#go out into the world little post... be free......

[notiddygothgf]

i.

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.

★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞

★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?

★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.

It didn’t always feel that way.

When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.

For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.

But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.

You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.

And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.

The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”

Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.

You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.

It was 10:18 PM.

You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.

You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.

Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.

“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.

You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.

But tonight… you couldn’t.

It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.

“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.

Nothing.

You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”

That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”

He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.

“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”

He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.

The room went still.

He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”

Not working?

Not working?

“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”

He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”

“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”

“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”

“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”

“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”

He was probably right.

“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.

“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”

“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.

You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?

Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”

He froze.

“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.

But you didn’t.

“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.

Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?

YOU

|  Guys we’re going out tn.

When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.

You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.

Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.

The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.

You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?

“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.

You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."

You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.

No, a year ago, your life changed.

So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.

Dante.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.

You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.

But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.

Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.

You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.

Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.

Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.

His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”

A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?

A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”

Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.

He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?

He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.

“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”

You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”

And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.

You were done.

That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.

You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.

But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.

You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.

Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.

But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.

Kill me, you thought.

That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.

Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.

You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.

The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.

The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.

Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.

Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.

Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.

Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.

You glanced down.

There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.

The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.

“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.

You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?

All you could do was crack the window open.

“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”

“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.

But he was. 

“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”

“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”

“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”

Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”

What the fuck is going on?

In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”

Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”

“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”

“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”

“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”

“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”

“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”

A pregnant pause.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”

Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?

Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”

You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.

“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”

Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.

No. Stop that.

Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”

He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”

You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”

That hit its mark.

His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.

“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”

“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”

He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…

You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.

Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.

And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.

“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.

“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”

“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”

“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”

Oh my god.

You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”

He laughed. “You remembered.”

You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”

Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”

You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.

“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.

“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.

“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”

Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”

You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”

And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.

You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”

He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.

“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”

You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”

You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.

There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.

You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.

“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”

You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…

You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.

Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.

And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.

You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.

One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation. 

What? You needed it.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.

God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.

You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.

Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.

You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.

It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.

Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.

“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”

You pulled the door open.

Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.

“Hey, princess,” he said.

There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.

You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”

“Did you?” You answered.

“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”

You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”

You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”

“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.

Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”

He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.

Then he stepped in behind you.

Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”

His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.

“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?

You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.

“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”

His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.

“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”

And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

God, I missed this.

You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.

You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.

But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.

You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.

“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.

“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

There it was.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.

But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

And then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.

I could treat you so much better.

Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.

You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.

And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.

Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.

"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"

It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.

“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.

You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.

You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?

You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.

“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

Babe.

The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.

But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.

You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.

The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.

You couldn’t help it.

You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.

His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”

He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.

“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”

“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”

There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.

“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”

He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”

“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”

His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.

You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.

You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real. 

You were leaving him.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”

But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.

Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it. 

But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.

I could treat you better. 

I’ve always been in love with you.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.

So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.

YOU: I need you.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.

a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok

I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

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wanna join the taglist? | pretty ; chapter index

[kxsagi]

HIII!! love your writing 🙈 can i request bllk guys w an extremely pretty reader, i’m talking everywhere they go ppl are turning their heads to admire. (with karasu, rin, barou and whoever u can pick) feel free to ignore, thanks !!

“𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞”

a/n: thank you!!! omg this is me whenever i see my readers why are you guys so head-turning jaw droppingly gorgeous pls save some for the rest of us???

facial features perfect af, smiles beautiful af (pls go lip sync to maria by justin bieber in the mirror and bask in this confidence)

ft. karasu tabito, itoshi rin, barou shoei, itoshi sae, kaiser michael

karasu tabito

he thought he was ready. 

you’re his partner. you’re hot. he knew this. but the first time y’all go out in public together post-soft-launch? karasu realizes he is wildly underprepared. 

you walk into the mall and heads turn like you’ve got your own gravitational pull. dudes tripping over their own feet. girls side-eyeing you like you invented contour. an old man literally tips his hat. 

and karasu? karasu’s standing there like 💀 

“do i even exist right now,” he mutters. 

you sip your drink and go, “you’re just my silly little accessory.” 

he laughs. he can’t even be mad. 

but then someone asks you if you're a model and karasu panics. 

“yes, she is,” he cuts in, way too fast. “and she’s also very taken, thank you.” 

starts hovering behind you like a security guard with a minor superiority complex. 

"stop acting like my bodyguard," you say. 

"i'm not. i'm acting like your boyfriend who will throw hands at a 17-year-old if he stares at your ass one more time." 

itoshi rin

you are the bane of rin’s existence. and also the love of his life. 

he’s trying to go to the convenience store for ice cream and you’re there, looking like a runway model in joggers and a hoodie. 

you walk in and the store clerk drops his phone. 

"what flavor do you want?" you ask, oblivious. 

"the one that doesn't make people stare at you like you're the second coming of christ," rin snaps. 

he is not built for this level of social interaction. or this level of beauty-induced chaos. 

you think it’s cute when strangers compliment you. rin looks like he’s planning several hypothetical murders. 

and the worst part? 

every time he thinks he's gotten used to it, you smile at him. and it’s like the world goes silent. suddenly the stares don’t matter. 

"stop looking at me like that," he grumbles. 

you blink. "like what?” 

"like you actually like me or something." 

and you just grin. 

rin glares at the ground. he’s so done. he’s so whipped. he wants to scream. 

barou shoei

you’re a problem. an actual, walking, talking, heart-stopping problem. 

you show up in gym clothes and barou feels the earth shift. 

he already looks like a bouncer 24/7, so when people stare at you for more than three seconds, he’s automatically squaring up like he's in a street fighter game. someone whistles once and he growls. like. growls. 

you have to physically grab his face and say: “no mauling strangers today.” 

barou’s solution is just to glare at everyone. even babies. 

you’re like “babe. please. stop intimidating children.” 

“should’ve kept their eyes to themselves.” 

"he was a toddler." 

"he knew what he was doing.” 

but every time you reassure him – say you’re only his, kiss his cheek, sneak your hand into his – he softens. turns into a grumpy, silent puppy. still scary, but like… protective scary. 

you catch him staring and he just goes, “what.” 

“you’re looking at me again.” 

“i’m checking if you’re still real.” 

itoshi sae

you are his worst-kept secret. 

not because he wanted to keep you hidden, but because the second you step outside with him, everyone starts talking. he takes you to a match and it’s all “who’s that with sae???” on twitter within five minutes. 

he doesn’t mind, honestly. but when you’re in public and people won’t stop looking, he gives that look. you know the one. that dead-eyed, judgmental, “you’re beneath me” stare that says blink again and i’ll ruin your self-esteem. 

you’re like, “sae, they’re not doing anything.” 

“they’re breathing in your direction. that’s enough.” 

you laugh. he doesn’t. 

but he also spoils the hell out of you. treats you like you’re royalty. 

“you look good today,” you say. 

he shrugs. “i know. but you look better.” 

and the way he says it is so casual it knocks the air out of you. 

his love language is making everyone else feel inferior to you. 

michael kaiser

oh. he’s thriving. 

you’re pretty? you’re show-stopping, scenery-devouring, wreck-my-focus-on-the-pitch pretty? kaiser is the proudest man alive. 

walks beside you like you’re a trophy he won and he’s never giving back. 

“they’re all looking at you,” you whisper. 

he smirks. “and at me. by association. it’s perfect.” 

has zero shame, even when he doesn’t realize they’re not looking at him, they’re looking at you. 

"take a picture with me," he says mid-date. 

"why?" 

"so i can remind people i won the genetic lottery twice – once with my face, once with you." 

but oh, let someone try to flirt. he’ll go full drama mode. puts on his fake nice voice like, “hey man, great taste. but unfortunately, i got there first.” 

then stares at you like you hung the moon and sun. 

"you’re too hot for this world," he says. 

“so are you.” 

“i know. we’re gonna destroy mankind together.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[lazysoulwriter]

you said my name on live tv! - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you for sending, honey. hope you enjoy.

---

Pedro wasn’t supposed to say your name.

You both knew the rules — or at least, the one unspoken agreement that had kept your relationship safely under wraps for the last six months: no public mentions, no soft launches, no clues. You weren’t famous, and he liked it that way. Liked the quiet normalcy of it. Liked how no one in your world cared about red carpets or premiere dates, only if you were free for brunch or needed help picking out plants for the apartment.

But today, during a perfectly standard interview for a late-night show, Pedro forgot.

It started innocently. The host had asked a string of questions about Pedro’s chaotic schedule — something about jetlag and coffee addictions — and then, mid-laugh, the host joked:

“So who keeps you grounded when you’re not off being the internet’s daddy?”

Pedro, in all his charming glory, chuckled, eyes sparkling. “Oh, Y/N does,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “She reminds me to sleep like a human being.”

The studio audience didn’t catch it. Not really. Just a name dropped in a sea of Pedroisms.

But the internet did.

The clip hit Twitter before the show even ended. Zoomed-in, subtitled, slowed down.

“WHO IS Y/N AND WHY IS PEDRO PASCAL SMILING LIKE THAT WHEN HE SAYS HER NAME??”

“y/n… you better treat him right i swear to GOD.”

“do we think y/n is someone we know? a celeb?? no info anywhere. queen’s in hiding.”

“you guys she’s not famous. i did a deep dive. she’s just. a person. and he’s in love.”

—

Back in your shared apartment, you’re sprawled on the couch, one leg thrown over Pedro’s, a big hoodie drowning your frame and a bowl of popcorn slowly going stale between you.

Pedro looks sheepish, his phone buzzing non-stop. “I really didn’t mean to say it.”

You’re giggling, face tucked into his shoulder. “I told you that interview was live.”

“I forgot, baby. I was tired and they were being funny and then your name just… came out.”

You poke his side. “So now the whole world knows Pedro Pascal has a girlfriend named Y/N who tells him to go to sleep.”

He flips the phone so you both can see the flood of TikToks and tweets. One fan made a slideshow of blurry Pedro candids captioned “thinking about her” set to a Phoebe Bridgers song. Another user made a fake "Y/N Pascal" Vogue cover. Someone even made a fan edit of your blurry Instagram pictures that you thought were private, matched up with Pedro's, like they were connecting some conspiracy.

You both dissolve into laughter, tears welling up in your eyes from how ridiculous it all is.

Pedro wipes a crumb from your cheek and grins. “Should I post a picture of us now? Since it’s out?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What kind of picture?”

He shrugs. “Just… us. Normal. No face filters. No drama.”

You hum, pretending to think it over. “Okay. But I get to pick the caption.”

“And what are you gonna put?”

You grab your phone, snuggle back into his side, and type it out slowly.

“yes, it’s me. no, you can’t have him.”

Pedro bursts out laughing. “That’s evil.”

“That’s iconic,” you correct him, and press post.

The internet loses its mind again. But this time, you’re not just laughing from the sidelines. You’re in it. Together. On the same couch, eating popcorn, letting the world fall in love with a version of what you already have.

Just… a little more out loud now.

---

[maghendearey]

Post it Love

In which Y/N is nervous and Oscar is nervous with a little surprise

Hi guys, I hope you like it. Today it's very short again. If you have any wishes or suggestions, just write to me. I hope you like it.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Masterlist

It would be a very, very easy formulation to say that the last few days have been stressful. The truth would probably be that I haven't been able to sleep properly for days, every two seconds my brain was asking me whether it was such a smart idea to have listened to Oscar. I shouldn't have quit my job just to concentrate more on art. Sure, I wasn't earning much at the moment anyway. That still didn't mean that it was such a good idea to try to make ends meet with art alone. But now I couldn't change it. I had already handed in my resignation and I was already wearing the clothes for my last day of work. It certainly would have been easier if Oscar had been there. But he was on the other side of the world for a race. And because of the stupid time difference, I couldn't even call him.

I tried to concentrate. Doing my makeup normally. Doing my hair normally. Drinking my coffee normally and also opening the fridge door normally to see if there was anything at least a little bit edible. Because Oscar had only flown in last night at 11 p.m. and I wanted to accompany him to see him. As I opened the door, a smile formed on my lips. I reached for what I had seen and pulled it out. A lunchbox that Oscar must have baked for me. I opened it to see what was inside. A croissant with cheese and ham, a bowl of raspberries and something that must have been about half a bell pepper. Next to it was a small bag of gummy bears and a piece of paper. I pulled out what Oscar had written. He was one of the few boys I knew who had writing that was actually decipherable.

Baby, I know you're overthinking things. Forget it, okay. You can do anything, and I know it's worth following your dream. Besides, I know you and I know that if I hadn't made you food, you probably would have just eaten an apple. Forget it! As long as I'm here, you'll eat right. Love you, Osc

I quickly packed my lunch box in my bag before running downstairs, unlocking my car, and quickly getting in. The streets were empty, and it probably would have taken me a lot less time if every other traffic light hadn't been red. When I arrived, I wanted to fix my hair one last time, so I folded down the mirror. As I did, however, I saw another note in Oscar's handwriting.

You can do this

Damn Oscar. I loved him so much. He was there for me, whether on the other side of the world or now. I had found my security. We were good for each other, and if I could, I would never let him go.

I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to leave a comment or like.💋

[ivyoaknut]

I've finally made a meet the artist guys. Guys. Computer? Can you hear me Computer?

Hihihi Tumblr!! I'm Ivy!! :3c I go by they/he and I'm nonbinary! (I'm still trying to figure out what works for me TwT) I have a pronouns.page if anyones interested!

I am also a minor! I don't mind interacting with adults but please keep it in mind! Everything on my blog is sfw! :D

This is my main & art blog! I try to post art here when I can though I am very slow :'] My reblog blog is @theotherivyoaknut! >:D

More info under the cut:

I am very VERY open to making new mutuals or friends! I really wanna interact with more people but I worry too much about coming off as too strong ;-; Feel free to tag me in things even if we aren't moots, trust me it will make me so happy and I will love you forever<3 Any interactions will make me giggle & kick my feet with joys. My DMs are always open if you want to talk!

This blog is a safe space for everyone!! (LGBTQ+, Systems, Furries, Therians, Otherkins, Objectums, etc.) You're all supported here!

Okay not EVERYONE I still have a DNI ;-; Pretty much the basic (No Racists, Sexists, Homophobes, Transphobes, Xenophobes, Proshippers, etc.) Basically, just be a decent person and respect others TwT

More about me!! (Idk how much I should put):

I am a professional overthinker and I can get stuck on the simplest things, my mind is an enigma

I am very socially inept and have trouble fully opening up to people, but I'm getting a bit better!! To those who I have opened up to, just know that you guys mean everything to me<3

I have a bit of gamedev experience! I've been learning things in Godot recently and I might try to participate in a game jam sometime soon! I still have a bit to learn though :3c

I'm in quite the bit of fandoms! I've listed the BIG ones in my meet the artist (Slay the Princess is my current hyperfixation it's so good guys go play it please guys go go!!) but some others that aren't up there include Rain World, Steven Universe, Celeste, Dweller's Empty Path, ENA, Madoka Magica, Mob Psycho, My Little Pony, Webfishing, and The Owl House!

I have an artfight.net, I participate every year and I'll try to revenge everyone who attacks me! I may not get to everyone though TwT

I post all of my OC stuff on Toyhou.se but it's still pretty messy over there I need to fix up my page still, I have a bunch of ocs that I haven't put up there just yet :]

My discord is ivy.oaknut just in case you don't wanna communicate through Tumblr!

Idk what else to say so uhh here take some snake pics

[unforgivable-thatswhatiam]

Thank you for your really interesting reply! 🤓

I took some time to read, understand and think about it. So, I sincerely hope I’m not being too confusing in this too long post, and that I’ll manage to make myself understood, since English is not my first language and the subject matter (a little joke there) is quite complex! I apologize in advance if I don’t succeed, and for the inevitable long-windedness. Hope you don’t hate me for my hyperfixation 🙈

Let me begin with this: my work is deeply rooted in the subtleties of language and content, often focusing on what might be dismissed as hair-splitting. That’s also the approach I bring to the world around me — and, by extension, to my perception of TV series. If I don’t dig into even the smallest detail, I feel like I have no complete picture, and ultimately no understanding at all. That’s one of the reasons I adore GO! What makes my heart sing, beyond the beautiful story of love and humanity, are the astonishing expressive powers of the two protagonists together and all the tiny unanswered details. With every rewatch, I’m thrilled to spot something I hadn’t noticed before — something I’ve never experienced with any other series. 💕

So, in my response, I’ll start with what is simplest for me: I believe “celestial wages” are the miracles that angels are allowed to perform. Think of Aziraphale in the cell: true, he hadn’t run out entirely—as his miraculous tailoring shows, and he clearly wanted Crowley to notice him—but he really had to scrimp on his miracles (and is always scolded for being frivolous with them).

And I find that idea poetic and symbolic: the currency of angels is their magic...

That’s why Aziraphale loves human magic: it has no price, it’s earned through one’s own effort, and it’s free to express itself without limits—except those imposed by one’s own ability and willingness to take risks. To him, all of humanity is magic: humans have so little time, yet they manage to achieve so much. They can create wonders like Shakespeare and Leonardo, and be remembered centuries later even if they weren’t famous or brilliant (like Mr. Dalrymple). Meanwhile, Aziraphale and Crowley, who don’t fully share in this magic and only partially understand it, walk the Earth beside humans but are only remembered deeply by those they directly help, like Elspeth and Maggie’s family. I see indeed our beloved pair a bit like fans at a comic con: they have to make do with autographs, sketches, and fleeting memories of people they admire — and nothing more — because otherwise, it would hurt too much to let them go, in the too fast pace of human life.

But their magic is real, too. They love and live out incredible adventures together, and feel emotions that other angels and demons aren’t allowed to experience. While I agree that in the past there may have been a form of respectful cooperation between them, Gabriel and Beez are newcomers to this game. True love can only be experienced by spending time on Earth, by savoring the real joys and small comforts of human life — a life that becomes like a jukebox, where you can choose whether to play the same song “everyday” or not, like Crowley and Aziraphale do.

And on this, I completely agree with you: life is freedom, freedom is coffee, and life begins after coffee. “The gross matter”... The key point to me lies not so much in the noun matter, but in the adjective gross.

The human body, coffee, chocolate, Muriel’s matchbox — these are all “gross matter.” And Gabriel, in the pre-Jim era, does not sully the temple of his “celestial body with gross matter.”

To explain myself better, I’ll turn to classical philosophy: the Greek philosopher Anaxagoras believed the world was made of elementary particles of reality, the “seeds,” which Aristotle later called homeomeries (i.e., parts that are alike). These were elemental, indestructible particles, each similar to the substances they composed and qualitatively different from one another.

So when I speak of “angelic form” and human body, I’m thinking in those terms: homeomeries of “gross matter” — the human body and all it can perceive through touch and taste —alongside homeomeries of a celestial nature — the angelic form.

The elements, in fact, are four: the lighter ones, air and fire, and the heavier ones, water and earth. As Genesis reminds us, man comes from mud, from the earth, and God makes him in His own image and likeness. But before creating man, what is created? Night and Day, Sky and Sea, Trees and Plants, Sun and Moon, Fish and Birds. The craziest story in the world, then, tells us that on the first day Night and Day come into being (the “homoeomeries” of air, but also, symbolically, good and evil, yin and yang), and on the second day, the Sky, while at the very end, between the fifth and sixth days, “the gross matter” — from the first amoeboid organisms to humankind.

But now, what is the sky and the celestial matter made of? This is where aether comes into play (and ethereal was the word Aziraphale used to define himself after “the Wall”). Aether is the fifth element proposed by Aristotle; it’s a light element and, more importantly, a celestial one, incorruptible, and eternal substance, forming the heavenly spheres and celestial bodies.

In Aristotle, however, there are no angels or deities — only the Prime mover, who, through his presence and the desire to be, is the principle responsible and the first cause of all motion and order in the universe, without being himself subject to change.

All this to say what?

That perhaps the world of GO is fictional, yes — but also Christian, that is, somewhat Aristotelian and not purely Platonic. As in Plato, the immortality of the soul is assumed, but an aristotelian God is thought thinking itself, non-corporeal and pure will, who does not intervene directly in human lives. In this context, angels and demons are “people” indeed, but in relation to humans, they are made of a different quality (by convention, I would say of the “homoeomeries” of aether).

This could explain how angel!Crowley and Saraqael were able to bring entire constellations into existence with just a crank (perhaps a symbol for setting the mechanism of the Prime mover in motion?): they are composed of the same ethereal quality, though different in form and, in the case of angels, endowed with something very human — a mind/essence/soul which, like the human one, in some way partakes in the Anima Mundi (if we look at it through a Platonic lens).

Gabriel’s body, however — when stripped of its essence — had not become soulless. It was Jim: an empathetic, naïve, and highly sensitive human. Does that mean there were two souls in Gabriel, then? That doesn’t seem possible to me.

The Furfur episode you referenced strikes me as particularly useful in decrypting this issue: for humans, a person’s essence and memories reside in the brain — but an angel does not require a human brain. What if the point is that Aziraphale had “gone native” (i.e., become human), and so his essence had become rooted in a human brain rather than in his angelic form? And what if, because of that, his angelic form could no longer reconstruct Aziraphale’s body, since his own soul no longer recognized that form?

If you think about it, the only ones who really worry about discorporation are Crowley and Aziraphale — especially after 1827. Eric discorporates every five minutes, but even Hastur gets discorporated and is up and active again ten minutes later.

But Aziraphale and Crowley are “people”: they consider themselves human and fear the loss of their bodies, which they identify with what they have experienced within them and with their own essences — just like we do. And if they’re discorporated without preparation, like Aziraphale, or under circumstances like the Bullet Catch (Aziraphale again, always in trouble... 😱), then their angelic/demonic essence might not allow their bodies to be reconstructed exactly as they were.

This leads to the issue of the Quartermaster, who would have to find another human body to assign to Aziraphale — where would it come from? Would it need to be shaped from earth? As you pointed out, should we go ask Adam? 🤔

A possible confirmation of this theory is the fact that when Jim regains Gabriel’s essence, Gabriel doesn’t seem to have forgotten the time he spent with the Ineffable Husbands = Gabriel has returned to being a combination of human body + angelic essence + soul. And from this, the human body is conceived as a mere shell.

To make the idea clearer: for anyone familiar with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the mechanism isn’t all that different from what happens with Angel: he was once a human boy and, when he was about to die, the essence of a demon (impure, since it’s not a pure demon that doesn’t walk the Earth) took possession of him through his blood; when he is cursed, his soul returns to him from the ether; and when Angel loses his soul again, he becomes a completely different person, because only the demonic essence remains.

Well, with Gabriel the process is reversed: once he loses his angelic essence, what remains is a human body with a soul.

But in BtVS demons are both essence and matter — they can be injured, even though some have an almost gaseous consistency, and in the case of vampires, the essence is tied to blood.

In the case of angels, I would argue that their matter is simply far lighter than that of humans — gaseous on Earth, like the image of Aziraphale that appears to Crowley — but still entirely capable of entering a human body that already contains a soul.

Mutatis mutandis, see BtVS episode 2x08, where the demon Eyghon, made of plasma-like substance, enters the bodies of unconscious or dead people and fights with Angel — in a not too different way from when Aziraphale possesses (and even performs miracles within) Madame Tracy’s body, which was receptive to that kind of transfer, as you pointed out some time ago.

The point is that on Earth this substance is nearly gaseous, while in the aether it is the norm. This is why, when Aziraphale is discorporated, he doesn’t appear different from other angels, even though he’s lost his human body. In effect, then, angelic essence is physical, in my view, but in a way completely different from human corporeality.

And, apparently, the higher the rank of the angel, the more “immaterial” this aetherial matter becomes (pardon the wordplay): Muriel, for instance, can’t open Gabriel’s file simply because it is too immaterial for angels below the rank of Thrones — and her hand passes straight through the folder.

It was probably never imagined — or at least it doesn’t matter and we’ll never know — whether the bodies were assigned to angels before or after the Great War. However, if the reasoning about the different kind of materiality of angelic essence holds, then what I said about the wound is coherent: as Aziraphale himself says, he has had his human body for more than 6000 years, so once he lost his human body and experienced the trauma of that physical absence, his essence became more sensitive — just like how a broken ankle aches after years, when the weather changes.

I was thinking of a heroic act by the angel in exchange for a promotion, because that’s what tends to happen in regimes based on military power. And Metatron, to me, seems like the eminence grise of Heaven — I don’t believe Gabriel ever had true veto power, even if he was commander of the army. And I agree with you that his apparent frustration with Aziraphale was often just a mask — he enjoyed playing the “asshole” boss, because that’s what was required of him to keep doing whatever he pleased under Metatron’s dictatorship.

I don’t really care about Crowley’s name, but I’ll tell you this — if there were a flashback to the moment of the Fall, full — as I imagine it — of references to beautiful paintings, I would be absolutely thrilled, especially if it were seasoned with a heartbreaking or surprising moment involving Aziraphale (something like the last 15: for instance, the two of them on opposite sides, forced to hurt each other — or worse).

And I fully agree with you on many other things. The idea that this isn’t really the point, and that the story actually began afterwards; the series being a celebration of humanity, represented with all its flaws by two beings who are more human than actual humans, and on how it provides a pretext to explore life, mental health, and the hunger that the angels had (without knowing they had it) because of Heaven’s fascist regime. I really appreciated your idea of the Quartermaster as a kind of subconscious projection of Aziraphale — spot on, especially because it’s so him to imagine that part of himself still tethered (even unconsciously) to such a rigid, warmongering, emotionless regime in the form of a shouting Austro-Hungarian officer.

I’ll refrain from discussing the personalities and motivations that drive Aziraphale and Crowley toward freedom. I’d go overboard… To my eyes, which see through the lens of classic literature, they are moving and complex figures: a great biblical hero and a knightly poem’s protagonist, engaged in an epic love with his romantic and tragic hero — a modern-day Prometheus bound. I add only that Before the Beginning I don’t believe they had human bodies yet, since they were in space, with an enormous stature, and it seems too soon to interpret their as genuine sexual desire. I’d rather see it as a kind of magnetism — like two natures that, when they meet, immediately cling to each other, mutually defining one another, drawn together by affinity, as Goethe puts it in Elective Affinities.

In any case, your concept of “gross matter” as what truly matters is quite interesting, and it would be entirely compatible even with an ethereal nature for angels and demons. As I said, that kind of matter is light, incorruptible, and eternal — so it never evolves, never experiences sensation, and in itself could never die. And if angels are made of it, they certainly couldn’t, through their essence alone, enjoy “gross matter.” It is, as Crowley might say, an existence —not a life — carried out day after day with the sole purpose of fulfilling a preordained plan, perhaps culminating in a fine victory in battle against an enemy made of the same stuff but wearing different colors — as in all human wars.

Phantom Pain

In the moments before Aziraphale realizes that he's been discorporated in S1, he is seen clutching the thigh of his right leg and limping forward. He's having trouble walking as he tells The Quartermaster that he didn't mean to be there and was still sorting things out back on Earth.

As we know, the entire point of what's going on is that Aziraphale, in this moment, no longer has a body, which means that the pain that he is experiencing in what he perceives as his leg in this ghostly moment is actually a very real human experience-- phantom pain.

For anyone who doesn't know, phantom pain is when a person experiences a perception of pain in a part of their body that is not present. It can be someone experiencing pain that feels like it is occurring in a limb or organ that they no longer have. It can also be pain experienced in a part of their body that they were not born with but which their mind experiences as being part of their corporation.

But why is Aziraphale experiencing phantom pain in his right leg when he gets to Heaven?

Why is the first thing he's feeling Up there without his body a sensation of pain in his leg so severe that has him clutching his thigh and struggling to walk before his mind begins to process that he no longer has a body? Why is it that Aziraphale is processing the shock of the sudden loss of his body in this particular way?

It is interesting when you consider that, while we've never seen Aziraphale have any injury to his right leg in the story before or any other particular significance to it, we have now had more than one scene showing us that Crowley does with his.

In 1827, Satan turns up unseen to drag Crowley to Hell. Crowley loses control of his speech, experiences nausea, and steps backwards with his left leg in an effort to try to balance himself after starting to lose control of his right leg on account of Satan grabbing him. He's dragged to Hell by his legs seconds later, separated from Aziraphale.

Back in S1's present, there's another scene like this when Satan arrives at Tadfield Air Force Base. Crowley grabs his right thigh in pain as he loses control again over his right leg and is dragged to the ground by it by Satan in an effort to make Crowley prostrate himself.

The suggestion of these scenes seems to be that Crowley's right leg, especially his right thigh, is a source of chronic episodic pain for him related to Satan's abuse. The show choosing his leg for this also goes along with its theme of living as the metaphorical walking the Earth-- a physical injury that flares up to impact living for Crowley representing how the psychological trauma related to it does the same.

Crowley's chronic episodic pain is what Aziraphale experienced as phantom pain in his leg when he discorporated because his mind immediately processed the loss of his own body in relation to how it also meant that he has lost the ability to share it with Crowley.

Without having his own body intact, Aziraphale couldn't touch Crowley. He lost the ability to bring him pleasure and comfort and that's how the loss of Aziraphale's own body manifested in his mind to him. Physical death meant the inability to experience not just his own body for himself but the loss of the safe one that Crowley consents to experiencing and enjoys to Crowley.

Aziraphale's physical death wasn't purely his own in his view because Aziraphale doesn't view his body as purely his own. Technically, it it's Aziraphale's bookshop, just as it's Crowley car, but it's really always been their car and their bookshop.

They've been so intertwined for so long that Aziraphale experienced the physical death of his own body as the trauma of being separated from Crowley's. Pretty romantic stuff. 💘

[cabintenangel]

filling in the blanks as we go

jason grace x roman!reader ♡

author’s notes ౨ৎ part two of this jason fic! i also posted this last year and after this part it’ll all be new writing 😋 enjoy

disclaimers ౨ৎ nothing really, a bit of swearing and pop culture references LOL :)

You liked to think of your life as pretty normal.

Training sessions, mythology studies, war games, the usual. In your free time, you would hang out with your friends, visit New Rome, read books, listen to music, and occasionally sneak out to the mortal world.

But the praetor pretending to be your boyfriend? That was new.

Walking out of Cyclops Books, you thought about what to do next. You’d just finished baking the cupcakes with Tyson, and he’d let you take the extras home. You were planning to share them with Piper and relay the recent events, since who was better to tell than the daughter of love?

Just then, you saw your SPQR tattoo emanate a dark purple glow – the sign to return to barracks immediately.

A few months ago, the Council had proposed that all probatio and those of higher ranking have some way to be alerted if there was an emergency. In response, the praetors had worked with the children of Vulcan to design a little chip that would be placed underneath one’s forearm skin. It was connected to a special device that could activate a color change to the Camp Jupiter purple when needed. Probatio didn’t have tattoos yet, so they got the smallest (and least painful) chips, while other rankings received slightly larger ones so all their SPQR markings lit up. It was nasty to get them inserted, but if anyone complained, Reyna would list off a variety of unpleasant situations where they might be killed if they didn’t have the system. If anyone chose to ignore the alert, they were guaranteed to drop a rank.

You hurried back to the New Rome entrance and exit area. Upon seeing your glowing tattoo, Terminus (surprisingly) made no judgemental comments and ushered you out of the city. At least, you thought he did. It was hard to tell, since he had no arms.

As you headed inside the official campgrounds, you spotted a circle of worried-looking demigods waiting near the barracks. The two praetors as well as Hazel, Frank, Percy, Annabeth, Grover, and another boy you didn’t know were at the front, urgently discussing something in hushed tones. You suddenly realized that this probably had to do with the reason Jason had abruptly left Cyclops Books – something about needing to help out a soldier?

Piper, Leo, and Nico were all gathered near their friends, but the two groups weren’t speaking. Piper had her arms crossed and was talking to Leo as he nodded along.

You rushed to them, out of breath. “Hey. Do you guys know what’s going on?”

Leo shook his head. “No. We tried asking them about it, but they said they’d tell us soon enough. We didn’t push it any further, since they seemed really stressed. Honestly, considering the last time this alert was triggered, it’s probably nothing too serious. Gods, that was embarrassing. People can’t even enjoy Sabrina anymore, man.”

(Last time, Frank had caught Leo at a party dancing shirtless on top of a table while Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter played. The big guy panicked and sent out a signal to the entire camp. After that incident, Reyna banned him from using the device any more.)

Piper looked at you and grinned mischievously. “Speaking of Jason, he’s been glancing at you a lot since you arrived. Anything you want to tell me?” You almost choked on air.

Nico sighs. “Just because a person looks at another person doesn’t mean there’s something between them, Piper. We’re not all like you and Shel who give each other heart eyes when you’re not sitting together at the campfire.”

“Can’t a girl admire her beautiful and perfect girlfriend? Anyway, stop pretending you and Solace weren’t staring at each other like forbidden lovers last night just because you were on different Monopoly teams–”

“That’s different!”

“Oh, are you being sexist right now? You clearly haven’t unlearned the ways of the 1930s–”

“Attention!” Reyna’s firm voice silenced everyone in the area. “We have assembled here today due to a missing young soldier from the Fifth Cohort. We have good reason to believe she is in the woods just beyond the Field of Mars. With the help of Jake Mason, a son of Hephaestus from Camp Half-Blood–” She gestured to the boy that had been talking to their group earlier. “–we plan to send two soldiers as scouts.”

Whispers broke out among the demigods when Reyna said the last bit. They didn’t last long, however; Aurum and Argentum barked furiously, which was enough to make people listen.

The praetor continued. “Recently, we’ve discovered that more than one individual may have an empathy link as long as a satyr is involved, so we plan to set up one between the two soldiers and Grover Underwood here in case any danger is encountered on the way. Jake has found an old device that scans brain similarities: thought process, frequent emotions, cognitive functions, and so on. We will select the individuals with the most alike minds so the empathy link takes up the least energy. Please gather in a line for this assessment.”

You and your fellow campers (plus Reyna’s group) quickly did as she said, and Jake came around. The machine was pretty simple – it looked a little like those no-touch forehead thermometers a doctor in the mortal world would use. The purpose was entirely different, though, as with any demigod contraption. Everyone was a little restless until the son of Hephaestus tested himself and announced the results.

He cleared his throat before saying, “The two soldiers are–” He pointed at you. “Uh, what’s your name? Sorry.”

Stunned, you told him.

He nodded. “Ok. You and Praetor Grace will go to the woods together.”

You didn’t dare look at Piper.

“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” asked Nico, his voice full of concern.

You gave him a small smile. “Yes. You really didn’t have to pack for me, you know. I could have done it myself.” The empathy links had been set up and you were just about to leave.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m aware. You’re very independent. Just let me do this one thing. For all we know, this trip is a death wish.”

“Very motivating, Nico,” Piper said dryly. “No but seriously, stay safe out there. And don’t have too much fun with Jason. You are on a professional mission, after all.” She winked.

Now you rolled your eyes. “Pipes, you need to let that go.”

You caught a whiff of something that smelled like… clean laundry? Turning around, you found yourself looking at a certain blonde boy, except this time he was wearing a dark blue New Rome University hoodie and a silver dog tag necklace on top, paired with baggy gray cargo pants.

He really had to stop sneaking up on you like that.

“Um, hi. You ready to go?” Jason’s voice was a little rough, like he’d been talking for a while and was now tired.

You nodded and waved to your friends. “Bye, guys.”

For the first ten minutes or so, it was painfully awkward. As you two walked to the woods, the only sound was chatting from the barracks and the crunchy gravel underneath your feet. When you reached your destination, nothing much changed apart from instead hearing the crickets sing and the leaves rustle. You were also half-expecting a monster to pop out of nowhere – there was a reason people avoided this grove.

Venus was probably having the time of her life watching.

“I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

You looked at Jason, startled.

“It was kind of a dick move to just throw that whole boyfriend thing on you. I wasn’t thinking, and now we’ve got to commit to this act, and now you’ve got to lie to your friend, and go on a whole fake date with me, and it’s really all my fault, sorry. If you’re mad, that’s totally fine–”

“You know, you really talk too much.” You were surprised that your voice came out so calmly, considering that you were kind of freaking out. “Yes, you did not make the smartest move there. But that’s okay. Just because you’re a praetor doesn’t mean you can’t fuck up sometimes. Besides, we don’t really have a way out of this.”

For a few seconds, there was no response.

Until Jason chuckled, deep and gravelly. “Wow. That was probably the most honest yet most comforting thing I’ve ever been told.”

“You’re welcome. So how are you thinking we execute this whole… situation? The date shouldn’t be too bad, but I’m mostly worried about how we’ll have to make it public to the camp. Tyson and Percy are half-brothers, and you know how Percy is–”

“He loves gossip. I’m guessing both camps will find out within a day if he knows.” Jason smiled. “I propose we reveal it in a subtle way, so people take a while to piece together that we’re, you know, quote unquote dating.”

You looked at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Are you cold?”

“No?” Jason frowned. He smirked and added, “Quite the opposite, actually.”

Raising an eyebrow, you replied, “Okay, Mason.” (He flushed.) “Give me your hoodie. I’ll probably get a load of it from Piper when we get back, but I think it’ll help our plan work.”

The boy did as you said and handed the hoodie over. You put it on, not expecting it to be so comfy. Jason was wearing a shirt underneath that read “I ♡ SABRINA SLUTS” which very much did not hug his biceps a little too tightly. You guessed the clothing choice was courtesy of Leo.

You were about to compliment it when you heard a faint sobbing echo through the woods.

The praetor looked at you. “Think that’s our soldier?”

You both jogged towards where the sound came from. Sitting against the trunk of a willow tree, you saw a dark-haired girl that looked about 10 years old. Her denim shorts had dark splotches from where her tears had fallen. Upon hearing you approach, she quickly wiped her face.

Jason knelt down next to her and gently took her hand. “Hi.”

You copied his actions, taking her other hand. Softly, you asked, “What’s your name?”

“Gracie.”

Jason smiled. “That’s a very pretty name. You wanna tell us what’s going on?”

The girl put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about how much I miss my mortal home and how scared I am now. It feels like there’s danger everywhere and I can never feel safe. I wish I was back at school like a normal kid, but instead I’m preparing for battles and having wolf ladies train me. I started feeling really bad so I came here, hoping it would help. I’m sorry, it’s really stupid and probably caused a fuss if you both had to come find me–”

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t say that. It’s okay to feel that way. There are so, so many demigods who have thought the same things as you. Even I did, and I’m the praetor.” Gracie laughed a little at the last bit Jason said.

“Exactly,” you agreed. “You are being so brave right now. Just telling two people you haven’t ever talked to before about how you’re feeling takes courage.”

“You really think so?” Her voice was small.

“We know so.” Jason squeezed her hand. “Now, do you want to sit down here for a little longer, and we’ll tell camp you’re okay? We can stay with you.”

Gracie shook her head and declared, “I’m ready to go back now.”

“Okay.” He grinned. “Wait. I know what to do.”

Jason picked her up, bridal-style, and the girl squealed. Looking at him, with his slightly messy hair and huge smile, you felt closer somehow. Perhaps it was the empathy link, but it was like you were seeing a side of him that not many people knew. You were seeing Jason Grace, the boy who loses his glasses and thinks he’s being a burden (even though he isn’t) rather than Jason Grace, the praetor who fought the Titan Krios.

You liked this look better on him.

“Hello? Are you there?” Jason was staring at you intently, which made your cheeks grow warm. You hadn’t realized the two expected a response.

“Sorry, what?” You started walking back to camp, and they followed.

“Gracie here was just telling me that key lime pie is her comfort food, so I asked you if you’d like to bake it with us.”

“Oh, I love key lime pie! Sure.”

He beamed at you. Gracie continued her conversation, and you listened to her talk about the time she almost burned down her house a few years ago trying to make it. It was a peaceful walk, and you felt like you were with old friends.

Maybe, you thought, you could get used to Jason Grace.

[tinytalkingtina]

WIP Weekend

Thanks for the tags @vthx @sourw0lfs and @hbyrde36 (one of these days I will remember to make this post on Thursday evening to be ready)!

Rules: Send me an emoji in an ask, and I'll write 3-5 sentences and/or paragraphs from that WIP. No limits to the amount of emojis you can request, please feel free to send multiple

🐶 B.A.D. D.O.G. (sequel to the college AU puppy play Stomeddie/Stommie fic) is nearly there! I need to finish fleshing out Tommy and Steve's original relationship a bit more.

🧜‍♂️ Participating in the STMonsterCalendar Mermay Bingo event, with 2/4 fics for this completed so far. Just the SFW paired buckingham/steddie fics to finish. The Munver (TigerFreak) fic and M/E-rated Steddie fic may pop up too as I edit those this weekend.

🏴‍☠️ Eddierotica: "Eddie writes the world's worst erotica about characters who are just poorly disguised versions of himself and Steve. They're not dating." continues! This week may involve a lot more Steve descending into madness as he reads. 💥Steddie Big Bang: Secret fic is almost at 4k now, and we are in the middle of a particularly fun scene involving [redacted]. This can't be publicly shared yet, so if you send in this emoji feel free to pick another fic as well, and I'll write 3 sentences for both. Tagging a few folks to join in the fun too:

@queenie-ofthe-void @yesdangerpls @onirislanding @felixir-of-moths

@hitlikehammers @augustjustice @eriquin @fkinkindagauche @strangerthingswritersguild Enjoy a NSFW snippet from 🏴‍☠️ below the cut featuring Eddie's ADHD brain at work

The prince took off his shirt. Edmund swallowed, staring at rippling abs that galloped like the stallions he took care of daily. He hoped the prince was equally hung. His majesty noticed him staring and smiled, hands aloft before Edmund’s still-laced trousers. "Stable boy, you are of course familiar with the stoplight system, yes?" The prince asked of Edmund. "Yes my liege. Red means stop, yellow means slow down or pause, and green means go! Also my name is Edmund sire, if you wish to call me that.” “You are such a perfect boy,” the prince cooed much like a dove would. “And, Edmund the stable boy, do you have a safe word?” “Yes your excellency. It is 'Charizard'." "I shall endeavor to remember that," the prince replied. "Consent is something I strive for in every sexual encounter. Otherwise I could very well have accidentally triggered you!" After a moment in which they both considered the importance of consent, the prince laid Edmund down among the hay and finally undid the laces upon his trousers. His slightly smaller larger than average cock sprang up begging for attention. The prince freed his own well-endowed girthy length and rubbed it against Edmund’s to let the two of them get to know each other. “Why Edmund the stable boy, it would appear they like each other!” The prince exclaimed. It was true: their penises were wriggling and drooling in excitement. Edmund scooped some of their pre-ejaculate up with his fingers and licked. The taste was delectable. Like the finest candy, if candy was slightly bitter. So really, it was licorice (the real kind, not Twizzlers). Edmund whimpered. “Oh sheriff, please, free me from such exquisite torment!” The sheriff gets rougher with Edgar the outlaw, stroking the two of them easily with one of his big ol’ bear paw hands. Wait, what? When did a sheriff come in? Steve reread the page. Huh, Eddie must’ve gotten bored halfway through writing or something. He shrugged to himself and started jerking off again, this time picturing ass-less chaps and hats instead of robes and crowns: “Calm down little filly,” the sheriff says, slowing down. He smiles when Edgar whimpers and tries to rut against his large mitts. “Not that I’m misgenderin’ y’all, yer obviously a colt. This is jus’ foreplay for us Western folk.”

[alienmiilk]

my sonadow fankid... his name is rush, a dimension traveller and he sometimes has a sibling called chase

REALLY long lore thing under cut

rush isn't technically Our sonic and shadow's kid, he's A sonic and shadow's kid created from a mix of prism + chaos energy in another universe/timeline that i named zero hill zone (sonadow are slightly older and closer, but their dynamic remains the same)

does this make sense

baby rush was a literal piece of the prism that sonadow took care of bc he kept gravitating towards them, sonic is the one who names him (shadow's like, why are you naming a rock)

something something the paradox prism starts to become unstable for some reason and z!sonic tries to find out why, except he's running out of time and he realises the only way to sort everything out is to entrust his alternate self from the other universe (our sonic) (he tries to send a message to other shatterverses to reach him, but it reaches them in garbled forms - nine in particular gets the signal, but can't figure out what it means)

the prism explodes, z!sonic dies in the process

rush is finally 'born' after this, breaking free from the prism piece as a little hedgehog the only thing he knows is that z!sonic died protecting him, and misunderstands that bc z!shadow left them, he must've caused z!sonic to die or at least was involved with it, or he just resents him for not being there for them

in reality, z!shadow was attempting to reach the other shatterverses (z!sonic's plan) but bc of the prism's power he's sent into the void (the one that the emerald falls into in that one ep of sonic prime) he's trapped in the deeper void for a long period of time

rush grows up in the post-apocalyptic landscape of zero hill (he imitates what he remembers z!sonic doing). he doesn't realise this, but as he grows older, the zone becomes to fall apart more (becoming like ghost hills) - at some point, he feels oddly drawn to the dimensional rips in his world and decides to go into one, having nothing else to do

now an essentially 70% formed paradox prism in the shape of a hedgehog, after some trial and error, rush realises he can go anywhere he wants and decides to look for other signs of life he ends up in the different shatterverses that we know of from the show, and as he makes his way through each they become destabilised bc he's basically a walking paradox prism. this causes the entire shatterverse to become messed up again, albeit slowly and gradually

bc of this, z!shadow realises that the void has started to destabilise and he manages to claw his way out of the deep void. he manages to find zero hills again but sees that everything is destroyed and washed out (ghost hills style) he finds out that z!sonic has died and is overcome w grief and anger. with how unstable the shatterverses are now and his own chaos powers, he manages to rip open gateways into other points in the timeline, he starts to traverse through them to look for other z!sonic in the past, or just other sonics

notably, he manages to find his way to the early days of project shadow and learns about the information about how he was created - a budding plan takes place, one to bring sonic back through the research (a different take on this au) - also like, he's getting stuck in another isolation chamber situation he is not doing ok, he's loopy

meanwhile, rush falls into green hills (the actual one!) and spots shadow...

idk how to summarise this anymore i'm not even summarising, jus tlook at my google doc

it's a whole thing, i might continue to work on if i feel like it bc there's no 'ending' yet, and also where's chase? no idea

either zero hills or the 'hostile shatterverse' is this

[inkdemonapologist]

My BatDR Take That Used To Be Hot But I Left It Out On The Windowsill To Cool So You Should Be Able to Eat It Now Without Burning Your Tongue

its not actually that hot, is what im saying

Anyway my BatDR hot take is that BatDR's story is not fundamentally worse than BatIM with one exception; an exception that, for BatIM, covers a multitude of sins:

BatIM has a theme.

I can't presume the intentions of the creators, but if I had to write an essay on the themes in BatIM, it wouldn't be hard to pick one out: the cost of obsession, or even just, the ruin Joey brought on the studio. In the very first chapter, Henry asks "Joey, what were you doing?" and every single thing in the rest of the game revolves around that central question: what WAS Joey doing? Each audiolog is a snippet of the studio's path to this messed up state; each character you meet is someone ruined by Joey. The major antagonists echo Joey's flaws -- obsession with Bendy as more than a cartoon, obsession with perfection, obsession with fame and greatness and legacy -- but even without that, they're also each a picture of how the lives of people caught in the path of Joey's dream were ruined by it. Bertrum, for example, doesn't match the concept of rubberhose cartoons, but as yet another person screwed over by Joey, he fits the central question of the story, so he feels like he belongs here. Ultimately, in a narrative sense, the Ink Demon isn't the story's monster -- Joey is; the Ink Demon is just the consequence of his reckless ambition.

But what's the theme or central question of BatDR?

You can... try to pick out a theme. There's some promising options, because it feels like the story WANTED a theme, stating its emotional intentions more overtly -- "there's always a choice" to leave the darkness and chose hope; family and the struggle of living in a heavy legacy's shadow; or even just good old mewtwo-brand The Circumstance's Of One's Birth Are Irrelevant, It Is What You Do With The Gift Of Life That Determines Who You Are.

I think, even WITH the clumsy execution of Joey's "arc" and Audrey's lack of real choices, any of those could work about as well as BatIM. But unlike BatIM, the majority of the game doesn't tie in. Joey's tour can be considered relevant -- a picture of the family legacy and the "darkness" that Audrey doesn't yet know she's inheriting -- but like, the audiologs and hints and environment of BatDR are mostly teasing the question of What Is Gent Up To, and the takeover of Gent is detached from Audrey's choices, her family, her legacy, and Gent never really becomes a relevant threat to those things in this game. The Cult of Amok and the Ghost Train have nothing to do with any of these ideas. It might've been neat if Audrey had ever considered, "Did my father really drive all these people insane?", a hint of actually having to wonder about the darkness in her past. Even Wilson only barely brushes against these concepts; he doesn't like Joey and he also is trying to escape his family's heavy legacy, but it doesn't really reflect on his actions and we don't find that last part out until he's about to be dead.

There's also the question Wilson poses of "real" people versus ink creations, and what counts as valid "life." It would be an interesting theme with a lot to build off of in this setting, it ties into Wilson more as Wilson seems to represent the opinion that Inky Things Aren't Really Alive, which could've tied to Audrey (as an ink-person who has yet to accept that part of herself) and maybe given Wilson a reason to think it's fine to sacrifice her, it could've even tied to Gent (who don't even seem to value human life) -- but after Wilson asks the question, it doesn't tie into the direction things go. He smooshes a little Bendy, we see hints of his disregard for Betty, and then everyone continues with their plan to destroy the Ink Demon without any further moral quandaries about inky life.

The thing is, when you compare an element like, say, audiologs, there's a lot of differences you can point to -- but I don't actually think Lacie Benton's audiolog is notably better, taken on its own, than Grace Conway's or Kitty Thompson's, and yet tons of people were intrigued enough to flesh out Lacie. None of them are big plot points or compelling characters on their own; Lacie and Grace both give us a little note on what it's like working in the Studio, and Kitty shares a little bit on how Gent's expansion is affecting people. But when Lacie talks about Bertrum trying to make a creepy animatronic, that ties back into Joey's ill-fated schemes that are the point of the whole story. The question we're asking through the whole game is "what happened here?" so the fandom is interested in who Lacie is and what her life was like and extrapolates a whole person out of a couple sentences. But that's not the question in BatDR -- what has Wilson done to the Cycle and the Demon? Why? Who is Audrey really, and why is she here? Telling us new things about the Studio's fate seems strangely irrelevant to those questions, just an attempt to create a Mystery To Speculate On like the previous game did... but what question you're asking and how it fits into your story's main theme, like, matters. I absolutely believe that one clock animator guy would've been in EVERYONE'S crew if he'd been introduced in BatIM, but the context makes a difference; fleshing him out feels less relevant here.

The explanations of how and why Wilson did everything he did are baffling and handwavey, but in and of itself that's not a worse problem than anything else in the franchise -- I STILL don't understand why the Ink Machine needs pipes in the walls or even how it works, there's no good reason for Sammy to believe the Ink Demon will "set him free," most of Alice's motives don't make sense, etc etc etc. But the thing is that in BatDR, the wibbly bit is the closest thing to a central question we have! Wilson, what were you doing? The theme doesn't really explore or connect to that question, so the explanations that are finally tossed our way feel lacking in a way that BatIM's handwaved elements don't. There's a lot about Joey's motivation in BatIM that we can't know, but the heart of it resonates -- Joey wanted something, he was willing to exploit people to get it, and he became obsessed and prioritised that dream at any cost. We'll weather a thousand logistical inconsistencies if it's got heart.

But all of that said.... to be honest, I don't think Lacie overtly fits that theme anyway. Even, like, Sammy is iffy -- we don't really know what happened to him, only that he didn't used to be made of ink and worship Bendy, and now he does. We assume Joey's nonsense had something to do with what happened to him (though the books later assert his influence was indirect at best), because when there's a pattern, we can fill in the blank. So many fan creators found a place for Lacie, Grant, and Shawn in the cycle as butcher clones or lost ones, so many people imagined that Wally must be the Boris we meet, because that would've fit the pattern, the idea that the point of what we're seeing is the downfall of the studio. It's not actually that BatIM did a great job tying everything together -- it's that BatIM gave us a compelling idea and that was all it took to make everything else SEEM like it could find a place to fit. This is what I mean when I say BatIM's theme covers a multitude of sins. There's a LOT of characters in BatIM that don't make sense. There's a lot of inconsistencies and things that just sort of happen without any real reason. Characters don't really have "arcs" so much as different states they happen to be in at different times. But because there's a central question and the story doesn't wander away from it, our pattern-loving human brains will slot in all the pieces and do all the work to make the story feel at least somewhat coherent.

The things that happened in BatDR aren't a whole lot less coherent than BatIM imo, they just don't tie into a bigger theme or any of the questions the story's asking, making "how do they fit into all this" feel irrelevant, making it easier to forget entire sections and harder to get invested in audiolog characters. I think a lot of the other criticisms people have for BatDR's story are very valid, but I also suspect that if BatDR had a more successful theme/central question, then a lot of its flaws would be easier to overlook -- just like BatIM.

[tierras]

hii everyone 🥀🪽 i wanted to share that i will be traveling to cairo at the end of november and will be meeting with displaced Palestinian families. til then, i will be fundraising for these families in hopes of providing funds for them to pay for their rent, clothing, food, medical expenses, and any other needs.

to meet my goal, i am also planning on having a couple raffles throughout the next two months so stay tuned <3

update 9/14: enter my first raffle! [closed, prize claimed]

update 10/6: enter my second raffle [closed, prize claimed]

update 10/26: enter my last raffle [closed, prize claimed]

but for now, please reblog/share and donate to my campaign

[emu-toes]

the same could go for you, you know. If you don't like my re-blog, why reply? just ignore it. You're expressing your opinion, and i'm expressing mine. We're both following guidelines

that being said, i probably shouldn't've told you to 'calm down' when you were expressing your opinion. I was a little too harsh in my prior re-blog since i was tired af and severely pissed off from something unrelated, so that's entirely my bad. I'll articulate some of my thoughts a little further here, since i didn't really do that in the original re-blog (i'm not good at articulating but i hope this gets the point across)

"HES DEAD. HES NOT UWU. HES JUST A CHARACTER."

Maybe something's changed since i last checked out the rp community, but i feel like your take on it is kind of... narrow. i might be echoing the others when i say this, but rp can be a great way to expand on a character and get some shit out of your system. You're right, he IS just a character, so why is it so bad if people want to flesh him out and have some fun? he's not real

I saw someone ask an askjimmy “what was it like when you had sex with Anya for the first time. Medically ;)”

ok yeah no that's gross wtf. but i don't think we should be using one degenerate with issues as rep for the whole community. i knew a girl who wrote rpf smut of two boys in our high school without any sort of permission from them. doesn't mean that all fanfic authors are like that, right?

I don’t want role play of this game. “It’s harmless” i don’t think so.

i don't understand this. who is it harming? who's anya ask-blog is shooting missiles at people? (joking, but my point stands. it's not directly harming anyone.)

there's a ton of people making really meaningful art for this community, and there's a bunch of people making funny shitposts and rp's. i believe it's perfectly balanced as all things should be. it's the internet, hell, wrong organ themselves made an easter egg in the game of post crash curly giving anya a lap dance. we're all in literal hell given the shit state of the world rn, so why not have a little fun before we go :)

holy shit i just yapped so much wtf. but anyways, at the end of the day my opinion is mine, and your's is your's. i just wanted to articulate on some of the thoughts that've been bouncing around in the dome for a while now because i have too much free time lmao.

hope you're having a great day, hope this helps clear some things up! :)

Wth I’m having to block all these “ask Anya” “ask Jimmy” and it’s so vile. My favorite media is being turned into the cultishness of fnaf. HROW UP😭😭😭😭 THERES NO ONE TO SHIP. “Ask daisuke” HES DEAD. HES NOT UWU. HES JUST A CHARACTER.

I saw someone ask an askjimmy “what was it like when you had sex with Anya for the first time. Medically ;)” I think that person needs to die actually.

I truly do not think these people have gone through the media and picked it apart. If you got the message and the seriousness of this, you would have the respect not to do that. It’s okay to make silly jokes and art. But that’s too far. I don’t want people acting like the people we see in the story. That’s insane. I don’t want role play of this game. “It’s harmless” i don’t think so. You’ve skewed it so much. What happened to the message. If you wanna rp don’t pick the stories that people need to see. You’re embarrassing and no one wants to learn about rape culture through this media because you took it too far.

I don’t care how you cope. The story wasn’t “dark omg silent wolf emo you’ve never heard of this indie game”. It’s like. There’s so much to take apart, and being a feminist it really disheartens me to see people taking the piss out of the situations. Especially the men. Take something out of the goddamned story and leave it. Unless it’s art. God. I hate this fandom. I CANT SCROLL THE HASHTAG WITHOUT THIS SHIT IN MY WAY. I WANNA SEE BIBLICAL PAINTINGS AND SYMBOLISM.

Please, please. Stop. Look at yourself, feel bad, and stop. I don’t give a fuck what your excuse is. Be better. Grow up.

[auspicioustidings]

Soap isn't proud that his first reaction is bitter jealousy aimed towards some poor omega he doesn't know before his brain catches up and it switches to abject horror.

Philip Graves has a bite mark on him. It's small, he'd guess some little female maybe. Soap doesn't have any claiming marks, practically nobody in their line of business does. It's not right, not when an omega can feel everything their pack goes through, not when intense pain transfers. Even him, an omega but one prepared for pain and death, has never dared suggest any claiming bites to his team. They would say no anyway no matter how much they loved him or wanted him. It's a cruel fate being an omega tied to soldiers.

They've been torturing him for information for hours.

"Whit the fuck did ye dae Phil?"

"Couldn't help myself after she tried to run. She should have known a predators instincts are to hunt."

[tohruies]

hi hi mrs yao !!!! christmas is coming up, are you going to celebrate anythinf with xiangli ? :33 btw, since miss coco doesnt have a tree, here's a little something to say thank you for being one of my lovely moots 🥺

oh! 😁 hi hello mr puppetgear! 😁 christmas celebrations with xiangli you ask! 😁 well actually! 😁 you see, i was th— *dies upon seeing the image you’ve attached to this ask* 😳😲🤯😱😱😱😵💀🪦

[doodlejoltik]

my favourite writing device is having an un-Rei-liable narrator

[victorluvsalice]

Valicer Multiamory Month, Day Twenty-One: Dreams (Multiplayer Wonderland AU)

We're heading into the home stretch of @polyamships's Multiamory March, and today's prompt is a nice simple one -- "Dreams!" And wouldn't you know it, I looked at that and went "oh, I could do something with the Multiplayer Wonderland AU for that." XD That's been a popular AU this month, it must be said... Anyway, here's Victor, Victoria, Emily, Alice, and Smiler all hanging out in Wonderland for a picnic via dream-spell, talking about how things are going in their various domains:

--

“So, how are things on the Moon, Emily?”

“Oh, excellent,” Emily responded, beaming as she picked up a blueberry jam sandwich. “Do you remember how barren it was when I first claimed it?”

“I do,” Victoria said with a nod, claiming a cucumber sandwich for herself. “Nothing but silvery sands as far as the eye could see.”

“Exactly! Which had a beauty of its own, yes, but now – now I’ve got a proper garden up there! With the most beautiful white flowers and blue trees! And there’s a village under construction – Alice, thank you so much for sending some of your gnome friends up to take a look at those cheese mines I found!”

“Oh, it was my pleasure,” Alice said, popping a fresh strawberry into her mouth. “And theirs too, from what the Elder tells me. Mining for cheese is much easier – and tastier – than mining for opals, after all.”

“I’m sure,” Emily tittered. “And they’ve been a wonderful help with fighting off those awful rat creatures. I keep trying to eradicate them entirely, but…” She sighed. “One more always pops up.”

“Unfortunately, psyches are not so easily cleansed as that,” Alice said sympathetically, eyes drifting to the bloodstains still marring the face of the weeping statue nearby. “Believe me, I know.”

“So do I,” Victoria agreed. “The Dollhouse is so much nicer these days, but I still have to deal with those horrible strangling veil monsters. They’re easily snipped up by my Scissors, yes, but…” She shrugged.

“At least destroying them is simple,” Victor said, sipping his apple juice. “I’m still rooting out an infestation of Nightmare Spiders in the Butterfly Jungle.” He grimaced. “I’ve been bitten twice so far.”

The others all winced. “Well, that’s not good,” Smiler said, setting down their lemonade in favor of taking his hand. “Things are pretty quiet on Smile Street right now – want me to come over with my Syringe? I bet a little Joy Serum would nicely counteract their venom.”

“And if that doesn’t work, a Vorpal Blade to the abdomen generally does,” Alice added, flicking her wrist.

“As I well know,” Victor nodded. “And I’d appreciate the help, but – tomorrow night. Tonight was supposed to be for our picnic here. And, uh, I don’t want to wake up mid-fight with a spider.”

“Me either,” Smiler admitted, pulling a face. “All right – tomorrow then. Not like it costs us that much to use the dream spell.”

“And it doesn’t cost me anything at all,” Emily added cheekily.

“No, you just have to spend all your magic on joining us in the real world,” Alice responded, giving her a little poke.

“Worth it.” Emily watched some Mock Sparrows fly by. “Though I would not mind if all of you could just live here too.”

“I don’t think any of us would mind that.” Alice leaned back, looking up at the perfect blue sky above, before smiling back down at her companions. “Maybe one day. In the meantime, who wants cake?”