#hate these maps. the event ones too

[sideblogofawriter]

Finally finishing 7-67: YES I'M FREE

Seeing 7-73 a few minutes later:

[madamecaos]

Crush (ing)

Summary: Where Ghost goes a little too rough on you in training then makes up for it.

5k+ ish words │ Ghost (Simon Riley) x Y/N

A/N: Angst with a smutty happy ending. Times are weird now, so I'm back to writing again. You know the drill, no proofread found here

-----

Part 1

It was merely a crush, you realized. It must be. Otherwise, you would have to not have sex again with Simon.

Because there was no way in hell a man like that would let himself be roped in into a relationship, and a relationship with you at that. You were sure he hated you, going by his nonchalant treatment when he wasn’t in your bed. 

There, another example. You haven’t even been to his room, which going by his arrogant attitude must be annoyingly spotless.

You hated him, or at least you wished that saying it would make it better for your sanity. Because this was Simon.

The first time you slept together happened in France, and it was not gentle. Well, you didn’t really expect any special treatment as a lover, but it wasn’t exactly a tender moment, more of a “blowing some steam” sort of thing. A ‘high-school make out session’ sort of a thing, or so you repeated in your head whenever his name came up in conversation.   

It’s not to say that it wasn’t enjoyable, but only a representation of the tone of your weird situationship. And you were fully sure that this was Johnny’s fault somehow.

“But he likes you, lass. That’s why he’s a pain.” He said, as if there was no doubt about it.

You scoffed at that. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Your aching shoulder, after sparring got out hand, made you believe otherwise.

Now, Johnny said something about hanging out for drinks with some locals. The mission in Serbia took a pause on the wait for new intel, so as consequence your unit had a free week out of uniform. This meant more time with your team outside of work, and that meant that you and Ghost were at each other’s throats. Mostly you since his sunken eyes behind the sockets of his skullmask barely moved when you made jabs at him.

Then he stared and stared, a blank look threatening you into a near sycosis. Why couldn’t he just be normal and answer without underestimating you?

And one night there was a local event, promising alcohol and a good time. It was dark already, but the people there were lively, enjoying food and from far away, you could hear music and dancing. You couldn’t wait to try and merge with the crowd, maybe flirt a little with a cute local. And you thought you looked lovely, really good going by the way some of the soldiers ogled you. It must be due to you being one of the only females in the base, but it wasn’t harming your ego.

Johnny whistled when you met at the entrance, drawing attention to you in civilian clothes. You think they hadn’t seen you off your gear yet, and it must be shocking to see you in a normal long maxi skirt mapping the curves of your hips, a dark top and a fashionable coat, just as dark of course. You looked like a killer with your dark makeup and hair down for the first time in a while, sparkling earrings catching in moonlight.

“Little lady, are ya lost?” He whistled again, making you hurry your pace to shut him up. There was a diminutive pause with hesitation at seeing Ghost in the driver seat after Johnny moved away from the window.

He looked at you, eyes trailing leisurely from your toes to your eyes. You wiggled your white-painted toes in your wedges at the pinning stare. It was a pain smuggling nail polish in missions, but his ongoing stare made it worth it. They might not be up to code, but you didn’t really care. He blinked slowly as his fingers lightly rapped against the steering wheel in what you thought to be annoyance.

“Are ya coming?” The brute asked, still bitter by your word ping-pong match in Price’s office. You certainly had won because you believed yourself capable of acting as a secret spy inside a mob dead set on selling plutonium as a business. Yeah, they were a little out of their heads, but really talented at hiding, so here you were, stuck in Serbia. Ghost clearly thought you weren’t good enough of a liar to gather intelligence, or so he implied, but you knew it was because he didn’t believe you weren’t good enough overall.

Your past scuffles where Ghost was the opponent, pinning you down on the mat, were proof enough. This was the military, you weren’t allowed to make it personal, but when he bested you and made sure to show you your faults with overtraining you… His strict treatment with you hadn’t gone unnoticed by others and, well, let’s say that you weren’t feeling rational about it. 

To your annoyance he got out of the car, and for a second you expected him to fight you again, maybe prevent you from getting into the backseat with brute force. Would he say that you weren’t allowed to drink or have fun? Would your mistakes make him order you back to the gym instead of a night of fun?

None of the scenarios circulating in your head happened. Instead, he leaned sideways and opened the door. You stood still as he waited at your gaping. Then, obviating your embarrassment, you closed your mouth and got in at the rise of an eyebrow behind his mask. None of you mentioned anything at his action, one that you found odd. Maybe he did it as a power move? Or maybe he did it only for the shock factor to keep you on your toes?

Sitting at the back, immersing yourself in your distrust, you kept making eye contact with Ghost through the rearview mirror. Not on purpose, but he did nothing to turn his eyes away, only to drive, and sometimes you swore he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

But you kept fighting with facts versus what you wanted. Did you want him to seek you, look at you and only you? Your last argument kept circulating in your thoughts. Whenever he looked at you, pain followed.

So, he steered the rented car in silence, Johnny making conversation with himself. Ghost found parking nearby inside the city, near the pubs, and yet the car was left hidden in another block. Yeah right… it was the car that would draw attention, not the hulk-of-a-man wearing a balaclava in public.

And it was sort of inevitable the way your gaze would keep drawing back to the blonde near-white lashes free of dark paint or the sharpness of his jawline as he rumbled out another one of his jokes to Johnny. The lack of skull mask allowed you to obsess, no, notice the details. Yes, notice.

And he still had a balaclava. You felt like you were going insane in your ruminating and in your shame for sleeping with someone that didn’t find you worthy enough to show their face.

The guys flocked around you as you headed into the first club with music you could understand.

After a while, you realized you shouldn’t have dared to defy a Scotsman in a drinking game. Johnny was fully sober and you were giggly at your third drink. You were drawn to the dance floor and the bar behind it, or at least a moment for yourself.  A fourth drink didn’t sound so bad, you mused as you planned how to get out of the booth. You were fidgeting in the middle, Johnny on one side, Ghost on the other. Gaz was supposedly on his way, something about needing more time to get dressed. As if. He probably knew this night would be boring and would never arrive.

“Excuse me, scoot” you said, nodding at Johnny to move so you could get out. He huffed and practically ignored you with a teasing grin as he kept ‘scoping the perimeter’ or whatever that meant. “Johnny, let me out. I have to pee.”

“So? If you leave, who’ll be my wingwoman?” 

“Certainly not me. Ghost?”

“Not moving.”

You looked at the two, noticing that Johnny was leaning forward on the table, and Ghost wasn’t. Hoping that the shock factor would stave away the complaints, you swung your leg over Ghost’s hips, landing on your knee at his side. The skirt rode up to your knees as you stared him down, stumbling at your sloshed state. You expected to climb away quickly, but before you could escape into the booming music, solid hands tightened themselves over your hips. You swayed as you lost your momentum, hitting your lower back on the edge of the table, empty glasses clinking.

You hissed at the pain, the bruises on your back tender from yesterday’s training stung as your hands grasped his shoulders for stability. One of his palms quickly spread on your lower back, preventing more accidents. Your lips clamped at the pain. His head was almost at your height, despite you being over him, a few inches up on your knees, spread over his thighs.

Dark eyes stared at you through his mask, but you could clearly make out a risen eyebrow in amusement. That little shit always found a way to get a rise out of you.

“Easy, doll. You should’ve just asked,” he rumbled lowly, barely heard through the music.

“Woah,” Soap added to your embarrassment.

“None of you would move, now let me off,” you didn’t wait for his permission and swung your other leg away, paving your way to freedom away from those steady hands. There was no way you could feel his warmth through all your layers beneath the skirt, but the shape of his fingertips still ghosted over your hips. Fighting the urge to look back, you walked away with flaming cheeks, and hurriedly headed directly to the bar. Well, more like swayed to the bar as embarrassment sunk in slowly in your drunken state.

It was almost as if he was completely unbothered by your presence whilst the mere thought of that skull mask made your logic haywire, aggression being an immediate outlet. You certainly needed that drink, or anything as a distraction, but the bar was unreachable. The hoard of people flaying their limbs to the deep base reverberating through your form didn’t allow you a direct way, so you tried to push yourself through the sides of the crowd. Even being half-way there, you saw that getting that drink would be a pain, the barstools fully occupied, a line of people trying to get the overworked bartender’s attention.

You sighed, knowing that you would have to wait for that reprieve for more than an hour, going by how slow the line was moving. After someone bumped into your sore shoulder, an answer to your question came in the form of the red sign of Exit behind you. Maybe you wouldn’t get a drink, but fresh air might help stave away the recurring memory of the shape of Ghost’s palms on you. The fact that you kept thinking about it made you want to punch something… Fresh air it is. Without looking back, you went outside into a back alley, the cold air helping you sober up enough to not stumble through the horde of smokers blocking the entrance.

What was this bar selling that was so full? You cursed lowly, knowing that your much needed moment of peace would have to wait some more. The thought of calling for a Taxi back to base crossed your mind, your annoyance slowly rising. Unfortunately, you left your purse behind with the other two, your bra carrying the only cash you had in the currency, enough for that one drink you kept dreaming about.

With arms crossed around you, you set your pride aside and found a dark corner to sit in, the lights and the music far away. A little misplaced wooden crate allowed you to take the weight off your feet, far enough to hide you from the locals chatting away over cigarettes. You weren’t as vigilant as your usual self, knowing that with your combat training, you were the most dangerous person amongst them.

With that in mind and at the relief of momentary silence, you closed your eyes, fingertips massaging your temples. Maybe it had been a blessing in disguise that you couldn’t get that drink. You had been bunking with another soldier in the common barracks, the cafeteria was always busy, your itinerary was filled with missions, training, discussing intel, fighting with Ghost and being subjected to horrible jokes and prompts from your peers. This had been the only moment you’ve been alone, you realized.

Peace was broken as you opened your eyes, military boots standing inches away from you. You scolded yourself for recognizing them immediately, not an ounce of you distinguishing him as enemy. Was it normal to even find annoying how silent he was when walking? You should’ve seen him coming.

“Didn’t take you for a smoker,” Ghost said, already knowing that you weren’t. You knew that to your core. He was too observant and too vigilant for his own good, or for your sanity.

“I’m not. Where’s Johnny?” You looked up, craning your neck upwards. The mass of him blended with the darkness of the sky behind him. You could only make out his eyes out of the balaclava.

“Inside,” He looked down on you and you debated if your pride was enough to make you stand up. Even if it was impossible, you wanted to be enough to stand at his height, for him to recognize you at something as your equal. He better walk away before you start spewing truths that would only confess your drunken self.

“And what are you doing here?”

“Checking up on you.”

You held in the scoff, rolling your eyes with closed lids. You waved him away, going back to massaging your temples. “You can tell Johnny I’m fine. Just getting some fresh air.”

He looked sideways momentarily, eyeing the smokers nearby, then returned to pin you down with the heaviness of his gaze.

“You’re hiding,” he said with no question in his statement, head tilting sideways with curiosity.

“No-“

“Away from me,” he rumbled deeply, almost to himself. “It seems we are at an impasse.”

“I’m not doing this right now. Whatever you want to talk about, will be at base with a superior present,” you glared upwards as he eyed the hands now in tight fists on your lap. He knew you were clearly referring to Price, who abided to the bureaucratic process despite his favoritism for his favorite killer. That killer wasn’t you obviously.

You were considered too sentimental, as if that was another flaw.

After a beat, he opened his mouth solely to aggravate you, you were sure. “Said superior suggested we resolve our issues outside of work.”

The comment felt like a mockery. “And this is out of work, right? Get a few drinks in the girl, lower her defenses… and just talk.”

He hummed, a sound you felt in the hollow of your chest. It was almost as if you couldn’t help but react to his every word as an insult. The resentment you held for him always made you wonder that maybe, if you hadn’t felt like proving something to him, you would’ve stayed as a mediocre soldier. That his tough lessons and obvious disdain were meant due to something greater. You wanted to be grateful, to see the good outcome of the estranged liaison you have with one of your superiors, but it was draining enough to know that all effort would go to waste.

“I’ll let them know you were not reciprocating, up to resolve our issues,” he answered with finality, knowing that his flat tone would make you take the bait. He didn’t even blink at your scoff, your eyebrows furrowing at your irritation, him knowing too easily how to get a reaction out of you.

“Issues?” You stood up shakily, leaning your weight on the wall behind you. “Why don’t you tell me what our issues are, Lieutenant?”

In a moment of bravery, you stood on the crate. Even with the added height, the top of your head didn’t even reach his clavicle.

“You’re angry.” He crossed his arms uncharacteristically, biceps bulging at the tension. His eyes roved up and down, as if searching for a clue as to what had you so mad. And in something similar to a question, he added, “At me.”

Furious, but you didn’t correct him. You crossed your arms to imitate his pose, incredulous at the obvious statement. This time you used his tactic and stayed silent as an answer, opting for him to fill in the conversation.

“Tell me why,” he demanded gruffly.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” He couldn’t just interrupt your me-time and start demanding answers out of you, you convinced yourself. You knew you were being difficult, but at this moment, this was merely deflecting. There was no way you would confess your insecurities upon his demands, as if the outcome were to be an improvement.

It was his turn to tilt his eyes up to the sky, seeking answers as he sighed in exasperation. In a second after contemplating, he let his guard down so plainly, you stood shocked and deadly still at his stance. What was this? His shoulders relaxed, arms resting down by his side, eyes beseeching to answer. A clear posture open to you. “I can’t fix something if I don’t know what’s wrong, sweetheart.”

The endearment and the sincerity in his eyes caught you off guard. You blinked, eyes wide open, ignoring the surprise of the coiling heat stirring near your thighs.

Then he went on to call your call sign, spurring you to blurt out the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re mean to me,” You lowered your arms to your sides like him.

You felt like a child, whining, and impossibly allocating a responsibility that didn’t belong to him.

He lowered his chin in disbelief. “You’re… mad at me because I’m mean.”

His complete disregard made you do the exact thing you wanted to avoid. Spill.

“Just mean? No,” Your fury got the best of you, “You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

His eyes widened for the first time, your outburst uncharacteristic, even for your short temper.

“If this is about that night-“

 “You don’t treat me like the others. Even before that night.” You interrupted him, emphasizing what he implied, but felt hysterical at his clear misunderstanding. “You punish me for things that are not my fault. After we spar, I hide bruises because my superior can’t get over himself, but because its my job, I have to pretend its normal, like its professional. And then I’m the weak one? When others don’t have to take your beatings because…because… I don’t know why!”

“Sparring can be violent,” he justified, but to you, he didn’t sound so sure of himself.

“Violent?” You said, nearly shouting. “Violent?!” Ignoring the stiffness of your shoulders and the cold of the Serbian night, you shook of your coat. It was the first time he’d seen more of your skin, your uniform tended to provide full coverage. Even that night was fast and rough, but not unclothed.

He said nothing, his eyes wide at the purple imprints of his fists beneath the thin straps. You knew he could see, even in the dimmed light, how the bruises trailed down your shoulders. He must’ve known they would paint your arms as well, but you hadn’t shed your coat completely. You dared to believe he looked at you in horror, but your feelings bled over the dark alleyway against your better judgment.

“You set impossible expectations in our missions, in drills, and then you act like I’m some sort of failure when I can’t… I’m good at what I do. I do what I’m supposed to do, which is follow orders, swallow my pride, be a good soldier. And then you looked for me to get in my bed, and then nothing from you. So, I did what was expected, I stayed quiet. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He stared and stared, reclamations going over his head as his eyes trailed the rest of your body with furrowed eyebrows. Alarmed. It was the most expressive you’ve seen him. No balaclava could hide the tension that held him upright.

“And then you ask Price to keep me off the next mission, after I keep proving that I’m capable. What else do you want from me?”

For the first time in a long time, he had no sass, no jokes, no answer for what he’d done.

“Y/N… I-“ He choked.

“I’m asking Price to change units. This will be my las mission with 141,” This time, he looked like he wanted to say something, but you were done with his excuses. “I’m done with your disrespect and your justified violence.”

You threw the word back at his face, Ghost tense and quiet.

“Y/N?” Someone asked from the exit. As your head snapped towards the voice, you hastily put your coat on, covering your shoulders immediately.

Johnny clutched your purse, eyes roving over your face and red rimmed eyes. The hesitance to look at your body let you know he had seen enough. Blue eyes kept jumping from Ghost to you, back and forth connecting the dots. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just tired. Heading back to base,” You stepped down the crate, Ghost taking a sudden step back, as if you’d burned him. He officially wanted nothing to do with you.

“I will take you,” Johnny offered, gently and uncharacteristic, raising an arm to put over your shoulders in comfort, but let it fall as if he thought it over.  In a second, he turned with an expectant palm towards Ghost. “Keys.”

He didn’t ask, he demanded. And Ghost, the good soldier he was, followed orders.

“The Lieutenant will take a cab.”

The Lieutenant didn’t argue.

--

The ride was tense, Johnny flickering glances at your silent state. As you stared blankly at the windshield, he hid his anger under his worry.

“Do you… should you talk to someone?” Johnny asked tentatively, indicating that maybe someone of a higher ranking should get involved.

“No,” you answered, finality in your tone.

You opened the door hastily when you arrived, avoiding any opportunity for him to ask more questions.

You had done enough talking for the night.

--

Thankfully, the common barracks were empty. But as you sat on the lower bunk bed, you felt a note crumble beneath your weight.

You stared at nothing in the dark, exhausted, taking deep breaths for a few minutes before you had to read, dreading another mission or another memo at your impertinence.

After gaining courage, the light post by the window allowed you to read that the note was a relocation to another bed.

--

The private room was yours, just like the private bathroom and the queen-sized bed. It was a slight gratification after everything that transpired a few hours ago.

And it was in another hall from your unit, further away from Ghost’s own private bedroom.

You didn’t want to think about him anymore this night, you thought as the nearly boiling water cascaded down your back.

As you scrubbed yourself clean, you reminded yourself that you needed to thank Johnny, he must’ve had to pull some impossible strings to find you a private bedroom amongst the fully occupied base.

In secret, inside of your new bedroom, you finally allowed yourself to cry.

Part 2

[mondaymelon]

₊˚ෆ 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 !! | sagau xiao, childe, zhongli x gn!reader

ˋ°•*⁀➷ cw: uhm. obsessiveness? yandere if you blink a couple times? cult themes... the usual deal with this au

⤷ [ you, the benevolent and kind overseer and creator of teyvat, has descended upon this world in mortal flesh, with a presence that is overpowering, omniscient, and so impossibly pure. ෆ yet, one day, you come into the cathedral with a gash on your arm, dripping with shimmering golden ichor that spilled from your veins. there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring. ]

— sagau!xiao noticed you immediately. it would be hard not to. since the beginning, he had always heard it.

your sound. a beautiful one, a heavenly one. a chord struck him, somewhere in his chest, and he found himself panting on the ground, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

like a electric charge - one that leaves you startled, tentative, with the tips of your fingers still tingling from what happened moments prior. a buzz in your veins that thrums along with your heartbeat.

he didn't deserve to see you. not with what sins he had committed. but xiao was selfish. he wanted to, with his tainted body, he wanted to praise you, scrape his throat raw with his voice.

and so he did.

his face brightens as you step into the cathedral, dressed in ceremonial robes as per usual. you look ethereal, why would you not? your eyes are warm as they fixate on him, and he can feel his heart skip a beat and words die in his throat. he kneels before you orderly, readying to lift his head when something catches his attention - that is, the coppery scent of blood.

blood?

a droplet splatters onto the dustless floor. melted gold.

xiao's already stood up before he realizes it. his eyes are blown wide, his shrunken pupils sharp, like a cat's. "who. who did this to you?" those words take all the willpower in him to speak. his mind is swirling, racing, thinking up of every single possibility, vision scattered and blurry as unbridled fury teems within him.

"it's nothing. some civilians have begun rioting in the city, saying that i'm an imposter. all i did was show them a little bit of my blood and they all started singing praises, so the issue has been resolved." you shake your head with a soft smile, like this matter isn't anything to concern himself over.

it is.

he hates it. how he feels so fucking powerless, how he couldn't even stop this simple event from occurring in the first place. it's his fault. it's his and everyone else who dared not believe your words. your word is the truth. it is the undeniable laws of the world, what maps the stars and what lays the land.

he'll have time to ingrain that within everyone's minds. even if it means time away from you. but that's not the issue at the moment. he turns to search for bandages, but sees the already-healing wound slowly closing up as your skin mends together.

there's a knife at your side, coated in something that shimmers in the rays of light coming from the high, color-tainted windows.

something in his heart decides, seeing your reserved smile.

there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring.

very well.

then he'll just have to eradicate every last one of them. ₊˚ෆ

— sagau!childe had, to be honest, never cared all that much. why would he, to the person who had abandoned him into the cold, dark, abyss? yet, the smile on your face. it's bright. so bright it burns him. was there a day where he could smile like that?

no, no. he couldn't. that's an expression only reserved for someone as beautiful as you. as pure as you, like a blank, unblemished canvas, with the world as its paint. it's a level of resplendency that no one on this cursed universe could ever hope to accomplish.

a god in flesh, living in a tainted world. a walking contradiction that he had grown to call the thing that allowed him to keep living. something that spurred irony, you who broke all forms of the logic he had made to keep himself sane. perhaps that was why the heart he'd locked away has suddenly begun aching again? is that why he feels so warm from your divine prescence?

"childe?" you call out his name into the vast, empty hallways, glancing around for the familiar sight of a tuft of ginger hair. he hears you at once, rushing to your side with a grin on his face.

"your grace??" he bows at the sight of you, unable -to contain his excitement as he quivers in place, the smile on his lips tugging upwards even more than its current extent. "yes, what's-"

he stops abruptly, his voice faltering as he catches the scent of something iron. one familiar on the battlefield, a liquid that'd paint the surroundings a beautiful red.

his heart pounds. the thrill of a battle? no, that can't be it. if that was the case, how come it felt like he was slowly suffocating on his unspoken words?

that's when he catches the sight of the poorly wrapped bandages encasing your forearms. and the shimmering ichor that's soaked through the hastily wrapped cloth.

he moves to grab your arm, but curses himself out as he quickly changes direction and tightly holds your wrist, his expression more pained than yours, despite you being the one suffering with the injury. "what... your grace, what is this?"

he hates your knowing smile. he hates it. (oh, but does he? could he hate anything that is of you?) it just reminds him how you're all too far for him to reach, a purity that he does nothing to maintain. "there was a riot in the city against the church. luckily, they all quieted down after i gave them a glimpse of..." you trail off, ending your incomplete sentence with a sheepish smile. the rest is self-explanatory, anyway.

his vision trembles as his pupils shake. "haha, you...?" fuck. fuck fuck fuck, just whose idea was it to allow you near a knife? how did you get your hands on that?? which stupid fucking bumbling idiot allowed for this to happen?

it's his fault. he should've been by your side. curse the fatui, curse them all, how could they possibly dare keep him away from your holy being? the guilt that churns within him, is that why he remains mute as you step away, gracefully walking to meet with the other retainers?

there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring.

no, it's fine.

it will all be fine.

cutting off their tongues won't be enough. cutting them up until they're a dismembered, bloody mess isn't even close to what you've suffered for the sake of humanity.

yes, he'll make them realize that. they'll pay with their blood a thousand times over. ₊˚ෆ

— sagau!zhongli had his breath taken away by you before he even saw you, before the two of you had even exchanged words. your presence - it was so simply alluring, a saccharide charm that just drew him closer and closer.

sweet. yes, it was a familiar flavor upon the tongue that had long since tasted the many marvels the world had to offer. like a warm cup of tea, made from the sugary extract of flowers, how the sensation of it seemed to bloom upon your mouth.

ah, how should he put this. perhaps you had procured the blossom in his heart instead? stems, leaves, buds, a floret that'd only appear when you were in his gaze. a steady thrum that ran throughout his body with every stolen glimpse he took from your attention expertly.

perhaps, was this what he felt all those years ago?

did it matter? his soul was resolute, now, and it glowed gold, just like the blessed blood that flowed through every vein and lay in every vessel within that beautiful, beautiful you.

yes, ichor... just like the splatter of it on the ground...? a pang of fear strikes him - has something happened to you while he was away? he should've none better than to trust those good-for-nothing other cultists, who spend all their time babbling about your gloriousness yet turn a blind eye to whenever you require assistance!

no, he had to calm himself down. this wasn't the moment where he should grow frustrated. first, he must confirm the situation... he's planned this out to the every plan b, c, d, e, and so on, so how come he's still feeling so anxious?

there you are, upon your throne, busy conversing with a fellow archon, the one as free as the wind. funnily enough, you were the one that tied him down like a shackle.

"ah, zhongli. are you alright? you're breathing quite hard." you tilt your head, averting your gaze from venti's sparkling eyes and instead fixing them on the usually stoic man's jumbled expression. his shoulder's heave as he resists the urge to collapse at your feet.

"what... what are you... you're hurt?" stained bandages peek out from just below your silk sleeve, a sight that cannot possibly be missed from his attentive gilded eyes. "why didn't you tell me? i-i'll call one of the healers so they can-"

"zhongli, there's no need for that." with a hand, you gently signal venti to leave the scene, which he does, with obvious reluctance. a silence gesture that resonates with appreciation deeply within him. "this was of my own accord."

"your own accord?"

"unbelievers decided to throw a riot, and there wasn't much i could do except...well, don't they say that seeing is believing?" how come you don't look the slightest bit pain? where is your self-pity? your frustration? "anyhow, i'm not in a good state. please leave me for the time being, i don't plan on receiving any more audiences tonight."

he bows hastily, yet each movement is still finely crafted with minuscule adjustments that have taken him thousands of tries to master. he does as you say, and his strides are quick and long. it won't take a genius to see that his facade has crumpled, with the clear agitation that's spreading across his features like a wildfire that devours all in its path.

there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring.

he'll change that. every thrum of the golden markings running up and down his body seem to pulse in unison with his heartbeat, which is raring like he's recently returned from the battlefield.

who would've thought he'd so quickly return.

this time, of his own will. he'd be sure that these fools of this world would learn the truth of your paragon. ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) please save me the delulu has returned and iTS NOT LETTING GO

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123

[brain4stew]

Sooo, I don’t write much for forsaken x reader, but a silly idea here from me, to other writers (possibly).

A reader that’s either sleepy 24/7 or could sleep 24/7, like a fucking hibernating bear.

• (In my case, it’d be both, so let me write for that rq.), (Only idea related, I guess??)

• If you’re a survivor, then damn, either you’re lucky to be the last one remaining, and the killer leaving you alone to win, due to you either sleeping, or being too sleepy to even stand. Or you could be unlucky as hell, and end up dead first, spotted first or attacked first.

• Other survivors worry about you dying first, or dying in general in rounds. (Especially Elliot, that guy gets some sort of heart attack.)

• Either you’re with a survivor you spawn together with, or you’re just, going to a corner of the map and just, either sitting there and wait the timer out, or you’re sleeping in the said corner.

• God forbid the killer is C00lkidd… He’ll probably go for you first, to “Get your energy back!” As he says it.

• On another note, if it is Mafioso, he’ll just scare and chase you in the dreamscapes… So you’ll basically have a nightmare of that.

• Thankfully, Jason, 1x1x1x1, John Doe, Azure, Noli and the other killers leave you be. (Maybe not 1x4 but… It’s possible they’ll leave you be.)

• If you’re a killer, then you’ll just be an event killer. You’ll spawn with another killer, and you’ll be able to either stand where you spawned, or sleep where you spawned. You’ll also be invincible for around 40 seconds within the start of the round. It could come back, but only if the killer companion of yours is close by you for 5 seconds.

• (It gives your fellow killer companion 20 more stamina, and gives survivors drowsiness 1 for the duration of the rounds you’re in it. Drowsiness means that the survivors visions will be outlined with a bit of black “smoke”, obscuring their visions. Not only that, but occasionally they will “blink” and yawn, which will be a problem for the survivors. If the survivor tends to yawn loudly, then your killer companion will be notified of the survivor.)

• Now, Mafioso paired with you, might be a very hard challenge for the survivors. For if you’re sleeping, or just staying by the killer spawn and probably fall asleep standing, Mafioso can actually get to where you are rather quickly. Thanks to the dreamscapes. (There’s a cooldown ofc, of 60 seconds.)

• Each survivor and killer have different opinions on you, whether you’re a killer or a survivor yourself. It varies on how it is to be around you, how you act and all of that.

• I have a feeling that the survivors do NOT trust you to be asleep, or even remotely close to Two Time, due to their past, and all that. The survivors might have a debate on whether they’ll allow 007n7 to be close to you or not however, due to his past actions.

• The killers all agree that 1x4, Mafioso and C00lkidd should NOT be near you. If you’re sleeping or not. Mainly because, 1x4 literally hates anyone and everything? Mafioso… Due to the dreamscapes and all of that… C00lkidd is pretty self explanatory. Hyper little kid.

• Jason, Azure and I think Guest 666 will be able to be around you, even if you’re asleep or just sleepy in general. Mainly because they won’t be too loud around you, and because they don’t do much, unless they’re in a round. (Jason legit can’t talk.)

• Out of every survivor, I’d assume that Taph, Dusekkar, Elliot, Guest 1337, Builderman and Noob will be the safest around you. Mainly Guest 1337 though, as he’s got quite high senses due to his past, and because he had to be on high alert for any enemies from war.

• Dusekkar would probably just put a noise canceling shield on you, so you’d be able to sleep without too much noise. Taph is naturally quiet, they only speak with emoji’s, so it’d probably be sign language. They’d also hold back on testing their subspace trip mine when you’re nearby.

• Noob would just be grateful that you even trust them enough to be sleepy, or even sleep near them. They feel like they have a “objective” to help you sleep. Elliot is also just glad you trust him enough to be sleepy or sleep around him, it also eases down his own stress levels.

• Builderman would make sure that you’re REALLY protected when you’re sleeping. He’d even build a sleeping dispenser nearby for you, quietly of course, just so you’ll get some ambience and fairly “fresh” air.

[nipuni]

Alright, time to share my opinions about Veilguard!! I have both criticism and praise so bear with me as I jump from one extreme to the other 😆 spoilers ahead of course!

The game has a very rough start with the dialogue being formulaic and rushed and the characters overexposing. It feels like a heavy handed attempt at summarizing all of previous games' lore for newcomers or in case you forgot but it's so overdone it feels coddling and trivializes a lot of previous events. Luckily this gets better once all of the introductions are out of the way, though the excessive hints and clarifications continue until the end sadly.

The locations are absolutely incredible and very diverse!! This is a highlight of the game for me. There is so much detail and care in every map and there are so many of them. My pc is struggling to reach medium settings and yet everything looks stunning. The verticality of the maps is so imposing and the graphics have a very dreamy quality that I love. I also enjoy the maze-like structure to the maps, it's more linear but makes everything look a bit more intentional. The color and light direction was amazing, all the visual development really!! it has to be one of the prettiest games I've ever played.

When I started I have to admit it did not feel like I was in Thedas and it all felt a bit theme-parky, if that makes sense. A lot of previously important and established world elements that made Thedas what it is were overlooked or made irrelevant. But the more I played the more it started to feel a bit more similar to Inquisition, for better or worse depending on what you feel about Inquisition. But!! this also feels like a selectively sanitized version of Thedas compared to previous games. In it's attempt to stay safe and uncontroversial in some aspects it loses a lot of substance and it changes the tone. The surface level politics, ignoring previously established major societal issues and a tell-don't-show approach makes the world seem more simple and shallow with no grey areas to explore. ( the humor also falls flat and out of place often too, and WHY is everyone always smirking, enough!! godlike beings are destroying the planet please this is not the time for Marvel banter aaaa )

The pacing at the start is a bit of a mess. It is so fast it felt like jumping from one world shattering discovery to the next with no time to process. The characters also seem to underreact to important information and major developments. It felt like the game was rushing me through all this to get to the part of the story it wanted to tell me while I was still wrapped in my shock blanket trying to catch my breath lmao. I really like all the key story points they touched upon, I just wish they dwelled more on them to give them more narrative weight. ( though blaming every bad thing to ever happen on the Elves was certainly..a choice )

I think the writing could have used more subtlety in the first half and more boldness in the second 😆 but I loved the thematic parallels between Rook and Solas and how every quest informs the main storyline. I do wish Rook was given more impossible choices and put in more difficult situations that forced them to lie or betray their own to better drive the point home though ( listen I just love a Trolley problem!! we need more of those, I'm the Trolley problem's number one fan!! ) I feel like they missed the chance to put Rook in Solas' role and be as vilified and hated for it as Solas was despite their best intentions which would make Rook's regrets stronger and in turn make their escape from the fade all the more impressive and give them a better understanding of Solas to either use against him or earn his respect. The line 'they called me the Dread Wolf, what will they call you when this is over' from the trailers was so good I was waiting for this!! But everyone just loves Rook no matter what!!

But I feel like I stated too many negative aspects in a row so moving on to some things I enjoyed!

The characters were very lovable to me. The romances weren't as long or impactful as I would have liked but I enjoyed all the companion quests. Emmrich is a delight and his quest is so wild and fun. I loved learning about Nevarra and I was awestruck by the Grand Necropolis. The mourn watch was so interesting, it showed a whole new side of Thedas' lore I knew nothing about! and I loved Manfred! Davrin is so charming, he became a favorite. I loved his quest too and learning more bits and pieces about the Dalish was great, I wish we got more. Seeing the Wardens through his quest also made me enjoy them a lot. Assan was very cute too and I'm glad he was treated as an animal and not turned into a goofy Disney sidekick too much lmao 😭 Lucanis is hilarious. The fantasy Spain/Italy was a bit silly and off at times but he is very sweet! and I love the Spite possession, that was so fun I'm glad they kept him that way! Bellara is adorable, her first backstory quest made me cry and I just love a nerd! I wish the second part of her story was written better however, and she sort of devolves into 'it's hard, I wish it was easy but it's hard' dialogues too often sadly. Anaris and the Forgotten Ones' portrayal was underwhelming and anticlimactic which was disappointing. Harding is also very cute and her Titan plotline was the most interesting to me, I bawled my eyes out in her quest!! I love the dwarven lore of this universe I'm so happy we got more of it!! ( she also fucking died in my playthrough?! I was devastated what the hell 😭 'whatever it takes' WEUEUGHHHG I'M SO SORRY) Neve was a slow burn for me because of my choices in game slowing that relationship down ( saving Treviso I mean, perdón amor 🙏 ) but I love detective novels and she is such a badass I ended up loving her. Taash was unexpected, I didn't think they would be so young. The coming of age story was sweet, though I found myself cringing a lot too at the handling of it I have to admit ( and the Lords of Fortune in general, and the Antaam...and que Qun..listen- kajshfgf ) but I also enjoyed learning more about the first expedition and the Qunari in general despite the messy writing and choices. I also loved Antoine and Evka! and Strife! And I haven't even read any of the novels they are in 😆 also Mila!!!! and her dad oh my god and Felassan haunting the narrative!! speaking of haunting, I would have loved for Cole to be in the lighthouse too I think it would have worked well 🤔 especially with the whole 'reading Solas' secret diary' thing the game had going on lmao

Everyone seems to get along except for a bit of friction that is quickly resolved at the start, which is hmm missed potential? I would have preferred more tension personally. I enjoy the drama! gives me more to work with and gives you a better grasp on everyone's personality by contrasting values. I think they wanted to speed run a found family trope for the new hero to establish some emotional stakes early on but it ended up making everyone seem like a group therapy session instead. The group meetings also have everyone either state the obvious or repeat the same opinion or conclusion to each other, I would have loved these meetings to have more bickering, have people get mad and storm out and also get to listen to different takes on a situation. Make Rook struggle more to take the reins and keep the team functional, learning how to be a leader.

Speaking of Rook! ( who in my case has a northern British accent that I loved so much 🥺) They seem to have a very established personality. I was expecting more of a blank slate but I'm lucky that the personality they went for kind of matches what I would normally choose in a first playthrough. Though the lack of range in the choices is irritating and takes away some replayability and role playing potential. Rook is very supportive and selfless, I wasn't expecting this tbh! But it all made my Rook turn into the team's weird supportive necromancer mom so it worked out in the end I guess lmao. I can't wait to draw her!!

I was so overwhelmed by the amount of information we got about Solas and his past!! I was expecting answers but not these many and not for them to be such an integral part of the plot!! The game feels like it's about him more than anything else. His arc is the best written out of all. He is mentioned in every conversation, he's the main advisor and the narrative foil, you get to talk to him often, you work for him and with him and go into his memories it all feels so surreal to me lmao I love him so I'm delighted ngl! but also making the other Evanuris so cartoonishly evil makes Solas into such an obvious choice of an ally, god of trickery or not, that it sort of takes the decision out of your hands and makes some dialogue options and companions' opinions seem almost nonsensical. I have no idea how this game would feel to someone who absolutely hates Solas' guts honestly. I suppose I will find out soon enough 😆

About Solas' story, I loved it! I somehow also feel that I knew it already, all the speculation and theories that Solavellan fans were crafting for years were so accurate that it was all very validating. Even the wildest ones! Solas as the Maker, the elves spirit origin, Mythal giving him a body, the war with the Titans, the origin of the Blight, Solas being on your side as advisor, I can go on, we knew!! Also I have to mention this I'm sorry but they made him look so hot!! unbelievable. And the bloodied teary eyed pathetic look in the end ouurghhh I'm cheering and clapping!!

The romance conclusion was so lovely 😭 the Loki and Sigyn ending we deserved to such a mythological epic!! and open ended enough for all of us to cook!! and we got to see him fight and transform into the Dread Wolf!! and whimper and cry!! and bleed and love!! that's all I ever wanted, incredible we were really spoiled what the hell I still can't believe it 😭 GDL acting was brilliant as usual! the visuals were also incredible and exactly what I had in mind when I imagined where the story may go, the eclipse, the giant wolf, the glowing eyes, the Elvhenan ruins, the statues, even the hair lmao it all aligned exactly to what I've been painting all these years but better I was thrilled 😭

Solas backstory with Mythal also offers players that didn't romance him a chance to see him act out of love and show a side they wouldn't be able to reach otherwise and I think it was smart! also very tragic and sheds more light into all of his choices and words and his relationship with Lavellan too and the parallels and reversals and uughh thoroughly enjoying the emotional distress 👌

Pleasing both the Solas lovers and haters at the same time was always going to be hard with him being such a polarizing character by design and the world states being so different but I think they did a good job! at least from my side of things.

I think my favorite part besides the Solas related stuff was the Blight. I loved how horrific and gross and threatening it was! I've always loved the concept of the Blights and I'm glad it was such a huge part of the story in this game. I also loved Treviso!! has to be the most beautiful city in Thedas ahhh and the Necropolis!! the gardens!! Vorgoth!!! Kal-Sharok!!! I can't believe we got to see it!! and a Titan!!! the giant floating face of Ghilan'nain in the clouds??? and the huge archdemons and dragons!! oh and that warden dragon trap in the shape of a griffon?? and the giant blight tendrils!! the siege at Weisshaupt was outstanding!! and the floating panopticon castle situation in Minrathous uughh there is so much I loved.

OH I also enjoyed the Varric arc even though I saw it coming since the trailer it was still played well and it was touching 🥺

The ending felt a bit jarring to me in tone though, a bit too cheerful considering...the horrors. Over half the continent destroyed and most of the problems Thedas had before the game are still there. Veil in place and all 😆

But I had fun!! I'm nitpicking really, the conclusion to Solas' story feels very satisfying to me which was my main worry so I'm happy. It is a good game!! with a sort of soft reboot feel to it and aimed at a younger audience which is probably what they were going for? You can sort of feel the struggle the team went through during production in the way the target audience seems unclear sadly. I also can't help feeling like this is an ending, so much was revealed and resolved!! but maybe I feel that way because that is what I felt after Shadowbringers / Endwalker in FFXIV once my favorite part of the story was wrapped? They can always pivot to a new continent and expand on the world and cultures we know almost nothing about, but that is always harder to sell so I have no clue where they will go from here 😵‍💫

Anyway I'm still processing a lot of stuff that I will probably talk (and draw) about later, this is already long enough!! for now I'll look up how to get the artbook because the art direction of this game is fantastic!! I would love to hear your thoughts too really, I'm curious about the experiences of players who made different choices and with different tastes to mine!!

[prythianpages]

Lost in the Dark | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader ft Azriel | Eris wants you back in Autumn. Meanwhile, you find yourself confiding in Azriel.

a/n: This is pt.5 to my recent Eris series. A little over 2,400 words. Not sure if I like this part as much as it's slower compared to the other parts but I felt like it was necessary.

warnings: angst, reader is pregnant/ hidden pregnancy trope, this will be following along with some events from the series such as the war with Hybern but timeline may not make sense bc I am choosing to ignore it for the sake of this fic lol otherwise, reader would be pregnant for more than a year

The towering windows of the Forest House casted long bands of golden light across the dark wood floors. Beron sat at the head of the table, one leg crossed over the other, a goblet of deep red wine in hand. His advisors lined either side of the long table.

Your father, seated two chairs down from Beron, was mid-sentence when a servant approached silently, bowing and offering a sealed letter. He accepted it with a distracted murmur, breaking the seal and unfolding the parchment.

“A letter from my son,” your father announced with a thoughtful hum.

Beron arched a brow, sipping his wine. “How is he faring in Day?”

Your father smiled faintly as his eyes skimmed over the brief letter. “Well. He sends word that all is steady at the moment. It appears my daughter is thriving as she’s been introduced to some promising suitors. There may be a wedding on the horizon.”

The statement was meant to be harmless. Just polite court chatter, an update on a noble family’s daughter. But Eris, seated across from his father, went still. There was a slight tightening in his jaw, a small pause in the way he rolled the goblet’s stem between his fingers.

Beron gave an amused chuckle. “About time, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” your father chuckled too. “That girl’s not getting any younger. It would be a relief to put a stop to those whispers on why she’s yet to wed.”

Eris kept his face composed and emotionless. But his fingers clenched tighter around his goblet, the subtle movement catching the keen eyes of his brother. A flicker of interest passed across Jayce’s face. Eris met his gaze for a moment too long.

“Good for her,” Eris said, his voice perfectly disinterested, to throw his brother off his scent. 

Though, something primal throbbed in his chest. It was the instinct to claim, to protect, thrumming under his skin like wildfire. He knew about the whispers and hated them. He also hated the way his father and yours were speaking about you, as if your worth diminished with every year unwed.

“I was beginning to think she’d sworn off males entirely.”

The words left his mouth, tasting sour immediately. His teeth clenched, tension coiling in his neck and shoulders as he forced himself to remain still. 

“Enough gossip,” Beron said, already growing bored. He waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s begin.”

The room then shifted into more formal tones as documents were passed, maps unfurled. The talk turned to strategy, to threats looming on the horizon. “The Hybern conflict is worsening,” Beron noted. “We’re being drawn into it, whether we like it or not.”

“We should consider recalling some of our emissaries stationed in other courts,” Eris suggested.

Beron lifted a brow. “You think any court would be foolish enough to harm our people?”

“Not directly,” Eris replied. “But war is chaos. And no court is as secure as our own. Autumn protects its own best within its borders.”

A beat of silence followed. A few heads nodded. Strategic sense. Reasonable caution. No one would question the High Lord’s heir making a practical suggestion. No one would suspect the true reason—who he was thinking of.

You.

You, stationed in the Day Court with your brother. You, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar dangers. You, where he couldn’t reach you.

He’d pushed you away. He had to. It was for your own safety. His brother had grown too curious, too close to discovering the bond Eris had hidden so fiercely. If word had gotten out, if anyone found out…

Eris hadn’t expected you to run so far–to leave not just his side but the very lands you’d grown up in. As if Autumn, and he, had burned you too badly to ever return. 

And yet it was here, within Autumn’s borders, where you’d be safest. Even if you hated him. Even if you never looked at him the same. He could at least watch over you. It was selfish. He knew that.

But the thought of you smiling at another male, walking toward him in a wedding gown, letting hands that weren’t his touch you—by the Mother, it made something raw and violent twist in his chest.

“I’m only suggesting we prepare,” he said at last, his voice laced with calm he did not feel. “The tides of war shift quickly. And I’d rather not lose anyone unnecessarily.”

Jayce leaned back in his chair with a quiet hum. The corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite nothing.

Eris didn’t rise to it. He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe too sharply. Just kept his gaze fixed on the map as if every ounce of his concern lived there and not in the memory of your eyes, your laugh, your absence.

A breeze whispered through the Day Court palace, stirring the citrus trees nearby, their blossoms perfuming the air.  You sat across from your brother at a small table set for two, a private breakfast at one of the palace’s many terraces.

There was a plate of warm bread, cheeses, and honeyed fruit placed in front of you. For the first time in days, your stomach allowed you a few bites. You chewed slowly, carefully, trying not to call attention to the fact that your appetite had returned—however briefly.

You were reaching for your tea when you heard the flutter of wings.

A white dove landed at the far edge of the table. Tied to its leg was a letter, stamped with the seal of your family's crest. Your brother moved first, untying the parchment and thanking the bird with a small piece of bread. He scanned the contents quickly, his shoulders stiffening before he exhaled and turned to you.

“We’re going back home,” he said. “High Lord’s orders. A safety measure with Hybern stirring. They're recalling all emissaries.”

The slice of peach you'd just swallowed turned to stone in your gut.

Home.

You had tried not to think about it. About Autumn. About him.  You hadn’t expected to return. Not like this, not with the secret blooming in your womb.

You nodded slowly, as if the movement could make it more digestible. “Of course,” you murmured, past the lump in your throat. “That makes sense.”

The conversation moved on and you were thankful your brother didn’t catch on to your inner turmoil. He didn’t notice the way your fingers trembled slightly as you raised your teacup again. He was too busy talking about logistics and travel times while your mind was screaming at you, echoing the alarm set off by your racing heart.

Because if you went back home, you weren’t sure you’d ever make it out again.

Not this time.

You’d barely escaped once. Slipped through the cracks under the guise of being a loving sister, wanting to reconnect with her older brother. But you knew your father. You knew the way Autumn’s power tightened its grip, how it cloaked its possessiveness in tradition and duty. How quickly freedom became a fleeting illusion.

This time, there’d be no excuse to leave. 

Once you returned, you would be watched, your reputation would be questioned again. 

“Why isn’t she wed yet?”

 “Is there something wrong with her?”

And when your body began to change—when it became undeniable—what then? What would your father do with the daughter who came back bearing a bastard child? 

Then, there’s Eris. The male you tried so hard to stop thinking about, the one who had haunted every dream since you left. What would he do? Would he hate you for it? Claim the child? Deny it?

Would your father try to hide you? Control you? Use the pregnancy to his own advantage, as if your body were just another political pawn?

A chill passed through you, despite the warm Day Court sun brushing your skin.

You would not be safe in Autumn. The idea of returning, of being enclosed by its walls and expectations again, made you feel like you were walking willingly into a cage. Your unborn child deserved better than that. 

Your brother smiled softly at something he’d said, and you matched it with a faint one of your own. But there was only one thing echoing in your mind, louder than logistics and weather and timelines.

I can’t go back. I can’t go back. I can’t go back.

That night, sleep didn’t come.

You decided to go to one of the palace’s upper balconies, watching the moon hang low and full in the sky. You pressed a hand over your abdomen, as if you could shield what grew inside you with nothing but your palm. 

You didn’t know what to do. What other option was there but to run? Again? And where to?

You let out a deep sigh.

“Not a fan of the warm weather?”

The voice didn’t startle you—not anymore. Not even his shadows, who brushed past your feet like curious cats, did.

Azriel had visited a couple times, delivering messages and documents to High Lord Helion on High Lord Rhysand’s behalf. The times he’d see you, he always asked about your health. He’d even continued sending you supplements for your nourishment, worried over your  “prolonged food poisoning.” He never questioned it, even though his eyes showed he wanted to.

Though you wanted to be alone, you didn’t seem to mind his presence so much.

Azriel walked to the railing beside you, his wings half-folded. You scooted a little to give him some space and he leaned against it the same way you did.

“I used to complain so much about the Autumn chill at night,” you said quietly, a sad smile ghosting across your lips. “But funny, how I’ve grown to miss it.”

And how I dread to face it, you thought but didn’t say.

Azriel looked at you, something soft and far too knowing in his hazel eyes. “Sometimes, we don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone.”

You nodded, but the movement felt heavy.

“How’s the food poisoning?” He then asked gently.

“It’s–” You began but then stopped yourself.  You glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers, unaware that Azriel’s shadows already cloaked you both in silence. 

You didn’t owe him this. Not your truth, not your pain, not the secret that weighed more heavily with every passing day. Azriel was kind, yes. He’d been attentive, maybe even gentle in a way you hadn’t expected from someone with his reputation. But you weren’t friends. Not really. Not in the way that counted.

And yet…

You hadn’t felt so at ease around someone in weeks.

You didn’t know what telling him would change. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But what did it matter, in the end?

This was likely the last time you’d ever see him. You’d be gone soon—vanished, disappeared into whatever place would keep you and your child safe from Autumn’s grasp. If he let your secret slip, it wouldn’t matter. You’d hopefully be out of their grasp before anyone could act on it.

And still… a part of you hoped he wouldn’t.

A part of you also wanted someone to know.

“Actually, it’s not food poisoning.”

There was a long pause. And then you turned to him.

“I’m pregnant.”

You exhaled as if you’d been holding that breath for weeks. Because you had. The weight of this truth had been pressed against your ribs and wrapped around your lungs, and now it finally slid free.

Azriel didn’t speak. You noticed his shadows stilled completely. Even the air seemed to still. He didn’t react with judgement or shock. He just listened. You wondered if he could sense there was more—that this wasn’t the whole truth. You wondered what he would do when he heard the rest of it. Would he flinch then? Would he look at you differently?

“…It’s Eris’s,” you whispered.

There. It was done. Said aloud.

When you finally gathered the courage to look up again, you saw that Azriel’s expression hadn’t shifted in the slightest. It remained calm. But his shadows were not. They stirred with sudden energy, swirling and curling at his shoulders, as if… delighted...?

You blinked, confused. “You’re… not surprised?”

He gave the faintest shrug. “I can smell it.”

Your eyes widened in horror. Heat flooded your face, and you curled your arm protectively over your chest like that would somehow help. He could smell it? By the Cauldron! Have you been reeking for weeks now??

Azriel chuckled and you shrunk further into yourself. “Don’t worry. I doubt anyone else can at the moment. My shadows pick up on things before most people could. They’re nosy like that.”

His shadows fluttered playfully in response to the comment, and somehow, that made your shoulders loosen just a bit. “How long have you known?”

Azriel glanced down, slightly sheepish. “Since I helped you add your own flair to one of Helion’s antique vases.”

You managed a small, breathy laugh. One hand pressed to your chest like you could still your heartbeat with pressure alone. “Wow,” you murmured. “It feels good to tell someone...even if you already knew.”

Then your expression faltered. 

Azriel immediately noticed. His eyes flickered briefly to your stomach, then back to your face—so quickly you might’ve imagined it. “What’s wrong?”

“I just… I always imagined saying those words under different circumstances…”

A beat passed.

“Is that why you’re so far from home?” he asked, his tone gentle.

You hesitated. There was no point in lying now. He already knew the biggest part of your truth and something told you, he most likely already knew the answer to his own question. “Yes,” you replied, anyway.

The air between you shifted, and something about its weight made you want to retreat again. So you changed the subject before he could probe further.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmured, waiting for his nod before continuing. It was a question that had been biting at you since that morning he helped you. “Why have you been so… kind to me?”

Azriel didn’t answer immediately. His gaze grew distant, almost as if he were looking through you, lost in a memory. Then, after a small pause, he spoke.

“You remind me of someone I know.”

There was no attempt to elaborate, no more words to follow. His tone had carried a finality to it, an unspoken boundary he wasn’t willing to cross yet. 

You both settled into the quiet, allowing the space between you to deepen. It wasn’t awkward, nor was it uncomfortable. It felt... shared. A silent acknowledgment of the fragile bits you both carried inside you. 

You didn’t feel the need to break the silence. Neither did he. For a long moment, you simply existed there, in the quiet, without the pressure of words. No explanations. No more questions. 

Just the weight of the silence, enough to speak what neither of you dared to voice.

a/n: So the next part was originally going to have Az & Eris but after sleeping on it, I wanted to give more context and also write reader's confession in her POV. I do have Az's POV that I'll most likely include in the next part. Unless my mind thinks of more ideas/scenes , the next part will finally have the scene between Az & Eris during the High Lord meeting in ACOWAR.

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227, @paleidiot , @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand,

@slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits15, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith, @xadenswhore, @kod

[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp Prompt #3: Of Apples and Academic Frenemies

Au where Jason and Danny are attending the same college course on mythology and classical literature and they are always getting into debates about the depictions of the characters and the historical context of stories and stuff bc the both have a different exposure to the myths. Like Jason knows literal demigods and Amazons but Danny knows Pandora and the Greek myth related ghosts plus time travel from Clockwork and the infi-map. The debates can get heated at times but the respect each others intellectual takes.

This creates a peculiar situation where everyone in the class thinks they are academic rivals who hate each other (except for the few with their shipping goggles on and sense the homoerotic tension underlying their debates) and are deeply invested in watching them interact like their own personal drama even thought at this point in time they are at best friendly acquaintances and at worst annoying classmates.

Jason rants to his family about his debate partner/rival bc he’s happy to have some who will talk to him ad-nauseam abt this stuff but also bc he wants to complain about how Danny's a “smart but annoying little twink who’s got some real audacity”. And while the batfam is happy that Jason is experiencing some normal life things like an academic frenemy they’d love to stop hearing about this guy's “smug fucking smirk” and the “annoying gleam in his eyes". They are worried that Jason will snap and beat this guy up for being too annoying. Well, except Tim who thinks Jason would rather make out with this guy than debate with him.

One day the course decides to do a big themed party/fundraiser to save up for a class trip to an excavation site of some temple ruins or something. Both of them volunteer for the organizing committee bc of the offered extra credit. This encourages the two of them to start seeing each other more and to hang out outside of their classes so the can work on event planning. Over time they actually become pretty good friends (Danny's presence filters Jason's toxic ecto and cures pit rage due to increased exposure. It was happening anyways as classmates but the close proximity sped up the process) and Jason and Danny develop mutual crushes on each other.

For the event they do, like an Olympic games style format and have people sign up in teams for events a couple of weeks beforehand. Anyone in any sort of classical/mythology related course can join and they opened the event for public spectating. They have a few traditional events like a foot race, long jump and chariot race. But the also have some silly ones like Medusa's Snakes, where they shove their faces into bowls of whipped cream and fish out gummy worms, Pandora's Amphora, where they stick there hands into a box/jar of mystery contents (grapes, slime, a live animal like rats or kittens, a bunch of glitter, soda, etc.) and whoever keeps their hand in the longest wins, and Gladiator Fights, where they try to knock each other into a foam pit with those foam and rubber jousting sticks and the such.

Neither Danny, nor Jason want to participate for fear of their physical/supernatural abilities being discovered so the both get talked into doing the emceeing and commentary for the events. They make a really good duo, snarking and bantering with each other, playing off each other's energy and providing fun commentary to the events. Everyone, including the batfam who came to spectate, is a bit baffled by how well they are getting along bc last they checked these two were rivals of a sort, mildly annoying at best and actively antagonistic at worst. However, they really seem to be enjoying themselves.

The last event of the day is a trivia contest, which they both decide to take part in and let someone else take over the emceeing. The final winning trivia question is "what trope was falsely understood as a marriage proposal or declaration of love by misinformed media, that was actually closer to a ploy of seduction and indication of sexual desire according to Greek texts" and the both ring in at the same time to say "tossing an apple to someone" and an tie for the win. They both go up on stage to receive the prize (idk a gift card or smth) and shake hands before walking away in opposite directions.

Then suddenly Danny calls out to Jason just before he leaves the stage and chucks an apple he seemingly produced out of nowhere at him. The apple has a note with the time and date of a dinner reservation on it and when Jason looks back up at Danny he see the slightly flushed boy tentatively smiling at him.

" What do ya say Jase? Will you go out with me?"

And instead of replying Jason just straight up kisses him in front of everyone. Everyone else is gobsmacked by this whole turn of events except Tim who's cackling his head off, screaming "I FUCKING KNEW IT". When the two of them break apart they grin at each other widely and Jason drags Danny of the stage presumably to go make out somewhere.

[jewelleria]

I don’t usually talk about politics on here, if ever. But it’s been almost six months since the conflict in the Middle East flared up again, and I’m finally ready to start. Here are some of my thoughts.

I say ‘flared up’ because this has happened before and it’ll happen again. Because, even though what's currently going on is absolutely unprecedented, those of us who live in this part of the world are used to it. Let that sink in: we are used to this. And we shouldn’t have to be. 

But I use that term for another reason: I don't want to accidentally call it the wrong thing lest I come under fire for being a genocidal maniac or a terrorist or a propaganda machine, etc., etc.—so let’s just call it ‘the war’ or ‘the conflict.’ Because that’s what it is. Doesn’t matter which side you’re on, who you love, or who you hate. 

This post will, in all likelihood, sit in my drafts forever. If it does get posted, it certainly won’t be on my main, because I'm scared of being harassed (spoiler: she posted it on her main). I hate admitting that, but honestly? I’m fucking terrified. 

I also feel like in order for anything I say on here (i.e. the hellscape of the internet) to be taken seriously, I have to somehow prove that a) I’m “educated” enough to talk about the conflict, and b) that my opinion lines up with what has been deemed the correct one. So, tedious and unnecessary though it is, I will tell you about my experience, because I have a feeling most of the people reading this post are not nearly as close to what’s happening as I am.

How do I explain where I live without actually explaining where I live? How do I say “I live in the Red Zone of international conflicts” without saying what I actually think? How do I convey the fear that grips me when I try to decide between saying “I live in Palestine” and “I live in Israel”? I don't really know. But I do know that names are important. I also know that, due to the various clickbaity monikers ascribed to the conflict, it would probably just be easier to point to a map. 

I haven't always lived in the Middle East. I've lived in various places along America’s east coast, and traveled all over the world. But in short, I now live somewhere inside the crudely-drawn purple circle. 

If you know anything about these borders you probably blanched a bit in sympathy, or maybe condolence. But in truth, it’s a shockingly normal existence. I don't feel like I've lived through the shifting of international relations or a war or anything. I just kind of feel like I did when COVID hit, that dull sameness as I wondered if this would be the only world-altering event to shape my life, or if there would be more. 

I've been told that, in order for my brain to process all the horrific details of the past six months, there needs to be some element of cognitive dissonance—that falling into a sort of dissociative mindset is the only way to not go insane under the weight of it all. I think in some ways that’s true. I have been terrifyingly close to bus stop shootings when my commute wasn’t over; I have felt my apartment building shake with the reverberations of a missile strike; I have spent hours in underground shelters waiting for air raid sirens to stop. 

But. I have also gone grocery shopping, and skipped class, and stayed up too late watching TV, and fed the cats on the street corner, and cried over a boy, and got myself AirPods just because, and taken out the trash, and done laundry on a delicate cycle, and bought overpriced lattes one too many days a week. I have looked at pretty things and taken out my phone because, despite it all, I still think that life is too short not to freeze the small moments. 

So I'd say, all things considered, I live an incredibly privileged life—compared, of course, to those suffering in Gaza—one filled with sunsets and over-sweetened knafeh and every different color of sand. One that allows me to throw myself into a fandom-induced hyperfixation (or, alternatively, escape method) as I sit on the couch and crack open my laptop to write the next chapter of the fic I'm working on. 

But there are bits of not-normalness that wheedle their way through the cracks. I pretend these moments are avoidable, even if they’re not. 

They look like this: reading the news and seeing another idiotic, careless choice on Netanyahu’s part and groaning into my morning coffee. Watching Palestinian and Jewish children’s needless suffering posted on Instagram reels and feeling helpless. Opening my Tumblr DMs to find a message telling me to exterminate myself for reblogging a post that only seems like it’s about the war if you squint and tilt your head sideways. 

These moments look like all the tiny ways I am reminded that I'm living in a post-October seventh world, where hearing a car backfire makes me jump out of my skin and the sound of a suitcase on pavement makes me look up at the sky and search for the war planes. They look like the heavy grief that is, and also isn’t, mine. 

Here's the thing, though. I know you’re wondering when the ball will drop and my true opinion will be revealed. I know you’re waiting for me to reveal what demographic I'm a part of so that you, dear reader, can neatly slap a label on my head and sort me into some oversimplified category that lets you continue to think you understand this war. 

No one wants to sit and ruminate on the difficult questions, the ones that make you wonder if maybe you’ve been tinkered with by the propaganda machine, if you might need to go back on what you’ve said or change your mind. We all strive for our perception of complicated issues to be a comfortable one.

But I know that no matter what I do, there will always be assumptions. So, while I shudder to reveal this information online, I think that maybe my most significant contribution to this meta-discussion spanning every facet of the internet is this: 

I am a Jew. 

Or, alternatively, I am: Jewish, יהודית, يَهُودِيٌّ, etc. Point is, I come from Jews. And, like any given person, I am a product of generation after generation of love. 

I'm not going to take time to explain my heritage to you, or to prove that before all the expulsions and pogroms, there was an origin point. If you don’t believe that, perhaps it’s less of a factual problem and more of an ‘I don’t give weight to the beliefs of indigenous people’ problem. But, in case you want to spend time uselessly refuting this tiny point in a larger argument, you can inspect the photos below (it’s just a small chunk of my DNA test results). Alternatively, you can remember that interrogating someone in an attempt to make their indigeneity match your arbitrary criteria is generally not seen as good manners. 

Now, let’s go back to thathateful message (read: poorly disguised death threat) I received in my Tumblr DMs. I think it was like two or three weeks ago. I had recently gained a new follower whose blog’s primary focus was the fandom I contribute to, so I followed them back. I saw in my notes that they were going through my posts and liking them—as one does when gaining a new mutual. Yippee! 

Then they sent me this: 

I tried to explain that hate speech is not a way to go about participating in political discourse, but the person had already blocked me immediately after sending that message. Then, assured by the fact that I surely would never see them complaining about me on their blog (because, as I said, they blocked me), they posted a shouting rant accusing me of sympathizing with colonizing settlers and declaring me a “racist Zionist fuck.” Oh, the wonders of incognito tabs.

Where this person drew these conclusions after reading my (reblogged) post about antisemitism…. I'm not actually sure. But I greatly sympathize with them, and hope that they weren’t too personally offended by my desire to not die. 

For a while I contemplated this experience in my righteous anger, and tried to figure out a way to message this person. I wanted to explain that a) seeing a post about being Jewish and choosing to harass the creator about Israel is literally the definition of antisemitism and b) that sending a hateful DM and refusing to be held accountable is just childish and immature. But I gave up soon after—because, honestly, I knew it wasn’t worth my effort or energy. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to change their mind. 

But I still remember staring at that rather unfortunate meme, accompanied by an all-caps message demanding for me to Free Palestine, and thinking: the post didn’t even have any buzzwords. I remember the swoop of dread and guilt and fear. I remember wondering why this kind of antisemitism felt worse, in that moment, than the kind that leaves bodies in its wake. 

I remember thinking, I don’t have the power to free anyone.

I remember thinking, I’m so fucking tired. 

And before you tell me that this conflict isn’t about religion—let me ask you some questions. Why is it that Israel is even called Israel? (Here’s why.) Why do Jews even want it? (Here’s why.) But also, if you actually read the charters of Islamist terrorist organizations like ISIS, Hamas, and Hezbollah (among others), they equate the modern state of Israel with the Jewish people, and they use the two entities interchangeably. So of course this conflict is religious. It’s never been anything but that.

But I do wonder, when faced with those who deny this fact: how do I prove, through an endless slew of what-about-isms and victim blaming, that I too am hurting? How do I show that empathy is dialectical, that I can care deeply for Palestinians and Gazans while also grieving my own people? 

There's this thing that humans do, when we’re frustrated about politics and need to howl our opinions about it into the void until we feel better. We find like-minded souls, usually our friends and neighbors, and fret about the state of the world to each other until we’ve gone around in a satisfactory amount of circles. But these conversations never truly accomplish anything. They’re just a substitute, a stand-in catharsis, for what we really wish we could do: find someone who embodies the spirit of every Jew-hating internet troll, every ignorant justifier of terrorism, and scream ourselves hoarse at them until we change their mind.

But, of course, minds cannot be changed when they are determined to live in a state of irrational dislike. In Judaism, this way of thinking has a name: שנאת חינם (sinat hinam), or baseless hatred. It's a parasite with no definite cure, and it makes people bend over backwards to justify things like the massacre on October seventh, simply because the blame always needs to be placed on the Jews. 

So when a Jew is faced with this unsolvable problem, there is only one response to be had, only one feeling to be felt: anger. And we are angry. Carrying around rage with nowhere to put it is exhausting. It's like a weight at the base of our neck that pushes down on our spine, bending it until we will inevitably snap under the pressure. I’m still waiting to break, even now.

I wish I could explain to someone who needs to hear it that terrorism against Israelis happens every single day here, and that we are never more than one degree of separation away from the brutal slaughter of a friend, lover, parent, sibling. I wish it would be enough to say that the majority of Israelis (which includes Arab-Israeli citizens who have the exact same rights as Jewish-Israelis) wish for peace every day without ever having seen what it looks like. 

I wish I could show the world that Israel was founded as a socialist state, that it was built on communal values and born from a cluster of kibbutzim (small farming communities based on collective responsibility), and that what it is now isn’t what its people stand for. 

I wish the world could open their eyes to what we Israelis have seen since the beginning: that Hamas is the enemy, Hamas is the one starving Palestinians and denying them aid, Hamas is the one who keeps rejecting ceasefire terms and denying their citizens basic human rights. Hamas is the governing body of Gaza, not Israel. Hamas is responsible for the wellbeing of the Palestinian people. And Hamas are the ones who are more determined to murder Jews—over and over and over again, in the most animalistic ways possible—than to look inwards and see the suffering they’ve inflicted on their own people. I wish it was easier to see that.

But the wishing, the asking how can people be so blind, is never enough. I can never just say, I promise I don't want war. 

When I bear witness to this baseless hatred, I think of the victims of October seventh. I think of the women and girls who were raped and then murdered, forever unable to tell their stories. I think of the hostages, trapped underneath Gaza in dark tunnels, wondering if anyone will come for them. I think of Ori Ansbacher, of Ezra Schwartz, of Eyal, Gilad, and Naftali, of Lucy, Rina, and Maia Dee, of the Paley boys, of Ari Fuld and of Nachshon Wachsman. I think of all the innocent blood spilled because of terror-fueled hatred and the virus of antisemitism. I think of all the thousands of people who were brutally murdered in Israel, Jews and Muslims and Christians and humans, who will never see peace.

My ties to this land are knotted a thousand times over. Even when I leave, a part of me is left behind, waiting for me to claim it when I return. But when I see the grit it takes to live through this pain, when I see the suffering that paints the world the color of blood, I look to the heavens and I wonder why. 

I ask God: is it worth all this? He doesn't answer. So I am the one, in the end, to answer my own question. I say, it has to be. 

Feel free to send any genuine, respectful, and clarifying questions you may have to my inbox!

EDIT: just coming on here to say that I'm really touched & grateful for the love on this post. When I wrote it, I felt hopeless; I logged off of Tumblr for Shabbat, dreading the moment I would turn off my phone to find more hate in my inbox. Granted, I did find some, and responding to it was exhausting, but it wasn’t all hate. I read every kind reblog and comment, and the love was so much louder. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 🤍

Source Reading

The Whispered in Gaza Project by The Center for Peace Communications

Why Jews Cannot Stop Shaking Right Now by Dara Horn

Hamas Kidnapped My Father for Refusing to Be Their Puppet by Ala Mohammed Mushtaha

I Hope Someone Somewhere Is Being Kind to My Boy by Rachel Goldberg

The Struggle for Black Freedom Has Nothing to Do with Israel by Coleman Hughes

Israel Can Defend Itself and Uphold Its Values by The New York Times Editorial Board

There Is a Jewish Hope for Palestinian Liberation. It Must Survive by Peter Beinart

The Long Wait of the Hostages’ Families by Ruth Margalit

“By Any Means Necessary”: Hamas, Iran, and the Left by Armin Navabi

When People Tell You Who They Are, Believe Them by Bari Weiss

Hunger in Gaza: Blame Hamas, Not Israel by Yvette Miller

Benjamin Netanyahu Is Israel’s Worst Prime Minister Ever by Anshel Pfeffer

What Palestinians Really Think of Hamas by Amaney A. Jamal and Michael Robbins

The Decolonization Narrative Is Dangerous and False by Simon Sebag Montefiore

Understanding Hamas’s Genocidal Ideology by Bruce Hoffman

The Wisdom of Hamas by Matti Friedman

How the UN Discriminates Against Israel by Dina Rovner

This Muslim Israeli Woman Is the Future of the Middle East by The Free Press

Why Are Feminists Silent on Rape and Murder? by Bari Weiss

[i-suc-at-art]

DpxDc prompt #2

Full prompt from this idea

Tim and Danny are apart of an online RPG which is basically DND but anonymous and online. (it’s mainly for secret nerds who don’t have anyone irl to play with)

Danny plays as a changeling rogue who will often swipe things from players they don’t like

Tim plays a Variant Human, monk who wields a pole staff (my guy is not subtle) and will often give back the things danny (who’s known as wraith) (Tim goes by Scarlet Redpoll (mainly just Scarlet though)) stole

Rules of the RPG:

Everyone remains under their game handle (so there’s no doxing) NO REAL NAMES

You can interact with other parties who are using the same campaign as you, however when interacting with main story plot your party will go into its own private server

You can have a party of any size however it’s recommended to have a party over 4.. However you can make it with two or three or solo (but that’s just kinda sad..)

There is a chat feature and call feature in the game, however no hate speech, or bigotry

You can’t join a call unless your apart of the party

ofc this doesn’t stop it from happening but that’s not really relevant to the story

There are Dms (dungeon masters) but your team can also just use the computer for your Dm

Your character can be completely customized, and you’ll move around on a map

Ok now to the fun stuff

Danny and Tim (Wraith and Scarlet) have been playing together for about 3 months, and have made a commitment to play every 2 weeks on sunday (ghosts tend to take a break every 2 weeks on sundays (and B forced Tim to take a break from everything including cases every 2 weeks on sunday) Although sometimes each will get pulled away from the game and they’ll have to end early.

Anyways their campaign doesn’t super matter, only that they are online friends. Ok so one day Tim texts Wraith (they use online name bc y'know tim’s like uber famous) that he can’t make it to their session today bc his dad is forcing him to “bond” Aka he’s going to a gala with Bruce and Dick to stop a heist team that has been rampant across socialite and high society events. Wraith tells him it’s alright, and that coincidentally he’s busy too and was just about to cancel.

As Tim surveils everyone he curses Bruce for making him come. Tim had gotten into the habit of getting a night off from everything. He’d also not gotten a chance to do ample research on the guests beforehand because he’d been working on researching the thieves. He’d heard some chatter about the group looking into a possible haunted vahz, that was on display for the night. Tim had been surveying the party staying near the vahz making sure everyone checked out. Dick had texted saying that he’d cornered a possible thieving candidate and that he needed Tim to run an face ID check, on the picture he’d taken. The photo was of a young woman, her red hair caused Tim to think of Babs, but the woman’s simple teal evening dress couldn’t be further from her style. He’d done a quick search of the woman, she seemed to be some sort of rich young socialite, definitely Dicks type.. Her name was Kelly Jankins, no criminal history, or past arrests, she had a couple of parking tickets that were waved from her late teens. But nothing out of the ordinary. Tim texted Dick the information (save for the part about her being Dicks type) before stuffing his phone back into his pocket and moving from his post to go and get a drink. About 20 feet from his post he bumped into a nicely dressed guy, his hair black and suit tailored.. He also wore a Vladco pin on his left breast pocket.

He’d apologized and Tim told him it was no big deal, his eyes were blue.. But he could have sworn they were green when he first looked up. And his voice.. It sounded so familiar. Why did it sound familiar..?

As Tim walked away it hit him like a truck.. Wraith.

—————

Danny, Sam, Tucker, and Jazz had been stealing for some time now, after Danny had been outed as Phantom to the whole town by his parents. Him, Sam, and Tucker had decided to all leave Amity since all of their parents were unaccepting.. Sam’s parents had gone so far as to write her out of their will.. Danny had told her and Tuck to stay in Amity and fix their relationships with their family, but they’d both said ‘that if Danny wasn’t in Amity Park then they didn’t have their family.’ So they left. The three stayed with Jazz for a bit but she was a broke college student that barely had enough money for food and rent. So the three started stealing food.. It was out of necessity at first, and only from big companies, but when Sam got an online invitation to a big gala that was showing off some old artifacts from a rich guy’s private collection, Danny felt a pull toward a particular item from his core. The item belonged to someone in the ghost zone.. and he needed to have it. He needed to return it.

So they stole it. Danny was to be Sam’s plus one as he’s basically a haunted item metal detector. Sam would steal the item and Tuck would turn out the lights and secretly system. Then Danny would get him and Sam out of there. Most of their plans would be similar to this format. Sam would also grift from the other patrons, only stealing from the ones who seemed to have a shit ton of money. Eventually even teaching Danny how to do it too, she’d told him that ‘using his ghost powers were a cop out’ when he brought that up.. and that ‘anyone would be able to feel the chill of it.’ Which Danny was sure that that was untrue.. But he learned how to steal a wallet, or a phone Sam’s way.

Jazz had been against the thefts at first saying that all of these items belonged to the original owner. But soon she was persuaded when Danny told her that they were stealing stolen items. Stolen ghost items. Some of the items even had a ghost core attached to it. So Jazz became their planner, she’d make sure they’d have all the info they needed and that no one got caught.

Danny ends up in jail after being caught trying to lift someone’s wallet.. Jazz was there to legally get him out and pay the bail. Tucker got caught in a backroom of a place they were stealing from. ‘Oh yeah that’s her brother who would often get himself trapped in closets looking for the bathroom.. She apologizes profusely..’

So when Tucker had found their newest item, a haunted vase that had a shit ton of death and destruction attached to it, Jazz had thought up the plan. She’d heard whisperings that Vlad had gotten invited to the party but Danny was going to go in his place since Vlad would never go. Then they had a plan. A plan they were meant to stick to, until someone ran her face and Danny started being followed. So they abandoned the vase opting to get out of there instead of getting caught.

[thesullenfawn]

streamer!ellie hcs

(my first time writing so...🫣)

warnings: none, fem!reader

lowercase intended, pictures are from pinterest and they're not mine

credits to @/cafekitsune on tumblr for the divider

masterlist

♡ plays roblox sometimes and BEEFS with literal seven year olds on voice chat because they called her a noob.

♡ "there is no WAY you're calling me a noob when you have an invisible face you GOOFBALL ."

♡ both of yous live in a one bedroom apartment because yous live in a big city and rent and college is expensive.

♡ so sometimes you can be seen doing homework or studying on your bed or another desk in the background.

♡ "guys y/n is doing homework right now so she might say hi later."

♡ rages in minecraft survival mode and just quits the game after she dies for the millionth time.

♡ "i fr cannot do this like i can't bro this game is stupid as hell anyway....", eventhough she almost punched a hole through her monitor.

♡ you post cute little short, (and/or) faceless vlogs to document your travels or events and sometimes ellie is shown in them!!

♡ the comments are so 😭😭

♡ she absolutely would defend you straight away if you get any sort of hate though.

♡ wears the STUPIDEST t-shirts and you think they're funny but you refuse to let her wear them out.

♡ like that one shirt that says "lesbians eat what?!!" and it's a load of shocked looking cats on it.

♡ "ellie... can you please change your shirt? we're going to dinner 😥"

♡ fans also send them to her through a PO box if she has one and she unboxes them on stream too, so she has a whole collection.

♡ sometimes you join her stream when she's taking a break to eat dinner or something so you show the chat your sims 4 save file or another game you like.

♡ her mic is so bad but she refuses to change it because she thinks it sounds funny.

♡ speaking of sound she also spams that sound board she has to no return (i remember reading this from someone elses post help).

♡ "CHAT I WON LETS GO", *cue the crowd cheering sound effect and a load of blow horns*

♡ "what did i have for dinner? i had a cheeseburger....", *american national anthem plays*

♡ did a whole stream watching edits her fans made her and she was giggling the whole time. (she has a favourites folder on tiktok)

♡ she's totally a repost warrior.

♡ eventhough she does stream kinda often, she makes sure to spend a lot of time with you, even if it's pausing the stream to help you make dinner during a suuuuper long charity stream or something.

♡ if she posts a photo dump on instagram or something you're always in it somehow, and it's always faceless if you don't want your face shown to that many people online.

♡ always sosososo supportive of everything you do and tells the chat if you're comfortable, she's just such a cutie pie.

♡ "guys my pretty girlfriend is graduating soon can you believe that she's just such a genius".

♡ doesn't mention the fact that she is also in college like 😭😭.

♡ sometimes she just doesn't know what to do so she goes on google maps.

♡ "lemme show yous the block i live on.... wait nevermind woah".

♡ you heard that from the other room and your heart DROPPED.

please don't buy tlou games as the creator is a zionist.

[httpvomitello]

Hear me out, George x Reader where she's a exchange student from ilvermorny

Hellooo, i hope you like it ~ ♡

Across the Pond .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: When you transfer from Ilvermorny to Hogwarts for your final year, you expect new classes, new faces, and maybe a little culture shock. What you don’t expect is George Weasley—a mischievous, red-haired prankster who takes an immediate interest in you.

george weasley x f!reader

Stepping off the Hogwarts Express, you immediately felt out of place.

It wasn’t just the gloomy weather—though, compared to the crisp autumns you were used to back in Massachusetts, it was definitely bleak. It was the thick Scottish accents, the unfamiliar castle looming in the distance, and the fact that, despite being a fully trained witch, you felt utterly clueless.

Still, you weren’t about to let some nerves ruin your first day.

You followed the other students toward the corridor, feeling like a first-year all over again. Beside you, a girl with frizzy brown hair gave you a warm smile.

“You must be the Ilvermorny transfer student,” she said brightly. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Yeah,” you replied, offering a small smile. “Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you.”

“Don’t worry,” Hermione assured you. “Hogwarts can be overwhelming at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

You nodded, though you weren’t entirely convinced.

As you walk, you caught sight of two identical redheads looking at you.

But the way one of them was looking at you sent an odd flutter through your stomach.

Your first week at Hogwarts was... eventful.

You got lost constantly. You nearly walked into a moving staircase. You called Professor McGonagall Ma’am instead of Professor, earning a bemused look. And you learned the hard way that British wizarding slang was very different from American.

But through it all, one person seemed particularly interested in your struggles—George Weasley.

“Having trouble, Yank?” he teased one afternoon, leaning against the corridor wall as you furiously studied a hand-drawn map of the castle.

You scowled. “Call me that again, and I’ll hex you.”

“Ooo, feisty,” he grinned. “I like it.”

You rolled your eyes. “What do you want, Weasley?”

George smirked. “Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d offer my expert guidance to our lovely new student.”

You crossed your arms. “And what’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said innocently. “Unless, of course, you count the possibility of me leading you deeper into the castle instead of helping.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, no thanks.”

He chuckled. “Suit yourself. But if you ever get tired of wandering around like a lost puppy, you know where to find me.”

Unfortunately, as much as you hated to admit it, George Weasley was right.

A week later, after accidentally walking into the boys’ lavatory (to the horror of several fourth-years), you found yourself begrudgingly accepting his help.

George was, to your surprise, actually a good tour guide.

He showed you hidden shortcuts, explained the moving staircases, and even taught you how to tell when Peeves was about to pull a prank.

In return, you taught him some Ilvermorny tricks—like how to cast Flipendo with a flick instead of a swish, and the real way to make an exploding potion.

Before you knew it, you and George had fallen into an easy friendship.

Well, mostly friendship.

There was something else there, something unspoken—an energy between you two that sent your heart racing every time he leaned too close, every time his hand brushed against yours.

And, judging by the way Fred kept smirking at his brother, you weren’t the only one who noticed.

It happened after a Quidditch match.

Gryffindor had won, and the common room was wild. Music blasted, drinks flowed freely, and students were celebrating like they’d won the World Cup.

Somehow, you and George ended up alone on the couch, half-tipsy and laughing over some ridiculous joke Fred had made.

“You know,” George said suddenly, his voice softer than usual. “I’m really glad you transferred here.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Hogwarts was fun before, but now? It’s better.”

Your stomach flipped.

Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the way the firelight flickered across his freckles, or maybe it was just George, but suddenly, you knew—you wanted to kiss him.

So you did.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a way that was definitely not platonic.

For a second, George froze. Then, he kissed you back, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his lips warm and eager against yours.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he grinned. “Well. That was unexpected.”

You smirked. “Shut up, Weasley.”

He laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

[theroseiswithoutawherefor]

                                                                         Box

So...As I said before, this is the big project three of my friends(X @MAGIMARU @__olddoll @Pan991106) and I were busy with! DIR EN GREY MONOPOLY 2024.

Basically, it’s a game that took us about 6 months to complete and recorded the whole year of Diru. Actually none of us had done such a thing before or foreseen the process to be so exhausting. But yeah, we made it and gave it to every member in Osaka!!

An overall look of the game first

Map

                                                            Cards type1<named special events>

                                                Cards type2<named normal cards>

Cards type3<named magic world>

【MAP】

As shown, the map starts from 正月(January) and club citta, which was the venue of My Bloody Vampire, the very first show of Diru in 2024. Followed by Europe tour, Psychonnect, Androgynos and Who Is This Hell For, each space is named after the exact venue.

【RULES】

Concerned over language barriers, we tried to keep everything clear and simple, especially the rules.

Like normal monopoly, getting your money from the bank, collecting your token, rolling the dice, buying/selling properties(venues) and taking actions based on the space you end up on. That’s it!

Money(ordered by members’ ages and decorated by their signatures we received in 2024)

(btw the currency is called TRK, short for toriko虜)

Game manual

                                                                         Tokens

There are four kinds of spaces:

property space

When you are on a property space, you can choose to buy it and charge the rent.

chance space 1 for Cards type1<特別事件 special events>

chance space 2 for Cards type 2<普通事件 normal cards>

chance space 3 for Cards type 3<魔法世界magic world >

When you land on a chance space, you need to draw a card and follow the instructions. You may even get powerful tools there!

it’s even simpler than normal monopoly I feel haha

Types of cards

                                                               

【特別事件 special events】

This kind took me most of the time(I did almost all the drawings and design except for a very few cards and the tokens), so I will begin with it.

Like what I indicated before, you can draw a special event card when you land on a corresponding space. Each player/member can find their own special cards originated from their experiences in 2024.

*actually each one of them has 10 cards respectively, but technically it’s impossible to explain all of them, so I’m sorry to leave out some.

【Kyo’s part】

I finished kyo’s part first! From left to right, it indicates:

-kyo mentioned it was rly nice to have Arukuma at the venue and he wanted to see Kyoto’s mascot too, so I kinda joked about it

-the very famous HELL HELL HELL HELL HELL LOL

-kyo said it in a sukekiyo’s live around July, dont call me kyo or any name, say sukekiyo様(lord sukekiyo) instead and if you wanna happiness, buy a pot from me!(it was refering to a piece of cult news I guess)

-the sticker of his early age was sold out and Kyo hated it!!

-kyo mentioned he had Unadon three days in a row back in Nagoya, although it was him who wanted to eat Unadon the first

-he forgot his suitcase which was full of his personal clothing and shocked to see Poland was snowing when he woke up in Europe

-Kyo’s birthday live

-his instore, and he did a lot of cute doodles

【shinya’s part】

-all the members took photos of shinya’s legs and he was kinda embrassed about it lol

-he really likes sea otter!

-he was kinda robbed by a deer in Nara

-In order to film his youtube video, Shinya arrived at the venue 2 hours earlier but Toshiya surprisingly arrived earlier too!! Unsurprisingly Toshiya laughed at him, took a pircture, posted it on instagram and our poor Fujieda manager was being told off by shinya imao

-shinya passed漢字能力検定(a difficult language test of Japanese kanji)and received a certificate

-shinya posted a pic of sea otter as a reponse to kyo’s tweet saying his legs look great lol

-shinya collected all the mangazines of their vkei time and filmed a video

-his birthday event

-shinya was kinda obsessed with a Tiktok drama(he accidentally spotted the ad on instagram) and poured money into it.

【Die’s part】

-a collage of Die’s hometown Ise, Mie(all of us went to the show at Ise)

-he gave a MC there. It was rly touching

-he drank a lot of beer in Europe and treated Kaoru too(according to Thetheday)

-his birthday event

-he had his hair maintainance during the summer and it looked amazing(he posted it on Die’s mobile)

-his instore

-his 2nd instore(oh it must be tiring)

-his favorite baseball team 巨人（Yomiuri Giants） won the national champion of 2024 after beating Kaoru’s favorite team 阪神（Hanshin Tigers）

【Toshiya’s part】

-it’s also a joke related to Kyo’s card(the one of mascots) and Arukuma

-his photobook was published!! Congrats!

-his instore

-he streamed a cooking competition with Fujieda in the summer(the room was rly hot without AC)

-Toshiya celebrated his birthday in Berlin!(so I drew a little national flag on the plate and used sausages to decorate haha)

-he and Kaoru had a stream for Androgynos. They looked fine on the screen but they both admitted the chairs were so hard that their asses were hurt lol

【Kaoru’s part】

-Kaoru streamed with other TTT members to celebrate Boo’s birthday and drank a lot

-He misspelled his own name on TFOE(he also made a mistake on his birthday poster 長野虎之穴 and he corrected it by posting 野～～～！ On X)

-he had a holiday in Naha after Psychonnect (according to TTD)

-his birthday event(he designed several stamps to collect at the venue and I used the same layout when drawing it)

-A mini repo about how I got his pick in Nagoya

-the last episode of TFOE. He sang a song, ate shrimps and said byebye.

-Androgynos stream with Toshiya

-his instore. He doodled a lot and they kinda reminded me of Godzilla

-巨人 vs 阪神

【普通事件 normal cards】

-2024 was their 25th anniversary and we want to have another 25 years of Diru(so I drew 5 older them haha)

-1990120 was released

-Kyo was not rly happy with western food

-Kyo got mad on the stage

-Unext stream

-My bloody vampire caught the attention of local press bc fans covered with blood flocked to the street lol

-White Day

-the devil in me was released

-the stickers of Yokan were sold out! Congrats

-Dir en grey live film was out!

【魔法世界magic world】

Here comes my favorite kind! It was so enjoyable to draw. I guess it only took me around 2 or 3 days in total.

Bc it’s called magic world, it’s all about their babies(Idk how others call these cute little creatures, I just love to them their babies lol) and their pets. All the stories are around these non-human sweeties, while the only exception is the one on the right corner of the 1st row. The card is called Time machine, so I imitated kaoru’s self-portraits on his picks, indicating that this card can transfer current him to his younger time.

It’s a terrible pun i know lol

【summary】

Yeah that’s all!! Although it’s rly difficult to give a detailed introduction, we just finished it!! It rly took me so much time and energy, actually I was still working on it right before I flew to Sapporo mid November. I hope the members like the gift. And most importantly, I hope every diru fan enjoyed their 2024 and continuously enjoy Diru in the next coming years.

btw if anyone is curious about the workload, this is the screenshot↓

[daycourtofficial]

I got cursed like Eve got bitten - part V

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand's sister!reader | WC: ~1k | Warnings: mention of suicidal ideation

Summary: reports of a rare powered fae popping up in Illyria send Azriel and Rhysand on a journey through the past, unraveling a truth they thought long buried

Previous part | Next part | Masterlist

Lucky was not a word Rhysand had used to describe himself in a long time. It was a word he used frequently when he was younger - a boy king with the world at his feet. Now it felt like a harsh reminder of the ways he had been unlucky or perhaps lucky with despair. Losing his mother and sisters all those years ago was a sore spot on his soul, one that ached less and less as the years went on.

He had spent the past few days with Azriel, going over the events of that night in excruciating detail. They mapped out the routes his family had taken, attempting to recreate the night minute by minute with everything they knew. 

“Did we ever actually see her?” Rhys’s words were desperate, a plea that they hadn’t overlooked her somehow, despite the fact she was sitting somewhere in his house right now. He rubbed his temple before tracing his fingers along the map, outlining the areas they had searched in the days that followed for any physical remnants of them. They wanted to ensure they had picked up any and all remains of them - they especially didn’t want anyone attempting to sell their things, a pretty penny for the clothes they had worn or the trunks they had carried.

“She died, Rhys. I felt it in my soul. She died.”

“Well, yes, but you and I are both in agreement that that is her.” Rhys’s fingers pointed in a vague direction. “She is drawn towards all the things she was centuries ago - moonberries, sweets, books. She only wears blue clothing for cauldron’s sake.”

The two males looked at the table, the High Lord deep in thought. “We received three boxes that night.”

Azriel stiffened, the memory of Rhys’s mother’s head too fresh after several centuries. Her unblinking eyes looking at Azriel, their glossy gaze screaming failure.

“We only opened two.”

Azriel stilled at the implication, his shoulders locked into place.

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

Rhys watched Azriel’s shadows move about the room, covering the windows to make the space darker. It caused Azriel’s siphons to glow, a pale blue light amidst the darkness, as if he were a lighthouse calling lost ships to the shore.

“No, I’m accusing Tamlin’s brothers of being liars.”

Azriel’s fingers dug into the wood, the slight pain unnoticeable to him amidst the usual pain his hands produced.

“But I felt it. I felt my soul cleave into two. I felt my world crumble. For a century now, I have been living as if I am half dead, as if half of my soul were missing. I have been limping through life because who am I to give up what was taken from her? No matter how badly I don’t want it.”

Azriel’s last words were barely a whisper, but Rhys stilled at the revelation, “Az, you’re not suggesting-”

“I am, Rhys. I thought about it a lot.” The room was so dark now, Rhys couldn’t see it but he heard the wood crack beneath Azriel’s grip. “I still think about it. But then my mind taunts me with visions of her. I see her face and I know she would be so disappointed in me if I gave up.”

“Az, she wouldn’t-”

“Yes, she would! She would hate that I move through the world as if I am limping. She would hate that I don’t live in our house anymore, that I move between your houses. She would hate what I’ve become in her absence.”

Rhys watched as his brother rose from his seat, steps untraceable despite his anger. He didn’t want to ask the question, but the words slipped from his tongue before he thought about them for too long.

“Az, how do you feel when you look at her?”

The shadowsinger stopped, shooting a heated glance over his shoulder.

“Like I’m finally alive again.”

-

Az spent the rest of the day untethered. He began by pacing his room, moved to pacing outside of Feyre’s door where he knew you resided, until now where he stood in the foyer, overlooking the gardens to watch you and Feyre move through the plants. A hand on his shoulders catches him off guard, too preoccupied to hear the shadows warning him of his brother’s presence.

“How is she?”

Cassian’s voice was gruff, his grip a little too tight. He knew Cassian was struggling just as they were, perhaps even more due to the decision to keep Cassian away as much as possible. They didn’t want to overwhelm her, and they knew between the three of them Cassian would be the best at keeping his distance. 

Az and Rhys sure as Hel would be incapable of it.

Azriel looked to the side, wanting to obscure as much of his face from Cassian’s knowing glance. “She seems to be fine.”

Cassian tilted his head as he watched them move about the gardens, the two wingless females stopping at the gardenias. His thoughts wandered through time, to the many occasions he spotted her down in the garden with the male beside him in various states of undress.

Cassian slung an arm around Azriel, his grip tight on his brother’s shoulder. Azriel looked over at him, watching his eyes line with silver.

“Do you want to talk with her?”

Cassian breathed in through his nose, clearing the unshed tears from his eyes. “More than anything. But she doesn’t need that right now.”

Cassian swallowed hard, looking to his brother. “Yes she does. She needs you.”

Azriel brought his attention to you, watching you walk with Feyre, hating just how right his brother was.

Author’s note: how we feeling 👀 are we sad yet 👀👀

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin @magicstrengthandcourage

I got cursed series taglist: @doodlebugg16-blog @ceoofyearning @saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @willowpains @anarchii @i-am-infinite @bsenpai @sstrohma @teenagellamaangel @allthatisbuck1917 @elsie-bells @rcarbo1

Thanks for reading ❣️

[sevsbestfriend]

I usually write fics here but I just wanna rant rn.

Sometimes I got to old posts and stuff, either to get new ideas or just see what the fuck is going on with the other side of the fandom.

The people coming to James defense or crazy, like on one hand they are like 'oh he was only human, he grew as a person otherwise how would lily love him?'

We literally have cannon confirmation that the fucking prat didn't stop hexing people, he just learned to hide it better. Sirius and Remus confirmed this when they called Severus a 'special case'. I don't give a shit about them saying he attacked first, you better believe I am attacking first if I come across a guy who has stripped me naked in public when I didn't do shit to him. (Or the other guy who tried to get me killed by bloody werewolf) Like wtf are you even talking about at that point???

Also, Harry comes across a detention report of them hexing another student in their 7th year. So uhm...yeah.

Then they are like 'oh Severus hates him so his memories are biased'

Did you morons even read the books?? Pensive memories are unbiased, any manipulation is extremely apparent as we saw in Slughorns case. So NO they aren't biased that extremely uncomfortable read of SWM? it's fucking canon in its truest sense.

Also, how in the ever living hippogryph does a guy who strips people naked for fun change so much that he becomes head boy??

It's pretty simple, he doesn't. He learns to hide it better and given the fact that this person has always been given the benefit of the doubt, it is very easy for them to their nature.

Dude had a map that showed him everyone's real time location and an invisibility cloak, he could damn well harass anyone in isolated corners of the castle if he wished. Which is exactly what he did.

Also, these people love to claim how 'lily only approved of him cause he changed.'

To that I say, Who the fuck is Lily?? Mother Teresa??

How is she the ultimate decider of what is good and bad and at the same time, completely right in dating someone who stripped another student makes after a year (or 2) of the event??

Don't get me wrong, she doesn't owe Severus anything, really, but seriously this is just ridiculous. Like if I was a woman, I would be genuinely terrified of someone like that, especially when they got away with no real consequences what so ever.

James was a prick with a very good PR team for friends and teachers. That's really it, it is often said that good looking people can get away with a lot of things and James is just a prime example of that.

---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_

Also...BRAVE?? Dude had 2 cheat items and the advantage of a Pureblood upbringing and was still too PUSSY to face Severus alone. Yeah..what a real Gryphindor that one. Scrams bravery to you doesn't it? He did this all the way till 17, so yeah he definitely was super important in the order right??

---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_

Dumbledore invested quite a bit in the Marauders with his blatant favoritism and letting a werewolf in the school risking his own position as a headmaster.

And...they all turned to be bloody useless. With only James being useful because of his participation in the birth of Harry Potter.

Sirius in his madness derailed a murder investigation for a fucking decade.

Remus, I genuinely can't remember anything substantial Remus did, except for letting someone he believed was a murderer into Hogwarts and never telling Dumbledore that they were Animagus to begin with.

---_---_--_---_

Seriously, the most useful person in the war had to literally beg on his knees for the man to use him. Even fate was like, for fucks sake, just give this guy a chance already.

[vandme12]

SPREAD HIS ROT - Ronin x G.N Reader

This is my first one-shot for Killer Chat! I'm so excited to finally take part in the event hosted on the official Discord server. I can't wait to share to write more for this awesome fandom!

PROMPT : SPREAD THE ROT

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Obsession, Manipulation, Death, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

You are a journalist. A "Criminal Journalist." That's what they call you. You have to photograph every crime scene, chase every siren, dig your nails into every open wound of the city. And you hate it.

It's not the blood that really gets to you. It isn't the bodies, the way they slump against pavement like so many discarded mannequins. It's not even the smell—the acrid mix of gasoline, iron, and whatever someone had for dinner before he was reduced to a chalk outline. No. What you dislike is the paycheck. Because the paycheck is always inadequate.

$35 a shot. $50 if there's a face, a really good face—one that makes the morning readers spit out their coffee. If you catch the moment of grief, the mother screaming, the tears cutting through streetlight shadows, you might get $75. Big money. If it's a cop, even better. A dead officer brings in at least $100.

But rent is due in two days, and your pockets are filled with nothing but lint and cigarette butts. So you’re out here again, wedged between alleyways and car wrecks, chasing something worth it. Because it’s never enough.

Tonight's scene is run-of-the-mill. Liquor store, busted register, a guy with more holes in him than a bad alibi. You take the shots-angle the camera, let the lens tell the story. You could do this in your sleep. You have done this in your sleep.

The cops barely acknowledge you anymore. One of them, a rookie, side-eyes you with disgust. You ignore it. You don't care.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

Because truth is, you do care. Not about him. Not about them. Not even about the dead guy cooling on the linoleum like a forgotten steak. What you care about is the fact that this? This isn't enough.

There was a time when it was. When sneaking under crime scene tape gave you a rush, when a good shot meant something. But now? Now it's just scraps. And you're tired of scraps.

You want more.

More than the measly checks. More than the dead-end calls from the editor. More than the half-hearted bylines that no one reads.

You want a story. A real one. A big one.

The kind that would make your name stick in people's throats like a hard pill. The kind that would make the networks pay attention. The kind that would make the money pour in.

So you begin to watch. Really watch. Not just the crime scenes, but before and after. Who shows up first? Who leaves last? Who lingers too long? Who pretends not to care? You learn the rhythms of the city's violence. You start predicting it.

It was getting late at night when you came across the scene. A body, twisted in ways that only seasoned detectives can cringe upon. The kind of thing which you would only have heard from the darkest corners of the internet but never thought to see middle suburban streets, thick with the stench of decay, the crimson rivers trailing out from beneath the body like a gruesome map marking the end of a life.

But it wasn’t just the blood or the brokenness of the body that grabbed your attention. It was the artistry.

The killer didn’t just murder this man—they played with him. The victim was arranged like a grotesque puppet, limbs contorted in unnatural positions, eyes wide and glassy, staring into the abyss of whatever hell the Butcher had dragged him from. Whoever had done this didn’t care about the man’s life. No, they cared about the display—the theatrics of death. You could see it in the way the body was laid out like a performer on a stage.

You stood there, looking at it, your breathing steady, heart detached. You were a member of this world, after all—an observer, an architect of stories. This was not meant to touch the horror in which others would splinter. It was just for what it is: an opportunity. An image.

Pulling your camera from your bag, you took the shot. Your hands had moved with a precision, the lens snapping the exact right angle, the perfect composition. The angle of the body, the pools of blood, the quiet devastation of a life snuffed out. And then, once you had it—that shot—you made the call.

The police were on their way, but you were already deep in the game. You'd sold your soul to this grind long ago, and when opportunity knocked, you answered.

It didn't take long for the scene to make headlines. It was gruesome, shocking, a real masterpiece of death. The caption screamed across every paper, every screen:

"Yet Another Killing from the Butcher: 600th Victim"

You felt that familiar rush, the adrenaline of knowing you'd made it. This wasn't just another shot for a local rag. This was the kind of image that would get you noticed. You hadn't just captured death; you've captured the moment. And it worked. The media ate it up.

But what happened next was even more unexpected.

A week later, your phone rang. It was a blocked number. The kind of call you usually ignored. But for some reason, you picked up.

"Is this the photographer from the Butcher's 600th kill?" The voice was low, professional.

"Yes," you answered, keeping your tone neutral, businesslike. It was all just another part of the game.

"We need someone to help us with the investigation," the voice continued, "and we think you're a good fit. You're good with cameras, and we think you might be good with… us."

There was a pause before the voice added, "You've got the knack for catching things, the kind of things we can't. We want you on our team."

You raised an eyebrow. Not what you had envisioned. "I have no interest in the investigation," she said. "I just take photographs."

"We're aware of that," the voice said, dripping with an amused understanding. "But we need your eye for detail. And we'll make it worth your while. We're paying double what you'd normally get, plus a few bonuses for the really interesting shots. We think you can help us get closer to the Butcher. What do you say?"

It was a tempting offer—extra cash, exposure, a chance to build something more than just another gig as a photographer. This wasn't the typical work for a freelance camera guy. And the extra bucks would help, sure. A name in the papers.

You agreed, naturally. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about what came with it. The access. The stories. The people who came with the cases. The murderers. The killers.

You were with the investigation team for weeks. They knew you were neutral, that you didn't care about their moral compass. Neither about the good guys nor about the bad guys. You cared only about the shot. Death, arrest, or slip-up—whichever it was. You were there for the story, for the image.

Now you became the lifeline of that team. Those photographs were not only for public display anymore but were also becoming tactical. You assisted them trace the pattern of the Butcher, picked details they had not seen—details so small and yet so large in their visibility. Your pictures were now an integral part of their strategy. The more they used you, the more they dragged you into their web, and the more you liked it.

The cases became personal. but for them. You'd see the tension in their eyes when they looked at the new photos. They were obsessed with stopping the Butcher, but you were obsessed with capturing his chaos, his carnage.

By the 30th victim, it all began to feel less of a job and more of a sick, almost morbid routine. You were no longer just recording the murders. You were investigating them, peeling away the layers of butchered bodies and their stories. With the body count of the Butcher rising, a disturbing pattern of these killings was beginning to appear. These weren't some random murders, but they had a purpose.

Most of the victims, in retrospect, were not so good people. I mean, at least in any conventional or traditional sense. There were abusers, predators, men who had been arrested multiple times for things that make your skin crawl. You found a pattern in their criminal records—domestic violence, assault, even worse crimes. These were men who lived off the pain of others and hurt those weaker than them, and somehow—somehow—they got drawn to the Butcher.

You started connecting the dots. The men, the pattern of their crimes, that they were easy to find—and almost as if they were looking for him. It didn't take long for you to conclude: the Butcher wasn't killing for fun. No, he had a method. A twisted logic. He had a reason. And that reason, as it appeared, was much more complicated than people had assumed: that most of his victims weren't exactly innocent. They were guilty of hurting other people, usually ways in which society either wasn't enabled to punish or chose not to. The more you looked into the pasts of his victims, the more you would find yourself wondering if maybe—even by default—he had a point. You certainly weren't condoning his actions. Murder was never the solution. But you could see why he picked these men. You could almost understand the reasoning behind it.

The Butcher wasn't an idiot killer, not really. He had his reasons—no matter how twisted, no matter how broken—and they made a sick kind of sense. But it wasn't enough to elevate him. You couldn't make a hero out of a man who solved problems with blood and violence. Normal people didn't solve their problems that way. But you couldn't deny that there was a certain kind of. appeal in the chaos he created. He was a force. A force that made people feel something—whether it was fear, admiration, or something else entirely. And that? That was powerful.

But there was more to it than just that. You could not ignore the sense that crept into your mind in the past few weeks.

Love.

You abhorred the word, but there it was. It was subtle at first, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind whenever you studied his work. You saw it, the way his killings made people care, made them look, made them pay attention. Now you were no longer just following the trail. You were investigating, learning, feeling. Now this was no game for you. No, it was personal. You found yourself almost rooting for the man even as you tried to keep your distance.

But there was more. The photos. The shots you'd taken—each one was feeding your reputation, making you a name, a force in the media, the same way the Butcher was in the criminal world. You had a strange feeling that, without his kills, you would have remained just another nameless photographer. But with him? With him, you had power.

And that was dangerous.

You started to feel like you owed him. It was twisted, perverse, but he was feeding you—feeding your career, feeding your hunger for success, feeding your need to be noticed. Every photo you snapped, every shot that landed in the paper, was part of his story. Your story was his. And maybe, just maybe, that was what you needed. Maybe you were as broken as he was. Maybe you both thrived in this world of rot, feeding off each other, pushing each other into darker, more dangerous corners.

You were obsessed. But the truth was, he was feeding your obsession.

The rot seeps in slowly, unnoticed at first, like a shadow on the edge of your vision, a whisper on the edge of your thoughts. It crawls through your mind, curling into the crevices where your ambition used to live, until it finds the darkness you never knew was there.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing—just a job, just another image captured for the cameras, another headline. But the truth tastes different when it settles on your tongue. It tastes like blood. It tastes like him.

The rot begins as a question, a fleeting thought: Why does it make you feel so. alive?

It isn't the death which attracts you; no, but it's about the purpose itself, the maddening madness through each slash he gives with that knife. Beautified carnages, art made from destruction lies before you – victims twisted in ways that go beyond broken human shapes, more like pieces falling into place because they were so meant to. It's because they were set there for just this sickened, twisted waltz orchestration.

You try to deny it. You try to look away, but the rot follows, creeping through the veins of your heart. It sinks into the muscle, spreading through the blood, until your pulse beats to the rhythm of his kills. You feel it in your chest, the cold gnawing hunger for what he creates. You tell yourself it's just the shot, just the fame, just the game. But you feel it. The thirst. The craving.

Why are you so attracted to him?

Why do you let his rot grow inside you? Like a seed planted deep, so far inside you can't tell where the darkness ends and where you begin.

The brain is a fragile thing, after all. And yours, for all its intelligence, is no match for the poison he's planted in it. The more you photograph, the more you study his art, the more it feeds you. And you've become so hungry for it, you can taste the rot creeping deeper, gnawing at your mind. Each photograph is a poison in itself, a drop of venom that sinks deeper into your veins until your body shakes with the need to capture more.

He's just not a murderer anymore. Now he is a lot more, a lot, much more to you. The muse, that obsession of art you can never look away from. And he scares you—as if one photograph more, study one body part more, can make you irrevocably lose yourself at his hands forever.

It's in your bones now, the rot and the need; the darkness will creep up like something living around your ribs where you can't catch a decent breath of the air in them. You find yourself trying again, but somehow it's almost impossible to keep going; maybe the air becomes so thick from the weight around your ribs: the weight chokes. So, it stays inside your soul.

You remind yourself that you're better than this, that you can walk away. But you can't. You just can't escape what is inside you now.

His kill, his art—it feeds you. It gives you a name, a place. It makes you someone. The world sees you for your pictures, your work. But underneath it all, you know—it's him. He is feeding you. His blood, his violence, his chaos, it's in you now. You've inhaled it, drunk it down, and it has lodged itself in the core of who you are. And you can't deny it anymore.

Why so addicted to him?

You're the thing you once feared becoming: consumed by the rot, driven by a need to capture it, witness it, and be near it. You once thought he was the villain. But now? Now you think maybe you always were the villain in your story. Maybe you were always wanting this darkness.

Maybe it’s you who’s been rotting all along.

You have to go now- To see if the butcher gifted you with another body.

The alley is deathly silent as you step into it. A hollow sense of dread crawls down your spine, a cold sweat forming on your brow. This place, this alley—it's where most of the Butcher's victims are found. His 633rd victim, right here. You hold your breath, the world suddenly too quiet, too still. And then-there's a sound. A soft, muffled sobbing. It breaks the silence, raw and full of terror. But then, impossibly, it's joined by something else. A laugh. Low, guttural, dripping with amusement. Your body freezes. That laugh. You know it now, deep in your bones. It's him.

The Butcher.

You've seen his work. You've followed his trail. But hearing him laugh, hearing that sound come from the shadows, makes everything real in a way you weren't prepared for. You creep forward, silent as a ghost, looking around the corner. There, in the dim light, stands a figure. The air seems to curve around him, suffused with something darker, something wrong. His presence is overwhelming—like the world itself is holding its breath. He's tall—too tall, standing just over six feet. His presence radiates chaos, a perverse kind of power that almost makes the air feel heavier. His dark burgundy hair falls messily under a black beanie, a devilish set of horns jutting out above it. The horns are almost laughable in their mockery of the devil himself, and yet—they're not. His leather jacket shines black in the sparse alley light. That's the kind of leather that crackles with menace, like it's soaked up too many sins. Scissors protrude out of the top, jagged and sharp, And the red 'X' pin on his chest—an enigma that's as much a part of his identity as the scars he's surely accumulated over the years. Safety pins dangle, like a string of symbols no one can fully decipher. His shirt underneath, emblazoned with a skull, a death's head reminder of the man standing in front of you. And his eyes—those eyes. Black as pitch. They pierce the shadows, and you feel like he sees you, even though you're still hidden. Those eyes are endless, voids pulling you into them. He plays with the man on his knees, a feeble, shaking figure caught in his hands. The victim's face is white, eyes open wide with terror. His voice is pleading, begging, but it's of no use. The man laughs, low and cruel, a laugh that freezes the soul. "Why didn't ya just do the world a favor? huh?" His voice drips with mockery, the words drawn out with a slow, deliberate menace. "So many. opportunities. *so many* chances for you to not mess up, to get away. But here you are, crying like a little shit." The laugh that follows is like a death knell. The man steps forward, and the air crackles with tension, under the palemoonlight, his crowbar glinting as if made of steel with the shimmer of an extension of his dark soul. The victim trembles; he knows—the feels—that the end is near. You're still frozen in place, hidden in the shadows, unable to tear your eyes away. And now you know that connection is undeniable.

This is him.

The Butcher.

The Devil.

His personality so well-crafted that even now, even standing in the midst of carnage, he is acting. Every movement, every word he says is part of the act. He is *playing*—but you can't tell if he's playing with the victim or with you. And then, as if he feels your presence, his head tilts slightly, those black eyes narrowing as they sweep the darkness, seeking. You inhale sharply, heart hammering in your chest. You’ve been caught. But what is it? Is it fear? Or is it something else? That glint of curiosity, that subtle tug in your chest—you’re fascinated. Not just by the violence, but by him. This man, this monster. He isn’t just killing for the sake of it. No, there’s something else there. Something almost. personal. And you’re afraid. Not of him, not yet—but of yourself. How did that happen? What drew you into him? When you're there documenting horror and madness, is it then where you become mired in this same mess you are recording and stuck on this thread of madness? You can feel it now-the pull, the addiction. The way the rot spreads in your chest, creeping into your heart. It's not enough to just watch anymore. You're part of it now. And you wonder,

is it too late to stop? He turns away, the Butcher, his steps measured, casual. He does not even look back; he leaves behind a dying man, like a discarded rag, casualty of his twisted performance. The sound of his footsteps fades into the distance, carried off by darkness, leaving behind only the groaning man on the ground. You are frozen, frozen in place, as the man on the ground starts to move, slowly, weakly, lifting himself on his quivering arms. He speaks and his words are just a jumble of incoherent mumbo-jumbo, blurred with blood and agony. "Help me." he whispers, barely above a whisper, a plea barely reaching your ears. But you hear it. You hear it like a siren's call. He needs help. He's begging for it, his face twisted in agony, still so sweet even in his bloodied state. A part of you wants to be disgusted by it, wants to feel the horror of the moment, but the truth is—you don't feel anything anymore. The part of you that was human, that was once connected to sympathy, to empathy—it's gone. And the worst part? You don't care. Your eyes lock with his, dead, empty. And for a moment, you almost laugh. Because here he is, pleading for help, for mercy, with all his innocence shattered, and yet—he doesn't even know how little he matters to you. He doesn't realize how close to death he is. Your eyes slide down to the ground, to a small rock. It's nothing. A simple thing. Lying in the dirt. But it is all you need. You do not even hesitate. You take it, holding it in your hand, the weight of it, cold, solid, filling the hollow place inside you. You approach him, the blood-soaked man who still thinks he can beg for his life. So sweet. So innocent. So stupid. He looks at you approaching, his eyes widening in a mix of hope and confusion. "Please. help me." he manages to croak, reaching out a shaking hand toward you. And it's almost laughable. He thinks you're here to save him. But you aren't. Not anymore. You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It’s not a smile of sympathy or warmth. It’s a smile that says, "You shouldn’t have asked for help." You place the rock on his chest, pressing down, the pressure against the bloodied skin making him gasp in surprise. His weak attempts to push you away are futile, and with a twisted satisfaction, you press harder, forcing the rock into his ribs, into his lungs. The sound of his breath faltering, the desperation in his eyes—it only excites you more. You hit him once. Then twice. And again, until his cries for mercy dissolve into nothing. Until the last breath escapes him, and he slumps into silence. You don't feel that rush of adrenaline you thought you would. There's just. peace. A stillness that settles over you like a blanket. The world becomes quieter, emptier, and you realize—you've crossed a line now. You've killed, just like him. Just like the Butcher. But it doesn't matter. You never wanted to stop. The man's body lies motionless at your feet. You look down at him, expressionless, but a hint of satisfaction. You don't want him to crawl to the police. You don't want anyone to expose the Butcher. Because now, in a way, you are part of it. You're tangled in his web, drowning in it. You move away from the body, as if savoring the movement. Your movements are slow, deliberate. No racing heart, no fear or guilt.

The world slants, as if shifting ever so slightly, in your acquisition of him. One photograph at a time. Early on, you had harbored the briefest of reservations. But these fade away in the shadow of your obsession. The photographs are no longer about bringing the truth to light, about illuminating his murders. They are your collection now. His murders become a series of images, each one a little closer, a little more intimate, a little more personal. Each picture captures more than death in it; he is an artist, and you are just an unspoken observer, a notary of his sick masterpiece.

Each time you click the button, it feels like you have locked a little bit of him into your life. The photos fill your bedroom, heaps of them, thumbtacked onto the walls, strewn around the floor, a museum of decay and gore. The images are not murders; they're art. You look at them with a twisted, sick smile-one that feels like it's becoming your permanent expression. There's something exquisite about it, about the way the bodies lay, the way he moves through the scene, like an angel of death in black.

You've stopped photographing the victims in their final moments. That's his work. His art. You photograph the aftermath, the rotting remains, the decay, the beauty of it all—the perfect, graceful disintegration. Each mangled limb, every blood-streaked face, every violent distortion of life. it's beautiful in its chaos. The beauty of rot. It's the most honest thing you've ever seen.

You smile as you take another photo. How blind you were, you think, to believe you could reveal him. He was no beast. No, no. He was the Devil. The only thing to be worshipped. The way he carves through the world, killing with such grace, with such purpose—it mesmerizes you. How could you not have fallen for him? How could you resist the call of someone who truly understands the art of destruction, the art of chaos?

And yet, you never think about the implications. Never think about the danger, about how close you are to the edge. A part of you knows the truth—you're playing with fire. A serial killer. He might kill you if he finds out you're watching him, photographing him, collecting him. But that thought doesn't scare you. It excites you. The danger is the best part, isn't it?

You know how to hide the evidence. You’re good at this. Really good. You’ve studied, you’ve watched, you’ve learned. Lou Bloom’s tricks are now your tricks. How to manipulate, how to twist things so that they work in your favor. You’ve made it almost impossible for anyone to tie the killings to him. The photos are perfect—framed, timed, never too much, just enough. Each one is carefully staged, in a way that leaves no room for suspicion. The investigation? It won’t even get close to him. The police are laughingstocks. The public mocks them. The world has no clue. They’ll never catch him.

And the best part? You’re the one who gets to keep him. He’s your secret, your possession, your Devil. The only one who truly understands you. The police will never find him. And even if they do, what evidence could they possibly have? Every picture you've ever taken, every picture of his work, becomes twisted into your story, your narrative. He's just a shadow in the background, a blur in the world's eyes. You made him invisible.

The more you read in the beauty of these photos, the more you see it-the rot. It's everywhere now. In your room, inside your mind, inside your veins. You are the rot. You can almost be able to taste it on your tongue as you flip through each picture. Rotting, dying, mutated beauty of all of this. You are addicted to this. You feel nothing else now but the rush of something dark, something real. This is all that is left for you. This is all that matters now.

You're in love with him. Obsessed. Every waking thought is consumed by him, by his art, by the way he moves through this world leaving death in his wake. Obsession grows like a disease inside you. You don't care that you are losing yourself. The world's a mess; it's broken-and in that mess, in that broken place, he's the only real thing.

So you capture it. You capture the beauty of rot, the beauty of decay, with each shot of your camera. His killings, his art, his legacy. it's all yours now. And the best part? No one will ever know. No one will ever understand. You'll keep it all, locked away in your room, in your mind, in your heart.

And as you keep snapping pictures, you come to realize the most frightening thing of all. You are no longer just an observer. You are becoming him. You are becoming the Butcher's echo, his disciple. And you don't even care.

The rot has already spread.

It is a night heavier than it ought to be, as if the world itself held its breath in expectation. Every corner of your mind is drenched with his shadow. This is your obsession, your need, your unrelenting quest for beauty in his darkness. You have gotten used to the violence, the brutality-it has become your life now, your purpose, your twisted little obsession. His 666th killing on Valentine's Day, of all days. How sweet you'd looked, how just for the occasion. You'd dreamed of candy chocs to give him, of some gesture of affection to offer your warped muse, your idol. No, though, that might get you killed, and you weren't ready to go out with the best yet. Not when the story had just started.

You rushed to the scene, expecting thrills, expecting the moment of the kill; instead, there was the quiet of a deed done. The victim, now nothing more than an object to your camera's gaze, crumpled on the cold concrete, stained by blood. It was such a waste, but there was beauty in it all. Death curled around him like an old lover, softening his sharp edges with an aura of familiarity.

But something was different tonight. Change in the air, tension, pull toward something… something strange. You crouched down in readiness with camera, already thinking ahead to that shot, when you came upon something you hadn't counted on. A heart. Red hand-drawn heart, ink as red as blood—how perfect, how devilish.

A note was tucked beneath it. A message.

Your fingers were always a little shaky as you reached out to touch the paper, your heart racing with an odd mix of excitement and dread filling your veins. You carefully unfolded it, trying to keep back the rising tide of curiosity, the frantic hunger for whatever he'd left behind. Then, you saw it.

. Your breath catches, the edges of the paper smudged with something dark—a trail of blood, or was it something else? You don't know anymore. The note, delicately folded, reads as if it's written just for you, "How was your lil wish coming along, Y/n?"

Your mind freezes, your pulse racing. It's a whisper from the shadows, in his handwriting all too familiar. You never thought he'd take notice of you, not that he'd leave a message especially for you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you realize-he knows. He knows you've been watching. He knows you've been obsessed, cataloging every one of his killings, keeping them in your private collection like a warped trophy. But the idea of him knowing you personally fills you with a sense of excitement mixed with terror.

Everything becomes very quiet for an instant. Time stands still and it seems to bend a bit to the other way; noise and all becomes dull and suppressed. There comes that sick sort of intimacy again; it seems like he invites you into his world: that is, one of death and chaos and beauty. His gift lies in a crimson-stained heart lying upon the ground-a statement in kind saying, "I see you. Do you see me?

But before you can even process the rush of emotions tumbling through you, you hear it. A faint scraping sound, distant at first, like the dragging of metal across pavement, but then it grows louder, closer, more real.

Click. Click. Click.

A crowbar, dragging on the ground, the sound of metal scraping against asphalt like a slow death march. You turn, your stomach twisting in knots, and there he is.

The Butcher.

He stands in the shadows, a silhouette framed by dim streetlights. His presence is more imposing than you could ever have imagined. The faint glow from the flickering lights catches on his black leather jacket, the metallic glint of the scissors in his shoulders, the pin with the 'X' shining like a warning. His burgundy hair is wild and uncombed, falling in waves around his face, while his black eyes, those bottomless voids, pierce straight through you. You feel it in your chest, that shuddering gasp, your body betraying the mix of fear and desire that floods your veins.

The crowbar drags, leaving a line of marks in the dirt as he steps into the weak light. A cruel grin spreads across his face—half mocking, half something darker, more hungry. He's taking his time, letting the sound of his approach echo in the alley like a countdown to something you can't escape.

His voice is low, dripping with that same dangerous charm and yet carries with it an unnerving note of affection, like he's discovered a lost toy to play with.

"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "What's this? My little photographer has been busy. haven't you, Y/n?" The way he says your name makes your heart skip, the intimacy of it feeling more like a threat than a compliment.

You can't say a word. Your mouth's dry, hands shaking as you let the camera slip from your fingers and feel it dangle loosely at your side. The thoughts scatter before you like smashed glass as you try to fit everything together: he shouldn't be here, he can't be here; but the note, the heart, the watching—how you feel he has been watching for all this.

“You’re quite good at this,” he muses, his voice smooth like silk but laced with an edge that makes your skin prickle. “Could almost say you’ve earned the right to be in my gallery.”

Your breath hitches at that—his gallery. The thought of being included in his twisted world, to be immortalized alongside his art, fills you with a sick satisfaction. You want it. You want to be closer to him. To know him, in the way only a few get to.

You’ve already given yourself over to him in your mind. You’ve already become part of his world—his chaos, his destruction. But now, he's here, standing right in front of you, and the way he looks at you. you’re not just an observer anymore. You’re a part of the performance.

His smile grows, and you can see the glint of madness in his eyes. He takes a step further; his crowbar is dragging behind him, and the scraping he leaves with it cuts across the electric tension in the air.

"Didn't think I'd find you so easily," he muses, going around you like a predator who's sizing up its prey. "But then again, you've been leaving quite the trail. haven't you, Y/n?"

And you know that, in a split second of clarity, that this isn't just some dark coincidence. This man has observed you, even studied you - as you so keenly would do with him. He can see your obsessiveness, this fascination. So now, play he wants.

The excitement in your chest builds and your pulse drums in your ears as you gaze into his face, your body shaking with the fear of something and yet being so hopeful.

You do not want to run. You can't run.

He's here. He is right in front of you

You stand there, speechless, eyes wide in shock and something else—something dark and exhilarating—as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. You feel trapped, pinned against the cold brick of the alley wall, unable to move. He knows. He knows. His black eyes pierce through you like a dagger, and for a moment, all the air seems to leave your lungs. His grin is wicked, stretching across his face as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his words in the air before they even leave his mouth.

"I know about your little. incident," he says, his voice low, dark, teasing. "You thought you could hide it, huh? That rock you used, the way you finished him off. Cute. But you know what?" He presses closer, his breath cold now, a smile twisting at the edges of his lips. "I've been doing the same thing, just. slower, more artful."

The words crash into you, syllable by syllable, as if each word is a needle piercing your skin, but you don't even flinch. You can't. Instead, you find yourself hanging onto every word, every dark admission, every flicker of his twisted affection.

He's been watching. He's always been watching, just like you've been watching him.

And now, his hands are on you.

Oh god.

The raw electricity of it sends a jolt through your veins as he presses you harder against the wall, his strength overpowering, his body close enough for you to feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing. You can hardly breathe, trapped under the weight of his gaze. His fingers dig into your wrist, pulling you into his personal space, forcing you to feel the undeniable connection between the two of you. It's suffocating, thrilling, terrifying all at once.

A laugh, dark and mocking, slips past his lips. He knows you. He knows exactly how obsessed you've become, how desperately you've followed his every move. He sees your fascination, your twisted need to be a part of his world, to belong to him in some way.

"You're so fucking obsessed with me," he says, laughing again, like he finds the whole thing utterly amusing. "You're falling in love with death, aren't you? With the concept of it. And the best part?" He leans in closer, his lips brushing across your ear, his words slicing through the hollow of silence like a whisper of poison. "I'm the one gonna give it to you. I'll make you feel alive, even if you are dead inside."

And then, as if the entire tension breaks and he finally exhales, his voice is laced with something dangerous, a teasing edge that will cause your heart to double its pace,

"Wanna touch me?"

You hesitate just a second before your hands shoot out, trembling and determined, almost against your will. You want to touch him. You need to touch him. And when your fingers brush against his leather jacket, you feel that you have just signed your own death warrant—and yet, you want it.

"I want you to touch you to death," he whispers. "Make me feel like I'm breathing. Make me feel like I'm human."

You swallow, letting the weight of his words drop deep into your chest. You thought you were in control here. You thought you could be the one exposing him. Now. now you realize something warped and vile. You're his. You have always been his.

You wanted death, perhaps you even craved it, but now you see something else. This man, this butcher of souls, this twisted, grotesque force of nature, is beautiful.

The way he moves, the way he thinks—every action, every word, every killing, it's all a twisted artistry. You've seen it now. The beauty in the rot. The beauty in destruction. And you are more than willing to drown in it. You're willing to live for it. Or, maybe. die for it.

"You're already dead," he whispers again, this time with that same sickly sweet tone. "And so am I."

The world fades into nothingness, as you sink further into this madness. In your mind, you hear his voice—soft, seductive, dangerous—as the words become a mantra that you'll never escape.

"Darling, his looks can kill, so now you're dead. Maybe."

You smile, completely unattached, completely in love with the nightmare of it all. Your fate doesn't matter anymore. You're his now. His masterpiece, his creation. You can already feel the rot settling in your veins, the decay becoming a part of you, and you welcome it.

The perfect rot. The beautiful rot.on

[themindofachronicdaydreamer]

Suites & Sweets

freshman year at Jujutsu University Tokyo seems like it will be uneventful. and, well, that's true... until you meet the boys in the suite across the hall, and one in particular piques your interest.

satoru gojo x reader | jjk college au | no curse au | fem! reader | fluff, angst, & slow burn | SMAU & writing <3

introduction | previous | next

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ˋ°•*⁀➷˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 17. …𝓢𝓗𝓞𝓦𝓓𝓞𝓦𝓝? ⍣ ೋ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ... wc: 5.9k

Naoya strides into the basement with an air of entitlement to him that infuriates you to your core. The sharp, detached sweep of his gaze as he scans the room makes it as though he's appraising vintage goods at an auction, not people at a party. His arrogance bleeds into every step, as if he owns the place or the event is being held just for him. His pristinely tailored tuxedo is seemingly infused with arrogance and worn like a badge of superiority - like his wealth and status alone make him untouchable. You watch his eyes look down at everyone in the crowd, and in his quick assessment, everything - and everyone - is beneath him. His presence is so virulent, every step he takes is an unspoken declaration: he owns this moment, and by extension, everyone within it.

It's not even just the way he carries himself, but the way everyone reacts to him. It's like a ripple in water; whispers start, eyes glance over at him, and crowds separate to create a path, like he is royalty. And yet, despite the unease his presence brings, there is no mistaking the instant authority he wields the moment he steps into the room - something you are all too acquainted with.

He doesn't belong here. Not in the way everyone else does in this dim, sticky-floored basement, where the most you expect is a night of loud music and cheap thrills. Yet, somehow, his presence demands the attention of everyone in the room. He's a wolf in a room of sheep, gaze cold and hungry, exuding an effortless confidence. People look at him with instinctive fear, but none dare to confront him.

You can't stop watching him. You hate that you can't stop watching him. How powerless you feel, your eyes following him despite every part of you wanting to look away.

You feel a strange, chilling sensation slithers up your spine, an all-too-familiar sensation. It's a weight of the wave of memories the sight of him triggers that make your blood run cold: flashbacks to the past, the sharp sting of betrayal, the way he tore you apart time and time again, how small you felt, the pain that followed. The echoes of his words that cut you so precisely, it was like he'd mapped out your every weakness and insecurity.

You instinctively stiffen to suppress the flood of old emotions, even though you are trying to appear unaffected. The few months since graduation you had without seeing him were much too short, and you desperately wish you were invisible. But with each deliberate step he takes, you feel your body grow stiffer and stiffer, as if awaiting something awful. You hate it. Desperately, fight against it, stubborn in your goal to not let him get to you any longer. You refuse to let him know that he still has power over you.

But Satoru notices.

His eyes flick to yours. picking up on the shift in your demeanor, and then turning his head to follow your gaze. His playful smile immediately drops, expression turning sharp, scowl spreading across his lips. His shoulders square, and his jaw tightens ever so slightly, but enough for you to notice out of the corner of your eye.

"Naoya?" he breathes, voice low, something guarded in his tone as if the name itself tastes bitter on his tongue. You barely even hear the name leave his lips. When you glance at him, his blue eyes have narrowed. Darkened, even. The noise of the party becomes a dull hum in the background, the beat of the music loud, but your heart thumping even louder.

And then, suddenly, Naoya catches your eye across the room, and his lips curve slowly into a knowing, smug smile, as if he is relishing in the moment before attacking his prey. It's the exact smile that makes your skin crawl; the same one that stared down at you so cruelly at that party junior year. It makes you feel disgusting, and a wave of nausea crashes through you.

Your eyes fly around every corner of the room, looking for different escape routes. Toji watches the unfortunate man of the hour from the other side of the room, leaning against the wall behind him with his arms crossed, stance indicating he is ready to attack if needed. Sukuna is nowhere to be seen - his presence at the door is gone, and you wonder to yourself where he went.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," you hear Satoru breathe. There's bite in his tone, a seriousness completely opposite from his rare tone during your heart-to-heart earlier. His lack of teasing makes the situation feel all the more dire - there's none of the usual bravado, just cold, simmering hatred.

"What is he even doing here?" you force out the hoarse whisper, tightness in your throat straining your vocal chords.

Satoru shifts his weight beside you. The relaxed, confident demeanor he usually wears like armor has dissipated, replaced by a tension, simmering beneath the surface of his skin. His eyes lock on Naoya's figure, watching with the focused precision of someone expecting a fight.

"Apparently he still thinks he's relevant," Satoru barks, tone dripping with disdain. He doesn't even bother keeping his voice down. He's decided already that Naoya's presence isn't something worth an act of politeness, and he is practically daring the brat to overhear what he says.

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing in place, and forcing your gaze away from Naoya. "You'd think he had better things to do than crash a frat party. Like, you know, run his dad's business." The words escape your throat thinner, meeker than intended.

You finally make frantic eye contact with Toji across the room, and as he notices Naoya's trajectory straight for you, he begins to weave his way through the crowd over to you.

At the same time, Satoru's gaze flickers over to you, catching the way you fold your arms and make yourself smaller. He notices the slight tremor in your jaw in a futile attempt to hold back whatever it is you're feeling. He picks up on the haziness in your eyes, indicating your thoughts overpowering your conscious.

You hear Satoru say your name, bringing you back to earth. For once, he doesn't joke, doesn't tease. Instead, he leans down to be eye-level you, puts a hand on your cheek, and says in a voice low but resolute, "He doesn't get to ruin your night."

Something in the firmness of Satoru's tone pulls you from your spiraling thoughts, just enough to release the breath you've been holding since Naoya walked in the building. You can feel the weight of the protectiveness.

It's grounding.

Is this what Satoru meant earlier, when he said you ground him? Do you literally bring him back to earth, resurrecting him from the hell of his inner mind, anchoring him to the present, and giving him a chance to breathe again?

You look up at him, and for a fleeting moment, the storm in your chest quiets.

You don't miss the way Satoru adjusts his stance, shifting subtly to block you from Naoya's view. The movement is subtle but unmistakable: a shield, a barrier, a silent declaration of protection. It's like he's already preparing for whatever bullshit the guy might throw your way.

Naoya weaves through the crowd with the self-assuredness only a narcissist has. Conversations quiet as he passes by, and although no one outright admits it, the energy in the room has been transformed solely by his entrance. Eyes dart toward him, curiosity mingling with discomfort. People see him - because, truly, how could you not? - but no one quite seems willing to approach him. And he knows.

And Naoya thrives on this.

His sharp gaze cuts through the crowd like a blade, skimming over strangers and settling, inevitably, on you and Satoru. The smirk that spreads across his face is downright venomous. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"Well, well," Naoya drawls, his voice carrying over the music as he finally comes to a stop a few feet in front of him. The arrogant tilt of his head, the calculating gleam in his eyes - it's all so perfectly him. "I figured this was the kind of place you'd waste your time at, Satoru."

The disdain in Naoya's tone is palpable, and every muscle in your body tenses at the familiarity of it. You observe Satoru's jaw clenching even more at the blatant jab, but he only tilts his head, slipping into the effortless, too-cool act he's known for.

"And yet here you are," Satoru replies with a razor-sharp edge behind his words. A lazy smile spreads on his face, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Always crashing places no one wants you at. Remind me, who invited you here?"

The jab lands, but Naoya only laughs - it's soft, condescending, and dismissive. He then turns his gaze to you, sharp as glass, and the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as the air in the room becomes harder and harder to breathe.

"It's been a minute, has it not?" Naoya says, his tone feigning politeness, yet laced with mockery. His gaze sweeps over you up and down, and suddenly, you're sixteen, standing in front of him after catching Ino in the bathroom with another girl, being humiliated in front of everyone you know. "Still running with the same crowd, I see."

The condescension in his voice brings your blood to a scalding boil. You want to snap back so desperately, but you physically cannot form a response to him. Even if you could, you can't trust your voice to come out steady, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply his presence affects you. Your pulse quickens, and every instinct screams for you to flee, but you force yourself to hold your ground. Still, the icy weight of your memories claws at you.

And of course, Naoya notices. His smirk sharpens just the tiniest bit.

A small part of you hates that it feels like he’s won again. But as you glance at Satoru steady beside you, you remind yourself that you’re not the same girl he could tear down so easily anymore.

Finally reaching the scene, Toji’s voice cuts in, breaking through the growing tension like a blade, and saving you from the spiral your mind was set on. “What’s the golden boy doing slummin' it here? Country club finally ban your ass?” he mocks, his tone low and dangerous.

"Always a pleasure, Toji," Naoya says, inclining his head slightly, smirking with practiced ease.

Toji's lips curl into a humorless sneer. "Can't say the same, cousin."

“Touching,” the blonde sneers, “that the two of you have to play bodyguards. I didn’t realize she was so… fragile.”

Satoru’s hand twitches at his side, and you know he’s seconds away from losing it. Before he can speak, though, Toji steps forward, his expression deadly calm. “Say that again,” he dares, his voice low and even. The threat in his tone is unmistakable, and for the first time, Naoya hesitates.

Before the silence can stretch too long, Satoru takes a step forward. "If you're looking for someone who gives a damn about what you have to say, you're in the wrong room."

There's a weight to his words - a warning. It's a challenge to Naoya. You can feel the weight of it in the air. Naoya holds Satoru's gaze for a long moment, tension crackling between them like static electricity. For a moment, they lock eyes, tension so thick it's suffocating.

You've known they never liked each other, but this... this is different. It's personal.

Toji doesn’t say another word, but the way he looms next to Satoru, his muscles coiled and ready to pounce, is enough to send Naoya backing away. He scoffs, but it’s evident his confidence has been shaken.

After what feels like an eternity, Naoya's smirk returns, more predatory than before. "Careful, now, you two. You're wouldn't want to make a scene, would you?" he says lightly,

Satoru takes another step toward Naoya. “Oh, I don’t mind a scene,” he says, his tone deceptively calm. “Especially if it means wiping that ugly smirk off your face.”

Before the situation can escalate further, you place a hand on Satoru’s arm, reminding him of your presence and grounding him, bringing him back to earth and not the anger of his mind. He glances at you, his expression softening just enough to let you know he’s listening.

“Let it go,” you croak. “He’s not worth it.”

For a moment, Satoru doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he exhales and takes a step back. His gaze lingers on Naoya for a moment longer before he turns to you, his hand brushing against yours in a silent gesture of reassurance.

Naoya’s smirk returns, though it lacks its usual confidence. “Well, this has been delightful,” he snickers, his tone mocking, turning on his heel as though he's already bored with the conversation, above it all entirely. “But I have better things to do than talk to deviants."

"What, you running to daddy for help, now, hm?" Satoru jabs. Naoya freezes in spot, not bothering to turn and face the man beside you again. he definitely touched a sore subject.

"Probably," you hear Toji say. "That's all he knows to do."

Naoya stays still for a moment longer before saying without looking back, "This isn't the last you'll be seeing of me."

And just like that, Naoya slips back into the crowd.

The unease lingers, clinging to you like smoke from a campfire. You exhale shakily, your pulse still hammering in your ears. Everything feels off-kilter, now, as if the room hasn't recovered from the disturbance, and maybe won't ever.

Satoru turns to you once he deems Naoya no longer a threat, expression softening as he catches sight of your face. "You alright?"

You nod, although the lie is obvious.

"Hey, listen to me," he says quietly, voice soft as ever. "He's not worth it. You know that. You even said it."

You waver for a second, but when you finally look at him and the unwavering worry in his eyes, you finally manage a small, tired smile.

"Yeah," you murmur. "I know."

Satoru exhales, his expression softening as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear - gentle, deliberate, steady. “He’s not worth it,” he repeats quietly, his voice a tether pulling you back from the edge. “Not to you. Not to anyone.”

"Thank you," you mutter.

“Anytime, angel,” he replies, smirk returning, though this time it’s warmer. “Now come on - I think you owe me a rematch at beer pong.”

You let out a breathy laugh, the tension slowly uncoiling from your body. As Satoru steers you back toward the table, you glance over your shoulder one last time, searching for Naoya with paranoia. But he’s gone.

As Satoru guides you back toward the beer pong table, you glance at Toji, who lingers nearby, arms crossed as if he's waiting to make sure Naoya doesn't reappear. He gives you a brief nod, a silent acknowledgment of solidarity. Satoru’s hand remains lightly on your lower back, his fingers brushing against you every so often, and it’s comforting in a way you didn’t expect. The thrum of the music slowly pulls you back to the present, though your mind continues to race.

“You good?” Toji asks when he finally approaches, his voice low enough for only you and, though barely, Satoru to hear.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly. Too quickly for his taste.

Toji raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Ya don't look fine."

Satoru, having disappeared for a moment, returns and slides a bottle of water into your hands, cutting off whatever excuse you were about to offer Toji. “Drink,” Satoru says, tone leaving no room for argument.

You take a sip, grateful for the chance to distract yourself, even if it's brief.

"Are you sure you're alright, angel? Do you want to go back? I can walk you," Satoru offers, tone gentle but concerned.

You shake your head, a small, almost imperceptible motion. "No, I don't want to ruin your fun," your words tumble out in a fragile whisper, as if you're scared to even use your voice.

"Don't say that. It's really no problem," he counters immediately. His voice is smooth, like velvet. "I'm only here for you anyway."

"Me?" you ask, a hint of disbelief in your voice.

"Mhm," he confirms, a soft smile toying on his lips. "You know me. I'll take any chance to hang out with you. And, anyway, I'm not letting you torture yourself by staying here any longer."

And just like that, you find yourself giving in. You want to escape the purgatory you feel yourself in, and if you spend one more second in this dark, sweaty hell, you fear you might never make it out.

You quickly say goodbye to Toji, who fully understands your reasoning. He gives you a brief, firm hug, and whispers in your ear, "You'll be okay, doll. I promise."

The warmth of his words tug at the already frail edge of your composure. Somehow, you stop yourself from breaking down just from those six words.

The weight of the night lingers in the air as you walk back to the suite with Satoru by your side. The once chaotic scene from the party feels eons away, yet the tightness in your chest refuses to unwind itself. It’s not just Naoya’s presence that weighs on you, but the memory of his power over you, and the recognition that he still wields that. You try to push it away, try to focus on the quiet comfort of Satoru beside you, but as much as you despise vulnerability, the cracks in the walls you spent so long building are growing by the second.

The fresh air feels nice in your lungs; it's like you can finally breathe again.

The walk is a blur, blindly following wherever Satoru leads you as you lack the willpower to think about the path yourself. As you reach the hallway outside your suite, your breath hitches in your throat, and the weight you’ve been carrying finally becomes too much. The tears, which you had barely kept at bay all night, finally spill over. It happens so suddenly—one moment you're steady, and the next, your hands are shaking, your chest heaving with the kind of sobs you’ve been holding back for far too long.

Satoru, always attuned to you, is by your side in an instant. His hand touches your arm gently, his voice low with concern. “Hey, hey - come here,” he comforts, pulling you into a hug before you even have time to respond. His body heat surrounds you as his arms hold you tightly, letting you cling to him in all of your desperation.

You bury your face in his chest, your cries muffled by the fabric of his shirt, body shaking with every sob. You hate how weak you feel, but it’s like everything you’ve been holding inside for so long is flooding out at once. The weight of everything—Naoya’s cruel presence, the years of his manipulation, the humiliation, and the painful, bitter memories—feels insurmountable now. You are letting years of built up pain and sadness out, pouring your soul out into his chest.

“I'm sorry,” you choke out between the tremors of your sobs, your voice cracking with every word. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Satoru’s voice is steady as he reassures you, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s okay to feel this way. You’ve been through a lot.”

His words are a bandage for your wounded heart, but the flood of emotions doesn’t stop. The steady rhythm of his breathing and the firm yet gentle hold he has on you are the only things anchoring you to the present moment. You’re safe now, but it doesn’t make the pain go away. It takes time to heal, and you know this - yet tonight, in this vulnerable moment, it feels unbearable.

After what feels like an eternity, your sobs slow. Satoru doesn’t rush you, simply letting you lean on him as you calm down, his hold unwavering. His fingers brush through your hair, a soft gesture that only deepens the sense of peace he’s trying to offer.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you whisper through the last of your tears, your voice small, raw, and fragile. Yet, he picks up on the unspoken words you are saying to him. You need him right now.

Satoru pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes soft with understanding, a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assures with a warmth that melts away the last of the lingering tension in your chest.

You nod, letting him guide you inside your suite. The room feels different now—quieter, more intimate, and yet still heavy with the remnants of your emotional storm. Satoru helps you get ready for bed, taking off your shoes and socks for you. You let him wipe off your makeup with a wipe he found on your nightstand, then go through your closet to give you a t-shirt and sweatpants to change into. Afterward, he sits beside you as you curl up into the covers, exhausted from everything.

"I'll sleep on the floor right next to you, okay?" Satoru says, turning to grab a blanket for himself that you have folded in a basket. Immediately, your eyes grow wide and a knot forms in your chest.

"No," you blurt, moving your body in his direction, halfway out of your cocoon of blankets with your arm outstretched and fingers grasping the back of his shirt. Satoru turns and looks at you as you struggle to find your words, eyebrow raised in question at the urgency that caught him off guard. "Sorry. But, uh- do you want to... can you...?" Not sure how to ask and suddenly feeling awkward, you instead motion to the empty space beside you in bed. Your face flushes in embarrassment.

Satoru freezes, surprised by the sudden rush of your actions, his eyebrows raising in silent inquiry. His expression softens when he sees the hesitation in your eyes. "You sure?" he checks, a look of concern on his face as his standing figure hovers over you and awaits confirmation.

"Please," you beg, voice small but filled with quiet desperation.

He chuckles fondly, softly smiling at you in a way that makes your chest feel warm. "Since you asked so nicely, I guess so." Bending down, he cups your cheeks with his hands so gently, as if you would break if he used any bit of force. He tilts your head down so he can press a quick, lingering kiss to your forehead.

You let out a small, shaky breath, unable to hide the way your body seems to relax just a fraction from the gentle contact. "Thank you," your voice is so quiet, Satoru barely hears you peep the words out. A sudden thought hits you, and you scramble to add, "Oh! Um- You left clothes here after movie night. They're, um, clean and in the closet, if you want them."

"Aw, thanks," he coos, patting the top of your head affectionately. "That's very sweet of you, my sweet girl."

Before you know it, both you and Satoru have changed, and you lay facing each other under the cover of your twin-sized bed. You are a little nervous, having underestimated the amount of space Satoru would take up. The air is thick with the gnawing memories of the party. Your nerves rise again, but you try to shove them down. The intimacy of it all overwhelms you, and the moment feels like it’s both too much and not enough all at once.

"You okay, angel?" Satoru asks, voice soft as his eyes search yours.

"Mhm," you force out, although you can feel your throat tightening and the pressure mount behind your ribcage.

"You don't have to lie to me, baby," his voice drops to a near whisper.

And with that, the dam breaks.

A wave of emotion crashes over you, and before you can stop it, the floodgates of everything you’ve been holding back burst open. You turn your head away, trying to hide your face in your fumbling hands, but the sobs come anyway, raw and unrelenting.

"It's okay," Satoru whispers, moving closer to cradle your head. with his hands, gently guiding you to his chest. "I'm here, let it out."

You feel everything overwhelm your senses. The events of the night, the memories of the past, the worries about the future. You thought you were done feeling this way - hopeless, lost. But it's rushing back, stronger than ever. You feel the world collapsing on you.

You sniffle, words stuck in your throat. "I'm sorry," you manage to say, guilt crawling in for ruining his night and forcing your problems on him.

"No, no, no. Don't be sorry," Satoru assures. "Nothin' to be sorry for, 'kay?"

"I- I dunno-"

"No," his voice is stern as he interrupts you. Suddenly, hee pulls away just enough to guide your head up, his hands cupping your cheeks as his gaze locks with yours. Looking into his eyes, they are practically glowing in the moonlight shining through your window. "Hey. There's a reason I call you an angel, you know?"

Your brows furrow in confusion, and you make a small sound of inquiry, a soft "Hm?" in response, prompting him to continue.

"I wasn't doing great after graduation. Been fighting with parents and shit about my future. Y'know, inheritance and family business stuff." His voice dips lower as he continues, letting you in on a side of him not even Suguru knows well. "But I want nothing to do with it."

He pauses, his fingers gently tracing the edge of your jaw. His gaze is unwavering as he opens up in a way that feels both surprising and intimate.

“I was so... lost,” Satoru continues, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “Spent so much of my high school life running from one thing to the next, thinking I could outrun my future. The pressure, the expectations... I hated it all. But then I met you.”

His voice softens further, and there’s a tenderness in his words that feels like something only you get to witness. “You made me feel like I didn’t have to run anymore. Like maybe, just maybe, I could stop pretending everything was fine and I could be real for once.”

You blink, momentarily stunned, unsure of how to respond. The weight of his confession hangs between you, and you can feel your heart tighten in your chest, a mixture of confusion and desire building inside you.

"You make me want to fight for something other than myself," he continues, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. His touch is soft but firm, growing more intentional, like he’s trying to ground both you and himself in this moment. “You’re not just someone I want by my side. You're... everything. You give me a reason to want more, to be better, even when I don’t know how."

The sincerity in his words is so raw, so real, that it almost makes the room feel smaller, more intimate. You can’t bring yourself to say anything right away, the gravity of what he’s just shared with you settling deep into your bones. You never expected Satoru to be this open, this... vulnerable. For a moment, the outside world has stilled.

"When I saw you at that party," he continues with a wistful laugh, "after you ran into me and spilled your drink all over my shirt, I felt like I was running into my savior. You." He takes a deep breath, voice sounding as if entranced by the memory. "Because you bring light to the darkness, and hope when it feels like there's none left - just like an angel."

He seems to read the uncertainty in your expression, though. "I know it’s a lot, but I just wanted you to know. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not going to let you go through anything alone either."

A quiet, comfortable pause follows. It’s like the air between you has thickened with something unspoken, a shared understanding that binds you both in ways words can’t quite capture. Satoru’s thumb brushes your cheek, his touch tender, and he leans down to press another soft kiss to your forehead.

His words don’t erase the ache inside you, but for the first time tonight, the pain feels a little less overwhelming, a little more manageable.

“I’m not great with words,” he says quietly, breaking the silence as his hand slips to the small of your back, pulling you closer. “But I’ll always be here when you need me. Don’t ever feel like you have to go through this by yourself.”

You rest your head on his chest, your body relaxing into him as you let his presence soothe the rawness inside. The warmth of his embrace, holding you like you're the most precious thing in the world, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear, the way he’s holding you—it all feels like a safety net, like you’re finally being caught after falling for so long.

“I’m sorry for burdening you with all this,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Satoru chuckles softly, the sound low and reassuring. "Don’t apologize. You’re never a burden. I’ll take care of you, okay? No matter what."

And somehow, those words feel like everything you’ve been longing to hear. The tenderness in his voice, the certainty in his actions—it’s all so different from the chaos of the night, so different from the mess of your emotions, that it feels like a lifeline. Like there’s hope again, even in the darkest moments. The comfort of his presence, the way he doesn’t try to fix anything but simply lets you feel, makes the ache in your heart feel a little less sharp

You let out a shaky breath, your body still trembling slightly from the aftershock of everything, but it’s a relief to be in his arms, to know that no matter what happens, you have someone by your side. You cling to him, finally allowing yourself to break down completely, something you hadn’t let yourself do in front of anyone since the whole ordeal with Naoya started.

"I'm scared, Toru," you say with a shaky voice.

"I know," he whispers. "I know."

"I-I trust you. And I like you So much, that it scares me. Because the last time I felt this way..." you start, but another wave of tears breaks through your exterior and a sob rakes through your body.

As you struggle to regain your composure, Satoru's fingers comb through your hair, soothing your senses. Your tears fall freely now as your chest heaves with every sob. Satoru’s other hand gently rubs your back, slow and soothing, as though he’s letting you to cry it out, for the storm to pass.

"I know you're scared, sweets. I know you've been through hell. But you're not alone, okay? You are so, so strong. Have I ever told you how much I admire you?" His hand cradles the back of your neck again as you curl more into him, the fragile cracks of your armor expanding further, the walls protecting you from vulnerability almost completely broken down. It’s terrifying, but somehow, it feels like the only right choice you’ve ever made.

With a broken sniffle, you mumble, "I'm can't go through that again, Toru. I can't."

"You won't," Satoru vows, his voice like a promise. Satoru’s arms tighten around you, pulling you closer as if to shield you from the weight of the world. “You won’t have to. I won’t let you.”

His words, the comfort in his presence, the softness of his touch, all make everything seem a little less daunting. In this moment, his promise feels like a fortress, one that no one—especially not Naoya—can breach. The world doesn't seem as scary with him here, holding you, keeping you safe.

You take a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions inside you. The intensity of everything—your fears, your pain, the remnants of betrayal that still cling to your soul—feels heavy, but with him, somehow, it feels bearable. He’s not rushing you to get over it. He’s not asking for answers. He’s just here, offering comfort in the most unspoken of ways.

You stay in his arms, allowing yourself to be vulnerable in a way you never thought possible. It’s terrifying, but it’s also freeing. With Satoru, you’re not afraid of being weak. You’re not afraid of falling apart because he’s there, catching you before you hit the ground. The strength of his presence feels like a quiet promise—that no matter what happens, you’ll never have to go through it alone again.

“I’m sorry for unloading all of this on you,” you whisper, your voice strained with exhaustion. You fear burdening him, and as much as he says you aren't one, something in you feels guilty for exposing this side of yourself. But as guilty as you feel, you don't necessarily regret it.

Satoru laughs lightly, a sound that makes the tension in your chest loosen just a little more. “Don’t apologize for that. I’m not some stranger. I’m here for you. Always will be.”

Your heart aches at the simplicity of it all. The raw sincerity in his words, the softness in his voice - it’s everything you’ve been longing for and more. The weight of your past, the betrayal, the hurt - it’s still there, but in this moment, you don’t feel like it defines you. You don’t feel like you’re drowning.

“You’ve got me, angel,” Satoru murmurs, his hand brushing through your hair, touch so soft and careful to try and calm you. “I know you’re scared, but I’ll walk with you every step of the way. We’ll face it all together.”

And that - his presence, his unwavering support - becomes the light you need to push back the darkness. You’re not alone anymore.

Maybe, in a way, he's your angel, too.

With a contented sigh, you let yourself relax into him, feeling the warmth of his body envelope you. It’s a peace you haven’t known in so long. The night ahead may still feel long, the road uncertain, but with Satoru’s arms around you, it no longer feels like you have to navigate it alone.

You drift off, finally surrendering to the comfort of his embrace, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you to sleep. For tonight, at least, you can rest.

₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.

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₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.

its gonna get even more heated okay. this was the warm up.

i went through like five drafts for this :P but here you go... exciting things planned!!!! CANNOT wait for you all to seeeeee