever he’d gone. so you stayed. you stayed and watched as he shook, as he muttered, as he fell apart piece by piece. and then, suddenly, it was like all the fight drained out of him.

he collapsed to the ground, his knees hitting the marble with a dull thud. his bloody hands hung limp at his sides, his head bowed, his breath hitching in his throat. you didn’t think. you just moved. sinking to your knees beside him, you wrapped your arms around his head, pulling him into your chest. he didn’t resist, didn’t say a word, didn’t even cry. he just let you hold him, his body trembling against yours.

he didn’t cry right away. at first, there was just the silence—the kind that suffocates, heavy and oppressive, wrapping itself around you like a shroud. his chest heaved against you, his breaths uneven and ragged, but the tears didn’t come. they were caught somewhere deep inside him, trapped beneath years of anger and shame, beneath the weight of a name that had always felt like a curse.

you didn’t say anything. not yet. you didn’t dare look down at him, not when you could feel the tremor in his body, the way his hands shook as they hovered near your sides like he didn’t know if he was allowed to hold on. so you held on for him.

your arms stayed locked around him, pulling him closer, your fingers threading through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. you didn’t care that his blood was on the floor, that it was smearing against your clothes. all you cared about was him.

“rafe,” you whispered, your voice trembling but steady. “you’re okay.”

the words weren’t just for him; they were for you too. a lifeline for the both of you as the room seemed to close in, as the echoes of his fists meeting the wall still lingered in the air. it was exactly what ward had said to him, but when you said it, you said it like a promise. not a platitude. not a lie. you weren't convicing him, you weren't convicing yourself. you said it like you believed it, and no one had believed in him. and that was when it happened.

the first tear slipped down his face, silent and almost imperceptible, blending into the sweat on his brow. but then came another, and another, until they were streaming freely, carving paths down his cheeks, dripping onto the marble floor beneath him.

his sobs were quiet at first, muffled against your chest, but they grew louder, rawer, until they were shaking his entire body. he was falling apart in your arms, piece by jagged piece, and all you could do was hold him together as best you could.

“i’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice breaking on the words. “i’m sorry, i’m so—”

“don’t,” you cut him off, your hand still stroking his hair, your other arm pulling him impossibly closer. “let it out, come on. you're doing so good.”

and he did, because he was. he cried for everything he’d lost, for everything he’d done, for everything he’d never been. he cried for the little boy who had worn his father’s suit, desperate to be something he could never be. he cried for the man he had become, the man who terrified even himself. but most of all, he cried because you didn’t look at him the way everyone else did, the way he did.

you didn’t look at him with fear or disdain or judgment. you didn’t tell him to man up or walk away when he unraveled. you stayed.

“you’re okay,” you murmured again, your voice soft but sure. “you’re not him.”

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

a/n: s1-s3 rafe they could never understand u like i do

[ellswritings]

Worse Things

Mentor!Haymitch x New Mentor!Reader

TW: Unspecified age gap, Hunger Games angst, reader won her Games, pre-Katniss and Peeta, angsty fluff, thoughts of suicide/self-hatred, mentions of death.

┏━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┓

There’s a certain lack of emotion one has to have when going into the Hunger Games. Getting rid of those feeling of guilt, empathy, sadness, anger, it’s hard. It’s the hardest thing Y/N had to do. She had to force herself to become and emotionless killing machine. Taking lives one at a time, sometimes multiple at a time. And she had to pretend it didn’t affect her.

Walking out of that arena, she knew her life would never be the same. She felt hollow, like any spirit she had died along with the first life she took. Her world started spinning out of control and there was no way to stop it.

Being from District Twelve, no one suspected she’d actually survive, let alone win. If anyone could call what happened to her “winning.” Everyday was like living through a nightmare. Things got to the point where she truthfully didn’t care if she woke up the next morning.

Her life was complete taken away from her, in more ways than one. No one really warned her about the dangers of being a Victor. Or maybe they did, and she just didn’t listen. So when President Snow tried to find a way to control her and she denied it, she didn’t realize what would follow suit.

Returning back home was a slap in the face. Her entire family had been slaughtered and she hadn’t been any the wiser. It felt like everything she sacrificed was for nothing. The guilt ate her alive like a soul sucking parasite. She got the only people who could ever love a monster like her killed.

Taking a swig of the whiskey bottle in front of her, she slouches down in her chair, an ever present frown on her face. Her body is numb and mind completely fuzzy. That’s the one thing she loves about alcohol. It distracts her, rids her of all the pain she feels on a day-to-day basis. Truthfully, it’s the only reprieve she can find.

She slowly turns her head towards the door, a sound resembling a knock echoing around in her head. A small huff leaves her barely parted lips as she stares blankly ahead at her fireplace. There’s no point in getting up. The only person who ever visits her in her secluded home is Haymitch Abernathy. Her old mentor. If she had a choice, she would only interact with him when they had two new Tributes to send off to the slaughter. But she could never be so lucky.

A hand on her shoulder pulls her out of her drunken gaze. Her head lulls back lazily as she meets a pair of familiar icy blue eyes. Even in her state she can feel his disappointment just by his gaze.

“What do you want?” Y/N grumpily greets, looking away from him to take another drink.

As the bottle is about to touch her lips, Haymitch snags it from her grasp. “I came to make sure you were sober enough to go into town. Clearly, my hopes were too high,” he says sarcastically, moving to put the bottle on a higher shelf.

“Why do you even care?” Y/N glares. “And who are you to judge me? You were drunk the entire time I was in the arena. What a mentor you were, huh?” She scoffs crudely. Her words cause a small pang to rush through his body, but he doesn’t show it. She’s right. Who is he to judge her when he spends his days just as drunk or even more.

“I care because we have to be at the Reaping in less than three hours,” he snaps back. “And I don’t want to deal with you embarrassing yourself and the rest of the District on live television.”

“Our District embarrasses itself enough on its own, it doesn’t need my help,” she grumbles and tries to smack Haymitch as he picks her up out of the chair and walks her over to her bathroom.

“My point,” he emphasizes by Turing the faucet on in the bathtub. He moves the flow of water to the shower head before sticking his hand underneath to make sure it was warm. He wants to sober her up. Not give her pneumonia.

A loud gasp, or scream ,as Haymitch would put it leaves Y/N’s mouth as he douses her with the shower head. It takes every ounce of willpower not to surge forward and sock him in the face. Her hair, now completely soaked, sticks to the side of her face. Her pajamas also sporting the same “wet dog” look the rest of her does.

“I’m gonna kill you,” she growls, her fists clenched tightly. But she does have to admit, the effects of the whiskey are wearing off rather quickly.

“Give it a go, sweetheart. You’d put both of us out of our misery,” he huffs, walking out of the bathroom and returning with a fresh set of clothes and a slice of bread. “Eat this,” he tosses the food towards her. “Should keep your stomach at bay til we get to the train.”

The relationship between the two of them has never been easy. Even when she was his Tribute. She was hard headed, crass, sarcastic, always spoke her mind even if it got her in trouble. In some ways, he admires that about her. That she doesn’t let anyone tell her what to think or how to act. But judging by what she’s turned into, she must regret possessing those qualities.

When he first met her, he had a feeling she would be the first Tribute in a long time that would actually have a chance. Normally, he doesn’t even bother giving his Tributes advice or helping them. He tried for the first ten or so years, give or take, but after watching them all die one after the other, his hope faded. There was no point in trying.

Until he met Y/N.

She was angry, a spitfire. She had that desire to get home. Watching her train and see how she was in the days leading up to her Games, it sparked that feeling of hope again. It was small, but it was there.

She likes to believe he was drunk for the majority of her Games, but truth be told, he was the most sober he had been since he won. He wasn’t completely mentally present, but he did put in effort to try to be. And that’s why he’s here now.

He never had a problem self-destructing. Going down this path seemed fitting for him, but it tore him up inside to see Y/N doing this to herself. He didn’t want this kind of life for her. Wallowing in self pity as she drunk her problems away. He can’t help but feel responsible for her in a way. Maybe if he had contained his alcoholism better, she would have never considered it a viable coping mechanism.

But as he waits outside her bathroom as she gets ready, he realizes that she probably would’ve resorted to liquor anyway. They had that in common.

He heads the lock on the door clock, signaling for him to move out of the way. The e/c eyed woman walks out, her hair pulled into a lazy half-up, half-down style. Her cargo pants are an olive green that compliments her complexion perfectly and a tight-fitted black sweater that falls off her shoulder slightly. It’s not the fanciest thing she could have worn, but it’s what he grabbed. He knows she hates being uncomfortable on the ride to the Capitol.

“What are you staring at?” She tries to mumble bitterly, but the soft look in his eyes removes some of the bite her icy tone usually has.

“Well, I was going to compliment you, but then you just had to get grouchy,” he shrugs satirically.

“Oh no, what ever will I do?” She shoots back with a fake gasp. “How will I ever get by without your empty compliments? I might just combust right here.” She rolls her eyes harshly before shoulder checking him and walking down the hallway to her room to gather the rest of her things.

“Are you always this much of an ass?” He calls out after her, walking down the hallway as well. “Or is it just to me?”

“Just to you,” she replies dryly, not looking at him as she lugs her minimal amount of items over her shoulder. They don’t need much when heading to the Capitol—there’s little point in dragging luxuries for a stay that promises more nightmares than comfort.

Haymitch smirks faintly, though the expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He knows her quip is an attempt to shield herself, to keep him—or anyone—from getting too close. That doesn’t stop him from muttering, “Lucky me,” as he trails after her.

The two make their way to the Reaping Square in tense silence. Y/N’s boots crunch against the dusty path leading to the stage as the weight of what’s to come settles on her chest. She knows the routine well enough. She’ll stand there with Haymitch, Effie will deliver her cheery speech, and two names will be drawn—two lives practically sentenced to death. It’s a show of power, a tradition designed to remind everyone of the Capitol’s control. And no matter how many times Y/N goes through it, it never gets easier.

The square is packed by the time they arrive, children standing in tightly formed lines with trembling hands and wide, fearful eyes. She stiffens at the sight of them, her chest tightening. Some of these kids are barely old enough to understand what’s happening, and yet they’re expected to stand tall, to accept the possibility of death with their heads held high.

Haymitch, standing beside her, senses her shift in demeanor. He doesn’t say anything—he knows better than to offer empty platitudes—but his eyes soften as he watches her gaze flicker across the sea of young faces. The vulnerability in her expression is fleeting, quickly replaced by the hardened mask she wears so well.

Effie Trinket’s bright, artificial voice snaps Y/N out of her thoughts as the Capitol representative prances onto the stage. Her garish outfit, all glitter and frills, stands in stark contrast to the muted tones of District Twelve. Effie’s smile is painted on, too wide and too perfect, and Y/N can’t help but resent her for it.

As the first name is drawn, Y/N braces herself. The voice announcing the girl’s name doesn’t register as Y/N stares at the small figure stepping forward. She looks no older than twelve, her pigtails bobbing with each shaky step. Y/N’s fists clench at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.

The boy’s name comes next—another child, barely a teenager. He stumbles as he makes his way to the stage, his eyes darting to his family in the crowd. Y/N forces herself to remain composed, but her stomach churns violently. She knows what awaits them. She knows the terror, the bloodshed, the inevitability of it all. And she hates the fact there’s nothing she can do to save them.

Haymitch notices her jaw tightening, the slight tremble in her hands. Without thinking, he places a hand on her arm, a brief gesture of solidarity. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t acknowledge it either.

When the Reaping concludes, the group heads to the train station. Y/N walks ahead, her pace brisk as if putting distance between herself and the Reaping Square might also rid her of the memories. Haymitch lingers behind with Effie, who chatters about Capitol festivities and the importance of appearances. He tunes her out, his eyes fixed on Y/N’s retreating figure.

On the train, Y/N sits across from the Tributes in the dining car, her posture rigid. She studies them for a moment, her gaze unreadable. They’re too young for this—too small, too scared. She takes a breath before speaking, her tone measured but blunt. “Listen, I’m not gonna sugarcoat this for you. The odds aren’t in your favor. They never are for kids like us.” The boy flinches at her words, but she presses on. “But that doesn’t mean you give up. You fight. You use whatever skills you’ve got to stay alive.” The two of them stare at her with wide eyes, like they were expecting someone much warmer. “Tomorrow we’ll go over what you guys are good at, but for tonight just… find a way to relax.”

Haymitch watches her closely, noting the way she softens her voice ever so slightly as she speaks. She’s trying, in her own way, to prepare them, to give them something to cling to. It’s not hope—she’s too jaded for that—but it’s something.

After the Tributes retire to their quarters, Haymitch, Effie, and Y/N do the same. However, the younger out of the three doesn’t stay in her room long. She tries to sleep, she really does, but her mind never stops racing. It’s almost painful the way she tosses and turns, unable to stop picturing the gruesome ways these poor kids will die. It makes her feel the ungodly urge to vomit the very little she’s eaten over the past few days.

Unable to find a moment of peace, Y/N walks out of her room, mindlessly wandering around the train car until she ends up back in the dining room. Her sock clad feet carry her to the small cushioned bench in front of the window, the moon shining brightly through it.

She sits down, staring out the window as the scenery blurs by. She’s tired—bone-deep weary in a way that goes far beyond the physical. Her gaze is fixed out into the night, but Haymitch knows she’s not seeing any of it. She’s somewhere else entirely, likely replaying the Reaping over and over in her head.

He watches her silently for a moment from the doorway, his hand tightening around the neck of the bottle he hasn’t yet opened. Her profile is sharp against the dim light—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid. It’s a posture he knows too well, the one people wear when they’re trying not to break. He hesitates, almost turning away, but then she exhales shakily, and something about the sound pulls him forward.

Sliding into the seat across from her, he leans back lazily, the way he always does, feigning indifference. But his eyes don’t leave her face. She doesn’t acknowledge him at first, and he doesn’t push her to speak. Instead, he just watches, the silence between them heavy but not entirely unwelcome.

Eventually, he breaks it. “You look like you’re about to set the whole damn Capitol on fire.”

She scoffs softly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in a ghost of a smile. “Not a bad idea,” she mutters, still staring out the window. “Might solve some of our problems.”

He chuckles, the sound dry but genuine. “You’d probably do it, too. Wouldn’t even think twice.”

“Why should I?” she snaps, finally turning to face him. Her eyes are sharp, but there’s something else there, just beneath the surface—something raw and fragile. “They’ve taken everything from us. What’s left to lose?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze flicking between her face and her clenched hands. The tension in her shoulders, the fire in her voice—it’s all so painfully familiar. He recognizes it because it’s the same anger that’s burned in him for years, a constant, smoldering rage that never quite goes out.

“You still have yourself,” he says quietly, his voice steadier than she expects. “That’s worth something.”

She lets out a bitter laugh, leaning back in her seat. “Is it? Look at me, Haymitch. I’m barely holding it together. And for what? So I can watch more kids die while I stand by, pretending I can help?”

The crack in her voice guts him, though he doesn’t let it show. He shifts forward, resting his elbows on the table as his eyes lock onto hers. “You think I don’t know what that’s like?” he says, his tone sharper now. “You think I haven’t spent every damn day since my Games asking myself the same thing?”

Her breath catches, and she looks away, her throat tightening. He leans in closer, his voice softening, but the intensity in his eyes remains. “It kills me to see you like this. Destroying yourself the same way I did. You’re better than that. You’re better than me.”

Her chest tightens at his words, the rawness in them catching her off guard. She swallows hard, her gaze flickering back to him. For the first time, she sees the exhaustion etched into his face—not just physical tiredness, but the kind of weariness that comes from years of fighting battles no one else can see. And for the first time, she realizes how deeply he cares.

She doesn’t know how to respond. The anger, the frustration, the self-loathing she’s been clinging to all this time feels like it’s slipping through her fingers, replaced by something much harder to face. Vulnerability.

“I’m not better than you,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just...trying to survive, same as you.”

His eyes soften, and he leans back slightly, giving her space but never looking away. “Then stop tearing yourself apart,” he says simply. “Let me help.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and unspoken for far too long. She meets his gaze, her defenses crumbling under the weight of his sincerity. For a moment, neither of them moves, the silence stretching out like a taut wire, ready to snap.

Without thinking, he reaches out, his calloused fingers brushing against hers. The contact startles her, and she looks at him, her expression guarded.

“What are you doing?” she mutters, though her cheeks flush slightly.

“Trying to make a point,” he replies, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re not as far gone as you think. If you’d stop being so damn stubborn all the time and quit pushing people away, things wouldn’t be as hard.”

Her breath catches at his words, the rawness in his voice cutting through her defenses. She looks away, but she doesn’t pull her hand back.

“You’re being weird,” she mumbles, her tone lacking its usual sharpness. “And gross.”

He chuckles softly, a rare sound that surprises them both. “Yeah, well, you’re blushing, so who’s the weird one now?”

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she stares at him, her chest rising and falling unevenly as if she’s trying to hold herself together and failing miserably.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits, his voice rough but honest. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in her breaks at his words. She doesn’t know if it’s the exhaustion, the grief, or the sheer weight of everything they’ve both endured, but suddenly, it’s too much. She shifts forward, gripping the front of his shirt tightly as if he’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

Her lips crash into his, hesitant at first but quickly growing more urgent, more desperate. He freezes for half a second, startled by the suddenness of it, but then his hands are on her, one cupping her cheek while the other grips her waist. The kiss deepens, and she clings to him like he’s her lifeline, her anchor in the storm.

When they finally break apart, she’s breathless, her forehead resting against his as she tries to steady herself. “You’re a creep, you know that?,” she mumbles, her voice shaky but teasing.

He chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against her cheek. “You started it.”

She pulls back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his face. “Don’t make me regret this,” she murmurs, her voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

“You won’t,” he says simply, his tone laced with a confidence that surprises even him.

As the train rumbles on, the space between them feels smaller than ever, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Y/N allows herself to feel something other than anger. Something that feels a little like hope.

[crepezinhos]

Has anyone ever noticed how most (if not all) soundtrack played when you’re in Tatarasuna resembles Scaramouche? I don’t even think it was intentional, but I need to rant about it down below:

This all started when I was farming some Nobushi at Inazuma and the game tracked some of them at Tatarasuna, and there I went with my Scaramouche on-field (named Kuni btw), and then out of nowhere this melody started playing:

And if you don’t have Spotify:

It wasn’t the first time I heard this playing in my game, but now that I was finally using my Scara, I genuinely started to feel horrible, no matter if my objective was distracting me from it or not.

This song really sounds to me what would be the soundtrack playing when Scaramouche was still Kabukimono, wandering around Inazuma after his heartbreaks, trying to find a new home, or destiny while feeling empty and grief for his losses.

And specifically, when the beat ‘drops’ (because there’s no real anticipation in this music), it really sounds like the angry stage of grief, but still sounding soft and sweet just like Kabukimono was. The only moment of anger we saw coming from Kabukimono in the game was when that orphan kid died, and he was angry at that death, the world, his mother, the Archons, and himself. That’s why he immediately broke down in tears afterwards, he was in grief once again, just like this songs sounds like to my ears. But, since it does still sounds more eery and negative rather than comforting to me, I interpret this music as Kabukimono deciding to transition from Inazuma to Snezhnaya and from Kabukimono to Kunikuzushi/Scaramouche.

That’s why I felt so horrible while playing with Wanderer there. All that grief and commotion in Tatarasuna, caused because of his existence, is now just a memory in the back of his mind. No one remembers it. No one remembers the beautiful, innocent puppet boy who roamed in search of a home and his own mother and attracted the eyes of the Fatui to that cursed land. Not even Ei remembers all the pain she unintentionally led Scaramouche to suffer, which hurts the most to me. She’ll walk through those toxic lands without any notion of the suffer her own son (and the entire land) went through in there because of her neglect of him. And even if I have hopes that they’ll meet each other again, I don’t believe it would be a fair conversation (aka, Hoyoverse forgiving Ei’s actions and considerably-bad-writing in a blink just for the sake of her popularity in the fandom). And honestly, just imagining Wanderer walking through the lands of Inazuma again, after so many years and traumas, makes me sick to the stomach, specifically one where he’d be in search of his mother again like Kabukimono used to do too.

Not that I think Scaramouche shouldn’t forgive Ei, but knowing how Hoyoverse glazes her, I’m pretty sure that he’d be just be like ‘Yeah, whatever’ and Ei still wouldn’t make any efforts to compensate him due to that miserable approval.

But, going back to the point, I really do wonder if, by the time they were creating this and the other soundtracks for Tatarasuna, they had Scaramouche’s character in mind. I personally don’t believe that was their intention, but some people appear to believe on it. When I was reading the comments of the video, in search of anyone who felt the same way about that soundtrack and Scaramouche, I found this:

Another comment also pointed out that the ‘beat drop’ was a less intensified version of Scaramouche’s boss theme too (specifically in the Dominatus part). Do I personally see it? No, but both themes still sound a little similar to me in the end.

Anyway, I think this is end of my little rant about Scaramouche’s character and the sound representation of him. Hope this was somehow enjoyable to read about.

If you’re still unsure whether you understand me, I’d recommend do the same as me. Go to Tatarasuna (specifically in the forge), play the song and walk (no sprint) with Wanderer around it. Maybe that’ll make you understand, because there’s no way I’m the only who genuinely feels this emotional with Scaramouche’s lore.

Istg this man had a cultural and emotional impact on me…

[susiekern]

1. the one with the movie night

a/n: first one, a bit short probably, but hey, we need to start somewhere, not proofread like usually

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol and nicotine, probably ooc

word count: 1,504

masterlist

next

“You coming or what?” Kugisaki Nobara, your beloved roommate and best friend, barges into your room. No knocking, nothing. Usual stuff.

“One minute, damn.”

You just finished getting dressed and are now trying to get your hair into a bun, which was a harder task than you anticipated. With a deep sigh, you give up, seeing how the redhead in the doorway started to bounce her leg. Nobara was a lot of things, but patient wasn't one of them.

“Fine. Let's go.” You roll your eyes and follow the girl to your front door, grabbing a leather jacket from the hanger but ignoring two rows of shoes underneath it. Not like you'd need those anyway. Your destination for the night was a whole two steps away, apartment number 235, where your second friend, Itadori Yuji, lives.

You've met Yuji when you were kids, and your grandparents neighbors. The pink-haired menace was living with his, while you'd often stay at yours when your parents didn't feel like being ones. You've spent a good portion of your childhoods together, mostly playing video games or looking for adventures in the neighborhood. Live made you part ways when your parents got divorced, and you moved out of Tokyo with your mom.

But the universe loves funny plot twists, so when almost ten years later you inherited the 234 apartment and decided to move back to Tokyo, you found out Yuji was back also. It was like this connection you had never died, back to friends from day one. Soon after that, Nobara moved in with you, and you became a golden trio.

It was almost two years ago, and while you loved living with your bestie, Yuji wasn't as lucky. He had two roommates over these two years, and it was… eventful, to say the least.

Roomie nr. 1 was a gym rat who looked like a fucking two-door closet on legs. He'd listen to his tragic hardcore remixes from 6 am, leave sweaty clothes everywhere, and he randomly decided Yuji was his best friend in the whole world. But the last straw was interfering with Itadori’s diet. Speeches about carbs, fats, and hollow calories got him an express ticket out of the apartment.

Roommate nr. 2 seemed a lot better. For the first two days, until Yuji invited him for a drink with you and Nobara to properly introduce him to you two. Sentences that fell from his mouth that evening would embarrass the worst simps and perverts. And then his hand landed on Nobara’s thigh. Thankfully he didn't even have a chance to fully unpack his things, because throwing the boxes out in the corridor was much easier than getting every single one item.

After those two charming specimens, Yuji stopped looking for a roommate. For a few months it was just him in the apartment, his older brother stayed for a few days once in a while.

So having someone move into 235 was a big thing. When he talked with Nobara earlier, he seemed excited, both about not living alone in a big-ass apartment and about living with his best friend.

“I bet you a 10 that he's ugly.” You murmur when she knocks on the white door. Before she could answer, Yuji opened up and gestured you inside.

“It's incredible how you live right fucking here and somehow you're always late.”

Walking into the living room, you notice a man walking around the kitchen, a wooden spoon in his hand. And damn, is it hot in here? Because after quickly checking out his black, messy hair, tall figure, and black shirt wrapping his arms and back well, you could swear the temperature just went up by at least 10°. You completely ignore the conversation between Yuji and Nobara, even the part when she said it was your fault, until Yuji raises his voice to catch his new roommate’s attention too.

“Megs, this is y/l y/n and Kugisaki Nobara, our neighbors and my pink squad.” Megs, as Yuji called him, puts the pan he was holding back on the stove, wipes his hands in the towel, and moves closer.

“Fushiguro Megumi, nice to meet you both.” He gives you a polite smile and throws a towel over his shoulder. His focus quickly goes to the bags that Yuji took from Nobara’s hands, helping to unpack drinks and snacks onto the island that separates the kitchen and living areas.

You decide to settle on the big plush couch, as Nobara grabs a can of beer and sits on a bar stool, tapping on her phone. The moment she puts it down on the marble counter, your own phone vibrates.

You were now at the end of the second movie of the night, and there was only one thing on your mind. As stunning as Megumi is, he is equally annoying. The first movie went nicely, the four of you talking through it. Usual stuff when you just met someone and want to learn more. How did you and Yuji meet? Where did you live before? What do you do for a living? That’s where somehow it all went wrong. When you said you’re a streamer, he looked at you with raised eyebrows and went, “for a living?” his voice laced with disbelief and sarcasm. And when he said he’s a guitarist and vocalist, you couldn’t stop yourself from repeating his words. Something that Yuji or Nobara would take as a joke, but apparently doing so when you just met someone wasn’t “nice.” After that, you almost got into a fistfight when Yuji tried to make the situation better and suggested you have a similar taste in music. This asshole dared to comment on one of your favorite bands, you bit back. Somehow even going for a smoke on the balcony turned into a squabble. That one’s on you, though, and your joke about slim cigarettes being called “pussy sticks” by you and Nobara when you saw the pack in his hand. Megumi just pointed at your vape, lifted one brow, and said, “look who’s talking”. The most annoying part? He acts normal and civil when talking to Nobara. Which means he’s not just an asshole in general, he doesn’t like you specifically. Rude. You all (Yuji and Nobara) decide to call the night early, hoping it was just a one-time clash of personalities and next time would be better. Except it’s not.

“He’s such an asshole!” There’s a redhead sticking out of the bathroom door when you shut the front door closed behind you and make a very loud, statement. Your roommate starts laughing at the sight of you, your flushed cheeks and body leaning on the wooden surface like you’re making sure it stays shut. “I’ll take a wild guess and assume you mean Fushiguro?” She asks, coming out of the bathroom. “Ding ding, you just won the game.” You sigh, maybe a bit too dramatically, and move to the living room to throw yourself face flat on the couch. Nobara follows you, waiting patiently for the explanation, knowing she’ll get it. You’d probably blow up without an occasion to vent, especially when it includes the black-haired man. For the past week, you’ve met him a few times, either in the corridor, when Yuji invited you for a pizza, or when you all went to grab a coffee from a nearby cafe. Each time was filled with you and Megumi going back and forth, throwing sarcastic comments like it was your actual job. “I went to remind Yuji about a stream, I go in, and he’s making food. Shirtless. Who on earth cooks without a shirt on? He has the audacity to tell me to take a photo so it lasts longer, like a classic fuckboy from books. AND THEN when I politely asked if he could remind Yuji about tonight, he said sure, he’ll tell him I want to play games together in the evening. That’s my fucking job!” When you finish talking, you wait for a minute for Nobara to show support, but she’s silent like never before. Lifting your head from the plushy pillow, you narrow your eyes on her, standing near you, hand covering her mouth, stopping the laughter. “Traitor.” “Sorry, sorry.” She wipes the non-existent tear from her eye and straightens up. “Did you stare at him cooking?” “Do I look like a simp to you?” “That’s not an answer.” With another fit of laughter, she dodges the pillow you throw her way and escapes back to the bathroom to finish her makeup. You weren’t staring at him. You were just... shocked. Yeah. Partially by the fact he was cooking like that, partially by how good his body was. You’ve noticed his arm muscles back during the infamous movie night, but you somehow didn’t expect his whole body to look… like that. Most men in Japan were skinny, with little to no muscles, so seeing washboard abs and a wide back like his wasn’t exactly unpleasant. Okay, maybe you stared a bit. Fuck.

[shiggysimp69]

Okay, I have a new story in the works with multiple chapters. And the first chapter is done so I wanna give a seek peek 🩷. (I won't be posting it until the second chapter is done so I can keep up with it better.)

This is Weird Little Gamer Boy Tomura x Bimbo Reader. Title pending 😅.

Tw: Tomura keeps looking at Reader's boobs.

——————————————————————

Time passed just like that for a while. You invested in your show and Tomura nose deep in his phone. You don't know what distracted you but something caught your attention, making you turn away from the TV. Your gaze fell upon Tomura’s game. The pixelated graphics and effects captivated you in a way you never thought possible. You watched as he skillfully defeated every villain in his way, solved puzzles, and even found secrets. You didn't know games could be so exciting. All the ones you'd seen were so meaningless. Bright and colorful, but there was nothing underneath. They were hollow. This game was made with care and it showed. Before you knew it, you were along for the ride. Your body pressed up against his, attempting to get a better look. The instant you touched him, Tomura mentally froze. His fingers still absentmindedly played along but his brain was reeling. He could feel your plush chest against his arm and your breath on his neck. It was driving him crazy. Your boobs practically spilled out of your top, allowing him to start sneaking glances at your cleavage. Glances eventually turned into stares as his mouth started salivating.

“Oh!” You exclaimed, your acrylic nails digging into his forearm.

“You died!”

Tomura's attention snapped back to his device, the "game over" screen flashing on his phone. A hint of frustration crossed his features but quickly dissipated under your touch.

“Ah, I'm sorry.”

You suddenly realized just how close you'd gotten to him, you releasing his arm and scooting away from him. Everything felt cold after that. Once he learned how good it felt to be held by you, he was hooked. It was like someone pulled a blanket off of him or turned on a light in a dark room. That desperate need for comfort to be restored as soon as possible. He needed you against him, under him, in him. He never felt like this before. Even in his loneliest moments. None compared to this, this wasn't loneliness. It was much, much deeper than that.

“It's okay.”

Tomura bit his lip.

“...You can watch.”

Your eyes lit up.

“Really!?” You asked, turning towards him. You leaned forward, pressing your palms down against the couch. He once again had a clear shot of your tits. He licked his lips.

“Yeah.”

You squealed, scooting back next to him.

——————————————————————

[kpop-with-mars]

|12 Days of Drabbles|Day 11: Winter Waltz|

{King!San x Male!Servant!Reader}

{Plot; it's the first winter celebration without San's wife, the queen, and he realizes just how much his most trusted servant has done for him.}

{Word count; 682}

{Tags; Royal AU, Fluff, King san, brief mentions of grief, san has a daughter.}

Once San felt the embrace of frost and the crunch of snow under his boots, he allowed himself to breathe, his breath becoming another part of the hollow cold. This garden was her favorite place, and after her death he didn't dare let any of the flowers wither or die: he wouldn't even let the gardeners touch anything and took it upon himself to keep his queen's flowers alive. And in frost they were frozen as if in a portrait. He took a moment to breathe back in the frost and flowers before he told a guard to fetch Y/N and to give them privacy once he was here.

“You called, majesty?” San turned to the sound of his servant's voice; Y/N's posture was straight in respect as always when hearing directly from the king. San stepped closer to him across the snow, his smile the warm thing among frost. “I saw how you have made everything for the ball; you have done me well… My queen would've been as proud as I am of you.” Y/N smiled and bowed his head in thanks; he felt like his father when he was a servant to San's father, when San and Y/N were just tiny tots in this big kingdom. “I thank you very much, your majesty.” San felt his service wasn't done out of fear or out of personal reward; Y/N truly seemed to care for the king and the little princess. “Take the rest of the night off; enjoy the festivities you worked so hard to plan. Maybe find yourself a partner for the waltz.” The younger man didn't seem too taken aback by his king’s generosity; he knew how gracious he was, how he resolved an entire war after the queen died. It was like a checkmate in a game of chess; a king couldn't bring himself to go through more war without the reward of his queen's embrace.

  ⋆༄⋆❅.𖥔 ݁ ⋆ ˚❆

As the dinner at the winter celebration had finished, San saw all of the young ladies of the kingdom look for their partners, but mostly they all wished for the king to take their hand in the waltz. Word spread during the celebration that San was looking for a new ruler to aid in leading his kingdom, and that's why he had invited all that could come. So before the waltz started, San stood and began to speak. “I am pleased to see my kingdom before me, grand, healthy, and flourishing in beauty as always. May we all be gathered here in hope of another gracious year, and blessed be each of you this harsh winter...”

San began to walk through the people in the ballroom, all bowing and parting a path for their king, and once he made it to the person he wished to dance with, he bowed his head to them and offered his hand to him. “Will you do me the honor of beginning the waltz?” He said to Y/N, the poor young man almost looking mortified at the way the king paid respect to a mere servant like him. “I—Your Majesty, I have done nothing to gain your hand; why me?” San looked up to Y/N, clasping his hands over one of his, leaving barely enough space between the two of their bodies. “You and your father before you have held this kingdom from the brink of collapse; you have done everything to deserve my respect... as well as my hand.” Y/N, too shocked to speak further, took hold of the king's shoulders. San held the servant close to himself before signaling for the orchestra to start the waltz.

The guests spun like snowflakes in the air as they waltzed in sync on the ballroom floor, but the most noticeable were the king and the servant, San, sparkling in gold and snow white. Y/N complimented him more than anyone else in the castle with the blue and silver colors of his clothes. San soon realized that just because this was the first winter without the queen didn't mean it was the only lonely one as well.

[toximblee]

hello smeefo nation ,,, new fic alert ???

ao3 has yet to send me an invite email so ill be posting this fic here :3 very inspired by 'feral love' by bdoubleds on ao3 !!! i wouldnt say its to the point of a rewrite but i thought the fire metaphor was too good not to try out ,,, absolutely open to criticism, but pls try to keep it polite :D i copied the text str8 from my word doc so the formatting is a little off in some areas for some reason :( word count : 967

              Etho was burning. He was being swallowed by it. Flames licking at every bit of his body, consuming. The red and yellow of his bone marrow was blackening, charring with the outside, crumbling off in pieces.

              Being red was smoldering him alive, and he wanted more. Uncontrollable. The forest fire in him would engulf everything in its path, taking him with it.

              The flame in his chest didn’t start out blue-hot and rising. Episode 1, as he was spawned into the Game, something was gnawing at his upper torso like someone had taken a diamond pick between his pecs and hollowed him out. Then he met Joel in the mines. Playing around, joking about how he was so disappointed. Beside the hole, a small, supine red candle-flame flourished to life.

              Then Joel built him the ‘Relation’ ship. The fire swelled, crackling orange and marigold. Joel’s hand fit perfectly in his as he dragged him along, and so did he himself inside the soulmate-shaped cave in his chest. With Joel above him that night, Etho took to memorizing every mole and freckle on his skin, and all the constellations they linked together to make. Committing to memory very scar and discolouration, and the sandy beaches and crashing, rolling, foamy waves that consisted of them.

              Etho began to fall in love with everything Joel did. With Joel. With the green streak in his bangs, how he stuck out his tongue in concentration while belatedly redying the clump of hair yellow in the Relation after their Joel-enderman caused death. With his little cackle-giggles. With how he softened the ‘th’ in Etho’s name to a ‘f’ as a result of his lisp.

He too, softened around Joel, trusting him so far as to close his eyes as his soulbound would pluck arrows out of his body from the pillagers and smear an herbal ointment stretched with an awkward potion over the openings. Relaxed as he woke in the early mornings to Joel beside him. Thanked his mask for hiding any sort of embarrassing emotion after Joel traced the scar across his one red eye with tender, feather-light fingertips. Not that it did too much for him, as the tips of his pointed ears would flush pink-red occasionally. Traitorous things.

The transparent string of the fishing rod wrapped around Joel as he was tugged up. Unable to clutch, he plummeted.

<Smallishbeans> fell from a high place

<Etho died>               Joel’s eyes had turned to red after they respawned.

“They killed me, Etho. They killed me.”

Red. Red. They were Red.

Yellow. Canary. White-hot.

Joel chased Pearl down, who was clutching his chestplate. He sliced at her with his diamond axe before she died and her items exploded out across the moonlit grass, the blue-teal of the head of his axe shimmering with red.

Red.

“Shouldn’t have messed with us, Pearl! Shouldn’t have messed with us!” Joel cried as he laughed and took his items back.

The others started scrambling and fleeing. Cowards. Etho’s gaze connected with one before they’d left.               ‘You really let him do that?’

Etho’s eyes conveyed a message of their own.

‘You think I can control anything he does?’

Nah. He was just along for the ride. Joel was an unstoppable force. No immoveable object would even slow him. He didn’t let Joel do anything. He simply watched, strapped into the rollercoaster that was his soulmate. The most he could do was throw his arms up and laugh along.

“You do have it, we’ve been- we’ve been told you have it, you just lied through your teeth to us,” manic, frenzied red eyes focused in on Scar as Joel cornered him, diamond axe to his throat, “do you wanna lie to a red-name, Scar?”

Nervous laughs, attempted de-escalation from Grian.

“Oh, you don’t have any sugarcane, huh, Grian?” Etho felt the red curse biting as he walked towards Grian, “No sugarcane?”

He reveled at the laugh and hiss through his teeth he heard Joel make, teeth bared under his mask mirroring the sharp grin of his soulbound’s that he knew was boring into his back. Joel had changed him, or perhaps it was the curse, or both, and he had to tug himself back from slicing at Grian, from watching the crimson flower bloom and blossom and pour out.

Etho had never been red for long before in the Life Games. His series always ended soon after. This, this was different. He was with the infamous Red Joel. He was alive, and the red curse was swirling in his brain, and he’d wake up in the middle of the night, crazed for blood.

The Games tinkered with everyone’s brains, especially when the end of them were close. Everything became more lucid, nothing seemed real. It made people do stupid things. Too stupid.

They burned the ship.

Blue. Perano.

“The ship burns, everything burns! The ship burns, everything burns!” Joel yelled, chanting hysterically as he sprinted across the server, flint and steel in hand as he set fire to anything in his path.

The ship had burned. Everything would burn.

The yellow streak in Joel’s hair was red. Smeared, having been dyed from soaking up the blood of his kills.

Joel screamed, groaning, growling after he’d killed Scott. His red eyes glowed. If Etho looked too long, too hard, he could spot the flames flickering behind them.

“Etho, they trapped it, get back through!” Joel’s voice was shaky for once, not with mania, but with fear. He sputtered incoherently as his hands scrambled, latching onto Etho.

And they laughed. Foreheads pressed together. Laughed.

<Etho> tried to swim in lava

<Smallishbeans> burned to death

The flame in Etho’s chest mixed with the lava, dwindling, flickering out, as did the ones behind Joel’s irises.

After all.

The ship burns, everything burns. Including them.

[mid-stars]

Dan heng x reader

Lingering moment

Today fated at last. .. Across the Aeons and the stars.. You finally died.

The moment of your death was no news towards others.. Especially not to dan Heng.. Dan Heng... Your friend, your lover.. Your home...

Home... "Home will always be whenever we are together" is what you would say.. But you were gone.. No longer around to see him, to see them..

"Dan Heng." Himeko held his shoulder, he didn't say a word. Himeko nodded and left him be. The funeral was held during a special day, your anniversary. Dan Heng held onto your favourite flowers, grown and fresh just by him. Even the stellaron hunters came by to see your death.

Despite blade's longing for it.. He knew you were a great companion to all of them. Despite all of their wrongdoings you never hated them and helped them in a way. Sneak out sessions with silver wolf, shopping with Kafka, and even death talks with blade.. It was a shame you had left them.

Dan Heng had forgotten when your death had started. One moment he was in your arms, the next you were in his. You were just a grasp away and he failed.. He failed. Failed. Failed...

The first month was hard, he didn't eat until he was forced to, became even more silent, locked himself in your room, and wouldn't stop giving you simple notes.

The second month was a bit better, he came out a little more, ate regularly, talked a bit more and went into your room less. But even so, everyone could see the hollow in his eyes.

A knock was on the door when he was looking into your room "who is it?" He said with hidden annoyance "dan Heng, I found a letter for you" himeko said while sliding in some mail under the door for him. He picked it up.

---

From : [name]

To : Dan heng

---

Dan Heng slowly opened it, afraid it might break like a gentle glass. He squeezed the paper as he read through the words

----

Dear dan Heng.

You might have noticed that by the time you've received this letter. I may have already died. A pity, I had wished a long life with you.. I know how you'd react to this "[name], stop playing around" and so on and so forth. I loved every moment with you. The way you would cup my cheeks, the way you would slowly kiss me through the maple trees.. Oh how I've missed you.. But you've missed me more..

Remember the day where you first board the express? It was a delightful day.. The day you found a home.. Home.. Home will always be wherever you and I are together.. But I cannot be your home forever dan Heng..

You love me right? Then grant me my last wish. Live on a life without me dan Heng.. Don't hold back the things you want to do just because you miss me.. Because I would be heartbroken to see you like that...

XOXO hellebore.

----

"Dan Heng! What are you reading?" March exclaims as she tries to grab the paper "It's nothing of concern, March." Dan Heng puts the paper back in the envelope leaving March and the trailblazer dumbfounded. Right.. Your death was only a year ago

"Well... Whatever. Dan heng, Mr. Yang sent us to tell you we found a new recruit" the trailblazer says as they played their game. Dan Heng nodded, and kept putting his other files away. "We'll send the new recruit here, so you'll be able to have a little chat" March says as they both ran out of the room

Dan Heng scrolls back to the memory file you both had created for yourselves, one where he first was on the express, the first date, the second date, first month anniversary, your birthday, and "and you've kept your promise.."

Dan Heng turned around to see.. You.. "I'm back..." You smile.

-------

Hellebore flowers usually grow next to maple trees. And it is symbolized to be a meaning of peace, serenity and tranquility.