#i think it's much much rawer

[the-crow-binary]

@ariawen Hi, as a games fan who started to get really interested into them after watching the first seasons of the original NFCV show, allow me to explain, once again. :) (it will be like a summary of this post, and this one, and many other posts that were not all made by me and that would take too much time for me to find. just know there is a lot and that summary is non-exhaustive)

The adaptations don't respect anything coming from the games. It doesn't have any of it's themes, the Belmont clan is treated like dirt, respectable characters have been turned into rude jerks (except Hector who was turned into a weak puppy with no agency :)), every female character has been turned into a #girlboss, multiple characters have been changed so much that they are basically OCs with game characters names (Carmilla, Isaac, Elisabeth/Erzsebet, Drolta, Olrox, Annette), Dracula who is the biggest antagonist of the CV games, the MAIN one, is killed in two seasons and the whole "cycle of revenge and resurrection" is thrown out the window. Dracula isn't even killed by Trevor, and let me tell you, Belmonts killing Dracula is a VERY big deal in the games and one of the MOST IMPORTANT parts of the lore. Instead it's Alucard killing him because they wanted to make Symphony of the Night way too early.

The Dracula VS Belmont clan duality is non-existent. Dracula has received one of the biggest downgrades of the adaptations (he is nothing but some kind of vampire king who can't even make his own court listen to him and is killed by a fucking wooden stick, when in the games, he is the Dark Lord, the most powerful evil being to exist, basically Satan, is obeyed and respected by all creatures of the Night, can turn into a giant demon, basically he is way more intimidating annd terrifying in the games, and at full power, he can only be killed by the Vampire Killer. And talking about the VK...)

The ancestral whip of the Belmont Clan is not that special in the shows, when it's the most powerful weapon to exist in the games (and is infused with the soul of the ex-betrothed of the Belmont clan's founder). The Morning star, wich in game was an enhancement of the VK, is now another, more powerful weapon... that disappeared in Nocturne. They are not even coherent with their own lore.

And even the writing of the shows themselves are not great. It's rushed, the LGBT representation is straight up insulting (bisexuality shown through a rape scene? a relationship so rushed it's ridiculous and the only reason why people like it is because the characters in it are hot? a scene where one of them is probably mind controlled? really? the best LGBT relationship that is shown is between two lesbian vampires who barely have any screentime and no real importance to the plot.), bestiality jokes, Alucard pissing on screen, "fuck" and "shit" thrown every two seconds, OP Sypha, rape apologism, N!Isaac stealing the arc of Game!Hector and making it worse (he literally uses his religion, that he didn't have before, as an excuse to killing people. he keeps killing most of the people he meets then by the time he reaches Hector in the end we are supposed to believe he is a changed man). Wich is a good summary of the shows tbh: It does not take much from the games, but what it does, it destroys. Nocturne is even worse in term of writing. Lots of boring moments, laughable choices such as making a super dramatic scene in the beginning of the season where Maria burries one of her bird and everyone cries with Edouard singing and it's literally so stupid (we don't know her yet, nor her birds, no one cares). The show happening during the French Revolution this far is at best, useless, at worse, insulting. Using foreign cultures for diversity points without any care put into it.

The themes of the games: Generational trauma, cycle of hatred and revenge, fated to fight for eternity, coping/struggling with fate(you can't fight it. if you try, it's only going to make things worse.), "fate is horrible but necessary", coping with death, eternal fight of good VS evil, family tragedies, believing in the best in people because that's all you have, fall from grace, redemption (from past sins), (gaining) agency, freedom/independence, humanity, self-affirmation...

The themes of the shows: CHURCH BAD, fake deepness (the games did better), trying to pretend it has the "struggling with fate" thing with N!Richter when it was already ruined by N!Trevor, "family member died", coping with death but ruined (Dracula being depicted as deserving of an happy ending and don't receiving any consequences after he tried to kill every human, when in the games, he was tragic, yes, but it was clear he was in the wrong) or boring, woman on man rape okay because she hot and he got hard haha, slavery bad, Belmonts stupid, swear words funny...

And to top it all off, the thing that irritates us the most, is not just that the shows basically destroy the games with no respect whatsoever. It's not just the fact that it became super popular and now NFCV is what comes into the mind of most people when we say "Castlevania". It's not just that the people liked them, or that they decided that Castlevania was a good game to be political with. No.

The worst is that people feel the need to shit on the games in order to praise their shows.

Trust me that game fans would be more than happy to ignore the shows and just consider them as their own alternate universe if they could. It's the shows fans that won't allow us to. Because they can't tag their shit right. Because they can't just see the show and not compare it to the games they know nothing about. Because they can't comprehend that liking a show doesn't mean the show is good. Because they can't, or refuse to see the very obvious problems their beloved shows have, even as it's own show. And it's not just individuals on the internet, but reporters as well. It's really, horribly irritating, when we come across an article that praise NFCV for being SO GOOD and SO SUPERIOR TO THE GAMES. And it's even more infuriating when they praise the show for some things that THE GAMES DID BETTER.

The games had a core, things that gave it it's identity, things that made "Castlevania" Castlevania. And the "adaptations" butchered it. Of course we're going to be mad about it, and the fact it became more popular. We're not anti-adaptation, we're anti-BAD adaptation that does not do justice to our games. Especially when said adaptation becomes more popular and considered "better".

I see that already some viewers of nocturne think Richter's an asshole. This is just one of many examples of the show changing a character's personality traits.

In the games, Richter is a very nice man! He has a strong sense of justice, and is compassionate about others. He's not an asshole like nocturne leads you to believe.

Also, his family legacy plays a much bigger role in the games. It would eventually lead to his fall from grace. But that's another story for another time.

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 8

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, suggestive themes, again with the slight smut phew, angst on top of more angst, no comfort... yet (or ever? hmm much to ponder about)  A/N: Imagine if I leave it here lmao Also, I've been listening to White Ferrari on repeat while editing this chapter. I'm not saying that you should too while you're reading, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh, and Angel by Massive Attack. Trust me, it's gonna come up. (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

The cold tiles of the bathroom floor wreak a shiver through your body.

You’re curled up in front of the toilet, barely upright after another round of puking what little bile is left in your stomach. Cold beads of sweat dot your forehead and every breath feels thin, ragged, like you’re trying to gulp air through a pinhole. The chill seeps under your skin, leaving you shuddering involuntarily between dry heaves. 

You make the rookie mistake of tilting your head ever-so-slightly to rest against the cool porcelain, and the miniscule action threatens to send the room careening into another violent spin. A wave of nausea hits you and you desperately gnaw on your bottom lip to prevent yourself from gagging.

You feel like absolute shit. 

There’s something lodged inside, sinking deep into the pit of your stomach. A poison, a corruption—heavier than the excess of alcohol still clawing its way through your system. It isn’t the simple penance for overindulging, no; it’s darker, rawer, less perfunctory than the remnants of last night’s events. 

It churns inside you, leaving an acrid, metallic taste on your tongue and a dull ache behind your eyes. 

The buzzing of your phone reverberates beside you, a relentless vibration against your thigh. It hasn’t stopped since the moment you clawed your way out of bed and staggered toward your porcelain waste bucket. You weren’t supposed to bring it along with you—it should’ve been left abandoned outside of this room, far from this bleak sanctuary. This… this disgusting aftermath of your revelry. 

Unfortunately, it’s practically an extension of you now. A limb, almost. Or worse, a crutch—something you lean on so habitually, that the mere thought of its absence feels like an amputation.

“S-sorry,” you release a shaky breath, tears pricking your vision, unbidden. Unwelcome. “Sorry.” 

Another vibration. You can picture it clearly in your head: the worry marring his face, the exasperation in his eyes.

You retch.

––––

The red takeout box from Panda Express sits in front of you, its contents lukewarm and forgotten for the better part of the hour. You barely remember ordering it—actually, now that you think about it… Did you even order it yourself? Your memory’s a little hazy, just like everything else today. And last night.

Sylus’ voice crackles through your phone, propped precariously against a half-empty mug of tea on the low table. 

His presence, as always, manages to fill the room, though this time there’s a palpable tension in the air since you opened the game. His initial greeting had all the warmth of a parent catching their kid sneaking in past curfew. The moment his image blinked into view, you could see the battle in his eyes.

On one end, he simmered with ire, almost ready to boil over. On the other, he looked like he’d gladly claw his way out the screen just to tuck you into bed and personally force-feed you the food you’ve been ignoring for the past forty minutes.

“Eat it,” he grouses, a hint of steel sharpening his deceptively calm tone. The worry beneath it feels like it could strangle you. 

(And if it could, it probably would—if he has any say in it.)

You whine, burrowing deeper under the blanket, folding yourself into a sad, uncooperative ball on the couch. “I will. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” he echoes, the incredulity clear in his voice. “Do you plan on eating it soon as it becomes inedible, or is this a test of endurance?”

With a sigh that feels like it’s pulled from the depths of your soul, you poke halfheartedly at the lid. The smell of grease and fried food wafts out, making your stomach churn. Whether it’s from nausea or hunger pangs, you can’t tell.

“It smells like regret,” you mutter, swallowing the lump rising from your esophagus. 

Sylus snorts, and you can tell it slipped out before he could stop it. “Considering the state you’re in? Can’t say I’m surprised. But you still need to eat, kitten. You can’t run on stubbornness alone.”

“I’m doing fine so far,” you argue weakly, knowing you’re not convincing anyone. Your body feels like it’s been put through the wringer—limbs heavy, muscles crying in protest, a pounding headache that refuses to let up.

“Fine,” he repeats, dry as ash. “You can barely hold yourself up, but sure, let’s call that fine.”

You finally flip the box open, revealing a mess of something fried and vaguely brown. The smell hits you harder this time, and you salivate something odd. “I don’t think—”

“Eat,” he cuts you off, voice firm, brooking no argument. “You’ve done well with the tea, but now you need something to fill you up.”

“I can think of something else I’d like to fill me up,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop yourself.

A beat of silence, and then Sylus’ tone shifts—a touch amused now, but it’s edged with a deliberate weight that makes your skin prickle. Uh-oh. 

“Sweetie,” he says slowly, almost indulgent, “if you’ve got the energy to make jokes like that, you’ve got the energy to eat. Be good, and I’ll make sure you’re properly rewarded once you’re feeling better.”

You laugh, breathless, trying to mask your nervousness from the subtle innuendo. Obediently, you pick up the plastic spork beside the carton. “You’re really selling this hard, huh.”

“I’m not here to sell it,” he sighs, voice losing its edge, but there’s still a firmness to it. “I’m here to make sure you don’t pass out. One bite. Start there.”

You spear a piece of shrimp hesitantly. It looks harmless enough, but you lift it like it might bite back. 

You take the tiniest nibble. 

It’s greasy, salty, and absolutely meh—but it doesn’t immediately trigger your gag reflex, which in itself feels like a small victory. 

“There,” he says, his satisfaction palpable. “See? You survived.”

“Barely,” you shoot back half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth twitches.

“I’ll make sure to congratulate you later for your heroic recovery,” he says wryly. “Now another bite, sweetheart.”

You make a reluctant noise but comply, munching slowly. He hums in approval. When you glance at the screen, his expression has mellowed—the severity giving way to something almost tender.

You look away quickly, swallowing hard; though you're not sure if it’s because of the tiny morsel of food or from the heavier something that's lodged in your throat.

The sound of your chewing is slightly amplified by the silence that comes after. You’re afraid to break it first. 

So Sylus does it for you. Once he’s decided you’ve had your fill of the fried rice.

“Would you like to talk about last night?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “What about last night?” 

A long pause. 

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. “I’m just saying that if you want to, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. You press your lips together, unsure of how to answer. There’s discomfort; the unease brought by your own self-consciousness. 

“I—uh—” You start, fumbling for the right words. “I didn’t mean to… make things weird or anything. I don't usually get that wasted,” You sigh, blowing a stray hair out of your face. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.” 

“The only thing you did wrong last night was ignore my messages,” Sylus murmurs, his tone a little admonishing. “Making me worry about your well-being.”

You glance up, catching the affection in his eyes. He gives you a slight smile, relieved to finally have your attention fully on him.

You scrunch the blanket in your fist, fiddling with a loose string. You want to say something. Anything. But you can’t seem to summon the courage. 

Finally—

“You don’t think…” you hesitate, voice small. “You don’t think it’s– that I’m… too much trouble?”

He tuts softly, the sound playful, with hints of something fond. Comforting, almost. So you hold his gaze, even if it’s a little harder than you’d like it to be.

Sylus looks at you with something so… endearing that it’s almost painful. “You’re perfect. My little troublemaker,” his eyes burn a little brighter. “Mine.”

The words hit you like a wave—soothing, gratifying. Staggering.

Oh, you want to believe him. You want to lose yourself in his words, to give in to the feeling of being cherished, of being seen. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything as much as this. 

But turmoil wages a war inside you, and you’re stuck between the pull of letting yourself believe and the sharp reality of your situation.

The futility of it all.

It makes you hurt, deep inside, in a way you don’t know how to fix.

––––

The package you got from the lobby is nondescript. Unassuming. The kind of box that could contain anything from kitchenware to – you don’t know, maybe a desk lamp? You turn it over in your hands, squinting at the lack of clues of its content and its sender. 

Did you order something and forgot?

Payroll was over a week ago, and you’re aware of your irresponsible tendency to pile everything that catches your eye onto an online shopping cart just to tempt yourself into buying shit you don’t need, but you’re pretty sure you’d remember spending money on… whatever this is. 

It’s not until you’re back in the privacy of your apartment, scissors in hand, that the mystery begins—and promptly ends.

The contents spill out, leaving you to blink owlishly at the mess of shredded wrapping paper and its pièce de résistance: a nine-inch monstrosity of a dildo, hot red in color. 

The… thing is practically a weapon, its twisting ridges and intimidating girth looking more like something you’d need a user manual for. Or a fucking exorcist, you distantly think in rising panic. 

“Uhh…” The sound tumbles out, an embarrassing mix of confused and gobsmacked. “I don’t remember—?”

Ping!

Your phone chimes before you can finish, and you slowly turn your gaze towards the screen, a sinking feeling beginning to form in your gut.

The message is short. And oh-so-smug.

Ah. Just in time. 

The realization dawns on you, and your cheeks burn hot enough to fry an egg. “Sylus!”

What? Even in text, his tone carries that infuriating slyness you can practically hear from a mile away. You’ve earned it.

Your mouth works uselessly for a moment before words could spill out, clumsy and agitated. “Earned what?!” 

A little treat for being such an obedient little thing while you were recovering, remember?

“Holy shit,” you wheeze. A half-hysterical giggle bubbles up your throat as you hold the draconic cock far from you as if it’s gonna attack at any second. Fuck, it might. “This is almost as big as my forearm! The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

What do I expect you to do with it? Sylus’s reply comes almost instantly, the weight of his insinuation almost coming across as mocking. I thought that was obvious.

You didn’t think your face could go any redder, and you’re sure you resemble a fucking tomato right at that moment. “Sy-Sy, this is—” You gulp, glancing at the toy with wide eyes. “fucking massive. It–it has… it’s got scales!”

Ah, so you’ve noticed the craftsmanship. Quite exquisite, isn’t it?

“E-Exquisite?” you sputter, voice soaring at a higher octave. “This looks like it came out of Alien or something! I’m pretty sure it’s gonna start moving on its own…”

Only if you press a button.

Your brain short-circuits, and you frantically examine the thing for telltale signs of any hidden mechanization.

There’s a short lull, laden with barely restrained amusement. Then: Relax, sweetheart. It’s not going to bite.

You let out another – nervous – laugh, gingerly setting the large toy down as if it might explode from its sheer audacity. “I hate you.” 

No, you don’t, Sylus counters without missing a beat. But I do appreciate how flustered you’re getting. Go on, sweet thing—tell me how it’s too much for you. I could listen to that all night.

You let out a strangled noise, burying your face in your hands. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you.”

Mmh, you know me so well. 

You sigh, the gravity of what’s inevitable setting in. It was like fighting a losing battle. 

Something the both of you knew right from the start.

-

-

-

(You are my angel)

“I-It hurts to put in,” you whimper, body trembling as sweat clings to your flushed skin. Every muscle feels taut, coiled tight with both anticipation and a flicker of fear. “p-please…” 

“We have the rest of the night, little dove. We’ll take it slow,” Sylus whispers, his voice a velvet caress in your ear, warm and grounding. “I’m right here.”

His words melt into you like cloying liquid, wrapping around your resolve like a sensual embrace.

(Come from way above)

“Again.”

“I-I can’t,” you sniffle, the words breaking into short, shaky gasps as your chest heaves. The remnants of your last orgasm still ripple through you, the one he’s ripped from you mercilessly.  

“You can, poppet,” he coos, the endearment sliding over you like cool mercury. “Give me one more, yeah? Want to see those pretty eyes rolling for me.”

The thought alone has you shivering, his tone dripping with enough heat to stir something molten from within you.

(To bring me love)

The air hangs unbearably hot, almost suffocating. Every nerve sings, alive with the memory of his ministrations—though he’s never truly touched you, has he? 

It doesn’t matter. The line between what’s real and what’s not blurs further with every passing moment.

Your body burns, and yet you crave more, more—the pulsing ache of your stretched walls only feeding the gnawing hunger that builds inside, like an unrestrained beast. 

You blink sluggishly; your vision swimming as pleasure courses through you in heavy, dizzying surges.

Has he bewitched you? You’ve become insatiable, ravenous—monstrous in your desire. For him. For the addicting high only he could give, and teasingly dangle just out of reach. 

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

How…? He’s nothing but a voice, incorporeal, yet he commands you completely. Your hands, your movements, your very breath feels as if it belongs to him. They follow his instructions without hesitation, carving paths of fire and electricity across the bare expanse of your skin.

“More?” Sylus rasps, and the edge in his voice sends a thrill down your spine. There’s something feral in his tone, and it brings you an almost animalistic sense of glee to know that he isn’t unaffected by all of this any less than you are. 

“More,” you beg, raw and needy. He groans in response.

“Good, so good for me,” he hisses a litany of praise that sounds so much like a curse. “My good girl. Mine to break, mine to ruin.”  

Your back arches as you cry out; muscles locking, mouth falling open in a soundless scream as both agony and ecstasy crash over you like a tidal wave.

(Love you, love you, love you, love you Love you, lo–ve you, love you, love you … Love you, love you—love you, love you…)

––––

"My cousin's getting married tomorrow."

You say it with an air of nonchalance, your voice light, as if you’re just commenting on the weather.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. His usual quick wit is conspicuously absent, replaced by a silence that stretches long, settling into the room like a beam of sunlight from your window. The continuous whirr of the electric fan and the droning of the news anchor on TV fill the space instead, in place of conversation.

You don’t force it. Instead, you wait patiently until it bends under its own weight and breaks.

After what feels like minutes, his voice cuts through the quiet; neutral and impassive. "Where's it happening?"

"A little chapel in Downtown Orlando, near Lake Lucerne. Nothing fancy. They’re keeping it small."

He nods, his gaze distant. Somewhere you can’t follow. "Just close family?"

"Yeah," you murmur, your fingers absently tugging at the fraying hem of your cardigan. "And a few friends. My mom’s going, along with her new husband. They sent me photos of the setup earlier—it’s pretty."

Sylus hums. “Would you have gone, if it weren’t so far away?”

“Yeah,” you answer automatically. “Yeah, ‘course. But I’m here, and they’re there. So I could only send my regards.”

Maru pads into the room, brushing against your leg before bumping his head insistently against your shin. You scoop him up, ignoring his soft meows of protest, and cradle him in your lap.

“She’s been planning it for months,” you continue, scratching behind soft cat ears. “Way before she got engaged. She’s one of those people who just… knows. Knows what she wants, knows how to get there. All mapped out, down to the finer details.”

In the corner of your eye, you see a faint smile ghosting his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "What a luxury,” he remarks, almost wistfully. "To pave your life so easily, just like that."

There’s something unspoken behind his words, something heavier than a passing comment. 

"Do you think about it?" His question startles you—not just its suddenness but the way his gaze locks onto yours, intent and searching, like he’s trying to read the answer in your face before you could even utter a word.

You blink. "... About what?"

"Marriage."

You hesitate. The question feels delicate, like a soap bubble floating in the air, fragile enough to burst at the slightest touch. "Sometimes," you admit. "But not like she does. It's always been more of an abstract idea, I guess."

He doesn’t speak. 

"I don’t know," you say softly, “if it’s something I could ever want. Or if it’s even meant for me."

Your voice falters, and the rest is left unsaid, though it lingers between the spaces untouched. 

I don’t think about it, no. Not if… if it’s not with—

You stop yourself before the thought takes flight, tampering it back down.

Sylus leans back, his gaze flickering away. "It’s a commitment," he says eventually. "One that requires a lot of thought. I understand."

He doesn’t elaborate, and for a moment, you almost consider leaving it there. But something in you—persistent, prying—urges you to press just a little further.

"What about you? Have you thought about it?"

There’s an imperceptible shift in his expression; the faintest furrow between his brows, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Perhaps not in the way you're thinking," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Sometimes I wonder what it means. For someone like me." He hesitates, glancing at you, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in those deep pools of red. “For…” 

His words hang unfinished; you feel its hollowness pushing down on you, as though they bore meaning neither of you can bring yourself to name.

You feel it settle in your chest, vacant and aching, like an absence of something. Gone before it even began.

––––

It dawns on you on a regular Saturday evening, as you're (clumsily) peeling potatoes for dinner, and Sylus is dutifully recounting the events of his day to you like your very own talk show host on late night cable.

It creeps up at you—not in an explosive burst of clarity, no. No fanfare, no earth-shattering epiphany. It’s quieter than that, like the tides under the moon, rising unnoticed until you’re already ankle-deep.

Maybe it’s always been there, tucked into the corners of your mind, hidden in the spaces between the teasing banter and the way he watches you when he thinks you’re unaware. A whisper that you refused to acknowledge, too afraid of what it would bring.

You must have known, even then. Right from the start.

From the way it feels when he says your name—softly, reverently, like it’s a privilege to utter it so freely.

From the way you ache when he waits for you to finish a thought, as though every word you speak is something worth treasuring. 

And it’s in the way he knows you better than you understand yourself, filling your silences with meaning so you don’t have to. 

You love him. 

You know how this ends.

––––

Coming down from a mind-numbing high is always an experience, a short state of nirvana; this time no different from the rest. 

For a fleeting moment, everything feels infinite—a small eternity suspended in pleasure. Petite mort.

But then reality hits you once again, and the pleasure vanishes like smoke. 

It leaves you feeling utterly spent. Empty. The silence crashes back in like a tsunami, heavier than before. The stillness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud. 

The sound of your shallow breathing, the oppressive white noise, the distant hum of the city from outside your window… These are your only source of life. There’s no warm touch to ground you. No arms to pull you close. No sweet nothings to piece you back together. Just this. Just you.

You had known. You always knew. 

This was it—the price of wanting something you were never meant to have. For surrendering yourself to something that exists only in fragments and pixels, bound by lines of code and a screen you can’t cross. You delude yourself into thinking it’s worth it, that these fleeting moments of bliss outweigh the quiet wake of devastation it leaves behind, every time. 

And yet—

A choked sob breaks past your lips, shattering the silence. It tears out of you like something primal, something you can’t control. 

Your body folds in on itself, naked and trembling, your arms banding across your stomach like you’re trying to hold something broken together. The sheets beneath you feel clammy, disgusting, but you pull them tighter anyway, desperate for something to hold on to.

It hurts all the same. 

“Talk to me,” Sylus whispers urgently. There’s something jagged and desperate about it. “Please. Tell me how to make it better.”

How could you? 

What words could bridge this chasm between you? How do you explain a hurt so uniquely yours, so tied to the fragile intricacies of a body he doesn’t have, of feelings that leads to nowhere? 

How do you describe the way it breaks you, knowing that he’s oh-so close, yet still—yet always—out of reach?

How do you describe the weight of being too human in moments like this?

You press your forehead to your knees, heart in your throat. You don’t know how to make him understand.

“I can’t,” you whisper into your knees, voice cracking under the weight of what’s left unsaid. 

-

-

-

The next morning arrives with the muted glow of daylight filtering through the blinds, but it does nothing to lift the oppressive tension in the room. You don’t mention last night. You don’t even glance at the lit phone screen.

Sylus doesn’t bring it up either—not directly. But you feel him. The weight of his attention clings to the edges of the silence you’ve imposed, like static crackling just beneath the surface.

You keep moving. It doesn’t matter how; you make yourself busy. Work has never been more engrossing as it does at that very moment, and you hurl yourself into the thrilling world of emails, spreadsheets, and Teams meetings like you’re vying for the spot as best employee of the month. 

His impatience is impossible to ignore. It presses against you, insistent, like a gasp of breath waiting to be released. But you don’t give him the chance.

At some point, his voice drifts from the speakers, low and clipped, but careful; as if he’s reigning in his emotions, afraid to scare you further away.

“Are you going to talk to me?”

Your fingers hover the keyboard. For a moment, the mouse cursor taunts you, as if it's also impatiently waiting for an answer.

Sylus thinks the silence you leave him suspended in is deliberate, even cruel.

He doesn’t push, not immediately. You hear the faint noise of the game’s background music, the tinkling piano keys, a reminder of his presence. 

When he speaks again, his tone is softer, laced with something almost… pleading. The change in his tone doesn’t ease the tension; it makes it worse.

“I can’t help if you shut me out, my heart.”

Still, you offer nothing.

The air feels brittle, stretched too thin, like glass just before it shatters. You can almost hear the first cracks forming, spidering between the two of you.

He doesn’t speak again. 

The day drags on in an uneasy rhythm. You move through the hours like a ghost, and Sylus remains silent. But the quietness pulses with disconcertment; a build up without release. The quiet isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind that crackles like a frayed wire. It collides with your refusal to confront it.

And so it goes: you avoid, he waits, and the distance between you grows.

––––

You’re at a crosswalk on the 4-A highway intersection, surrounded by a sea of pedestrians, the incessant hum of the metropolis vibrating beneath your feet as if the very ground you walk on is alive. 

The moment your gaze lands on a couple just ahead of you, everything seems to quiet down, like a fuzzy FM radio station on mute. You see them, caught in their own little world, oblivious to the noise and rush of the city. 

The woman’s laughter is light—happy. Her hand in his, secure and relaxed. The way she looks at him… it’s familiar, almost. Something you recognize.

The man beside her moves with a subtle grace. His presence is undeniable, but it’s the way he watches her, something soft and devout in his gaze, that draws you in. He’s tall, his sharp features and posture elegant—and somehow, it fits perfectly beside the smaller figure pulling him effortlessly against the throng of people. 

Without warning, the unnamed man’s features shift into something more distinct, and the woman turns into the reflection you see every day in the mirror.

It’s not the couple before you that you see anymore—it’s you, against Sylus’ chest, his silvery-white hair stark against the dark fabric of his clothes. You imagine his red eyes, those sharp features, the quiet strength of his presence wrapping around you, like it’s where you belong.

You're lost in the fantasy—the way it could be, if the two of you existed in the same world, side by side. His hand around your waist, the shared intimacy, the profound joy. Just the two of you against all odds.

A smile starts to tug at the corners of your lips, but before it can fully settle, the harsh blare of a car horn shatters the illusion.

The world rushes back around you. A teen bumps into your shoulder, pushing you forward. The vision of them—of him—dissolves, leaving you in the busy street, once again just another face in the crowd.

––––

Everything falls apart one afternoon.

You confront Sylus, words spilling out before you can stop them. You don’t know what drives you—bravery, desperation, or maybe the crushing weight of hopelessness that has finally stripped you of your fear.

“How’s she?”

His brows furrow. “Who?” He looks genuinely thrown, and for a second, you wish you could take the words back. 

When you finally say her name, his expression shifts. It’s quick—a flicker of something you couldn’t catch before he schools his features again. 

“Why do you ask?” There’s an undercurrent to his voice now, his tone wary, eyes searching yours. “I try to avoid any interactions with her if it’s not needed.”

He pauses; then his gaze softens, though there’s still a guardedness to it. “Are you… worried?”

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself, with him, with all of it. “It’s not—It’s not that.” You don’t know how to put it into words.

How can you explain the knot in your chest? The envy—not for reasons he thinks… or maybe for exactly those reasons. Maybe he knows. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at you like that, imploring and cautious at the same time.

“You have her,” you finally say, and the words fall flat, bitter on your tongue.

Sylus’ eyes flash, sharp and unyielding. “And you and I both know who I’d rather have.”

Now, isn’t that the crux of it all?

Your throat closes up, a hard lump that you can’t swallow down. “I don’t know how you could,” you manage, though it rings hollow in the dead air. 

“Don’t.” His voice is harsh now, rougher than you’re used to. Frustration bleeds through his usual composure. “Don’t act like you don’t feel it.”

You bite your lip, your gaze darting away. He calls your name, and there’s something raw in the way he says it, like it costs him something just to say aloud.

You choke out a laugh that sounds more of a sob than anything. “I don’t know where to go from here. It was fun at first, but now… It’s just sad.”

He frowns, and for a moment, there’s a boyishness to the expression, an innocence to his vulnerability. It stirs something deep in your chest. 

He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to ask why—why now, why this? Why are you unraveling in front of him, like this? 

But you don’t give him the chance.

“I love you, Sylus.” You admit, barely above a whisper. The words fall heavy between you, a confession and a wound all at once.

Sylus stills. 

The silence fills the room, but his eyes—those soft crimson—speak volumes. His jaw tightens, hands clench into fists, but there’s no real surprise in his face. He’s always known.

“I know,” he tells you. 

There’s something ancient in the timbre of his voice, like it’s been torn from the deepest part of him. And for a moment, neither of you moves.

_

He feels it—the way you’re slipping through his fingers. Every word you say feels like a step away, less of a standstill, more a surrender, and he… he’s never felt more powerless than he does in this moment.

(And isn’t that just grand? You’ve always had this uncanny ability to make him feel things he’s never felt before. He just wishes it wasn’t like this—wishes it wasn’t slipping into something he can’t hold onto.)

He doesn’t know what to say or do, doesn’t know what could possibly alter the trajectory you’re both hurtling towards. But the thought of losing this, of losing you, is unimaginable.

“I love you,” he says, rough and uneven, like the admission physically hurts. “In ways that terrify me. Do you understand?”

Your eyes widen, and he sees it—the flicker of hope. Fragile and fleeting, but there. Your gazes lock, and the world stops. 

For a moment, there’s no sound, no movement—just the two of you standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

“I want—” His voice cracks, infinitesimally, but it echoes in the void between you. “I want to hold you. To wake up next to you. To touch you in all the ways that matter, not just in words and binary. I want to be what you need.” 

You know what’s coming. 

“But—”

The word lingers.

“But you can’t,” you whisper, finishing what he couldn’t.

Sylus looks at you, his red eyes burning with an intensity that feels heartbreakingly human.

You’ve reached another impasse, and it feels like the final one. The air between you is thick with words unspoken, promises that can’t be made. It’s not anger that lingers, nor is it blame. It’s something quieter. More agonizing.

A resignation.

And yet, even in this fragile moment, a piece of you—of both of you—refuses to let go. To what could be, to what never will.

––––

Your mom’s voice rings bright through Facetime, a faint blur of words as she gives you the rundown of the events from your cousin’s wedding. The dress (An elegant Oscar de la Renta boat neck), the cake (A three-tier red velvet, a little on the sweeter side), and the vows (“Oh, you would’ve cried, honey!”).  

You try to listen, but your attention keeps drifting away. She notices, of course. 

“You seem more preoccupied lately, dear. Boy troubles?”

It’s a simple question, but it lands differently. Her voice is too light, too casual, like she’s asking if you’re still eating your vegetables. 

She doesn’t seem to acknowledge how far the distance has grown between you, how many years have passed where you stopped expecting her to understand. You’ve wanted her to notice, to see the parts of you she never asked about. The changes in you, whether small or monumental. But she never did. And you stopped waiting.

You chuckle tiredly. 

“Yeah, mom. Boy troubles.” 

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @slyfoxtsu @tinyweebsstuff @i2sannie @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim

[goldfades]

blurb based of joes frustration at the end of the game pretty plzzzzz

it’s not the first time you’ve seen him like this, jaw tight, eyes stormy, the weight of a thousand unspoken words pressing against the set of his mouth. but tonight feels different. sharper, maybe. rawer. his shoulders slump as he sinks onto the edge of the couch, the post-game silence clinging to him like an ill-fitted coat.

you don’t say anything at first, because what’s there to say? you know better than to try and fill the cracks with empty words—he’d see right through you anyway. instead, you linger in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, studying the way his hands rub at his face, frustration bleeding through the spaces between his fingers.

“rough one,” you offer finally, voice quiet, testing. it’s not much, but it’s something.

he doesn’t look at you, just shakes his head in that way that’s less no and more don’t even start.

“joey—”

“not tonight.” his voice cuts across the room, low and strained, and it stings more than you care to admit. not because he’s angry—it’s not the first time the aftermath of a loss has made him short—but because he won’t let you help carry the weight. he never does.

you hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. you could leave him to stew in his own misery, give him the space he seems to want so badly.

but then again, that’s never been your style.

you push off the doorframe, making your way toward him despite the tension crackling like static in the room. the air feels heavier with every step, but you don’t stop until you’re standing right in front of him. he still doesn’t look up, but you can feel the heat of his frustration radiating off him, see it in the way his leg bounces like a drumbeat he can’t silence.

“i’m not trying to fix it,” you say, your tone soft but steady, letting the words settle between you. “i just don’t want you sitting here drowning in it alone.”

his hands drop to his lap, and finally, finally, his eyes meet yours. they’re tired, bloodshot, and edged with something sharp enough to cut. “i don’t need a pep talk,” he mutters, his voice a low rasp. “i know what went wrong. i don’t need anyone telling me how to feel about it.”

“good thing i’m not here to give you one,” you reply, easing yourself down onto the couch beside him. close, but not too close. it’s a delicate dance, one you’ve learned to navigate over time. “but i am here. whether you like it or not.”

his gaze flickers to you for a moment, a brief flash of something softer breaking through the storm before he looks away again. he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, head dropping into his hands. “it’s just… god, it’s so fucking frustrating.” the words come out ragged, pulled from somewhere deep and aching. “i know we’re better than this. i know i’m better than this. but tonight… it felt like nothing i did was good enough.”

there’s a beat of silence, heavy and loaded. you let it hang there for a moment before leaning back against the couch, your head tilting slightly as you watch him. “you ever think that maybe it’s not all on you?”

his head snaps up at that, and you can see the protest forming on his lips before he even says a word. “it is on me,” he argues, voice sharper now, cutting through the quiet. “that’s my job. that’s what being the quarterback means. i’m supposed to lead, supposed to—”

“supposed to be perfect?” you cut in, raising a brow.

the question hangs in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, he just stares at you, his jaw working like he’s trying to find the right words to throw back at you. but then he exhales, the fight draining out of him just as quickly as it flared up.

“it’s not about being perfect,” he says finally, quieter now, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “it’s about…” he trails off, his hands running through his hair in a way that makes it stick up in every direction. “fuck, i don’t know. i just hate losing.”

“i know.” your voice softens, the sharp edges smoothing out as you reach over to nudge his shoulder gently with yours. “but it’s not just about tonight, is it?”

he doesn’t answer right away, but the silence says enough. you know how he gets—how the losses pile up in his mind, not just the ones on the field but the ones in his own head. every missed pass, every fumble, every moment where the weight of the world feels like it’s on his back. it’s not fair, but he carries it anyway, like he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

“you’re allowed to be mad,” you say eventually, your voice low but firm. “you’re allowed to be frustrated, to hate losing, to feel like shit about it. but you don’t have to shoulder all of it alone. that’s what i’m here for, joey.”

he doesn’t say anything, but the way his shoulders drop just a fraction tells you he’s listening. you reach out, your hand finding his on the couch between you, your fingers brushing lightly against his knuckles. it’s a small gesture, but it feels like enough.

for now, at least.

his hand shifts on the couch, brushing against yours for just a second before he grabs it. firm, almost desperate. it’s a small move, but it catches you off guard—joe’s never been one to reach out like this, not when he’s all wrapped up in his head. but then he’s tugging you toward him, his grip strong enough to make it clear he’s not letting go anytime soon.

he doesn’t say a word as he pulls you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck. the hug is tight—bone-crushing, really—but you don’t mind. if anything, it tells you just how much he’s been holding back.

“i hate this,” he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled but no less raw. “i hate feeling like this. like i let everyone down. like i’m not good enough.”

“joey…” you start, but he shakes his head against you, cutting you off before you can say anything else.

“just—let me get it out, okay?” his words come fast, tumbling over each other like they’ve been bottled up too long. “the offense couldn’t get going. the o-line was all over the place. and me? i was fucking useless out there. missing reads, throwing late… i don’t know what the hell was wrong with me tonight.”

you don’t interrupt, don’t try to argue with him or tell him he’s being too hard on himself. you know better than to try and fix it for him, not when he’s like this. instead, you just hold him tighter, your hand moving to his back to rub slow, soothing circles.

when he finally pulls back, it’s only to sink down onto the couch, pulling you with him until you’re lying back against the cushions. he rests his head on your chest, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels grounding, like he’s letting himself find a moment of peace in the chaos.

your hands move without thinking, running up and down his arm in that slow, rhythmic way you know he likes. it’s a small thing, but it’s enough to make his breathing even out, the tension in his body easing bit by bit.

“it’s not all on you,” you say quietly, your voice breaking the quiet that’s settled over the room. “you know that, right?”

he doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you think maybe he’s fallen asleep. but then he shifts, turning his face into your shirt, his voice muffled but steady. “i know. i just… i can’t help feeling like it is sometimes.”

“you don’t have to carry it all, joey,” you murmur, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his arm. “that’s why you’ve got a team. that’s why you’ve got me.”

he doesn’t respond, but the way he relaxes against you says enough. and as the silence stretches on, the only sound his slow, steady breathing, you let yourself hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let himself believe it, too.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[mononijikayu]

no. 1 party anthem — geto suguru.

“....What about my laugh?” He asks you, his cheeks flustered like cherry wine. “Is…is the sound good?” You matched his flustered cheeks. “It’s…It’s like a song.” “A song?” “My favorite song.” You admitted to him, slowly smiling as you shyly looked up to his flustered gaze. “Your voice is my favorite lullaby. But your laugh? It’s my favorite song.”

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence;

WARNING/S: post hidden inventory, pre-jjk 0, heavy angst, romance, falling in love, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, break up, slice of life, timeskip, depression, hurt, mourning, loneliness, trauma, pain, humor, guilt, pining, conflicted relationship, emotional distress, grief, profanity, depiction of break up, depiction of grief, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of loneliness, mention of grief, mention of loneliness, mention of events post hidden inventory, mention of events in jjk 0, cursed user! suguru, jujutsu sorcerer! reader;

WORD COUNT: 7.7k words

NOTE: i've been getting into arctic monkeys again (as you can tell) and i have to say, no. 1 party anthem has done things to me these past few weeks. AM is such a good album. i really don't think that one can get any rawer in story telling about the sorrows of parting the way AM had depicted it. so i hope you listen to it one of these days, if you haven't already. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this. i love you all so much!!! see you on the next one <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

══════════════════

IT WAS A SURPRISE, TO SEE HIM TONIGHT. It had been nearly five years since you last saw Geto Suguru, but the weight of his absence still lingered in the quiet moments of your life. And it had taken your breath away, you knew that much. Because you had already resigned yourself to never seeing him again since that night.

But you can’t help but wonder about all the suffering and grief that had carved its way through those five years, shaping the person who stands here now.

The you of the present feels like a stranger sometimes, a mosaic pieced together from shattered moments, each shard reflecting a memory too painful to hold but too significant to discard.

There were nights when you lay awake, your mind replaying fragments of what once were half-formed smiles, laughter that now seemed like it belonged to someone else, and the weight of a bond that had been torn apart, leaving jagged, unclean edges that never truly healed.

You’d press your fingers against the raw places, testing their tenderness, reminding yourself that the pain was real. That he was real. But he wasn’t here anymore. He had chosen his life. He had made his bed with his reality. And so must you. 

It all felt like another lifetime, one so distant it seemed almost like a dream. The person you were then, the one who loved him, trusted him, believed in him. That person feels impossibly far away now. You’d convinced yourself you’d buried that version of you alongside the memory of him. And with time, you believed it.

You never expected to see him again.

And yet, there he was.

The sight of him felt like a blow, like the ground had shifted beneath you and left you unsteady. His presence unraveled the delicate stitches you’d used to bind your wounds, pulling them loose thread by thread. He looked both the same and different, an unsettling contradiction that left you breathless.

Time has not been kind to either of you. You knew that much. Geto Suguru was a handsome man, he always was and he always will be. But you could see things that people wouldn’t. You see everything, you know everything about him. Maybe more than himself.

If time had not been kind to him, you could only judge from afar about things that had happened to him. You could see it in the lines etched into his face, the heaviness in his gaze. But what struck you most was the familiar ache you thought you’d buried. it resurfaced all at once, sharp and unforgiving.

You told yourself you’d moved on. You told yourself he was a ghost, a memory that had no power over you anymore. But standing here now, your heart betrays you.

And for a moment, all the pain, all the nights spent grieving, all the years spent rebuilding—none of it seems to matter. For a moment, you forget the hurt and only remember how it felt to love him.

It happened on a random Friday night at a bar you frequented with your other sorcerer friends. It was a hub for sorcerers to gather after missions. With how Satoru and Shoko were also getting too busy to hang out with you, and Nanami not frequenting such a place, you had no other choice but to find yourself some new people to mingle around too when they weren’t free. Life doesn’t stop when you lose someone.

So, you ended up finding this bar. And over the years, you have become a regular. Even more so, you found new people to meddle life with. You all of course still can’t meet everyday. But it was more regular than most of your other relationships. That gets you through the day most of the time.

The bar in itself wasn’t special. It was a cozy, dimly lit spot with just enough charm to make it feel like a second home. But it was yours, a place where you could laugh, unwind, and forget the world outside. It was ironic that he of all people would show up here. Perhaps the universe had a cruel sense of humor, or maybe fate had finally decided to intervene.

Geto Suguru hadn’t been looking for you that night. Or maybe he had, in some subconscious, desperate way. His sources, mutual acquaintances, whispers from insiders had led him here, for business.

It’s why he had a special grade glamour on. But even he didn’t fully understand why he had stayed for a while. He didn’t need to. Someone else could have done this for him. 

But when he stepped into the inner corners of the bar, his purple eyes scanned the room almost out of habit. Nothing much intrigued him in this place. It was too common, too crowded. It wasn’t his fashion. It wasn’t his scene. 

But then, he looked further away and stopped.

In that moment, he knew that he saw you.

The moment froze. You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in the warmth of your friends’ laughter. But he noticed everything. The way your smile lit up the room, the easy way you leaned into your conversation, the carefree aura you carried. 

It was a stark contrast to the image he had of you locked in his mind: the you who had walked away from him, or maybe the you he had walked away from. He couldn’t decide anymore. He never made up his mind about that. Perhaps doing so would have hurt more.

When your eyes finally met, it hit you like a tidal wave. Recognition. Shock. Something unnameable. No one else would see the cursed energy glamour the way you would. You would notice.

You would see him. All of him. Only you could do that in a way people will never know how to. No one else could tear apart Geto Suguru the way you have, the way you will for all his life.

For a heartbeat, it felt like no time had passed, like you were back in that shared moment before everything fell apart. But then reality set in, and you turned away. Too quickly, too deliberately. You excused yourself from the table, and when you returned, he was gone.

Geto Suguru had fled back to the club he’d come from, his chest tight with a cocktail of emotions he couldn’t untangle. He should’ve known better. You were no longer a part of his life. He’d lost the right to be. And yet, he couldn’t let it go. 

After downing two more drinks, the gnawing need to see you again overpowered him. He left the club and returned to the bar, heart pounding, searching. Asking the bartender if they’d seen you, scanning every corner of the room for a glimpse of your face. But you were gone.

Suguru wasn’t sure what hurt more: the hope that had flared in his chest when he saw you or the emptiness left in its place when you disappeared.

He hadn’t planned on this—on seeing you, on unraveling in public like this. Life after you had been a blur of responsibility and regret. You’d moved to Fukuoka to teach to get as far away from Tokyo as possible and he focused on his new family, his new vision. 

Geto Suguru poured himself into work, convincing himself that distance was the answer. Just as much as you had thought the same thing. Out of sight, out of mind. But you were never truly gone from his thoughts, and the years only deepened the hollow ache. And perhaps, neither was he. 

Now, both of you are back in Tokyo, perhaps even just for tonight. He was sitting alone at the bar, he stared into his glass, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the edges. He was alone, so far away from you and your warmth, and your smiles and you who was everything.

The laughter of strangers around him was a cruel echo of the joy you’d shared with your friends just hours ago. He drank to dull the pain, but it only sharpened the edges of his misery. Each sip dragged him further into the pit he’d been clawing his way out of for years.

Suguru hated himself for the way he felt, for the way his chest still tightened at the thought of you, for the way he still longed for something he’d already destroyed. He had made his choices, he stood by them firmly. 

And yet as the night wore on, his mind spiraled further into the what-ifs and could-have-beens, until he was too far gone to remember why he started drinking in the first place, he could only think how miserable he truly was.

By the time Suguru stumbled out of the bar, the night had deepened into an eerie quiet. The streets were nearly empty, save for the faint hum of passing cars and the distant laughter of people heading home.

The cold air stung his skin, but it didn’t sober him. Nothing could cut through the fog in his mind, the haze of alcohol and regret that weighed him down.

He wandered aimlessly, his thoughts circling back to you like a cruel refrain. How could you look so happy? How had you moved on so effortlessly when he was still stuck in the wreckage of what you once shared? Part of him wanted to be angry, but the anger never came. All that remained was the bitter taste of self-loathing.

When Suguru finally stopped walking, he found himself at a familiar park; a place you’d both loved. The benches were worn, the trees towering silhouettes against the starless sky. He sank onto a bench and buried his face in his hands, the chill of the night pressing against his flushed skin.

Memories rushed in unbidden, as vivid as the night you first kissed under those very trees. He could almost hear your laughter, feel the warmth of your hand in his.

It was unbearable, the way the past clung to him like a second skin. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the sheer weight of his emotions, but his chest heaved, and he let out a strangled sob, his breath fogging in the cold air.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had convinced himself that leaving had been the right thing to do, that the distance would save you both from the inevitable pain of being together.

But in his effort to protect you, he had only condemned himself. And now, seeing you happy, surrounded by friends, made him realize just how deeply he had failed.

Meanwhile, you ended up back at your friend’s apartment, all the laughter and enjoyment had come fading as the events of the night replayed in your mind. Seeing Geto Suguru again had been a shock you weren’t prepared for. None else noticed but you. If anything, it was as if he had wanted you to know that it was him. 

You couldn’t help but feel sick at the thought. He’d come back. But for what? Why have he come back? You’d been doing fine for the past ten years. And now in an instant, you find yourself unable to do anything about these tears that just pours out. 

You’d spent years trying to bury the memories, to build a life that didn’t revolve around the void Suguru had left behind. And for the most part, you’d succeeded. But tonight had cracked something so deep within you, like a breaking dam. It was that wound you thought had healed. A wound so deep that maybe you never noticed it never healed.

Your friends noticed your distraction and tried to coax you back into the lighthearted energy of the evening, but it was no use. When it comes to Suguru, you knew you would never be able to pull yourself back from the brink. You left early, along with your friend and retreated to the quiet of your own space in her house. 

Sitting in the dim glow of your living room, you stared at your phone, your thumb hovering over his name in your contacts. It had been years since you’d last spoken, and the silence between you was deafening. But tonight, it felt heavier, like it was begging to be broken.

Suguru, in his drunken haze, finally pulled out his phone. His fingers trembled as he stared at the empty message thread between you from all those years ago. He never changed phones. He just couldn’t. 

Not when this held so much of you, more than you could ever know. And he’d hate to part with it. He hates parting with you. The cursor blinked at him mockingly, daring him to say something, anything. But what could he say? What words could possibly bridge the chasm he had created?

You both sat in separate silences, even far away from each other. Even then, you both carry the weight of your shared history hanging in the air, stifling you both whole. Somewhere between the spaces of what was and what could never be, a thread still connected the two of you in the frayed, fragile, but unbroken echoes of life.

And for the first time in years, you both wondered what it would have been like to say hello.

══════════════════

IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO, FLASHING IN YOUR MIND SO CLEARLY. Your relationship with Geto Suguru began like a slow sunrise—gentle, almost imperceptible at first. Everyone could see something beautiful about it. You could too.

But it wasn’t something either of you could pinpoint, the exact moment it started, but before long, the light of it had crept in, filling the cracks and chasing away the cold.

At first, you were just kids, thrown together in the chaotic, unforgiving world of jujutsu sorcery. Life and death weren’t just abstract concepts; they were constant, hovering over every breath you took, lurking in the shadows of every mission. But with him, there was something different. Something softer.

It started with stolen glances in the classroom, shared smirks over jokes that only you two seemed to find funny. Then came the late-night conversations that stretched far too long, but neither of you cared. You’d sit on the temple steps, the world silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“You ever think about what we’d be doing if we weren’t... this?” he asked one night, his voice low, almost hesitant. He looked at you then, his dark eyes searching yours like he might find some hidden answer there.

“Sometimes, when I have some time. I think about it. With you, me, Satoru and Shoko.” you admitted. “But then I think... would we have ever met? If we were just ordinary people?”

He smiled, that small, almost private smile he saved just for you. “I don’t think the universe would’ve let us miss each other.”

“Even just the two of us?” You wondered at him.

“Especially the two of us.” He grinned even wider, patting your head. 

Those words lingered with you long after that night, as did the quiet weight of his presence. Suguru wasn’t just your teammate or your classmate; he became your confidant, your safe place. The one person who could make you feel human, even when the world tried to strip that away.

There was lightness in your connection, a reprieve from the heaviness that came with your lives. The warmth of his laugh, the way his shoulders relaxed when you were around. It was as if the two of you carried pieces of each other’s burdens without ever having to say it out loud. 

Everytime you were with him, you felt like everything was whole.

The world made sense when you were with him.

And you were proven right each and every single time.

He was the only one for you in this world.

It had been a long day, and exhaustion lingered in the edges of your mind, but he sat across from you, legs crossed lazily, and the smallest smile teased at his lips. You remember telling a joke.

You don’t remember it in its entirety but you knew it was something about the absurdity of the higher-ups’ newest “ingenious” strategy and for a moment, his guarded composure shattered.

He laughed.

It wasn’t just a chuckle or a polite hum. No, it was a real laugh. It was as though life had existed the first time he laughed. It was so bright, unrestrained, and utterly disarming.

The sound was pure, and for a moment, you could almost forget the weight he carried, the things he wouldn’t talk about late at night when the shadows seemed to pull closer.

“God, that laugh.” you murmured, half to yourself, but he caught it.

“What about it?” His voice held a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with curiosity.

“It’s… nice. Unexpected.” you said, and you could feel your cheeks warming under his steady gaze.

“....What about my laugh?” He asks you, his cheeks flustered like cherry wine. “Is…is the sound good?”

You matched his flustered cheeks. “It’s…It’s like a song.”

“A song?”

“My favorite song.” You admitted to him, slowly smiling as you shyly looked up to his flustered gaze. “Your voice is my favorite lullaby. But your laugh? It’s my favorite song.”

That was the beginning. That laugh became your favorite sound, a lifeline in the chaos. It became the thing you sought, the thing you tried to coax out of him in fleeting moments between missions or during those rare stretches of quiet.

You had stolen moments, the two of you. Too many to count, too many to want to forget. It was when life wasn’t pressing its cruelty upon you. Late nights stretched into early mornings, both of you lying in the grass, the stars above almost as bright as his gaze.

“You see that one?” you whispered once, pointing to a cluster of stars. “It reminds me of you.”

“Oh? How’s that?” he asked, smirking slightly, his head tilted in mock challenge.

“It burns so brightly you can’t help but stare,” you said without thinking, and the smirk faded into something softer, something almost shy.

“Careful, I might start believing you, you know?” he murmured, looking away, but not before you caught the blush dusting his cheeks.

“But aren’t I correct with what I said?”

“Ah, you’re just as cheeky as Satoru.”

You grinned at him. “But I’m better than him, aren’t I? Because I’m your favorite!”

Suguru laughed, his cheeks warm like a scarlet sunrise. “Yeah, yeah. You are my favorite.”

And then there was the kiss. It happened on an evening like any other. It was only a normal day. A day like any other. Nothing special at all.

You had been talking, your words flowing so easily it felt as if you were spinning threads of a tapestry you had both been weaving for years. Somehow, you just belonged together.

When he leaned in, his hand brushing the side of your face, it wasn’t a surprise. It felt inevitable, like the tides meeting the shore. Like destiny itself had been guiding you here. You felt like you were home as you found yourself overtaken by him.

When his lips met yours, it was as if the world stopped turning. It wasn’t fireworks or an explosion. It was just warmth that was familiar. The breeze of evening moonlight. it was a sigh, a soft release of tension you didn’t realize you had been carrying. Everything else fell away. It was just him and you.

And in that moment, you knew.

He was the one for you.

He was the love of your life.

“This feels... right, don’t you think?” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

“It does. Perfect.” you whispered back. “Like it was always supposed to happen.”

You didn’t just love him. No, you recognized him. Across time, across lives, across every distance imaginable. You had found him, and you would find him again.

Every time. Every lifetime. And you would love him, fiercely, until it burned you alive. Because he wasn’t just a part of your world—he was your world.

For a while, it was perfect. Together, you built a fragile sanctuary amidst the chaos. Even as the missions grew harder and the burden of protecting the world loomed heavier, you found solace in each other.

Geto Suguru would hold you close on nights when the horrors of your work were too much to bear, whispering reassurances that tomorrow would be better.

But tomorrow wasn’t better.

The world began to crack around him. He had blamed himself for Amanai Riko. For Satoru’s brush with death. For failure of a mission that relied so much on him. And that had buried him under, even before he had come and gone to the grim reaper’s arms. 

Everything you had loved about him slowly faded, like memories of yesterday. You saw it in the way his smiles became rarer, in the way his laughter came less easily. He grew quieter, more distant, and when he came back from missions, he wouldn’t talk about them anymore.

Instead, he’d sit in silence, staring at nothing, as if the weight of what he’d seen was too much to put into words. As if nothing in this world mattered at all. As if nothing was worth living for. 

At first, you tried to pull him out of it. You were the only person that could do something like that, if Satoru couldn’t. You have tried hard. You really did.

You did as much as you could to remind him of the ideals that had driven you both to fight in the first place. Of the future that you could have together, where you could be happy. 

But Suguru wasn’t just tired of everything—he was angry.

And he didn’t want to hear anything more about those ideas.

They had failed him, as much as the adults had already done.

He wasn’t in the mind to talk anymore, he was tired of talking.

“They don’t deserve it.” he said  harshly, that one night, his voice low and simmering. “The people we save—they don’t even know what we sacrifice for them. They go about their lives while we bleed for them. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not about fairness, Suguru.” you said, reaching for his hand. “It’s about doing what’s right. They are weaker than us. They don’t know the world of such suffering. But we do. Suguru—”

But he pulled away, shaking his head at you. “Maybe what’s right is letting them fend for themselves. Maybe what’s right is taking back control.”

“Suguru, you can’t—”

“I have had enough of it. I can’t….I can’t have any more of this bullshit. Please.”

You didn’t recognize the man sitting before you. His words were sharp, edged with bitterness that scared you. You tried to argue, to bring him back to the man you had fallen in love with, but Geto Suguru was slipping through your fingers, and no matter how tightly you held on, you couldn’t stop it. The more you tried, the more he pulled away. 

The breaking point came on a mission, one you didn’t share with him. You weren’t there to see the moment he made his choice—the moment he decided that humanity was no longer worth saving.

You only heard the aftermath: Suguru Geto, once a protector, had killed. He had killed too many people. Even his own parents. He had turned his back on everything he once stood for. And all to be free. All to stop those voices in his head. All to stop being miserable.

When you confronted him that day, you were trembling. A part from anger, part from heartbreak. You looked at him, eyes so brimming with tears as he stood there with those dark purple orbs narrowing at you. 

Almost as though he couldn’t care less about it all. It was as if he didn’t carry the world on his shoulders anymore. In that moment, it was better that their suffering freed him. That’s what it looked like to you. And that broke you. More than you could even say. More than you could even understand. 

“Tell me it’s not true, Suguru.” you said, your voice cracking. “Tell me you didn’t do it.”

But Geto Suguru didn’t lie. He’s never been good at lying. If anything, you didn’t need him to say anything. You already knew the truth. You’ve seen the bodies. You’ve seen the reports. But somehow, hearing him say it. 

Perhaps that’s the only way to make it real. That’s the only way to know the truth. He looked at you with calm, unflinching purple eyes, the same eyes that used to hold so much warmth. How could such warm eyes feel so cold, so lifeless, so devoid of the will to live?

“They deserved it.” he said simply, his hands resting on his pockets. “The world needs to change. And I’m going to change it.”

You stepped back, shaking your head, tears streaming down your face. “This isn’t you, Suguru. This isn’t who you are.I know…I know who you are. Please, just…Just…”

“It’s who I’ve always been.” he said, and the certainty in his voice shattered you.

Tears fell from your eyes, to the point that you couldn’t see anymore. You let out a guttering cry, your hand covering your lips as though you know you can’t let it out anymore. You can’t stand like this in front of him. But you couldn’t move. You couldn’t stop staring at him. Where did your Suguru go? Where was he?

“I don’t know you anymore.” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You sobbed, looking at the ground. “Who are you? Where’s my Suguru? Where is he?”

For a moment, just a moment, his mask slipped. You saw the guilt in his eyes, the pain he was trying so hard to bury. Not because he’s hurt others, no. But because he’s hurt you. That burns him more.

That kills him more. But then it was gone, replaced by the resolute facade he had built to shield himself. He knew he couldn't come back. He’s gone too far for him to walk away from it.

“I hope you know that….I’m sorry.” he said to you, watching you close your eyes. As though wanting to pretend that this was just a bad dream. “But this is the only way.”

You wanted to scream, to grab him and shake him until he saw reason. But you knew it wouldn’t make a difference. You always knew better than that. He was resolute. He always has been. And so, he would not turn back. Not even for you. 

The Geto Suguru you loved was gone. He was killed. He was consumed by the darkness he couldn’t escape. And you will never get him back. The last time you saw him, he was walking away, his silhouette fading into the distance. You stood there, rooted to the spot, the weight of his absence crushing you.

In the days and weeks that followed, you replayed every moment, every conversation, every sign you had missed. You blamed yourself, even though you knew, deep down, that this wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have saved him.

But that knowledge didn’t make the loss any easier. You were sure that he was the love of your life. Geto Suguru has been your love, your partner, your everything.

And now he was gone, leaving behind nothing but memories and the ghost of what could have been. And now you had to pick up what’s left from the desolation that swallowed everything whole. If not you, who will?

In the weeks that followed, life moved on around you, but you felt like you were frozen in place. The routines of being a jujutsu sorcerer continued. Day in day out, it was missions, training, meetings. But somehow,  it all felt hollow. 

Every face you saved, every curse you exorcised, felt like a mockery of what you had lost. How could you keep protecting a world that had taken Geto Suguru from you? How could you keep meeting with faces that didn’t know how to protect a child? How could you keep finding yourself living like this over and over?

But you still did it anyway.

You knew it was the right thing to do.

Suffering or not, you had to live.

You had to continue on.

Your nights were the hardest. Sleep became a distant memory, replaced by endless hours of replaying the past. You found yourself going back to the places you had shared with him.

The quiet park where you used to sit and watch the stars, the ramen shop where he’d always order extra broth, the training grounds where you’d spar until you were both breathless with laughter.

But those places were empty now, stripped of their meaning. Without him, they were just shadows of something you could never get back. Things that were just gone, forever lost in the abyss of his own making. An abyss you had sealed just as much, by continuing to live the way you have.

The news of Geto Suguru’s defection spread quickly. Whispers followed you wherever you went, people looking at you with pity, like you were some tragic figure in a story they couldn’t stop retelling.

Some were kind, offering empty condolences that only made you feel worse. Others were cruel, blaming you for not seeing the signs, for not stopping him before it was too late.

But the worst were the people who said nothing, who looked at you like you were a ticking time bomb, as if Suguru’s choices had tainted you by association. You could feel their looks, you could always hear the double entendre in their words. But you could hardly care at that point.

You tried to drown it all out, focusing on your missions, on anything that would keep your mind occupied. But no matter how hard you worked, no matter how many curses you destroyed, the weight of Suguru’s absence clung to you like a second skin.

And then, one day, you saw him again.

It was purely by accident, something you couldn’t expect.

It had only been a mere few months after he had left.

It was on a mission in a remote village, where rumors of a powerful curse had been reported. You had gone in prepared for anything—or so you thought. What you weren’t prepared for was the sight of Geto Suguru standing in the center of the chaos, his presence commanding, his expression unreadable.

Your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. He looked the same, and yet so different. There was an edge to him now, a coldness that hadn’t been there before. A brutish layer that protected him from the world.

“Suguru.” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He turned to you, and for a split second, something flickered in his purple eyes—recognition, maybe even regret. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the calm detachment you had come to fear.

“You shouldn’t be here.” he said, his tone almost gentle.

“You don’t get to tell me where I should be. you shot back, your voice trembling. “Not after what you’ve done.” After what you’ve done to me.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t come here to fight you. Leave, and I’ll let you go.”

“Let me go?” you echoed, anger bubbling up inside you. “You don’t get to ‘let me go’ for shit, Suguru. You left. You broke everything, and now you’re standing here like none of it matters. I should kill you right now where you stand like the kill order says.”

“It does matter. Everything I do, it matters. To me, to the world I’m building.” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “More than you’ll ever understand. That’s why I’m doing this.”

“No, Suguru. You aren’t.” you said, stepping closer to him. “You’re doing this because you gave up. Because you let the worst parts of this world consume you. And now you’re trying to justify it by pretending. And I just….I have had enough of that excuse. Even when we fought, you used that excuse.”

He flinched at your words, the only crack in his otherwise unshakable composure. For a moment, you thought you had reached him. But then his expression hardened, and he took a step back from you.

“This isn’t about us, you know that.” he said. “It’s bigger than that. Bigger than you or me.”

“It was never just about us, you idiot.” you said, your voice breaking. “But we could have fought for something better—together. Instead, you threw it all away. You threw me away.”

He didn’t respond. He knew you were right. You could see it in your eyes. He tried to open his mouth, to say something. But instead, he turned and began to walk away, his figure fading into the distance once more.

You wanted to call out to him, to beg him to stay, to fight for the man you once knew. But you didn’t. Because deep down, you knew that man was gone. You would just be lying to yourself if you tried to pretend that it would work. 

And as you stood there, watching him disappear, you realized something: this was the last time you would let him break you. Geto Suguru had chosen his path, and now it was time for you to choose yours. You had to.

Even if it meant living with the weight of his absence for the rest of your life, you would carry it. Because that was what it meant to keep going. He wasn’t willing to live with you, for you. He wasn’t willing to do that. And so, you had to. You had to do it for you. To survive. 

══════════════════

HE FELT LIKE HE WAS GOING TO THROW UP. Geto Suguru stumbled into another bar, his head swimming with alcohol and frustration. The neon lights buzzed overhead, casting garish colors onto the crowd of strangers. 

It was a different place, but it might as well have been the same. Everywhere he went, it felt the same: loud, crowded, meaningless. He was chasing something he couldn’t name, knowing full well it wouldn’t fix the hollow ache inside him.

He spotted a girl at the bar, standing alone for just a moment, and something in him shifted. It wasn't an attraction—not really. It was desperation. I may suggest there’s somewhere I might know her, he thought, smirking to himself, just to get the ball to roll. 

He approached her with a feigned air of confidence, the kind that only comes from being far beyond tipsy. His words slurred slightly as he said something about a shared connection, a vague memory he knew didn’t exist. She tilted her head, intrigued despite herself.

Suguru leaned in closer, his voice low and coaxing. “Come on, before the moment’s gone.” 

It wasn’t like he was falling in love. That wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want her heart or her promises. He just wanted her to do him no good, to help him forget for a while. The girl gave him a look—soft, inviting, a subtle tilt of her lips that sent a rush of blood through his veins. 

It turned him on more than it should have. He didn’t care about her name, her life, or her story. It was the thrill of the chase, the electric jolt of fleeting desire. But before he could take another step, a hand clamped down on his shoulder. 

“She’s with me.”

Suguru turned to see a man standing there, tall and stern, his presence like a wall between them. The girl stepped back toward her boyfriend, her gaze dropping in awkward apology. Suguru laughed bitterly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. 

“Didn’t mean to intrude.” he said, though the sting of rejection burned.

He retreated to the edge of the dance floor, his drink in hand, watching the pulsing crowd around him. The music was deafening, the lights dizzying. The club was a house of fun—or at least that’s what it was supposed to be. People were laughing, dancing, losing themselves in the moment. But for Suguru, it was a prison. A trap.

The room spun, not from the alcohol but from the crushing realization that it wasn’t enough. This place wasn’t enough. These people weren’t enough. She’s not you. No, she isn’t. She never will be. No one else can ever be like you.

No matter how many drinks he had, no matter how many strangers he flirted with, the truth was inescapable. You and he weren’t together anymore. You had been the only thing that made sense in the chaos of his life, and now, without you, everything felt hollow.

The club blurred into a mess of sound and light, but all Suguru could feel was the emptiness gnawing at him. He was trapped in this cycle of meaningless nights, trying to fill the void you left behind. And deep down, he knew it would never work. Because no matter how hard he tried, no one could be you.

Nothing here was worth staying for.

So he comes outside, the cold greeting him.

But he could barely feel it stab through him.

The alcohol in his veins dulled everything except the gnawing ache in his chest. He stumbled down the street, the neon lights of the club fading behind him, replaced by the harsh glow of streetlights. His breath came out in uneven puffs, his mind swimming with thoughts he didn’t want to face.

His phone was a familiar weight in his pocket. He pulled it out, his fingers fumbling over the screen until he found your name. He was too drunk to be a coward now. He wasn’t going to let the cursor mock him this time. Not again.

Somehow, it was muscle memory—he didn’t even have to think about it. You were still in his contacts, still in his life in the smallest, cruelest way. If anything, he memorized your phone number. He knew it too well, he’d never forget it. He stared at your name for a long moment, the cursor blinking on the call button.

The voice in his head screamed at him to stop, to put the phone away and walk home.He didn’t need to do this. Not right now. Not ever. But the alcohol silenced that voice, replacing it with raw, unfiltered need. And seeing you tonight….what more did he need to be an excuse? He had to call you. Even if it was wrong, he had to. 

Before he could stop himself, he hit the button. The phone rang. Once, twice. With every passing second, his heart raced, his breathing shallow and unsteady. He almost hung up, almost let the moment slip away, but then you answered.

“Hello?” Your voice was soft, confused. You had changed phones. But you still used the same number. He knew that. But you probably, over time, had forgotten his phone number. He had expected it. He was after all, worth forgetting. “Who is this?”

It was late, and you hadn’t expected to hear from him—hadn’t heard from him in years. If anything, you never should expect anything from him. But the sound of you made his chest tighten, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He leaned against a lamppost, the phone pressed to his ear like it was his last lifeline.

“S’me again, babe.” he slurred finally, his voice thick with alcohol and emotion. “Suguru.”

There was a pause on your end, heavy and loaded. He could almost feel the weight of your hesitation, the way your breath hitched as you processed his call. It had been a long time. Ten long years. And now, just now, he called. 

“What do you want?” you asked, your tone cautious, guarded. It wasn’t the warmth he remembered, but it wasn’t cold either. It was somewhere in between, and that hurt more than anything.

“I don’t know, honestly.” he admitted, his voice breaking. He laughed bitterly, dragging a hand through his hair. “No, that’s a lie. I know. I just… And I just….I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop… missing you.”

“Suguru…” Your voice softened, but there was something else there too—sadness, maybe even pity. 

He hated it. He didn’t want your pity. You had known that even when you were younger. But he knew you couldn't help it. Still, just maybe, even just tonight, you’d drop it. You’d pretend, just as he was. He wanted you to tell him that you missed him too, that you still thought about him late at night, that he wasn’t the only one trapped in this endless spiral.

“I saw you tonight.” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “At that bar. Can’t remember the name, honestly. But you just….You looked so happy. Like you don’t even think about me anymore. Like I’m nothing.”

You sighed on the other end of the line, and it cut through him like a knife. “Suguru, it’s been ten years. What did you expect? I….I didn’t expect my life to be frozen, waiting for an impossibility that will never come.”

“I don’t know. I just…” he said again, his voice rising with frustration. “I thought maybe—maybe you’d feel the same. Like… like this thing between us isn’t over. Like it’s still there.”

“It’s not. And you…you know this.” you said quietly, and the finality in your tone made his knees buckle. He sank onto the curb, his head in his hands.

“It is for you, maybe…. he whispered, his voice cracking. “But not for me. It’s not over for me, and I don’t know how to let it be. Babe, I loved you. I still do. Maybe for the rest of my fucking life. But I…I don’t know what to do.”

The silence on your end was deafening, and he filled it with a broken laugh. You had the right to  your silence, you always will. After what he had done, even just last night? Why shouldn’t you just be quiet? Why shouldn’t you just hang up right now? 

But on the other side of the line, you were bitterly weeping in the quiet. Just taking in his words. Everything about your lives had been a tragedy, a tragedy that you could never forget. Both of you were living those past lives that can never come back. And you shouldn’t. You can’t. Not now, not ever.

“I’m drunk, you know?” he said, as if that excused everything, as if it would make you forget the raw, painful truth he’d just laid bare. “I shouldn’t have called. I just… I needed to hear your voice.”

“You need to go home, Suguru.” you said gently. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it was what he expected.”You have daughters to go home too, remember?”

You’d always been kind, even when you were hurting. Even to people that hurt you. He’d always known that. But somehow, he wondered if that kindness was why you’d stayed in his contacts all these years—because part of you knew he might need it someday. 

Because he knows you’d be merciful to him, no matter what he’d done. No matter what he’d caused you. You’d pick up that phone and answer him. You’d let him hear your voice, like you used to do for hours and hours when you were younger.

“Yeah, you’re right.” he said, dragging himself to his feet. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go home.”

But as he stumbled down the street, the phone still pressed to his ear, he couldn’t help but say one last thing. “You were the best thing I ever had, you know that? The only thing that ever made sense. In all of my life. And I love you. I’ll love you forever for it.”

He heard you inhale sharply, but you didn’t respond. Not for a while. You took a moment to let out a small sob, as though trying to hold yourself together. And Suguru could imagine it. How it shatters him. Ah, he had made you cry again like this.

“You were the best of my life, Suguru.” You finally say, almost the saddest he’s ever heard you talk. You were still mourning him, he supposed. “The love of my life. You always will be, Suguru.”

The line went quiet, and then, mercifully, you hung up.

Suguru stood there for a moment, staring at the screen, the word “Disconnected” flashing at him in a cruel, mocking rhythm. His hand tightened around the phone, his knuckles turning white as the fury bubbled beneath the surface. He nodded to himself.

He wanted to scream, to hurl the phone into the street and watch it shatter into irreparable pieces, as if that would somehow undo the splintering inside him. But instead, his anger collapsed inward, folding into a hollow resignation. 

He shoved the phone into his pocket with a rough, jerking motion, his breaths shallow and uneven. He reached for a cigarette with the same hand, fingers trembling as they pulled it free. His lighter almost instantly lit the edge into a fiery smoke.

The first drag burned, the bitter smoke searing his throat and filling his lungs. It didn’t matter. He needed the distraction, needed something to keep him grounded when it felt like the world had slipped from beneath his feet. He lit the next one before the first was even finished, the acrid haze curling around him like a suffocating ghost.

He kept walking. The city stretched out before him, a labyrinth of muted lights and shadows that felt more hostile than familiar. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional distant wail of a siren or the shuffle of a stray figure in the dark. Cold wind bit at his skin, cutting through the thin jacket he hadn’t bothered to zip up.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

This was the last time you’ll see each other.

He was going to do his plan soon enough.

And you won’t see him again, not ever again.

[tswift]

I'm honestly so tired of reading takes on how "Midnights" is undeserving of awards and not a good album. It's actually a very impressive concept album that is moody, playful and nostalgic. If you look back at the 20 (now 22) tracks on it, it very much reflects Taylor's thesis statement. It ponders adolescence, insecurities and fears, lost loves, adventure and revenge.

These are things that keep most of us up at night, whether it's hyping yourself up (Bejeweled), tearing yourself down (Anti-Hero), reflecting on how far you've come and what you've learned in the process (You're on Your Own, Kid), grappling with grief and trauma (Bigger Than the Whole Sky, Would've Could've Should've), reveling in your enemy's demise (Karma, Vigilante Shit), thinking about lost love (Maroon, Hits Different, Midnight Rain) or simply trying to delude and reassure yourself of something (Lavender Haze, Labyrinth).

The fact of the matter is, Karma, a song that many have mocked over its "cringe and immature" lyrics, is an impressively written and constructed pop song. Being a good lyricist doesn't always mean "ohhhhh this is poetry, this is angsty." What's impressive is someone who can do both.

"Midnights" truly does it all. There's depth, there's poetry, there's tongue-and-cheek whimsy. But it's a pop album. A pop album can't possibly have the same amount of depth, right?

What makes "Midnights" so different from her past pop efforts is that you can really see the growth in it. You can hear what she learned from making folklore and evermore not only in the production, but also in the lyrics. The lyrics are sharper, rawer and more honest. That is not to say Taylor did not achieve this in her past pop albums, she's simply honed her craft. And that's what you should want an artist to do.

It does not have to be your favorite album. Maybe you just don't vibe with it. But that doesn't mean it isn't impressive. You don't have to belittle something simply because you don't like it as much.

I don't think "Midnights" will win AOTY. But I do think it deserves to be in the category, especially in a year that is not particularly competitive. I can't wait for Swifties to start appreciating it. I give it a year or two, then y'all will change your tune.

[lix1nyu]

after you had a fight with him, he looks for you during his concert

6reeze xiao x gn!reader

modern/celebrity au, angst, fluff, not proofread

a/n: i am struggling to write please take my feeble offering

the flashing lights on the stage aren't half as bright as the way your eyes light up when he comes home, or when you see he made breakfast for you.

xiao hasn't seen you in too long.

"please be here." he hates the pounding in chest, where under normal circumstances he would be filled with pride.

usually you stay over, but two nights ago, two nights before the start of his 6reeze tour, you and xiao had a large argument about how he wasn't taking care of himself because of his job.

he lashed out at you, and he thinks you hate him for it, but he hates himself even more.

he didn't get half the sleep he needed for his big day. you just weren't there.

not one face in the crowd below is yours. he has never felt so anxious.

xiao hopes nobody notices how he sings with more desperation in his voice, the notes scratching in his throat.

halfway through the chorus, he finally spots you.

you, beautiful you with your arms crossed, not singing or dancing. your friends scream their heads off beside you but you just watch.

the words to the song he wrote for you are a lot rawer than intended. tears begin to flood his vision.

xiao spots aether on the guitar in the corner of his eye before it starts getting blurry. he blinks in time to see the guitarist mouth a 'you okay?' in a break of the song.

xiao doesn't feel okay.

he doesn't feel okay when the concert ends, and the audience is leaving, and you're leaving with them.

xiao doesn't feel very okay, but he drops whatever he was even holding to bolt out after you.

"yn! yn, wait."

you give in. it's hard not to. "yes?"

he stops to catch his breath when you turn around. xiao doesn't even know what to say, where to start.

"look, i-" he stops to think carefully. "i don't mean what i said, okay? i mean- the wrong words came out, i- i didn't-"

"wow," you say, feigning impressment. "for how much you love songwriting, that was real poetic. is it because this time it's not for a crowd? because it's just for intrusive, overbearing me?"

his heart cracks. "yn," xiao pleads.

you give him a look. you want to hug him and say it's okay, but you don't. you don't deserve to let it slide so easily, at least not without an apology.

and xiao knows it too.

"i'm sorry. i didn't mean to call you intrusive, or- or overbearing. you were just looking out for me, you always do. and i was stressed and i- and i lost my shit and i shouldn't have and-" he talks faster and faster, a sign he's getting nervous.

"and i love you and i'm so sorry, so- so please don't leave me."

you rock back and forth on your feet, staring at the ground.

finally, you break the silence. "your performance was incredible. i liked the last song."

a breath escapes from xiao. "i wrote it for you," he mumbles. "actually, i- almost the whole setlist was for you, so..."

"it really hurt, you know," you say softly. "this wasn't the first time."

"i know," he whispers. "it won't happen again, really."

"okay. apology accepted."

"...but not forgiven?"

"well, walk me home first."

and xiao does, his pinkie finger intertwined with yours. you hum his last track on the way home.

[giddlygoat]

as much as i want to see fiddleford recover and enter his much-deserved era of good mental and physical health, i also want to see the effects of his head trauma follow him forever. it’s important to me that while he heal and find a level of normalcy and peace, he never return to his old self.

kind of a side bar, but it’s relevant so: i also think there’s something to be said about old man mcgucket’s confidence. boldness? idk how to describe it. i wouldn’t say his paranoid tendencies have vanished, but for the most part he’s. breezier. part of it is the brain damage, and maybe part of it is genuine self-evolution in the right direction. but i think the obsessive mind-wiping just… broke that part of his brain. it’s like he’s no longer affected by fear in the same way. and i hope we see strong traces of that damage until the day he dies.

it’s important to me that fiddleford heal and emerge into self-awareness once more. it’s important to me that ford still look at him as very much the same person, despite all of the damage. but he’s also changed severely and irreversibly. i think of old man mcgucket as a much rawer version of fiddleford in that he holds less reservations and has no filter. he’s healing but he’s also broken, and those scars will forever be visible. and that’s important to me because it also changes ford and fiddleford’s dynamic a lot.

ok one last sidebar, then i’m done. when i say it changes their dynamic i mean it in the way that because fiddleford now wears his heart on his sleeve and ford himself is a bit wiser about relationships, there is less self-sabotaging going on between them. romance or friendship wise. and if nothing else, they both feel they’re getting too old for biting their tongues, so i imagine the discussions of certain difficult topics comes a bit easier now.

like, given that they’ve both made many catastrophically terrible decisions over their lives, they have a better perspective on life in general and have had time to reorient their previously fucked priorities. ford lives with a lot of shame for how he treated stan, dealing with the devil, and bringing about the end times. fiddleford lives with a lot of shame for how he treated emma-may and tate, starting a cult that ruined lives [especially his own], and not to mention the multiple death robot incidents. even though they both had good intentions or else thought their actions were justified at the time [mostly], it all collapsed on their heads because these actions were ridiculously stupid.

i think all of this is part of why the rekindling of their friendship happened so easily. fiddleford is eager to forgive ford and embrace him because he’s learned first-hand what grief and paranoia can drive a person to do, and so he feels the best thing he can do is accept his old friend back into his life, no questions asked. maybe ford will forever think he doesn’t deserve it, but he learns to accept mcgucket’s kindness and tries to learn from it. they’re both healing even if it’ll never be Backupsmore again. it’s still them, despite it all.

[rosettyller]

some analysis of this scene from 2x02, because i am going absolutely insane over it:

first up: it's 2 500 BCE. They've known each other for around 1500 years at this point, but they haven't been meeting up very often; it's implied at this point, that they've only met at the Garden, and the Flood, and now here (as well as in Heaven, but there's varying interpretations about how much they each remember of Heaven).

(worth noting that these meetings are all bible-related meetings)

So, they don't know each other very well at all. This is why Aziraphale approaches Crowley so cautiously (apart from the fact that he thinks Crowley's going around murdering goats and soon kids). He doesn't know what happened to Crowley when he Fell, how he changed when he fell in with Lucifer, how God's rejection has warped Crowley's perspective or changed his morals (their meeting at the Flood seemed quite short, not enough time to get a definite picture.)

Aziraphale is still seeing Crowley as demonic, although there's already that thread of doubt - can you really see him trying to talk Hastur or Ligur out of this the way he does Crowley?

Aziraphale clings to the memory of Angel Crowley - Crowley gets quite defensive.

Here, Crowley reinforces that he's changed - personally I don't believe that he did fight in the War, but his views of God's Plan definitely got more extreme than "thats terrible god should get a suggestion box".

But, I also believe that here, Crowley is reinforcing that he is no longer an angel, and therefore no longer has to play by angel rules. He can do what he wants. He's a demon, it's in his job description.

And of course, that he is a demon, and he is Evil, and of course he would kill goats.

(more under the cut, because I just can't stop talking)

This shot is very yellow. Crowley's hair being the season 1 orange rather than red, the yellow walls, all accentuate the colour of Crowley's eyes, highlighting the physical reminder of Crowley's demonic nature.

I couldn't be bothered to gif it, but here, Crowley leans forward into Aziraphale's face. There are two reasons for this:

Get his yellow Demon Eyes right in Aziraphale face, just to hammer home his point.

It's an aggressive action, moving into someone's personal space like that. Saying, I could hurt you, I'm violent and aggressive and dangerous, I killed those goats, the kids are next.

The way the light hits Crowley's eyes in the above shot and the below shot also make them a very bright yellow. (Edit: I think someone pointed out that Crowley is making his eyes glow, but the overall yellowness of the scene serves to highlight this)

Clever wording on Crowley's part, because as we will find out, he faked the destruction of the goats to keep them safe, while making himself sound very evil.

You'll notice the repetition of "blameless"; this makes him seem even more evil, hurting the innocent, but also gives deeper insight into one of Crowley's biggest issues: hurting the innocent. What have they done to deserve this? Nothing.

This ties in quite nicely with what we have seen before of Crowley and free will; he gives people the option to sin. It's their actions that decide whether they end up in Heaven or Hell; they get what they deserve for their actions. He just makes it easier to choose Hell. (see: phone lines being down making people crankier and encouraging them to be horrible to each other, but it still being their choice, setting the holy water bucket above the door, so it's Ligur's choice to come in after Crowley that gets him killed.)

Note also the use of "long":

Aziraphale says to "tell me you want to do this". "Long" has rather stronger connotations than "want", but also rawer, more fundamental. Crowley is reminding Aziraphale that he is a demon, and that he has the traits of a demon, this is what he is now. He longs for violence, for destruction.

Aziraphale looks quite sad here. If you watch the video I linked, his previous conviction that Crowley doesn't want to do it is very strong. He fully believes in Crowley, that all he needs to do is reframe not killing the kids as within the rules of Hell, the way Crowley so often comes to do for Aziraphale ("Then you can't be certain that thwarting me isn't part of the divine plan too. I mean, you're supposed to thwart the wiles of the Evil One at every turn, aren't you?" "If you put it that way, Heaven couldn't actually mind me thwarting you.").

Aziraphale believed Crowley was still good, that the angel he remembered was still in there. But Crowley rejects it - and it hurts. Crowley has become what a demon should be.

Crowley looks quite sorrowful here, too: he already cares for Aziraphale (he fell in love at the Garden), and it hurts to decieve him, to disappoint him, to hurt him.

I would argue that here, Crowley is scared.

He's in shadow, which dims the yellows; his undemonic nature is about to be revealed.

And that is not safe, because Hell does not send rude notes. And here, Crowley is not doing just any temptation, but trying to help Satan win a bet (supposedly). And out of every demon in Hell, Satan is the one you want to piss off the least.

But here, Crowley is scared because Aziraphale could reveal him - because Aziraphale is on God's side, and because it is revealed that Crowley is not nearly as demonic as he makes himself out to be. He's vulnerable. Aziraphale could scorn him, hurt him. But instead:

Aziraphale is incredibly smug. "I knew I was right", he says. "I knew you were still good".

And here is another issue: Aziraphale conflates God/Heaven/angels with good, and demons/Hell with bad.

And Crowley does not see Heaven as good. He doesn't want Aziraphale to see his angelic core past the demonic exterior. He's on his own side.

This, for Aziraphale, confirms that "the angel you knew is not me", is not correct.

And I think, out of the three minisodes, it's this one that does the most for fleshing out Aziraphale and Crowley's frames of mind this series, and why they choose what they choose in ep6.

Aziraphale has been proven right about Crowley's angelic nature, and that he wants to do good, but can't, for fear of Hell's retribution.

And Crowley does not see Heaven as good. He recognises that being an angel again will not allow him the freedom to do good. (as Aziraphale had to try and talk a demon into helping him save the kids from God.)

[mcuamerica]

Stranded | Alt Ending

Pairing: Eris x Reader

Summary: A certain male visits you at your cabin. Requested by @sidthedollface2 here.

Warnings: 18+ only, rejected mating bond, let me know if anything was forgotten...

Disclaimer: I do not own SJM’s characters, only the ones I create for the purpose of this story. This is a work of fiction. I do not give permission to repost my work on any other platform or medium. Please be respectful.

Dividers from @saradika

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four (other ending)

Eris stood on the other side of your door, eyes filled with sorrow. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tears filling your eyes.

"Don't say it." You whispered.

Eris stayed silent for a few moments before wrapping his arms tighter around your waist. "He didn't send a letter. Not yet." He whispered. "But I hoped to get here before him." Eris said, pulling ever so slightly away.

You looked at him with confusion, your bottom lip quivering. "Is he here?" You whispered, knowing Eris would be able to detect if Azriel was in Autumn or not. Even at the border.

"I hope not." He whispered, bringing a hand to cup your cheek.

"What- What do you mean?" You asked.

"I don't want Azriel to come. I don't want him to claim you as his mate again, grovel for forgiveness. I want you to be happy. And you can't be happy with him." Eris said, cupping both of your cheeks. "But you can be happy with me. Here, in this cabin. Or in the Forest House. Or anywhere you want. But I certainly don't want you far away in the Night Court, trying to love a male who has done nothing but hurt you time and time again."

You searched Eris's eyes. All of the sudden, the stolen glaces throughout all the years made sense. How Eris was always so cryptic when you asked why he was helping you. You remembered one particular night when you were drunk on faerie wine with him...

You giggled rolling over on the blanket to face him. Eris was staring at you with glazed eyes, a lopsided grin spread on his lips. "What?" You asked, setting your glass on the hardwood floor, causing your wine to splash onto the planks. You let out a giggle and a whispered 'whoops' before looking back at Eris. "What?" You persisted, reaching your hand up to poke his cheek. He had stayed with you for three days now, allowed out of the Mountain for the week while Amarantha planned something 'special'. He had grown a stubble, opting to not shave while here with you since one time you mentioned you liked males with beards.

He caught your finger, intertwining your fingers with his. You felt your breath hitch, the moment more intimate than you two normally were. "I think I'm in love with you." He whispered quietly.

Your eyes widened. Then, in your drunken stupor, you burst out laughing. "You're so drunk." You said, your fit of giggles continuing as you rolled onto your back and held your stomach. Eris didn't say anything after that, only admired as you giggled until a new thought formed in your head and you shot up. "We should garden!"

"You were serious." You whispered to him, searching his eyes for any contempt or ill intentions.

Eris nodded, almost as if he knew where your mind went.

"Eris... You love me?" You asked, new tears brimming your eyes. Not in sadness, but in something much deeper, much rawer. In relief. The male standing before you had taken care of you, protected you, defended you, for 50 years. And he loved you.

"I don't just love you, (Y/N)," He whispered, his thumb coming up to wipe the tears that started to fall. "I am in love with you. And I have been for a very long time." He said.

"All these years.. this whole time?" You asked, your voice wavering.

"Not this whole time, but pretty quickly after your wings were healed..." He trailed off and smiled at you. "Please don't go back to him... please.. stay here with me." He asked, eyes full of yearning.

"Eris..." You whispered, this time taking his cheeks in your hands. "I'm in love with you too... I don't think I realized it until now. But... these feelings that I have for you. It's love. And I can't push them away for a male that doesn't love me like I love you." You whispered.

Eris leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as a few tears fell down his cheeks. As they landed on the top of your thumbs, you leaned up more, brushing your lips against his. "Kiss me, Eris." You whispered.

He didn't hesitate from that, his lips capturing yours in a passionate but slow motion. One hand trailed to your neck and the other trailed to your waist, pulling you close to him.

When you finally pulled back to gasp for breath, his expression showed only adoration. "You're going to reject the bond?" He asked quietly. If you didn't know better, you'd say there was a hint of worry in his tone.

"For you, Eris Vanserra, I would reject a thousand mating bonds. As long as I could be with you."

A/N: Ahhh, the moment you were all hoping for has arrived!! Honestly, do I mark this as Part Four and the other as the alt ending cause this is such a better conclusion imo...

Tagging: @feiwelinchen@circe143@sidthedollface2@crazylokonugget@i-am-infinite@thestartitaness @buttermilktea11 @tele86 @yearninglustfully @bunnyredgirl @romantasyreader28@rcarbo1@ren-ni@scoliobean @adalia-jaycee @lipstickmarks @mbclr @impossibelle @nyenye @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @coconut-dreamz @hauntedpiratenacho @esposadomd @anyzandy @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @tothestarsandwhateverend @dumblani

[rnadett]

"Caitlyn did not grant Zaun independence."

There's no current evidence for that. When Jayce negotiated with Silco, he promised a seat on the council and independence.

Since Jayce and Silco's situation mirrors Caitlyn and Sevika's, and we know the writers love parallels, it's likely that this is what happened.

So there is a high chance that Zaun gained independence as well, not just a seat on the council.

But whether yes or no - Let’s analyze the political situation after the war in Piltover from a rawer, more realistic perspective:

The new council members are relatives of the previous members—households. This is an important detail that most overlook. Due to their resentment, they will likely never reach the level (or after a long journey) where they can understand Zaun's situation, like Caitlyn did by the end of season two. However, Caitlyn, unlike them, genuinely wants to help Zaun.

Who better to represent Zaun's interests than Sevika, who, unlike Silco, would never abandon anyone?

(Yes, I know, Ekko. But the fact that he wasn't the one—there’s a reason for that, which we’ll probably learn from the spin-offs.)

Silco unlike Sevika - was never truly loyal to anyone but himself - He would have sacrificed everyone, except for Jinx, making him unfit to represent all of Zaun's people, since he even enslaved the next generation (employing children in factories) to maintain his power.

Unfortunately, by the end of season two, the political situation wasn’t one that could be solved with a snap of the fingers, especially considering everything that had happened in the second season, or that Zaun would ever truly be in a position to retaliate without massive losses.

(And for those who think this would be the right solution—I don't understand why there should be repeated bloodbaths? To more innocent people die? For what? To put your ego before the sake of people? For revenge? After finally both side willing to cooperate?)

Another important point, as mentioned earlier: council positions are inherited in Piltover, not filled through elections, so if Caitlyn had wanted to include more Zaunites, it wouldn’t have been possible. In the beginning of s2 she could only be "the leader" because Ambessa didn’t just manipulate her, but also the influential houses, who empowered Caitlyn with this position. Caitlyn, in turn, accepted this position because of the manipulation, even though she never asked for it (just as Zaun's people made Jinx a symbol, though she never asked for it).

By the end of the season, neither Mel nor Jayce were in the council to form a unified majority with Sevika and Shoola, nor did Mel give up her position for another Zaunite (this could have been independent of her; we don’t know if Piltover exiled her or if the rest of the council was only willing to compromise with one Zaunite member).

Also Caitlyn gave up much of the political influence guaranteed by her family name (- since Caitlyn didn't want her mother's privileges in season one either). This was a massive loss of prestige for her house, something she was aware of - and just likely, after Silco’s death, the Chem Barons began shifting their power - (After all, these people—regardless of whether they were born as Chem Barons or council members—will always be greed-driven hyenas.) - The Kiramman family’s wealth was slowly being dismantled politically—its retention would have only been guaranteed by remaining on the council. Caitlyn consciously gave that up with putting Sevika and Zaun in her position.

As I said, politics in Arcane is much rawer—gradually less visible—than it can be portrayed.

If we look further down the rabbit hole, or even back to season one, the events hint at this pattern.

What else happened politically in the first season, and how did it unfold during season two?

If it could be visually represented and quickly understood by people, 3/4 of the fandom, for example, would blame Heimerdinger—the true culprit of Zaun's neglect—not Caitlyn or Jayce (season one).

He was the one who had been the most influential figure in Piltover for 200 years, spanning countless generations of council members, until Mel turned the power dynamics in the council in Jayce’s favor. After that, Jayce immediately saw what Heimerdinger had ignored—the damage caused by Zaun’s systemic neglect, a consequence of Heimerdinger’s 200 years of blind governance. Heimerdinger was the one who always hypocritically spoke about the safety of inventions, but under his supervision, toxic factories were built, which sickened people, like his own assistant (Viktor).

His real fear of Hextech had nothing to do with abandoning Zaun.

Everyone in Piltover knew about the toxic factories—even the Kiramman family, who provided Zaun with ventilation systems. Heimerdinger failed every generation, even Vi and Jinx’s parents, and even after the civil war, he never crossed the bridge, during which this generation lost many people. Moreover, Heimerdinger’s irresponsibility contributed to Jayce and Viktor building the Hexgate in a way that poisoned Ekko's tree, as he was still one of the leading scientists and most influential council members at that time (before Mel shifted the political power dynamics) - so the responsability was not just theirs but he also was responsible for it.

Against all this, Caitlyn in season one completely went against Heimerdinger’s ignorance. Her first action in s1 was to go down to Zaun—not taking 200 years—and see the other side as well. Contrary to the fandom’s (again) misinterpretation, she was the first character to show real empathy for Zaun. This is symbolized by her relationship with Vi, which also built the foundation for Ekko and Heimerdinger to work together (which I will elaborate on below).

Let's jump to season two right after the ending events of season 1 : Despite Caitlyn's grief and anger, she always stuck to one of her core principles (with varying degrees of success): no Zaun civilian should be harmed. And before you think that’s bullsh*t, let me explain further:

Caitlyn’s kill count among Zaun’s people is ZERO.

I’ll explain this in more detail soon, but first I need to build the puzzle:

First of all:

What was Ambessa’s real plan with the memorial attack?

I think we all clearly saw that she didn’t want to let the desire for revenge 'extinguish in Piltover's heart.' But her more important goal was to:

Find the perfect person who would serve her manipulation best, someone with enough influence and respect in the eyes of Piltover’s houses and someone who, due to their inexperience and blinded anger, is malleable enough to serve her interests.

Caitlyn always struggled against Piltover's propaganda within herself—and the seed of this was her rogue mission to Stillwater in the first season. By the end of the first season, this seed could have blossomed into a flower. However, when her mother died (an event she blamed herself for) and after she felt that Vi had "betrayed" her (a parallel to Jinx), it was like cutting down that flower. The roots remained, but Ambessa hoped that a different kind of plant—one she could guide—would grow in its place.

The moment Caitlyn and her strike team with Vi interrupted the council meeting, Ambessa knew Caitlyn would be the person to build her entire plan around - I think she had a feeling before too - that's why she sent Maddie to be close to her, but after that she was sure. For Maddie she was likely just an ordinary spy for Noxus—sometimes spies operate in foreign nations for decades, even when the two nations are not at war. Why she was chosen? Mostly because Caitlyn caught her attention. In fact, if I delve deeper, it might have been the exact opposite: There is more likely she was the one who told Ambessa to keep an eye on Cait. I mean, if you were in Maddie's shoes, wouldn't it strike you as extremely unusual for Piltover's most influential daughter to choose a profession that’s entirely unbecoming of her rank—one that, no less, focuses on cleaning up the filth of the elite? Of course it would. So, Maddie, and the fact that Noxus’s gaze had irreversibly shifted to Caitlyn, wasn’t a coincidence, especially given that Caitlyn had repeatedly mentioned she had first-hand knowledge of the events.

Also, contrary to another misinterpreted image in the fandom, Caitlyn and Vi did NOT gas all of Zaun. Their plan was a complete cooperation between Vi and Caitlyn, as they fully followed Vi’s plan from season one and the gas was, unfortunately, an added consequence—aka a "necessary evil"—to avoid the real catastrophe: the bloodbath that Salo and the families of the other deceased council members wanted (and likely the majority of Piltover's population supported) under Ambessa's incitement.

So you can critise it all you want, and I in fact agree with your moral ground, but you need to accept some harsh realities too: with this single action, they completely prevented a civil war (which again - Salo, under Ambessa’s leadership, wanted), which likely would have led to the near-extermination of Zaun, with countless civilian and child casualties. But Ambessa wouldn't have been able to actually profit from it, because she wouldn't have had enough time to gain anything from the situation and get closer to her main goal: Hextech. Additionally, with a quick, bloody strike, it’s likely that the majority of Piltover would have eventually opposed her actions/presence in their city- losing her political power.

And as I mentioned before: Contrary to the widespread belief in the fandom, if you check the scenes of The Grey frame by frame from ep 3 and compare them with Episodes 2 and 4, you'll see that the claim "the entire civilian population of Zaun was gassed" is a huge misconception and misinformation.

Caitlyn and Vi only went after Chem Baron members/heads, who kept children like Isha as slaves—whom they also didn’t kill. Only old industrial areas were gassed, which at the time served as Chem-Baron bases.

Moreover, "thanks" to the denser air (mentioned by Ekko in s1) the gas didn’t spread to other areas. Several things confirm this: Ekko’s base is deep within Zaun, yet it wasn’t affected. If the entire Zaun had been gassed, they definitely would have been impacted.

Also Cait and Vi's kill count with this was essentially zero.

Even Chross and Margot were only captured, and the rest were temporarily disarmed with gas and then released (Later, you can see the same gang members at Vander's statue alive and well - but without their leaders) - So the "lethal gas" theory has also been debunked.

The gas itself—likely in dense and concentrated amounts—probably had a "tear gas"-like effect (as evidenced by Jinx's reaction and symptoms). It’s "only" the long-term (years of continuous) inhalation that poses a serious health risk over time.

Following these points, I would like to bring up a few more references, particularly from the perspective of character interactions—or the lack thereof—which ultimately serve as pillars for the above and are interconnected:

Ekko’s lack of intervention in Caitlyn and Vi’s actions shows that they were not against neutralizing the Chem Barons and gang members in Zaun.

The Firelights, as revealed in season one, knew practically everything happening in Zaun, as they were able to track Caitlyn and Vi when even Silco couldn’t.

Ekko completely agreed with neutralizing (capturing) the Chem Barons, as their power struggle involved many refugees.

The Firelight members only turned against Caitlyn/Piltover/oppression when Ekko disappeared (independently of Caitlyn) because they thought Caitlyn had captured Ekko—and when Ambessa, mostly behind Caitlyn's back, used police brutality. Caitlyn, however, was not entirely unaware and held Ambessa accountable. Of course, her biggest mistake was not immediately turning away from her.

So I think Caitlyn's greatest guilt was not the gas (which was again: It was Vi's plan too) But to allowing her anger toward Jinx to ultimately not be directed at Jinx, but rather at everyone else through Ambessa—mainly the innocent civilians, whom she never wanted to harm from the very first season. And the fact that she let this drag on for so long, even though she was lowkey aware of what Rictus had done in Zaun, yet was still able to stay with them for months after that.

I didn’t initially intend to write this post solely about Caitlyn, but everything seemed to land on her, misinterpreted. Also, when talking about political undertones, it’s important to mention that Heimerdinger wasn’t accepted by the Firelights without real confrontation (unlike Caitlyn) because he immediately won their trust, but because Caitlyn, through her interactions with Ekko in season one, had already paved the way for Ekko to trust a Piltover citizen, as Caitlyn nearly died for the cause on the bridge in season one.

Clearly, if Ekko had been there in season two when the enforcers and Noxian soldiers were abusing innocents in Zaun, he would have confronted Caitlyn again, but unfortunately, this didn’t happen. However, at that point, I think Caitlyn just needed a push, as she was full of ongoing internal struggles, which pulled her back to her true self—and that this push came from Vi—more specifically, Vi’s family and all the suffering that their story represented for Zaun—made their relationship much more valuable in this context.

In summary: Politics in Arcane was portrayed very well and complexly, but precisely because it wasn't presented simply to the viewer, many couldn’t/don’t interpret it correctly. Also, just because something wasn't specifically presented on-screen doesn't mean it didn't happen (I'm referring to the first three paragraphs about Zaun's independence), as the writers deliberately connected ALL the scenes and interactions in various ways from season 1.

Thank you for reading all this. :)

Also, If you're curious for even more, I have an 8-minute video analysis where I delve into Heimerdinger's situation—what I hinted at here—mainly through Viktor and Jayce, and you can find the link to it here: https://youtu.be/y7Y__xyDyG8?si=5d5bl-Mc8758Gq6L

[python-nebula]

this might be an unpopular opinion, and i might get yelled at in the replies, but honestly? i prefer the live versions for most of the NPMD soundtrack

like they've just got a much rawer sound live, yk? and the studio versions sound more polished. the characters have messy emotions, so it makes sense and even works well for them to have voice cracks and miss some of their notes and stuff like that

I feel like the studio versions for TGWDLM and BF are better than their respective live versions, but thats because for the former, the characters are supposed to sound 'flawless' bc they're literally musical zombies, and for the latter it makes sense that they sound better in the studio versions bc ofc they were sick for the live versions

This isn't me having a go at people who like the studio version at all, I just find them a little jarring (for reasons stated above)

EDIT: I forgot to add, I also prefer the lyrics in the live versions (bc some of the lyrics are different in the studio version) for example I VASTLY prefer ‘who will pray for me’ to ‘will you pray for me’ because personally I think it makes Richie’s situation feel more hopeless because he KNOWS that nobody would

[barbwritesstuff]

Not and ask but I do have to say I love how you’ve played with the lore of these mythical creatures. A lot of media definitely leans more towards romanticizing being one of these creatures but you’ve given them this doomed lore. If you’re a werewolf, you will go mad. If you’re a vampire you’ll likely die early or live long enough to see yourself lose touch with the world and become a blood crazed maniac. Upon dying, you can’t ever find peace in death. Becoming a monster comes with a few shiny perks and the heaviest debt you will ever take on. It’s so tragic and I love it.

I have a name for this! I'm sure people in the literacy analysis sphere have a smarter, swankier name, but I call it:

✨The Spooky vs. Superhero Slider✨

On one hand, you have the spooky stuff. Characters who are written to have genuine curses. You've been bitten by a zombie. You will die in seven days. etc That means the slider is set 100% to the spooky side.

On the other, you have literal superheroes. They're gods, they fly around and save the day, it's awesome. You want to be on this end of the slider.

Most characters who aren't just regular humans (be they vampires, werewolves, or alien gods) are somewhere along the slider. Depending on the author, depending on the story, even depending on the character, it can fluctuate a lot.

Take Lestat and Louis from Anne Rice's Interview With The Vampire for example. Both are vampires, but Lestat doesn't hate being a vampire quite as much, in fact he often has a wee bit of fun with it. Plus, he can fly. Stories from his POV are a few points more superhero than anything told from Louis' POV.

Another example, Twilight by Stephanie Meyer. They're mostly superheroes with the one big downside being their bloodlust. So, when Bella could instantly control her bloodlust, that series tipped hard into superhero. There was nothing horrific about being a vampire. It was fun. It was cool. It was... super.

It's always a sliding scale.

Personally, I prefer for that slider to remain closer to the spooky side than the superhero side. That doesn't mean I don't love superheroes. I am a massive Superman fan and wrote a whole wee story about it. But I want superheroes to be done with intentionality and I want my curses to feel like curses.

The genre of Blood Moon and Thicker Than is urban fantasy/horror.

They're not meant to be goth superheroes. They're meant to be cursed.

And that sucks for them... but it's a huge amount of fun for me, as the writer. I think it makes them much more interesting characters and makes the world way more fun to play in.

I think my werewolves have it just a tiny bit easier. They're 70% spooky and 30% superhero. The downsides are downsiding but the powers are still cool. My vampires I gave a bit of a rawer deal. They're 80%, maybe even 85% spooky. They get powers, sure, but the cost is steep.

Sorry for the long rambling response. This is just something I've thought about probably too much before.

[dentos-wife]

Just saw Sonic 3 a second time which allowed me to put this into writing.

After sitting on what it is I like so much more about movie Shadow than the game one (who I also enjoy don’t get me wrong) and I think I hit on two things

Maria feels much less than a plot device and Shadow’s grief is much rawer.

I go over them below the cut and warning this is really long

1) Maria feels much less than a plot device.

Yes she’s no longer ill-*as far as we know* but her illness isn’t a defining trait anymore. In the game project shadow is tied to curing her illness he was created for her and thus you could argue they’ve been tied together since the day he was born which is wholesome and has platonic soulmate vibes and it’s great BUT I like choice. And this whole movies theme is choice. They hammer pretty hard it's all about making the right choices in the end. Well Maria fits that theme too.

In Sonic 3 she of her own volition choose him. We don’t know why she’s with her granddad, she could still be sick and that’s why he takes her everywhere with him we just do not know. But that is no longer important what important is she sees Shadow floating in that little tube and goes over to him, draws a little bunny face. She places her hand on the tube and decides he’ll be her friend and that is so powerful for him when everyone looks at him as some kind of alien freak. She kidnaps him from all the tests they do on him, is the only one who sees him as he is. She even mentions choices when they're looking at the stars after she sneaks them both to the top of the base to look at them. (I don’t like him no longer being a lab creation but I’ll live lol. I still think Black Doom created him, that comet he came down on is very much a Black Doom reference)

But back to Maria. She is also given a character now, she likes music, likes to roller skate, enjoys movies, gets into trouble, makes a little fort it’s very base character to go off of yes but it gives us so much more of a look at the girl she was and the influence in Shadow’s life she was. She’s no longer a protect the planet martyr we know nothing about she’s just…a girl. A young girl with a big heart who meant the world to Shadow and she’s gone. I did enjoy the interactions in Shadow Generations as well and it was about time but Maria in that still feels like she exists to die, to further Shadow's story and in the movie, I don't know how to explain it but she feels more like a real girl than a character trope.

2) Shadow’s grief is rawer and he doesn’t know how to handle it.

In the game Sonic Adventure 2 Shadow is living out a lie, we find out his memories are manipulated by Gerald and once he finally remembers he sacrifices himself to protect Maria’s true wish to live a life filled with purpose and protect the world even if she has to die (and then he was so popular they brought him back yada yada you know the drill)

Again, there’s nothing wrong with it. But so much of it hinders on Maria being this purer than life heavenly lamb that gets sacrificed who we know next to nothing about which eh isn’t a trope I’m fond of. In the movies this is changed to you are who you chose and you're my friend Shadow which I prefer, makes the relationship feel more grounded and real.

Sonic 3 Shadow has no memory manipulation at all. He sees the one person he cared about, the one friend he had die from a tube of his own chaos energy. Yes I do agree they are cowards for not letting her get shot and making GUN not as much of an antagonist, we’ll get to that; but how they had her die instead? From Shadow’s own power? That’s a great compromise. He doesn’t even have time to think about it and is automatically thrown into a liquid prison for 50 years. Who knows how many times that memory played over and over on his head? He says it's all I known for 50 years. Imagine seeing the one person you care about die over and over again it's almost like Shadow was in his own personal time loop but he had no control over anything.

So edgy mcedgestr wakes up in what’s basically a brand new world after suffering for 50 years and everyone is after him, he’s in pain doesn’t know why, is pissed off can’t trust anyone including the blue thing that looks like him; Sonic stepped out of a GUN helicopter he knows he will NEVER trust GUN but he recognizes Gerald who says they’ll get revenge so he follows him because it's familiar to him, and Gerald knew and was close to Maria too.

When Tom is on the brink on death (Which would NOT have been as powerful if we didn't see Tom and Sonic bond for two movies before this so well done) Sonic is PISSED, Shadow feels validated and he sees himself in the other hedgehog; he knows Sonic will kill him because he knows exactly how Sonic feels. He loses to Sonic who kicks the emeralds out of him and accepts defeat- allowing Sonic to take the revenge he wants. And Sonic stops. Sonic who has the exact same rage refuses to give into it. He makes the choice to not kill Shadow out of revenge. Shadow is confused he thought he figured everything out. Sonic's one choice changed his world view.

He remembers Maria’s words about the stars as he sits on the moon with Sonic learning about grief how it never leaves but you live with it and the memories he has aren't a bad thing if he chooses to keep the love in them, a light shines even though the star is gone, the new main quote, VERY different from the game but it works here very well. This time it’s about how those gone are still with you and you can always cherish those memories instead of dwelling on them and yes we all know this it’s the most basic of basic messages but Shadow needs to learn it! Maria, his star is gone but her light still shines on everyone she touched. That’s the beauty of this quote and it works so well with what they did with Shadow.

I would argue that’s why Shadow didn’t have his, “is this what you wanted Maria…” line it’s no longer about what she wants, though there is a great line where he questions what Maria would have wanted, but in the end it’s about the choice Shadow makes what Shadow himself wants, and Shadow decides to accept his feelings. Live with his guilt, live with his grief, live with his happy memories of Maria and use everything in his power to save the world from himself and Gerald’s revenge. Yes in the end he does think he’s going to die, but he’s sacrificing himself with a purpose and understanding for himself, not Maria though she’s still the catalyst. He spent the whole time alive figuring out what he wanted and, he would have died at peace instead of dying vengeful.

But he survives unlike in SA2, (remember to stay for the second scene in the end credits everyone) so we don’t have to give him some silly reason to come back to life. He’s alive and now he can live not for Maria’s wish but for himself. He’s alive and will always feel Maria’s absence, some days will be better than others and he probably needs a good cry but he made his choice for himself and he’ll continue to make more and live in the world. And I think that’s a damn good arc.

As for the rest I do think the movie would have been more powerful as a whole if Gerald wasn’t a loon and they went more into Shadow’s military purpose, showing a change in Gerald over time was he always batshit insane? I like to think he went mad with his grief of losing his granddaughter and feeling used by GUN. Or maybe at 104 he just lost what's left of his brain. But all he wanted was vengeance and he'd use anyone to get it. As he said it's not about what Maria wanted but it's about punishment. Gerald could have even had Ivo who thought the world of him but that wasn't enough he made the choice to value punishment over everything else. This parallel's Shadow in a way Shadow accepting grief and all the feelings that come with it. Gerald refuses and will kill everyone and himself first

GUN was...lol. I do like they don't confuse Shadow and Sonic anymore that was always hard to take in in SA2 but Walters had the lamest death ever if he's really dead. Rockwell they had to set up to dislike Team Sonic and I got the vibe she didn't jive with them since the beginning. So yeah this stuff was meh, Shadow was practically perfect though so I can forgive it

Anyway as a Shadow fan who always wanted more on Maria the person I love this change and I love how much it focuses on not just the choices Sonic makes (and hits you over the head with) but the choices Shadow makes which all comes down to the ultimate choice that started it all. Maria choosing Shadow.

[girlcrushart]

I am fairly easy to manipulate, and one good way to do it is with the promise of hot naked girls. So when my buddy @whoiwanttoday posted Mikey Madison saying that he wasn't expecting just how naked she was in Anora, that was something I needed to see for myself. And ya, I wasn't disappointed—she's really naked and super hot. I also really liked Anora a lot. He described it as a much rawer Pretty Woman, which is a really accurate quick pitch. I really liked it. It was really straight-forward but also subtly complex. It was funny and engaging and surprising, and Mikey was awesome in it. They really hit you with naked Mikey right from the get-go, and she's progressively less naked as the movie goes along, which totally works as a device as she goes from being a stripper to being a wife and you start to see her differently and it's a subtle device but I think quite intentional and really effective. I'd say the main theme I took away from the movie was the idea that the very wealthy view regular people as pawns to take advantage of in their delusional games, which is honestly a very fitting theme for a movie to watch on the first day of 2025 because something tells me that's going to be a theme of 2025 as well. It was a great movie and I totally get why Mikey Madison is receiving a lot of praise for it because she really brought a lot of complexity and range to her portrayal—even more memorable than her spectacular tits and glorious ass ;) Today's girlcrushart guardian is Mikey Madison.

[theladyismyshepard]

It Ain't Easy Being Green

(How you respond to jealousy)

Shadowheart –

Something awful and uncomfortable gnawed at your gut as you stared up into the endless sea of stars hanging above. Your brow was so creased that you could nearly see your own browline from your peripheral. Your teeth were clenched as you scowled at nothing but your own thoughts. You were being childish, you knew this, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to correct your mood– not when shared laughter out of your line of sight soured your tongue and churned your stomach. You would not think to ruin the merriment by turning into a fuming jackass or becoming physically ill at how close Shadowheart and Karlach were becoming – and fast.

It was hard to believe that your little group of oddities had only been traveling together for not even a full week. Sharing a common trauma bonded people quicker than usual circumstances, and emotions were rawer, prompting people to either shut off completely or open up. Shadowheart was a closed book, one that came with a lock and key, and while the tadpole in your head had been at the forefront of your mind, you also managed to find enough headspace to reserve entirely for the cleric and what might bring a smile to her face. And if you’ve taken to walking a little closer to Shadowheart during your travels? Well, you try to convince yourself that that was no one’s business but your own, but the arch of Shadowheart’s brow and shrug still had you blushing.

Back at the grove, there had been a gaggle of refugee children swarmed just past the merchant, Arron. They had been equipped with wooden swords and placed before training dummies and told to learn how to fight for their lives. It was a heart-wrenching sight, seeing their trembling frowns and unsure footing, and knowing that there was little chance of their survival out on the road to Baldur’s Gate. You were proving fruitless with Kahga, still needing to follow up on a lead, but you would make damn sure to not leave the tieflings with nothing.

You told Shadowheart, Gale, and Lae’zel to disperse for the time being before turning back to the group of kids and even young adults, clapping your hands once to get their attention. For the next few hours, you showed them common techniques and basic footwork, taking the time to charge a dummy with a cleaving attack and demanding the group mirror it, correcting here and there. By the time the sun was beginning to dip to the treelines, your muscles were achy and sweat had dampened your brow. The tieflings were beaming up at you, weapons raised high above their heads as they screamed their accomplishment to the Heavens. They encircled you and were jumping up and down, they were urging you to follow along, and after a moment of consideration, you shrugged and started whooping and jumping in place, smiling at their resulting laughter and excitement.

Your eye just so happened to catch the eye of Shadowheart and you immediately froze. She was wearing an amused smile and her eyes were bright as you regained your composure enough to give a departing word of encouragement before wandering over to her.

“No need to stop on my account, by all means, do continue,” said Shadowheart, her voice thick with amusement and her eyes shining.

“Relishing too long in a victory can be dangerous, you know,”

“Whatever would you be in danger of, pray tell,”

“Of making an ass of yourself,” You muttered, still fighting back the heat scorching your face, and her laughter did nothing to help, nor the glittering of her eyes.

“I found it… rather cute,” hummed Shadowheart, her eyes looking you up and down before she shrugged and turned on her heel, leaving you a floundering mess.

Then you found Karlach. You were the first one to step between Wyll’s blade and Karlach (even though there was no need to, the poor, misguided man immediately acknowledged he was wrong), knowing that the group needed Karlach just as much as she needed the group. She had a sunny personality, spoke her mind, and had a body that even had your eyes subconsciously glancing up and down. She was funny, every word spoke with humor that pulled a laugh out of even Lae’zel, and best of all, she appreciated wine as much as the next weary traveler.

Which was where you found yourself now, sulking on your bedroll alone in your space by your tent. You had pulled your roll out just enough to see the stars. There was wild giggling  and cackling laughter as Shadowheart and Karlach shared their spoils of pillaging the blighted town. The two agreed to split whatever wine they had managed to find, and you could hear them standing by their word. Shadowheart had refused to share with the rest of the party, and it made your skin crawl that the only one she allowed in was Karlach.

It wasn’t that you hated Karlach, far from it… It just gave you a headache that it wasn’t your shoulders that Shadowheart wanted to be thrown over. You had never heard Shadowheart speak so highly of you as she had about Karlach. You could barely get more than a couple sentences at a time from Shadowheart, and here Karlach was, pulling laugh after laugh from the woman you were crushing on. And there you were, pouting like a child… Such a contrast from this “hero” role that you keep insisting on filling. What was wrong wi-

“Hey soldier,” boomed a voice that startled you from your reverie, and you found Karlach’s wide smile obscuring your view of the stars, “I knew you weren’t asleep yet! Shadowheart was so worried that you were, but I said to myself, I said, “Karlach, Tav looks too tense to be asleep,” and here you are, wide awake! I knew it.”

“Er…” You trailed off as Shadowheart approached your bedroll just as Karlach did, and she was holding something behind her back.

“Tav…” Shadowheart cleared her throat, her cheeks pink and you were convinced it was from the wine she was consuming. “I was wondering-”

“Welp!” announced Karlach, her arms stretching above her head, her spine arching, and her eyes were closed as she relished in the stretch so she missed the mild glare from Shadowheart. “I’m gonna head to bed now,”

Your eyes were darting back and forth from Shadowheart to Karlach, unsure of what was going on, and the earlier bitterness on the back of your tongue had now vanished, leaving a blazing hope that you weren’t as cast aside as you initially feared. Shadowheart sighed, staring off at nothing while shaking her head before her eyes cut back to meet yours. She offered you a smile before she brought her arms out from behind her back and your attention cut to the wine bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“You’ve been working so hard to help people… to keep hope alive even when the rest of us couldn’t be bothered with it… I think you deserve a drink more than anyone else.”

Your heart fluttered so violently that you were afraid it would either combust or break free from the hold of your rib cage. The toe of her shoe was nervously shuffling the dirt at her feet, a foot from your head, and she looked so beautiful cast in shadows. Her mysterious edge drew you in from the get-go and her obvious reluctance to reveal anything about herself did little to deter you. There was still much to be learned about Shadowheart, her desires, her goals, there were still looks that would flicker across her eyes that you had to familiarize, but in that moment, underneath the stars that reflected off the glasses in her hand, you were more than happy to take it one step at a time.

Lae'zel –

Resignation tasted of ash in your mouth as the final battle with the Netherbrain came to a resonating end as the thrall of its influence silenced once and for all. You felt the initial rush of victory, your emotion too much to contain within your body and without thinking, you pulled Lae’zel into a bruising kiss to seal your success. One hand was still clutching her silver sword, refusing to let it fall to the ground, but the other reached up to tangle her fingers in your hair, keeping you close.

You wanted to live in that moment forever, to capture the contentment and relief you felt and never let it go because you knew deep down that life would continue and it would bring with it new trials that would scar. It wasn’t long before the moment passed and you were spiraling in your own head, filled with thoughts of a future you were almost uncertain you would get to have and whether or not Lae’zel planned on fitting herself into it.

From the moment you met the githyanki, her goals were straightforward: she would do anything and everything she could to purify herself of the parasite and get back to her people to fight another battle across the stars. You’ll always remember the feel of her sharp blade pointed threateningly against the column of your throat when she spotted you first upon the nautiloid, and even more so the flicker of her life across your mind once you two learned of the connection that came with the tadpole. She was born a fighter and your stomach churned when thinking of the tribulations that not only she, but her people had to grow up through.

Lae’zel wore her childhood with pride, and would scold you anytime she felt your sorrow or concern for it. If she was given the chance to do it all again she would, so your pity wasn’t wanted. No matter how many times you tried to convince her it wasn’t pity, it was compassion, she wouldn’t hear of it. Lae’zel was as stubborn as she was strong, and the more you traveled with her, you found that rather than animosity growing between the two of you, you grew comfortable with her presence by your side. You were assured victory of any battle commenced because you knew you had Lae’zel in your party.

What surprised you was the sudden pit in your stomach when the secrecy and distrust shrouding Kith’rak Voss was unraveled and Lae’zel was soon hanging onto his every word in planning to free Orpheus, the Prince of the Comet who would help free their people from Vlaakith’s rule. There were stars in her eyes upon so many promises made, and you practically saw the rift forming between you two rather than just felt it. There was a permanent lump in your throat that you refused to let show as you fought your way down the bloody path that led to Orpheus’ freedom.

Lae’zel earned the ultimate victory and the greatest satisfaction, and her people deserved to have the veil lifted from their eyes. You two were from different worlds, you could not fully comprehend the struggles of her life just as she could not fully comprehend the disturbances of yours… but that mattered not you. Not when there were so many similarities to counter that argument with, like the glaring observation that she was a living being with hopes and dreams just as you were. And you couldn’t fault her hopes and dreams leading her across the universe and back to her own life.

That didn’t stop your frown from scrunching your face when Lae’zel broke the celebratory kiss to turn back to Orpheus with a look of complete adoration that you yourself would’ve reserved just for her. Childish, you’re acting like a fucking baby! No amount of pep talks would fight the jealousy back and your fisted knuckles couldn’t strain any whiter even if the bone were to rip out itself. Your chest was burning because you knew that in the end, Lae’zel would always choose the githyanki over you, and you could never bring yourself to ask her to reconsider. Especially since she had fought with all her might to save your world with you… Why couldn’t you do the same for her?

“My people are leaving… And I must go with them,” said Orpheus, his neck craned up towards the sky as he watched swarm after swarm of red dragons soar across the sky, casting shadows beneath, before screeching forth purple portals that they traversed and disappeared through, “Come, Lae’zel. We will free the githyanki and dismantle the empire. Let them be imprisoned no longer!”

“Your duty is to your people, Lae’zel. Go with Orpheus, and lead them to freedom,” You could hear it was your own voice, but your tongue felt numb and lackluster in your mouth, and she was suddenly looking at you with a new fire in her eye.

“It will be done. I will never be free while my people are still bound by Vlaakith’s chains.”

You couldn’t help the rush of offense you felt at being easily cast aside when she turned back to Orpheus and watched on in fascination as his two dragons, Quulos and Quuthos, responded to his call. Orpheus didn’t hesitate to mount Quulos, his hands grabbing the reins before watching Lae’zel expectantly. She approached Quuthos and hesitated as she turned back to look at you, and you knew instantly that that moment had the potential to be the very last if you were foolish enough to let it.

“You called me Mla’ghir…” You called, taking a few steps forward to ensure she could hear you and wouldn’t leave you behind. “Your people aren’t liberated yet… Allow me to follow and continue aiding you… please,”

Orpheus proved impressed by your bold request, but you were more interested with Lae’zel’s reaction. She wasn’t able to conceal her gasp at your words, and she made no move to hide the tears swelling in her eyes. Her mouth was trying in vain to find something to say, but she was always more of a woman of action, and what better way of expressing herself than by grabbing ahold of the front plating of your armor, and bringing you back into a searing kiss that refused to end, even when Orpheus gave a polite cough.

“Let us ride… together into eternity,”

Minthara –

Your teeth clenched tightly as you battled against your agitation. Your eye twitched as you felt your rationality slipping. You repeatedly told yourself that your anger was justified and that you were in no way envious of the brazen display on the other side of camp.

Wyll, whose tent was adjacent to Mizora’s, had a dumbfounded look on his face as your eyes met before he pointed questioningly at himself. You rolled your eyes and shook your head no, in fact, you were staring at his left where Minthara was seated comfortably next to Mizora. There were nothing but devious looks shared between the two as they whispered amongst themselves. The sly smirks did nothing to ease your mood, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say they were leaning closer together now than when Minthara had first ventured over to the devil’s tent.

The part that made you sick to your stomach was that you could understand just how the two could get closer than the rest of the party. Minthara possessed a thirst for power; Not just over the world, but over you as well. Her wicked laughter never failed to echo behind the misery of the unfortunate souls who had crossed your path, and after a while, you stopped chastising her for it. You wouldn’t admit to her or yourself that it was because her evil chuckle started sending shivers down your spine.

Minthara originally wasn’t too keen on joining your party after you stormed the inner walls of the Goblin Camp, slaughtering Priestess Gut and Dror Ragzlin. You could still feel the cold steel of her blade piercing through your armor before tearing through the flesh of your shoulder even as you gazed upon her now. Minthara proved to be a powerful adversary against your already battle-worn frame, but you could still remember the way she stumbled before her body crashed to the ground. Her chest continued to rise and fall as her lungs forced the air in and out, and you could end it right there… You should…

But you saw something more than desperation shining in her eyes. You saw the fresh tears of fright as she knew deep down that she failed. Deep down she was afraid that if it weren’t to be your blade that cut her down, it would be the one ruling the entire show. Her bottom lip trembled even as she barked orders and cleaved her weapon through the air. Minthara was lashing out like a caged animal, her imposing composure long slipped away, and once Karlach had given the final concussive blow to her head with a warhammer, her wide, frantic eyes finally rolled back.

Even Gale had his magic crackling at his fingertips, ready to give the killing blow if need be, but you placated the party. As you spared her one last look, you couldn’t help but to ponder that she looked a lot smaller and frailer than before. You cursed your heart for constricting at the sight, and ignored the nagging feeling eating away at you with every step you took. She was surrounded by dead comrades, and Astarion looted her weapons and anything of use… Minthara had nothing left and you suspected she had more to fear than just you.

You always felt a rush when you were proven right, and you certainly felt a rush of something when you passed through the Absolute’s Door of Moonrise Towers and stumbled upon the scene of Minthara conscious and swallowed up in oversized clothing that you knew (with a twinge to your heart) she had to scavenge around for. Your eyes cut to Astarion’s body, which was draped in her former armor and you weren’t entirely sure if their relationship would be immediately soured, or soundly built on a foundation of mutual respect. She also wore a look of pure humiliation even as she fought to defend herself, and then Ketheric’s mouth pulled back into a smile so deformed that it could have doubled as a snarl as he gave Z’rell the order to be creative with the Nightwarden’s death.

You knew she had someone higher to answer to… What you weren’t aware of was that it was Ketheric Thorm, in all his cruelness. You felt the varying looks of your party as you made your presence known to the Chosen. You felt the need to speak of her absolute loyalty and how she never swayed, just as you felt the need to descend the stairs to the dungeons below and fight the guards for her freedom. There was a deep appreciation she held for you once the artefact connected her mind with yours and the rest of the party’s, and you felt it just as if it were your own warmth spreading through your chest.

You even found yourself grinning when Minthara then moved to tangle her fingers into the base of Astarion’s ivory locks before tugging his head until his face was mere inches from her own. She had demanded her armor back and the trek back to camp was an interesting one consisting of an also newly-recruited Halsin’s confused glances at Astarion, who was striding confidently in all his half-nudeness. You were soon noticing that when you saved someone’s life, they felt the urge to join your party, and you weren’t complaining when your company looked as great as they did, and even proved useful.

Just because you saved her life didn’t mean her snarky attitude was suddenly displaced and her enjoyment of malicious proclivities was tamed, and for some reason unknown to even you, you found that you wouldn’t have it any other way. She disapproved of your helpful habit of sticking your nose into others’ business and solving their problems for them, but she wouldn’t have you any other way… or so you liked to think.

As your eyes continued to burn holes into Mizora, you didn’t even have enough time to glance away and play cool before Minthara’s eyes cut over to you, her brow arching and her smirk slow-building. You flushed and stared down at your feet, your self-criticism roaring displeasure into your brain. You could practically taste your own bitterness and it wasn’t good at all. You heard of the… nefarious offerings that Mizora had to offer those she deemed worthy of her sexual prowess, and who else would be worthy than the Nightwarden?

“Something the matter, darling?” said Minthara, suddenly standing before you, her smirk very audible, and it only widened into a grin when your neck snapped at attention. “You’ve been watching me for some time now,”

“I was looking at Mizora,” You insisted before grimacing, and her resulting chuckle warmed your face yet again. “I mean-”

“Ah, ah, I’ve caught you, little bird… You were jealous,” Minthara drawled, almost predatorily, and she was soon backing you into your tent, each step slow and methodical. “You looked about ready to claim me.”

“I-”

“Take me then,” commanded Minthara, and when your brain short-circuited, she grabbed your arms and wound them around her shoulders, “If you are bold enough to make me yours, you better be ready for when I make you mine,”

She punctuated the suggestive remark with a nip to the flesh where your neck and shoulder meet, and before your eyes fluttered shut, you caught sight of Mizora grinning wickedly as she watched on.

Gale –

You would never forget the moment Gale opened your mind to the weave and helped you embrace the charged magical aura. It was after saving the Druid camp, and you couldn’t ignore the gleam of approval clear in his eye. The entire camp along with the grove celebrated their victory that night when you approached Gale. Many attempted to stop and talk to you, but at the moment, you only had eyes for the wizard and the way he was smiling softly.

Before that night, you never even thought yourself capable of wielding magic, but he was a great teacher. Gale knew exactly how to set a mood, and you imagined yourself leaning into him and savoring the moment, enjoying the tension of just almost grazing lips before he gently pushed forward and pressed your lips together in a sweet kiss. He pulled back, almost startled himself, and became quite bashful the rest of the evening.

As your affection grew for him, your concern and worry for his condition deepened. You scoured the lands, looting where you could, and accepted all rewards for your assistance in hopes of finding more magical artefacts to help ease the chronic agony that threatened to nearly tear him apart from the inside. With time, it wasn’t enough to satiate the deeply rooted hunger, and Gale realized he wasn’t responding to the magical essence as he once was.

Your sweet Gale, he forced a smile all throughout the pain, even when it tightened the skin around his eyes and mouth with the strain. He had previously shared his fearful insecurity that he was a burden weighed heavily upon you and the group when it came to his addiction to magical artefacts. Even though you tried your best to soothe Gale and reassure him that you seek out the artefacts because you want to help him, that you refused to let him succumb to his chronic pain alone, you could see that he couldn’t bring himself to fully believe in your words. Even the glazed look of satisfaction in his eye after your night of lovemaking wasn’t enough to conceal the insecurity.

Everything came to a halt when the old man Elminster appeared before Gale with a message from Mystra, practically demanding he detonate the malevolent magical orb in his chest in a suicidal act against the Absolute. The goddess suggested it was a means of atonement for what he had done. You argued vehemently on his behalf, and you couldn’t help but to notice that he wasn’t fighting at all. He accepted her word immediately and you couldn’t help but to falter. He wouldn’t look you in the eye at first, but you knew he was processing all of the options before him.

Elminster came with his threatening message, but he also came with a merciful gift. He produced an enchantment on Gale to help ease the task– one that stabilized the orb within his chest, negating the need to consume more magical items. Gale’s shoulders had never looked so light as when he felt the incessant hunger pulling at him finally curbed. He could have dropped to his knees in relief, and you briefly wondered which god he would thank if he did. Would it be Mystra?

The petulant thought burst forth before you could really register it, and you felt selfish for thinking of yourself in a moment that Gale was waiting so long for. For so long, the wizard braced himself with a forced smile for your sake, and now, it was you who was grinning and bearing it for the sake of Gale’s health. You supported him through his mission of searching for The Annals of Karus and all the secrets it contained, and you stood by his side when Elminster appeared yet again with another message from Mystra.

Gale was a storm-wracked boat that was crashing against the rocky face of turmoil upon his former goddess’ request to meet her at her shrine. You were thoughtful enough to assume his inner struggle didn’t consist entirely of previous feelings and devotions to Mystra– His very soul was always a step away from being in question, and his life was a very complex puzzle that you kept at, even when it puzzled you, and you couldn’t act as though you could fully relate.

However, as Gale’s lover, you couldn’t help the small part of you that was fearful that he would slip back into his old mindset. You were afraid that he would happily kill himself just because Mystra asked it of him, leaving you behind to mourn his loss as his soul rested easily with her. With each time he looked to you, your smile grew more and more strained as you bit your tongue. Every time her name left his lips, your smile would twitch into a near-grimace before smoothing away entirely. Everything you did was slowly shifting in the direction of his sake… Everything he did seemed to be in the name of Mystra these days, and it weighed heavily on your chest.

Everything seemed one step away from breaking once the Netherbrain was weakened to the point of desperate bargaining. It spoke of even the most unspeakable of power it could grant using the Crown of Karus, and you could feel the call reaching home in the wizard beside you. Gale’s face was always expressive and you soon caught on to what he was thinking or feeling by a certain look that so much as flickered across his features. He turned to you imploringly, already seeking an answer before the question even formed in his mouth.

“This is our chance… Mystra-”

“Forget Mystra!” Even you were surprised by your outburst, but you’d be damned if you didn’t take the opportunity for what it was, “You don’t need to appease her, not anymore, my love,”

“I’m not-”

“I feel like I’m slowly losing you to her, like you’re wanting to go back to what you used to have once you give her the crown.” You admitted, and Gale instantly took you into his arms, holding you tight enough to leave no room for doubt between the two of you.

“Don’t worry about it, soldier, we got it from here, yeah?” called Karlach, waving her arm above her head dramatically even though she knew neither of your attention was on her.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” He choked, his shame bleeding through your connection one last time. “I would never trade your love for what once was… She cursed me to die a horrific death and to bring with those around me. She hated me with a passion, and after what felt like an eternity of isolation, I felt as though I could slip away and let go at any moment… But in my time of basking in your love and adoration, I’ve come to realize it feels purer than even Mystra’s.”

You opened your mouth to cut in, to say something, but Gale was quick to beat you to the punch, silencing everything but a gasp with a promising kiss. It was one of apology, to make up for the insecurity he had put you through, but it was also a kiss that banished any doubt from your mind, and with one last quiver through your connection before the Netherbrain fell, you felt a sense of mutual peace and trust between the two of you.

[levilosworld]

Tobirama (walking into the room, his sharp eyes immediately catching on Madara sitting shirtless on the couch, his usual infuriating smirk in place. Tobirama reluctantly forces his eyes from the well formed muscles to meet Madara's eyes. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow): "Is this how you spend your days now? Shirtless and grinning like an idiot? No wonder you can’t get anything done."

Madara (his smirk widening as he leans back, completely unbothered): "And yet, you’ve come to see me, Tobirama. What’s the honor? Couldn’t resist my charm?"

Tobirama (tilting his head slightly, his eyebrow climbing higher, his tone sharp): "The only thing I'm resisting is to just leave immediately again."

Madara (chuckling lowly, standing up, his movements slow as he begins closing the distance between them): "You’re free to leave, of course. But you won’t, will you? You’re far too intrigued."

Tobirama (his arms still crossed, his feet firmly planted as Madara steps closer): "Intrigued? Hardly. I simply have more self-control than you and get my shit actually done instead of playing around games."

Madara (grinning wider, his voice dropping into something rawer as he takes some more steps forward): "Self-control. Always so proud of that, aren’t you? But I wonder, Tobirama, how much of that control would hold if I kept getting even closer."

Tobirama (his eyes narrowing slightly, his voice calm and firm): "Getting closer would be a mistake. One you wouldn’t walk away from unscathed."

Madara (now only a step away, he grins): "Maybe. But I’m willing to take the risk. The real question is—why are you still standing here, letting me do all this and rile you up again. Didn't you want to speak with me about something? Or are you secretly enjoying our banters?"

Tobirama (leaning forward just slightly, his voice dropping to a low growl): "Backing down isn’t in my nature. If you think this will intimidate me, you’ve underestimated me—again."

Madara (now inches apart, his eyes locking onto Tobirama’s, neither backing away): "Oh, I don’t want to intimidate you. I want to see how far you’ll let this go before that carefully guarded control of yours snaps."

Tobirama (his crimson eyes blazing, a smile forming on his lips, his voice like steel as he leans in closer, their breaths mingling): "You’ll be waiting a long time, Madara. I don’t snap. But you? You’ve been happy like a puppy from the moment I walked in."

Madara (his voice almost a purr as his eyes flicker down briefly to Tobirama's lips before meeting his eyes again): "Happy, am I? Hmmm.. That's true. But what does that say about you, for standing here and not stopping me? Why are you not a bit more honest yourself?"

Tobirama (his voice steady but soft, carefully controlling himself to not do anything ... stupid, the slight upturn of his lips the only thing he can't force off of his face): "It says I have the patience to deal with you. But even my patience has limits, Madara. Keep testing them, and you’ll find out just what I'm capable of."

Madara (his smirk curling into a slow, dangerous grin as his voice drops to a whisper, their lips now barely a breath apart): "I’d like to see that, Tobirama. Show me what you’re capable of."

----

Woah, that was hard but also fun :'D Up until now I was always only a reader (except the one oc one-shot I wrote as a few years ago, please don't remind me of that 🤣) and I'm wondering how people can write stories with thousands of words, you are amazing!

Nevertheless, I hope you like it! Personally, I can't get enough of this abs 🤤 I can't blame Tobirama for looking there first.