#and NOW you hate it because he's a shadow of himself that's been shaped by your hands in a way he never should have been

[curtins]

GOO GOO MUCK #1 — jujutsu kaisen x reader choose a storybook to open. aka my mythos take on jujutsu kaisen.

you've turned the page to: CHAPTER I. ITADORI YŪJI go back to the table of contents.

"an unchangeable colour rules over the melancholic: his dwelling is a space the colour of mourning. nothing happens in it. no one intrudes. it is a bare stage where the inert is assisted by the suffering from that inertia. the latter wishes to free the former, but all efforts fail, as theseus would have failed had he been not only himself but also the minotaur; to kill him then, he would have had to kill himself." alejandra pizarnik

prologue. → there was no other ending for this story — none where you did not end up as fodder for the beast in labyrinth, not after the king decreed that you would be the next sacrifice. how ironic that itadori yuuji doesn't seem like a monster at all, just a brilliant boy who was marked for death and sorrow.

pairings. minotaur!yuuji itadori x reader (sfw!)

song inspiration. goo goo muck — the cramps / still monster — enhypen

warnings reader comes from the royal family, has a deadbeat + awful father, mentions of injuries, death, sacrifices, angst and hurt, comfort. mildly ooc yuuji because life has dealt him a rough hand. reader picks their skin and cuticles + mention of bleeding, ambiguous ending, grief. word count. 2.9k!

a/n. y'all know i dont play abt this little guy but omg i was literally scratching my head trying to come up with decent plot. also i'm not entirely faithful to greek mythology my bad 😧 i hate spelling the word 'labyrinth' bc who the fawk came up with all that?

ask/comment/dm to be added to a taglist 🩵

mp3. when the sun goes down, and the moon comes up, i turn into a teenage goo goo muck!

you're not quite sure how long it had been since you were thrown to the rough, cold stone of the maze, where each jagged groove bit into your skin as you traced the contours of your new prison. the walls rose ever so high, swallowing you in an oppressive and towering silence and had it not been for the cold that bit your bones, you might have sobbed.

what was the weight of family, or the worth of blood, when a father could offer his own child to the gods as casually as one might surrender a coin to the tides? you could still feel the rough ghost of his grip on your shoulder, his hand heavy with the ringed wealth that he refused to give up.

all his gold, all his riches, the coffers of a kingdom that was within your rights to inherit, what did it matter in the end — when it was you that he sacrificed? the gods did not care for mercy, was that not why they were gods? but they had demanded, and the king had answered. not with offerings from hoarded treasure, but a child of his own flesh and blood. you, stripped of finery and beaten gold, and left adrift in the maw of stone and shadow.

but now, you laugh, a bitter sound swallowed by the cold air, hoping that your nerves are able to rework themselves into something braver, to allow the maze to drink in your defiance. at this point, you're not quite sure where you'll meet your end, but you've been told the beast waits, a monster of bone and sinew and deific anger, bound to the hunger of the cruel gods.

your eyes have caught the faint outline of something strewn along the path ahead, a line of small and crooked shapes against the stone. brittle sticks left to decay? a morbid curiosity has stirred within you, drawing you closer, as you kneel in thin linen onto the grimy stone.

they are not sticks at all, but fingers. withered and mummified, bent in unnatural shapes as if frozen mid-reach. dark, claw-like nails tip each one, and the skin is shrivelled and taut over bone, in a faded mauve hue. something bruised and ever so ancient.

you just cannot help the sickened gasp that escapes you, lurching back and clutching a hand to your mouth as bitterness rises and makes a home in your throat. the grotesque trail stretches on before you, and you hazard a guess that this rotten path leads into the heart of the labyrinth. a warning, a lure?

but a sound has risen from the depths of the stone around you, a low and rumbling roar that makes the walls tremble, as if the maze itself is struggling to take a breath. the noise grows, and it sends a cold shock through you that drains away every shed of defiance you had clung to.

for a moment, you can scarcely breathe, chest tight with fear. the memory of all you wanted to be, all you dreamed of becoming, hands over you like a whisper, a fragment of hope already out of reach. you think of the things you will never see, the lives you will never touch, and it startles you — how your heart breaks with a quiet desparate longing as you regret the way you lived in this short life. you wanted more than this, even if you did not get a proper death. but you wanted more than to be swallowed up as a nameless sacrifice, your thread picked out of the tapestry of history.

a flicker of thought urges you to raise the torch in your hand, to wield it as some pitiful defense. you imagine the flames as a fragile beacon against the shadows, a last defiant spark in the face of the death that you have been handed. but even the flame trembles, casting erratic shadows, and in the pallid light, you feel the futility of it all.

your strength has failed, and you sink to your knees as a numbness overtakes your body, as you bow your head, pressing your forehead against cold, damp stone.

"please..." you murmur, the word a faint breath lost in the maze, a plea without direction or expectation. whether it is mercy you seek, or simply a swift end, you cannot say. but death has never been kind, and it would never hold its hand out to you in a painless way.

but in waiting for a blow to be delivered, your eyes crack open, vision blurred by the shadows that lovingly cling to the labyrinth. each muscle is tense as you struggle to rise from the cold floor that pressed sharply into your smarting knees. but slowly, a shape and a form comes into focus — broad and menacing, a silhouette bathed in the flickering light of your torch.

at first, he seems like a nightmare sprung from the depths of the eldest primordial myths, markings etched across his skin like a map of some forbidden world, as dark ink ripples down his shoulders, down his chest.

you blink, and your gaze adjusts to the strange half-light, and you're bewildered as the black lines begin to fade, dissolving as if they were never truly there. the intensity of his form softens, and you're not sure if the monstrous edge is beginning to fade away, leaving something...unexpected in its place.

the form before you now is young, hardly older than you, with a face that seems almost human in its expressionless calm, yet somehow haunted. your breath catches, air hitching as you take in his features — amber eyes so intensely golden that they seem to glow in the dim light, fixed upon your with a gaze that is neither hostile nor welcoming, nay. just unflinchingly steady. his hair is a soft, choppy pink; like the goddess of the dawn had run her rosy-tipped hands over his head. but he is bare-chested, the lean muscle across his torso gleaming with a faint sheen, and the broad lines of his shoulders and thickened waist speak of one who has been carved for war.

you fight to quell the tremor in your chest, a rising mixture of terror and something else — something you just cannot name. there is no cruelty in his face, nor hatred. but it is a sad emptiness, a blankness, as if he himself is lost and hollow, waiting in this forsaken pit for far longer than you can possibly imagine.

but the soft rumble of his tone pulls you back, "so, you are the next one they sent?" and his voice is coloured by a kind of bitter amusement.

his eyes, that haunting amber, crease slightly at the corners, and you cannot help but notice that despite his demeanour, his face is incredibly expressive when he speaks, with a warmth that softens his gaze, but the sadness remains. a quiet and relentless grief that settles around him like a shadow.

you feel the tremour in your own voice as you stammer, leaning back against your calves, and yet still kneeling. but your head is tilted up to meet his gaze. your heart races, an awful and unsteady ba-bump! but you force yourself to speak.

"i would ask only for mercy," you whisper, "for my only crime was being an obedient child of a harsher master."

for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. but the boy scoffs, a bitter sound that is not entirely unkind. he looks away, his mouth twisted into a grim half-smile with no real mirth, and you watch as the puckered scar on the side of his lips crumples.

"if there was any mercy in the world," he replies quietly, "they would have just executed me by now."

you pick at your nails, at the skin that is peeling off your cuticles with a sharp sting, "mercy is as much as a myth as the gods themselves."

"and yet you choose to kneel and ask me for it?"

you've looked down, focusing on the rapidly blooming crimson, "i do not want to die."

the boy does not answer at first. instead, he just stares at you with an intensity that feels as though he's examining you from the inside out. you're not sure if you meet a hint of suspicious flickering behind topaz eyes, as if you are the real danger here.

but you just test your luck, shaky but persistent, "why would execution be a mercy?"

it is no kindness to your nerves that the question hangs in the air like a fragile thread — and his response is a growl that rumbles deep in his chest, primal and sharp. it's shaken you to your core, and in that instant your gaze blurs, with your heart slamming against your ribs as a foggy vision plays before you like a twisted reflection.

you've pushed the beast too far. and for a moment in this haze you see him, this beautiful boy, morph into the very thing you had imagined in the darkness before. a four-armed creature covered in dark markings, his form expanding and distorting into something far more grotesque. would there be savage claws, reaching for your face as you recoil, tearing you into ribbons?

but the moment passes in a breath, and he's still there, slumped against the stone. no monster, just mortal fresh. no, he has not moved to strike, nor to rush at you.

instead he just sinks lower into cold stone, pulling his knees up to his chest, and resting his elbows on them, looking almost defeated. there's a strange heaviness in his posture, as if the weight of something much larger than the maze itself is dragging him down, something wide and unbearable.

"what did they tell you before they tossed you here, alongside me?"

"they told me that i was doing my father a service," you begin, and you wonder if there is a bitter drip that falls from your tongue as you let the words fall from your dry mouth, "and that the gods would award me for my pious duty and sacrifice."

the boy raises a thin brow, a faint flicker of surprise scattering itself over his faint, pale scars, "your father. the king i gather? he sent his only heir down here?"

what a sting. even a monster could understand. even the ones trapped in the dark can understand the greed that drives the hearts of men. you grimace, a fleeting shame twisting in your gut as you nod, but it is no surprise. your father's name had never been one to inspire reverence — only fear, and the hollow hope that the gods would look favourably upon his ritualistic sacrifices. it was hard not to feel small and broken in comparison to the king who stood tall in his halls of marble.

your new companion shakes his head, almost in acrid disbelief, but he continues, "i'm not the beast that they say lives down here," and at your look of disbelief and confusion, he grinds his heel down onto sharp stone, "it's not me."

your gaze drifts over him as he speaks, and your eyes fall on the harsh marks scattered over his chest. some are thin, barely more than pale lines, while others are thick and jagged — carved into him by hands that had no mercy. there's one in particular, a long streak that cuts across his face, something etched there by something far darker than any mortal blade. like patchwork.

there's a curl in your fingers, one that scratches at you. one that tells you to reach out and place your hand on thickened skin, but you tamp it down. he must have noticed the way your eyes linger on him, and for a moment, the corner of his scarred mouth quirks upward. he doesn't seem quite offended...just aware. you shift slightly, folding your legs beneath you, the thin linen shift you wear now soiled with the grime of the stone floors. the dirt clings to the fabric, staining it a muted grey.

"the beast is not me," he says again, and there's a quiet ache in his words, "he just lives within me. that's all."

you frown, trying to make sense of his words. "he?" you echo.

the boy glances at you, his gaze distant for a moment before he continues, as if he's not looking at you, but rather past your head.

"the council said they were going to kill me at first. said it would kill the monster that lives in here -," and he presses a hand harshly at his sternum, fingers splaying against his chest, "thought it would kill him if they just put an axe to my neck. two birds with one stone."

"and then...," and his smile is harsher, rueful, "then the king decided that it would be more useful to keep me down here, extend by sentence a bit. said that i could help them like this. said i could control the beast just enough to save the lives of others."

you curl your lip, and you can't fathom the cruelty of knowing your body is a prison. that your blood, bones and sinew is being used as the bars of an enclosure. such was your father's consistent cruelty.

"i am sorry that you suffered at the king's hands."

he doesn't look up at you at first. instead, his gaze drifts to your hands, where you've ripped at the edges of your cuticles, leaving faint scars that are prone to be reopened. your fingers tremble as you shove your hands into the folds of linen, hiding the fresher, red wounds.

his voice is low, but not unkind — with his eyes lingering on your hands, "i could say the same for you."

you almost smile, feeling as though a distant thunderclap has unsettled you and shaken you.

"what's your name?"

he doesn't answer immediately, the silence stretching just enough to make you wonder if he'll speak at all. but finally, his voice emerges, laced with a faint warmth, "itadori yuuji." now his eyes flicker to you, and after a beat, he adds, almost with a touch of irony, "your highness."

the title sounds wrong here, in the dark deeps, in the hollow of this wretched place, yuuji's home. you laugh, though you're certain the sound is thinned, "i'm sorry we met under these circumstances," you say, words slipping out before you can stop them. but you are sincere — and you wonder, briefly, what it would have been like to meet him in another life or another world.

yuuji laughs softly at that, and you catch the faintest glimpse of a smile, wan but genuine. it's a tragedy, you think, at how you cannot help but marvel at the way the torchlight catches onto his beautiful silhouette, illuminating small crescent marks that lay under his eyes.

"i am too," he says, and you wonder foolishly if he, too, regrets the way he lived. the strange fate that has brought you both to this moment.

your smile drops suddenly, "i will die down here, won't i?" the question slips from your lips, softer and more naive in a way that doesn't belong in the air of this place.

yuuji frowns, the furrow of his brow deepening, and his eyes darken — is there pity in his eyes? or something else that you cannot place?

"you don't have to."

you don't believe him, not truly. you know the customs of this sacrifice. the king's laws, and the will of the gods — they all point to the same conclusion. you know this, for all of yuuji's apparent mercy cannot hold back a four-armed beast when it catches the iron scent of blood in the air.

"and when the guards come with the next prisoner?" you ask.

yuuji doesn't look at you immediately. instead, he draws faint and absent patterns in the dust with the tips of his fingers.

"the guards will never be able to report back to your father then. maybe sukuna can be of some use, for once."

you frown, a thousand questions racing in your mind — about the finality of his tone or the underlying oath of blood being spilt. but the one that rises to the surface is the unfamiliar name, "sukuna?"

yuuji shifts slightly, his posture loosening, as if he's trying to make himself more comfortable in the cramped space between you. your gaze catches on his slender fingers tracing lines in the dust.

"the beast within me. gojo said he was my uncle too, apparently."

"gojo?"

yuuji's face darkens, "he was my - " he ends his sentence abruptly, as if he has not the heart to bite the last words out.

you stare at him, bewildered, your mind struggling to process the connection he’s just made so casually, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. what cruel fate.

he catches your expression and laughs softly, a sound that is more bitter than it is light.

"long story," he adds, as if that explanation is enough, his eyes glinting with something unreadable as he leans back slightly, his attention slipping into the distance.

"seems like you have a lot of those," you offer heartedly, but it darkens your heart. you do not see a boy capable of great violence in front of you. in another life, itadori yuuji would have lived a happier life — surrounded by those that he loved. but when the beast, sukuna, is unleashed, who will stand between you and the creature to protect you? how haunting, for the last face you believe you will ever see is the first face that you think you've ever loved.

[ro-sham-no]

ring and all, a poem by me.

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: can't have things be too angsty w the kids, but,,, [AS!reader Masterlist]

|| warnings: very worried dad!az, mention of blood, childbirth

He's trying not to lose his mind.

But it's hard not to when all he can smell is your blood from behind the door Madja had ordered him through, a pale-faced nursemaid guiding him out. "You don't want to see this," she'd told him. "We're doing what we can."

He knows. He knows that they are ㅡ but he can hear your groans and cries of pain with each contraction that rips through you, so much worse than it'd been when you'd given birth to Aria.

Because there's not just one winged babe fighting to be born, but two. It adds a whole new level of fear to it, given how rare twins are for fae to begin with ㅡ let alone the fact that yours are half-Illyrian.

"She'll be okay, Az," Cassian tells him, but he's gone pale too ㅡ and Azriel can't bring himself to look at Nesta, who's too still and quiet beside her mate, eyes on the door.

You're not just Azriel's mate and Aria's mother ㅡ you're Nesta's sister too, her own twin.

Feyre and Elain had left with Aria when you'd gone into labor, silent offer to distract your daughter with her cousin Nyx ㅡ and perhaps to keep themselves distracted as well.

Azriel doesn't want to think about the worst possible outcome, won't let himself ㅡ and he feels sick when the screaming stops.

The air is still, too still ㅡ and then there's the soft crying of a newborn, followed by a second. Tentative relief floods him, tempered by his rush of concern down the bond that eases when he gets your response of pained exhaustion.

You're okay. Tired, and in pain ㅡ but you're okay, and so are your newborn children.

And then the door opens, and he's finally allowed to see you. They've cleaned you up, but Azriel still hates how weak you look, dark shadows beneath your eyes as you blink up at him.

"Hey," you rasp quietly, and it's a struggle not to cry as he reaches to card his fingers through your sweat-damp hair.

"Hey," he returns, leaning to kiss your cheek and then your temple before following your wordless bid for a kiss to your lips. It's only once he's settled the jagged edge of worry in his veins that he allows himself to look at the two little shapes in your arms.

One has the same dark curls as him and Aria, the other with hair the same color as yours. A boy and a girl, respectively.

When Aria is brought in to see them, she squirms from her father's arms to nestle against you, arms thrown around your neck with a murmured 'mommy' that breaks Azriel's heart.

"Aria," you say, waiting for the little girl to turn her attention to the sleeping babes, "you're a big sister now. What do you think?"

Aria peers at them, taking in her little brother first, then her little sister. "I think they're perfect."

You look over at Azriel, a soft, tired smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah," you answer. "I think so too."

[cressidagrey]

The Ties that Bind - Chapter 3

Summary: 

Shadowsingers were made, not born. Made out of trauma and loneliness and desperation.

So when Cilla and Azriel meet and their shadows entwine, they both meet the only other person that could understand these particular childhood scars.

The last thing Azriel had ever expected from his mate, however, was for her to have a surprising connection to his brother.

Warnings: 

Mentions of Child Abuse and Neglect, Mention of imprisonment, Mention of Hybern's attack on Velaris and death resulting from that

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

She was trembling. Even with blankets wrapped around her. Even while burrowed as close to him as she could get.

Azriel traced her features, with his fingertips—every single, perfect inch of her. 

These strong arched eyebrows, her nose, just so upturned at the tip… her full lips, near heart-shaped in the centre.… beautiful pointed ears, the long, black curly hair that had been held back in a braid that was falling apart…he took it apart in the end, Cilla pressing against his hand like a cat. 

She was beautiful. 

Beautiful and utterly exhausted.

And then he was ripped from his thoughts by the smell of burning chicken and he cursed. 

“Cauldron Boil Me,” he spat out as he needed to pull himself from his mate to make sure that he didn’t accidentally burn down the whole house. 

Cilla flinched and he hated that he had been the cause of that, that he needed to pull himself from her, throw on a pair of lounging trousers the shadows happily handed him, and look after his pot of soup with the shadows already pulling it from the burner. 

“What…?” Cilla asked him, her voice quiet and he sighed, running one hand through his hair.

“Soup. I was making you soup,” Azriel explained with a sigh. “You need to eat.”

More water in the pot, chicken out of it…he would need to take that apart, pull the flesh from the bones, something he went straight to just a moment later. 

“I am not hungry,” Cilla said softly at that moment. 

For just a moment he closed his eyes. Of course, she wasn’t. She was so thin that she was used to starving herself. Hunger pans probably didn’t even register to her anymore. 

They just were. 

“I know. But you still need to eat,” he said evenly. Keeping that anger out of her voice. Not anger at her but for her. She needed to eat. 

He probably had not helped with keeping up her strength. Not when… the possibility had not even registered in his mind…that she was a virgin. That she had no fucking idea what she had even started when she had held out that cracker for him to take.

He had just taken it. So over the moon that he had found his mate that nothing else had mattered. 

Now…now he wondered what her reason for giving him that cracker even was. Was it fear? Some kind of feeling that she needed to keep him content and happy because if he got angry she would be at the receiving end of it?

It curdled in his stomach. 

He heard Cilla’s quiet footsteps and then she was behind him, burying her head between his shoulder blades, his wings trembling at that intimate touch. 

She was searching out his presence, body pressing against his. Somehow she derived some form of comfort from it. Maybe he hadn't fucked up completely. 

“But I want you,” she mumbled into his skin. It was definitely unhelpful, mating frenzy fighting with instincts and his own fucking mind, because he didn’t know if this was even a good idea at all. 

He should have waited. He should have...He shouldn't have just taken her like he had...He should have taken his time...given her time...but he hadn't. 

He was already regretting it. 

Not regretting her. Never regretting her. She was a cauldron-given gift to him. But maybe it would have been better to take it slower, to...give her the opportunity to back out, to...

“After you have eaten, Sweetheart,” Azriel finally settled on gently. Maybe. Maybe after he had gotten some food inside her, after they had talked. “You are supposed to rest.”

“I am fine,” she disagreed with him quietly, but stepped back, instead settling next to him, leaning against the kitchen counter. 

“You were nearly frozen solid when I fished you out of that lake,” he pointed out reasonably, as he looked over her. 

Cilla had found a blanket to wrap up in. Thank the cauldron for small mercies, because Azriel was not quite sure if he would be able to withstand her naked and bare to his gaze. 

Though if he just stared at her skinny and knobby shoulder poking out from her blanket cocoon…it was more likely. When was the last time she had eaten at all?

Go find her some clothing, he demanded from his shadows. 

From where? they responded nearly immediately. 

How about you have her shadows tell you where she lives? Azriel suggested. Some more intelligence, more information.... He could use that.

He poured half a package of noodles into that pot after adding the chicken back in, put the lid back on…and then turned to Cilla, who was watching him, a soft expression on her face. 

Azriel failed horribly with keeping his hands off her when he lifted her up on the counter, only so that he could kiss her gently, without her straining her neck. 

She kissed him back enthusiastically, hands burying themselves in his hair. Azriel did leave it at that. He crowded close to her so that she could feel his body warmth and cling tightly to him, but that was it. Nothing more. 

Food then Talk and then...then he could worry about it. 

Until then, he kissed her, gently, chastly, making her laugh as he pressed kisses against her cheeks and her forehead and every inch of hers that he could reach.  

Until enough time had passed for him to step back, spoon some of that soup into a bowl, and hand it to her. 

Some long-buried instinct in him was soothed by this. Soothed by having provided for his mate. “Eat, Sweetheart,” Azriel told her gently. 

Cilla ate. If one could call it that…and didn’t call it shovelling food into her mouth as quickly as possible. 

He should have recognised the signs before. He should have fucking stopped to think for just a moment. 

Stopped and thought about what it meant that she was a Shadowsinger like he was. But he hadn’t. 

Now it was starkly at the forefront of his mind. 

Azriel caught her hand. “Don’t burn yourself,” he said quietly. “I am not going to take your food from you. There is more if you want more later. Take your time.”

Her skin turned red and she looked everywhere but him. 

“I am sorry.” The way she said that hesitant and broken, made something inside him shatter. 

“Eat. Slowly,” he insisted quietly. 

Master. 

What’s with her apartment? he asked immediately, not liking the tone of their voice at all. He spooned soup in another bowl for himself, forcing himself to eat. 

It’s near Lady Death’s old apartment. The bad part of town, the shadows answer quietly. 

And?

She owns one other dress and one can of tomatoes, Master. 

He worked hard to keep his face devoid of emotions as he watched Cilla finish her soup out of the corner of his eye, holding out his hand for her to hand it over so that he could refill it. 

This was even worse than he had thought it would be, wasn’t it?

She went to demolish that bowl as well. 

Furniture? 

A bedroll. 

Anything else? He demanded. There must be something else. Anything. 

A note from her landlord that her rent is due tomorrow and that she owes him 6 gold coins or she can earn it on her knees, the shadows hissed in response. 

Right. 

Show her shadows how to play the lottery, he told them calmly, fury bubbling away underneath the surface. And bring that one dress and her can of tomatoes here. 

He saw how a shadow suddenly started dancing around Cilla, her eyebrows narrowing. 

“Your shadows play the lottery?” she asked him, sounding adorably confused and he bit back his amusement. 

“They do,” he answered with a sigh. “It’s their hobby of sorts. I am surprised that yours haven’t yet figured out how to get money on their own.”

She grimaced. 

“Do I want to know?” he asked her drily and Cilla shrugged. 

“They used to pickpocket sometimes,” she admitted quietly. “I made them stop.”

He imagined that the only reason the shadows had gone that far was to make sure that Cilla didn’t outright starve. 

Just one moment later, his shadows brought her that dress and that can of tomatoes, putting both on her lap, fluttering around, like they were waiting for her to either pet him or thank them for a job well done. 

She didn't flinch away from them, instead, staring on the dress. A drab blue colour, threadbare in some places, mended in others.  

“That’s my dress. You had your shadows get it?” She questioned him, eyebrows furrowing again and he nodded. 

“I did,” azriel agreed. “So you had something to wear if you wanted to.” She seemed to take that at face value. 

“And the can of tomatoes?” she asked him curiously. 

“They said that’s all you owned,” he said carefully. Cilla just shrugged. 

Like that was normal. Like she had never thought twice about the fact that she had two dresses, a pair of shoes and a can of tomatoes to her name. 

“My bag is still lying around outside,” she said, like that somehow made it all better.

It made Azriel want to kill somebody. 

“Tell me about your job,” he said instead because he needed to know what exactly she did for a living that resulted in this. 

“My job?” She asked him surprised. “I work in a tannery. I don’t really get along with some of the potions we use, that’s where these come from,” she explained holding up her hand, that red scratchy skin.

“How much money does that make?” He asked as he gently took her hand in his, looking at the scarpes in more detail. 

Her skin was red and inflamed, dry and cracked. It must hurt, but she seemed content to just ignore that. 

“8 gold coins a month,” Cilla answered. 

Which meant she had 2 gold coins each month, that didn't go to her rent, to feed herself, to clothe herself, to buy herself anything she needed.

It wasn’t fucking enough. He had no clue how she even survived on that. 

Especially when even the minimum wage in Velaris would supposedly make sure that she would make at least 15 a month if she worked a full-time job. 

“How much time off?” He asked, wondering how bad it could get.

“A half-day each month.” 

It wasn’t even a conscious thought when he told his shadows to get him the names of both her landlord and her employer. 

His anger must have shown on his face because suddenly her scent soured with fear. 

“I am sorry,” she apologised but he shook his head. 

“I am not angry with you, sweetheart,” Azriel assured her immediately. “I am fucking furious with both your landlord and your employer though.” 

“I need that job,” Cilla told him, biting her lip, desperation bleeding into her voice.

“The minimal wage you are legally allowed to be paid in Velaris is 15 gold coins a month. You worked for half of that," he told her, forcing his voice to be even. 

“I need that job!” Cilla repeated sharply. “I can’t read, I cannot write. I have no trade. What else was I supposed to do?” she demanded.

That desperation in her voice was not helping with his fury. She had done what needed to be done. Cilla should have never even fucking been in that situation. 

“Then I’ll teach you,” Azriel said, his voice forcedly calm. He could teach her to read and to write. “And we figure out whatever you want to be.” 

Anything was better than this.

Cilla stared at the floor, not looking at him. 

He reached out to cup her cheek gently. 

“Look at me,” he said softly. And she did. Dark brown eyes were filled with tears and he pressed a kiss against her forehead.

“You are my mate,” Azriel said quietly.

“That means that I will always take care of you. You could tell me you never want to see me again and I would still make sure that you have a safe place to stay. That you have enough food not to starve,” he told her fiercely. 

She stared at him like she didn’t quite see him, like she couldn’t believe the words that left his mouth. 

“You’ll find another job. Preferably something where you don’t spend your days doing back-breaking labour for not enough money to even feed yourself properly.” Literally, anything was better than that. 

“You will never need to worry about food again,” he promised her. “You can do whatever you want with your life.“

Even if that didn’t include him. He wanted her happy. Nothing else. 

“That apartment… There is no universe in existence in which that is a place for my mate,” he continued. “You’ll stay right here. At least for a little while…For the next few weeks or so. And then we can find you another apartment if you want to. Preferably something that’s not a downtrodden hovel.”  

He watched her swallow, watched one tear trickle down her cheek that he wiped away carefully. 

“I don’t need much,” Cilla told him softly. 

“A warm, safe and dry place is not much. That is the bare minimum,” he gave back immediately. That was the least everybody should have. 

And it had taken him years to realise that even he deserved it, but he was not going to have his mate stay somewhere like that if he had any choice in that matter. 

Still, as she leaned into his hands, she looked so impossibly young for just a moment, that his heart constricted. 

“How old are you, Cilla?” he asked her gently and she shrugged. 

“I don’t know,” she answered, her voice nearly listless. “20 maybe? 21? Could be a few years older though?” 

“You…don’t know.” He repeated unbelieving. Gods, she was still half a girl. A girl with clearly nobody that took care of her, and a lack of knowledge about her own age. Even Azriel knew his damn birthday! 

“Why don’t you know?” he asked her, forcing himself to be calm. 

“I…I didn’t really have a normal childhood,” Cilla admitted quietly, pulling back from him slightly.  “I…I was…My mother was high fae. My father must have been the one with the wings,” she said with a shrug. “I killed her. When I was born. My wings sliced her open from the inside out.”

She said that so matter-of-factly. Like she knew that this had been her fault and her fault alone. 

He swallowed. Hating how familiar these words sounded. That’s what had been their worry with Feyre and Nyx. Just that Cilla didn’t have a Nesta that had saved her mother. And instead gave herself clearly the fault for her mother’s death. 

Her wings trembled, caving in around her like she couldn’t bear to lift them up when she talked about it. 

“My grandmother raised me afterwards,” Cilla continued, her voice cracking. 

She didn’t need to say more. He understood. 

“She gave you the fault for her daughter's death,” he ended her sentence. She just shrugged. Again. 

“It was my fault,” Cilla agreed. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Azriel cut her off, sharply.

“Yes, it was my fault. If she hadn’t had me, she would still be alive.  I murdered her,” Cilla disagreed fiercely. “My fault. I should have never been born,” she spat out these words, and he just knew that these weren’t her words. It were the words that she had heard so often until she had started to believe them. 

“I am so sorry, Sweetheart,” he apologised.

“I lived in the attic. I wasn’t allowed out,” Cilla continued.  “The shadows kept me company.” 

She didn’t talk about the scars on her wings. Didn’t say how her grandmother had treated her…but Azriel could fill in the gaps. 

“How did you get out?” he asked her. 

“When Hybern attacked the city…the house got reduced to rubble. My grandmother died. The shadows dug me out,” Cilla said softly. So 2 years. She had been out of that attic for 2 years. And imprisoned for 18. No wonder she behaved…strangely sometimes. She never really had…any socialisation, any family, any friends...for so long.  

It was a miracle she wasn’t completely feral. He had been when he had finally gotten out of that cell…he had been…barely…a person. And it had only been 11 years for him.   

“Fuck, Sweetheart,” he cursed.  

“When did yours come to you?” She asked him, biting her lip, changing the topic and he figured that he owed her the truth just as she had given him. 

“I was 8,“ Azriel answered quietly.  “My father was a lord in an Illyrian war camp. My mother was his long-suffering mistress. I wasn’t supposed to exist. His wife agreed. They took me from my mother when I was a baby…You got locked into an attic. I got locked in a cell underneath his keep. Only taken out the bare minimum,“ he recounted. 

These days…it no longer hurt him. Not really. It was just…something that he had accepted had happened to him long, long ago. Not the most traumatising thing he had gone through either. He still didn't like the feeling of being caged, of darkness...but he could stand it if need be. 

“When I was 8…my half brothers decided to see what would happen if oil and fire mixed,” he continued, lifting his other hand and holding it out for Cilla’s perusal. “These were the results.”

She reached out to touch, her small hand wrapping around his and intertwined their fingers. 

“I am sorry,“ Cilla whispered but Azriel shook his head. 

“It was a very, very long time ago, Cilla. Over 500 years,“ he told her. Centuries. He should be well over it by now. 

But he wasn’t. He probably never would. Not completely. 

“You didn’t deserve that,” she insisted and a small smile lifted up his lips at that.  

“Neither did you.”

“I killed her,” Cilla disagreed.

“I killed people too. And I wasn’t a babe when I did it,” Azriel said drily. “I did it on purpose, Cilla. Hundreds of times. Sometimes in a war as a warrior, sometimes for this court, for our High Lord…I have killed, Sweetheart.” 

She stared at him wide-eyed, and he half expected her to flinch away in disgust.

Finally, she just shook her head. “That’s not the same,“ she whispered.

He just pressed a kiss against her forehead in response.

Only then did he feel the heat from her forehead that made him pull back. Her eyes were glassy and he pressed his hand against her forehead. 

“You’re running a fever, Sweetheart,” he realised with a sigh. Her bath in an ice-cold mountain lake had probably resulted in this. 

“I am fine,” Cilla mumbled, leaning against his hands. He just sighed.

“Let’s go to bed. You need to rest.” 

She just hummed, glomping onto him and he lifted her up easily, putting her back underneath all the blankets, and sliding in right next to her.

“Just sleep,” he told her softly, though she didn’t seem to even need that. 

At least that Mating Frenzy had abated, replaced with worry for her, because if she got sicker than a simple fever, there wasn’t much she could put against it. No fat she could pull energy from, no weight she could stand lose in the process. 

Right now, all Azriel could do, was to watch over her. 

He watched as her wings relaxed and her face slackened…as she curled up next to him.

He breathed in her scent, his nose tucked against her neck. 

If he took the proper time to parse her scent, he could pick himself up. Cedars and that fresh, watery scent of mist…and underneath that, her. 

Warm and still fresh, like a hearth on a dark winter day…underneath it all vanilla and over it, snow-chilled wind and crackling embers.

Wait, what?

He took another deep breath of his mate, her scent so similar to another that he had smelled day in and day out, again and again over 5 centuries.

No.

No, this couldn’t be.

He stared at his mate, deep asleep…took in these strong eyebrows, her cheekbones…the shape of her face… 

She must have inherited her mother's eyes, though the shape…

Her mother’s nose and lips definitely…but her hair…

Her hair and the shape of her face and the shape of her eyes…and these wings…

There were near invisible differences of these wings from Illyrian to Illyrian…differences in their shapes and the colours…Rhys had always had the darkest. 

Azriel’s own had a near-purple tint of the sun shining through them…but Cassian‘s… Cassian's wings had always been a near-black dark brown…reddish in the light of the sun.

And a near-perfect replica was stretched out from his mate's back right now.

How many Illyrians were there in Velaris 20 years ago….

He only knew two. One of them was Azriel himself.

And the other…

Fuck. 

[areyoudoingthis]

This shot makes me completely insane. Ed's wanted to bury the Kraken and Blackbeard for so long, but now he's literally and symbolically digging himself up from the depths, he's swimming all the way to the bottom on purpose to drag himself back out.

And he does it in part because he's just been told "If you were ever good at anything, go and do that", and then rowed himself back into a nightmare, ships burning everywhere, Stede missing, and British soldiers harassing him while he's barely coping with what he's seeing. Maybe at first this is about bringing the Kraken back out of anger and dissociation, but that's why what happens next is so important. Because whatever his motivations are in this moment, he's doing something. The last time he was underwater he was drowning and Stede's presence saved him, this time he's taking action and doing whatever he can to fight back. And anger is only part of that, has always only been part of what moves Ed to violence.

Blackbeard and the Kraken have always been fueled by love, and fear, and yes, rage against unjust situations that made Ed feel helpless and trapped, and then left him feeling even worse for fighting back. And that last bit is what changes this time around and allows Ed to reintegrate, because for the first time, he's not alone anymore to deal with the aftermath, he's not a kid without a family, he's not a man crying alone in secret in an empty room without anyone to console him.

After he digs himself up, he emerges fully dressed on the shore, Edward Teach literally reborn on a beach at last, leathers back on and determined to do whatever it takes to find Stede. And it's such a powerful shot: he's all in black against the white surf, dripping wet hair completely obscuring his features and trailing tentacle shaped rivulets of water in front of his face.

The next shot we see is his shadow self, his dark, blurry reflection on the sand. The only bit of Ed's actual body we get are his feet stepping determinedly on the wet sand, making his way back to land and to Stede and towards his full self (although he hasn't realized this last bit yet).

But it's not until he finds the soldiers reading Stede's letter -and this is such a lovely representation of how the core of the show is the relationship between these two men- that all the parts of him are finally able to integrate into a single person when Ed embraces the Kraken and Blackbeard and Ed as being of equal value. It's reading the adoring, unhesitating declaration of Stede's love that allows Ed to redefine himself, to see his darker parts in a different light, the light Stede has cast on his life.

He reads the letter, realizes the depth of Stede's love for him, understands he's really committed to Ed for good (in permanent ink), that he didn't push him away by showing him his trauma as he feared, that sharing the story he's never told anyone else about his first and worst act of violence didn't make Stede reject him, that Stede loves him and wants him in his life for good. He has a short cry about it while he reads and processes.

And then he roars "you wrote me a lovely letter" and charges. A lot has been said about how angry in love the line sounds, and yes, he is angry, angry that he almost lost Stede again, angry that the British soldiers would mock the letter, angry that they'd hurt Stede and that they'd think they can do whatever they want just because they have the power, think they can separate them again after everything they've been through.

Ed has been afraid of his anger for so long, made up a tale and a whole different persona to hide it behind, but his anger has always been born of love, of the need to keep his loved ones safe, of rage against abuse and injustice, and this is what he needed to be able to see in order to start healing.

He's in love, Stede's in danger, he needs his protection, and Ed offers it unflinchingly and doesn't hate himself for it this time, sees the part of him that is capable of killing not as monster but as loving protector at last. Because the British are abusing their entirely illegitimate authority, and the man he loves is in trouble and may even be dead, and this isn't even a question for Ed, he'll fight for him.

And once he's safe he'll drop his weapons at their feet to kiss him and tell him what he's finally become able to say: he loves him. He's maybe beginning not to hate himself, and he loves Stede. And Stede reaffirms what he wrote in the letter, tells him that he knows, that it isn't Ed-Blackbeard-Kraken that's a dick, but life.

Is this arc done? No, of course not. Healing happens in stops and starts, it takes a long time, and that's why DJ has said from the beginning that OFMD was always meant to be three seasons long; the last season is going to be all about Ed and Stede dealing with their issues so they can grow and heal. But they were always meant to do it together, because that's when they're strongest, that's when they're able to shed a light on the other's darkest bits and help him see them in a kinder, loving way.

This was an emotionally charged step in Ed's journey of growth and self acceptance, but the issue will probably come back up in the future, especially now that he and Stede are slowing down and taking time to process their mountains of trauma and everything they've been through in a very condensed amount of time.

But this is still an incredibly significant moment for Ed. He's gone from panicking and hiding under a blanket in a bathtub to throwing parts of himself overboard to digging them up from the bottom of the sea towards the shore and the light, and wielding them intentionally to fight for what he loves.

[katsutora]

a/n: yes, i edited this because this post refused to show up in tags. this writing is for my best best bestest best friend @yeosatinyngz who has been with me since my bllk days. thank you for being my xavier, who waited for me all throughout my hiatus lmfao.

⋆˖ ࣪⭑ xavier —

who only ever had a single fear, realized that he might have developed another one after an argument with you.

what initially started with “what if he lives to see another day, only to find out that there’s no you waiting for him in the future?” was now accompanied by “what if he loses you before he’s supposed to?”.

he hates it. hates the way you’re giving him short replies, hates the way you chat and laugh with other people but not with him, hates the way you seemingly refused to acknowledge his presence.

xavier hates the fact that you didn’t drop by his place earlier. hates your cold treatment. hates that you didn’t share recipes with him or cook for him this morning. hates the happy look on your face when you talked with that doctor. hates your sudden interest in paintings. hates how you disappeared for a few hours to visit the N109 zone without telling him first.

he hates everything.

he hates himself more than anything.

he didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry because he’s been given a chance to fight with you. in the past, your life kept on slipping through his fingers before you both could even find something to disagree on.

xavier can afford to lose everything else but you. never you.

still, despite everything, he dutifully accompanied you on your way back home. the single shadow casted on the ground suggests that you’re both one entity, and yet he couldn’t seem to ever close this actual distance in between the two of you.

you’re right there in front of him, but you’re going somewhere he can no longer follow. he doesn’t want you to hate him. it’s unfair that this version of you are not so kind as to wait for him to catch up to you.

then again, you’re an endless galaxy, and he’s merely one single star in the sky. losing him would not be significant to you whatsoever. you have a life here in Linkon that does not always involve him—doesn’t need to. you’ll be just fine even if he doesn’t exist.

it’s alright, he thought. he’s willing to immerse himself in the pain as long as he’s allowed to see you. he will leave Linkon, he will move out of his apartment, he will keep looking out for you even if you don’t want him anymore. he will find the goddamn protocore. he will hunt every single wanderer in the world. he will risk everyone and everything. he will-

for a guy who’s always been about living in the present and cherishing every moment, he’s reading the last line first and determining the ending for himself before things could play out.

“xavier?”

he’s strangely jittery today, isn’t he?

your voice broke him out of his reverie. it took him a few seconds to regain some semblance of composure. when he did, the first thing he did was confirm this uncomfortable tension lingering in the air.

“are you mad at me?” his eyes were glued to the ground. he had a vivid imagination of your shadows never coming close to become one ever again.

“huh?” he saw you blink, and noticed that there is, indeed, a slight irritation on your face which was directed at him.

xavier abruptly stopped near the apartment gate, failing to realize that he was invading your personal space a little. you could feel his cold fingertips pressing against the back of your hand like a silent plea.

he absentmindedly traced the outline of his future with them, and it’s the shape of you.

“xavier?” you tried again.

“you’re mad at me.” he said.

his grip was loosening slightly before tightening once more. he simply fears a world where he has to live without you. xavier knows that he was running away from this confrontation. god, he’s such a coward for dreading your answer.

“you’re mad at me, aren’t you?” he repeated himself.

winter was two months ago, but xavier has been frozen in time since the day he had first lost you.

“what? no!” mildly annoyed would have described the situation better. “i-it’s just that you kept refusing when i asked for a turn on the claw machine! not to also mention that you didn’t get us a single plushie. i could’ve won us five in a row!”

...

xavier let out a breath that he had been holding these past 214 springs. he closed his eyes for a moment to let it all sink in. slowly, life started moving again.

it turns out that he doesn’t need a visit to the hospital, or to the art studio, or the N109 zone. he should probably call jeremiah later to inform the poor guy that he doesn’t need help moving out of this city any time soon.

the wanderers lurking around the area too, will live to see another day. he made sure to cover your hunter’s watch as subtly as possible, so you would only focus on him.

“i’m sorry.” he pulled you closer, his arms wrapped tightly around you like an orbit. “i’m sorry. i’ll buy you a membership at the arcade to make up for it.”

© katsutora ; do not claim, repost, translate, and/or modify my works.

[wri0thesley]

He kisses you, always, like he’s afraid it’s the last time he’ll ever get to. 

It’s strange, too; because you can remember at the beginning of your courtship, when Diluc was still aware he was the only Ragnvindr left to carry on the name, and he was unsure of everything. That he had left Mondstadt at eighteen and spent the years after battling through harsh climes and conditions, with nothing to warm him but the blaze of his conviction. When he had first come back to the place of his birth, when he had squared his shoulders and breathed hard through the mantle of fear, and he had once more taken up the post of Master of Dawn Winery. 

Those days of careful courtship, Diluc had treated you like he could not believe your existence; like you were a butterfly perched on a cecilia, or a particularly skittish horse. Like something easily breakable, that could at any moment decide he was not worth it. His hands had shook, when he had given you beautiful bouquets he had gruffly informed you he had cultivated himself. He had not quite been able to look you in the eye, when he had taken your hand that first time - his own so hot, even through his gloves, you had covertly tried to see if his vision was glowing without him realising it. 

And that first kiss--

An awkward clash of tongues and teeth, of Diluc almost seeming like he wanted to pull away until you had wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in closer, to reassure him that the kiss he was partaking in was something that was very much wanted. 

He has gotten better at kissing. He has been like some prince in a fairytale, you think, though you’d never express the thought aloud to him; Diluc would flush violently, would demur the comparison, and somehow you know it would get back to Sir Kaeya what you had said and the Cavalry Captain would never let him live it down. Now, he takes your chin in his hand - his crimson eyes meet yours, and a smile tugs at the very corners of his lips, and he leans in so close you can smell the scent of smoke and lampgrass that clings to his person, the cecilia oils that suffuse his shampoos and conditioners. 

And then he kisses you. 

And if the kiss is as you’d said - like he worries it will be the last time he will be able to kiss you - you do not say a word. It is not so much that it is a fight, nor is it that Diluc is clumsy with the way he touches you. It is merely that desperation leaks through in every movement; the echoing beat of his heart seems to say please do not leave me, please, please stay with me forever. He wants to learn the feel of your lips, the shape of your mouth, the sensation of your waist against his palm when he holds you against him. 

And you know why, too. You know about the middle of the night - Diluc stirring beside you, kissing you on the forehead when he thinks you are still asleep. Diluc’s quiet dressing, the sound of your bedroom door shutting - and the knowledge that Mondstadt will be safe tonight, even if Diluc is not. 

You know about the whispers that follow Diluc; about the things he was doing, when he was not properly tending to the Winery. You know about the shadows that fall over Diluc’s face when he dwells too long on memories of Crepus Ragnvindr, that seem to cloud over happy memories of his father. You do not know about Diluc, landing the killing blow on his father himself, if only to save him the suffering - but you know there is more to the story than anyone but he knows. Diluc thinks you would hate him for it - of course, you wouldn’t, but it is hard for him to marry the thought of sword slicing into the man who raised him and the knowledge that when his father looked him in the eye, he wanted Diluc to do it. 

You know about the bounty on his head, if he were to ever set foot on Snezhnayan soil again. You know that he has brought himself the ire of powerful enemies - and though he may be the uncrowned King of Mondstadt, though your little pastoral nation would stand beside him, it is nothing really compared to the finances of Snezhnaya, the churning war machine of the Fatui. 

So when he kisses you, as fiercely as anybody has ever been kissed, you kiss him back. You let your arms wrap about his neck as they once did what feels like a hundred years ago; you let your fingers tangle in the crimson strands of his hair. You try to commit him to memory; the feel of his muscles shifting beneath his jacket, the way his breath warms your lips, the soft grunt of surprise and pleasure if you tug on the hair, just a little bit. The taste of fruit juice that lingers in his mouth. The sensation of being his; beloved of Diluc Ragnvindr, of knowing that the man you have joined your life to would die for you and kill for you and love you in a hundred different worlds. 

And if he kisses you, like it is the last time he will ever get to-- 

Well. With Diluc, it always may well be. 

But even so . . . it would be worth it.

[sugar-grigri]

2. Protest: between the author's cynicism and the antagonist's emergence

Fujimoto once again tests you as a reader

Why? Because this chapter requires you to pay as much attention to the foreground as to the background

Yes, hello headache, but now I need you to follow me…….

First of all, I see it as cynicism. The only thing that would make me laugh is if I thought Fujimoto was teasing us.

How and why? Because the church in Chainsaw Man is us. Victims of CSM (who belong to the work), and young people, students who don't always have the right to vote, who come out of curiosity (the fans) fighting bloody battles against the communities.

Come on, Fujimoto follows the networks

Like his OS, but especially Just listen to the song, it's about the relationship between a work, its author and its audience.

I think Fujimoto relishes the debates and arguments on Twitter and other networks.

Fujimoto follows them as much as he suffers them, acclaimed by critics and his own, adored by his fans, he is also the target of threats and hatred.

Whether it's from those who hate his work or those who adore it but can't forgive him for making them suffer.

Fujimoto is as much a figure of protest as Chainsaw Man.

And he's there in the shadows like Denji

But it's not just a wink, and then we get more serious

The protest in the background is just as important as the foreground

Denji and Yoshida are shown as much as the crowd, with the cut-out swapping places between background and foreground. As if Fujimoto were placing them in the same position of importance.

Why ?

First of all, this chapter proves that NO, Yoshida is not up to the task of being the antagonist

who could be the antagonist then?

Where ? Who ? We're a bit confused... well yeah, it was easy to understand that Makima was the antagonist

Not only do we kind of forget that it wasn't that easy to know she was the antagonist, the revelation that she was a demon came very, very late, as did what she was really capable of doing

In CSM the real antagonist is present from the start, and then appears more clearly

Fujimoto likes to use this process to make his work chilling, to encourage you to reread while seeing the chapters take shape under a different light.

SO WHO'S THE ANTAGONIST?

Chainsaw man himself or, (confirming my theory again), Fake! ChainsawMan

To put it simply, since part 2, Fujimoto has shown that Chainsaw Man is controversial, both adored and feared.

This fear would naturally give rise to a Fake!Chainsaw Man demon, whose aim would be to increase its power by maximizing people's fear of Chainsaw Man.

Now let's take a step back. Nostradamus' prophecy is about to come true. Fami's goal is to prevent this apocalypse (for pizza). But this prophecy, as Yoshida knew about it and got in touch with Fami, shows that public safety is aware of the danger.

So why do we want Chainsaw Man to disappear? Would Public Security abandon humanity? Hardly imaginable.

I've given it some thought, and here's the plan as I imagine it.

An alliance has been formed between Fami and Public Security, to take control of Chainsaw Man. Not an absolute alliance, I imagine, but the two groups have common interests.

Both groups need a champion to face this apocalypse.

The fact is, Chainsaw Man is getting weaker.

Turning a demon into a hero who is close to humans means that part of the population no longer fears him, so his power falls proportionally.

Chainsaw Man can't face the apocalypse now.

The solution is to separate Chainsaw and Man. Literally.

When Yoshida invites Denji to live quietly, it's so that he can literally retire.

To make way for whom? Bingo. Fake!CSM

So why do they want CSM to disappear? Why so much emphasis on Haruka and the worship of Chainsaw Man's church?

Nothing creates greater fear than giving people a hero and then suddenly taking him away. We're back to another of CSM's key themes: necessary evil.

If, overnight, CSM no longer appeared to fight the demons, then the world would be in disarray. And fear would increase... giving power to the secretly chosen champion.

A champion... who only appears before dawn. At the very last moment.

The existence of Chainsaw Man leads to clashes, increased tensions and dissent.

His disappearance, meanwhile, will lead to a consensus: the despair of a humanity with no so-called protection.

Nostradamus' prophecy is not simply a prophecy announcing the apocalypse, but a plan that has been in front of us all along.

To be saved, humanity must descend into chaos.

If you want to better understand my theory about Fake!CSM :

[manicpixiefelix]

they stare at me (and i stare at you) {18+}

Felix Catton/CEO!Reader

AU of head, heart, hand. but you don't need to have read that to enjoy this.

Summary: In another life, ten-year-old Felix decides against straying from his parents at that function he was dragged along to on a boat, decides against taking a chance and befriending you there, and it changes everything.

Growing up in the shadow of your more than reluctant parents and desperate for affection, you look to find some common ground with them by investing yourself in the family business. Except as it turns out, your father, who'd been made CEO after your grandfather had passed, was more of a figurehead than a real businessman. He's happy to pass on responsibilities to you as time goes on as your growing interest and understanding of the company quickly surpassed his own. At fourteen you're attending board meetings in his place, at sixteen, you're running them, and at nineteen you're essentially acting CEO, about to start your first year at Oxford, if only to bolster your credentials, and yet it's still been years since your parents had been active participants in your life.

The unconventional environment in which you'd spent your teen years shaped you dramatically and violently into the kind of person who could command attention and respect from anyone or any room. There was no room in your life for being underestimated in any circumstance, not with so many people looking to undermine you, to tear you down, so you would never allow yourself to give them the chance. Work hard, party harder; for years you'd forced yourself to keep up with those around you despite your youth, and now it seemed to be second nature.

To the people who knew you professionally, you were a shark; beautiful, efficient, deadly. To the friends you find yourself making at Oxford, the people who can't even fathom the full extent of your world or what you're capable of because of it, they regard you like you're The Sun.

Except, of course, to the boy with a title and a castle and a lifetime of feeling like a display piece for his parents. The only other person who others offer in loving comparison to The Sun in his own right. Felix Catton knows a shark when he sees one, and hates feeling like the only one who does. Even his cousin- even his fucking sister turn out to be the type to be blinded by your light. You are objectively, unmistakably dazzling, and he's starting to really hate you for it.

Everyone around you tells him you're impossible not to love, but they say the same thing about him too. Maybe that's why, despite his best efforts, he still find himself drawn to you, pulled into your gravity, or perhaps you're pulled into his.

Binary stars, destined to crash into each other in one way or another; a supernova, a cataclysmic disaster, he's sure. However this ends, it will be beautiful and terrible, Felix thinks, just like you.

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly Non-Binary Reader. Enemies-With-Benefits, Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers.

Warnings: SMUT (AFAB!reader), psychosexual (and regular sexual) mind games, reader has sometimes dubious morals, recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, business discussions despite the writer being a theatre&literature major, questionable business ethics, discussions about transphobia in the workplace, discussions regarding reader's parental neglect, awful communication skills all around, Eddie's there.

Felix watches you on the dancefloor, watches the way you move along with the other bodies as they writhed around you, hands all over you. Like moths to a flame, they're drawn to you, looking at you like they're desperate for you to just meet their gaze. He sees the way you shift as your attention does, the subtle way you change yourself for each person you focus on. Soft or bold or teasing or pandering; you seemed to be able to figure out what exactly will entice whoever it is that is lucky enough to receive your attention on any given night.

Which perhaps is part of the reason Felix feels slighted by you; it's like you go out of your way to antagonise him instead. Its not that he's jealous, it's just that he's pretty sure you're doing it on purpose.

[ In Progress ]

you kept your gaze controlled

THE TAGLIST IS ALWAYS OPEN !

If you are already on the taglist for head, heart, hand. you will be automatically tagged in this. If you've found this fic and are only interested in being tagged in it and not the main fic, please feel free to message or comment letting me know!

[daitranscripts]

Cole Conversations

Companion Comments

Cole Masterpost

Dialogue options:

Cassandra [1]

Blackwall [2]

Iron Bull [3]

Dorian [4]

Solas [5]

Vivienne [6]

Varric [7]

Sera [8]

Leliana [9]

Josephine [10]

Cullen [11]

1 - Cassandra

Romanced Cole: Petals fall open as lips shape words that rhyme. Candlelight softens the edges.

Cassandra’s personal quest incomplete Cole: Stomach full of mantras, she burns like a beacon, Faith a flame to bring succor for a Seeker.

Cassandra’s personal quest complete Cole: Faith seeks a friend in Compassion, cautious, careful, too much grey but growing.

2 - Blackwall

Romanced He feels naked without the name on the armor, but now he knows you want him naked.

Blackwall’s personal quest incomplete An old name burns inside armor that shouldn't fit, lit by faces of the children he couldn't save.

Blackwall’s personal quest complete The name breaks free, pulls the pain with it. A black wall to shield the self when the sky is rainier.

3 - Iron Bull

Romanced Tied, but tenderly, loving in the letters of a word that would stop it, knots in satin scarves.

Personal quest active “The,” a joke. He laughs to himself, imagining herds of cattle in fields of iron, but now he worries it fits.

Personal quest complete, made Tal-Vashoth Salt-spray smell of Seheron. Lost in smoke from a burning ship. Guilt at not feeling guiltier.

Personal quest complete, sacrificed the Chargers Copper on the lips. Dalish lies dead-eyed beside me. He'll come, he'll call, he won't leave us. Horns pointing up.

4 - Dorian

Romanced Glittering to gloss a hidden hurt. Unlearning not to hope for more. Stumbling steps where the wall used to be.

Giselle gave letter, have not met Dorian’s father Bright, like the fish that kill you if you eat them. Can't hate you for hiding if you burn so brilliantly.

After meeting Dorian’s father He tried to melt a snowflake because he liked waterfalls. Swallowing bile and pride as he sees his son defend himself.

5 - Solas

Cole’s personal quest complete Voice ringing with fullness from both worlds, guiding me to the shining places. He calls himself Pride.

High approval, other conditions unknown Old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real. This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change.

Personal quest completed Wisdom knows enduring is pain. He hurts for her, another of many he couldn't save. He carries necessary deaths.

6 - Vivienne

Personal quest not started A breath-caught smile from the Enchanter as the candle lights. The walls are safe; she will never be hungry again.

Personal quest completed A cold flame blazes in a robe worth more than children. Protect her, and she consumes you, burning because she can.

7 - Varric

Cole’s personal quest complete Kid, says the stone. Kid, kidding. It would keep me kept with a name, but the cairn can't catch me.

Hawke lives, other conditions unknown He writes words that aren't real, but they are for him, in a quiet place whose stone shape shakes the ground.

Hawke left in the Fade The stone is cracked, split, jagged. The hawk would have been safe if it had stayed, but that isn't what hawks do.

8 - Sera

Romanced Fleet-footed and free, the arrow that caught the miller's sack, but no longer shot alone, aquiver in a quiver.

Cole more human Shite. He's wrong. Dead-eyed crazy, shite. I called him a 'him'. Is he alive, is everything alive, shite. I hate raisins.

Cole more spirit She hurts, but helping hurts more. She sees the strings that pull me, eyes like raisins in a stale cookie.

9 - Leliana

Leliana’s personal quest not started The Left Hand remembers a knife slipped to her in the darkness, and wonders why the flower blooms.

Leliana hardened The Left Hand is harder, faith fallen in folly. It makes the dreams worse, but sends them away faster.

Leliana softened The Left Hand blooms on the bush, remembering the light that shone in her darkness. She knows how to sing again.

10 - Josephine

Romanced Steel flashes, like at the top of the stairs, but this time she knows her voice and it ends with a kiss.

Josephine’s personal quest started She spins, plucking strings, matching wits and words, an admiral who will never send ships of her own.

Josephine’s personal quest complete Ships launch on changing winds. Dizzy sometimes, like the top of the stairs, but sometimes like dancing.

11 - Cullen

Romanced Safe and solid, protecting and proud. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him.

Personal quest incomplete, talked about lyrium He is quiet, behind the noise. The little bottle makes him shake, but he tests the chains.

Continued lyrium He sounds right again with the chains in place, but the music makes him sad.

Quit lyrium He sounds new, echoes of laughter on an empty riverbed. Not for sailing, but safer.

[rainforestakiie]

More Often AU

hello, another quick AU that popped into my head while writing Be Lonely with Me!

at the end, you can decide if Lucifer believes Adam or not~

Dear God by Confetti

The world was breaking, unraveling at its core. Heaven was falling apart, its light dimming into shadow. Hell endured, coping as it always had. Earth was dissolving, crumbling into the void. Souls splintered and cracked, emotions ran wild, uncontrolled and untamed. Adam sat on the edge, his legs swinging into the swirling abyss of purple and pink chaos beneath him. His golden, starlit eyes gazed upward, staring into the vast emptiness, because that’s all there was now. Sinners, Winners, Humans—they had all blurred into the same fragile thing. Two sides of a shattered coin. The Angels were losing their wings, the demons their horns. And humans—they were losing their sight, their very souls slipping away.

Adam remained still, bathed in silence. The golden star-shaped eye on his chest blinked open, casting faint, flickering sparks of light into the air, shimmering weakly around him. His wings—once radiant—lay in ruins behind him, fractured and jagged, like pieces of a broken mirror. Eight shattered wings, splayed out, reflecting the emptiness they once soared through.

His lips barely moved, settled into a weary line as he watched the universe tear itself apart, strand by strand, like old fabric coming undone. His hands rested in his lap, cold and numb, while his feet gently kicked at the nothingness below. A soft, tuneless hum escaped his lips, his golden eyes closing for a brief moment as his head tilted in a small, tired gesture.

"Dear God, where'd you go? You haven't been answering your phone," he sang softly, his voice distant, unearthly in his own ears. His mind, like his wings, had shattered into countless pieces—scattered across time itself, past, present, future all bleeding together. He saw the void this all led to, the nothingness behind everything. "Not sayin' I'm mad, but the world is fucked up. So you should come around more."

Orbs of purple, blue, green, and yellow drifted aimlessly through the air, as if lost in their own confusion. Every so often, a flash of white light zipped by, but Adam didn’t bother to notice. The vicious battle happening far to his left—it didn’t matter. None of it did.

Nothing ever changes.

"Oh dear God, I hate to say, people don't believe in you these days," he hummed, the melody a soft echo in the dying world. The golden eye on his chest glowed faintly, its light pulsing, shards of divine energy flickering in and out of existence around him. If he focused, he could almost see the remnants of others within those fragments, the echoes of something long lost. "Not saying I don't, but the world is fucked up. So you should come around more."

A soft yawn broke the silence, his ears pricking at the distant sound of the crumbling world, though he did nothing to stop it. He was too tired for that. Always tired now. He had lived through every cycle, played every role. He had been the villain, the hero, the redeemer, the destroyer. He had saved souls, damned them, lifted them up only to drag them down. Over and over again. And yet—nothing ever changed.

"I bite my tongue but can't change how I think," he whispered, quieter now, almost lost in the hum of the void. "I talk to you because I can't afford a shrink."

His golden eyes drifted lazily to the side, upwards, where the heavens screamed, a long, piercing wail, as they collided with the outer edge of Hell. The shattered remnants of Earth floated in the chaos, fragments of a world that had once been. Heaven was falling, tearing through everything in its path, as it always did, following the script written by God himself. Adam felt the tremor as the grand barrier—the universe’s final defense—quaked beneath the pressure. He knew it wouldn’t hold. In less than a minute, it would shatter. The weight of divine corruption always breaks through in the end.

"It's the everyday people who do the ugliest things," he sang softly, watching the cracks spiderweb across the multicolored barrier. He always found it strangely beautiful, how, when the end came, people would set aside their differences. It was never enough to change anything, but it was admirable in its own tragic way. "And it's never gon—never gonna change. So you should come around more."

No one had wanted to believe Heaven was falling. Sera had ignored the warnings, brushing them off, hiding the truth from the Winners and the other Angels. She refused to tell Emily until it was too late. Eventually, even the higher archangels became involved. You knew things were truly dire when Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael descended from the upper rings of Heaven, panic etched into their once-serene faces. Adam had always found it fascinating to watch the normally composed Michael grow more frantic as the celestial rings collapsed around them.

"Oh dear God, we haven't talked in a while. I'm all grown now, but still feel like a child," Adam sang, his gaze locking onto the first crack as it spread like branches, climbing higher and higher up the barrier. "And I'm sorry that I only holla when I need a favor. But all my people really need a Savior."

When Heaven came begging at the gates of Hell, it was clear the balance of the universe had finally tipped. Lucifer, of course, laughed in their faces, casting them aside like broken toys. He didn’t realize how serious things had become. None of them did. Hell had shrugged, telling Heaven to deal with it—it was only a few divine rings breaking. How hard could it be to fix? But it was that hard.

Heaven was falling. And as it tore through the earthly realm, everyone felt it—the humans burning away, their souls consumed before they even had a chance to be judged. No time to become a Sinner or a Winner, just obliterated in a blink of an eye.

Desperation brings strange alliances.

Soon enough, Lucifer relented, and Hell opened its gates to Heaven. The Sinners mocked the Winners, as they always did, but beneath the surface, everyone felt it—the dread, the slow unraveling of everything they knew. Sinners couldn’t grasp what was happening, and even the highest ranks of Hell struggled to devise a plan to save what little remained.

The irony.

There was hardly anything left to save.

"And the longer you go missing, the more the story’s twisting," Adam murmured, his voice soft, almost lost in the void. He breathed in deeply, feeling another pulse of golden light ripple through the fractured time and dimensions wrapped around him. His starlit eyes became half-lidded, the golden eye on his chest mirroring his gaze. "And people count the days to make their birthday wishes. And it’s never gon—never gonna change. So you should come around more."

Things had grown darker, more serious, when Lilith returned to Hell. The memories blurred together, too full of old tears and worn-out drama. Adam had grown numb to it all—he’d seen it so many times before, lived through every moment like a script he could recite from memory. The words, the rhythms, the patterns were all predictable now. His wings strained under the weight of each new feather, each new failure.

Heaven and Hell bickered endlessly—arguments, accusations, power plays. Sera and Lilith, Michael and Lucifer, Emily and Sera, Lilith and Lucifer even more often now. It was exhausting, watching it play out again and again. Charlie sat on the sidelines in stunned silence, unsure what to make of it all, while Vaggie held her hands, never leaving her side. The sight was almost painfully sweet. Sometimes they’d talk of marriage, sometimes they’d simply hold each other, once or twice dreaming aloud about having children—two, maybe three, running around. Adam supposed it was sad, in its own way.

Emily, brave as always, tried to hold it together for both the Winners and the Sinners. When the Sinners finally understood the gravity of the situation, their fear began to swell, and Emily’s hands were suddenly full. As the Seraphim of Emotions, she was their anchor, and soon enough, Sinners came flocking to her, desperate to confess their sins, their regrets. The darkness of their souls weighed heavy on her, far more than she had anticipated. But she smiled through it, kept her face brave and kind. Eventually, they began to look up to her, even more than they did to Charlie.

"And hiding is insulting your intelligence. That fake-ass walking 'round in Sunday’s best," Adam continued, stretching his arms above his head, a loud crack echoing through the silent void as he shifted. The barrier surrounding Pentagram City was crumbling, fractures meeting in the center like broken glass. "When they know the world revolves around money and sex. The worst people are the first to forget."

Then, with a sudden, inevitable shudder, the barrier shattered. It fell in glittering fragments, shimmering like snowflakes as they drifted down. Adam watched them fall, holding out his hand to catch the tiny sparkling pieces. Such a pity. Such a shame. It had been made by all of them—Lucifer, Michael, Sera, Emily, Lilith… even Eve. Yes, Eve had returned to help. Well, not Eve exactly—she called herself ‘Roo’ now, the root of all Evil. Adam snorted softly at the thought, watching as the fragments of the barrier danced across his golden-tipped fingers, the light crawling over his skin like bruises.

Funny how, when the end is near, everyone comes crawling out of the woodwork.

"Oh dear God, where’d you go?" Adam’s voice dropped to a whisper as he let his hand fall to the ground with a quiet thud. "You haven’t been answering your phone…"

"Not sayin’ I’m mad, but the world is fucked up," another voice called from behind him.

Adam didn’t need to look. He knew who it was. Lucifer slumped down beside him, the King of Hell looking as worn and exhausted as Adam had ever seen him. His magic was spent, drained, leaving nothing behind. He had done everything he could, just like the rest of them. Adam couldn’t hold it against him. Lucifer always gave his all when the end came. Adam had seen it countless times, over and over.

"So you should come around more," Lucifer sang quietly, his voice hollow, but not broken. Just resigned. Accepting that this was the end. "Oh dear God, I hate to say, people don’t believe in you these days."

Adam tilted his head. "Not saying I don’t, but the world is fucked up. So you should come around more."

A soft hum escaped Lucifer as he closed his eyes, resting his claws on the cracked ground beneath them. Slowly, he reached out, curling his fingers around Adam’s in a gesture so gentle it almost felt like an apology.

"Is this really it?" Lucifer asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Hm," Adam nodded, rolling his shoulders in a slow, tired shrug. "Don’t feel bad. You really did do everything you could."

Lucifer frowned, his tired eyes searching Adam’s face for something—maybe hope, maybe reassurance—but found only the same weariness reflected back at him.

Lucifer let out a long sigh, his gaze distant as he stared at the fractured sky. Heaven was crumbling, falling like shattered glass, each piece taking more of the world with it. He had always known this moment would come, but acceptance still felt like swallowing shards of truth too sharp to hold.

"Was this always His plan?" Lucifer asked, his voice soft and full of quiet despair. "All of this… has it always been set in stone?"

Adam hummed, the sound light and airy as if Lucifer had asked something far too simple.

"Plans… scripts… they're just words, aren’t they?" His golden eyes, fractured like mirrors reflecting endless possibilities, flickered. "A path is a path until you step off it. But maybe stepping off is part of the plan too."

Lucifer frowned, the answer twisting in his mind but never settling. "How many times have you lived through this, Adam?"

Adam shrugged, his wings trembling slightly with the motion. "I lost count a long time ago," he said, his tone devoid of weight or emotion.

Lucifer’s brow furrowed as he looked at Adam more intently, searching his face for something—anything—that would give him clarity. "And how many times… how many times have you come to me? Have I helped? Have I ever really helped?"

At this, Adam chuckled, the sound low and soft, like a fading breeze.

"You ask questions that don’t need answers, Lucifer. It’s pointless. But…" He trailed off, his golden eyes drifting away as though watching something only he could see. "If it’ll give you peace…"

"I need to know," Lucifer said, his voice tight with a desperate edge. "I need to know how long you’ve been trapped in this endless cycle. Have I ever truly been there for you?"

Adam paused, his gaze growing soft, almost tender, before he reached out. His fingers, light as feathers, touched Lucifer’s cheek, his golden light glowing faintly against Lucifer’s worn skin. "Of course you have. You’ve always been there, whenever I decided to tell you the truth."

Lucifer swallowed, his throat tight. "You told me… and I believed you?"

"Not always," Adam replied with a knowing smile. "At first, you thought I was scheming. But I always managed to prove it, didn’t I?"

Lucifer’s shoulders sagged with a mix of relief and pain, the weight of countless lifetimes falling heavy on him. "And… were there times you didn’t tell me? Times you didn’t come to me at all?"

Adam’s smile faded, his eyes growing distant once more. "Of course there were," he whispered.

"I gave up a long time ago, Lucifer. Heaven always falls. Everyone always dies. Sometimes I wake up in Eden, and I tell you immediately. Other times…" His voice softened, laced with a quiet resignation. "Other times I do nothing. I just lie there, in the grass, and let things play out. Following the script, step by step, word by word."

"And it always leads to this," Lucifer muttered, gesturing up to the sky as Heaven continued its descent, tearing through the realms like an unstoppable force.

Adam nodded, his eyes flickering up to the sky, then back to Lucifer. "It never makes a difference. This is where it always ends."

The silence between them thickened, broken only by the distant rumble of the world coming apart. Lucifer’s grip on Adam’s hand tightened, his claws gently curling around his fingers as if holding on to the only thing left that hadn’t been destroyed.

"Why didn’t you come to me every time?" Lucifer asked, his voice pained, his grip firm. "Why didn’t you tell me, Adam?"

"Because I grew tired, Lucifer," Adam said softly. "Tired of fighting. Tired of hoping. When you know the outcome, over and over… it’s easier to stop trying."

Lucifer closed his eyes, his chest tightening with a mix of grief and guilt. "And I… I couldn’t stop it. No matter how many times you told me."

"You couldn’t," Adam agreed, squeezing Lucifer’s hand in return. "No one could. Not even me."

Lucifer let out a shaky breath, his heart heavy. He held onto Adam’s hand tighter, as if anchoring himself to this moment, to the only constant in the endless cycles they had both endured.

"But you were always there," Adam murmured, his voice soft, almost comforting. "Whenever I decided to tell you the truth, you were always there."

He paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Even if you didn’t believe me at first."

Lucifer let out a weak chuckle, though it was tinged with sorrow. "I suppose I’ve never been the trusting type."

"Not at the start," Adam said, his voice light again. "But you came around. You always do."

Lucifer was silent for a moment, his eyes distant as he considered all that had been said. Finally, he turned back to Adam, his voice thick with emotion. "And when you didn’t come to me… when you chose to say nothing?"

Adam’s gaze softened, full of a sadness that had lived in him far too long. "Sometimes, I just wanted to see if anything would change if I let it all play out on its own. But it never does. Heaven falls. Everyone dies. Whether I tell you or not… it always ends like this."

Lucifer’s chest tightened, his heart aching with the weight of inevitability. "But this… this can’t be it, Adam. There has to be more than this."

Adam only smiled, his eyes distant, filled with the knowing of countless lifetimes. "Maybe. But I wouldn’t hold your breath."

Lucifer clenched his jaw, holding Adam’s hand even tighter, as if afraid to let go.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Adam didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he let his thumb brush gently against Lucifer’s knuckles, a quiet gesture of comfort. "You’ve always tried, Lucifer. That’s more than most can say."

And so they sat there, side by side, as Heaven crumbled above them and the world slowly dissolved beneath their feet. Adam, the eternal witness, and Lucifer, the fallen king, holding on to each other as the end came once again.

"Adam…" Lucifer began quietly, his voice soft and intimate, as though afraid that the weight of his words might break the fragile space between them.

Adam responded with a quiet hum, his golden eyes barely flickering in acknowledgment. "Yeah?"

Lucifer shifted closer, his presence a comforting weight in the midst of the crumbling world around them. His claws, gentle despite their sharpness, traced up Adam’s arm, caressing the soft skin of his cheek, before gliding down the curve of his throat, lingering there. "Can I ask one more thing of you?" His voice was tender, laced with a vulnerability that Lucifer rarely allowed himself to show. "Though I suspect I might’ve asked it before."

Adam tilted his head, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You might have."

Lucifer’s breath ghosted over Adam’s lips as he leaned in closer, the unspoken request lingering in the air between them. "Can I kiss you? One last time?"

Adam chuckled softly, his voice filled with both warmth and a weary familiarity. "And I always say the same thing, don’t I?" His gaze softened as he looked up into Lucifer’s eyes. "You don’t have to ask."

A slow, loving smile spread across Lucifer’s lips as he closed the distance between them. With a tenderness that seemed almost impossible for the King of Hell, he pressed his lips against Adam’s in a sweet, lingering kiss. Time seemed to stretch in that moment, the weight of countless lifetimes, endless cycles, all captured in the simple act of their union.

As Lucifer kissed him, Adam felt the familiar pulse of golden power flare from the eye on his chest, a warmth that spread through his body, a power that hummed and vibrated with life. The air around them shimmered, the sound of the crumbling world fading into an echo. Adam’s ears rang with the pressure of it, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

And then, just like that, Adam opened his eyes to find himself lying in the soft grass of Eden once more.

The world had reset. Again.

The dawn of Heaven's fall was upon him, the sky bright and unmarred, as if the destruction and chaos from moments before had never existed. Adam blinked, his fingers pressing into the cool earth beneath him. It was always the same. The endless cycle, resetting with precision, every time Heaven crumbled, every time the world dissolved.

The familiar weight of inevitability settled in his chest, but for now, there was only silence—the quiet before the storm. Adam closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the untouched garden, waiting for the world to fall apart again.

And like clockwork, the familiar call reached Adam, pulling him from the quiet hum of the universe resetting itself.

"Adam?" came Lucifer’s voice, bright and innocent in its familiar way. His once regal robes were now a pure white and soft blue, the attire of an Archangel. His wings gleamed, unblemished, feathers fluttering lightly in the calm Eden air.

"Daydreaming again? Will you tell me about them? I love it when you share your dreams!"

Adam lifted his gaze slowly, eyeing the pristine figure of Lucifer as he hovered above him, unaware of the endless cycle that would eventually shatter him. With a sigh that carried lifetimes of knowing, Adam stretched out a hand, his fingers brushing Lucifer's smooth cheek. The warmth of the Archangel’s skin beneath his touch was real—too real—and it brought a flicker of emotion to Adam’s hollow heart.

Lucifer’s eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected touch, a soft flush spreading across his pale blue cheeks. "Adam?" he began, a confused smile forming, only for his words to falter as Adam rose.

Without a word, Adam pressed his lips softly against Lucifer's. The kiss was gentle, tender—a brief moment of connection amidst an eternity of endless cycles. For a moment, Lucifer froze, his wings twitching, his breath caught in his throat. But soon, he melted into the kiss, lowering himself to sit on the grass beside Adam, his dazed eyes filled with wonder and confusion.

When Adam pulled away, Lucifer's wings fluttered behind him, and his expression was one of pure adoration. A dreamy smile curved across his lips as he blinked in a daze. "Adam? Why did you do that?"

Adam sighed again, his hand slipping down to rest on Lucifer’s lap, his golden eyes weary but full of something like affection. "Lucifer," he began softly, "will you listen to me? I have something important to tell you."

The innocence in Lucifer’s eyes flickered with curiosity, the smile never fading, though the weight of Adam’s tone seemed to reach him. "Of course, Adam. I always listen to you."

Adam’s gaze lingered on him, on this pure version of Lucifer, still untouched by the darkness he would eventually bear, still so full of light.

"What if I told you," Adam said, his voice a whisper as if sharing a secret, "that we've been here before... many, many times?"

Lucifer tilted his head, confusion deepening. "Here before? What do you mean? Is this one of your dreams again?"

Adam let out a soft laugh, but it was hollow, devoid of true humor. "You could say that. But this… this isn’t just a dream. It’s a cycle. Heaven falls. Hell rises. The world crumbles, and everything—everyone—dies. And then… I wake up here. Again and again."

His voice grew quieter, but the weight of his words pressed heavily on the air between them.

"I’ve lost count of how many times, Lucifer."

[littlediscoveredstars]

Alright I’m on my Yugioh shit, but I think what Pegasus did to Seto Kaiba was waaaay more personal than any other Yugioh villain.

None of my thoughts are organized, but I’ll try to get it out in some kind of way that makes sense.

Let me first start by saying that Seto Kaiba is a minor through the whole series. This is important to his character, almost more than the others, because it is exactly what he’s trying to erase about himself.

Kaiba dresses himself up in outfits that accent his masculine features similar to how an adult will. His shoulder pads make his shoulders seem broader. His coat goes inward to give a very triangular shape to his torso. He’s got belts everywhere (and while yes, this is just the style of Yugioh, I believe it cannot be completely written off as just that).

At the base of it, Kaiba wants to be seen as an adult. He NEEDS to be. He runs a company and is in near constant threat of being taken advantage of by others. We see this many times throughout the show, especially by Pegasus.

Now, to connect things once again. Kaiba is a minor who was thrust into adulthood far too early, yet, he engages in child-like activities. Duel Monsters, while used for their ancient shadow games, is still just a game. A game Kaiba is OBSESSED with, to the point he becomes the face of the Blue Eyes White Dragon.

(Which is his symbol of power and autonomy over others, which further proves why he so badly hates the ancient talk, but that’s another essay)

Pegasus is the created (re-created, technically) of Duel Monsters. He made the paintings, the cards, the rules. He shows in many tournaments (assumed based off episode 2) and given how much Kaiba has won? I’m guessing they met before becoming business partners.

In short, it makes sense that Pegasus would be an important figure to Kaiba. Maybe an idol, an inspiration, or whatever it might be. Kaiba saw Pegasus and saw a man who’s game kept him alive through his years with Gozaburo, who gave him a connection to his own brother.

Pegasus is powerful. Pegasus has full control of his own actions. He is everything Kaiba wants and changed KaibaCorp. to be.

A little ways down the line, Pegasus becomes his business partner. Kaiba gets to work a littler closer with him. We never see what exactly that entailed besides letting Kaiba use the Blue Eyes (and other cards) without copyright issues and Pegasus using the holographic stages, but even that is a significant exchange.

(Makes me wonder if things hadn’t turned out the way they did, would Kaiba and Duke Devlin view him the same way?)

Then, Pegasus starts Duelist Kingdom. He uses Kaibams vulnerability to his advantage and steps in to take over. He kidnaps Mokuba, then takes his soul and shows it off like a trophy.

Pegasus has not just betrayed Kaiba’s trust, but he turned into a real person for Kaiba. It shows him that, just like everyone else, Pegasus is greedy and selfish. He takes what Kaiba worked so hard for, what he loves, just because he can. And he does so with the same smiles and teasing as before.

It’s beyond disappointment. This is heating your favorite person side with your abusers. This is a childhood hero watching you get kicked and laughing as he kicks you alongside them.

So, naturally, Kaiba won’t forgive him. We see in Battle City how bruised Kaiba’s ego is. He’s mad at Yugi, he’s mad at Izushi, no one is saved from his ire. Even Mokuba gets the short stick every so often. He is compensating BIG TIME and it’s directly connected to how things went over last season.

Might I add that Duelist Kingdom takes place less than a year after Kaiba took over KaibaCorp? This is a still pretty fresh CEO with some very big trauma that he simply has not dig into yet.

I think in a world where Pegasus was not so disillusioned by his own desperation to revive Cecelia, he would’ve been a good mentor to Kaiba. They both have a love for games, for the visual experience (painting and holograms) and they’re both very particular. Honestly, their traits would work relatively well, all things considered.

But it didn’t and we see Kaiba go through cycle after cycle of trying to get better and stumbling every step of the way.

Anyway, that’s my TedTalk. As a Pegasus enjoyed and Kaiba analysis, I found this topic very fascinating.

[haveihitanerve]

Heyoo school just ended and I got an idea 🔥

Bruce in a meeting with WE executives (before Tim becomes CEO) and no matter what he's talking about, he's somehow interrupted by one of his kids and/or one of his superfriends.

They're only doing this because it's his birthday and he somehow forgot.

Lex hated meeting with the Wayne corporation. Not only did very little good ever come of them, the deals he wanted to seal never happened and it only ended with Wayne himself insulting Lex's very existence, but they were rarely ever alone, as Wayne had apparently taken his charity way of life to heart, and adopted more than just the one orphan or street kid. Not to mention his friends.

Needless to say, Lex was not feeling high spirits when he was escorted up into Wayne's meeting board office. "Luthor," Bruce plastered on a massive smile, so forced it looked painful, but it was all a part of their game, reaching out to clasp his hand. "It's been too long." Lex laughed along, squeezing back just as tightly.

"And somehow not long enough." he answered with equal cheer, and Wayne laughed, gesturing him to a seat as he poured them both something to drink. Something they agreed on, for once, in order to get through these meetings, they needed alcohol.

"I know the interruptions that befall us do annoy you," Bruce began apologetically, and Lex braced himself. "So I have cleared my day. Only the two of us this time." His smile seemed to lose a bit of its insincerity. "I promise." Lex nodded back crisply in thanks, not believing him for a second.

But... as time wore on and... and Lex actually got one of his deals, and there were no interruptions... it was. It was a trap. He just knew it. There was no way- and then it happened.

Glass exploded around them and Lex ducked, looking around wildly, only to find the Wayne Enterprises heir, Tim Drake, slurping a slushie, looking bored. Bruce hadn't even moved from his chair, staring at his son. "I specifically said no interruptions." He said gruffly. Drake shrugged.

"Sorry." He returned, not sounding sorry at all. "Just wanted to drop this off." he plopped a brightly, poorly, wrapped lumpy shaped thing, saluted Lex with his middle finger and dropped back out the window. Lex didn't even bother to comment on it. Crazier stuff had happened in a Wayne meeting than just windows breaking.

Bruce sighed, sweeping away the shards of glass with his foot, and asked his secretary to please get new glass installed, then turned to Lex. "Apologies Luthor, I truly asked for no-" Lex jumped back, cowering behind the couch. Superman, his Superman, was hovering the in hole in the window. Bruce frowned but turned, frown deepening when he saw the hero.

"Yes?" His voice was unkind at the least, downright cold at most. Superman raised an eyebrow, extending a marginally less bright, better wrapped package.

"Just dropping this off." He murmured, eyes darting to Lex and back again. "See you around Mr. Wayne." The super glared once more at Lex before turning and flying off.

Bruce sighed, plopping this box down next to the lumpy one, and gestured Lex to take a seat again. Before he could, two shadows dropped from the ceiling. One black, shadow color, the other purple.

"Delivery!" The purple one chirped, far too cheery for an eight am meeting. Bruce was downright glowering by now, but the two demons didn't seem to mind, shoving two extra packages under his arms, one large and clunky and obnoxiously purple and glittery, the other small and simple and well wrapped.

Bruce dipped his head to both of them and they high fived, jumping back into the vents like nothing had happened. Bruce hefted the larger package onto his shoulder, setting it against the wall, and let the little one on his desk.

"Quite uh, the collection of packages today. And delivery services." Lex chuckled nervously. Bruce was eyeing the packages with narrow eyed suspicion, but nodded, finally returning to his seat. "Yes.."

They managed another five blissful minutes of uninterrupted work, until the door slammed open and the man Lex recognized as Bruce's first charity case, Dick Grayson, strolled in, streamers draped around his shoulders like a scarf, wheeling in a girl in a wheelchair, who had another collection of bright packages on her lap.

"What is this?" Bruce finally asked in frustration, standing. Dick blinked at him, as well as the six other children and thirteen adults that trailed him, each also holding either packages or food. (Dick, Babs,- Tim, Jason, Damian, Duke, Steph, Cass- adults: Clark, Lois, Diana, Hal, Barry, Victor, Arthur, Selina, Ivy, Harley, Alfred, Leslie, and Luke Fox)

"B, tell me you didn't forget." laughed one of the older kids, holding a T-shirt cannon that was dangerously aimed at Luthor's head. Bruce's brow furrowed as he looked between them all. "What?"

The kid laughed again, firing the cannon right at Wayne's stomach, Bruce easily catching it, and dropped the gun. "Its your birthday, old man."

[yandere-romanticaa]

People don't talk about yandere! Atsushi and yandere! Akutagawa and you know what, that's a real shame. Lucky you, I'm here to change that.

Tell you the truth, I feel like they both have a similar type of person they like - someone kind.

Neither one of them is used to any sort of kindness or goodness being extended towards them so this would be something that catches their attention immediately. While Chuuya and Dazai are a bit more complex with what kind of person they like, thus making it almost impossible for them to fall for the same person, Atsushi and Akutagawa aren't like that. They're simple people in their cores who only want some attention.

There's a good chance that you are nothing more than a civilian who's just living your best life and meeting either one of them was by pure chance. Atsushi is definitely the type who would fall for you if you just smiled at him and that smile would be engraved inside his mind for ages - did you really just smile at him? Him, Atsushi Nakajima?

Did he die and go to Heaven?

He's probably the type who would say "I should avoid them, I'm not good enough for them." only to accidentally follow you around town, oops. He is awkward and blushes like a schoolgirl but you always indulge him and never make fun of him. He was always met with kindness and understanding which never fails to make his limbs turn into jelly. Atsushi does his best to be there for you and he likes to be helpful in any way he can ie. carrying your bags for you, helping with chores, disposing of anyone who he thinks is a threat, all that good stuff!

Akutagawa though, he's... He's not quite so easy to woo. Well, he is but not in the same manner as Atsushi.

Those who kill better be prepared to be killed themselves, that is something that Akutagawa has said to himself since day one. He is aware of everything he does and knows all too well that with one wrong step or one bad encounter with the wrong person could end his bitter life in less than a second. He is a person who is used to conflict and abuse in any way, shape and form - just imagine how jarring it would be for him if he met someone who was genuinely nice.

Akutagawa prefers to take on solo missions so you might find him injured on the side of the street and offer yourself to help him but he is having none of it. He's limping and choking on his own blood but he keeps angrily mumbling that he is fine, he has been through worse and he does not need your stupid help.

That's what you are to him, stupid. Can't you take a hint? Leave him be. If he so wished he could tear you to shreds right where you stood, there would be nothing left of you and no one would be able to recognize you, no one to claim your body.

Just as he was about to voice out his thoughts those same words die on his tongue as he takes one good look at you and for a split second his heart is no longer his own. It leaps forward with an emotion he has never felt before as an overwhelming feeling of softness takes over.

Despite his gruff and honestly downright horrible attitude he is grateful to you. He owes you now and he kind of hates a little you because of that but that's besides the point.

Akutagawa makes no effort to be in your life like Atsushi but he lingers, almost like a shadow. Blink and you'll miss him, he always disappears into the crowd just before you even think about calling out to him, his only trace of even being there is his just barely visible black coat that flutters along with the wind as he casually strolls away to the opposite direction.

He would however take great offense if he saw you with Atsushi.

Bitter anger overcomes him as he spends his days following you and the weretiger around, a permanent scowl etched onto his face as he is forced to watch that stupid beast slobber all over you like a dog in heat. "He is pathetic and weak." Akutagawa thinks to himself.

"He could never protect you like I could."

He's playing dumb but Atsushi is aware that he is being followed especially if he is with you, his favorite person. His senses have never led him astray and he is quick to figure out the identity of the stalker. He's nervous, does he make the first move and confront Akutagawa? What does he even want? Days turn into weeks and Atsushi's patience is on thin ice, he has to know.

Strong as he is, Akutagawa was sloppy, tracking him was a cakewalk. He hid himself in the shadows close to the building you were currently in and was most likely waiting for you to exit.

His attack was swift and merciless, pinning Akutagawa to the ground was almost too easy. Naturally, Akutagawa's troublesome ability was quick to retaliate as Atsushi could feel Rashomon's sharp talons being pressed against his back meanwhile Atsushi's own claws nearly slit Akutagawa's throat.

They were neck and neck. Had they not been so close to so many civilians there was no doubt that a horrible brawl would have happened but due to their specific circumstances they called a truce... Barely.

If looks could kill Atsushi would be buried six feet under but he felt no fear, all he wanted was to understand what Akutagawa was doing. The man in black scoffs and turns his back to the weretiger, as if Atsushi was already supposed to know the answer.

"I am in their debt." he says as a matter of factly.

"I could never allow you out of all people to keep that person safe."

Oh his words stung... but Atsushi bit his tongue and calmly (read clenched teeth) asked for a proper explanation and after what felt like hours he finally got one.

Akutagawa has the emotional intelligence of a rock and Atsushi knows this. He is frustrated with the fact that Akutagawa wants to be so close to you but he knows he can't beat him nor can it happen the other way around.

There really was no getting out of this.

In that moment Atsushi made a split second decision that was either going to make his life Hell or maybe, just maybe, a little bit easier.

The two of them made a deal - they were both going to keep an eye out for you. Neither one could be too pushy or demanding, they needed to play fair.

As much as they hated each other they could at least agree that your safety was the most important thing of all.

🕊️ TAGS: @yanroma, @oneoftheprettynerds, @misdollface, @sxy0ung, @rosemary108233, @c4xcocoa, @gettinshiggywithit, @ophticcus

[james-silent-hill]

PLEASE READ THE TAGS AND SUMMARY:

Make sure to read Part 1 and 2 first !

Part 1

Part 2

Enjoy part 3!

At some point after making sure James was alright with everything that happened you got up from the couch, fixed whatever clothing you could fix, grabbed the pair of those half leather boots and left to lay down in that dusty bed with no pillow but a somewhat okay looking blanket.

But sleep doesn't come, you miss the feeling of his hand around your throat already, the thick and heavy feeling of having him inside of you. All you got as a little reminder is the drenched underwear.

The blanket smells old and everything about this room reminds you of home. You hate it. You don't want to sleep, you can't, you need to...

You need to get out of this place. This Apartment. This fucking town. You want to go home, wrap yourself up in a fluffy blanket with your bottle of Red wine and a new season of your favorite show.

You also really need a drink by now, how long has it been? You lost track of time in this place. There has to be a bar around here somewhere right? But these things are outside!

You don't want to ask James for help, you can manage.

Before you even get to the door of the apartment you get caught.

"Where are you going?" James looks up at you, sitting at the small kitchen table. Holding an envelope.

"Going for a walk?" You shrug as your hand moves to twist the door handle.

"You can't go out there by yourself." He gets up and suddenly you feel stuffy. The whole point of getting fucked like that is to NOT have any man care about you, worry about your safety. You don't like this whole 'you're a weak Lady and I must protect you' act of his.

"Don't act like you care, okay? It's fine, really, it's been fun and all but I gotta go" You open the door and when his arm shoves it shut again you really get angry.

"Did the fidgeting start? A tingle in your fingertips? Do you struggle to sleep because of that pounding heart and pool of anxiety in your stomach? Eyes feeling dry yet and that unbearable feeling of something awful happening around you? Huh? How bad is it? Like an hour away from panic attacks, stomach aches and cold sweats?".

"What?" You huff at him.

"You're an alcoholic. That's where you are trying to sneak off to. A bar." He looks away when he sees the shadow of the bruise that's going to form on your neck. The exact shape of his fingers.

"First of all... I'm an adult, I can do whatever I want. Second.. we are trapped in a fucking foggy Monster invested nightmare, so yes, James, I will go have a drink." You avoid his accusation of being an alcoholic.

You practically flee the Apartment once you manage to get to the door again, the air outside bites you everywhere where your skin is exposed, which are quite a lot of places.

You remember you walked by some neon sign not so long ago. It's gotta have a stash of liquor somewhere.

_______

Heavens Night

When James finally catches up to you he's even a bit out of breath, someone actually sprinted a little. He sees the glass of amber colored liquor in your hand, he's glad he made it in time. "Don't drink that, okay? Look i'm sorry, I know It's not my damn business i can just relate a lot and believe me.. the drinking never changes anything" James walks closer to the bar and towards you, only noticing now that you two are in a strip club.

Weird.

"That...is so sweet of you" You smile wide at him, leaning a bit closer. "But this is my third" You wiggle the glass with a soft smirk before you take another long sip from it.

James stares at you in defeat, he's insanely close to having one himself. This day has been something alright. But he should stick to his own words, it's a failed attempt to escape that loneliness but in the end the drinking never changes a damn thing.

"If you're doing this because of what happened earlier-" His eyes make you want to punch him in the throat.

That lost puppy look. Here goes a speech about how he didn't really want to do it that rough but he felt like you wanted it and he only wanted to meet your needs and not his own selfish ones.

A speech about how he isn't actually like that. He's a good guy. A nice guy. Blah..blaah.

"I needed it."

"I mean it was exactly what I needed. So if this is what you really need right now? I won't stop you" he keeps his hands almost flat on the bar.

"Just don't try to persuade me, I'm done with alcohol. For good." He points out.

"I won't." You feel stunned. He didn't excuse anything he didn't apologize to you. He didn't say he felt guilty about it or regretted it. He just needed it.

It's as simple as that.

"I really can't figure you out, are you sure you're real?" You ask but there is a worry that this is all somehow just in your head.

"I've been asking myself the same thing since I got here" James takes a deep breath, looking around the club. He can't believe he had sex with someone else, while looking for Mary as hard as he is, he also didn't know he had it in him to be this...rough with someone. It's almost as if it's always been there, somewhere deep inside of him, this ability to be violent or something.

Takes some to beat a monster's head in and then stomp their bodies to make sure they won't get up again.

"What's her name again?" You ask.

"Mary." James puts his face on one of his hands, he's tired but there will be no sleep in a place like this, he's sure of it.

"Mary.. and she passed three years ago but you are still looking for her? Here?" You wonder. He's either insane or just ruined by grief.

"I know how this sounds, i'm not crazy you know, I just..want some answers" He smirks a bit before almost robotically wiping it off his face again....

Hm.

"Hey it's okay if you were, you know? I am THE last person to judge anyone else’s crazy" You huff. Taking another sip of your drink before you set the glass down again.

His eyes seem relaxed and comfortable for once, even if it won't last long you are relieved to experience this look on his face. Neither of you feels weird or judged anymore, a silent understanding goes a long way. The fact that he didn't make any excuses or tried to reason as to why he fucked you like that? PERFECT. It's such a great feeling not having to listen to a man whine about why he did the things he did and why he couldn't help himself.

"My crazy is also a lot so, looking for a dead wife doesn't seem too insane" You pour some more of the booze into your glass before you walk around the bar, taking a seat next to him. Revealing a new pantyhose. You got a new pair of underwear too. This time something a bit more durable than a slip, still having no idea as to what your clothes are supposed to mean here.

"It's also a very understandable one." James looks at your thighs and knees when you sit down. "How did you?.." his throat gets audibly dry. This new one has a certain webbing that just draws him in. It's beautiful.

"Oh! Well, benefits of a strip Club right?" You look around. "Found a suitcase of fresh stuff" You could have worn a pair of mens briefs and sweatpants yet you stuck to this look somehow.

The not so survivalist attire.

"Right." James snaps himself out of it.

"Let's get out of here" He stands up nodding towards the door but...

You have other plans.

"Let's stay here, come on! It's a lot nicer than those creepy Apartments. Besides, There's a lot to drink here and not just booze. I think I even saw some snacks, the booths are comfy and..." You smirk wide when you lean halfway over the bar.

You push a button under the counter and the lights change and some slow and sensual strip music starts playing.

But while you are excited James holds a rather firm expression, he doesn't seem convinced.

"I really don't think that this is the place to be" He really doesn't allow himself any kind of fun.

"I'll behave this time?" You tilt your head to meet his gaze.

And there it is again, this almost wholesome chuckle of his. Whatever brings him here, in your book he's not a bad person. He seems almost sweet.

"Fine, okay, you're right. This place does look a bit nicer than those Apartments. I'll give you that." His eyes follow the lights before he picks himself a booth, testing the seat for himself and it might not be as good as a real bed or couch but it still is pretty comfortable. Less moldy and creepy.

You just watch, you take in almost everything he's always doing. There is just this strange fascination about him, how he manages to appear cold and a bit gloomy only to chuckle at your jokes the next second. It really is as if you have to defrost him first and underneath the ice is a beautiful cozy heart.

"Snack?" You shrug, walking behind the bar again and watching him nod from the booth. His hands are flat on the wooden table, you notice he does that a lot, maybe it's something to ground himself? Feel the surface of things that are right in front of him? It sounds like a good way not to totally lose it in this place.

You grab whatever is edible and not expired from behind the bar, you also take your glass and bottle of whisky with you. Turning the music and sexy lights off again before you walk towards the booth he picked out.

"So I have an arrangement of nut mixes, granola bars and small packages of dry cereals." You pour yourself another drink before taking one of the granola bars.

James reaches for the cereals.

"I actually don't even remember the last time I ate something" He frowns and you know exactly what he's talking about. It's almost as if Hunger for Food doesn't really exist in this place. But even if you two aren't that hungry, a little snack for the nerves never harmed anybody, right?

"Yeah, it's weird" You bite into the granola bar, chewing slowly, it doesn't taste like much but at least it doesn't taste awful.

James has the same unfazed expression when he shoves a handful of cereals into his mouth.

"Definitely had better" He mumbles.

_______

After trying a few snacks and discovering none of them hold much flavor you and James give it up, eating things that don't have any taste when you're not exactly hungry isn't easy.

You end up a few drinks deep, talking, sharing some stories with each other.

"Oh no! What did you do then?" You ask, pulled into James Story of cleaning out his elderly neighbors basement for him.

"I wish I could say I was being a brave man about it but..." He shrugs a bit. "Something like a squeal escaped me and I ran. I mean, that thing was HUGE okay? The kind of Spider that could easily eat you whole" He laughs a bit.

It's really nice to see him like that, sharing a wholesome and funny Story.

You share a Story about your first time seeing a snake in the woods when you were a Teenager. It's Equal to his, the squeal and the running away.

You both laugh for a good Minute especially since you recreated your Teenager self's high pitched squeal which seemed to seriously crack him up.

"Those were some great stories, really" You sigh softly, taking another sip of your whisky.

"Yeah it's been...good, to think and talk about something else for once. Thank you, for, you know? Making me laugh" He doesn't want to sound too serious but you can guess how he means it. Probably not a lot to laugh at when someone that close to you passed away. You're happy you could get him to smile and laugh again, even if it was just for a little while.

"Wanna catch some sleep?" He asks, looking around this place once more.

"Yeah! I think I saw some blankets in the back, don't worry, I'll make sure they are the clean ones" You huff before getting out of the booth. The first few steps feel a bit wobbly and your hand needs to hold onto the table for support. Giving him a thumbs up before he can ask if you're okay, you can hold your liquor. You just didn't realize how much it was and how long you sat there with him.

It feels like hours went by..

It's so easy to talk to him, that defrosted Version of him is pretty adorable. He's shy and he doesn't like to brag about things, he doesn't even notice how handsome and really insanely hot he looks half the time.

"Don't uh, don't leave this here okay? Take it with you." James hands you the bottle of whisky. There isn't a whole lot left in it to begin with but you admire his strength and self control.

"Right! Fuck.. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shove it in your face" You clutch the bottle tightly.

"It's okay." He leans back in the booth when you walk towards the back. You are trying to gather clean sheets and blankets. Catching a glimpse of yourself in the dusty mirror. You're a mess. Tacky clothes, some smeared mascara, hair in all directions. Maybe you should freshen just a bit. Give that man his jacket back too.

You fix what you can in the mirror with some tissues and comb your hair a few times. You switch his jacket for a Black Bomber jacket you found in the lockers. Probably the security man's jacket judging by the print on the back.

You walk out into the open area again, giving James his jacket and a clean blanket.

But the drinks make you wobble a bit again.

Taking a seat next to him before you stumble around or anything. "You really are pretty, you know that?" You sigh while he's so up close.

"You had a few drinks, come on, I'll tug you in" He makes a move to get you to stand up again but you slump into his side.

"You made me feel so good James, I miss your strong hand around my throat already" You trace the slow forming bruises with your fingers. Looking at him with big eyes.

"I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen, but this isn't the time or place for a recap." James tries to get himself out of the booth. He can't do it again, he hates himself enough for the first time even if he really did need it. But he can't touch you again, he's looking for Mary. He loves her. Only her.

She's the only thing that matters.

"I know! I know..and I'm sorry, I know I'm nothing but a drunk slut right now but I..- I made you feel good too didn't I? Let me make you feel good again, please" You softly tug on his arm.

He sits back down and you take it as a signal.

Your hand strokes over his thigh, leaning in closer.

"You said you'll behave..." his tone is so icey again, so cold. Distant. Almost annoyed.

"Puh...did I? Would it be so terrible if I didn't?" You tried to tease a bit but something in him went back to stone. He doesn't seem up for a round two which is...sad, but fair, you understand.

"No, but I can't." His thin lipped nod is all you need to know to slowly bring some distance between the two of you again.

"Besides that, you're drunk" He frowns when he moves himself onto the other booth. He can't do this again and he certainly won't touch you when you're drunk. He shouldn't have touched you in the first place but this part of him that really needed was simply stronger than any voice of reason in his head.

"Rest, we both need it." James takes one of the blankets and lays down. Covering himself almost to his ears. It does look comfortable in a way, so you lay down to try it out, pulling the security jacket and the other blanket over yourself as well. The booths really are comfortable.

You nod off into an uneasy and light sleep fast.

James however doesn't find a single moment of rest, whenever he closes his eyes he can see her, Mary, struggling to sit up to take a sip of water but still noticing the way Nurse Ashley puts her hand onto James arm. Ruthless little whore, flirting with her husband right in front of her like that, like she can't die fast enough or something.

'Hey let me help you-' James tries to put another pillow behind her back and hold her water but Mary angrily shoves him away. Spilling the water cup everywhere.

'GO! Go on and fuck that nurse James, don't pretend anymore, don't.. - don't pretend you still look at me that way. The way you look at her' Mary sobs.

'Mary? What are you talking about? There is no look, I don't look at her, okay? I'm looking at you, always, you know i do' James tries but she wouldn't have it. Wouldn't listen. She would yell at him but she's too weak for that.

James jolts up from the booth, holding his face with both hands. He can't sleep. He can't keep wasting time like that.

He needs to move on, he needs to find her.

His eyes trace your sleeping frame, carefully putting his blanket over you.

Collecting his things.

"I'm sorry" He sighs softly and quietly.

He doesn't want to leave you behind like that, but he needs to do what he came here for. He makes sure the place is safe and that the doors are secure before he leaves.

Darkness and fog don't mix very well, before he even knows it he's lost in some kind of hospital.

No way back now...right?

______

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[mamawasatesttube]

a tuppence for your bi4bi Clois thoughts 🪙... I'm luv them so much and I'd love to hear if you have any specific headcanons about them 🥺

YESSSS!!! i DO have some thoughts. i love them,

generally i think lois has her bisexuality figured out by the time she's in her mid-20s. she and cat grant have had some rage-filled makeouts on at least one occasion, but an actual relationship would never in a million years work out between them. they respect each other but do not see eye to eye nearly enough. she never bothered to come out to her father, but just knows it's one more thing about her that he'd hate.

clark, by contrast, does Not have it figured out. he has spent his entire life repressing every single thought, feeling, and ability that set him apart from the classic good all-american boy because he had to fit in. and being superman, exploring his kryptonian heritage, etc., has helped, of course, but he is still. so repressed. he has no idea that he's ever experienced attraction to guys before. he's got some internalized homophobia to work through, about himself. He Has To Be Normal. so as far as he's concerned, there was lana, and then there was lois.

to me, clark's journey toward self-acceptance is very intrinsically tied to his family. there's kara, talking about how sexuality and gender stuff on krypton wasn't like it is on earth, especially in western culture. there's kon, suffering through his own repression and depression and trying to pretend he's fine. there's chris and jon, both too young to fully grasp it all (probably), who make clark incredibly aware of every step he makes in terms of parenting them.

so one day, after kon's finally come out to the family, and kara's muddled through trying to figure out earth labels that she's comfortable with, the two of them decide they wanna go to pride, and ask lois and clark if they want to make it a family affair. lois says hell yeah, and clark says yes of course he's happy to support them! and jon says YAY, GLITTER!! CAN I GET STICKERS? and chris says if you get glitter all over my nintendo ds again i will punt you into the ocean, baby brother or not.

and there's just this innocuous moment while they're out when kon goes "here i got you these!" and hands lois and clark two simple lil heart-shaped bi flag buttons. and lois is like aw thanks squirt! and ruffles kon's hair. clark meanwhile goes oh i think there's been a misunderstanding... ... . . . .. . .. .. . or. has there?

and that night he's just sitting on the edge of the bed holding this tiny like $3 button in his hands having a whole crisis. lois hooks her chin over his shoulder and asks what's wrong? and he's like. lois i'm not. i'm. except maybe i'm not not. but i don't know, i thought i... i never thought i could think about it. clark kent is supposed to be normal. i... i'm already an alien, lois, i thought i was already set apart enough, and if i'm... if i'm this, even when i'm clark, not superman, then... then...

and lois digs her matching little $3 bi flag heart button out of her purse and bumps it against his and says, even if you are queer, you're still not alone. and then clark gives her the patented kent family big soft puppy-dog eyes. that night, he falls asleep in her arms with his head tucked snugly under her chin. it's where he feels safest.

but the next year, he lets kara get him a flag, and lets kon tie it around his shoulders like a cape. and he's here as clark kent, but it's kind of funny when he looks at his shadow. because he might not be superman right now, but the silhouette still looks the same.