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irisintheafterglow · 2 days ago

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touya todoroki completes community service hours at an aquarium.

your supervisors, understandably, were adamantly against having the convicted criminal anywhere near the facility, its staff, and its animals. however, after being reassured time and time again that he wouldn't be working in public areas, you were assigned to be his unofficial parole officer (or off-fish-er you called it) because of your hydrokinetic quirk. not only were you responsible for watching a criminal, you were also the first line of defense in case he decided to make the facility into a seafood boil.

you'd better be getting a stellar letter of recommendation after all this.

as luck would have it, word spread quickly among aquarium staff about the new volunteer and his...messy...history. you received many texts wishing you good luck and stating that you're in many people's prayers as if working with him would be a death sentence. but, to your surprise, your first day with touya is actually...not terrible.

"you're doing a nice job. you can cut them into larger chunks if you want," you recommend kindly as he slices pieces of shrimp and fish for the penguins and drops them into the gray bucket.

"don't want them to choke," he mumbles almost imperceptibly. from what you've heard about him, touya was physically incapable of shutting up and always had some snarky insult to mutter under his breath. the man you were working with, however, kept his thoughts to himself and only engaged you with curt acknowledgments of tasks. "these got bones in 'em still?"

"digestible ones, yeah," you confirm, a little confused about why he's so curious. he struck you as the type of guy to just work and finish his assignments with as little energy exertion as possible. but here he was, concerned for the animals' safety even when he hadn't even seen them yet. "we just need to cut them up because some of them try to swallow the big ones whole, and we don't need them blocking their throats."

"how many are there?"

"the penguins?" he hums in assent, never taking his eyes off the precise cuts on the food. "i think our colony is a few dozen, maybe twenty-two?"

"do they get along well?"

"some of them are a little feistier than others," you admit with a fond smile. "but the majority of them are really sweet. you'll see when you meet them."

"meet them?"

"you're not walking out with me, of course," you quickly correct. "my shift lead's gonna have my head on a stake if you so much as show a finger to the public." he nods, an odd sort of quiet falling between you two that was more awkward than the previous silence. if you knew any better, you would interpret his expression for disappointment. "there's one recovering from an illness backstage named peach. she gets fed on her own, but if there's some left over i can take you over there to feed her."

"it's fine. don't wanna bother your routine," he mutters with a shrug, but you catch the renewed glint in his eyes at the prospect of meeting one of the animals personally. after feeding the main colony and not-so-accidentally leaving a few treats at the bottom of the bucket, touya follows you through the back halls of the vet center to peach's holding area.

"be warned, she's one of the feisty ones," you caution him, carefully stepping into the plexiglass-enclosed space. he copies your motions exactly and you're surprised, again, from the great care he seems to take when interacting with the small penguin. "so, all you need to do is hand out the fish to her and let her take it in her beak."

"does she dislike new people?" he asks as peach aggressively inspects his shins, prodding them with her beak when touya tries to step away. "i don't think she likes me."

"it's the opposite, believe it or not; you're making her angry when you try to give her space like that," you reply with a stifled laugh.

"oh. i see." peach continues to slap touya with her fins and poke him until he gives her what she wants, a large chunk of fish straight from his hand. you kneel down next to him when he has a seat on the floor, his eyes curiously observing the spunky bird. "she always this sassy with you?"

"only when she gets jealous," you smile, running your hand over the top of her head. her eyes close in contentment before returning to touya's outstretched food offering. "what do you think?"

"about what?"

"do you think this arrangement is gonna be a nightmare for you?" he pauses and, for the millionth time that day, surprises you with how much thought he put into his actions.

"if everyone i meet is as easy as you and her," he says, gesturing to peach but speaking soft enough to make your cheeks heat, "i think i'll get by."

---

"peach duty today?"

"schedule got mixed around, so we'll be giving her dinner instead of lunch today," you reply and touya hums at your side, an answer that could be considered rude if you didn't already know he was a man of few words.

few words, that is, if he was speaking to anyone other than the animals. after a month of touya shadowing you, you could pick up on the little conversations he had with the different animals he took care of: asking the cownose rays to calm down during feeding time, warning the reef sharks that they might need braces if they keep losing so many teeth (he kept forgetting it was normal for them to lose that many teeth), quietly cheering on the day octopus as he breaks into a jar full of crabs.

"who've we got today?"

"took a hell of a lotta convincing, but my boss is letting you meet my best friend today," you inform him. touya walks in step beside you like he'd memorized the fishy-smelling back halls of the aquarium, barely sparing passing wary staff so much as a glance. you'd be intimidated, too, if he wasn't your partner; he was formidable in his favorite blue windbreaker with his hands stuffed casually in its pockets that subtly accented the lean muscle in his arms. not that you were paying much attention to his body, anyway.

"and who would that be?"

"her name is donna, but i call her mama donna." he follows you down a corridor he'd never taken before, toward the very back of the medical wing. "take that hall on the right and change into a wetsuit; i'll meet you back over here, okay?"

"why do i need to change?"

"well, because you're getting in the water with me."

shit.

it's the first time touya hesitates in a long time when you beckon him to join you in the shallow pool. you'd already summoned donna, who was much larger of an animal than he expected. you said she was an adult zebra shark, but all he could register is the tiny tank of brown sacks the size of his hand just outside the walls of the pool.

"i don't think it's the best--"

"get in the water, touya, or i'm gonna report you for insubordination," you interrupt, waist-deep in the water. you don't mean it, of course, but you did need a hand with donna if you were going to check on the status of her eggs.

"i shouldn't be in the water with her, 'specially if she's a mother."

"what, you got something against moms?" he flinches and you suddenly regret speaking so brashly, something about his reaction indicating that you'd hit a nerve. "sorry, that was insensitive--"

"i don't wanna hurt her if i..." his voice trails off and he looks down at his scarred hands, the tissue dark enough to almost match the color of his wetsuit. "it's better for everyone if i don't get close to her if she's vulnerable." you wait for him to look you dead in the eyes before answering.

"i wouldn't bring you to meet her if i didn't think you were ready, touya," you begin gently. "i don't think of you the same way as the rest of the staff because you've proven that you're different from the gossip."

"but what if i--"

"did you forget why i'm paired with you in the first place?" donna swims around you impatiently, nudging you with her nose while you continue to convince touya to get in the water. "i'm the only one on staff that can neutralize you, but i know i won't need to."

"how are you so sure?"

"because i hear you talk to them," you state simply, rubbing your hand on donna's nose as her tail splashes your upper body. "your little conversations tell me you care, even if i'm not allowed to be a part of them." you shoot him a wry smile and he finally scoffs, partly a chuckle and partly an exhale; he didn't realize he'd been holding his breath. "i'll drown you if you heat this water by even half a degree, so help me with donna and then we can go visit peach, yeah?"

---

you'd fallen into an unexpectedly fond partnership over the course of your six months of touya-duty. he was a pretty damn good listener, letting you boss him this way and that and only retaliating with a lighthearted eyeroll. on certain occasions, he would open up about his history, and you followed along intently. he insisted on doing the heavy lifting and opening every door for you, even if you weren't carrying anything. he remembered every animal by name and could tell apart the most similar looking creatures, pointing out their differences with an expression that screamed 'is it not obvious?' towards the end of his assignment, you both faced an unexpected surprise.

his family came to visit.

well, not all of his family, only the ones touya maintained somewhat of a relationship with. in the times he'd opened up, he briefly mentioned his now-graduated little brother, shoto, and the work he'd done to mend the tears between him, his mother, and his other siblings. you consider it a blessing that only his mother and siblings appear when you round the corner to the 'vip only' waiting area (from your talks, you'd also learned it'd be on sight if touya's retired father stepped on the property). he freezes when he sees his family as the guests who would be shadowing him, becoming uncharacteristically stiff as petrified wood.

"welcome, todoroki family. i'm so glad you could join us today," you greet with a polite smile. only when your hand gently settles on touya's shoulder, the reminder of your presence melting the chill in his veins, does the tension in his body dissipate. "touya? d'you wanna introduce me to your family?" he glances at you, your unwavering trust in him, and his eyes soften as he nods.

"yeah," he affirms quietly. "yeah, i can do that."

"doing great, partner," you whisper once you're acquainted with the family and on the move, heading toward the back halls of the tropical gallery. "i'll only talk if you need me to, today, because i want this to be about you and them."

"but you're not gonna leave me, right?"

"wouldn't dream of it," you reassure him, something in your heart stumbling when he gives you an easy smile. as the day goes on and touya guides his family through the back corridors of the facility, he's able to ramble about all the knowledge he'd acquired while working with you. at each exhibit, he points out every species with total accuracy and shares his favorite quirks about certain animals. you have a front-row seat for the way his eyes, usually so molten and intense, have a star-like quality to them when he talks about his new friends, the abalone and the otters and the sea bass. his family observes him in awe, and you catch his mother watching you watch him several times. touya ends the day by introducing peach, his self-proclaimed 'number one girl,' and helping his family with her nightly feeding. though all the todoroki siblings struck you as reserved when you first met them, their conversations were full of life as they walked ahead and you trailed behind with his mother.

"this suits him," rei states with a thoughtful smile.

"i'm biased, but i agree," you reply. she fixes you again with that curious stare, analyzing you. "do i have fish scales on my face?" she laughs and shakes her head.

"no, i'm just indebted to you for getting through to him." you blink, taken aback by her genuine response. "being with you makes him happy. i haven't seen him like this in a long while." she turns back to her children, walking in one raucous group and making plans to get dinner after his shift. "he doesn't talk with them like this often."

"i imagine it's all a mother would want after everything they've been through, if i may," you add and she hums in agreement.

"it is. it's also why, i hope you wouldn't mind," she trails off and her eyebrows pinch slightly, like she's thinking of something worrisome. "if he could stay here."

"of course. i've noticed that he has a knack for husbandry, so--"

"he wants to stay with you," she cuts in, her voice soft as powdered snow. "and i'd like him to stay with you, if it means we can see him more like--"

"this," you finish for her, gesturing to the pile of adult men wrestling each other just ahead, their sister shaking her head from afar. rei sighs, her smile turning sad.

"exactly." before you can give her your reply, touya has escaped his brothers and approached to steal you from his mother.

"if you take those double doors and turn left, you'll end up in the gift shop. wait there and we can get dinner once i'm off," he tells rei, taking her hand and squeezing it once. "i won't be long." she nods and joins her other children, leaving you alone with touya in front of the staff-only window of the sea lion pool. the fading afternoon light catches in the water's rippling and sends a soft beam of light across the cavern. the largest of the lions, boris, floats from below to observe you and touya standing in front of his tank.

"he moves like a slinky," touya states and you can't help but laugh.

"he does move like a slinky, you're right." you turn to him and find he's already looking back at you, not boris. "i loved meeting your family today," you offer in the silence that makes the heartbeat in your ears sound so much louder. "they're very sweet, especially your mother."

"what were you two talking about while we were away?"

"she wanted to show me baby photos," you tease and he gives his signature eyeroll. "but really," you inhale and steady yourself, "she was saying how much this suits you."

"i'd have to agree," he murmurs, his eyes glowing like dying embers. you're close enough to smell him, smoky and rich and only the slightest bit like fish. the proximity feels comforting, like home. "if...if you'd let me--"

"stay with me," you blurt. he blinks at you, the rosy color on the tips of his ears standing out against the bright white. "i-i want you to stay with me." you wait and the quiet stews, nothing moving except slinky-like boris in the water beside you. touya's reply is barely above a whisper.

"i want to stay with you." you release a shaky exhale and let your head fall forward against his chest, steadied by his arms securing themselves around your waist. your hands slide over his shoulders and rest at the nape of his neck, fiddling with the tuft of hair at its base. "please let me stay with you," he breathes in your ear. his arms flex as his grip tightens, like you'd turn to water if he held you too loosely. touya feels like his heart is rattling in his ribcage, bouncing around uncontrollably the longer he has you in his arms. he hasn't felt his chest ache like this before.

"yes, i want you to stay with me," you confirm and he melts into you, breathing you in like fresh oxygen.

"for how long?"

"as long as you'd let me," you answer honestly. the corner of his mouth turns upward in a teasing smirk.

"and if i said forever?"

"then i guess i'd have to oblige," you beam. your hands cup his face, tracing the seam of his scars, and your eyes flutter shut as his lips meet yours. it's careful, the first time he kisses you, and he's terrified you'd slip from his fingers. but you don't disappear, so he lets himself lace your fingers with his and drag you out to the rest of his loved ones, hand-in-hand and finally feeling like he can do something good.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#FAWKKKKKK i miss him so badly it's not even funny anymore #as our birthday draws closer i am once again reminded that....he is not real.....#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #touya x reader #touya x you #touya x y/n #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n #mha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n

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thoughtfulfiction · 2 days ago

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Full of Surprises

Author’s note: My first Joe request from a gorgeous anon! Hope you, my angel @emmyblues and all the other New Years babies had an amazing birthday!!!

Pancakes. Waffles. Is both too much? A little fruit on the side? Should he have bacon on the plate? What about eggs?

“Joe,” he snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of a perturbed voice. “What should I make? I’d like to know today, please.”

The man continues walking around the kitchen, running through the plan in his head. It’s honestly causing him more effort than most of his pregame prep. Football was easy, it was x’s and o’s, utilizing his cadence and dissecting some of the best defenses the league has ever seen. Simple things. Planning the perfect birthday wasn’t exactly something he’d practiced his entire life but it was the first one he’d be spending with you living together so he was willing to try his best to make it unforgettable.

“Okay,” he places his hands on the counter, facing his chef. The first order of business for the day was to deliver you breakfast in bed but he loved you too much to make you sit through a meal he cooked. So he called in a professional to start the day off on the right foot. “Chocolate chip pancakes. Final answer.”

“Thank you,” his chef Morgan cracks a tiny smile, patting Joe on the back. “Relax man, she’s gonna love it. If anything, today might be a little over the top but hey—I’d go all out for my girl too.”

That did nothing to ease his worries. He made his way to the living room to touch up some of the decorations and make sure that the layout is how he pictured it in his mind. He thinks for a second, laughing to himself about how you’re still peacefully sleeping upstairs and he’s running around like a headless chicken. By the time he’s putting on the finishing touches, the food is ready and he needs to wake you up so you have time to eat and spend a little time together before he has to leave for practice.

You wake up to the most delicate kisses peppering your face, your neck, your collarbone. Trying to ignore it, you pull the covers over your face but your morning energy, or lack thereof, is no match for him. He easily takes the comforter away, pulling you in close enough to have his mouth back on your skin, kissing your shoulder. Each gentle touch enhances the beautiful wake-up call.

“Good morning sunshine,” he states calmly, “happy birthday.”

You hum tiredly, opening your eyes to ogle at him in all of his glory. His icy blue eyes peering into your soul, the way his arm muscles clench while holding onto the tray full of food that he sets in your lap. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of this view, of being in his orbit…as long as you live. And he’s completely dedicated to making this entire day all about you. “Thank you baby,” you cover your mouth and back away when he leans in, “morning breath?”

Joe scoffs, “come here woman,” he grabs you by your legs, wrapping them around his waist and reaching over to present the most perfect platter of pancakes you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Thank you! You didn’t have to wake up extra early and do all this,” you give him a very quick peck, immediately digging in.

He takes a piece of fruit off of your plate and pops it into his mouth, “thank Morgan actually. I didn’t make any of it. But…I do have big plans for you today.”

“Oh you do?”

Joe nods, grabbing your fork so he can feed you. He sat there and helped you finish the plate, giving you a kiss after each bite. Once you were finished, he let you brush your teeth before pulling out a blindfold.

“This is a bit kinky…” you trail off as the light is replaced with complete and utter darkness. Joe gently ties the blindfold after wrapping it around your head and waving his hand in front of your face to make sure you can’t see.

“Maybe I’ll save it for later,” Joe growls into your ear, playfully smacking your butt before grabbing your hand slowly walking the two of you out of the room.

The gentle padding of his feet on the ground, leading you down the stairs is the one thing you can focus on. You knew he was only leading you to the living room but you really don’t mind trusting blindly to hold your hand through life and wherever it may take you.

Light comes back to your world when your boyfriend takes off the blindfold, his mischievous smile making an appearance.

“Joseph…what did you do?”

He puts his hands up, looking at you like he has no clue what you’re talking about. The entire living room is covered in balloons, two giant gold numbers depicting your age sit on the couch, surrounded by a array of lavish gift bags. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Joe rushes out, taking long strides toward the doorway and coming back with his hands behind his back. The birthday hat you made him wear a few weeks ago is suddenly now on your head and he takes a picture of you in the middle of the room and you feel like you’ve just won a spelling bee. “You can take it off now if you want, I promised my mom I’d get you back for making me wear the stupid hat. But you look good in the stupid hat so it’s not as funny.”

“Aw you’re so sweet,” you tell him with a laugh, kissing him on the cheek as he hands you the first gift.

The first three bags are Bvlgari. A complete matching set containing a ring, necklace and a bracelet. All gold. The next bag is Gucci, an ivory bucket hat.

“I have the same one in black. Figured we could match,” Joe shrugs, handing you the next one.

Calf length leather boots, with red bottoms. Then another pair of boots, which could be considered more casual since they’re Chelsea boots…except they’re Prada. And of course, he got you the Prada travel bag you mentioned in passing nearly a month ago. “Thank you. You really did not have to get me all this stuff. All of this is beautiful and so thoughtful.”

You wrap your arms around him, hugging him tight and giving him a tender kiss on the lips. “What did I do in my past life to deserve you?”

Most of your early relationship you tried to be firm in letting him know you weren’t with him for the stuff he can buy you. Over time as the trust and love continued to build between you two, you realized that it wasn’t the end of the world to be pampered and showered with gifts every now and then, internal cringing less at the thought of the prices at the end of his gift receipts. The man seemed satisfied with how his first two surprises had gone, letting you know that your friend Ryan was on her way to pick you up as soon as he was gone for practice. Every detail had been carefully planned out so you wouldn’t be alone and bored while he was gone.

As soon as he was out the door you took your time getting ready, putting your new items away in their respective places. Ryan texted you that she was on her way after you got out of the shower, not telling you where you were headed so you opted for minimal makeup and a casual but cute outfit and some sneakers in case there was walking involved.

The surprise ended up being an extensive spa treatment. A 75 minute deep tissue massage and a Vitamin C facial. Then there was the mani-pedi, hydrotherapy soak and exfoliating scrub included. You felt the most relaxed you’ve felt in years, all the tension was released literally from the top of your head and neck area to your feet.

Your home was eerily quiet when you and Ryan came back. The lights were off and Joe was nowhere to be found, even though the car he took when he left that morning was back in its usual spot in the garage.

“Babe? Are you home?” You called out, starting to search for him.

Ryan turned on the kitchen lights and suddenly the room was filled with people yelling “surprise!” Your mom and Joe’s mom were there, along with several of your friends, a few Bengals players and their significant others were also in attendance.

On the side table was a massive spread of food, mostly comprised of your favorites and you bravely held back the wave of emotion to greet everyone and thank them for coming. Having a birthday on a holiday has never been easy. Growing up it was a time where people were either out of town to celebrate with their families or it was just simply too much work to even want to plan anything concrete in case plans had to be moved around or cancelled. You sometimes felt like the day was completely overshadowed. Now that you were an adult it wasn’t the biggest deal in the world as long as you had a relaxing and relatively fun day but for Joe to gather some of your favorite people in the world all in one place to be with you on your birthday meant more than you could explain. Speaking of Joe, you hadn’t seen him yet.

You are in the middle of asking Chase Brown’s girlfriend Jazmyn if she has everything she needs from her baby registry when you spot him. In his hands is the most beautiful heart shaped gold birthday cake and he’s beaming as he starts the “happy birthday” song and everyone in the room joins in. Your eyes are closed when he sets the cake in front of you, telling you to make a wish. The first reaction is to ask him what more could you wish for when you have everything you could possibly want right in front of you, yet you indulge him and stand still to think for a little while before blowing out your candles and letting people try the cake.

Between the conversations about playoff scenarios and resolutions for the new year, the room is bustling with activity. Even Joe seems relaxed, a water bottle in hand and never really taking interest in being more than five feet away from you at all times. You catch his eyes a few times throughout the afternoon, a comforting smile here and there going a long way while the people in your home happily mingle and make significant dents in the amount of food available. Nobody really seems to notice that the two of you have snuck off other than your moms, who exchange knowing smiles.

“Alright, you have to stop.” You tell him once you’re finally alone.

“Stop what? What am I doing?”

“Stop looking at me with that face. That I’ve seen you naked several times face, don’t give me that face. Not with my mom in the room. Because when you make that face and you’re staring at me with that—freaking stare I want to do something about it. And I can’t. Cause my mom is in the room. And so is yours. So stop it. That should’ve been my birthday wish.”

Joe rolls his eyes, closing the already short distance between you. “Well, when you say a wish out loud, it doesn’t come true.”

He’s looking at you again, less intense this time, more…soft. You’re the only person in the world that gets to see him like this, completely undone and void of his impenetrable exterior. This is the man you’ve continued to fall in love with the more you’ve gotten to know him. And when your lips meet his you can’t help but grin, brushing your finger along the side of his jaw with your thumb. The kiss is as soft as a feather, almost painfully slow as Joe teases you, letting you trace his top lip with your tongue until he opens his mouth and takes charge. Before the kiss goes any further he pulls away, sitting down in one of the oversized swivel chairs in the corner of the room and letting you settle on his thigh.

“When did you have time to do all this?” You ask him earnestly, “I mean with your schedule and the end of the season. How did you—”

He leans into your touch, kissing the tiny space behind your ear that he knows makes your skin feel like it’s on fire. “No matter what’s going on in my life, I will always find time to celebrate my favorite person in the entire world. I really wanted you to feel special today.”

“You make me feel special everyday. But for what it’s worth, you’re my favorite person in the world too.”

Joe kissed you on the head, patting your leg so you can stand up first. He tells you to wait here, signaling there’s one more surprise in store. In his hand is a card for you to read…alone. “I’ll be out there making sure Sam hasn’t eaten all of your cake,” he jokes, giving your hand a squeeze on his way out.

Running your fingers across the front of the letter, you admire Joe’s handwriting, trying to think of what could possibly be inside the envelope. Your curiosity gets the best of you rather quickly and you’re tearing it open, holding a small piece of paper in your hand.

Happy birthday baby,

I’ve been thinking about the perfect way to close out the day. Then I thought about birthday sex and doing unspeakable things to each other and got a little distracted. So I took a break to regroup and come up with an actual plan. Today is about you and how amazing you are. How you’ve changed my life for the better. How you’ve been my rock every step of the way during this up and down season. One that I wouldn’t trade for the world because at the end of the day, I get to play football, which love and then I get to come home to you, which I’m starting to love more and more every day. You’re my dream come true and I’m so lucky to get to do life with you.

And if you ever tell anyone I wrote you a love letter on your birthday I’ll deny it. We are taking this to the grave.

I love you,

Joe

You were already in tears halfway through the letter, the waterworks in full effect when two tickets to Disneyland in Tokyo were taped to the bottom of the letter.

How was he ever going to outdo this birthday?

The Bengals should seriously consider signing you for a short term contract the way you wrap Joe up in your arms as soon as you spot him. If he hadn’t seen you coming and knew your reaction, you probably could’ve taken him to the ground. “I take it you liked the present?”

You shrug, “not a bad first offseason trip,” the facade quickly fades and you hug him again, “thank you Joey, for everything today…and everyday. I love you.”

“I love you too.” He leans into you, resting his head on yours for a few seconds.

Tilting you head up, you look at him. “Wait…is this why you got us the bucket hats?”

“That’s exactly why I got us the bucket hats. We gotta fit the vibe babe. Blend in.”

You huff out a laugh. “Right. Of course.”

You once scoffed at an 8:30pm bedtime and now it was hard to keep your eyes open at 9:16pm, laying in bed next to Joe. And you swear you just heard him giggle, leaving you wide awake.

“Did you party too hard birthday girl?”

“It’s not funny! I’m getting too old for this,” you mumble into his side.

Sometimes you don’t even remember what life was like before him. And you definitely don’t want to know a life without him. Here he was Mr. Football fiend, in the middle of the season, going above and beyond to make you feel celebrated, special and loved beyond measure. And he’s always so warm, being in his arms is grounding you, slowly lulling you back to sleep.

The two of took a power nap so you could make it to the ball drop. At 11:59, he wished you happy birthday again and you kissed him at midnight wishing him a happy new year.

“Thank you for escaping the womb. I’m really glad you did that.” He pulls on your—well his—hoodie strings so you can’t see, kissing your nose.

“You’re a freaking idiot.”

#Joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fic

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ghostofsnails · 3 days ago

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so did you guys know theres this character called tristan vik disventure camp and

#disventure camp #disventure camp fanart #tristan vik #disventure camp tristan #ghostofsnails #my art #It would be SO tedious to post all of these separately but to be honest ive been dead for so long that i think its just funnier like this #like. yeah. just in case you guys have been wondering what i've been up to.#I have like 2 more i think but i'll give them their own post so i can explain them #ive never hyperfixated on a character like this in my entire life. usually a character hyperfix is super intense and lasts like 2ish weeks.#GUYS ITS BEEN 2+ MONTHS. AND I STILL CANT THINK ABOUT ANYTHING EXCEPT FOR CARTOON GOTH NONBINARY SILLY PERSON #actually fuck you can i write an essay in tags about why i love them. this is tumblr. and whose even gonna read this anyways. fukit we ball #i followed dc kinda casually as a guilty pleasure for a while but i was instantly drawn to tristan when the designs for the s4 cast dropped #i was like You're telling me there's a GOTH who is UPBEAT and isnt designed like a flawless elf TWINK and is NONBINARY? ME FR????#LIKE OHH THE GOTH NB GETS TO LOOK A LITTLE WEIRD. THEY GET TO BE UNCONVENTIONAL. my aesthetic attraction to them goes crazy. vampire style.#i remember when they got revealed people redesigned them to look more generically pretty & it PAINED ME bc it missed the point SO. BADLY.#ik some people find them boring also & even tho i disagree i can see it if u dont rlly care abt alt stuff. but for me the fact theyre so #kind & upbeat & extroverted WHILE being a SUBCULTURAL GOTH is the draw bc while i do get a kick out of the exaggerated depressed goth #stereotype - its not exactly true to life and so seeing a character that looks and acts like me and real goths makes feel so seen and happy #they also capture my desire to have goth friends SO BADLY im projecting on them SO HARD. They are such top tier friend material you guys...#AND THEYRE A FASHION DESIGNER WHICH FEELS SO IN THEME WITH BEING GOTH THAT IT MAKES ME SO JOYOUS AND CRAZY.#its all so funny because im 100x more excited about getting good goth rep than nonbinary rep LMFAOOO but them being nb is SO important too #Not to mention their voice actor is FANTASTIC and elevates them SOOO MUCH. Also the amount the va is obsessed with them fed my obsession -#sooo insanely you guys.... i feed off of other peoples emotional attachments. AND THEIR ACTING FOR TRIS ADDS SO MUCH DEPTH TO THEIR #CHARACTER IF YOU LOOK FOR IT. I COULD LITERALLY WRITE ESSAYS ABOUT TRISTAN YOU GUYS. IM NOT INSANE.#god you guys this is the first time ive ever had a genuine “i feel seen” feeling from a fictional character I KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE NOW.#i LOVE NONBINARY PEOPLE EXPRESSING THEMSELVES. I LOVE HOW QUEERNESS AND GOTH CULTURE INTERSECTS AND HOW THATS REPRESENTED IN TRISTAN #THEY MEAN SO MUCH TO ME. AND I KNOW THEY MEAN SO MUCH TO SO MANY OTHER PEOPLE. WHICH JUST MAKES THEM MEAN EVEN MORE TO ME. I LOVE LIFE.#its an endless feedback loop i fear. im trapped in it & loving every second. i will be drawing them until i am in my grave & maybe after.

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fangdokja · 22 hours ago

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:D oooh, I love those things where Scara isolates the reader so that she becomes reliant on his ass. So basically, psychological torture, please?

Your body is chained, but your mind? Still free. Or is it?

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a mind game where love is a weapon and escape is impossible, you’ll learn that survival means surrendering to his twisted obsession. But as his control tightens, you’ll wonder: Are you his prisoner, or his willing prey?

♡ Book. World Ablaze (WA): For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem. Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 - Lover or Captor?

♡ Word Count. 10,821

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, psychological torture, manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, threats, BDSM, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, force feeding, uncomfortable food descriptions, control over food and water, implied kidnapping

♡ A/N. No problem. I genuinely enjoy writing all forms of torture. I’d say this is soft Scaramouche to be honest. But that’s just me. Since manipulation of circumstances pre-kidnapping is a classic (but also a traditional cliche at times), I decided to make some small fun facts on how psychological torture works in general. Also, do note that this has a different writing (especially formatting and plot progression) style from my usual works, but that’s the point… And, low-key got sick of editing this haha. But that’s nothing new. Either way, hope you guys enjoy :))

He watches you with an intensity that burns hotter than the static hum of the electro mist surrounding the enclosed space he calls home—your prison. His eyes, sharp like the edge of a newly forged blade, track every movement you make, every twitch of your fingers, every shallow breath you take. There is no escaping his scrutiny, no moment where his gaze isn’t a weight you carry as if he’s carved himself into your very existence.

“You’re trembling again,” he murmurs, his voice a lilt of mockery wrapped in silk, carrying an undercurrent of something darker. He’s closer now, the faintest scent of ozone and metal clinging to his presence. He’s always so near, yet somehow never close enough for you to strike—not that you have the strength anymore. His manipulation has bled you dry, turned your once vibrant spirit into a pale echo of itself.

“Have I scared you that much?” he continues, his tone like an echo of thunder in a storm, half-amused and wholly cruel. He kneels before you, tilting his head as if studying a particularly interesting experiment, and you wish, not for the first time, that he would lose interest in his obsession. But you know better than to hope; hope is a fragile thing here, something he’s crushed beneath his heel more times than you can count.

Your legs are bound, wrists tethered together with some unbreakable material that bites into your skin when you move too much. Not that movement helps. He’s seen to that too. The chains are just as much a part of his games as the room itself: walls painted in endless monotones, no windows, only a single dim light that flickers faintly, threatening to plunge you into complete darkness at any moment. He’s told you before that he’d like to see what the dark does to you—what he could do to you while you’re blind and helpless.

“Tell me,” he says now, his hand reaching forward to brush against your cheek. His touch is deceptively gentle, a lover’s caress that belies the brutality hiding beneath the surface. “Have you learned to appreciate me yet?”

You flinch but don’t answer. Words are a dangerous currency here. Silence earns punishment; speech earns worse. You’ve been caught in his web long enough to know the rules of his game are meant to ensure one thing: total control. But your defiance—the last ember of it—makes you cling to the belief that your silence is an act of rebellion, however small.

He chuckles lowly, the sound reverberating through the empty room. “Still so stubborn,” he muses, fingers now tracing the line of your jaw. “I admire that about you, you know. That fight in your eyes. But it’s exhausting for you, isn’t it? Fighting me? Fighting this?” He leans in, so close that you feel the ghost of his breath against your ear. “Do you think anyone’s coming for you? That they even remember you?”

Your stomach twists, a sick knot of despair and anger. His words are poison, injected carefully and methodically into your psyche.

“I erased you,” he whispers, his voice soft but cold enough to freeze your blood. “From their memories, from their lives. Your friends? Gone. Your family? They don’t even remember your face. Isn’t that a kindness, though? Sparing them the grief of losing you?”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, searching for the cracks he’s so meticulously created. “Do you hate me for it?”

You do. You hate him with a depth that frightens you. But you say nothing, your lips trembling as you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing it aloud. His expression shifts, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise perfect features, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

“Hate me all you want,” he says, his tone growing harder, sharper. “But you will love me. In the end, you always will.”

He stands, his shadow towering over you as he looks down, his smirk returning like a blade pressed to your throat. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he says, turning and heading toward the door. “But don’t take too long. I’m not a patient man.”

The door closes with a deafening finality, and you’re left alone in the dim, flickering light. Alone with your thoughts, your fear, and the suffocating realization that he’s right. He’s always right. The world has forgotten you, and all you have left is him.

And isn’t that the cruelest truth of all?

────────────

The room is a void—a cage designed not to hold your body, but to unspool your mind held by fragile thread. The walls are stark and featureless, smooth metal panels that offer no hint of escape. There are no windows, no visible doors, just the cold hum of fluorescent lights that seem to dim and brighten at random intervals, casting shadows that twist and crawl.

The air is heavy, oppressive, suffused with his presence even though he’s nowhere to be seen. You can feel him, though—lurking in the corners of your mind, a phantom stitched into your every thought. His voice crackles through the static-filled speakers embedded in the walls, sharp and invasive, like glass scraping against your skull.

“Lonely yet?”

You flinch at the sound, your knees drawing tighter to your chest. His voice is smooth and mocking, curling around your mind like barbed wire.

“I told you this is for your own good,” he continues, each word laced with a venomous sweetness. “Out there, the world would devour you. I’m saving you, little fool. But gratitude? That’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”

You press your hands over your ears, as if that could block him out. But his voice doesn’t come from the speakers anymore. It comes from everywhere. From nowhere. It vibrates in your bones, coils in your gut, whispers in the back of your skull until you’re certain it’s your own thoughts betraying you.

The silence that follows is worse. It’s his silence—calculated, suffocating, a predator’s patience as it watches its prey wear itself down. Hours stretch into days, or maybe longer. Time is meaningless here. The lack of human contact gnaws at your sanity, leaving only the relentless pounding of your heartbeat to fill the void.

Then, finally, his voice returns, and despite the fear it brings, a twisted part of you clings to it like a lifeline.

“Look at you,” he purrs, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “So fragile. So desperate. Do you see now? No one else will come for you. Only me.”

The words settle over you like ash, suffocating and final.

And then he’s there.

The walls don’t open. He doesn’t step through a door. He’s just there, as if he’s always been there, a seamless extension of the room’s nightmarish design. The dim, artificial light casts a sickly glow over his features, making him look less human and more like a living doll—perfectly crafted, flawlessly sculpted, and utterly devoid of warmth. His smile is delicate, a razor-thin line that glints with malice beneath its veneer of sweetness.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety hum that sends shivers racing down your spine.

He moves closer, his boots clicking sharply against the metallic floor. The sound is deliberate, each step a calculated reminder of his control, his dominion over this place, over you. His presence fills the room, overwhelming, suffocating.

“I wonder,” he continues, stopping just short of where you sit, “is it silence out of submission? Or defiance?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his gaze.

He crouches before you, his movements slow, fluid, and predatory. His violet eyes gleam in the half-light, shimmering with something dark and unreadable. They lock onto yours, pinning you in place, and the room seems to shrink further, the walls pressing closer until there’s nothing but him.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice a velvet glove hiding an iron fist.

Your head moves of its own accord, your body betraying you as your eyes meet his. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the sight of it is both intoxicating and nauseating.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your face. His touch is achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of tenderness, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you of his strength. Of your helplessness.

“You’ve been imagining things again, haven’t you?” he whispers, his tone almost pitying. “Seeing shadows where there are none. Hearing whispers in the dark. Poor little thing.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a scientist dissecting a specimen. The artificial light casts eerie reflections in his eyes, making them glint like shards of broken glass.

“Do you know what isolation does to the human brain?” he asks, his tone conversational, almost curious. “Deprive it of stimuli long enough, and it starts to turn on itself. Hallucinations. Paranoia. A complete collapse of the psyche.”

He leans closer, his breath brushing against your lips, his eyes boring into yours.

“But you’re not imagining me,” he says softly, his smile widening into something sharp, something cruel. “I’m as real as the blood under your nails, the bruises on your wrists.”

Your breath catches as his thumb brushes over your temple, the motion deceptively soothing. But then his fingers tighten, his nails digging into your skin.

“And do you know what the best part is?” he whispers, his voice dropping to a chilling hush. “You’ll beg for more. For me. Because I’m all you have left.”

The walls seem to close in entirely, the air growing colder, heavier, until it feels like you’re drowning in his presence. And through it all, his smile remains, a grotesque mockery of kindness, as he whispers again,

“Lonely yet?”

────────────

The camera in the corner of the room stares at you, its red light pulsing steadily like a heartbeat—like his heartbeat, if he had one. You can feel it watching, a cold, unblinking eye that absorbs every movement, every shallow breath. It’s not just the camera, though. The walls themselves seem to hum with an unseen energy, a constant reminder of the wires and devices hidden just beneath the surface, all tuned to you.

“You’ve always had a penchant for dramatics,” his voice crackles through the speaker embedded high above, sudden and sharp. You flinch, instinctively shrinking against the edge of the bed, the metal frame digging into your spine. “But let’s not make this more unpleasant than it needs to be. You know I’m only doing this for your own good.”

The static lingers, like the ghost of his presence, before dissolving into the oppressive silence that dominates your world.

———

Later, you find it—a book, an old one, its spine cracked and worn. A piece of the life you once had. The familiar weight of it in your hands brings a flicker of warmth to your chest. You don’t know how it got here or why he would allow you something so small yet so meaningful, but you don’t question it. You simply clutch it to your chest, savoring the moment.

But then, he arrives.

He stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his silhouette framed by the dim, flickering light. His eyes—those violet pools of cruelty and calculation—narrow as they land on the book in your hands.

“Where did you get that?” he asks, his voice calm, but there’s a cold edge to it, like a blade hidden in velvet.

“I—I found it,” you stammer, clutching the book tighter as if it might shield you from the inevitable.

He doesn’t move, but the air around him seems to shift, thickening with something unspoken. “Interesting,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his footsteps deliberate and measured. “You’re quite resourceful, aren’t you? Always finding ways to entertain yourself.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

When he reaches you, he kneels, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator cornering its prey. He plucks the book from your hands with deceptive gentleness, his slender fingers brushing against yours for a moment too long.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, turning the book over in his hands as though it were an artifact of immeasurable value. “A relic. A fragment of something that doesn’t exist anymore. Like you.”

His words sting, but before you can process them, he tightens his grip on the book. With a sudden, violent motion, he tears it in half, the brittle pages scattering like ash across the floor.

“Nothing from before matters,” he says, his tone cool, almost clinical, as he rises to his feet. “You don’t need distractions. You need me.”

———

That night, you try to sleep, but the room refuses to let you. The lights flicker intermittently, each burst of brightness searing your eyes through closed lids. A low, grating hum emanates from somewhere in the walls, setting your teeth on edge.

And then, the noise.

It starts as a soft, rhythmic tapping, like the distant sound of rain against glass. But it grows louder, more insistent, until it feels like it’s coming from inside your skull. You bolt upright, your breath ragged, your body drenched in cold sweat.

“You’re restless,” his voice coos from the speaker, smooth and mocking. “Didn’t I tell you to rest? Or are you defying me again?”

“I—stop it,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Stop what?” he replies, feigning innocence. “You’re imagining things again. Poor thing. You really should trust me more. I can help you.”

The noise stops abruptly, leaving an aching silence in its wake. You collapse back onto the bed, your body too exhausted to fight anymore.

———

The next morning, you stumble into the small, sterile kitchenette, your limbs heavy with fatigue. The stove is on—flames licking at the edges of a pan you don’t remember lighting. The smell of something burning fills the air, acrid and choking.

“Careless,” he says, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed. “You could’ve burned the whole place down.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“No excuses,” he snaps, his voice sharp as a whip. “You’re lucky I caught it in time. Do you see now why you can’t be trusted? Why you need me?”

You want to argue, to scream that it wasn’t you, that he must have done it himself. But the words die in your throat as his gaze pierces through you, cold and unrelenting.

────────────

The silence stretches into infinity, interrupted only by your own ragged breaths and the phantom echoes of his voice that claw at your psyche. You don’t know when he’ll speak again or if he’s watching, but the not knowing is part of the torment.

When his voice finally breaks the silence, it’s so sudden and sharp it feels like the snap of a guillotine.

“Still holding onto hope, are you?” His voice is soft, almost tender, a cruel mockery of comfort. “I admire your persistence. It’s… quaint.”

His tone is calm, calculated, each word chosen with the precision of a scalpel. It cuts through the fog in your mind, forcing you to confront the reality he’s woven around you.

“You think someone’s coming for you?” he continues, his voice dripping with incredulity. “How adorably naïve. Do you even remember what it’s like out there? The noise, the chaos, the endless parade of fools clawing at one another for scraps of meaning. I’ve spared you from that, haven’t I?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The lump in your throat feels like it’s suffocating you, and the weight of his words presses down on your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.

“Nothing to say?” he muses. “That’s fine. I prefer you this way—quiet. It suits you.”

———

You didn’t hear a door open. Didn’t hear the telltale click of boots against the floor. One moment you’re alone, and the next he’s standing there, a figure carved from shadow and disdain. The dim light paints him in stark relief, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the cold glint in his violet eyes.

“I’ve been generous with you,” he says, his voice low and steady, like the distant rumble of thunder. He steps closer, each movement precise, deliberate, as though he’s stalking prey. “I’ve given you time to adjust, to see the truth. But you…” His lips curl into a faint smirk, though there’s no humor in it. “…You insist on clinging to those foolish little scraps of defiance.”

You flinch as he crouches before you, his gaze leveling with yours. His expression is unreadable, a mask of icy detachment that barely conceals the storm simmering beneath.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “What exactly are you holding onto? A memory? A promise? Hope?”

He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies you with an intensity that feels like it could peel back your skin, exposing every raw nerve beneath.

“You don’t even know, do you?” he says, almost pitying. “You’re just… grasping. Blind and desperate. It’s pathetic, really.”

His hand reaches out, and you flinch again, but he doesn’t touch you. Instead, his fingers hover just above your face, as though he’s considering it, savoring the moment.

“You’re so fragile,” he breathes, his tone a mix of fascination and contempt. “It wouldn’t take much to break you, you know. A little pressure here…” His hand shifts, his fingers ghosting over your temple. “…And here.”

His other hand moves to hover over your throat, and your breath catches.

“But where’s the fun in that?” he muses, withdrawing his hands with a slow, deliberate grace. “Breaking you would be easy. No. I want you to understand.”

He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate whisper.

“I want you to know that every moment you spend here is a gift. My gift. And when you finally shatter, when you finally look at me with nothing but submission in those eyes…” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk sharpening into something vicious. “…That’s when you’ll understand. That’s when you’ll thank me.”

The air feels thicker, heavier, suffused with his presence. The room spins around you, the walls closing in, the ground tilting beneath you. And through it all, his voice lingers, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.

“No one else will come for you,” he says, standing to his full height, towering over you. “No one else can. It’s just you and me now. Forever.”

He turns to leave—or does he? The edges of your vision blur, the lines between reality and nightmare dissolving as his voice echoes through the void one last time.

“Stop fighting it, little fool. Stop fighting me.”

────────────

The first thing you notice when you wake is the cold. It bites into your skin, gnaws at your bones, wrapping itself around you like a second, crueler layer of flesh. The thin, threadbare shift you wear does nothing to shield you from it, the fabric clinging to your body with a dampness that reeks of mildew and despair.

The blankets are gone again. He always takes them when you displease him.

Your stomach churns with the memory of his last visit—the quiet menace in his voice, the way he tilted his head as he watched you scramble to piece together what was left of your broken dignity.

“You want comfort?” he had said, his tone laced with derision. “Earn it.”

You had begged—how could you not?—but he only smiled, a thin, sharp curve of his lips that cut deeper than any blade. And then he was gone, taking with him not only the blankets but the small, chipped bowl you had been using to collect water from the condensation that dripped sporadically from the ceiling.

Now, the thirst claws at your throat, dry and insistent. You press your lips together, trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible. Every breath feels like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh.

———

When he finally returns, it’s without fanfare. The door—a seamless part of the wall when shut—slides open with a faint hiss, and he steps inside, his violet eyes sharp and calculating. He’s carrying something this time: a bundle of what looks like clothing, though you’ve learned not to trust appearances.

“You look worse than usual,” he remarks, his gaze sweeping over you like a scientist observing a failed experiment. “Pathetic.”

You flinch at the word, but you don’t respond. Experience has taught you that anything you say will only feed his twisted sense of superiority.

He crouches before you, placing the bundle on the floor between you. It’s not clothing, you realize, but a single, thick blanket. It looks warm, inviting—an impossible luxury in this place.

“Do you want it?” he asks, his voice soft, almost coaxing.

You hesitate, your body aching for the warmth it promises. But you know better than to trust him.

“What do you want me to do?” you whisper, your voice hoarse from disuse.

His smile sharpens, a flash of white against the shadows of his face. “You’re learning,” he murmurs. “Good.”

He stands, taking a step back and gesturing to the far corner of the room. There, you see it: a tray of food, simple but sufficient—bread, water, a small portion of fruit. Your stomach growls at the sight, a humiliating reminder of your hunger.

“Eat,” he says, his tone light, as if he’s offering you a gift.

You don’t move. It’s too easy. There’s always a catch.

He chuckles, a low, mirthless sound. “Ah, still suspicious. How charming.”

He walks to the tray and picks up the cup of water, holding it up to the dim light as if inspecting it. Then, without warning, he tilts it, letting the liquid spill onto the floor.

“No!” The word escapes you before you can stop it, a raw, desperate plea.

He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Prove to me,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that you deserve it. That you can follow simple instructions.”

“What do you want?” you ask again, your voice trembling.

His gaze narrows, and he steps closer, the soles of his boots crushing the bread beneath them as he walks. He crouches before you again, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

“Crawl,” he says simply.

The word hangs in the air, a command and a taunt all at once.

Your body stiffens, shame warring with desperation.

“Crawl,” he repeats, his voice harder this time, the veneer of gentleness cracking to reveal the steel beneath.

You hesitate, and his smile returns, cruel and mocking. “Or don’t,” he says, standing and turning away. “But don’t think I’ll be so generous again.”

———

The air in your prison grows colder with each passing day. The concrete floor seems to suck the warmth from your body, leaving you shivering in the thin, threadbare clothing he’s allotted you. Blankets are a luxury, one he dangles before you like bait on a hook. Hygiene products—soap, a toothbrush, even clean water—are rationed out like rare treasures, rewards for obedience that always seem just out of reach.

He watches you from the shadows, a silent predator waiting for the moment your spirit cracks. The sound of his voice is worse than the silence. It’s a scalpel, peeling away layers of your resistance with surgical precision.

“You look uncomfortable,” he remarks one day, his voice lilting with mock concern. He steps into the dim light, his figure framed by the cold, sterile glow. “How long has it been since you last had a proper shower? Days? Weeks?” He smiles, the expression brittle and sharp. “I could help with that, you know. All you have to do is ask.”

You say nothing, your eyes fixed on the floor, but he sees the flicker of humiliation in your expression, and it feeds him.

“No?” He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Still so proud, even now. Admirable, really. But pride won’t keep you warm. Or clean. Or alive.”

────────────

When the door finally hisses open, the sound sharp and invasive, you don’t lift your head. But you feel his presence immediately, a dark, oppressive weight that fills the room. His footsteps are soft but deliberate, each one echoing like the tolling of a bell. And then he speaks, his voice low and smooth, a dark current beneath deceptively calm waters.

“You’re looking pale again,” he remarks, his tone laced with mockery that twists your stomach. You don’t answer, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, but he doesn’t need your response to continue. He never does. “Have you been refusing to eat? Or is it the water? You’ve always been so ungrateful, haven’t you?”

A shadow falls over you as he comes closer, and the sharp scent of ozone and something faintly chemical hits your nostrils. You flinch when his hand, cold and unyielding, grips your chin, forcing your face upward. His violet eyes gleam with a sick kind of amusement as he tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under glass.

“Thirsty?” he asks softly, almost gently, though there’s no mistaking the sadistic edge beneath his words. He reaches into the folds of his dark, flowing attire and retrieves a small, glass vial. It gleams in the dim light, the liquid inside as clear as crystal but no less threatening for its purity. “I brought you something special today.”

He crouches before you, setting the vial down on the floor with a deliberate clink. Then, with an almost theatrical flourish, he places a tall glass beside it, already half-filled with water. “Drink,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. “Go on. You must be parched.”

You hesitate, your body trembling as you glance at the glass. It feels like a trap—no, you know it’s a trap—but your throat burns with the dry, relentless ache of dehydration. It’s been days since he last offered you anything, the air in the room deliberately kept too dry, leeching the moisture from your body like some cruel experiment.

When you don’t move, his smirk widens, and he leans in, close enough that you can feel the chill of his breath against your skin. “Do you think I’d poison you?” he whispers, his tone almost tender, though the words slice into you like broken glass. “That I’d let you go so easily? Oh, no, little doll. If I wanted to destroy you, I’d make it far slower. Far more… personal.”

The implication chills you to your core, but the thirst gnaws at you with an intensity that borders on madness. You reach for the glass, your fingers trembling so violently you nearly knock it over. He watches with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving your face as you lift it to your lips.

The water is cold, colder than it has any right to be, and it slides down your throat like liquid ice. But then, the taste hits—metallic, sharp, and tinged with something acrid that makes your stomach churn. You gag, dropping the glass with a shattering crash, but it’s too late. The liquid burns as it courses through you, a searing pain that spreads from your throat to your chest, your stomach, your limbs.

He doesn’t flinch at the sound of the breaking glass. If anything, his expression grows darker, more triumphant, as he leans back on his heels, folding his arms across his chest. “How does it feel?” he asks, his tone almost conversational, as though he’s asking about the weather. “The sensation of your body rejecting what it so desperately craves? Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Your vision blurs with tears as you clutch your stomach, the pain radiating outward in waves. You want to scream, to beg, to curse him, but your voice catches in your throat, choked off by the bile rising within you. He watches it all with the calm detachment of a scientist observing a particularly interesting reaction, his head tilted slightly, his lips curved in a faint smile.

“Ah, but don’t worry,” he says after a moment, his voice softening in a way that’s even more sinister. “It won’t kill you. I wouldn’t waste such a useful tool on something as permanent as death.” He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch cold and clinical despite the faux tenderness in his movements. “No, little doll, this is simply a reminder. A lesson.”

He leans in closer, so close you can feel the oppressive weight of his presence pressing down on you. “You don’t survive without me. Do you understand that now? Every breath you take, every drop of water you drink, every bite of food that passes your lips—it all comes from me. And it can all be taken away just as easily.”

The pain begins to subside, leaving you weak, trembling, and utterly broken. He stands, brushing off his knees as though he’s finished with some menial task. “Rest, if you can,” he says, his voice light and mocking once more as he turns toward the door. “You’ll need your strength for the next lesson.”

The door closes behind him with a resounding clang, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room. Alone with the lingering burn in your throat, the taste of poison on your tongue, and the sick, suffocating knowledge that he’s right.

You don’t survive without him.

────────────

The silence he left behind had weight—a crushing, suffocating thing that pressed against your chest until your breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps. Days stretched into nights, and nights into something darker still, where time seemed to lose its grip and your mind unraveled thread by fragile thread.

But then came the voice.

At first, it was a whisper—a delicate breeze brushing against the edges of your consciousness. Soft, insidious, and almost gentle.

“Did you miss me, little doll?”

Your heart stopped, then hammered violently against your ribs. You spun toward the sound, eyes darting across the empty room. Shadows stretched unnaturally, pooling in corners like ink spilled across parchment.

There was no one there.

But the voice persisted, lilting and melodic, curling around your thoughts like smoke. “Poor thing,” it cooed. “You look so lost. So lonely. Didn’t I promise I’d always come back for you?”

“No,” you rasped, clutching your head, fingers digging into your scalp as though you could claw him out of your mind. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

The laughter that followed was low, rich, and agonizingly familiar. It reverberated through the empty space, vibrating against your skull like a tuning fork.

“Not real?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, my little doll, you wound me. But perhaps I’ve been too kind. Let me remind you.”

The world around you shifted—imperceptibly at first, like the faint sensation of vertigo. Then it hit. The walls groaned and shuddered, the fluorescent light overhead flickering wildly. The air grew heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. You stumbled, your knees buckling as the ground seemed to ripple beneath your feet.

When the flickering stopped, he was there. Or was he?

His face hovered just out of reach, a phantom etched in shadow and smoke, his violet eyes glinting like shards of broken glass. He was leaning in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath unnaturally cold.

“Tell me, doll,” he murmured, his voice velvet and venom, “do you still think I’m not real?”

You screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the silence. You clawed at the walls, at your face, your nails scraping skin as you tried to banish him from your senses. But the voice only grew louder, more insistent, wrapping itself around you like a shroud.

When he finally stepped into the light, the sight of him sent your stomach plummeting. His coat trailed behind him like the wings of some unholy predator, his silhouette framed in a distorted, sickly glow. He tilted his head, a parody of curiosity, and smiled.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, gesturing to the marks on the walls, the bloodied crescents under your nails. “What is it you’re trying to escape from, hmm?”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, your chest heaving. “You weren’t here,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I heard you, but you weren’t here. You were—”

“Everywhere,” he finished for you, his smile widening. “And nowhere. Isn’t it delightful? How fragile your mind has become?”

He took a step closer, his boots clicking against the floor in a deliberate, measured rhythm. Each sound drove a spike of dread deeper into your chest.

“But don’t worry,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost tender. “I’m here now. Let’s forget all about those nasty little thoughts, shall we?”

His hand reached out, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from your face. The gesture was achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of affection. His touch left a burning, icy trail against your skin.

“You look so distressed,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Have you been imagining things again? Seeing shadows where there are none? Hearing whispers in the dark?”

You wanted to scream, to lash out, but your body betrayed you, rooted in place as his fingers ghosted over your cheek.

“No need to answer,” he said with a sigh, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

And then the illusion shattered.

His hand wasn’t on your face—it was inside your skull. You felt the sharp, electric jolt of something foreign scraping against your brain, an icy tendril of invasive thought slithering into the deepest recesses of your mind. Memories warped and twisted under his touch, familiar faces dissolving into grotesque, melting horrors.

“You see,” he whispered, his voice echoing within you now, “there’s no escape from me. Not in the silence, not in the noise. I’m in every breath you take, every blink, every beat of that fragile little heart.”

You sobbed, the sound choking in your throat as the room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of distorted images. Blood seeped from the walls, viscous and dark, pooling at your feet. You felt it creeping up your legs, cold and sentient, wrapping around you like chains.

And still, he smiled.

“Did you miss me?” he asked again, his voice slicing through the chaos. This time, there was no room for denial. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against your lips as he whispered, “I missed you, little doll. And I’ll never leave you again.”

────────────

The tray lands on the table with a resounding clang, a sound that reverberates through the suffocating silence of the room. The metallic echo seems to burrow into your skull, as if the very air conspires to mock your helplessness. He stands above you, a silhouette of unyielding authority, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

"You should be grateful," he murmurs, his voice smooth and calculated, like a scalpel slicing through flesh. The faint trace of a smirk curls his lips, his tone dripping with condescension. "I went to such great lengths to prepare this. Just for you."

Your gaze falls to the tray, and the bile rises instantly in your throat. The abomination before you masquerades as food, a grotesque parody of sustenance that seems alive in the most horrifying ways. The slabs of meat glisten unnaturally, their surfaces marred by oozing black lesions that seep a thick, tar-like substance. A faint stench rises from them, sharp and putrid, a rancid blend of decay and chemicals.

Nestled beside the meat is a mound of gray paste, its texture like wet cement, flecked with jagged shards of something white—bone? Teeth? You can’t tell, and you don’t want to. The greens are no better: wilted, slimy, and crawling with tiny, wriggling creatures. The bugs move lazily, their segmented bodies glistening under the harsh fluorescent light, their sluggish movements taunting your growing horror.

“You’re staring,” he says, his tone lilting, almost playful. He leans in closer, his sharp features framed by the dim, artificial glow. "What’s the matter? Not to your liking? It’s safe, you know. Perfectly edible. Nutrient-dense, even."

You swallow hard, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Every fiber of your being screams at you to run, to scream, to do something, but you can’t. His presence roots you to the chair, your limbs heavy with the weight of his control.

“Don’t think I’ll let you starve, little doll.” His voice drops, the endearment laced with venom. He picks up the fork, prodding at the meat. The action elicits a sickening squelch as the black liquid pools beneath it, the viscous substance clinging to the metal tines like molasses. “Go on,” he urges, his tone soft but edged with malice. “Eat.”

Your shaking hands reach for the fork, but your grip falters. The metal feels impossibly cold, a physical manifestation of your dread. You stab at the meat, and its rubbery texture fights back, resisting your every attempt to cut it. When you finally manage to tear off a piece, the smell intensifies, a cloying wave of rot and iron that makes your vision blur with nausea.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You will eat every bite. I won’t tolerate waste.”

Your lips part reluctantly, and the moment the meat touches your tongue, the taste assaults you. It’s rancid, the flavor an overwhelming mix of decay and metallic bitterness. You gag instinctively, your body convulsing as you try to spit it out, but he’s faster. His hand clamps over your mouth, his grip iron-tight.

"Swallow," he hisses, his breath cold against your ear. The word is sharp, absolute. Tears stream down your face as you force the foul lump down, your throat convulsing violently around it. The moment it settles in your stomach, a heavy, alien weight, he releases you with a cruel smile.

“Good,” he purrs, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “But we’re not done yet.”

He picks up the gray paste next, scooping a heaping forkful. The gritty, slimy mass clings to the metal like glue, its acrid stench burning your nostrils. Without warning, he presses it against your lips, smearing the substance across your skin when you try to turn away.

“Open,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. His other hand grips your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and he shoves the paste inside. It coats your tongue, the texture gritty and uneven, punctuated by the horrifying crunch of the shards within. You don’t want to think about what they might be. You retch, but his unyielding gaze pins you in place.

“Chew,” he orders, his voice devoid of patience now. When you hesitate, his grip on your jaw tightens, the pain sharp and immediate. “Chew.”

You obey, the shards cutting into your gums as the paste coats your mouth in an unholy mix of textures and tastes. When you finally swallow, it feels like swallowing broken glass, the jagged edges scraping their way down.

“Such a good little doll,” he croons mockingly, his fingers stroking your cheek in a grotesque parody of affection. His eyes glint with dark satisfaction as he gestures to the greens. “Finish it.”

The slimy leaves glisten under the light, their surfaces writhing with life. The tiny creatures embedded within them squirm and twitch, their segmented bodies pulsing faintly. He picks up a forkful and holds it before you, the bugs wriggling and falling off the edges, their tiny legs scrambling for purchase.

“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and trembling. It’s the first word you’ve dared to speak, but it’s a mistake.

His expression hardens instantly, his smile vanishing. He grips your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force, and presses the fork against your lips. “You don’t get to say no,” he snarls. “You will eat. Every. Last. Bite.”

The greens and their crawling passengers are shoved into your mouth, the slime coating your tongue and the bugs wriggling against your teeth. You chew reluctantly, each bite filling you with a fresh wave of nausea as the creatures burst, their insides bitter and sickly. Some continue to move, their twitching bodies sliding down your throat even as you swallow.

By the time the tray is empty, you’re shaking violently, tears streaming down your face as your stomach churns with the unholy concoction. He watches with satisfaction, his smirk returning as he steps back.

“Well done,” he says, his tone almost congratulatory. He sets the tray aside and crouches before you, his fingers brushing against your tear-streaked cheek. “See? You can do as you’re told.”

You stare at him, hollow and broken, the taste of his twisted meal lingering on your tongue. When he finally leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, the oppressive silence returns, and you crumble, your body wracked with dry sobs.

The food sits heavy in your stomach, a grotesque reminder of your helplessness. You know he’ll return tomorrow with something worse. He always does.

────────────

The sterile air of the room feels heavier today, pressing against your chest like invisible hands. You can’t shake the unease, the gnawing sensation that something is wrong, even more so than usual. It’s in the silence that stretches just a beat too long, in the flicker of the overhead light that seems timed to your uneven breaths.

Then, the door opens, and he steps inside with the quiet elegance of someone who knows he doesn’t need to announce his presence. Scaramouche. His name alone sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

He looks the same as always—poised, meticulous, as if every strand of hair and every fold of his outfit had been arranged with precision. But today, there’s something different in his eyes, something colder, more calculating.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his tone almost conversational, as if you’re old friends catching up. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You don’t answer. You’ve learned by now that anything you say can and will be twisted, reshaped into a weapon aimed at you.

He sighs, a sound filled with exaggerated disappointment, and steps closer. The room feels smaller with each measured step he takes, until he’s standing just a breath away, towering over you like a shadow.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, tilting his head slightly, the motion almost childlike but laced with menace. “You haven’t been entirely honest with me, have you?”

Your heart stutters. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I saw the way you looked at me yesterday. The resentment, the defiance. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupts, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “And it hurt me. It hurt us.”

His words sink into your chest like daggers, each one meticulously placed to draw the maximum amount of guilt and confusion. You know he’s lying—there was no resentment, no defiance—but the certainty in his voice, the way he says it as though it’s an undeniable truth, makes you doubt yourself.

“Do you know how hard I work to keep you safe?” he continues, crouching down so his face is level with yours. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? And this is how you repay me? With distrust? With hatred?”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t you?” His smile widens, cruel and mocking. “Then why do you keep trying to hurt me? Why do you keep betraying me?”

Your mind races, desperately trying to piece together what he’s accusing you of, but there’s nothing to grasp onto, no crime to confess.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice trembling.

His eyes darken, and he leans in closer, so close you can feel the chill radiating off him. “No?” he whispers, his tone dripping with venom. “Then why do I feel like you’re lying?”

────────────

The first time you see him again, it’s through a haze of adrenaline and fear, your limbs trembling as you push yourself upright. The sound of boots pounding on the concrete echoes like gunshots in the cavernous space. Everything smells like oil and blood and something metallic you can’t quite place.

He bursts through the shattered doorway, his dark silhouette haloed by the dying embers of light spilling from the outside. His eyes, sharp as a blade’s edge, scan the room until they lock onto you, crumpled in the corner, battered and bleeding.

“I told you not to wander off,” he says, his tone more exasperated than angry. But there’s something underneath it—an undercurrent of urgency, of barely contained panic.

Before you can respond, he’s kneeling in front of you, his gloved hands moving with precision as he checks for injuries. His touch is cold, clinical, but his gaze burns with something raw and unspoken.

“You could’ve died,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to you if I hadn’t gotten here in time?”

The words hit you like a blow. You remember the men who dragged you here, their faces masked but their intentions clear. You remember their laughter, the way they circled you like predators, and the sickening certainty that no one was coming to save you.

And yet, here he is.

“Why…?” Your voice cracks, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “How did you find me?”

He pauses, his hands stilling as he meets your gaze. “Because I always find you,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re mine to protect. No one else cares enough to keep you safe, to pull you back from the brink every time you stumble into danger.”

You should feel grateful—relieved, even—but his words don’t sit right. They coil around your mind like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each repetition.

———

Days later, after he’s taken you back to the sterile confinement of your “safe place,” the cracks in the story begin to show.

You wake up screaming, your dreams plagued by shadowy figures and muffled threats. The first thing you see is him, sitting in the corner of the room, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Still having nightmares?” he asks, his tone calm but laced with faint condescension.

You nod, your throat too dry to speak.

He stands, walking over to you with measured steps. “I warned you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The world out there is cruel, unrelenting. They don’t care about you like I do. That’s why you need to stay here, where I can protect you.”

“But—” you start, the words dying in your throat as his gaze sharpens.

“But nothing,” he snaps, though his voice never rises. “Do you remember what happened? What they said they’d do to you? Or are you already twisting it in your head to make me the villain again?”

You flinch, the accusation stinging even though you know it isn’t fair. “I didn’t say that,” you whisper.

He leans closer, his presence suffocating. “But you thought it,” he murmurs. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it all over your face.”

The conversation leaves you shaken, his words gnawing at the edges of your mind. Had you misunderstood him? Was he right?

———

The next day, you notice something strange. The small, cracked mirror on the wall—the one you’ve stared into countless times, trying to find traces of the person you used to be—looks different. The crack is gone, the glass pristine, almost too pristine.

You press your fingers against it, your reflection wavering slightly. “Was this always here?” you mutter to yourself.

“It was,” his voice answers from behind you, making you jump.

You turn to find him leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed and an infuriating smirk on his face. “Are you doubting your memory now?”

“I…” You hesitate, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to think clearly.

“Maybe it’s the stress,” he continues, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “Trauma does funny things to the mind. Makes you see things that aren’t there, remember things that didn’t happen.”

He stops just inches away, his hand brushing against your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and imprisoning. “But don’t worry,” he says softly. “That’s why I’m here—to keep you grounded, to make sure you don’t lose yourself completely.”

———

Over time, the little inconsistencies pile up: a drawer that seems to shift its contents overnight, a diary you swore you wrote in that now sits blank, the faint smell of antiseptic that lingers on your skin despite not remembering any wounds.

“You’re imagining things,” he says whenever you bring it up. “Do you want me to get the doctor again? You remember what he said last time—about your delusions?”

The mention of the doctor shuts you down. You remember the cold metal of the examination table, the too-bright lights, the clinical detachment in the doctor’s voice as he listed off your supposed symptoms.

“You’re not well,” he had said, his tone devoid of compassion. “But with time, and the right care, you can recover.”

And who had been there to hold your hand through it all? Who had whispered reassurances in your ear, promising that he’d never let anyone hurt you?

Him.

Always him.

———

One day, he takes you outside—or what he claims is outside. The sky is gray, the air heavy with the acrid smell of smoke. There’s no one around, just endless stretches of concrete and metal, like the remnants of a city that never finished being built.

“This is what’s left,” he says, gesturing to the desolation around you. “You wanted freedom? Here it is. Go ahead. See how far you get.”

You take a hesitant step forward, then another, the silence pressing in on you like a physical weight. But the farther you walk, the more it feels wrong. The same twisted tree looms in the distance no matter which direction you turn.

“It’s a loop,” you whisper, realization dawning like a shard of glass slicing through your thoughts.

He steps up behind you, his breath warm against your ear. “It’s safety,” he corrects. “And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”

You sink to your knees, the weight of his words crushing you.

Because deep down, you know he’s right. There’s no way out.

────────────

The “gifts” arrive in silence, placed delicately where you can’t ignore them. They are always wrong in ways that make your stomach churn—a photograph from a vacation you can almost remember, the faces distorted into grotesque smears as if melted under the heat of his touch. A trinket you once cherished, now fractured or tarnished beyond recognition, its edges sharp enough to cut. A letter written in your own handwriting, the words rearranged into senseless patterns, like a code you’re too far gone to crack.

You don’t want to touch them, but you do, every time. They feel like a thread tying you to the world you left behind, even as the thread frays in your trembling hands.

Today, it’s a letter. A crumpled piece of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges, that wasn’t there when you closed your eyes to the oppressive dimness hours—or was it days?—ago. The words shift as you read, the ink bleeding into itself until sentences collapse into meaningless blotches.

“It’s all gone, you know,” his voice cuts through the silence, a dagger laced with mockery.

You whip around, the paper crinkling in your grip as you face him. He’s standing in the doorway—or at least, where a doorway would be if this room obeyed the laws of reason. His silhouette is backlit by a faint, sterile glow that gives him an otherworldly edge, making him seem more phantom than man.

His smirk widens as he steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his boots echoing against the cold floor. “Everything you had. Everyone you loved.” He pauses, tilting his head as if savoring your reaction. “I made sure of it.”

His words pierce through you, sharp and unrelenting, a scalpel carving away at your hope. Your hands shake, the letter slipping from your grasp and fluttering to the ground.

“I don’t believe you,” you manage to whisper, though your voice wavers under the weight of his presence.

“Oh?” His tone drips with amusement as he crouches before you, his violet eyes glinting with something dark and twisted. He picks up the letter, smoothing it out with a precision that feels mocking, before holding it out to you again. “Then tell me—what does it say?”

You stare at the paper, the lines of ink writhing like living things under his gaze. The harder you look, the more the words evade you, slipping through the cracks of your comprehension like grains of sand.

“Nothing?” he presses, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “How tragic. And here I thought this might bring you comfort.”

He straightens, looming over you as his smirk softens into something almost tender—almost. “But you don’t need those relics, do you? Memories are just burdens, after all. And I…” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it feels like a mockery of affection. “…am here to unburden you.”

You recoil, pressing yourself against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. His hand lingers in the air for a moment before he withdraws it, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

“You have me now,” he says, his voice calm, measured, but with an undercurrent of something that makes your skin crawl. “And isn’t that enough?”

———

You don’t answer. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, until he chuckles—a low, mirthless sound that vibrates through the room.

“No?” He turns his back to you, pacing with the languid grace of someone who knows they’ve already won. “Ungrateful to the end, I see. Typical.”

He stops near the far wall, his hand trailing across its surface as if feeling for a seam. The room responds to him, a soft click reverberating through the air as a hidden compartment slides open. From within, he pulls another “gift”—a locket this time, small and tarnished, the metal warped as though crushed under immense pressure.

He holds it up, letting it dangle from his fingers as he turns back to you. “Do you recognize this?”

Your heart clenches at the sight of it, the faint glint of its once-polished surface sparking a memory so vivid it feels like a slap. You don’t answer, but he sees the recognition in your eyes, and his smile sharpens into something predatory.

“You kept this with you always, didn’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, almost reverent. “So sentimental. So human.”

He steps closer, dangling the locket just out of reach. “And yet, it couldn’t save you, could it?” His smile falters for a split second, a flicker of something bitter crossing his features before his mask of cold amusement snaps back into place.

He drops the locket at your feet, the sound of metal striking the floor echoing in the silence. “Take it,” he commands, his voice suddenly hard, sharp enough to cut.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for it. The moment your fingers close around the cold, misshapen metal, his boot comes down next to your hand, so close you can feel the air shift.

“But remember,” he says, his voice low and venomous, “everything you touch, everything you remember—it’s mine now. Just like you.”

His words sink into your mind like hooks, tearing at your resolve as he turns and disappears into the void he came from, leaving you alone with the locket and the crushing weight of his truth.

———

You want to say no. You want to scream it, to hurl the word at him with every ounce of strength you have left. But the word sticks in your throat, a jagged shard of glass you can’t swallow or spit out.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He doesn’t need to. The smirk that plays at the corners of his lips tells you he already knows.

“You’ll see,” he murmurs, his tone almost reverent now, as though speaking of a truth so profound it defies comprehension. “In time, you’ll come to understand. I’m all you have. All you’ll ever need.”

He steps back, his boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that echoes like a heartbeat—your heartbeat, weak and faltering.

“Do try to appreciate my generosity,” he says over his shoulder as he moves toward the shadows. “These little gifts of mine… they’re not just for you, you know. They’re for me, too. A reminder of how far you’ve come.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the letter, the photograph, the watch. Alone with the fragmented remains of a life you can no longer remember.

The lights flicker again, plunging the room into darkness.

His voice lingers, though, soft and venomous, a ghost that refuses to leave.

“Gratitude, little fool. That’s all I ask.”

────────────

The room you’ve been confined to has changed again. Not in any tangible way—no new walls, no new objects—but in the oppressive way it seems to warp around you, making even its empty expanse feel too small. It’s as though the walls breathe, inhaling your will and exhaling despair. The only constant is him. Scaramouche, who looms like a god in a world of his own creation.

He stands before you now, framed by the stark artificial light, his expression unreadable. Every movement, every glance he spares is a study in calculated perfection, as though he’s rehearsed this scene in his mind countless times before bringing it to life.

“You’ve made progress,” he begins, his tone soft, almost kind. “I can see it in the way you’ve stopped resisting.” He kneels to your level, his hands clasped neatly on his bent knee. “But we still have work to do.”

You flinch as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist. His touch is light, fleeting, yet it feels like chains being wrapped around your bones.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice dipping into something more intimate, more poisonous. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate, your lips parting but refusing to form the words. The question isn’t innocent; you know that by now. It’s a trap.

Scaramouche’s smile deepens, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your stomach churn. “I see,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “You’re still clinging to it. That identity. That name. That life.” His gaze sharpens, cutting through you like glass. “How selfish.”

“I’m not selfish,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling.

“Aren’t you?” he counters, rising to his feet. He begins to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his every step deliberate and echoing in the oppressive silence. “You insist on holding onto a version of yourself that no longer exists. Do you know how exhausting that is for me? Watching you struggle, knowing you’ll never succeed?”

His words are a scalpel, precise and cutting. “Let me simplify things for you,” he continues, his tone lightening as though he’s offering a gift. “You don’t need a name. Names are for people who belong to the world, and you…” He pauses, turning to face you fully, his violet eyes glowing with an unearthly intensity. “You belong to me.”

The words hang heavy in the air, suffocating you in their finality. He kneels again, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Say it,” he commands, his voice velvet and steel. “Say you’re mine.”

You shake your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “I—I’m not—”

His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of his power. “Say it,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

When you don’t respond, he sighs, releasing you and rising once more. “You still don’t understand,” he says, his voice tinged with disappointment. “But that’s alright. I’ll help you. I always help you, don’t I?”

———

The next morning, you wake to find everything in the room gone—your blanket, the single chair you’d been allowed to sit on, even the thin mattress you’d been sleeping on. The floor beneath you is cold, unyielding, and utterly barren.

When Scaramouche arrives, his expression is one of practiced pity. He crouches down, inspecting you like a scientist observing a fragile experiment. “It’s painful, isn’t it?” he says softly. “To have everything stripped away. But it’s necessary. You have to learn that those things were only weighing you down.”

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice breaking.

“Because I care,” he replies without hesitation. “Because I want you to be free.” He tilts his head, his gaze softening in a way that feels like mockery. “Don’t you see? I’m saving you from the prison of your own mind. The sooner you let go of who you were, the sooner you’ll find peace.”

You don’t respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He rises to his full height, towering over you like a judge delivering a sentence. “I’ll leave you to think,” he says, his tone light but his words laced with menace. “But remember: the only way out of this is through me.”

———

Days pass—or maybe weeks; it’s impossible to tell. The walls seem to close in more each day, their featureless expanse a blank canvas for the chaos in your mind. You begin to question everything: your memories, your sense of self, even your sanity.

One day, Scaramouche returns with a new “gift.” It’s a mirror, small and oval, its edges gilded in a way that feels almost mocking. He sets it before you with a flourish, his smile unreadable.

“Look,” he says simply.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for the mirror. When you finally raise it to your face, you barely recognize the person staring back. Your skin is pale, your eyes hollow, your hair disheveled. You look…empty.

“Do you see now?” he murmurs, crouching beside you. “This is who you are. Who you’ve always been. The world out there didn’t care about you. It chewed you up and spat you out. But I…” He pauses, his gaze locking onto yours in the reflection. “I’m the one who picked up the pieces. I’m the one who’s here for you.”

Tears stream down your face, and you don’t even know why. His words are poison, but they seep into the cracks of your mind, filling the void with something dark and insidious.

“You’ll thank me someday,” he says, his voice soft and almost tender. “When you finally see the truth. When you finally understand that I’m your savior.”

He takes the mirror from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels both possessive and gentle. “But until then,” he says, rising to his feet, “you’ll stay here, where you belong. With me.”

────────────

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avelera · 2 days ago

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Oh I would love to hear more of your thoughts on Heimerdinger because all of my friends were like "aaw the poor guy, he was right about magic all along, Jayce and Viktor owe him an apology" and I'm like??? Heimerdinger literally does nothing to improve any situation ever! I was so hoping he'd learn his lesson under Ekko, but when he got stranded in an AU and just decided to stay there and permanently take over his other self's body and let his original timeline perish I was genuinely horrified by his complacency (again). TBH I would have really liked to see him confronted with the fucked up culmination of all the fiddling with the Arcane in person, because I think I wanted him to see that he was right, he was right and yet he didn't change anything in the end (I'd even argue that he gets away without facing the consequences of any of his failings, he escapes Jinx' bombs even tho he failed in politics and he escapes the Arcane Apocalypse even tho he failed as a guide to his pupils and Hextech safeguard.)

Heimerdinger is a super interesting character and I'm glad you asked this because the previous meta discussion got me thinking about him but I didn't really know where to begin. I'll try to break my thoughts down with some cohesion:

I do think Heimerdinger learned his lesson within the narrative but specifically with regards to his two demonstrated personal flaws. Heimerdinger's two greatest flaws within the narrative are:

1) A lack of understanding and empathy towards those with shorter lives

2 ) The way his immortality detaches him from actually living his life (which feeds into point 1).

This is going to get long though, so I'm gonna start picking apart what I see as Heimerdinger's flaws and his virtues and how those get addressed beneath a cut:

So as I said, I would argue that Heimerdinger's arc does address his core flaws. His moment of greatest personal cruelty is when he fails to recognize Jayce and Viktor's desperation and, instead of agreeing to help them and guide them to make their experiments safe in the face of their desperation for Viktor to live, he just tries to shut them down. He gets exactly what he deserves there.

Then, in the AU universe, he recognizes this and agrees to help Ekko. He then willingly sacrifices his own life to send Ekko back to the canon universe, where Ekko is instrumental in saving the day. That, I would argue, is Heimerdinger's redemption arc, and he needed a redemption arc.

Also, while he was in the alternate timeline, he learned how to live in the moment, which addresses his second flaw, which feeds into his first flaw. I don't blame him for not feeling urgency to return home, without Ekko, he had no way of doing so. It could be seen as complacency, or perhaps simply an understanding of the reality. Would that world have been a better place if he'd invented Hextech just for a shot at returning to his universe? I'd argue that he was trying to be selfless by not doing so, when we see how much damage Hextech did in the canon universe. I think he was simply at peace with a shitty situation for himself, rather than actively avoiding his responsibilities.

As for the other Heimerdinger, who knows! Was there even one? Do yordles only have one identity across the multiverse? Or was there an element of redemption in Heimerdinger choosing to take his alternate self out of the Council? We just don't know.

As for his political identity, Heimerdinger is super interesting there too. Technically, he's an immortal enlightened despot in Piltover as its founder. I think he hides this fact from himself by allowing a council of humans to sometimes outvote him, in a fig leaf over the fact he really doesn't have the right to govern a bunch of humans, and I think him getting voted out of the Council acknowledges and narratively punishes him for this fact. Piltover isn't as enlightened as he thought it was under his leadership, a fact he realizes when he goes to the undercity and realizes how blind he was. But I'd say those were his flaws, he was always blind and naive, not malicious. And I think the narrative punishes him accordingly by giving him a wakeup call that he was asleep at the helm. He doesn't deserve to be in charge anymore. Jayce was completely right to kick him out BUT, did things get worse without the peaceful, modulating view of Heimerdinger on the council? How would HE have voted for Zaun's independence? I'd be very curious to know.

And I think it should be noted, Heimerdinger does have virtues too! His caution towards Hextech is not only well-founded, he is 100% correct. I think people forget that Heimerdinger was never ambiguous on the subject of where Hextech would lead them, he was completely right that it corrupts, destroys, and lays waste to civilizations. There's no ambiguity there! He's completely correct!

He's also correct that there are scientific innovations that would be safer if they spent more time in testing before being made available to the wider world. It took 100 years for people to realize coal burning factories were measurably altering the world's climate. Another great example of an invention that should have been tested more before it was implemented was freon, which was used in early refrigerators and does measurable damage to Earth's ozone later to the point where it is now banned. What if instead more tests had been run?

Heimerdinger's long view of science is correct and in an ideal world, it'd be great if we could run these tests to their conclusions. However, the long view isn't the whole story, a debate that Arcane actively engages with.

Because it should also be pointed out: the refrigerator also helped improve people's health around to the world. Think of all the food and medicine that can be preserved today because of refrigeration! Literally thousands would have died if we had banned refrigerators until freon could be better studied.

That's kind of where Viktor is at vs. Heimerdinger. If freon-powered refrigerators can end hunger in the undercity, why aren't we applying it now? To which Heimerdinger answers: you don't know what else it might be doing to the world. They are in fact both correct! It's a debate! One the real world is still trying to figure out. Heimerdinger is an extreme case of the long view, and Viktor is an equally extreme case of the short view since he's frantic now that he has so little time to live. Jayce tries to balance the two and gets caught in the middle with everyone mad at him, poor guy.

Anyway, I think that covers most of what I had to say about Heimerdinger? Hope that helps!

#heimerdinger #arcane #arcane meta

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turnuptheoldvictrola1183 · 20 hours ago

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Paul Tazewell & his team have my whole heart. I wish we got a full, 40 min featurette for just the costuming. Truthfully, a full 40 min featurette for every department would cure my depression, I think (probably not but it'd still bring me a lot of joy).

The movie is full of these small, rich details that add to the visual storytelling. And there are also so many details we don't get to see but are included anyway, because every member of a film set has a creative ambition that gets to feed the overall vision of a movie. It didn't matter if this lining never got to be seen in the final product, because the costumers had to do their part to tell this story visually regardless, and they were going to do it to the best of their ability assuming that maybe, just maybe, these smaller details did get screen time. Or maybe it's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment where someone might notice and ask themselves "well, why is that there?" And these beautiful creatives want to always have an answer to even tiny things like that. Or maybe it was just to better inform the actors who got to wear these beautiful costumes and create these characters. They were telling their own story within the broader narrative, and that care and consideration translates whether the viewer gets to see every detail or not.

This kind of dedication from each department is what makes great movies. Great costumes inform inform great props inform great set dec informs great acting performances inform great blocking informs great lighting setups inform great camera movement on and on and back and forth. And the viewer can *feel* that even if they can't quite articulate exactly how the world that was built for the movie felt so immersive.

not only does glinda have a green barette in her hair when they go to the emerald city, elphie had a pink lining in her skirt

they’re always together, even when they’re not

#wicked #this is so rambly and all over the place #i just feel like the craft of filmmaking is something we commonly forget #because when it's done well you're so immersed you forget that human beings cared enough to make it immersive #i think deliberate creation is an act of love #and i think we should show love and appreciation to the people who give us experiences like this

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satellite-evans · 16 hours ago

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Not my baby

Pairing : Harry Styles x reader

Summary: Harry comes back home with the wrong kid :)

Warning: tiny angst, happy ending, sleep deprived parents

Word count: 2.3k

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Harry had never truly understood what it meant to be a parent. He loved his family, of course—he adored his wife, Y/N, and now he found himself utterly smitten with their newborn daughter, Willow. But the reality of sleepless nights, endless feedings, and the whirlwind of emotions that came with being parents was something Harry had never fully grasped until now. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen his friends with their children or heard the stories from other parents. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared him for how deeply the exhaustion would seep into every part of his being. And the exhaustion wasn’t just his. Y/N had been the one to endure the brunt of it, her body adjusting to the demands of both breastfeeding and the round-the-clock needs of their infant.

It had been nearly three weeks since Willow was born, and although Harry had tried to help in every way he could—holding Willow while she napped, soothing her when she cried, and trying to take on household chores—he knew that Y/N had it the hardest. She was the one that had carried Willow for nine months, the one who had brought her into the world, and now, she was the one who was still waking up every two to three hours to nurse, then trying to sneak in some rest during the day when Willow took her naps.

Despite the weariness that clung to her every movement, Y/N had a glow in her eyes whenever she looked at Willow. That love—the undeniable bond between mother and child—shone brightly even through the tiredness. Harry admired her for it, but he could see that she was starting to run on empty. He could feel it in her sighs, the way she held her head a little lower, and how she kept rubbing her tired eyes like they could somehow erase the exhaustion.

Harry knew he couldn’t take away the sleepless nights or the emotional toll, but today, he was determined to do something to help her. Just a little. A few hours of uninterrupted rest. That’s all he wanted to give her.

It was mid-morning, and Y/N had finally managed to doze off on the couch after nursing Willow and settling her back into her bassinet. She had been awake for hours, trying to comfort Willow, who had been fussy from teething. Harry saw how her eyes fluttered shut as soon as her body hit the cushions, and he knew that was his chance.

He tiptoed into the living room, making sure not to disturb her. He’d thought long and hard about how to make this work. There was no way he could bring Willow into the other room and make noise. But he could give Y/N some time to sleep if he took Willow out for a little walk. The fresh air would be good for both of them. Harry figured a quick stroll to the park would do the trick. Just a few hours. He’d be back before she even noticed.

He glanced at Willow, still peacefully asleep in her bassinet. He smiled softly, heart swelling with love. He picked her up gently, cradling her as though she were the most precious thing in the world. She was so tiny, so perfect. She had a tuft of dark hair on top of her head and a soft, little face that made Harry’s heart ache with joy. He placed her carefully into the stroller, making sure she was comfortable and snug with a soft pink blanket tucked around her.

The stroller was simple—black and white, sleek and modern. (Y/N) had picked it out before Willow was born, and Harry had made sure it was ready for the day they brought their daughter home. He adjusted the straps around Willow’s tiny body and double-checked the wheels, giving them a quick spin. Once he was satisfied, he crept into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee, sitting at the table to quietly sip it before heading out. He didn’t want to wake (Y/N).

For a moment, Harry allowed himself a deep breath. He was still reeling from the intensity of fatherhood. It was overwhelming at times, especially with the lack of sleep. He thought about how this experience had shifted his entire perspective on life, on love, on what truly mattered. (Y/N) was everything to him, and Willow... Willow was their miracle.

After a few more minutes of silence, Harry decided it was time. He grabbed his jacket, slipped on his shoes, and with one final glance at Y/N, he left the house.

The air outside was crisp, a soft breeze rustling the leaves in the trees. Harry loved the quiet of the neighborhood during the day, the calm before life got busy again. He pushed the stroller slowly, savoring the peaceful moments as he made his way to the nearby park. Willow was still asleep, and Harry let himself relax for the first time all morning. There was something so serene about these early mornings—the silence, the fresh air, the gentle hum of life around him.

Harry hummed quietly, looking down at Willow. He reached down and gently stroked her hair, his voice soft and comforting.

“Alright, love. We’re off on an adventure, just you and me,” Harry whispered, smiling as Willow’s tiny face stayed relaxed, oblivious to his words. “I’ll make sure you’re as tired as I am by the time we get home. I know you’re sleepy now, but we’ll get some fresh air, won’t we?”

Harry continued walking, his thoughts drifting as he pushed the stroller down the sidewalk. “Your mum’s going to love this. A few hours of quiet for her—she deserves it more than anyone.”

As Harry approached the park, he noticed the familiar sight of other parents with their children. Some were chatting, some were on their phones, while others simply sat in silence, enjoying the break from the whirlwind of home life. Harry guided the stroller to a bench and sat down, looking out at the peaceful surroundings.

He watched Willow’s chest rise and fall gently in her sleep, her tiny hands curled into fists. It was hard to fathom how quickly she’d grown in just a few weeks. Harry knew he couldn’t wait to see her first steps, hear her first word. But for now, he was content to just be with her in this quiet moment.

Not long after, another man arrived at the bench nearby, pushing an identical stroller. Harry glanced over, raising an eyebrow at the coincidence.

“Hey there,” the man greeted, settling onto the bench next to Harry. “Nice day for a walk, huh?”

Harry smiled, glad to see someone else enjoying the peace and quiet. “Yeah, it’s beautiful out. My first time out with her,” he said, gesturing to Willow. “Trying to give my wife a break. She’s been—well, you know.”

The man nodded knowingly. “I get it. It’s tough, isn’t it? My daughter’s a handful, and I’ve been trying to get a break too. But, you know, they’re worth it.” He chuckled softly, glancing down at his stroller. “I’m just trying to let her nap for a bit.”

Harry laughed, nodding in agreement. “I hear you. Same here. She’s been pretty calm though, so I think I’m lucky so far.”

They both fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the kind of quiet that only new parents seemed to understand. Harry watched the man’s daughter playing in the distance, toddling toward a group of other kids. He smiled, feeling a little sense of camaraderie in the shared exhaustion of parenthood.

Harry’s eyes drifted back to the stroller beside him. He noticed the other man’s baby had a soft pink blanket just like Willow’s, and for a split second, Harry didn’t think twice. He stood up, yawning as he stretched his back.

“Alright, kiddo,” he murmured to Willow, who was still asleep. “Time to head home.”

The man had stepped away for a moment, leaving his stroller unattended. Without thinking, Harry grabbed it, instinctively pushing it toward the park entrance.

When Harry finally returned, he was beaming. He had given Willow the quiet afternoon she deserved, and now, he was looking forward to seeing Y/N wake up, refreshed and happy.

He quietly unlocked the door, stepping into the house with the stroller in tow. Y/N was still fast asleep on the couch, her chest rising and falling gently. Harry smiled to himself, knowing that soon, she would get a break.

He tiptoed over to her, setting the stroller down beside the couch and gently pulling back the blanket to reveal the baby. But when Y/N blinked her eyes open and took in the sight of the child in the stroller, her blood ran cold.

“Harry, what the hell... is this?” Her voice cracked with panic.

Harry froze. “What?”

“That’s... not Willow!” Y/N’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. She sat up so quickly that she nearly knocked the stroller over.

“What do you mean?” Harry frowned, peering into the stroller.

Y/N was practically shaking now. Her fingers trembled, gripping the edge of the couch. “That’s not our baby! That’s someone else’s child! Where is Willow?!” Her voice pitched higher, bordering on hysteria.

Harry’s heart raced. His thoughts scattered. He stepped back, his mind running through a thousand thoughts in an instant. He glanced from the baby in the stroller to Y/N, and then it dawned on him—he had made a mistake. A huge mistake.

“No... no way... no, I—” His voice trailed off as his own panic set in.

“Harry, you took someone else’s baby!” Y/N’s voice went from frantic to full-on hysteria. She was trembling now, her entire body shaking from the weight of the realization. “Oh my God, you took the wrong kid!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Harry tried to explain, his brain struggling to catch up with the sheer magnitude of the error. “I swear, I thought—”

Y/N wasn’t listening. Her breath was coming in short, panicked gasps. Her hands shook violently as she pulled out her phone to dial the police. But when she saw her fingers trembling uncontrollably, the numbers on the screen blurred. She could barely focus. Her vision blurred with tears of terror.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered, hands shaking so violently that the phone nearly slipped from her grasp. She tried again, but her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. “Why can’t I dial? I—I can’t breathe!” Her voice broke.

“Don’t call the police!” Harry begged, his voice cracking. “Please, just let me explain. I’ll fix this—just let me fix this.”

Y/N couldn’t focus on anything other than the feeling of utter dread. “You don’t understand,” she gasped. “We need to find Willow. We need to find her now.”

Her trembling hands hovered over the phone, but before she could dial the number, the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden. Harry’s heart stopped. He rushed to open the door, his stomach flipping with anxiety. And standing there, holding Willow in his arms, was the man her met at the park whose expression mirrored his own terror.

“That’s my daughter!” the man snapped, seeing the baby in Y/N's arms, his voice full of frustration. “What kind of person takes another child's baby?!”

Harry stood there, stunned. His eyes darted from the angry man to Willow in his arms and back to Y/N, who was now crying from a mixture of relief and rage.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, barely able to find his voice. “I thought she was mine.”

The other father glared at him, his irritation palpable. “Yeah? Well, next time, keep track of your kid!”

As the situation settled, both parents not only exchanged the babies, but they also exchanged apologies. The tension in the room was still thick. Willow was safe, and the other baby was safe, but the mix-up was enough to send both families into a temporary panic.

When everything was finally sorted, Harry stood in the living room, staring at Y/N, who was still shaking from the ordeal but still hugging Willow close to her chest, who had no idea what happened. She walked over to him; her face a mixture of anger, exhaustion, and relief.

“Harry,” she began, her voice low but firm. “No more surprise walks. No more ‘I’m just trying to help’ crap. You scared me half to death!”

Harry looked down at the floor, feeling the weight of his mistake. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to help you get some rest.”

Y/N softened just slightly, placing a hand on his chest. “I know, love. I know. But next time, double-check the stroller, okay?”

Harry nodded, his heart still racing. “I swear, never again.”

And with that, they both took a deep breath. The chaos was over, but it would be a long while before they forgot the walk that went terribly wrong.

#fluff #harry styles #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fiction #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x wife!reader #harry styles imagine #dad!harry

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bwat5-blog · 13 hours ago

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Quick Response To Some Fresh Lunacy

**Spoilers For Arcane**

So while I have only delved into the sheer bedlam that is the Arcane Critical tag once, every now and then one of those feisty little diesel drinkers makes it onto my feed and I am treated to something like this as reasons season 2 supposedly sucked (their phrasing was much more unpleasant):

1. The people of the Undercity died to save Piltover while wearing Enforcer uniforms despite Piltover doing nothing to earn it. 2. Silco was turned into a mouthpiece for forgiveness and letting go of the past despite being one of the only pro-zaun characters. 3. Jinx was redeemed by sympathizing with topsiders, forced to apologize for killing Caitlyn's mom and felt like she needed to die so Vi could run off with Caitlyn. 4. Vi didn't care about the grey and serviced Caitlyn in a prison cell where she was locked away by Enforcers as a kid. 5. Jayce acting like Viktor's illness that was caused by Piltover wasn't something that needed to be cured. 6. Ekko never calls out Heimerdinger for his failings, Vi for joining the Enforcers, and risks his people (the firelights) to help Piltover. 7. Sevika almost being cut completely, never reacting to Isha's death or interacting with Jinx in act 3 and risking her life to help Piltover which is way out of character.

Okay... breathe deep... it hurts.. I know it hurts. It hurt me as well to read such a strong concentration of felonious stupidity all in one place as well. But we must never falter. There are a lot of ways I could respond to this. And perhaps at some point I will go more in-depth. But the simple fact is nothing here requires a long, drawn out, point-by-point defense. Because I have seen the show. Which clearly gives me the upper hand here. So, I am going to give each of these the amount of attention they deserve.

The people of the Undercity died to save Piltover while wearing Enforcer uniforms despite Piltover doing nothing to earn it

Hey there. Remember him? Does it seem like once he pacified Piltover he was just gonna call it a day, get back in his gigantic astral hamster ball and fuck off back to the compound? No. His goal was the evolution of humanity. Not Piltover. Jayce spells this out clearly. "This isn't a fair request". But it is the truth. And regarding the uniforms. The average Undercity character is seen is some variety of leathers/cloth/wool whatever that usually is displaying a decent amount of skin. THE ENFORCERS WEAR ARMOR.

Silco was turned into a mouthpiece for forgiveness and letting go of the past despite being one of the only pro-zaun characters

Okay. I am going to make this is as simple as possible so you can follow along with me:

As we know, Silco is not there. Jinx is essentially working this out in her own mind through these hallucinations

Her status as Silco's daughter, being a symbol, his influence and shadow, it is all tying her to the past which as we know is filled to the brim with delicious sugary trauma.

Even though he was a monster, she views him as a father figure. And as much as it sucks to say probably more than Vander. She was so young when Vander died. She was with Silco during her real formative years. And I would bet she has pushed Vander away mentally to protect herself after everything that has occured. So while Vi sees Vander in the barfight when she wants to give up, Jinx sees Silco.

Silco is giving Jinx the permission Jinx realizes she has to give Vi to save both of them.

Jinx was redeemed by sympathizing with topsiders, forced to apologize for killing Caitlyn's mom and felt like she needed to die so Vi could run off with Caitlyn

Again. HUMANITY ENDING THREAT. Also ya know her fucking sister wanted her by her side.

OH NO! OUR MURDEROUS MENTALLY ILL TERRORIST IS HEALING AND TRYING TO TAKE ACCOUNTABILITY FOR HER MISTAKES! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! NOT CHARACTER GROWTH!

3. True. In that moment she felt she needed to die.. because as she says, she feels "there's no good version of me". I know it's unfair you have to watch the whole scene to get it. But you have taken a profound moment of Jinx's love for her sister and her recognition of how Vi loves her and made it.. whatever this was supposed to be.

Vi didn't care about the grey and serviced Caitlyn in a prison cell where she was locked away by Enforcers as a kid.

I have done this so... so many times. I am not doing it again. I will go with the same blanket statement I have been using lately: A non-lethal crowd dispersal weapon in targeted locations against dangerous drug lords and a terrorist who likes blowing shit up? Seems like a decent plan.

Well done. You have taken a beautiful moment of meaning between these two characters and simplified it down to the utmost degree. There are numerous thoughtful, in-depth and heartfelt breakdowns of this scene available and I promised myself I wasn't going to waste a bunch of my time responding to this mind-melting ignorance. So I will just say this. If that is all you see in that scene, I really am sorry for you. I hope someday things improve.

Jayce acting like Viktor's illness that was caused by Piltover wasn't something that needed to be cured

Because it wasn't about Piltover or Zaun you crusty dishrag. Viktor was trying to purify all of humanity after a life-time of seeing the imperfections and weaknesses in himself as a start. Jayce loved Viktor. I'm not even getting to romantic or platonic, he LOVED VIKTOR. I suppose you would have preferred for him to look at Viktor and yell "You know what you diseased freak you have a point! Good for you taking everyone's humanity. WELL DONE!"

Ekko never calls out Heimerdinger for his failings, Vi for joining the Enforcers, and risks his people (the firelights) to help Piltover.

Heimerdinger is very aware of his failings. You have to watch in season one. Again.. watching the show you talk about.. very hard I know. And as close as he and Ekko are in season two I think we can safely say they are on the same page. Never mind that Ekko has shown he has no trouble calling out anyone who needs it.

Ekko and Vi are family. So while it is true he may be angry and we don't see it, I think a character of immense heart like Ekko who loves Vi would actually talk with her. You know.. rather than the savage degradation of Vi some people seem to wish for.

AGAIN FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY

Sevika almost being cut completely, never reacting to Isha's death or interacting with Jinx in act 3 and risking her life to help Piltover which is way out of character

She is a side character. Sorry but she is. But after a lifetime trying and failing to stand for Zaun she becomes their first ever voice on the council. She is the representative of every person she has wanted to protect. Sorry if that doesn't cut it.

When exactly would we have seen this? I also would have been curious to see her reaction but they were dealing with the whole ya know.. war?!

Same to above. I wish we could have seen Jinx rallying the undercity with Ekko. I actually give you this one. I think this was a missed opportunity.

ONCE MORE WITH FEELING

I'm sorry scary Viktor. I don't know why they keep forgetting you.

#arcane #arcane season 2 spoilers #vi arcane #jinx arcane #caitvi #vi and jinx #silco #arcane zaun #jayce talis #arcane viktor #sevika #isha and jinx #piltover and zaun #jinx powder

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nashdoesstuff · 2 days ago

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crest RAMBLES because i’m so normal about him <- i am regular

okay so. first and foremost crest is my take on nicemare. because i don’t really like a lot of interpretations of nicemare,, that’s just my opinion, though— i don’t like them much really but i do think they have potential!! so i gave it a shot and crescent is the result of that.

here he is!! my goober ever <3

second. he and his sister [celeste] were born in around the late 1550s. no specific birthdate [yet] but they were born in that decade. crest stood by the tree as per usual, defending nim’s new form as best he could, even if it didn’t go to plan sometimes.

during the apple incident, he only ate around half of the apples on the tree before the villagers started attacking him, so a lot of them were left to roam the universe after crest fled. celeste was put into stone with a spell after crest finished killing every villager, mostly because he was scared of hurting her with the new magic that had overcome him and that was beyond his control at the time.

he was. very sick. throughout the first year of his corruption. in this multiverse the apples make their consumer feel sick and nauseous, alongside other side affects. these can last or worsen, depending on how many apples are consumed. in crest’s case, since they were around 500, he was sick for several months, staying in one universe and mourning what he presumed was the loss of his sister, and the actual loss of his mother, whom he killed accidentally. due to the fact he never consumed every apple, “passive’s” soul was not lost, and crescent still controls his own body. his corruption only controls his body when crescent is angrier or influenced by surrounding negative energy. this can be best shown through crest’s eyelight— which typically is blue and purple [this is also known as crest’s ‘neutral’ state.] when it is entirely violet, crescent is usually showing genuine, strong positive emotions, or experiencing sadness, fear, or likewise. when his eyelight is entirely blue/cyan, his corruption has the majority of the control, and crest has a lack of sympathy. fortunately, entire corruption rarely ever occurs, only in situations of anger or extreme negativity.

he travelled the multiverse young, and stood in one universe for the rest of his childhood until he decided to travel again. he stood in another universe after falling in love with someone for some 20+ years, leaving a month after said lover’s death. after that occurred, he began to live loosely, only staying in a universe for at most a week or two before departing once again. this changed in the 1800s when he found an abandoned castle and called it his home.

his sister awoke from stone in the year 2065, in which you may remember from this comic where crest recalls celeste disowning him. after this happened and celeste befriended ink, crest met killer, horror, and dust, alongside cross who joined them two years later. crest treats his boys like family, and is a father figure of sorts to them. [sound familiar?]

after celeste’s corruption, he made a truce with ink to help both of them fight her off. as time passed, however, the two became closer and closer and eventually fell in love. they married around a year into their relationship.

now, my main issue with nicemare universes is they never really put reason to nightmare’s kindness. why is it that nightmare is seen as heartless to everyone but kind only to those who know him closely?

my explanation for this is crest’s requirement for other’s suffering. his corruption requires him to feed on the suffering of other people, even if he doesn’t want it. so, he goes to universes and harms them, only because he must. due to this, people find it more difficult to trust him. however, since his boys know and trust him, they deem him as the kind-hearted guardian he is ^^

additionally, as to why he’s nice, i think he used to Not Be. like he wasn’t too kind in his childhood. he used to get into fights and didn’t socialize, blah blah. these events occurred most frequently before the age of 13 because he was just on edge due to everything that had occurred in the village and had a very difficult time seeing that others weren’t going to hurt him. but as his magic developed and he was able to better feel the intentions of others, he grew to understand other people much easier than he was able in the years prior. he managed to grow out of that “guilty until proven innocent” mindset, and made some acquaintances and even developed some feelings for boys he grew up around.

so! some fun facts about crest:

he is an avid tea and coffee drinker. he has coffee once in the mornings, and jasmine tea twice or more a day. he drinks coffee for energy since he doesn’t sleep ^^

he is gay! he would rather watch paint dry than kiss a woman

originally, he had a lot of internalized homophobia. he was told being queer was wrong growing up, so when he found out he was he Hated Himself for it. it wasn’t until he met his first boyfriend when he realized it was okay to be gay, and even after he passed he thought his partner’s death was caused by a higher deity being angry with them for loving each other. he only stopped believing this in the mid-1900s.

crest is autistic and has some difficulty with social cues. he runs the castle on a strict schedule, only barely changing it. he rotates between 3-4 outfits and refuses to wear anything else unless it is an occasion. he also hates velvety textures, and cannot wear any sort of fabrics/textiles on his hands without freaking out about it. this includes bandages, gloves, and fabric on his hands for a prolonged period of time. this also extends to touch— long-term hand holding or unauthorized touching makes him extremely anxious. basically, if anything is on his hands that he doesn’t want on there, he will Not like it. his special interest could be considered the multiverse.

he does like rings though! he wears five in total.

he isn’t very fond of corrupt dream/positivity guardian variants. he just. doesn’t like them. his sister scares him enough.

he has a type when it comes to love interests: artists. he loves artists of any kind— his first boyfriend was a musician, and ink’s… ink. any other crushes he had were either painters, musicians, writers, or actors.

crest does doodle on occasion, mostly in journals he uses to take notes around the multiverse. he’s been keeping journals since adulthood, and has kept all of them since. he keeps all of his journals on a bookshelf in his office, and he has a total of 200+ journals, some specialized in certain universes and others moreso as travel diaries.

he primarily listens to classical and acoustic music. he has a record player and refuses to use anything else to listen to music in his free time.

he is 5’0”.

crest is insecure about his body, particularly his goop/negativity coating. he sees it as a reminder of the worst day of his life.

yeagh i’m normal about him. anyways feel free to ask me questions about him. thumbs up emoji

#nash talks #nash’s dibujos #nashdoesntshutup #utmv stuffs!!#my ocs #crest #crescent #utmv #utmv oc #nightmare sans variant #nightmare sans #long post #infodump #i will. yap more about him #PLEASE SEND QUESTIONS PLEASE ON MY HANDS AND KNEES BEGGING YOU ASK QUESTIONS PLE [EXPLODES] /silly/nf/np

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deliriousbluebird · 2 days ago

Text

I remember seeing this post at the dead of night on the day it was posted and just sobbing my heart out into my mattress because it had been so long since I had been able to look at one of those normally, not counting the calories, or putting it on the food scale. The oil on the pasta, the glaze on the cinnamon rolls, all the sugar in the hot cocoa and just the amount of calories in the bread; It scared me so much that I couldn’t do anything but cry as I thought how my life was before @na. I still remembered the flavors and how beautiful the aroma was. Yet all I could think about was how I could fit it into my omad and how many oz would be less than 300 calories.

I wanted to recover, so fucking bad, but what felt even worse was thinking how much I would have betrayed myself for not getting to my goal. I felt like I had to get to my goal or else all those months going to the doctors to get those fucking tests done, all the lying to the psychiatrist, all those days of fasting and nearly passing out would’ve been for nothing.

But with all the suffering that came with it, there was still a strange comfort and beauty that came with it. Seeing the stars in English after fasting for 3 days with a blanket over me in the warmly lit room, looking at the beautiful reflection in the mirror, 3lbs away from my goal weight knowing how close this was to all ending, the light headed feeling I felt while running, feeling truly free. It made me think it was all worth it. That this small, moment in my life was beautiful, and that there was nothing better than it. There was nothing better than 🌟ving my body from the nutrition it needed, watching my face become gaunt, my ribs more bold and my collarbones stick out.

I felt so happy. But it was killing me.

I could feel myself almost rotting away, starving, laying on my back in my bad, counting away the hours until I could eat again. I had no energy, and my body hurt too much to do anything anyways. My stomach bare, my legs getting weaker and worse. As much as I wanted to be seen as beauty and perfect by everyone, as much as I wanted go be satisfied with myself, I was so scared of leaving earth.

At night, I would go through episodes, seeing everything as too large and too expansive; Incomprehensible by the mind. All I could do was pace around my room hoping that the all too familiar feeling of dread would go away. But the only way I knew it was going to go away was by recovering. By recovering I had the chance to not die young like all the doctors were saying. I hate those doctors. As much as I in my right mind would think that they probably saved my life or whatever, I just wish someone would’ve been kind.

Because in all that time suffering, no one was ever kind about it when they found out. My mom would hold me to the wall while I was hysterical, trying to get me to take the god forsaken pills. My friend told me I was being over dramatic. The psychiatrist told me I would die. I genuinely do think I would’ve began recovery sooner if someone had hugged me, telling me that everything would be okay, that no matter how much it all hurt that I would be okay soon, I would be better. A regular hug though would’ve been nice too though.

When I began to recover, it wasn’t because I wanted to get better and improve myself and my mental health and shit. It was because I was fucking petrified of what would happen to me if I didn’t. I couldn’t bare the thought of ever being admitted to the hospital with a feeding tube, the thought of ever possibly losing control to them. I think would’ve been the very last straw before I gave up on myself.

I genuinely don’t think l’ll ever see food the same again. I still see the calories in the crackers and the sandwiches and the bowls and the soup and the cereal. I just eat it anyways because I don’t want to die yet. Every now and then though, I’ll go without food for 48 hours or so to remember what I once was.

I’ll miss when I was worse.

Hot girls have a healthy relationship with food!!!

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peachhcs · 1 day ago

Note

(Lmk if this is too cringy or we’re too much of a cliché or this is just straight up embarrassing IDK I’m on my period and I have a lot of emotions ) maybe a lil blurb on samy on her period being in like an all boys house and will getting her chocolate and being her heating pad

omg anon nooooo it’s not cliche at all (i love cliche) and i feel like this is so cutie and so mundane and things will just does for samy without her asking

au masterlist

it wasn’t hard to tell that the youngest hughes had been in a bad mood since she woke up. she trudged down the stairs bleary eyed and tired from having tossing and turning all night. she felt bad for probably keeping will awake with her shuffling because he wasn’t in the bed when she woke up that morning.

to make it worse, samy realized she started her period today which just was the cherry on top of one of the boys eating the last of her granola bars and then realizing she was almost out of tampons. so far, it just wasn’t shaping up to be a good morning for the girl.

while her brothers helped their dad with work around the house, samy laid inside on the couch overcome with cramps. the first day of her period was always the worst because of her cramps, back pain, moodiness, and irritation all mixed into one. she didn’t even know where will was. she hadn’t seen him once this morning and that made her sad because she loved waking up next to her boyfriend during the summer and now he was no where to be seen.

unbeknownst to samy though, will had gotten up early that morning because 1. he needed to run errands because he was out of almost all of his go-to snacks and 2. he went out to buy some of the little chocolate hearts he knew samy loved whenever she was on her period. the blonde always knew when her period was coming because she happened to toss and turn every night it came and will could tell by her slight snappiness the last two days that it was probably coming soon because the brunette always got a bit more snappy with people a few days before her period.

he wanted to surprise her, so when he came back into the somewhat empty house he found her laying on the couch watching tv. will carefully tapped her shoulder and samy’s gaze snapped up.

“hi, where’ve you been?” she wondered.

“i was getting more snacks for myself, but i got these for you,” he showed the bag of chocolates hidden behind his back. samy sat up, eyes widening as she eyed the candy.

“willlll, you didn’t,” she smiled widely.

“you got your period this morning, didn’t you?” he wondered and she raised her eyebrow.

“how’d you know?”

“because i just know you. you always toss and turn the night before your period,” the blonde kissed the top of her head and maybe it was her heightened emotions because of her period, but the brunette started getting teary that her boyfriend just knew her so well he got her chocolate without even having to ask.

“will, you’re so sweet. god, i don’t deserve you. sorry if i kept you up last night,” samy mumbled, trying to suppress her tears while the blonde just chuckled.

“you didn’t, but you’re welcome. i love you. i’ll come lay with you in a second, okay?” he said and the girl nodded. will went back to the kitchen to put away his snacks and also restock samy’s granola bars that he happened to notice were gone before he left.

when he came back samy had dug into the chocolates and made grabby hands at him to come lay with her. the boy smiled softly, spreading out across the couch so his entire body was on her legs and his head rested on her stomach. this was how samy liked it whenever she was on her period because will was always so warm, he was her heating pad and she didn’t need an actual one. she ran her hands through his curls and the blonde hummed at the feeling of her gentle fingers massaging his roots.

“want one?” samy wondered and held out one of the chocolates. will happily let her feed it to him and they stayed like that almost the whole day.

the youngest hughes’ mood improved significantly as the day went on and maybe having will by her side made dealing with her period just that much better.

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kichikichiko · 2 days ago

Note

haiiii!! I’d like to put in a request for Boothill x an alcoholic mechanic reader who’s personality takes a complete 180 when drunk, like when the reader is sober they’re a really quiet nervous person but when they feed their addiction they turn into a party animal.(If I had to compare the reader’s personality to an existing character I’d say they’re like hiroi from bocchi the rock) also I think it’d be cute if the reader did things like maintenance checks and fixed up Boothill/his stuff from time to time :3

Moonshine

Happy new year everyone! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و sorry I've been gone for so long!

Also so sorry for taking this long to write your request ;; I had the biggest writers block in my life last year

Hope you like this silly lil fic of Boothill! (He's my favourite character good lord)

Pairing: Boothill x gn mechanic alcoholic! reader

Synopsis: Reader is an alcoholic in disguised, and your client (and secret crush)

Warnings: Fluff, Reader likes drinking alcohol, Reader is mentioned to be shy but takes a 180 on their personality after intaking alcohol, nicknames/ petnames mentioned by Boothil, not proofread.

Working as a mechanic is no easy job. Nights without sleep, days with frustrations. It just never ends! Of course you’re going to turn to alcohol for solace and comfort. It is only natural! You tell yourself.

It’s not like you drink alcohol as you work no no no. You grab a bottle of alcohol and drown yourself to the intoxicating taste of it after hours. During harder days, you’ll go to a bar during the night and get real drunk. Dancing to the live band, singing with other patrons, talking with strangers… all of that. Because of that, you always prefer to get drunk alone, where no one you know can see that side of you. After all, you were shy and quiet and always got the job done. That’s what your frequent and loyal client, Boothill the cyborg, thinks anyway.

Boothill is known to run into danger, Hell, he probably is Danger himself. So it’s not surprising he ends up with a few bad damages to his metal body here and there. He always comes to you for a bit (a lot actually-) of fixing up. It’s totally because he thinks you're reliable and not because of any other reason…

“You should be more mindful about yourself, Boothill. This is the third time you’ve visited my workshop in a week.” You grumbled as you fixed up his mechanic arm.

“What's all the fuss about sweetheart? My human head is perfectly fine, besides, this time it’s only my arm that’s in rough shape.” He grins which earned him a disapproving shake of your head.

“Still, that doesn’t mean you're invincible. What if one day your heart is the one getting damaged? You know how much work and stress you’ll put me through?” You weren’t yelling per say, you never yelled at Boothill, or anyone for that matter. But it was very evident you were annoyed and worried.

Boothill sighed and nodded his head “Alright sugarplum, I’ll be more careful next time.”

You hummed in response and silence ensued, only the sound of you tinkering with your equipment filled the workshop. Boothill looked at you from his seat. The crease of your eyebrows, the small frown on your lips and the sweat dripping from your forehead so focused on fixing his arm. Sometimes he feels a little guilty, for making you work hard almost everyday when he comes to visit you. He’ll never admit that sometimes he gets into real danger just to see you often. Small maintenance once a week doesn’t cut it for him. He wanted to see you everyday.

“Hey sweetheart, you’ve been working real hard today, how ‘bout after this, I take you out for a drink?” The cowboy smirked, waiting for your reply. He’s never seen you drink before, and he doesn't know if you do, but it’s worth the shot to ask.

You paused for a second, then looked up at him “You’ll pay?”

He scoffed at your question. “I’ll getcha as many drinks as you want.”

“Deal.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Hours passed, and you finally closed up your workshop. Boothill seemed to know the area well, because he decided to take you to a bar quite far from your workshop, despite there being a bar quite near your place. Honestly, you were glad for his suggestion. You were a regular customer in the bar near your workshop, and dare not make that known to Boothill.

You started to regret taking up Boothill’s offer for a drink, in fear of getting drunk and letting your “party animal” side come out. What would he think of you? Would he be shocked? Disgusted?. You shook your head. It's not like I get drunk with just one drink.. but the fear remains.

When you both arrived at the bar, you made a mental note to just have a maximum of two drinks.

You and Boothill sat by the bar (counter), “Heya boss, a glass of whiskey for me and..” Boothill turned to you, waiting for your reply.

“Sweetened mood for me.” you told the Bartender, who nodded and started making your drinks.

“Thanks for today by the way, (Name). I always know I can count on you to get me back to shape”

You smiled a little and shook your head. “Not an easy job having you come in so often, but no problem.” Just then, the bartender gave you both your drinks.

“Aw c’mon, havin’ me around has its perks, don't lie now sugarcube you love havin’ me around.”

You didn’t reply but you silently agreed, and took a sip of your drink.. drink number one.

The conversation between the two of you flowed so smoothly, like the amount of alcohol you started to drink. It was already more than two, and you felt your cheeks flush. But you didn’t stop.

As if fate was trying to push you further, a live band started to play, and the urge to dance along kicked in. You felt light headed and tipsy, but instead of stopping you ordered another alcohol and chugged it down.

“Woah there (name) didn’t know you could drink this much! Had I known, I would’ve taken you out back then!”

You slammed your cup on the table and laughed “I’m sure you would have, but I would have said no to your offer.” truly the alcohol was taking over your senses, because you felt yourself stand up from your seat and slowly swat to the beat of the song from the live band. Boothill’s eyes followed you and widened when you started dancing to the music. Your laugh, your smile, the red cheeks clearly intoxicated. This was the you he has never seen before, but he doesn’t complain. Instead, he grinned and went to the dance floor with you and started dancing along.

You smiled at him “Follow my movements cowboy, only if you can of course.” You teased.

“Is that a challenge, sugarplum?” The said cowboy teased back.

“Depends on how you take it.”

The atmosphere of the bar became more lively, dancing, laughing and cheering along. Making you all the more hyped and making Boothill all the more attracted to you.

Hours later, the music stopped and the atmosphere dulled down to a calm one. By this point, the cowboy knew it was time to take you back.

“You sure caught me by surprise, (name).” He chuckled, carrying your sleeping figure back to your place.

Though you couldn’t hear him, he continued. “I hope you’ll show me this side of you again, sweetheart.”

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺

Masterlist

Requesting

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai fanfic #boothill honkai star rail #boothill x reader #hsr boothill #boothill x you #hsr x you #hsr fluff #hsr headcanons #hsr x reader

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arealcrow · 2 days ago

Text

an hour found

2.8k words, dragon age: the veilguard, rookanis

Rhava and Lucanis share the last slice of torte, and something more. or : Rookanis first kiss set after the romance lock in.

Rhava thinks that the spaces Veilguard have made their own across the Lighthouse reflect them well. Aside from his own room, anyway. It's hard for him to get comfortable in there. Which is why, he supposes, he finds the dining hall so welcoming on a sleepless 'night'. The lit fire casts the room in a warm light that permeates the timeless Fade to give the permanent impression of evening. The smell of coffee only adds to that, calling to Rhava to have a cup and a treat for dessert.

The smell of coffee- still fresh- means that….

"I should have guessed you'd still be up," Rhava smiles as he pokes his head just past the pantry door, sounding more pleased than reproachful.

He probably should have knocked, but Lucanis doesn't seem surprised at his appearance. The man is one of the most renowned assassins in the Crows, so Rhava suspects his approach was heard. Or perhaps Spite had sensed him coming.

By way of a greeting, Lucanis tilts his head at Rhava. He is leaned against a wall, cradling an ornate, purple cup in his hands. The first flickers of a smile crease at the edges of his eyes, softening his severe features. Rhava can feel a tingle in his palms at the sight. Just a hint of fondness from Lucanis and he's buzzing with electricity, ready to strike like a storm cloud. He'd feel pathetic if he had feeling left to spare past his yearning.

"Yes, you probably should have," Lucanis says- and there's the smile that Rhava had been hoping for. There for a brilliant flash and then gone as Lucanis' eyebrows furrow. Rhava doesn't try to hide the way his eyes flick from his mouth back up to those concerned brown eyes.

"Why are you still up, Rook? Is something wrong?"

Rhava hums and looks around the pantry, stalling as he searches for an answer he does not want to give. His gaze lingers over the slightly worrying collection of cups Lucanis has amassed. He counts… seven? And the one Lucanis was holding made eight. Eight marks the final kill, his brain not-so-helpfully supplies. That's not what Lucanis had asked him about.

"Nothing wrong. I mean, other than," he shrugs a shoulder, "you know… everything that's happening. My gods rampaging and the blight and invasion and cults and… when I sleep it's either wolf packs stalking me through All-Father sent nightmares, or it's the Dread Wolf himself feeding me lies."

His gaze is fixed on the stone floor now. He can't bring himself to meet the unbearable softness that he knows will be waiting for him if he looks up at Lucanis. It's a comfort that feels unearned, but one desperately yearned for. He hadn't spoken to any of the Veilguard of the how the howling in his dreams had driven him to sleepless nights. He was supposed to support them through their trials, he couldn't show them that he was faltering in his own. What kind of leader would he be?

Yet here he was, driven by that small rebellious part of him that told him if anyone would understand voices in his head, it was Lucanis.

"Ah, I see. No rest even when you sleep," Lucanis says.

It's a simple thing, but Rhava is surprised at how much he does feel seen. When he looks up, gentle brown eyes meet his, filled with a depth of understanding that brings him comfort.

"You know," Lucanis suggests, "Viago might have something that can induce a dreamless slumber."

"Oh, yes, he does," a sly smile spreads across Rhava's lips, "I try not to get too dependent on Nightcap, though. I think I've already started developing a resistance."

Lucanis matches his expression with a small, wry smile of his own, "Nightcap, of course. Who am I to recommend poisons to a de Riva?"

Rhava winks at him, and can't help the way his grin widens as he launches into the worst segue he can think of, "So, now that we've established my familiarity and potential resistance to poisons… would you want to share dessert? There's just one slice left of the torte you made."

Lucanis huffs out a laugh, taking Rhava's words for the joke they are.

"I saved it for you."

He's too sweet, Rhava hardly knows what to do with him. Actually, Rhava had plenty of ideas of what he'd like to do with Lucanis, but he thinks they should probably go on a real date first.

"Well… I think it would taste better if you ate it with me. Joy shared is doubled, after all."

"Hmm, if you insist," Lucanis' words are filled with mirth- he's already pushing himself up from the wall.

"I do insist," Rhava gives an overly dramatic nod, and is gone from the pantry doorway a second later.

Lucanis emerges to find him quickly busying himself in the small kitchen. He places two forks onto the platter holding the final slice of torte and then fixes himself a cup of coffee- two sugars, and just a little cream. The mug he chooses is a sturdy one of Dalish design, made of earth toned clay that match the torte. Rhava's cup goes onto the platter as well, which he balances like a tray on one hand. His free hand he offers to Lucanis- who takes it with no questioning other than the eyebrow he raises.

Rhava only offers a smile in a return, and then pulls Lucanis to follow him over to the red couch nestled in the corner of the dining hall. He sets the platter down on the coffee table, and flops down onto the couch like he owns it.

"Sit," Rhava requests, patting the spot next to him.

When Lucanis hesitates, he pats the couch again, once more with fervor.

"Siiiiit," he insists, "I don't bite."

"We both know that's not true," Lucanis jokes as he settles down next Rhava.

Rhava giggles, smothering the noise and his smitten expression behind a hand. Once he settles himself, he leans forward and takes the cake platter from the coffee table. He glances at the sliver of space between them, and rather than widen that gap, he scoots close enough to press the sides of their thighs together so he can balance the platter between them.

"I've got something to chew on, so you're safe for now," Rhava says, picking up a fork. Lucanis takes the other fork, and sets his own coffee cup on the platter.

"I'll have to keep making you treats, then. To ensure my safety."

That sounds nice. Too nice.

"Be careful making offers like that. While I may be easily bribed, my appetite is ravenous," Rhava warns, and maybe he's talking about more than food.

"I can adjust the grocery list accordingly. Just let me know if you have any special requests."

Lucanis is smiling like they're sharing a secret. Rhava wants to be frustrated with him.

If he requested some hard-to-find, stupidly expensive vintage? If he asked for out of season assan'adhal bark? Or asked him to make the paella recipe he grew up eating with his clan?

He's sure Lucanis would do his best to make it happen.

Rhava knows how much money Lucanis' contracts rake in- he knows the man could easily pay to fill any kind of appetite Rhava presented him with. And judging by the special dessert that had been prepared for him- which Emmrich had subtly informed him was a labor intensive confection- Lucanis was just as rich in devotion and motivation. The sum of it all is enough to make Rhava speechless. He tries to hide his mollified expression behind a sip of coffee, but Lucanis is giving him a curious look that tells him he's not successful in his deception. Whatever he's thinking about the exchange, he keeps it to himself.

A comfortable silence falls between them. The only sounds in the dining hall are the crackling fire, the quiet sipping of coffee, and the scraping of forks as they leisurely snack on the final torte slice. If the conversation had died like that with anyone else, Rhava would be scrambling to save face and fill the dead air. He doesn't feel that urge here, confident that Lucanis either understands the reason for his silence or otherwise is content with his lack of understanding. It leaves space in the quiet that stretches between them for Rhava to gather himself again.

It doesn't take too long for his mind to start wandering to all of the unresolved questions between them- all of the little moments that have led to this casual closeness. So far he's been content to let things unfold at the pace Lucanis was comfortable with. His freedom was fresh, and they were both under so much pressure. It was nice to just enjoy the time they had together. But still… some questions begged to be asked.

Rhava is audacious in the way he breaks anything, especially silences.

"Soooo," a playful grin slowly brightens his face as he teases, "I was the key to your mind prison, huh?"

Lucanis makes a noise halfway between a laugh and groan, "Rook-"

"Lucanis," Rhava cuts him off, sounding half fond and half exasperated, "Call me Rhava. Please."

"Of course, forgive me," he amends, looking genuinely apologetic.

"It's fine," Rhava knocks his knees against Lucanis', making their cups wobble precariously, "I just.. like hearing you say it… is all."

"I see," Lucanis digests that information before continuing, "Rhava, if I trust my thoughts to anyone, it's you."

Rhava isn't sure if it's Lucanis obliging his request or the actual words he's saying that causes warmth to bloom across his face. He wants to crack a joke and say that Lucanis has questionable taste, to break the tension thrumming through him. He can't find the words. The way Lucanis is looking at him is so warm and painfully earnest, it scares Rhava. Lucanis trusts him so much. All of the care Lucanis could give- was he worthy? Could he hold a love that soft without some dreadful consequence? Lucanis deserved better than to be hurt by some stupid mistake he'd inevitably make.

"Rhava?" Lucanis asks, after after the pause in conversation stretches on a few seconds too long.

Rhava's eyes dart to his lips, the way they move as Lucanis speaks his name. He has to ask now- before he can talk himself out of it.

"If I kiss you right now, are you going to pull away again?"

There's an expected expression of surprise, but then he watches as Lucanis' mouth twitches and he realizes quickly that he's being smirked at. When he draws his heavy gaze up, there's a heat in the way Lucanis is looking at him that matches the rapidly sparking fire in his own wide eyes. He's sure he's gone pink all the way to the tips of his pointed ears with how aflame he feels.

"Only one way to find out," Lucanis says, voice now quiet and low- taking on the same breathy quality Rhava has only heard once before. The last time they were this close. He feels like he's going to pass out.

As if he knows Rhava needs the grounding, Lucanis tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear. Following the motion, he gently tangles his fingers in Rhava's hair, cupping the back of his head. He has that same confidence he'd displayed when he'd backed him up against a wall, and shows no signs of leaving him high and dry this time. Then again, Rhava hadn't expected him to pull away last time.

Just as the first slivers of anxiety start to sink their claws in, Lucanis pulls him in for a kiss.

It's everything Rhava had hoped it would be, and more. It's sweet. He's intrigued. Lucanis' lips brush against his with tentative intention. Rhava is bolder in how he meets the invitation, surging forward with all of the hunger and curiosity he can communicate in the short time he's given. He thinks any amount of time spent pressed against Lucanis would be too short- that this is a taste he could get lost in exploring.

He's only just begun to lose himself in the feeling when Lucanis starts to pull away. That won't do. He wasn't done yet.

Rhava follows Lucanis' retreat, leaning forward to capture his lips in another kiss. Lucanis lets him, curling his fingers to lightly grip Rhava's hair. He can feel the pleased upturn of Lucanis' mouth against his, a smile he's happy to devour. It's all the encouragement he needs to get even closer. Without a second thought, he moves to straddle Lucanis' lap- and is rewarded with the clatter and splash of the forgotten cake platter, forks, and half-empty cups of coffee being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.

Rhava can't bring himself to care, not when he has Lucanis right where he wants him. If Lucanis has any protests about the mess then he doesn't voice them, just places a steadying open palm on his thigh. The spot of contact fans the flames burning through Rhava, a steady growing fire looking for more to engulf. One of his hands tangles in dark, feathery hair- a mirror of Lucanis' own hand in his hair- while the other finds a grip on the fine fabric of his vest. Both soft sensations under his fingertips, but nothing compared to the silken feel of their kiss.

A crackling, electric magic fills the air around them, and Rhava doesn't have to open his eyes to sense Spite's luminous wings wrapping around him. The demon's presence is smoothed out in the Fade, but he still manifests with a frenetic energy Rhava can feel raising the hairs on the back of his neck. It shouldn't be a surprise when two wingtips ghost against his back, sending a pleasant shock up his spine. He gasps at the sensation, and Lucanis pulls away enough to give him a concerned look. Before he can question what happened, or accuse Spite of any malicious intent, he's taken aback by the sound of Rhava's breathy laughter.

"Sorry," Rhava says, "I got… absorbed in the moment, forgot we have another participant."

"Don't encourage him," Lucanis sighs.

Rhava hums thoughtfully and presses his forehead against Lucanis'. This time when Spite's wings brush against him in an embrace, he doesn't startle. The demon holds him closer as Lucanis slowly loosens his grip and removes his hand from his hair. Rhava can feel the moment ending, like a candle at the end of it's wick, but he's still lingering in the glow.

"That was nice," Rhava murmurs.

"It was nice," Lucanis replies, just as quiet. He brushes his thumb along the line of Rhava's jaw before finally letting his hand fall away.

"It's late," he says, and has to steel himself against the way Rhava's shoulders fall in disappointment to continue, "You should get some rest. I'll clean up here."

"Fenedhis lasa," Rhava swears under his breath, "The mess.. I'm sorry…"

"It's fine," Lucanis pulls away enough to press a kiss to his cheek, "That was worth it."

There's a beat of silence as Rhava revels in the easy affection Lucanis always seems ready to give to him. Love served on a silver platter.

"You should get some rest," Lucanis repeats himself.

"So should you," he shoots back.

"I'll go to sleep if you do."

Rhava manages to hold back a laugh- Lucanis drives a hard bargain.

"Contract accepted."

Between Crows, that's better than a pinky promise.

It's only with that reassurance that Lucanis will also rest that Rhava is able to pull himself away from his paramour. He doesn't want to keep Lucanis up any later than he already has. Well.. he does want to, but he shouldn't. So he lays one final, fleeting kiss on Lucanis' forehead before he fully disentangles himself from his lap.

Despite knowing they both need sleep sooner rather than later, he pauses in the doorway, lingering in the dregs of the moment. He's sure he looks as besotted as he feels; he's not trying to hide it.

"Good night, Lucanis," he says, "Thank you."

"Sleep well, Rhava."

Rhava takes the fond look that Lucanis gives him and the way he says his name, and holds it fresh in his memory as he makes his way back to his room. He hopes that maybe- if he turns the kiss they'd shared over in his mind enough- he will have better dreams tonight.

~*~

"Tastes like. Dessert," Spite says, after the door swings shut behind Rhava.

Lucanis nods slowly, ignoring the mess at his feet and sinking further down into the couch. He closes his eyes and sinks into the new memory of a kiss- his first- hoping to etch every detail of the experience into the back of his eyelids. He's used to using his trained mind to commit bloody plans to memory, trying to relish in the afterglow of a kiss is a welcome change. The taste is still fresh on his lips. Coffee and chocolate and hazelnut and cream and apricot and sugar and something else distinctly Rhava.

"Yes, like dessert," Lucanis breathes out, still craving more.

#lucanis dellamorte #rookanis #rook de riva #dragon age #datv #dav #my writing #rhava #really proud of this one <3 #maybe i post sparring fic next?

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